My daughter reminded me of this story last night and I had to write about it. It is bizarre, yet, totally true. Back in 2004, Jay was working for a different company and was in charge of a handful of employees and their whereabouts. One morning around 5:20 a.m., we heard his cell phone ringing. You know that feeling when you're awaken from a dead sleep and hear a phone. Ugh. Jay shoots out of bed like a canon and runs to the kitchen to grab his phone from his drawer. The next thing I know I hear him telling his employee he has to hang up and he yells at me "Sarah, I need help."
Well, my alarm wasn't set to go off for another 15 minutes and I really wasn't all that awake so I ignored him. I hear another plea for help, "Sarah, get in here, I'm bleeding." Oh brother. Here I go. I come around the corner of our counter and into the kitchen and there is blood pouring from his ear pooling all over the floor. He goes over to the kitchen sink and gets some paper towels. I, in my shocked and somewhat drowsy state, am confused and trying to figure out what in the world has happened...but even more than that, I'm noticing all this blood on my kitchen floor. I must get the mop and clean up this mess. So I head for the mop while I try to make sense of his story.
While running to the kitchen to grab his phone, as Jay's foot hit the kitchen floor, it slipped and went out from under him...he fell into the kitchen counter and the edge of the counter sliced his ear like a pair of scissors or knife had made a pass horizontally across his ear. It was the craziest thing I had ever seen. And goodness can an ear bleed! So we put a plan into action, had my mom come over to stay with kiddos, and headed to the ER.
You can imagine the looks that we got when we relayed this story. At one point they questioned us separately in the emergency room. I suppose they hear just about everything and have to make sure that there isn't some weird domestic violence going on...only let me tell you, I probably would not go for the ear, just sayin'...I remember it finally got so bad that we would just say, "Look, we know this sounds crazy, but..." Needless to say we got a lot of stares and quite a few snickers.
Jay received several stitches, I can't remember how many exactly, but they did a pretty good fix-up job on it. You can barely even tell now. He lived through it. I got the kitchen floor back to normal...or my mom probably did while she was with the kids. And hey, what a great story, right? You just can't make that kind of stuff up...
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
#8, Hank the Tank
After securing a new home for the big beautiful bloodhound Bificus, we had to get a replacement, of course. We couldn't have just one dog to care for...that is unheard of. My dad had heard through his coffee shop talk that there were some really nice lab puppies for sale south of Robinson. Mom and dad were in the market for a new dog (yeah, thanks to me and my car) and so were we. Why not get two?!
My parents picked out a yellow female pup they named Ziporah (Zippy) and we got the fattest, laziest chocolate male lab there was and named him Hank the Tank. Now, I've told you before I'm a lab person. My parents raised lab puppies when we were younger and we've had several (unfortunately). We know, or think we do, how to pick a good one. My dad always said to go for the one that sits back and just watches, doesn't run right up to you, big square head and big feet...that is what we got.
Hank the Tank was beautiful. He was probably the best lab puppy we have ever had or seen. He had the best disposition and was just plain lazy. He slept with us from the beginning and eventually got so big it was no longer an option. He was humongous. Everywhere we went people asked how old he was because he was so big. Because of his size and quick growth, his legs didn't develop correctly on the front. He couldn't run real well and even looked funny walking. He took walks with Abby and I faithfully, but when it came to running, it was painful looking and he tried not to as much as possible.
One snowy Monday morning in December, the kids were out of school and I had to go to work. Jay decided he would take me because the roads were covered. We loaded up in the truck, Hank wanted to come along (as he usually went everywhere with us) but he was all wet so we said no. Fatal mistake. For whatever reason, maybe because we were going slow and he was sad, he followed us down the lane that morning. He almost never left the house, but this day he did. He was hit by our friend just after we left. There was nothing anyone could've done. It was slick and Hank was slow. Hank was just shy of his first birthday.
We were devastated. It was a curse. If only we had taken him with us. I immediately notified the people we got the pup from and told them the next time they had puppies, we wanted one. We want one just like Hank the Tank and from the same parents. I never heard back from them until...
My parents picked out a yellow female pup they named Ziporah (Zippy) and we got the fattest, laziest chocolate male lab there was and named him Hank the Tank. Now, I've told you before I'm a lab person. My parents raised lab puppies when we were younger and we've had several (unfortunately). We know, or think we do, how to pick a good one. My dad always said to go for the one that sits back and just watches, doesn't run right up to you, big square head and big feet...that is what we got.
Hank the Tank was beautiful. He was probably the best lab puppy we have ever had or seen. He had the best disposition and was just plain lazy. He slept with us from the beginning and eventually got so big it was no longer an option. He was humongous. Everywhere we went people asked how old he was because he was so big. Because of his size and quick growth, his legs didn't develop correctly on the front. He couldn't run real well and even looked funny walking. He took walks with Abby and I faithfully, but when it came to running, it was painful looking and he tried not to as much as possible.
One snowy Monday morning in December, the kids were out of school and I had to go to work. Jay decided he would take me because the roads were covered. We loaded up in the truck, Hank wanted to come along (as he usually went everywhere with us) but he was all wet so we said no. Fatal mistake. For whatever reason, maybe because we were going slow and he was sad, he followed us down the lane that morning. He almost never left the house, but this day he did. He was hit by our friend just after we left. There was nothing anyone could've done. It was slick and Hank was slow. Hank was just shy of his first birthday.
We were devastated. It was a curse. If only we had taken him with us. I immediately notified the people we got the pup from and told them the next time they had puppies, we wanted one. We want one just like Hank the Tank and from the same parents. I never heard back from them until...
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sundaes and Sundays
“Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath to the LORD your God. On it you shall not do any work, neither you, nor your son or daughter, nor your male or female servant, nor your animals, nor any foreigner residing in your towns. For in six days the LORD made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but he rested on the seventh day. Therefore the LORD blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy. (Exodus 20:8-11)
I love sundaes, soft vanilla ice cream with lots of hot fudge covering the top. When I was little, my Grandma and Grandpa K would take us to Dairy Queen and I would get a hot fudge sundae with the marshmallow topping also. Oh, how I love ice cream and especially hot fudge sundaes.
I also love Sundays. It is my favorite day of the week. I just noticed that Lane made an "About Me" report his first week of school and he mentioned that his favorite day of the week was Sunday too. That made smile.
I love the routine of a Sunday. We get to sleep in a little, but yet we still have to get up, shower and get dressed to be at church by 8:58. Our Sunday School begins promptly at 9:00 or whenever the superintendent (ME) gets there and can get the piano players assembled. We are usually out of church around 11:15 or so and head home for lunch. Occasionally we'll go out to eat after church, but not nearly like we used to because we like just being home.
I don't know about you, but my body seems to understand that Sunday is a day of rest. Because just about the time I have lunch cleaned up, my body says it's time for a relaxing nap on the couch. I love Sunday naps. They make me feel cruddy the rest of the day, but I do enjoy them when I can get them. Because Jay works two out of four Sundays, we treasure those Sunday afternoons to just hang out together as a family. It may be at the fairgrounds at the horse barn or at home. Riding horses or the four wheelers is a favorite fun thing for us. Lately we may be at a horse race somewhere watching races. And sometimes in the evening we'll pile in the truck and head to the DQ for a sundae:)
At the end of the last school year, the kids and I started attending Sunday evening bible study at the church. There are just a few that go, and I certainly haven't been faithful, but I have actually learned a lot about the old testament that I didn't know before. I was so hesitant to "give up" my Sunday evening for that 45 minutes of bible study (which is totally ridiculous), but it hasn't killed me yet. And I still love Sundays.
Too funny, I started writing this post (Thursday), I took a walk with a friend later that evening and we talked about Sundays and trying to keep it holy. She commented that lately she had been convicted on this subject and was trying to prepare ahead so that she could rest on Sunday, completely rest. I listened, thinking how I could apply her tips to my Sundays and how I wasn't sure I was up for it. I had also just read a devotional about keeping Sundays free of work and the planning and preparations you must do for it to work. I opened this post up to finish it and realized, ah-ha, maybe God is speaking to me about this subject. Hhhmm...
I'm not sure I'm up to this task just yet. I have so many questions about how to apply this day of rest in its truly intended form. Can I do this but not that? Where do I draw the line on certain things? If I go out to eat, am I causing another to stumble and not rest on the Sabbath? Can I really squeeze in everything I need to on Saturday so that I can truly rest on Sunday? Can I force my children to do all the work while I rest? Ahhh, it makes my mind swirl.
It is one of THE TEN COMMANDMENTS so I feel like that means it must be pretty important. After all, it is listed right there with murdering, cheating and stealing. That should make an impact on me. It never has before. I'll start thinking about it. Let me know if you have any tips for this change over. I'm sorta a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants type of girl. This would take a lot of getting used to.
I wonder if it would be okay to make myself a hot fudge sundae on Sunday because I do love my sundaes/Sundays...
I love sundaes, soft vanilla ice cream with lots of hot fudge covering the top. When I was little, my Grandma and Grandpa K would take us to Dairy Queen and I would get a hot fudge sundae with the marshmallow topping also. Oh, how I love ice cream and especially hot fudge sundaes.
I also love Sundays. It is my favorite day of the week. I just noticed that Lane made an "About Me" report his first week of school and he mentioned that his favorite day of the week was Sunday too. That made smile.
I love the routine of a Sunday. We get to sleep in a little, but yet we still have to get up, shower and get dressed to be at church by 8:58. Our Sunday School begins promptly at 9:00 or whenever the superintendent (ME) gets there and can get the piano players assembled. We are usually out of church around 11:15 or so and head home for lunch. Occasionally we'll go out to eat after church, but not nearly like we used to because we like just being home.
I don't know about you, but my body seems to understand that Sunday is a day of rest. Because just about the time I have lunch cleaned up, my body says it's time for a relaxing nap on the couch. I love Sunday naps. They make me feel cruddy the rest of the day, but I do enjoy them when I can get them. Because Jay works two out of four Sundays, we treasure those Sunday afternoons to just hang out together as a family. It may be at the fairgrounds at the horse barn or at home. Riding horses or the four wheelers is a favorite fun thing for us. Lately we may be at a horse race somewhere watching races. And sometimes in the evening we'll pile in the truck and head to the DQ for a sundae:)
At the end of the last school year, the kids and I started attending Sunday evening bible study at the church. There are just a few that go, and I certainly haven't been faithful, but I have actually learned a lot about the old testament that I didn't know before. I was so hesitant to "give up" my Sunday evening for that 45 minutes of bible study (which is totally ridiculous), but it hasn't killed me yet. And I still love Sundays.
Too funny, I started writing this post (Thursday), I took a walk with a friend later that evening and we talked about Sundays and trying to keep it holy. She commented that lately she had been convicted on this subject and was trying to prepare ahead so that she could rest on Sunday, completely rest. I listened, thinking how I could apply her tips to my Sundays and how I wasn't sure I was up for it. I had also just read a devotional about keeping Sundays free of work and the planning and preparations you must do for it to work. I opened this post up to finish it and realized, ah-ha, maybe God is speaking to me about this subject. Hhhmm...
I'm not sure I'm up to this task just yet. I have so many questions about how to apply this day of rest in its truly intended form. Can I do this but not that? Where do I draw the line on certain things? If I go out to eat, am I causing another to stumble and not rest on the Sabbath? Can I really squeeze in everything I need to on Saturday so that I can truly rest on Sunday? Can I force my children to do all the work while I rest? Ahhh, it makes my mind swirl.
It is one of THE TEN COMMANDMENTS so I feel like that means it must be pretty important. After all, it is listed right there with murdering, cheating and stealing. That should make an impact on me. It never has before. I'll start thinking about it. Let me know if you have any tips for this change over. I'm sorta a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants type of girl. This would take a lot of getting used to.
I wonder if it would be okay to make myself a hot fudge sundae on Sunday because I do love my sundaes/Sundays...
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Not just Grandma...Grandma Great
I suppose I have avoided it long enough, a post about my Grandma & Grandpa K. It's not that I don't want to share about them....I'm almost afraid to talk about them, my Grandma is still living. She turned 93 years old in June. I'll probably just tell a little about her for right now. I have lots I can share about them both though. My Grandma K is now known as Grandma Great. She informed all of us pretty quick that when my daughter was born, the first great grandchild, she would be referred to as such. Allrighty then. Now, I can't imagine calling her anything else...and that was eleven years ago.
I was fortunate enough that these grandparents lived only about six miles from us and were healthy, active and supportive of the whole family. I have no idea what my grandparents were like as parents, but they did a pretty good job at the grandparenting thing. First of all, Grandma Great can cook. She can bake, make candy, has the best homemade noodles and can fix just about anything to make it taste right. She can sew too. She was a homemaker. But for a few years of working in the grocery store downtown as a teenager, she has spent her entire life as a wife/mother/grandmother/great grandmother and homemaker.
Until 2009, she was still mowing her yard some, sweeping out her garage, working in her garden, messing with flowers, grocery shopping, running people to and from fields in her truck. Oh, yeah, she drove a truck. No car for this gal. She wants to sit up high. It cracked me up to see her barreling down the road in that truck, eyes fixed to the road before her, hands positioned perfectly at 10 and 2. She would not wave or turn her head. She was focused. And if you happened to be in front of her, her focus became getting ahead of you and she would do just that. She hated for anyone to be in front of her...so she put the pedal to the metal and passed. It was hilarious.
January of 2009, my dad arrived home from a hip replacement surgery. Grandma Great drove her truck over to my parent's, parked, sashayed (her words) inside the house, tripped on my mom's area rug and shattered and fractured her femur. She was 90 1/2 yrs old. Ugh. Here we go. She recovered, was doing real well. Then came January of 2010. My dad had taken her to get groceries, dropped her off at her house and left. She went to her bedroom to get her sweater and fell. Simple as that...broke her hip. Devastating is what that was. She had just rehabilitated from the leg. Here we go again.
She recovered again. Amazing, this time she was 91 1/2 yr old. Doctors were shocked that she had done it again...she was walking. She was doing pretty good considering everything when long about the end of January of this year (what is it with her and January?), things went south. She developed a strange condition in her esophagus and stomach and required an immediate and life-saving surgery. Here we go yet again. It pretty much wiped her out for a couple weeks. At one point, I felt as though I had said my goodbye and I would not see her alive again. That was not to be. She didn't bounce back quite as well as she had before, but is doing pretty good for now being 93 years old and having had a pretty rough couple of years. We moved her to a nursing home and she is content. Maybe not where she wants to be, but she is content...and "tries not to complain" which she doesn't a whole lot anyway.
Fortunately for me, she's in a nursing home in the town I work in. It is very handy. I visit her often, a lot actually. I never feel burdened by it or dread going. I don't mind getting the things on her lists, doing her laundry, cleaning her glasses, plucking her eyebrows or washing out her hair brushes. I hope I never do dread it. I love this lady with all my heart. I know she won't live forever, but she's been doing a pretty good job so far. I can't wait to tell some stories on her. She's quite a corker.
Friday, August 26, 2011
My BFF
So again I say, each man must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband. (Ephesians 5:33 NLT)
Today is our 16th wedding anniversary. It is crazy to think that I have been married 16 years. Why, I'm barely a day over 20. Wait, that was when we were married. Barely 20 years old. I know I told you before, but looking at our wedding picture...wow, we were young-looking. Craziness.
With people getting divorced everywhere you turn, marriage is a little scary these days. It is truly a risk, a gamble of sorts to say "I do" to the vows which say TILL DEATH DO YOU PART. The way people change one never knows what could happen twenty years later. I am sure I have changed. I imagine Jay has changed too. But we have done a lot of that changing, molding and shaping together. I would hope we have changed as a couple for the better. Here are a few things I think contribute to our 16 years of wedded bliss (ha):
First, I think one of the most important things is that we started out as friends before we ever dated. I can think of one couple that Jay and I are friends with and I remember saying to Jay once, I don't think they'd even be friends if they weren't married. Yikes. I like Jay. I liked him when I was five years old in kindergarten. I liked him back when boys were icky. I like him as a person. He is funny. He is a hard worker. There are many reasons I like him. I really think there is a difference between love and like. I like a lot of people that I don't necessarily love and I love a lot of people that I don't always like all the time. I'm thankful that I not only like but love my BFF, Jay.
Another thing that Jay and I are in agreement about is that we are a team, but we don't tell each other what to do. I may offer an opinion (one that would be in his best interests to listen to) but I try very hard not to tell him a downright no on something...and believe me, people, this guy comes up with a lot of crazy stuff. He does the same. We try to talk through important things together and rationalize if they are beneficial to our family. I use the word "rationalize" which is kinda funny considering some of the decisions we've made!!
Third, we try to do things together as much as possible. We don't need to be hovering over one another at every opportunity, but we try to hang out and spend time together when we can. Jay works shiftwork so we have very different schedules. We have to make an effort to prioritize our time and use it wisely. Now that we have kids, it's a bit harder and much of our spare time is with our kiddos, but we also try to have date nights and time when it is just us. I read once that if a husband and wife really take time out to make their marriage strong and spend time together, just the two of them, it will benefit the family as a whole and make their children's future relationships better. Makes sense. Kids mirror our actions. I hope our kids take note that Jay and I have fun together. We laugh together. We sometimes work hard on a project together. We go to church together. We make it a priority every now and then to be alone together. We get through difficult times together.
And since I'm not an expert in marriage or writing a book about it, I will try to wrap it up soon. I may not always agree with my BFF's crazy ideas, but I try very hard to support him. I should be his number one fan. In turn, he tries very hard to be supportive of me. He at least pretends to hear what I have to say and does a good enough job that he fools me most of the time. Our focus is on each other and not just ourselves. That is the way it should be, not just in marriage, but in everything. The Bible tells me so.
My final thought is this, the most important ingredient to a marriage is Christ. God tells us that we are to leave our mother and father and become one. We are to submit to each other. We are to respect one another. And we are to love one another. A marriage without Christ is not a winning situation. He should be the center of all things, including a marriage. Today, I'm thanking God for the 16+ years that I have had with my Christian husband, Jay, my BFF.
Today is our 16th wedding anniversary. It is crazy to think that I have been married 16 years. Why, I'm barely a day over 20. Wait, that was when we were married. Barely 20 years old. I know I told you before, but looking at our wedding picture...wow, we were young-looking. Craziness.
With people getting divorced everywhere you turn, marriage is a little scary these days. It is truly a risk, a gamble of sorts to say "I do" to the vows which say TILL DEATH DO YOU PART. The way people change one never knows what could happen twenty years later. I am sure I have changed. I imagine Jay has changed too. But we have done a lot of that changing, molding and shaping together. I would hope we have changed as a couple for the better. Here are a few things I think contribute to our 16 years of wedded bliss (ha):
First, I think one of the most important things is that we started out as friends before we ever dated. I can think of one couple that Jay and I are friends with and I remember saying to Jay once, I don't think they'd even be friends if they weren't married. Yikes. I like Jay. I liked him when I was five years old in kindergarten. I liked him back when boys were icky. I like him as a person. He is funny. He is a hard worker. There are many reasons I like him. I really think there is a difference between love and like. I like a lot of people that I don't necessarily love and I love a lot of people that I don't always like all the time. I'm thankful that I not only like but love my BFF, Jay.
Another thing that Jay and I are in agreement about is that we are a team, but we don't tell each other what to do. I may offer an opinion (one that would be in his best interests to listen to) but I try very hard not to tell him a downright no on something...and believe me, people, this guy comes up with a lot of crazy stuff. He does the same. We try to talk through important things together and rationalize if they are beneficial to our family. I use the word "rationalize" which is kinda funny considering some of the decisions we've made!!
Third, we try to do things together as much as possible. We don't need to be hovering over one another at every opportunity, but we try to hang out and spend time together when we can. Jay works shiftwork so we have very different schedules. We have to make an effort to prioritize our time and use it wisely. Now that we have kids, it's a bit harder and much of our spare time is with our kiddos, but we also try to have date nights and time when it is just us. I read once that if a husband and wife really take time out to make their marriage strong and spend time together, just the two of them, it will benefit the family as a whole and make their children's future relationships better. Makes sense. Kids mirror our actions. I hope our kids take note that Jay and I have fun together. We laugh together. We sometimes work hard on a project together. We go to church together. We make it a priority every now and then to be alone together. We get through difficult times together.
And since I'm not an expert in marriage or writing a book about it, I will try to wrap it up soon. I may not always agree with my BFF's crazy ideas, but I try very hard to support him. I should be his number one fan. In turn, he tries very hard to be supportive of me. He at least pretends to hear what I have to say and does a good enough job that he fools me most of the time. Our focus is on each other and not just ourselves. That is the way it should be, not just in marriage, but in everything. The Bible tells me so.
My final thought is this, the most important ingredient to a marriage is Christ. God tells us that we are to leave our mother and father and become one. We are to submit to each other. We are to respect one another. And we are to love one another. A marriage without Christ is not a winning situation. He should be the center of all things, including a marriage. Today, I'm thanking God for the 16+ years that I have had with my Christian husband, Jay, my BFF.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
#6 & #7, The Big, Beautiful Bloodhounds
Jay got one of his crazy ideas and decided we needed to rescue this Bloodhound from a coworker. He was stuck in a pen all day and they no longer had the time or desire to take him on walks or give him attention. I was not at all in favor of this decision. As I've mentioned before, I am a Lab-only-type-of-gal, but we went to meet #6, Buster the Bloodhound.
Buster the Bloodhound was this big, beautiful "red" Bloodhound. He was about five years old and terribly overweight, but mainly because he didn't get any exercise outside of this fenced-in area so that wasn't entirely his fault. We knew immediately he was coming home with us. He was such a sweetie. He was so laid back and gentle. He was that Bloodhound you see in a movie that just sits in the old beat-up truck and looks pitiful...totally Buster. I would leave for work at 7am and he would be lying in his corner of the living room. When we got home around 5pm, he would still be lying in that very same spot. He was an awesome, gentle giant.
One Saturday morning, Jay came home from working nights and I let Buster out to use the bathroom. This was not abnormal...except Buster didn't come back. We yelled and yelled for him, nothing. We drove around and searched for him. We talked to our neighbors. I called the radio station, etc. We could not find him. One of our neighbors on the next block south of us said he saw what was probably Buster heading south through the woods. We never saw him again. We really think he is living with a family just north of Robinson because they now have a big, beautiful Bloodhound...we waited too long though to confront them so we let it go.
And along came #7. We had had such great luck with #6 Buster, that when Jay saw an ad in the Terre Haute paper for a free Bloodhound to a good home, etc, he jumped all over it. Now, here's the story: This cute little family is moving to Arizona and they don't feel like their dog would do well in that climate. Translation: This cute little family is probably staying put and they don't feel like Bificus is doing well in their climate. (Yes, I said Bificus, unfortunately, that was his name.) But there was no turning back, we missed Buster so much and here was this big beautiful, Bloodhound PUPPY with lots of energy staring at us. Wow. Did I mention how much energy he had? In the paperwork these people gave us, there was a receipt from a pet store...they had paid like $1400 for this dog on a credit card :( and they gave him to us. Does that cause or alarm anyone else besides me?
Bificus was also a big, beautiful Bloodhound and very similar in appearance to Buster. From the start, he didn't take well to my parent's chocolate lab, Cooper. On one of our very first walks together, Cooper and Bificus got into it. I had Bificus leashed at the time. In hindsight, that wasn't a good idea. I ended up being drug through corn stalks and skinned up my legs. Apparently the skin on a Bloodhound is very thin, and as most know, the teeth on a Labrador are very sharp. This combination equalled a visit to the vet for stitches and antibiotic. Seriously we had had this dog for about 48 hours.
Cooper and Bificus never did become friends. They hated each other after that and were always getting into it. But then there was the incident with my parents...Jay, the kids and I were packed up and ready to head to Gatlinburg for vacation, we were literally getting in the car when my dad pulled up on his Mule (ATV) with Biff in the back...He was driving near our driveway with Cooper in the seat next to him, when Biff appeared and a fight ensued and my dad ran over Biff's leg and broke it to pieces. It was literally dangling about.
We were already packed and loaded, had reservations, etc., so my dad said he would take care of everything with Biff. My mom ended up drawing the short straw and drove Biff to the vet. A repair, a week at the spa (vet's), a cast and several weeks of R&R and Biff was all healed up. Unfortunately, for my parents, Biff did not forget the crazy man who mangled his leg nor the ambulance driver...which created problems. Finally, we decided it was time for Biff to go and we found him a home. It was very sad to give him away; however, it was ridiculous the amount of stress he caused everyone because of his distaste for my parents and their dog.(If I'd known that just a bit later I was going to run over their dog and kill it, accidentally of course, maybe things would've been different.)
And that is the story of our big, beautiful Bloodhounds.
Buster the Bloodhound was this big, beautiful "red" Bloodhound. He was about five years old and terribly overweight, but mainly because he didn't get any exercise outside of this fenced-in area so that wasn't entirely his fault. We knew immediately he was coming home with us. He was such a sweetie. He was so laid back and gentle. He was that Bloodhound you see in a movie that just sits in the old beat-up truck and looks pitiful...totally Buster. I would leave for work at 7am and he would be lying in his corner of the living room. When we got home around 5pm, he would still be lying in that very same spot. He was an awesome, gentle giant.
One Saturday morning, Jay came home from working nights and I let Buster out to use the bathroom. This was not abnormal...except Buster didn't come back. We yelled and yelled for him, nothing. We drove around and searched for him. We talked to our neighbors. I called the radio station, etc. We could not find him. One of our neighbors on the next block south of us said he saw what was probably Buster heading south through the woods. We never saw him again. We really think he is living with a family just north of Robinson because they now have a big, beautiful Bloodhound...we waited too long though to confront them so we let it go.
And along came #7. We had had such great luck with #6 Buster, that when Jay saw an ad in the Terre Haute paper for a free Bloodhound to a good home, etc, he jumped all over it. Now, here's the story: This cute little family is moving to Arizona and they don't feel like their dog would do well in that climate. Translation: This cute little family is probably staying put and they don't feel like Bificus is doing well in their climate. (Yes, I said Bificus, unfortunately, that was his name.) But there was no turning back, we missed Buster so much and here was this big beautiful, Bloodhound PUPPY with lots of energy staring at us. Wow. Did I mention how much energy he had? In the paperwork these people gave us, there was a receipt from a pet store...they had paid like $1400 for this dog on a credit card :( and they gave him to us. Does that cause or alarm anyone else besides me?
Bificus was also a big, beautiful Bloodhound and very similar in appearance to Buster. From the start, he didn't take well to my parent's chocolate lab, Cooper. On one of our very first walks together, Cooper and Bificus got into it. I had Bificus leashed at the time. In hindsight, that wasn't a good idea. I ended up being drug through corn stalks and skinned up my legs. Apparently the skin on a Bloodhound is very thin, and as most know, the teeth on a Labrador are very sharp. This combination equalled a visit to the vet for stitches and antibiotic. Seriously we had had this dog for about 48 hours.
Cooper and Bificus never did become friends. They hated each other after that and were always getting into it. But then there was the incident with my parents...Jay, the kids and I were packed up and ready to head to Gatlinburg for vacation, we were literally getting in the car when my dad pulled up on his Mule (ATV) with Biff in the back...He was driving near our driveway with Cooper in the seat next to him, when Biff appeared and a fight ensued and my dad ran over Biff's leg and broke it to pieces. It was literally dangling about.
We were already packed and loaded, had reservations, etc., so my dad said he would take care of everything with Biff. My mom ended up drawing the short straw and drove Biff to the vet. A repair, a week at the spa (vet's), a cast and several weeks of R&R and Biff was all healed up. Unfortunately, for my parents, Biff did not forget the crazy man who mangled his leg nor the ambulance driver...which created problems. Finally, we decided it was time for Biff to go and we found him a home. It was very sad to give him away; however, it was ridiculous the amount of stress he caused everyone because of his distaste for my parents and their dog.(If I'd known that just a bit later I was going to run over their dog and kill it, accidentally of course, maybe things would've been different.)
And that is the story of our big, beautiful Bloodhounds.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
The worst stomach flu ever
Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. (John 19:25 NLT)
When Madolyn was maybe two months old, she got a stomach bug. I went back to work after six weeks off and she went to the daycare/babysitter just two houses down from us...with lots of other kiddos and she got sick. It was awful to see her so sick. We didn't end up in the hospital with her or anything, thankfully, but she was a sick little gal. It was exhausting for sure, but the hardest part was watching such a tiny little thing suffering, and being brand new parents, Jay & I weren't really sure what to do and were frightened with the whole thing. My mom came down and helped us out a lot during that sickness. I can picture my mom sitting in the living room of our house in the rocking chair with Madolyn, feeding her sips of Pedialite every 20 minutes. She recovered from the flu bug thankfully and apparently passed it on to Jay and I.
That weekend after she had been sick, Jay and I came down with the worst stomach flu ever. It was terrible. It was violent. It was painful. It was exhausting. It was debilitating. Seriously, we could not function. Jay's parents came and got Madolyn and took her back to Martinsville because there was NO way either one of us could care for her. We literally slept for 24 hours straight that weekend. Obviously, we got over it, but the one thing I will never forget is that as bad as I felt thinking that my baby girl had to endure it as well was heartbreaking. We were adults and are supposed to be able to handle that kind of thing, but she was defenseless, and honestly, I must admit, I felt pretty helpless. I'm telling you, it was the worst stomach flu ever.
I think back to watching Madolyn sick and defenseless with something as simple as a stomach flu and then I'll recall the story of a child who has a very serious disease, or a child who has died in an accident or something tragic. I cannot imagine how a parent recovers from that sort of thing. I cannot imagine the strength they have to muster up to endure it. I think of Jesus and the torture and pain he endured for me, for all of us. I think of what Mary must have felt like standing there next to the cross watching him die a horrific death. It is unfathomable for me. I don't want to imagine what it was like. I want to push it far away from my mind. But it is real. His death was the price of our salvation. We shouldn't forget.
When Madolyn was maybe two months old, she got a stomach bug. I went back to work after six weeks off and she went to the daycare/babysitter just two houses down from us...with lots of other kiddos and she got sick. It was awful to see her so sick. We didn't end up in the hospital with her or anything, thankfully, but she was a sick little gal. It was exhausting for sure, but the hardest part was watching such a tiny little thing suffering, and being brand new parents, Jay & I weren't really sure what to do and were frightened with the whole thing. My mom came down and helped us out a lot during that sickness. I can picture my mom sitting in the living room of our house in the rocking chair with Madolyn, feeding her sips of Pedialite every 20 minutes. She recovered from the flu bug thankfully and apparently passed it on to Jay and I.
That weekend after she had been sick, Jay and I came down with the worst stomach flu ever. It was terrible. It was violent. It was painful. It was exhausting. It was debilitating. Seriously, we could not function. Jay's parents came and got Madolyn and took her back to Martinsville because there was NO way either one of us could care for her. We literally slept for 24 hours straight that weekend. Obviously, we got over it, but the one thing I will never forget is that as bad as I felt thinking that my baby girl had to endure it as well was heartbreaking. We were adults and are supposed to be able to handle that kind of thing, but she was defenseless, and honestly, I must admit, I felt pretty helpless. I'm telling you, it was the worst stomach flu ever.
I think back to watching Madolyn sick and defenseless with something as simple as a stomach flu and then I'll recall the story of a child who has a very serious disease, or a child who has died in an accident or something tragic. I cannot imagine how a parent recovers from that sort of thing. I cannot imagine the strength they have to muster up to endure it. I think of Jesus and the torture and pain he endured for me, for all of us. I think of what Mary must have felt like standing there next to the cross watching him die a horrific death. It is unfathomable for me. I don't want to imagine what it was like. I want to push it far away from my mind. But it is real. His death was the price of our salvation. We shouldn't forget.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Not necessarily my plan...
For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11 TNIV)
As a child I was going to be the next Nancy Drew. Sarah K., world-renown FBI agent . My senior year the plan was to attend Lake Land and study criminal justice, then see that where would lead me. One thing I was sure of, I wanted to get through school as quickly as possible and get on with my life.
I had always been fascinated with crime, lawyers, courtrooms, the mob, etc. My grandpa K was too. He loved reading about gangsters and the mafia. I have read this one book that my grandma still keeps on the headboard on the west bed in the west bedroom about organized crime at least three times. I was just sure that I wanted to be a police officer and then hopefully some day an investigator. I also wanted to live right here in Martinsville...Yeah, I know, I'm not sure if I was ignoring the fact that there wasn't a huge crime problem and need for criminal investigators or if I just didn't think that far.
My mom mentioned being a legal secretary a time or two, and one time I vaguely remember her telling me she'd always wished she had become a court stenographer. Hhm, never heard of that, but I want to be Nancy Drew and I sure don't remember Nancy sitting speechless in a courtroom! I think it was about January of my senior year, 1993, when I literally woke up thinking I can't be a cop, I'm afraid of the dark. What in the world was I going to do now? I thought about becoming a lawyer or a paralegal, but honestly, I didn't want to go through that much schooling or hard work (yes, sometimes I'm just plain lazy). I wondered if there was something else I could do that would still allow me to work in the justice system? I loved to type. What had my mom said about a court stenographer? Ah-ha!
One way or the other, I ended up enrolling in Sparks Business College in Shelbyville, Illinois. They had Court Reporting, Secretarial, Accounting and maybe Medical Transcription. It was a private business school located just off the square in Shelbyville. It was the perfect transition for someone like me...very small, very cozy, very close to home, very quick. Perfect.
It definitely wasn't perfect, it for sure wasn't easy and I very much wanted to quit a couple of times. I even went so far as to meet with someone at Lake Land to discuss other career choices. We went every day, year-round, minus three one-week breaks held in Sept, Dec. and May, I think. It was a lot like being back in junior high and nothing at all like a college, but by that point I decided I had gone too far to turn back, and thankfully, I stuck it out.
In December of 1995, I took the Illinois Department of Professional Regulations test to become a Certified Shorthand Reporter. I had taken it in August and had passed the written portion and almost passed one of the timed portions. It was hard and so much of it was a mind game. It's not the type of test you can take and think about and go back and correct mistakes. On this one, you have two different tests consisting of five minutes of dictation, if you mess up and can't get back on the wagon, you lose. Extremely shaky hands are deadly.
You know one of the important parts of preparing for a test is the night before making sure you get a good night's sleep. Jay & I had just been married in August. We bought a trailer and it was cold, very cold. Our pipes froze that night. Poor Jay was out underneath the trailer with a hair dryer trying to thaw them most of that night. If it could go wrong, it did. But somehow we arrived in Carbondale on time and I took my test. I think I knew that day that I had passed it but I was afraid to say it (so I didn't). It was hard to believe that I might have passed it, but I had an eerie calm feeling the rest of the day or maybe it was really like an aaaaahh, I can finally breathe and relax feeling.
In January, Jay called me to tell me the letter came...I was en route on Hwy 16 from Shelbyville to Mattoon where I worked. I told him to open it and YES, I had passed. What a glorious day!! Shortly after that, I made arrangements for a job as a freelance court reporter and I left school. I was a Certified Shorthand Reporter, wahoo. I had made it...and it seems to have worked out for me.
I wasn't at the top of my game during that time with prayer and church and Jesus. I prayed, went to church and loved Jesus, but it wasn't a priority. Obviously, someone somewhere was praying for me and my career path. Maybe several. Thankfully. I love this bible verse above. I know it's very popular and you hear it all the time, but it is one I believe with all my heart. Even when things seem to change or not go according to our plan, things work out. God has a plan for us and it IS the perfect one. I'm not sure I would've been a very good police officer, but I will say I think I'm a pretty good court reporter. Sometimes it seems like I was just made for this job, you know...
As a child I was going to be the next Nancy Drew. Sarah K., world-renown FBI agent . My senior year the plan was to attend Lake Land and study criminal justice, then see that where would lead me. One thing I was sure of, I wanted to get through school as quickly as possible and get on with my life.
I had always been fascinated with crime, lawyers, courtrooms, the mob, etc. My grandpa K was too. He loved reading about gangsters and the mafia. I have read this one book that my grandma still keeps on the headboard on the west bed in the west bedroom about organized crime at least three times. I was just sure that I wanted to be a police officer and then hopefully some day an investigator. I also wanted to live right here in Martinsville...Yeah, I know, I'm not sure if I was ignoring the fact that there wasn't a huge crime problem and need for criminal investigators or if I just didn't think that far.
My mom mentioned being a legal secretary a time or two, and one time I vaguely remember her telling me she'd always wished she had become a court stenographer. Hhm, never heard of that, but I want to be Nancy Drew and I sure don't remember Nancy sitting speechless in a courtroom! I think it was about January of my senior year, 1993, when I literally woke up thinking I can't be a cop, I'm afraid of the dark. What in the world was I going to do now? I thought about becoming a lawyer or a paralegal, but honestly, I didn't want to go through that much schooling or hard work (yes, sometimes I'm just plain lazy). I wondered if there was something else I could do that would still allow me to work in the justice system? I loved to type. What had my mom said about a court stenographer? Ah-ha!
One way or the other, I ended up enrolling in Sparks Business College in Shelbyville, Illinois. They had Court Reporting, Secretarial, Accounting and maybe Medical Transcription. It was a private business school located just off the square in Shelbyville. It was the perfect transition for someone like me...very small, very cozy, very close to home, very quick. Perfect.
It definitely wasn't perfect, it for sure wasn't easy and I very much wanted to quit a couple of times. I even went so far as to meet with someone at Lake Land to discuss other career choices. We went every day, year-round, minus three one-week breaks held in Sept, Dec. and May, I think. It was a lot like being back in junior high and nothing at all like a college, but by that point I decided I had gone too far to turn back, and thankfully, I stuck it out.
In December of 1995, I took the Illinois Department of Professional Regulations test to become a Certified Shorthand Reporter. I had taken it in August and had passed the written portion and almost passed one of the timed portions. It was hard and so much of it was a mind game. It's not the type of test you can take and think about and go back and correct mistakes. On this one, you have two different tests consisting of five minutes of dictation, if you mess up and can't get back on the wagon, you lose. Extremely shaky hands are deadly.
You know one of the important parts of preparing for a test is the night before making sure you get a good night's sleep. Jay & I had just been married in August. We bought a trailer and it was cold, very cold. Our pipes froze that night. Poor Jay was out underneath the trailer with a hair dryer trying to thaw them most of that night. If it could go wrong, it did. But somehow we arrived in Carbondale on time and I took my test. I think I knew that day that I had passed it but I was afraid to say it (so I didn't). It was hard to believe that I might have passed it, but I had an eerie calm feeling the rest of the day or maybe it was really like an aaaaahh, I can finally breathe and relax feeling.
In January, Jay called me to tell me the letter came...I was en route on Hwy 16 from Shelbyville to Mattoon where I worked. I told him to open it and YES, I had passed. What a glorious day!! Shortly after that, I made arrangements for a job as a freelance court reporter and I left school. I was a Certified Shorthand Reporter, wahoo. I had made it...and it seems to have worked out for me.
I wasn't at the top of my game during that time with prayer and church and Jesus. I prayed, went to church and loved Jesus, but it wasn't a priority. Obviously, someone somewhere was praying for me and my career path. Maybe several. Thankfully. I love this bible verse above. I know it's very popular and you hear it all the time, but it is one I believe with all my heart. Even when things seem to change or not go according to our plan, things work out. God has a plan for us and it IS the perfect one. I'm not sure I would've been a very good police officer, but I will say I think I'm a pretty good court reporter. Sometimes it seems like I was just made for this job, you know...
Saturday, August 20, 2011
#5, Sweet Abby
#5, Sweet Abby came to us one month after #3, Duke's, untimely demise. It was Madolyn's sixth birthday, I believe, and we heard that our neighbors up the road had a puppy or two they couldn't get rid of. Perfect, we'll take one. And so we did. She has the same parents that our sweet Macey, #2 had and so we were very eager to bring her home. Macey was a great dog and we were hoping Abby would be too!
That was in August of 2006. Folks, we still have Abby #5. She was alive and kicking this morning...in fact, as I drove down our long driveway this morning, she was eating my dust and barking. She has been a good dog. She is extremely loyal to me and will not leave my side, I mean feet, I mean she will stand on my feet and has to be rubbing my legs when we're outside. I love taking walks and she loves going with me, but it is so very annoying that until we get down the driveway, she is hovering so close she almost causes me to fall or trip. I always tell Jay one of these days, she's going to cause me to fall and I'm going to break my ankle. Hopefully not.
Not too many eventful happenings in the life of Abby unless you count this past December. Christmas Eve actually. What a night to remember. The kids and I had been at Wilhoits all day for the family gathering. Jay had worked but came in around 6:30. I decided to run home around 7:30 or so to finish making these homemade cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning. I finished up the rolls and was ready to proceed back to town, but first I needed to run by my parents for a minute. Abby chased me down the drive and to my parents which is very normal. I almost hit her all the time but she has quick moves and I've never actually hit her...or I should say I hadn't until...
It was snowing just enough that the roads were covered and somewhat slick. I pulled out of my parent's driveway headed to town. Abby followed. There is a little hill and dip right before our driveway. Normally, I would be turning left into my driveway there, but this evening I was going straight to town. Abby did what she normally would do and veered left in front of me and my car was going straight. The road was slick. I screamed, skidded and nearly rolled on over. Seriously, I was very fortunate not to have went in the ditch and rolled my car.
The unfortunate part was that I ran over my sweet Abby, my faithful and ever-loyal companion. The oldest dog we had ever owned...BUT...DRUM ROLL PLEASE...she wasn't dead!! Ya-hoo. I regained control of the car and found a place to pull in and turn around. I couldn't see a black heap lying anywhere in the road or beside the road...then I saw her, sitting faithfully at the end of our driveway. Oh, yes, she's fine....or so I thought. I pulled up and she tried to stand. Her back right leg was dangling. UGH. She was bleeding. UGH. I had on my brand new pair of Silver jeans (which I saved like a year to buy)...what do I do? I call my cousin Chris and he comes over. I'm crying. I'm sick to my stomach. We load her up in my car. Now what? It is CHRISTMAS EVE for heaven's sake.
Here's a little 411 for you animal lovers. There is an Animal Hospital in Terre Haute that is open whenever normal vet clinics or not...for your convenience, of course, and for a fee, of course. So by the time we had figured out what we had to do, it was about 10:30 on Dec 24, and Jay and I were heading to Terre Haute in the snow. We left her there overnight and returned to pick her up on Christmas morning. She had a cast and we were to see our regular vet on Monday. Merry Christmas to the vet and the Animal Hospital. Our dog had shattered her leg.
Of course my solution was to cut it off. I mean seriously I've seen lots of three-legged animals. They adapt, they survive. It certainly would save some moola. No one agreed with me however and after about a thousand-plus bucks and eight months of rehabilitation, Abby looks as good as new. Every now and then she'll carry her back leg, but it doesn't seem to bother her much. And if I thought she was loyal and needy before, she's even worse now. She likes being spoiled and in the house. She's a good dog, obviously a fighter, she's seen her share of animal loss (which I haven't gotten to yet) and has remained on our little farm. Hopefully, I didn't just seal her fate...
That was in August of 2006. Folks, we still have Abby #5. She was alive and kicking this morning...in fact, as I drove down our long driveway this morning, she was eating my dust and barking. She has been a good dog. She is extremely loyal to me and will not leave my side, I mean feet, I mean she will stand on my feet and has to be rubbing my legs when we're outside. I love taking walks and she loves going with me, but it is so very annoying that until we get down the driveway, she is hovering so close she almost causes me to fall or trip. I always tell Jay one of these days, she's going to cause me to fall and I'm going to break my ankle. Hopefully not.
Not too many eventful happenings in the life of Abby unless you count this past December. Christmas Eve actually. What a night to remember. The kids and I had been at Wilhoits all day for the family gathering. Jay had worked but came in around 6:30. I decided to run home around 7:30 or so to finish making these homemade cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning. I finished up the rolls and was ready to proceed back to town, but first I needed to run by my parents for a minute. Abby chased me down the drive and to my parents which is very normal. I almost hit her all the time but she has quick moves and I've never actually hit her...or I should say I hadn't until...
It was snowing just enough that the roads were covered and somewhat slick. I pulled out of my parent's driveway headed to town. Abby followed. There is a little hill and dip right before our driveway. Normally, I would be turning left into my driveway there, but this evening I was going straight to town. Abby did what she normally would do and veered left in front of me and my car was going straight. The road was slick. I screamed, skidded and nearly rolled on over. Seriously, I was very fortunate not to have went in the ditch and rolled my car.
The unfortunate part was that I ran over my sweet Abby, my faithful and ever-loyal companion. The oldest dog we had ever owned...BUT...DRUM ROLL PLEASE...she wasn't dead!! Ya-hoo. I regained control of the car and found a place to pull in and turn around. I couldn't see a black heap lying anywhere in the road or beside the road...then I saw her, sitting faithfully at the end of our driveway. Oh, yes, she's fine....or so I thought. I pulled up and she tried to stand. Her back right leg was dangling. UGH. She was bleeding. UGH. I had on my brand new pair of Silver jeans (which I saved like a year to buy)...what do I do? I call my cousin Chris and he comes over. I'm crying. I'm sick to my stomach. We load her up in my car. Now what? It is CHRISTMAS EVE for heaven's sake.
Here's a little 411 for you animal lovers. There is an Animal Hospital in Terre Haute that is open whenever normal vet clinics or not...for your convenience, of course, and for a fee, of course. So by the time we had figured out what we had to do, it was about 10:30 on Dec 24, and Jay and I were heading to Terre Haute in the snow. We left her there overnight and returned to pick her up on Christmas morning. She had a cast and we were to see our regular vet on Monday. Merry Christmas to the vet and the Animal Hospital. Our dog had shattered her leg.
Of course my solution was to cut it off. I mean seriously I've seen lots of three-legged animals. They adapt, they survive. It certainly would save some moola. No one agreed with me however and after about a thousand-plus bucks and eight months of rehabilitation, Abby looks as good as new. Every now and then she'll carry her back leg, but it doesn't seem to bother her much. And if I thought she was loyal and needy before, she's even worse now. She likes being spoiled and in the house. She's a good dog, obviously a fighter, she's seen her share of animal loss (which I haven't gotten to yet) and has remained on our little farm. Hopefully, I didn't just seal her fate...
Friday, August 19, 2011
Just right.
And let the peace of God rule in your hearts, to which also you were called in one body; and be thankful.
(Col 3:15 NKJV)
Today is going to sound like a rant, although it's not intended to be a rant...well, not too much anyway. As I was making the kids' their breakfast this morning, my eye caught the coffee maker...and the leftover coffee. You see my sweet Jay has developed a hankering for coffee, which is fine with me...and I finally learned how to make it for him so it was "just right." The crazy part is to get it "just right" you have to make 10 cups. I'm not opposed to 10 cups if you're going to drink most of it, at least maybe 8. What drives me nuts is when I look over and it still has 6 cups in it and I know for a fact, Jay is not returning for coffee. I tried one morning to make only four cups of coffee. I didn't tell him; I just filled his cup. He knew right away that I had somehow messed with his super-duper ultimate formula for the best cup(s) of coffee because it wasn't "just right." Good grief.
How 'bout this one...As Jay opens mail, he reads it and stuffs the letter, bill or whatever back into the torn-to-shreds envelope that it arrived in. What is the purpose of that? Which then means that I have to take the extra five seconds to remove the letter, bill or whatever and toss the torn-to-shreds envelope into the trash can. I just wasted five seconds times however many torn-to-shred envelopes there were when he could have simply tossed them in the trash can as he was going through the mail. Duh.
And another thing, why can't my family just put their dirty dish(es) in the dishwasher instead of in the sink. I'm guessing that the dishwasher is approximately 18 inches right of the sink. Now, there is a slight bend involved that you wouldn't otherwise have to accomplish by just tossing the dish(es) in the sink, but honestly, it's very, very slight. This would, again, save me at least 10 seconds of time per item, I'm imagine. And when I think about it, the kids don't really have to perform the slight bend, especially Lane, he's at about the right level for it actually. He could be saving the strain of reaching by just slighting bending to the right approximately 18 inches.
Of course, I can hear his excuse for that one. I like the dishwasher stacked a certain way. If you load it the right way, you can cram a lot of dishes in there. If you load it the wrong way, there is a TON of wasted space and you will get small cups that tip over and fill with water, which then spills everywhere as you unload. So I will take a little heat off of the family on this one because I will often have to reload the dishes in secret, which probably takes back the seconds saved by having them put them in there to begin with. (Although I still encourage it because eventually maybe I can convert them all.)
The point of my rant is this, these things drive me absolutely crazy, and sometimes I think, good grief, can't they just do it the right way? But then I have to step back and think. It is an inconvenience to wipe the counter again, five minutes after I just cleaned them all off, because someone got out some bread and left crumbs. It is annoying that I have to clear the clothes off the top of the closet door so I can shut it. It is time-consuming to rearrange the dishwasher to get it "just right" so that I can maximize the space...But they're not really important or things that are going to make a difference in anyone's life, or even be remembered later that day?
I have got to quit wasting my energy on unimportant, petty annoyances just because I don't like them or because something isn't done the way I would've done it. Instead I need to be thankful that I have a husband who is home to have coffee, rejoice that Jay is interested enough in our lives to open the mail and be grateful that God has given us the great big blessing of a dishwasher. I have a wonderful husband and two beautiful kids, lots of family and friends and a God that loves me. There are too many big things in life to stew over...so I've got to let it go and I bet everything will be "just right." (There I got it out...all better)
(Col 3:15 NKJV)
Today is going to sound like a rant, although it's not intended to be a rant...well, not too much anyway. As I was making the kids' their breakfast this morning, my eye caught the coffee maker...and the leftover coffee. You see my sweet Jay has developed a hankering for coffee, which is fine with me...and I finally learned how to make it for him so it was "just right." The crazy part is to get it "just right" you have to make 10 cups. I'm not opposed to 10 cups if you're going to drink most of it, at least maybe 8. What drives me nuts is when I look over and it still has 6 cups in it and I know for a fact, Jay is not returning for coffee. I tried one morning to make only four cups of coffee. I didn't tell him; I just filled his cup. He knew right away that I had somehow messed with his super-duper ultimate formula for the best cup(s) of coffee because it wasn't "just right." Good grief.
How 'bout this one...As Jay opens mail, he reads it and stuffs the letter, bill or whatever back into the torn-to-shreds envelope that it arrived in. What is the purpose of that? Which then means that I have to take the extra five seconds to remove the letter, bill or whatever and toss the torn-to-shreds envelope into the trash can. I just wasted five seconds times however many torn-to-shred envelopes there were when he could have simply tossed them in the trash can as he was going through the mail. Duh.
And another thing, why can't my family just put their dirty dish(es) in the dishwasher instead of in the sink. I'm guessing that the dishwasher is approximately 18 inches right of the sink. Now, there is a slight bend involved that you wouldn't otherwise have to accomplish by just tossing the dish(es) in the sink, but honestly, it's very, very slight. This would, again, save me at least 10 seconds of time per item, I'm imagine. And when I think about it, the kids don't really have to perform the slight bend, especially Lane, he's at about the right level for it actually. He could be saving the strain of reaching by just slighting bending to the right approximately 18 inches.
Of course, I can hear his excuse for that one. I like the dishwasher stacked a certain way. If you load it the right way, you can cram a lot of dishes in there. If you load it the wrong way, there is a TON of wasted space and you will get small cups that tip over and fill with water, which then spills everywhere as you unload. So I will take a little heat off of the family on this one because I will often have to reload the dishes in secret, which probably takes back the seconds saved by having them put them in there to begin with. (Although I still encourage it because eventually maybe I can convert them all.)
The point of my rant is this, these things drive me absolutely crazy, and sometimes I think, good grief, can't they just do it the right way? But then I have to step back and think. It is an inconvenience to wipe the counter again, five minutes after I just cleaned them all off, because someone got out some bread and left crumbs. It is annoying that I have to clear the clothes off the top of the closet door so I can shut it. It is time-consuming to rearrange the dishwasher to get it "just right" so that I can maximize the space...But they're not really important or things that are going to make a difference in anyone's life, or even be remembered later that day?
I have got to quit wasting my energy on unimportant, petty annoyances just because I don't like them or because something isn't done the way I would've done it. Instead I need to be thankful that I have a husband who is home to have coffee, rejoice that Jay is interested enough in our lives to open the mail and be grateful that God has given us the great big blessing of a dishwasher. I have a wonderful husband and two beautiful kids, lots of family and friends and a God that loves me. There are too many big things in life to stew over...so I've got to let it go and I bet everything will be "just right." (There I got it out...all better)
Thursday, August 18, 2011
You have a mustache!
I was thinking about other people's words the other day after I finished the post about my words. Isn't it funny how I can remember the exact words spoken to me 25 years ago and I can't remember what my kids asked me to buy at the store today? I can remember vividly the day that a classmate told me in the lunchline, "You have a mustache." And the sad part was it was true. I'm a hairy girl. I have dark hair and I have a lot of it. I had a mustache. I hated it, and now I had to do something about it.
At that time when I was in junior high, I was fortunate enough to have my cousins living just a half mile down the road. They moved there when I was in 5th or 6th grade and it was sooo great. My cousin that was the same age, we'll call her "Danielle", and I became very good friends. (And even those pesky little brothers of hers were fun to have around.) Well, "Danielle" and I are related, we have similar genes. She may kill me for this, but she shared her beauty secret about the upper lip problem, "Just bleach it."
And so that is what I did. I shut the door to the bathroom right next to my bedroom upstairs and I mixed a concoction. Now I knew what bleach could do and I had heard that an older girl at school used peroxide to bleach her teeth, so the combination of bleach and peroxide would have to be double the bleaching power, right?
Wrong. What bleach and peroxide mixed together will do to a 13 yr old's soft skin above her lip is not good. No, it did not lighten anything. It probably did kill a few hair follicles, but who could know because the mark that it left was horrifying. I had a strip across my upper lip that was probably almost as big as a normal-sized band-aid and it was red, not just an, oh-my-that-looks-sore-red but more like a OH-MY-THAT-LOOKS-BLAZING-HOT-AND-HAS-TO-BE-BURNING-YOUR-FLESH-RED. And that is what it was doing, burning my flesh.
So when the burning flesh process stopped, it began to scab. Now, you know how normal people (as Jay says) scab. I have an olive complexion. For some reason with that olive complexion comes these weird colored burns, bruises and scabs. What is normal for me can look just awful to someone else. This was horrifying to me and to anyone that had even just one eye still functioning.
Now, there is just NO way on this earth you can hide or cover a thick scab that is perfectly over the top of your lip...no way. But I decided to come up with a story...you know how good those are (pine tree, mower, dog). So here goes: We had stairs in our house and they were not carpeted, they were wooden and if mom had cleaned and polished them, they were slick. One day when I came flying down the stairs, I slipped on a magazine, went flying across the carpet and got a carpet burn on my face...well, actually just the strip underneath my nose and right above my lip...my face had no other damage. (And it is amazing that my nose was unharmed in the process, huh?) The magazine was placed just right at the bottom step that my foot caught it and sent me flying. Honestly, could I have come up with a worse story?
And here's the thing, I repeated that story several times...that was my cover to everyone except my mom, who freaked out naturally when she heard what I had mixed together in the bathroom, and my cousin "Danielle" who died laughing at me because that wasn't exactly what she meant by sharing her beauty tip. But those words from that boy in Junior High nearly crushed me, "You have a mustache," and I was determined that I could not face him again until I took care of it. Well, ha, I showed him, huh?
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
#3 and #4
So I hate to alarm and disturb you by the title, but I must put two dogs together...and yes, it is because they were only with us a short time. In fact, it's sad, but I have very few memories of #3. Pitiful.
Dog #3 came to us via Jay doing tons of research and finding the right bloodline, pedigree, etc. He and Madolyn drove to Henderson, KY to pick up a yellow Labrador puppy we named Duke but called Dookie. He was adorable, beautiful, and honestly I have very few memories of him. I am ashamed.
Dog #4 was a sweet little miniature Beagle named Archie. He was a doll. I was not at all in favor of getting this sweet little guy because I was a lab person...that is all I had ever had and that's all I wanted. Jay won this one and brought home two little Beagles...thankfully, one was for a coworker. I will never forget Archie and his brother's first night at our abode because Jay was working nights and he told me to just kennel them up together and they would be okay.
Have you ever heard a Beagle? Do you realize the sounds they can make? Now, multiply that by two...that equals two very lonely, scared and VOCAL Beagles. After I could not take it anymore, I moved them to the basement...which is really rotten because our basement stairs are open and I set them right underneath my son's bedroom. Finally, after a few hours of NO SLEEP because of these adorable little pups, I called Jay's workplace and asked to speak to him. This alarmed the fella that answered the phone because whose wife calls them at 3:00 in the morning...unless it's an emergency, of course. So when Jay got on the phone, I simply said, "hey, just wanted to let you know that I'm up, the pups are up, we're ALL up." I think everyone at his workplace got a chuckle out of that one.
Okay, so Dookie and Archie were best buds. I'm thinking we got Archie when Dookie was about a year old, maybe. At one point they disappeared, literally, and we weren't sure what happened, but eventually figured that maybe a neighbor had called the dog catcher...so I made the call to the dog pound, left a detailed message describing our mismatched duo and never got a call back. So I made another call to the dog pound, once again describing them...and no response. I think finally after about three weeks, the dog catcher called and said there had been a terrible mistake, the transposition of our phone number or something, and they actually did have a large yellow lab and a very small beagle that came in together. Well, there you go. (btw, our name and phone number was on Dookie's collar) Thankfully, their "time" was not up at the pound and we retrieved them without even a fine!!
Fourth of July, 2006. Lane was two years old. We went for a bike ride early that morning before it was time to head to the parade. It was warm, but not hot and it was misting slightly. Lane & I head out on the bike, Duke follows. I am a casual biker, I don't do any of that hot roding or fast stuff. I am just a mom out on a bike with a carrier holding my two-year-old little man behind me. I am pedaling along and Duke acts like he's dying, literally, huffing and puffing and loping along. Jay & Mad come past on the 4wheeler. I make the offhand comment "Take him home, he acts like he's dying." They speed off, we pedal on down the road. I'm just about home when Jay & Mad come up on us again and we're all there together, including Duke, who makes a dash for this very small ditch with a bunch of overgrown brush and a minute amount of standing water. Jay says, "Let's just go to the parade and when we come back, if he's not home, I'll come get him with the truck."
We left Duke, went home and headed to the parade, returned and there was no Duke. Jay goes back and wouldn't you know it, he is dead...Can you believe that? We lost Macey on a bike ride in July and now we are losing Duke on a bike ride in July two years later. It wasn't even scorching hot out...it had been misting for cryin' out loud. We had just had him to the vet...of course. Something else to mention, we are the type of people that take our animals to the vet. We get caught up in all the stuff they "need" and get them fixed and do the right things for them. And yet, we've lost another one.
Not long after we buried poor Duke, #3, Jay ran over Archie #4 as he was pulling out of my parent's driveway in his truck. He knew there was nothing that he could do for Archie, so he ran and got the kids and told them to say goodbye to the little fella...the first words out of my daughter's mouth were "So when can we get a new dog?"
Dog #3 came to us via Jay doing tons of research and finding the right bloodline, pedigree, etc. He and Madolyn drove to Henderson, KY to pick up a yellow Labrador puppy we named Duke but called Dookie. He was adorable, beautiful, and honestly I have very few memories of him. I am ashamed.
Dog #4 was a sweet little miniature Beagle named Archie. He was a doll. I was not at all in favor of getting this sweet little guy because I was a lab person...that is all I had ever had and that's all I wanted. Jay won this one and brought home two little Beagles...thankfully, one was for a coworker. I will never forget Archie and his brother's first night at our abode because Jay was working nights and he told me to just kennel them up together and they would be okay.
Have you ever heard a Beagle? Do you realize the sounds they can make? Now, multiply that by two...that equals two very lonely, scared and VOCAL Beagles. After I could not take it anymore, I moved them to the basement...which is really rotten because our basement stairs are open and I set them right underneath my son's bedroom. Finally, after a few hours of NO SLEEP because of these adorable little pups, I called Jay's workplace and asked to speak to him. This alarmed the fella that answered the phone because whose wife calls them at 3:00 in the morning...unless it's an emergency, of course. So when Jay got on the phone, I simply said, "hey, just wanted to let you know that I'm up, the pups are up, we're ALL up." I think everyone at his workplace got a chuckle out of that one.
Okay, so Dookie and Archie were best buds. I'm thinking we got Archie when Dookie was about a year old, maybe. At one point they disappeared, literally, and we weren't sure what happened, but eventually figured that maybe a neighbor had called the dog catcher...so I made the call to the dog pound, left a detailed message describing our mismatched duo and never got a call back. So I made another call to the dog pound, once again describing them...and no response. I think finally after about three weeks, the dog catcher called and said there had been a terrible mistake, the transposition of our phone number or something, and they actually did have a large yellow lab and a very small beagle that came in together. Well, there you go. (btw, our name and phone number was on Dookie's collar) Thankfully, their "time" was not up at the pound and we retrieved them without even a fine!!
Fourth of July, 2006. Lane was two years old. We went for a bike ride early that morning before it was time to head to the parade. It was warm, but not hot and it was misting slightly. Lane & I head out on the bike, Duke follows. I am a casual biker, I don't do any of that hot roding or fast stuff. I am just a mom out on a bike with a carrier holding my two-year-old little man behind me. I am pedaling along and Duke acts like he's dying, literally, huffing and puffing and loping along. Jay & Mad come past on the 4wheeler. I make the offhand comment "Take him home, he acts like he's dying." They speed off, we pedal on down the road. I'm just about home when Jay & Mad come up on us again and we're all there together, including Duke, who makes a dash for this very small ditch with a bunch of overgrown brush and a minute amount of standing water. Jay says, "Let's just go to the parade and when we come back, if he's not home, I'll come get him with the truck."
We left Duke, went home and headed to the parade, returned and there was no Duke. Jay goes back and wouldn't you know it, he is dead...Can you believe that? We lost Macey on a bike ride in July and now we are losing Duke on a bike ride in July two years later. It wasn't even scorching hot out...it had been misting for cryin' out loud. We had just had him to the vet...of course. Something else to mention, we are the type of people that take our animals to the vet. We get caught up in all the stuff they "need" and get them fixed and do the right things for them. And yet, we've lost another one.
Not long after we buried poor Duke, #3, Jay ran over Archie #4 as he was pulling out of my parent's driveway in his truck. He knew there was nothing that he could do for Archie, so he ran and got the kids and told them to say goodbye to the little fella...the first words out of my daughter's mouth were "So when can we get a new dog?"
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Man, I killed it...twice!
My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry. (James 1:19 NIV)
Last night the CPWM, Cumberland Presbyterian Women Ministries, had our annual Ladies Night Out and went to Robinson for pizza at Monicals. As usual, our pizza was delicious and chatter was going 100 miles-an-hour. Honestly, you could barely hear in that little room. It was great though. Towards the end, we had a very short business meeting and then our president asked if anyone had anything to share. The stories started. We always have good stories. But this time these were serious ones, the kind that give you goose bumps. Normally our stories are crazy memories from the past which lead to another one and another one, etc. You catch my drift.
So I decided to chime in and tell the ladies about Sanctus Real. They were at our fair this year for Elevate 2011 and their stage time was cut short due to a storm heading our direction (which now, considering what just happened at the Indiana State Fair, was the right thing to do at the time even though we were disappointed) so we didn't get to hear the lead singer's entire testimony...which is awesome. So I start to share just a small portion of what I know about Matt's story, which is very touching and emotional, and here's how this very touching and emotional story went...
"Sanctus Real had finished their latest album, Pieces of a Real Heart, before the lead singer and his wife found out that their unborn son had a genital heart defect..." Oh boy, I killed it. Did I just say "genital" right here at the table? Back up and start over. "...their unborn son had a congenital heart defect and soon after his birth, he had open heart surgery, where he died right there on the table..." Okay, now in my defense, people were commenting and oohing and aahhing so my story was a bit chopped up, and yes, I had killed it with the Freudian slip just a moment ago anyway...when I realize they think the baby died, which is what I said, but I was getting to the part where the nurses, with their hands, pumped his heart back to life as the parents stood by watching. But I had already killed it yet again. Man, I had a really goose-bump-worthy story and I killed it not once, but TWICE.
This is the story of my life. I speak so quickly and my mind moves at 100 miles-an-hour and the words just come out...and sometimes they're not the right words. Maybe my profession is to blame for this. I sit and listen to attorneys, witnesses, judges and others' words day after day. I just have to sit there and take them all in without saying anything...and if you know me, that is a tough task. My poor Jay gets an earful by the time I come home, especially if I've had something all day. I know he doesn't hear what I'm saying, he just pretends to listen, but that's okay...I get my turn at talking.
Of course the very-applicable scripture from above comes to mind every time I start the diarrhea of the mouth (as my friend puts it) or puking from the mouth (as another friend says)...Now, wait a minute, are they talking about me? This is two different friends using these phrases around me...yikes. I've got to learn to zip it. I know this is a downfall of mine, but man, I like to talk (and hey, it's in my genes so it's not entirely my fault). I can't stand silence and awkward silence is the death of me. Why do I feel like it is my responsibility alone to keep a conversation going? But I do time and time again.
Ahh, I just can't do it...quick to listen and slow to speak. How am I suppose to do this? I know that silence has many benefits, I don't want to be a fool, but I can't help but think of the many missed opportunities to witness by being silent. Listening is very important and sometimes that is all that is needed, but there are so many times when silence will kill your big chance. There are times when silence is misinterpreted by others. I know I speak when I should listen. I know that I need to choose my words carefully. I also know that I'm never going to sit back and be silent. I will never be that person who is too shy to speak or offer an opinion. It isn't who I am (and if you see that I am, something is drastically wrong, SOS).
So I have decided maybe I need to use what I am good at and have plenty of. Now instead of praying for me to shut up all the time (although I do know there are times, MANY times, silence is best) I pray that God will use my words for His glory and His purpose, that what I say will reflect Him and not necessarily me, that He will give me the words to say. I don't know if it's working or not, but I will keep trying, and I'm certain the time will come when I'll again kill a really good, goose-bump-worthy story.
Last night the CPWM, Cumberland Presbyterian Women Ministries, had our annual Ladies Night Out and went to Robinson for pizza at Monicals. As usual, our pizza was delicious and chatter was going 100 miles-an-hour. Honestly, you could barely hear in that little room. It was great though. Towards the end, we had a very short business meeting and then our president asked if anyone had anything to share. The stories started. We always have good stories. But this time these were serious ones, the kind that give you goose bumps. Normally our stories are crazy memories from the past which lead to another one and another one, etc. You catch my drift.
So I decided to chime in and tell the ladies about Sanctus Real. They were at our fair this year for Elevate 2011 and their stage time was cut short due to a storm heading our direction (which now, considering what just happened at the Indiana State Fair, was the right thing to do at the time even though we were disappointed) so we didn't get to hear the lead singer's entire testimony...which is awesome. So I start to share just a small portion of what I know about Matt's story, which is very touching and emotional, and here's how this very touching and emotional story went...
"Sanctus Real had finished their latest album, Pieces of a Real Heart, before the lead singer and his wife found out that their unborn son had a genital heart defect..." Oh boy, I killed it. Did I just say "genital" right here at the table? Back up and start over. "...their unborn son had a congenital heart defect and soon after his birth, he had open heart surgery, where he died right there on the table..." Okay, now in my defense, people were commenting and oohing and aahhing so my story was a bit chopped up, and yes, I had killed it with the Freudian slip just a moment ago anyway...when I realize they think the baby died, which is what I said, but I was getting to the part where the nurses, with their hands, pumped his heart back to life as the parents stood by watching. But I had already killed it yet again. Man, I had a really goose-bump-worthy story and I killed it not once, but TWICE.
This is the story of my life. I speak so quickly and my mind moves at 100 miles-an-hour and the words just come out...and sometimes they're not the right words. Maybe my profession is to blame for this. I sit and listen to attorneys, witnesses, judges and others' words day after day. I just have to sit there and take them all in without saying anything...and if you know me, that is a tough task. My poor Jay gets an earful by the time I come home, especially if I've had something all day. I know he doesn't hear what I'm saying, he just pretends to listen, but that's okay...I get my turn at talking.
Of course the very-applicable scripture from above comes to mind every time I start the diarrhea of the mouth (as my friend puts it) or puking from the mouth (as another friend says)...Now, wait a minute, are they talking about me? This is two different friends using these phrases around me...yikes. I've got to learn to zip it. I know this is a downfall of mine, but man, I like to talk (and hey, it's in my genes so it's not entirely my fault). I can't stand silence and awkward silence is the death of me. Why do I feel like it is my responsibility alone to keep a conversation going? But I do time and time again.
Ahh, I just can't do it...quick to listen and slow to speak. How am I suppose to do this? I know that silence has many benefits, I don't want to be a fool, but I can't help but think of the many missed opportunities to witness by being silent. Listening is very important and sometimes that is all that is needed, but there are so many times when silence will kill your big chance. There are times when silence is misinterpreted by others. I know I speak when I should listen. I know that I need to choose my words carefully. I also know that I'm never going to sit back and be silent. I will never be that person who is too shy to speak or offer an opinion. It isn't who I am (and if you see that I am, something is drastically wrong, SOS).
So I have decided maybe I need to use what I am good at and have plenty of. Now instead of praying for me to shut up all the time (although I do know there are times, MANY times, silence is best) I pray that God will use my words for His glory and His purpose, that what I say will reflect Him and not necessarily me, that He will give me the words to say. I don't know if it's working or not, but I will keep trying, and I'm certain the time will come when I'll again kill a really good, goose-bump-worthy story.
Monday, August 15, 2011
The Wise Man Built His House Upon the Sand
But anyone who hears my teaching and doesn’t obey it is foolish, like a person who builds a house on sand. (Matthew 7:26 NLT)
Go on, keep going with this song, you know the words and the motions, I hope. Last week, we went on a family vacation to sunny, sandy Florida. We were in between Destin & Panama City in Santa Rosa, FL, on Seagrove Beach. One morning while out on the beach, Jay mentioned that song when showing Lane how the sand just collapses when the water rolls in. So it stuck in my head, of course. Then as I stood up from reading (which is just about all I do on the beach and LOVE it) and walked to the water to cool off, I felt the sand falling away under me as the water rushed over my feet. Ugh, I do not like that feeling. It made my feet uncomfortable and I would sorta tip-toe away to where the sand was smooth. I'm weird like that...
Then this brought me to another memory from the past. When I was 15 years old, my mother forced me (yes, forced is the only way to describe it) to go on a trip with my grandparents to southern Texas for three, yes three, very long weeks. Now, it doesn't sound all bad really, except that I was 15 years old and had a social life to attend to. I don't think Jay and I were technically dating at that time, of course, I'm not sure what you would call those instances when we weren't really dating, we still talked all the time, and I had girlfriends to keep company and have fun with as well. So three weeks in Texas out of MY summer was devastating. The only bright spot was that my older cousin, Shellie, was going along. Thank goodness.
My parents took me to Effingham and dumped me out at a restaurant at that first exit and I unwillingly climbed into the back of my grandparent's pale yellow Chevrolet Caprice...the ultimate grandma car. The drive to Harlingen, Texas is about 23 hours, straight. (Jay and I have actually driven it...stupid, stupid, stupid.) But with my retired, care-free grandparents, that 23-hour drive was the equivalent of THREE days in the car, stopping each evening around supper to crash at a hotel...with my grandparents...which brings me to another highlight...meals and gas.
My grandparents really were wonderful people, don't get me wrong. They were a very well-educated and very financially-wise couple. But they were also frugal. My grandpa documented every single penny he spent. I'm not exaggerating here, folks. Every penny. Whenever we stopped and he paid for something, he got that little notepad out of the glovebox and wrote it down. One morning at breakfast, he gave me all kinds of grief over ordering french toast and toast. He just couldn't get over me ordering bread in two forms. It cracks me up to think about it now. (But hey, we LOVE carbs, right?)
Oh, goodness, I should've devoted more space to this trip and all of its glory because now I recall that on the trip down, our a/c went out in the Caprice and we had to drive with the windows down. And the fact that I almost lost it when my grandma was driving and pulled off the side of the road to let someone pass as we were flying (as grandparents do) down the highway. That is the way you pass in big ole Texas, if someone wants to pass, you pull over. Craziness.
So on with my sand story, seriously, I have a point here. Grandpa decides to drive us down to South Padre Island and show us the island, the whole island. It's a pretty small area so we head on out of "town" and all of a sudden, he just ventures off the road into the sand...yes, sand, and remember, we're in the Chevrolet Caprice. You can imagine that once that Caprice stopped, it just sorta sunk a tad...enough that it wasn't going anywhere. So there we sat. Quiet. Completely quiet. (My grandpa was a coach, teacher, superintendent...we knew to be very, very quiet and it probably wasn't a good idea to offer up advice at any time without a request).
After a while, along came our savior, our rescuer who had to have been just loving this...a guy in a terribly beat-up old truck whose clothes were filthy and nearly falling off...and I would guess had I been a bit closer, he probably had an odor of alcoholic beverage emanating from his person (court lingo). This fine fella told my grandpa he could pull us out of that sand for forty bucks. Geesh, forty bucks?! But what do you do? We are sitting in the middle of deserted beach/sand (literally), two teenage girls and a set of retired, dressed-to-play-golf-later seniors with their Chevy Caprice buried in the very soft, loose sand. My grandpa had no choice but to agree to the terms. He paid the $40 and the guy pulled us to the main road.
It cracks me up to think about it now. My grandpa had to swallow his pride and pay that fella forty bucks. Ha...you know it went down in his little notebook. I would've loved to have seen what his notation was next to that $40, South Padre Island. Yes, Jay making that comment about the sand and the wise man and me feeling that sand giveway underneath my feet brought this memory back. Makes me laugh!!
Seriously, I loved my grandparents. They were good people. They taught me a lot and I now treasure that three-week trip to south Texas. But who in their right mind drives a Chevrolet Caprice off the main road onto the sand? Even small children know that the wise man built his house upon the rock!
Go on, keep going with this song, you know the words and the motions, I hope. Last week, we went on a family vacation to sunny, sandy Florida. We were in between Destin & Panama City in Santa Rosa, FL, on Seagrove Beach. One morning while out on the beach, Jay mentioned that song when showing Lane how the sand just collapses when the water rolls in. So it stuck in my head, of course. Then as I stood up from reading (which is just about all I do on the beach and LOVE it) and walked to the water to cool off, I felt the sand falling away under me as the water rushed over my feet. Ugh, I do not like that feeling. It made my feet uncomfortable and I would sorta tip-toe away to where the sand was smooth. I'm weird like that...
Then this brought me to another memory from the past. When I was 15 years old, my mother forced me (yes, forced is the only way to describe it) to go on a trip with my grandparents to southern Texas for three, yes three, very long weeks. Now, it doesn't sound all bad really, except that I was 15 years old and had a social life to attend to. I don't think Jay and I were technically dating at that time, of course, I'm not sure what you would call those instances when we weren't really dating, we still talked all the time, and I had girlfriends to keep company and have fun with as well. So three weeks in Texas out of MY summer was devastating. The only bright spot was that my older cousin, Shellie, was going along. Thank goodness.
My parents took me to Effingham and dumped me out at a restaurant at that first exit and I unwillingly climbed into the back of my grandparent's pale yellow Chevrolet Caprice...the ultimate grandma car. The drive to Harlingen, Texas is about 23 hours, straight. (Jay and I have actually driven it...stupid, stupid, stupid.) But with my retired, care-free grandparents, that 23-hour drive was the equivalent of THREE days in the car, stopping each evening around supper to crash at a hotel...with my grandparents...which brings me to another highlight...meals and gas.
My grandparents really were wonderful people, don't get me wrong. They were a very well-educated and very financially-wise couple. But they were also frugal. My grandpa documented every single penny he spent. I'm not exaggerating here, folks. Every penny. Whenever we stopped and he paid for something, he got that little notepad out of the glovebox and wrote it down. One morning at breakfast, he gave me all kinds of grief over ordering french toast and toast. He just couldn't get over me ordering bread in two forms. It cracks me up to think about it now. (But hey, we LOVE carbs, right?)
Oh, goodness, I should've devoted more space to this trip and all of its glory because now I recall that on the trip down, our a/c went out in the Caprice and we had to drive with the windows down. And the fact that I almost lost it when my grandma was driving and pulled off the side of the road to let someone pass as we were flying (as grandparents do) down the highway. That is the way you pass in big ole Texas, if someone wants to pass, you pull over. Craziness.
So on with my sand story, seriously, I have a point here. Grandpa decides to drive us down to South Padre Island and show us the island, the whole island. It's a pretty small area so we head on out of "town" and all of a sudden, he just ventures off the road into the sand...yes, sand, and remember, we're in the Chevrolet Caprice. You can imagine that once that Caprice stopped, it just sorta sunk a tad...enough that it wasn't going anywhere. So there we sat. Quiet. Completely quiet. (My grandpa was a coach, teacher, superintendent...we knew to be very, very quiet and it probably wasn't a good idea to offer up advice at any time without a request).
After a while, along came our savior, our rescuer who had to have been just loving this...a guy in a terribly beat-up old truck whose clothes were filthy and nearly falling off...and I would guess had I been a bit closer, he probably had an odor of alcoholic beverage emanating from his person (court lingo). This fine fella told my grandpa he could pull us out of that sand for forty bucks. Geesh, forty bucks?! But what do you do? We are sitting in the middle of deserted beach/sand (literally), two teenage girls and a set of retired, dressed-to-play-golf-later seniors with their Chevy Caprice buried in the very soft, loose sand. My grandpa had no choice but to agree to the terms. He paid the $40 and the guy pulled us to the main road.
It cracks me up to think about it now. My grandpa had to swallow his pride and pay that fella forty bucks. Ha...you know it went down in his little notebook. I would've loved to have seen what his notation was next to that $40, South Padre Island. Yes, Jay making that comment about the sand and the wise man and me feeling that sand giveway underneath my feet brought this memory back. Makes me laugh!!
Seriously, I loved my grandparents. They were good people. They taught me a lot and I now treasure that three-week trip to south Texas. But who in their right mind drives a Chevrolet Caprice off the main road onto the sand? Even small children know that the wise man built his house upon the rock!
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Vacation
We are on vacation...I'm not sure if I'll get to daily blogs this week or not, maybe I'll post a couple this week. You guys can use your time wiser:)
Saturday, August 6, 2011
The Quackers
Children, obey your parents because you belong to the Lord, for this is the right thing to do. “Honor your father and mother.” This is the first commandment with a promise: If you honor your father and mother, “things will go well for you, and you will have a long life on the earth.” (Ephesians 6:1-3 NLT)
I can't remember when exactly but at some point Jay dubbed my father the "Quackdaddy." My dad likes to duck and goose hunt and his CB handle was "Quacker" from way back when (CB's were like cellphones). Then came the "Quackmama" for my mother. And no, she's not into duck or goose hunting and her seebee handle was "Maggie B" (for whatever reason). But it stuck...my parents are the Quackers.
Growing up, the Quackers were just my dumb, ignorant parents who bossed me around, made me go to church, go to bed at a certain time, be home at a certain time, do my homework, pay for things with my own money, work, respect my elders, clean my room (ugh), and I'm sure you get the point. I must admit that I was not a perfect child...even though I may have thought I was, yeah, I'm pretty sure I probably did...especially since my parents were stupid and knew nothing.
I hear my mom make comments now and realize, yikes, I must have been pretty difficult to get along with here and there (and everywhere). I'm understanding all those things, now that I'm a parent of a pre-teen daughter, that my mom and dad tried to tell me. Isn't it true that some things you just don't get until you're older or have your own children? This is definitely one of them.
Probably one of the most significant things I remember is that I never ever wanted to disappoint my parents. I couldn't stand the thought of disappointing my dad. Ugh. If I had to admit to something I knew he would be ashamed of me for, it just made me sick to my stomach. And my brother was near perfect, so following in his footsteps wasn't easy. Even though I wasn't too bad, I wasn't an angel by any sense of the word...and I know I had a sassy mouth that probably made them want to slap me. (Jay says I still do!) Somehow, we all lived through my adolescent years.
I now realize I had great parents. They have their quirks, those Quackers, but all in all, I'm very fortunate. They extended mercy and grace when I didn't deserve it and they disciplined me when I did. They were good Christian examples and I appreciate that now, especially as I'm trying to raise my own kiddos. They are a great support system for me and my family, and I owe them so much for being there for their grandchildren whenever I need them to be. I have some crazy funny stories about the Quackers and my childhood that I'm sure I'll share over the course of time.
As I was looking for a scripture text, I found the one above and thought, hmm, I wonder if I did well enough to have a long life here on earth...I suppose we'll just have to see. It is kinda interesting though, that it is mentioned that way. I'm thinking maybe we should have that framed in large bold print and hang it up in our kids' rooms.
Every day as I would head out to the school bus, and even as a teenager leaving with my brother for school, my dad would say "Smile at your teachers" with this huge goofy grin. I remember thinking, oh my gosh, that is so dumb. Guess what? Every now and then, I'll say the same thing to my kids as I'm dropping them off at school...Madolyn just looks at me like I'm an idiot (go figure).
I can't remember when exactly but at some point Jay dubbed my father the "Quackdaddy." My dad likes to duck and goose hunt and his CB handle was "Quacker" from way back when (CB's were like cellphones). Then came the "Quackmama" for my mother. And no, she's not into duck or goose hunting and her seebee handle was "Maggie B" (for whatever reason). But it stuck...my parents are the Quackers.
Growing up, the Quackers were just my dumb, ignorant parents who bossed me around, made me go to church, go to bed at a certain time, be home at a certain time, do my homework, pay for things with my own money, work, respect my elders, clean my room (ugh), and I'm sure you get the point. I must admit that I was not a perfect child...even though I may have thought I was, yeah, I'm pretty sure I probably did...especially since my parents were stupid and knew nothing.
I hear my mom make comments now and realize, yikes, I must have been pretty difficult to get along with here and there (and everywhere). I'm understanding all those things, now that I'm a parent of a pre-teen daughter, that my mom and dad tried to tell me. Isn't it true that some things you just don't get until you're older or have your own children? This is definitely one of them.
Probably one of the most significant things I remember is that I never ever wanted to disappoint my parents. I couldn't stand the thought of disappointing my dad. Ugh. If I had to admit to something I knew he would be ashamed of me for, it just made me sick to my stomach. And my brother was near perfect, so following in his footsteps wasn't easy. Even though I wasn't too bad, I wasn't an angel by any sense of the word...and I know I had a sassy mouth that probably made them want to slap me. (Jay says I still do!) Somehow, we all lived through my adolescent years.
I now realize I had great parents. They have their quirks, those Quackers, but all in all, I'm very fortunate. They extended mercy and grace when I didn't deserve it and they disciplined me when I did. They were good Christian examples and I appreciate that now, especially as I'm trying to raise my own kiddos. They are a great support system for me and my family, and I owe them so much for being there for their grandchildren whenever I need them to be. I have some crazy funny stories about the Quackers and my childhood that I'm sure I'll share over the course of time.
As I was looking for a scripture text, I found the one above and thought, hmm, I wonder if I did well enough to have a long life here on earth...I suppose we'll just have to see. It is kinda interesting though, that it is mentioned that way. I'm thinking maybe we should have that framed in large bold print and hang it up in our kids' rooms.
Every day as I would head out to the school bus, and even as a teenager leaving with my brother for school, my dad would say "Smile at your teachers" with this huge goofy grin. I remember thinking, oh my gosh, that is so dumb. Guess what? Every now and then, I'll say the same thing to my kids as I'm dropping them off at school...Madolyn just looks at me like I'm an idiot (go figure).
Friday, August 5, 2011
What's in a Name?
Then the man—Adam—named his wife Eve, because she would be the mother of all who live. (Genesis 3:20 NLT)
I thought about it on the mower last night and it dawned on me that I told you how Lane got his name, but not Madolyn. If you know me real well, her first name is a no-brainer. Madolyn is after my Grandma Madolyn. I never had much doubt about what my daughter's first name would be, but we had to get a little creative with the second one. It doesn't sound creative, but it is to me...(because I'm so stinkin' creative.) The middle name is LeAnn. That is Le for Lela, which is Jay's mom's first name (although she doesn't go by it) and it was also his grandma's name. Ann is my mom's middle name. I love names that have meaning and significance, even if it's only to me. I love the name Madolyn because it is just a beautiful looking name, but I also love it because it is a tribute to someone that means so much to me. (I'll have to write about that some other time.)
I find it a bummer that the females always have to give up their names, you know. So I thought I should include our mother's names in her name somehow, and since I'm not too fond of children having four names, we smushed them together for the end result. When I got married, I did what my mom did...I immediately dropped my middle name, although I don't mind it, and now use my maiden name as my middle name. I don't hyphenate it or write it out, I just use the initial in my signature. It makes me feel good...even if know one else knows what it stands for!
I was named after someone, thankfully. I was supposed to be Nancy or Eric (if a boy obviously). I like my name. I like that it's from the Bible and that it does have significance to the family. Funny thing, my parents named me Sarah six months after my dad's first cousin and her husband named their daughter Sara. Now, this wouldn't seem funny, except that we lived six miles apart in the same school district and area. What were they thinking?! And of course, for the first 11 years of my life, Sara and I were inseparable. Back and forth at one another's house every single weekend. This became a problem and after awhile of yelling "Sarah...no, I mean the other Sarah," everyone started referring to me as Sarah Beth, and to this day that family and others still call me Sarah Beth.
That takes me to another friend, Susan. Susan was just a year older than I was. We attended the same church, our families were close...so again, we were always together. I kid you not, to this day people call Susan Sarah and Sarah Susan. It's funny because even now when someone (who has no idea of the connection) simply misspeaks and calls us by the other name, we answer. A few weeks ago we were at a meeting and someone did that and we both just laughed. The person had no idea what was so funny about it, but we didn't care. We are 36 and 37 years old and our names are still interchangeable.
Even in the Bible, there is significance in names. It is obvious that the names given to people were chosen for a very specific purpose. I love that. Do you notice how in scripture there are lots of references made to the name and its meaning? Names were very important. And they were proud of their names. Seems like a lot of times they worked hard to remain true to the name they were given at birth. Their name almost was like a foretelling of their future too. It is so interesting if you think about it.
So that's the story of my daughter's name, my name and even my cousin and friend's names. Aren't you glad I shared that with you? And isn't it funny how sometimes you name a child something, find out the meaning later, and realize how right-on it is...I mean Sarah means a Hebrew Princess. So I'm not Hebrew, but, hey, I'm a princess (at least in my own mind). Ha!
I thought about it on the mower last night and it dawned on me that I told you how Lane got his name, but not Madolyn. If you know me real well, her first name is a no-brainer. Madolyn is after my Grandma Madolyn. I never had much doubt about what my daughter's first name would be, but we had to get a little creative with the second one. It doesn't sound creative, but it is to me...(because I'm so stinkin' creative.) The middle name is LeAnn. That is Le for Lela, which is Jay's mom's first name (although she doesn't go by it) and it was also his grandma's name. Ann is my mom's middle name. I love names that have meaning and significance, even if it's only to me. I love the name Madolyn because it is just a beautiful looking name, but I also love it because it is a tribute to someone that means so much to me. (I'll have to write about that some other time.)
I find it a bummer that the females always have to give up their names, you know. So I thought I should include our mother's names in her name somehow, and since I'm not too fond of children having four names, we smushed them together for the end result. When I got married, I did what my mom did...I immediately dropped my middle name, although I don't mind it, and now use my maiden name as my middle name. I don't hyphenate it or write it out, I just use the initial in my signature. It makes me feel good...even if know one else knows what it stands for!
I was named after someone, thankfully. I was supposed to be Nancy or Eric (if a boy obviously). I like my name. I like that it's from the Bible and that it does have significance to the family. Funny thing, my parents named me Sarah six months after my dad's first cousin and her husband named their daughter Sara. Now, this wouldn't seem funny, except that we lived six miles apart in the same school district and area. What were they thinking?! And of course, for the first 11 years of my life, Sara and I were inseparable. Back and forth at one another's house every single weekend. This became a problem and after awhile of yelling "Sarah...no, I mean the other Sarah," everyone started referring to me as Sarah Beth, and to this day that family and others still call me Sarah Beth.
That takes me to another friend, Susan. Susan was just a year older than I was. We attended the same church, our families were close...so again, we were always together. I kid you not, to this day people call Susan Sarah and Sarah Susan. It's funny because even now when someone (who has no idea of the connection) simply misspeaks and calls us by the other name, we answer. A few weeks ago we were at a meeting and someone did that and we both just laughed. The person had no idea what was so funny about it, but we didn't care. We are 36 and 37 years old and our names are still interchangeable.
Even in the Bible, there is significance in names. It is obvious that the names given to people were chosen for a very specific purpose. I love that. Do you notice how in scripture there are lots of references made to the name and its meaning? Names were very important. And they were proud of their names. Seems like a lot of times they worked hard to remain true to the name they were given at birth. Their name almost was like a foretelling of their future too. It is so interesting if you think about it.
So that's the story of my daughter's name, my name and even my cousin and friend's names. Aren't you glad I shared that with you? And isn't it funny how sometimes you name a child something, find out the meaning later, and realize how right-on it is...I mean Sarah means a Hebrew Princess. So I'm not Hebrew, but, hey, I'm a princess (at least in my own mind). Ha!
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Our little man
Children are a gift from the Lord;they are a reward from him. (Psalm 127:3 NLT)
In April of 2004, we had our sweet little man, Lane. That's what we called him forever and then it became the little buddy. My dad called him Bolliver, whatever that means. Once Lane learned to talk, he insisted that he be called Lane Truman, which was his name. It was always funny to hear him say "I Lane Truman" and beat his chest with his hand.
Truman was Jay's grandpa. Jay was very close to Truman, and as I was around more and more, I was too. He was kind of an ornery old fella, but we loved him. He died in 1998, I think, and there wasn't too much dispute when we found out we were having a boy, his middle name would be Truman. Of course, everyone asks us if we're Democrats because of Lane's name...which totally cracks me up. Hey, what if we just really love the name Truman? And no, he's not named after an attorney or two judges I used to work with either. Jay and I liked the name Lane. I worked with a gal whose son's name was Lane. We liked the movie 8 Seconds...There was no one reason why we named him Lane, we just did.
And Lane seems to fit the little buddy. He's a cowboy/farm boy through and through. He is a safety-conscious, hard-working little fella. You give him a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow and he'll clean a stall, move a mound of manure or whatever else you want him to move. And if you don't watch it, he will give you the safest and best means of doing something courtesy of my father, who Lane spent five years with before starting school. He also talks with his hands and tells tall, tall tales. I have no idea where he gets that!!
He wore nothing but boots until he started school. And for the longest time he would only wear blue jeans, literally. Two years ago when we went to Florida, Jay packed his suitcase and did not put one pair of jeans in there, Lane was forced to wear shorts...only shorts. We also left the boots behind. It was the turning point to some degree. Once he started school, he realized that no one else was wearing boots and started enjoying the tennis shoe. Of course, he, like his mama, loves the Converse All Stars...and so he has had a pair of those since he was two. We just keep buying the next size. I know it kills his dad...I love them though!!
Fortunately for us, we were blessed with one girl and one boy. We are so thankful to have experienced the differences in both thus far. There are some good, some bad. We'll take it.
In April of 2004, we had our sweet little man, Lane. That's what we called him forever and then it became the little buddy. My dad called him Bolliver, whatever that means. Once Lane learned to talk, he insisted that he be called Lane Truman, which was his name. It was always funny to hear him say "I Lane Truman" and beat his chest with his hand.
Truman was Jay's grandpa. Jay was very close to Truman, and as I was around more and more, I was too. He was kind of an ornery old fella, but we loved him. He died in 1998, I think, and there wasn't too much dispute when we found out we were having a boy, his middle name would be Truman. Of course, everyone asks us if we're Democrats because of Lane's name...which totally cracks me up. Hey, what if we just really love the name Truman? And no, he's not named after an attorney or two judges I used to work with either. Jay and I liked the name Lane. I worked with a gal whose son's name was Lane. We liked the movie 8 Seconds...There was no one reason why we named him Lane, we just did.
And Lane seems to fit the little buddy. He's a cowboy/farm boy through and through. He is a safety-conscious, hard-working little fella. You give him a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow and he'll clean a stall, move a mound of manure or whatever else you want him to move. And if you don't watch it, he will give you the safest and best means of doing something courtesy of my father, who Lane spent five years with before starting school. He also talks with his hands and tells tall, tall tales. I have no idea where he gets that!!
He wore nothing but boots until he started school. And for the longest time he would only wear blue jeans, literally. Two years ago when we went to Florida, Jay packed his suitcase and did not put one pair of jeans in there, Lane was forced to wear shorts...only shorts. We also left the boots behind. It was the turning point to some degree. Once he started school, he realized that no one else was wearing boots and started enjoying the tennis shoe. Of course, he, like his mama, loves the Converse All Stars...and so he has had a pair of those since he was two. We just keep buying the next size. I know it kills his dad...I love them though!!
Fortunately for us, we were blessed with one girl and one boy. We are so thankful to have experienced the differences in both thus far. There are some good, some bad. We'll take it.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
#2 Macey Blue
I will start at this point by numbering the dogs. You will understand why in the future. It will get very confusing. I must stagger these posts so as not to alert the authorities...
We purchased Miss Macey Blue, a black Labrador in Dec of 1999, right before we found out about having our first baby. She was a puppy and her parents were locals to my home place. She needed a home and we thought Gunner-rooski needed a companion. She was the typical puppy although I honestly cannot remember her doing anything terrible...unlike her mentor there. Maybe he had mellowed enough that only his strong points rubbed off at that point, I don't know.
Macey, Gunner and I took big long walks every morning and every evening. She always stayed right with Gunner and I. She was such a sweet little dog. Nothing eventful with her until...one Sunday morning in November when we let the dogs out before going to church. They didn't come back. And didn't come back. We yelled. Nothing. We finally decided to leave and figured they would return at some point while we were gone. They weren't home when we got home from church, but eventually Gunner showed up at the back door. Macey did not.
This was the time period where we had just posted our house for sale and were making plans to move home, but figured we had a while. She'll turn up. Nope, she did not. So we packed up in December and headed home...wondering what ever happened to Macey Blue. It was sad, we had Madolyn, the newborn, but we were dogless for the first time in our married lives, as we had just put Gunner to sleep. I can't remember exactly how many weeks it was, but at some point in late January I got a call from a police officer in Bridgeport, which is a few miles to the west of Lawrenceville. He said he thought he may have our black lab. WHAT? Yes, this black lab showed up at our house a week or so ago and is so friendly, she's been staying in our house. The vet said he thought it might be our Macey.
Let me back up a moment here, prior to the disappearance, Macey had a little incident with a fishing pole and a fish hook in the back of our truck. It caused her tongue to split permanently. She also happened to have a black spot on her tongue. Odd, but it ended up that both of those little blemishes brought her home to us. The vet knew as soon as he saw her tongue that it was our Macey. So the short of that story is that we drove to Bridgeport and met the police officer at the gas station and brought her home. What a reunion!! It was crazy wonderful.
So the years progressed. My dad fell in love with Macey because he had discovered that she was an "awesome hunting dog." He borrowed her every now and then and took her hunting. Macey was friendly to everyone and everyone loved her. Summer of 2004 when Macey was around five years old, Jay went on a bike ride. He had taken up riding his bike and would go around our large country block. It was JULY and it was HOT and Macey wanted to go with him. So off they went. They were well into the ride, and probably nearing just a few miles from home when he saw her dart to the ditch by our friends' house. He called out for her, but heard nothing. Jay decided he could hurry home, get the truck and come back for her...she obviously was just hot and tired. Well, he went back for her and she was nowhere to be found. We figure she had a heatstroke and crawled into the tall corn. We never saw her again.
She was such a great dog. Like I said, everyone loved her. I can't remember a single incident (right now anyway) when I thought I could wring her neck...which is the case in almost every puppy's life. Macey ended up being one of the best dogs ever. She had the sweetest disposition and was so good with Madolyn. Gunner had been five years old. Macey was five years old. And so it goes...stay tuned for #3...
We purchased Miss Macey Blue, a black Labrador in Dec of 1999, right before we found out about having our first baby. She was a puppy and her parents were locals to my home place. She needed a home and we thought Gunner-rooski needed a companion. She was the typical puppy although I honestly cannot remember her doing anything terrible...unlike her mentor there. Maybe he had mellowed enough that only his strong points rubbed off at that point, I don't know.
Macey, Gunner and I took big long walks every morning and every evening. She always stayed right with Gunner and I. She was such a sweet little dog. Nothing eventful with her until...one Sunday morning in November when we let the dogs out before going to church. They didn't come back. And didn't come back. We yelled. Nothing. We finally decided to leave and figured they would return at some point while we were gone. They weren't home when we got home from church, but eventually Gunner showed up at the back door. Macey did not.
This was the time period where we had just posted our house for sale and were making plans to move home, but figured we had a while. She'll turn up. Nope, she did not. So we packed up in December and headed home...wondering what ever happened to Macey Blue. It was sad, we had Madolyn, the newborn, but we were dogless for the first time in our married lives, as we had just put Gunner to sleep. I can't remember exactly how many weeks it was, but at some point in late January I got a call from a police officer in Bridgeport, which is a few miles to the west of Lawrenceville. He said he thought he may have our black lab. WHAT? Yes, this black lab showed up at our house a week or so ago and is so friendly, she's been staying in our house. The vet said he thought it might be our Macey.
Let me back up a moment here, prior to the disappearance, Macey had a little incident with a fishing pole and a fish hook in the back of our truck. It caused her tongue to split permanently. She also happened to have a black spot on her tongue. Odd, but it ended up that both of those little blemishes brought her home to us. The vet knew as soon as he saw her tongue that it was our Macey. So the short of that story is that we drove to Bridgeport and met the police officer at the gas station and brought her home. What a reunion!! It was crazy wonderful.
So the years progressed. My dad fell in love with Macey because he had discovered that she was an "awesome hunting dog." He borrowed her every now and then and took her hunting. Macey was friendly to everyone and everyone loved her. Summer of 2004 when Macey was around five years old, Jay went on a bike ride. He had taken up riding his bike and would go around our large country block. It was JULY and it was HOT and Macey wanted to go with him. So off they went. They were well into the ride, and probably nearing just a few miles from home when he saw her dart to the ditch by our friends' house. He called out for her, but heard nothing. Jay decided he could hurry home, get the truck and come back for her...she obviously was just hot and tired. Well, he went back for her and she was nowhere to be found. We figure she had a heatstroke and crawled into the tall corn. We never saw her again.
She was such a great dog. Like I said, everyone loved her. I can't remember a single incident (right now anyway) when I thought I could wring her neck...which is the case in almost every puppy's life. Macey ended up being one of the best dogs ever. She had the sweetest disposition and was so good with Madolyn. Gunner had been five years old. Macey was five years old. And so it goes...stay tuned for #3...
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
R.I.P. Mr. Bluestreak
"There'll be no sorrow there,
No more burdens to bear,
No more sickness, no pain,
No more parting over there;
And forever I will be,
With the One who died for me,
What a day, glorious day that will be." (excerpt from the hymn, What a Day That Will Be)
My sixth grade teacher, who later became my geography teacher, died yesterday. I had not yet picked out a topic for today's post and couldn't get him off my mind so I think I'll write about him a little. He was a big, stubborn, ornery man. His name, Carl Edward Orrell. He went by Ed. He would always say his name like this, "O, double R, E, double L." I can just hear him saying it in my head.
He was difficult at times, loved to pick on people and was ALL about study guides. Oh my, we had study guides for everything. And I now understand why. He created them, filed them away and copied them year after year after year. Not a bad idea, necessarily. Quite frankly, if you did the study guide, corrected your wrong answers and studied that stupid thing, you would do pretty well on his tests. It took me a while, but I figured that out.
If you remember in the post about Jay and I and our history together, Mr. Orrell was the teacher who had us write down who we thought we would marry and seal it away in an envelope, which he kept. He always teased me about that. I certainly never forgot it either. I was 11 years old then. Who'd have thought?
Our schools are divided into two, basically. We have a school for K-6 and another for 7-12. He was our sixth grade teacher and at some point moved over to the high school and taught Geography and maybe Social Studies or World History. I know I had him for Geography and perhaps a study hall. He was also our assistant high school football coach...maybe defensive coordinator or something fancy like that. I do remember us being pretty decent in football when I was in high school and I do remember that he knew what he was doing when it came to football. He was always a pretty good sport for us cheerleaders. After all, he was MR BLUESTREAK, and he would get dressed up and 'perform' at our pep rallies.
I can't tell you when, but somehow I became friends with his daughter. She was a Warrior, you see, a student at Casey-Westfield High School, our natural born enemy....but we looked past that and were and still are friends. She was a ball of fun. I don't know, maybe it made me like Mr. Orrell a little more, knowing he had such a great, fun, terrific daughter. (She doesn't even read this, so I'm being honest). His wife was pretty special too, such a sweetheart, a nurse. His wife treated my grandparents a time or two and they adored her.
He has had a long, hard fight with several health issues over the past 10-15 years approximately. Every time I would see him out and about, I was amazed, quite frankly, that he was still pushing along...but he always was a very stubborn, strong-willed force. After a very difficult summer, the prayer requests this weekend from his daughter were for peace and comfort. He is/was a believer. God answered the prayers. What a glorious day...
To be perfectly honest, at the time way back when, he drove me nuts and was not necessarily my favorite teacher. Of course, I'm sure I was not the model student I would like to pretend I was either. Sometimes I would just want to strangle him (I bet the feeling wasn't mutual at all) and probably said some not so nice things about him. I look back now and realize that I really did have a lot of respect for him. It saddens me that he has had to suffer like he has. It saddens me that his family has had to watch him suffer so much. They truly are great people. I hope they know this, he was a great example to many of us "Bluestreaks." He fought hard to the bitter end. He will be missed. I know I will never forget him.
No more burdens to bear,
No more sickness, no pain,
No more parting over there;
And forever I will be,
With the One who died for me,
What a day, glorious day that will be." (excerpt from the hymn, What a Day That Will Be)
My sixth grade teacher, who later became my geography teacher, died yesterday. I had not yet picked out a topic for today's post and couldn't get him off my mind so I think I'll write about him a little. He was a big, stubborn, ornery man. His name, Carl Edward Orrell. He went by Ed. He would always say his name like this, "O, double R, E, double L." I can just hear him saying it in my head.
He was difficult at times, loved to pick on people and was ALL about study guides. Oh my, we had study guides for everything. And I now understand why. He created them, filed them away and copied them year after year after year. Not a bad idea, necessarily. Quite frankly, if you did the study guide, corrected your wrong answers and studied that stupid thing, you would do pretty well on his tests. It took me a while, but I figured that out.
If you remember in the post about Jay and I and our history together, Mr. Orrell was the teacher who had us write down who we thought we would marry and seal it away in an envelope, which he kept. He always teased me about that. I certainly never forgot it either. I was 11 years old then. Who'd have thought?
Our schools are divided into two, basically. We have a school for K-6 and another for 7-12. He was our sixth grade teacher and at some point moved over to the high school and taught Geography and maybe Social Studies or World History. I know I had him for Geography and perhaps a study hall. He was also our assistant high school football coach...maybe defensive coordinator or something fancy like that. I do remember us being pretty decent in football when I was in high school and I do remember that he knew what he was doing when it came to football. He was always a pretty good sport for us cheerleaders. After all, he was MR BLUESTREAK, and he would get dressed up and 'perform' at our pep rallies.
I can't tell you when, but somehow I became friends with his daughter. She was a Warrior, you see, a student at Casey-Westfield High School, our natural born enemy....but we looked past that and were and still are friends. She was a ball of fun. I don't know, maybe it made me like Mr. Orrell a little more, knowing he had such a great, fun, terrific daughter. (She doesn't even read this, so I'm being honest). His wife was pretty special too, such a sweetheart, a nurse. His wife treated my grandparents a time or two and they adored her.
He has had a long, hard fight with several health issues over the past 10-15 years approximately. Every time I would see him out and about, I was amazed, quite frankly, that he was still pushing along...but he always was a very stubborn, strong-willed force. After a very difficult summer, the prayer requests this weekend from his daughter were for peace and comfort. He is/was a believer. God answered the prayers. What a glorious day...
To be perfectly honest, at the time way back when, he drove me nuts and was not necessarily my favorite teacher. Of course, I'm sure I was not the model student I would like to pretend I was either. Sometimes I would just want to strangle him (I bet the feeling wasn't mutual at all) and probably said some not so nice things about him. I look back now and realize that I really did have a lot of respect for him. It saddens me that he has had to suffer like he has. It saddens me that his family has had to watch him suffer so much. They truly are great people. I hope they know this, he was a great example to many of us "Bluestreaks." He fought hard to the bitter end. He will be missed. I know I will never forget him.
Monday, August 1, 2011
My little artist...
In 2003, I got pregnant with our second child. Unfortunately, for me and others around me, it was pretty much a repeat of pregnancy number one. Lots of bathroom time. In fact, Jay has informed this is now why he HATES hearing me cough...it reminds him of all the puking. Gosh, that is too bad for Jay, isn't it? That he had to listen to me coughing and puking so many times. Poor guy...
Anyway, we were living at home, I had a three-year-old, very active, demanding, independent, sweet, sassy and stubborn three-year-old. I remember this one day that I was feeling absolutely terrible and I told Madolyn that I was going to lie down on our bed and rest for a while because my tummy was just not feeling very well. For a while became quite a while and apparently my very active, demanding, independent, sweet, sassy, stubborn and CREATIVE three-year-old got bored.
When I woke up, I found that my unattended daughter had found some pretty brown craft paint and a sponge brush. And she had painted the coffee table, the side of the entertainment center, the arms of the rocking chair and herself. AAAhhh, I was so mad, how could she do that and cover so much? Man, how long had I been asleep? How had she found the paint and brush? How did I not hear a peep?
Well, she had been told to be quiet because mommy was resting and quiet she was. My dad is a painter, as in house, shed, buildings, etc. I guess it's in our blood....at least it was that day. There wasn't a whole lot I could say after the initial shock and lecture. I mean, after all, I had left my very active, demanding, independent, sweet, sassy, stubborn and CREATIVE three-year-old unattended and lonely. What could I possibly say? Fortunately, we had borrowed or used, scratch-and-dent furniture at the time...and amazingly enough, most of it came off. Then there was that one time she got into the stamps and ink pads, I'm sure you can imagine...
Anyway, we were living at home, I had a three-year-old, very active, demanding, independent, sweet, sassy and stubborn three-year-old. I remember this one day that I was feeling absolutely terrible and I told Madolyn that I was going to lie down on our bed and rest for a while because my tummy was just not feeling very well. For a while became quite a while and apparently my very active, demanding, independent, sweet, sassy, stubborn and CREATIVE three-year-old got bored.
When I woke up, I found that my unattended daughter had found some pretty brown craft paint and a sponge brush. And she had painted the coffee table, the side of the entertainment center, the arms of the rocking chair and herself. AAAhhh, I was so mad, how could she do that and cover so much? Man, how long had I been asleep? How had she found the paint and brush? How did I not hear a peep?
Well, she had been told to be quiet because mommy was resting and quiet she was. My dad is a painter, as in house, shed, buildings, etc. I guess it's in our blood....at least it was that day. There wasn't a whole lot I could say after the initial shock and lecture. I mean, after all, I had left my very active, demanding, independent, sweet, sassy, stubborn and CREATIVE three-year-old unattended and lonely. What could I possibly say? Fortunately, we had borrowed or used, scratch-and-dent furniture at the time...and amazingly enough, most of it came off. Then there was that one time she got into the stamps and ink pads, I'm sure you can imagine...
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