Moments in the Life of a Carpenter’s Wife, Part 1

Cowboy is a cowboy by choice, Carpenter by trade.

The Cowboy Way is my loving husband’s fantasy, and he escapes to it at any opportunity. Who can blame him? A lover of nature and animals, what better way to pass a day than to saddle up and ride the range, strolling peacefully through God’s amazing creation? Sadly, my Cowboy can’t seem to find a range in east central Indiana, and pesky little things like bills can’t be paid living in a fantasy, so he relies on his other incredible talent for silly things like food and shelter.

In our 21 years of wedded bliss, one thing has become strikingly clear to me…a carpenter’s house truly is always the last to be done. Cowboy has often said things like “Honey, I do that kind of stuff all day long, why would I want to do it HERE when I get home?” (Translated: “I have a horse to ride, for crying out loud!”) 

I let Cowboy convince me that we should build a house once. It sounded like a marvelous idea that summer of 1994. What I didn’t know at the time was that my custom-built home wouldn’t actually be finished until May, 1999…just in time for the new owners to move in.

When we first viewed our current home in February 2002, we saw there was plenty of remodeling work to be done, but Cowboy shrugged his shoulders and said “No big deal, that’s simple. We can manage it.”

Mmm-hmm.

Nearly nine years later, this past Monday morning at 9:34 a.m., my cell phone rang. It was Cowboy. “I’m on my way home,” said he, “The project has hit a stall, and I’m going to have a few weeks off. Start clearing things out of the family room, I’m tearing out that rock around the fireplace and hanging drywall.”

Now if I were not a seasoned carpenter’s wife, I would have been soaring…after all, nearly NINE YEARS of looking at that ugly sinking rock wall and stuffing its cracks with steel wool to keep the mice from coming in was a bit wearing on the nerves, but I’m a big girl carpenter’s wife now, and I’m sorry to say I breathed a heavy sigh of frustration as I trudged to the family room grumbling.

Two hours later I began questioning Cowboy as he measured room sizes and door sizes. “While we’re in this mess, I thought we could  replace the trim and the interior doors too. Oh, and I called John to come and give me an estimate for re-painting the entire house. It needs it.”

“Wait!” I said (probably a little too harshly) “Are you SURE you’re not going back to the job site before all of this gets done?” Cowboy shrugged. “They’ll just have to wait until I finish this project.”  Sigh number two passed my lips unchecked…

Mmm-hmm.

It was with a mixture of joy and trepidation that I watched demolition begin in my family room Monday afternoon. Plastic was hung, mortar was chopped, and rock after rock was carried out of the house until all that was left was a gaping hole in the wall to the garage, a second hole in the floor to the crawl space, and the sound of crisp five degree winter winds blustering through said holes, whipping at the plastic barrier. I shivered as I mentally calculated the volume of steel wool needed to fill those holes, and Cowboy explained what he would do “tomorrow.”   

Tuesday dawned bright and early with the ringing of Cowboy’s phone. I stifled sigh #3 as he explained “It’s just a meeting with the architect. I won’t be long.”

Several hours later, as the sun found its hiding place beyond the barn, Cowboy’s truck rumbled back up the drive way and he entered the house. “That meeting took longer than I thought it would…aaaaannnndddd…uhhhhhh…I kinda have to go back tomorrow.” I stood motionless for a heartbeat, then slowly turned to look at the plastic-and-tarp-strewn family room without saying a word. Cowboy’s eyes followed mine, and when I returned my gaze to him all I saw were two big blue eyes and a sheepish grin.  *SIGH!*

…stay tuned…

Comedy of Errors

Some days I think if it weren’t for my sense of humor, I’d have a nervous breakdown.  Honestly, I wonder sometimes why everything I do seems to continue in the pattern of this unending comedy of errors.  Don’t get me wrong, it is never anything completely serious or life-threatening, it’s just a steady stream of tiny maddening nonsensical events that stretch out across my life.

Take, for instance, today….

As you will know if you live in our area, we’ve had an unheard-of amount of rain storms as of late.  The last several times we have mowed our grass, our lawn tractor has operated more like a boat than a mower.  We run outside the moment the sun tries to shine, and driving through mud puddles, we knock down the high grass as quickly as we can before the skies open up and pour down on us again. 

Well, today I was determined to properly cut our grass.  By “properly” I mean cut grass with the push mower around the house and the pool, trim around the trees, and finish the larger areas with the lawn tractor.  A gorgeous day with plenty of sunshine and a lovely breeze, I was ready to be outside basking in the glory of it, even if it meant I was bound for a hard day of manual labor.

When I first pulled the push mower out of the storage barn, I thought it seemed a little heavier than usual.  One flick of my finger against the grass catcher told me why.  Some moron hadn’t emptied the clippings from the previous mowing.  As I tugged and pulled on the grass catcher to free it from the machine, I was grumbling under my breath about what kind of lazy person wouldn’t finish a job properly…and then it dawned on me that no one else in my family had EVER thought to manually cut the grass with the cheap non-self-propelled push mower machine that Brian long ago labeled “Sandy’s mower.”  I guess the moron who didn’t finish the last job was me.  Oops. 

After finally getting the pieces put back together, I checked the oil, topped off the gas tank, and commenced to pull the little stringy doo-hickey thing that is supposed to start the engine.  After five pulls, I wondered why on EARTH no one had thought to invent a push mower with a key start. 

An overwhelming whiff of gasoline told me the blasted machine was flooded, so I waited impatiently before trying again.  Five more pulls, nothing.  Seriously, hasn’t anyone ever THOUGHT to invent a push-button start for a push mower?  Push-button / Push-mower…that would make COMPLETE sense! 

After pull #11 I determined that surely SOMEONE had likely invented an easier start mechanism that didn’t require a pull string and every ounce of my energy and dignity. 

After pull #12, I wondered why I did I not own one of those machines that someone MUST have invented. 

Finally, pull #13 (who says that number is unlucky?) brought the engine to a noisy sputter followed by a puff of grey smoke and the rotation of blades.  Success!

I puttered through the long wet grass, quickly making two passes around the swimming pool, and beginning the third.  Trying to push through the tingling weakness in my right arm from the abuse of the stringy doo-hickey thing, I inadvertently ventured a little too close to the pine tree, causing a lower branch to catch in the handlebar of my push mower.  Not to be deterred, I bent lower, and pushed with all of my might to free my machine from the grip of the tree, which finally broke loose from my forward motion.  The release of that branch caused a comedic event that from beginning-to-end could not have lasted more than one second, tops.  The freed branch flipped like a rubber band into my face, knocking my sunglasses into the air.  My left hand immediately went to the owie on my chin, my right hand shot up to grab my flailing sunglasses, and the gripper bar of the mower, now released from my white-knuckled grip, fell forward, instantly killing the mower’s engine.  I stood there for a breath or two as realization washed over me.  Then, dragging my push mower behind me, I trudged back to the storage barn, mounted the old trusty lawn tractor, turned the key, and voila…

I guess one more quick knock-down of the high spots won’t hurt anything.

Giggles & Laughs

If you haven’t already figured it out, lots of kids come to ride here, and with lots of kids comes lots of stories.  Kids say (and do!) the darnedest things sometimes.

One particular male rider, for example, is a kid who is brutally 100% no-question-about-it honest.  Always.  He says what he means and he means what he says, and you don’t have to ask if he’s joking because he’s not.  Here’s an example:  On a cool day last fall, I walked out to the barn wearing blue jeans, a purple and black striped blouse, and a purple corduroy blazer.  I remember the outfit distinctly because when I said hello to our guest, he did not respond with a hello, but responded instead with “You don’t match.”  It took me a few beats to figure out what he meant, and I am sure I looked at him with a puzzled expression.  He continued “Did you mean to put those colors together?”  I looked down at my outfit, and he again remarked “Your colors don’t match.”  I thanked him for pointing that out and made a quick mental note to never again wear that combination. 

Another frequent visitor makes us laugh every time he is here.  This kid is a riot!  After his first riding lesson, Cowboy gave him the distinct honor of picking manure from a stall.  After a few quick lessons in how to do the job right, the new student willingly took on the task.  A few minutes into the job, the boy crinkled up his nose.  “Ew (‘sniff’) smells like (‘sniff’) Mom’s meatloaf!”  A smiling Cowboy asked:  “So you’re mom’s not a very good cook?”  Still crinkling his nose, and adding a shake of his head he responded “Nope, not really.”

One prankster, while waiting for his sister to finish a riding lesson, was quickly getting bored.  Cowboy gave him permission to jump off the upper level balcony into the wood shavings pile in the arena below.  This is always a treat for our kids, so Cowboy thought it would be harmless fun for this little guy.  As Cowboy continued the riding lesson, he began to notice a moan following every jump into the shavings pile.  He decided to keep an ear tuned to what his little buddy was up to, and as he continued sister’s lesson, he noted footsteps going up the ladder, then a THUD, followed by a deep groan, but every time Cowboy turned around to look, little brother was rolling out of the shavings to climb the ladder again.  Finally, Cowboy asked big sister to stop riding for a moment so that he could turn to watch the action unfold behind him.  Come to find out, the daredevil was diving HEAD FIRST into the shavings, hitting the pile with a THUD, then groaning, he would lay for a moment to regain composure.  Cowboy of course put a stop to this nonsense and made a mental note to find level-ground activities for his buddy’s next visit. 

One student seems to always forget to tie the horse up before leaving the arena, and with each and every reminder of “Hey, did you forget your horse?”  The student responds, “Uh…yeah…well…I taught her how to stand still while I’m gone.”   

Last summer, I took a big bowl full of watermelon out to share with a few of our riders.  One jumped off his horse and high-tailed it to the table.  It seems he loves watermelon.  A lot.  While we stood together talking, eating, and spitting seeds, I asked him about his day at school.  “I broke up with my girlfriend,” he said.  “Oh dear,” I responded.  Thinking I might be able to lend an ear for a difficult discussion about relationships, I asked “Why did you break up?”  He looked up at me and answered, “She doesn’t brush her teeth.”  I choked on watermelon that day.

One day Cowboy pointed to the manure pile out back and asked a student to dump the contents of the wheel barrow.  He watched as the student rammed the wheel barrow as close as he could get it to the mountain of manure.  He wasn’t tall enough to get leverage to push the cart over, so Cowboy watched as the boy stood thinking for a minute, trying to develop a plan.  Finally, he tipped the cart up again, walked around the cart, climbed up ON the manure pile, and pulling the cart toward him, dumped the fresh manure down his jeans and onto his boots before it finally landed in place on the pile.  Proudly smiling at his personal achievement, he flipped the cart back to the upright position and headed back to the barn for another load. 

Our lesson horse Sassy has an incredible gas problem.  Her musical rhythms escalate to monumental proportion when she runs, and if you’ve never been near her when she sneezes…well…be glad.  It’s an explosion out of both ends!  These particular talents lend her the name “Gassy Sassy.”  For some students, it is embarrassing to ride her.  For others, it’s absolutely the funniest thing ever.  One day, as Sassy was running around the arena, a new student stopped dead in his tracks to watch and listen.  With a sudden burst of clarity he exclaimed “HEY! She sounds like my dad!” 

While talking to a student before lessons one day, I learned he had a lot of cousins.  In an effort to make conversation I asked if any of them went to the same school as he.  “Yes,” he admitted, “but there’s one family who just moved in.  They have the same last name, but they aren’t relatives.”  He stood silent for a moment, then continued.  “I really wish they would just go back where they came from.”  Shocked and curious, I asked him why.  “They’re just too nice.  They make the rest of us seem even MORE redneck than we already are!” 

Every now and then we come across quiet kids who rarely speak.  Some are shy and don’t want to talk; some just don’t have much to say.  When one girl began riding here, Cowboy thought he’d NEVER get her to talk.  She rode for several weeks without speaking, and Cowboy got a bit impatient, so one day tried a new approach.  Merciless teasing went on and on throughout her riding lesson. She would smile, but wouldn’t say anything.  As she prepared to leave that day, Cowboy shouted across the barn, “See ya later, Brat-a-cus!”  She stopped, turned back to look at him, and yelled, “Bye Old-a-cus!” Smiling from ear to ear, she turned on her heel and departed.  I’m not sure if Cowboy was more stunned by the comment or the sound of her voice, but he hasn’t had any trouble conversing with her since! 

At the end of one particularly giggly lesson, Cowboy was bidding farewell to a posse of girls.  He teased them by saying “I think from now on I’ll just call you my boys.  Can I call you my boys?”  One of them shrugged her shoulders and responded, “Can we call you grandpa?”

They say laughter is the best medicine.  If that’s true, then one thing is certain…our daily dose is high enough to keep us healthy for a very long time!

You are Loved

I took an incredibly heavy heart to bed last night, and I begin this day and this post with it just as heavy.  In my quest to pour out my heartache to the Lord through my writing, I’ve concluded that this post must be specifically directed to pre-teen and teenaged kids.  

Today there is no room for silly quips and funny names, because this is serious stuff and I hope all of you take note.  This is for you.    

In this adventure of daily living with all of you, our “adopted” kids, Brian and I receive a lot of joy.  Each and every one of you knows you can come to us and receive a hearing ear.  You can tell us anything, ask us anything, and we will share in your joys and heartaches.  But the joy is the easy stuff, right?  What about the hard stuff?  What do you do with all that junk? 

That junk (the bad stuff) is what we call a “Jordan.”  It’s like a huge river that is too deep, too wide, and seemingly impossible to cross, but with a little help from your true friends and God, you can cross that Jordan to experience the incredible blessings that are waiting for you on the other side.

In your lives you are going to experience some pretty gnarly “Jordan’s”.  Maybe you already have.  There are choices to be made every single day, and those choices can have life-long impact.  Each decision you make has a consequence.  Each consequence affects your life.  Maybe for just a day; maybe forever. 

So how do you know you’re making right choices?  Sometimes the choice might be hard at the time, but deep down inside you know the answer.  If you go with your gut, it’s usually right.  Sometimes maybe your gut doesn’t really know, and you end up making a wrong choice out of ignorance or inexperience.  That’s okay.  You will get another chance to make that one right.  But the BIG ones are the ones you KNOW in your heart are wrong and you do it anyway.  These conscious wrong choices only lead to further heartache.

Take, for example, drugs.  All of you know in your hearts you should not experiment with these things, right?  I mean, seriously…haven’t you heard all of your life that drugs are bad and you should leave them alone?  Of course you have.  But when your best friend encourages you with “come on, just this once, no one will know…aren’t you curious what it will feel like?” 

This is a big Jordan, guys.  This is where your decision will make or break your reputation, and possibly your entire life. So, what’s it gonna be…your friend, or your convictions?  Think for a moment…what are the possible short-term consequences? 

1.  if I side with my friend, no one ever has to know…it will be just once…what can it hurt?

2.  if I side with my convictions, I’ll make my friend mad and he/she will probably laugh at me, make fun of me, and call me lame. 

Neither of these possibilities sound so great, right?  But let’s look at long-term consequences:  

1.  You get caught.  Someone is watching that you didn’t know was watching and they snitch…or your friend gets pulled over for rolling through a stop sign on the way home and the cop notices something just isn’t right.  What happens?  You’ve just walked right up to an even BIGGER Jordan.  You’re in deep trouble.  You spend a long and intense night at the local jail waiting for your parents, who will likely never trust you again, your school gets the news, teachers start watching your every move, you get labeled a trouble maker, get kicked out of sports, and your peers all laugh at your lameness for getting caught.  But wait…wouldn’t they have laughed at my lameness for not doing it in the first place?  Yeah.  True friends?  Not in my book. 

Now let’s move on to the next possibility. 

2:  You don’t get caught…which is worse.  Why?  Because you will think “why not try it again?  It was a bit of a thrill and I’m in control.”  You can easily stop doing this when you want to, so it’s no big deal, right?  Wrong.  Some people can’t stop.  Some have a chemical predisposition in their bodies that cause them to become addicted to stuff immediately.  Does your body have that?  How do you know?  You don’t know.  You don’t know until you try it, and if you try it, it may just be too late.  Then how will you stop?  You won’t.  You can’t.  Not without professional help, and even then the chances are very slim.  And this little trip brings you to likely the biggest Jordan you could have ever imagined in your life.  Your grades begin to slip, you lose interest in all sports and activities, parents begin to wonder why they can’t trust you, teachers start watching your every move, you get labeled a trouble maker, and your peers all laugh at your lameness for being a druggie.

Hmmm…anything sound familiar there?  Yep, this is the deal guys…get it through your heads…In this situation YOU WILL BE LABELED LAME NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO.  But in the beginning, at the very first choice, saying NO could’ve made you lame for like 1 week.  Maybe 2.  The other choice makes you lame for a lifetime…years and years and years.   

Get this:  YOU NEVER HAVE TO GO BACK AND CHANGE A RIGHT ANSWER.

It’s kind of like a long algebra problem with lots of steps.  If you start with a wrong answer, the next step is harder, and then because that one is wrong, the next step is even worse, and the whole thing is one huge mess by the time you get to the end.  That’s when horror strikes, because you have to start ALL OVER and do the whole thing AGAIN!

But if that algebra problem starts with the correct answer, it’s smooth sailing…and you never have to start over or fix anything.

Let’s move away from the drug example for a minute and talk about premarital sex.  Awkward?  You bet.  Get over it…we’re talking about it here and now.

The boys often get picked on when it comes to these kind of examples, and I don’t think that’s fair, so I’m stepping outside of the box:  Let’s say you have a new girlfriend.  You’ve been dating for about 2 weeks (if that long) and she pipes up and says “Just so you know, I don’t plan to “wait” for marriage, are you okay with that?” 

So we come back to your decisions.  What’s it gonna be?  Your reputation or your conviction?  Short term consequences:

1. You can side with your girlfriend and be the big man on campus.

2. You can side with your convictions, make the girl mad, and your friends will hear all about it and call you lame.

Decisions, decisions.  What are you gonna chose?

Long term consequences: 

1.  You get caught.  Either by a protective-yet-clueless daddy who now wants to take your head off for “hurting his sweet innocent little girl” or by getting the girl pregnant.  Oh wow, this is good stuff here.  Aren’t you glad you chose to be big man on campus?  I mean, you’ve got a rip roaring stinking mad father breathing down your neck on one side, or you have a baby that is yours to take care of for 18+ years.  All for one night of thrills.  Isn’t this lovely?  And guess what?  Your friends (who thought it was really cool at first) either don’t want to hang out with you because Big Daddy is always breathing down your neck (why would they want to fight your battles?), or they want to hang out with you and you can’t…because you have to work…because you have a baby to take care of.  Guess what else?  You are now lame for either one of those reasons. 

Are you beginning to see the cycle yet, guys?

You are going to be labeled lame for any right decision you make, but I’m going to stress this again:  YOU NEVER HAVE TO GO BACK AND CHANGE A RIGHT ANSWER!

Now let’s say you’ve had some things happen throughout your life that just flat aren’t fair.  Maybe you’ve done nothing except deal with the consequences of someone else’s wrong decisions.  The examples are endless.  Divorced / unwed parents; absent fathers / mothers; dead fathers / mothers; drug-addicted or alcoholic family member; maybe your struggle is more intense…maybe you have been violated sexually and are trying to cope.  Those kids up there^ who are dealing with every-day choices when it comes to drugs and/or sex have it easy, don’t they?  They think it’s rough living in their shoes, what if they tried walking in yours for just one day?  

Your history and your life is horrible, and I am so very sorry you are dealing with the junk that goes with that.  Your Jordan is big and strong and deep, and you can’t possibly cross it alone.  Find help for your situation, please.  Find help.  And when you have found good solid adult help, focus on this:  Happiness is a choice, and it is one you must consciously and continuously make every day of your life.

Life will deal blows to you for the rest of your walk on this earth.  You will have some small Jordans and some big Jordans.  Life is never easy for anyone, and for some it’s harder than most.  This is where your choices have the biggest impact on the rest of your life. This is where you must decide to claim your life for yourself.  This is where you must create your own destiny.  Stop living the life someone else has mapped for you.  It’s history.  Start living the life you want NOW.  Cross that Jordan and find peace.

A very wise young woman, who I never had the opportunity to meet, once wrote “Live the life you love; love the life you live.”  She grew up with hard knocks most of you will never experience, and she made a conscious daily decision to be happy.  Her world didn’t move her, so SHE moved her WORLD.  She was right where she wanted to be, and her life was GOOD!  One tiny bad decision ended her life in the blink of an eye.  This is how fast it can happen.  One blink.  What will you choose?

Are you happy?  Could you be happier?  What single thing can you change to make yourself happier?  You have but one spin on this planet, and God has the ultimate plan for you. You will stand at the edge of many Jordans, but with each RIGHT decision, your blessings will grow, while each WRONG decision will take you to a bigger more difficult Jordan.

Cross your Jordans wisely.  Find a true friend in an adult who can aid you and mentor you.  Embrace the blessings God has for you on the other side of every big decision.  You will never regret choosing happiness.

Now finally, know this:  You are a treasure.  A worthy, golden, incredible, awesome creation.  It takes the good stuff and the bad stuff to make you who you are, and God did not create you without a purpose.  Find it.  Embrace it.  Feel it.  Know it.

You are loved.

Granny, We Miss You

This weekend marks the third anniversary of our final earthly visit with a lovely lady most people knew simply as “Granny.”  Brian’s grandmother, Martha Verda Williams Lane, was one of those angels God sees fit to bless us with during our spin on this planet.  A 33-year widow and 19-year cancer survivor, she endured many heartaches in her lifetime, but her faith, courage, and perseverance always prevailed.  Trying times didn’t break her, they polished her in a way that added to her already stunning inner- and outer- beauty.

Granny was born in the little town of Boston, Indiana, on November 12, 1922.  She was the youngest of six children of Frank Jesse Williams and his wife, Mary Alice.  She met and married the love of her life, Ralph Lane, in 1946, and together they raised three children, Debbie, Daryl, and Jerry.  If, as they say, the love we RECEIVE is any indication of the love we have GIVEN, then to simply say Granny was a loving person would be a gross understatement.  She was adored by her children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, siblings, and friends.

Granny was always willing to give of herself in whatever way she was needed.  A talented seamstress and quilter, she spent several years lending her time to 4-H clubs coaching young ladies in the craft of sewing. She used her craft in many ways over the years.  Nearly every Christmas found us unwrapping special hand-made gifts: stuffed animals, quilted table runners, and doll clothes to name a few.  She taught me how to sew.  We spent many beautiful days together sharing, laughing, and talking as she introduced me to various stitches, materials, and methods.  It was during those precious moments that I learned the most about this amazing lady.

Granny experienced what was likely the most difficult day in her life in April of 1974, when her husband of 28 years unexpectedly passed away.  She mourned his passing, but found that by making a conscious effort she could transform her grief into active love by doting on her grandchildren.  And believe you me, there was a lot of doting!  She cheered from the bleachers of every baseball, softball, volleyball and basketball game, sat smiling through every Christmas program, took pictures of every prom, graduation, and wedding, and made herself available to them any time they made their needs or wishes known.  Whatever her grandchildren did, Granny was there, cheering them on and loving them.  Still, she was never satisfied with the amount of time she devoted to them.  She confided in me once that she always felt like she could have done more. 

Soon after Grandpa died, Granny got a job as a sewing machine operator at Kabert Industries, a business near her home.  Her responsibiilties there were a great fit for her talents as a seamstress, but the time she spent working took her away from those she loved most, and she regretted that.  What she did not factor in to this self-proclaimed weakness, however, was her gift to the ladies with whom she worked.  If there was ever a need for a “mother figure,” she was the first one to step up and fill the role.  They loved her as their mother.  During her funeral visitation hours, we were blessed to hear many “Granny Stories.”  We learned that several ladies from work had gone home with her during the great blizzard of 1978.  She fed and housed them until they could get home to their own families.  None of us remembered her mentioning that little act of kindness, but we were certainly not surprised by the news.  She had a knack for making everyone feel special.

Granny certainly made me feel special the first time I met her.  I was a junior in high school, just a few months after the passing of my own very special grandmother.  Brian had informed me that I would be meeting his grandmother, and I will admit that I was a little nervous at the prospect.  My nerves had no place in that high school gymnasium that night.  I was immediately struck by the twinkle in her eye as she greeted Brian with her signature “Howdy Sugar!” I watched enamored as he left my side, and there, in that public place with so many of his teen-aged peers surrounding him, he planted a sweet kiss on her forehead and wrapped his arms around her in a tender hug.  The love they showed each other in that simple greeting spoke volumes to me.  The moment we were introduced, she opened her heart to me, offering me the distinct honor of being adopted into her circle.  Not needing to be asked twice, I jumped at the opportunity.  She held a special place in my heart from that moment on.

In the fall of 1986, when Brian went away for military basic training, I was truly lost and lonely.  Granny always made sure I knew I was invited any time her family planned to be together.  When Brian’s graduation from Basic/AIT approached, she and I both jumped at the opportunity to journey to Ft. Benning, Georgia, with Brian’s parents to witness his graduation.  We were bed mates in the hotel room that night, and I remember giggling far into the late hours of darkness.  It was upon our return home from Georgia, with Brian in tow (I don’t think either of us let him out of our sight during that trip!) that Brian dubbed her “Granny,” a name that stuck from that moment on.

In 1988, Granny lost her left eye in her first battle with cancer.  The whole family gathered together in the midst of a nasty ice storm, rallying around her to nurse her back to health.  Those days seem like a lifetime ago, but it’s a memory none of us will ever forget.  She was so sick, but she came away from that painful period stronger than ever, and we rejoiced in her good health.
On Christmas Eve, 1990, when she was given news of the impending birth of her first great grandchild, Granny was overjoyed!  She immediately began sewing maternity clothes, baby clothes, and baby blankets, and she gifted me over and over again with her loving thoughts, funny stories, and praises for the growing child inside my belly.  The birth of each great grandchild thereafter was met with the same bubbling excitement.  She always claimed that while grandchildren were wonderful, great grandchildren were even BETTER!  My three girls will certainly attest to the fact that she was a key component in the joy of the years of their youth.  From tea parties to euchre games, sewing lessons to knitting lessons, always-full cookie jars to homemade noodles, visits with Granny were a splendid experience!  

One day she came to pick up our oldest daughter for a day of fun.  She had the entire day of activities planned.  She met Lindsay at the door, stepped backward off of the porch step, lost her balance and fell straight down on her tailbone, bouncing twice on the concrete.  I ran to help her up, begging her to sit for a while and give us both time to determine if she was okay.  “Oh NO!” she exclaimed, “we have things to DO!” and off she limped to her car, buckling Lindsay inside and driving off.  Later that evening she was in so much pain that she conceded to a trip to the emergency room.  X-rays concluded that she had a broken pelvis.  When I learned this the next day, I tried to scold her for not allowing me to investigate her health further before she spent that entire day in pain, and she interrupted my scolding with that signature grin, “Oh now” she said, “we had a GREAT day!”

Granny was just as enthusiastic over her great-grandchildren’s activities as she was her grandchildren’s.  There wasn’t a horse show or dance recital that took place without her.  She gave countless good luck kisses and congratulatory hugs, and proudly watched everything they did.  
  
Granny’s love was certainly not limited to her grandchildren and great grandchildren.  She attended the annual Grandparents Day at Hagerstown Elementary School and became an adopted grandparent for any child whose grandma couldn’t attend.  She spent many joyous days with her sisters, her brother, and her sister-in-law, Helen. She had a close bond with all of them, and she was deeply saddened by the loss of each, one by one, until she was the last surviving member of her family.  When her daughter-in-law’s health began to fail from the effects of multiple sclerosis, Granny stepped in as her day nurse.  She took great care in seeing that Ellie’s needs were fulfilled while Daryl was away at work.  It was a long and difficult battle for Ellie, and the loss of her affected Granny greatly.  She told me once that she didn’t really understand why God hadn’t seen fit to take her instead of Ellie.  I told her I couldn’t begin to understand God’s wisdom or ultimate plan, but that it would be revealed one day, if ever He saw fit to let us in on His secrets.   
Her influence in her family extended to her niece Greta and Greta’s daughters Julie and Lisa.  Their times together were a source of joy for Granny, and we were always anxious to hear of the events of the days she spent with them. 

In 2003, Granny was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a mastectomy.  Quickly following this was a diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease, then came her first of several strokes.  She was admitted to a nursing home on two different occasions, undergoing intense physical therapy both times.  While she was recuperating, Lindsay and Emma continued to show their horses without Granny, but they always called her at the end of the day to report their news.  She enjoyed those phone calls, but not as much as the girls did!  They just loved sharing their excitement with her. 

During her second “tour” of the nursing home, Brian and I weren’t sure she would ever get home again.  An incredible amount of damage had been done, and she was so weak.  True to form, she proved us wrong, and she worked until she was able to go home under the care of a home nurse. 
We visited Granny as frequently as we could, and we always came away happier just from being with her.  Frail as she had become, she was always cheerful and joyful.  I’ll never forget our visit in her home on Christmas Eve, 2006.  The girls and I arranged to do the cooking for her, so we arrived early to begin meal preparations.  She came scuffling to the door with her walker, dressed in a pink sweater and brightly flowered lounge pants.  I told her how pretty I thought she looked.  She looked at Lindsay and said, “What do you think?”  Lindsay replied that she too thought she looked very nice.  Granny responded with “Don’t you think I look sexy?!” Lindsay and I, completely caught off guard by her exclamation, doubled over in laughter!  When we were finally able to wipe our tears, we looked up to see tears of laughter streaming down her face as well, and our giggling began anew.   

In early May 2007, Brian visited Granny, completing a few odd jobs around her house.  As they were talking she pointed to her flower bed and said she wished she could work in her flowers.  That’s when Brian noticed a strong little maple seedling growing up in the middle of her flower bed.  He asked if he could dig it up.  “Sure, take it,” she said.  As he bid her farewell and climbed into his truck to leave, he said “Thanks for the tree, Granny!”  She threw her head back in a groan, “No, no!” She said, “You don’t ever thank someone for giving you a tree! It’s SURE to die now!” Brian just shook his head and laughed, apologized for thanking her, then headed home to plant his new tree.  A few weeks later we hosted a picnic gathering at our home on Memorial Day.  When Ronnie and Debbie arrived, we were shocked to see Granny with them.  Brian helped her out of the car and escorted her to a soft rocking chair on the back patio.  After she settled, he pointed to his tree, “Look there, Granny,” he said.  “It’s the tree you gave me from your flower bed.”  She giggled, “It’s still alive?  It won’t be for long!” and she commenced to tell everyone the story about her silly grandson not knowing that he shouldn’t thank someone for a tree.

We enjoyed our day with her; it’s a time we will treasure forever, because it was the last time we were able to visit with that angel lady.  Two days later we received a phone call that Granny had another stroke, had slipped out of consciousness and was being transported to the hospital by ambulance.  The news was not good.  We rushed to the hospital and spent a few moments tearfully saying our goodbyes before she slipped away.

As happens with every tragedy in life, the next few days were a blur.  People came and went, her belongings were sorted, her sweet little house sold, and we were left in a fog of sadness and memories.  All that summer, Brian watched his tree closely.  It began to wilt, and soon looked as if it would die.  He watered and pruned, wanting desperately to save that tree, then finally left it alone after coming to the conclusion that it was only right for his tree to die, because Granny told him it would. 

I often wonder if Jesus talked to Granny about Brian’s attempts to save his tree that summer.  If so, I’m certain she asked for a special miracle to be bestowed just so that her grandson could be built up, because against all odds, that tree now thrives in its place in our yard, three years after Granny tried to convince him it would die.  I’m not surprised.  Granny was never foolish enough to sacrifice someone else’s happiness for the sake of being “right.”  As Proverbs 14:1 says, “Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.”  Granny was wise.  She lived her life in the continual building of her house…a house that stood on a strong foundation of love.

A Lesson of Love

I know a man -- a dear, precious, Godly man -- who recently lost his wife of 46 years to breast cancer. She was the love of his life, and everyone who knows him knows this simple fact definitively. The legacy of love they left on this earth is a priceless gift to their children, grandchildren, and all who have had the privilege of knowing them personally.

Brian and I shared a common faith with this beloved couple that transcended most earthly relationships. Together we shared countless spiritual experiences over many years as we traveled to stay in each others’ homes, each visit teeming with fond memories. To say these two people were “special” to us would be a gross understatement. We regarded this man and his wife as a father and mother in Israel.

I distinctly recall the day they phoned to inform us of the troubling news of doctors finding her breast cancer. They each spoke on the same line via separate phones, one listening as the other took a moment to tell us their view of the situation. They were both very hopeful and optimistic, and Brian and I were prayerful. I remember the phone call when her treatments were finished. They shared their anticipation of a celebratory dinner with family that night. Brian and I were jubilant! Then came another call…this one all too soon…the cancer was back. “No sadness. She will be with the Lord soon. We are prepared and will enjoy the days that are left.” Our conversation ended with words I will never forget. This dear precious man, with joy in his heart, said “I’m happier for her than I am sad for myself.” Brian and I were tearful. Visitation…Funeral…Loss...but this man showed incredible strength and grace through it all, and he made it his mission to comfort those who thought they were coming to comfort him.  In his eyes, that day was to be a celebration!  He was celebrating all they had been blessed with, and all she was now experiencing without him.

A few weeks ago this man traveled to visit us, staying in our home for three days and two nights. It was his first overnight journey away from home since his wife’s passing, and a part of him was apprehensive about this particular “first.” They had stayed in our home several times together, and it would not be the same for him to come without her. We escorted him to “their room” and gave him a few moments alone. He joined us later at our kitchen table, and with a twinkle in his eye he began to share every detail of their best days together…when they met; when they married; children; grandchildren; as many milestones of a lifetime of 46 years that could fit into those few short hours of evening. His stories continued the next day, and again the following morning, mostly focused on her good and patient nature, her kindness, her love, her service in the name of her Savior. We laughed with him. We cried with him. We prayed with him. And we watched, helpless, as he bowed his head and openly and unabashedly wept in his grief for his bride -- the joy of his heart; the love of his life.

While preparing to leave that last morning of his visit, this man, who Brian and I now share an even deeper bond with and love for, looked at us across the table and said, “She always said I was the good one. I never understood that. She was certainly the good one in our marriage. She stood head and shoulders above all the rest.” When I told him goodbye later, he looked up to the sky with a peaceful smile. He said “I think your home is the best place for me to experience this particular first. I feel her spirit here. She would have enjoyed these days.”

As I ponder this visit, and the lessons I learned from it…as I think of this couple and their marriage, I wonder…why is the world so full of separation and divorce? Why is there domestic abuse? Why are couples unhappy with their mates? Why? God has given us the perfect example of marriage – the example of Christ, the Husband, and His bride, the Church. Every marriage could be like our friends’ if husband and wife would jointly follow the perfect example we’ve been given. Brian and I are continually prayerful that our marriage emulates that example and can be a shining beacon for other young couples, just as our friends’ marriage was for us. We’re unceasingly prayerful that our lovely daughters see the true beauty of a Godly marriage and desire it, and that they themselves prayerfully seek mates who will treasure them as the jewels they are.

Our dear friends embraced Christ’s example whole-heartedly. His love for his bride was a living picture of Christ. Her adoration of him was shown in every action, every deed, every smile, and every kiss. She loved him with every ounce of love her heart could hold. Her last words before she left this earth were directly to him: “I love you,” she whispered. That was enough for him. That was all he needed to hear.

Why We Do This

People have often asked, “Why do you do this?” and I always respond “Good question!”  I’ve tried to answer it many times, and always come away feeling like I’ve failed to relate exactly WHY.  My words just can’t do it the justice it deserves. 

So, in an effort to test the theory A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words, I’m going to try to do a better job at explaining with…oh, about 45,000 words or so:

      

Whew!  Boy, was that ever tough to narrow down to just 45,000 words!  I’m all talked out…there’s just nuthin’ left to say. 

Maybe you can answer for me…why do we do this? ;)

What’s Not To Love About Summer?

This week has made Hoosiers all over the state breathe a sigh of relief because summer truly must be near!  The Maker has  blessed us with five days of gorgeous weather! 

This has made me stop to consider the things I love most about summer, and since you all are kind enough to act as if you care about my silly rambling thoughts, I thought I should share my top ten summer joys with you:

1.  Sunshine.  Now who doesn’t love sunshine?  It’s amazing!  It’s light, strength, health…it’s SUN! 

2.  Blue skies.  Have you NOTICED how BLUE the skies have been this week?  Man!  I don’t think I’ve been so infatuated with the sky ever in my life.  The color has been simply amazing.  Just look at that sky!

3.  Warm breezes.  Is there anything as lovely as a warm breeze on your skin?  The feel of it makes my cares just melt away.

4.  Open windows.  What good is a warm breeze if you can’t fling open the windows and let it blow through the house?  (Note:  you should not attempt this if you have allergies…fair warning.)

5.  Songbirds.  I love song birds.  Warm breezes + open windows +  song birds = happy Sandy.  Happy Sandy = Happy Family.  Happy Family = Good Life For All.  But that’s enough math for the day.

6.  Leafy trees.  Songbirds need leafy trees, and warm breezes blowing through leafy trees is such a relaxing sound.  Besides that, what good would a  hammock be if I had no leafy tree to put it under?  Except I don’t have a hammock, so I really can’t debate that point very well, but IF I had a hammock, it would be under my most favorite leafy tree (which I wrote a devotional about here).

7.  Freshly mown grass.  I love the smell of freshly mown grass.  Truly I do.  It smells like…like…summer!  And what’s better than summer?

8.  Newly baled hay.  It’s the only thing that MIGHT smell better than freshly mown grass.  The smell of fresh hay is such a wonderful smell…even though it makes my eyes water and my nose drip and my lungs wheeze and my skin break out in welts…I still love it! 

9.  Bare feet.  Simply put, my theory is that God intended feet to be bare or He would have created us with shoes.  That’s all there is to it.  I keep trying to convince Cowboy of this, but he claims he NEEDS his boots and he won’t budge on the matter.  He snickers every time I stub my toe.  But I will give credit where credit is due:  he no longer says “if you were wearing shoes that wouldn’t have hurt,” though the smirk on his face tells me he still thinks it.  

10.  Summer nights.  This has got to be the GREATEST of all summer greatness on the farm.  Especially when it comes automatically including #3, #4, #6, #7, #8, and #9.  Substitute #5 with frogs and spring peepers, and the absolute ONLY thing you could add to make a summer night ANY better, is the sound of rolling thunder and a gentle rain beginning just about the time you crawl into bed. 

Ahhhh…SUMMER!

The Independence of a Doer

Cowboy was raised an independent doer.  Growing up on the farm, if he saw something that needed done, he just did it, with Big Dad’s blessing. 

Take, for example, his first independent project using wood, a circular saw and bent nails: rabbit cages at the age of 12 or so.  Simple stuff, right?  I mean, what 12 year old doesn’t hammer out bent nails and brandish a circular saw while his dad is out driving a semi across country?  No biggie.  Little Cowboy saw a need, Big Dad wasn’t around to do it, it had to be done, so he did it.  And, as the story goes, when Big Dad got home and saw him working on the project, he simply asked “Whatcha doin’?”  Apparently satisfied that Little Cowboy had it all under control, he left him to the task.

This was the story of Cowboy’s life.  Different scenarios throughout the years, of course, but ultimately always the same ending.  And that, as they say, is how a doer “does.” 

Being the doer that Cowboy is, it’s only natural that the same doing gene be passed along to his daughters, right?  Our girls are pretty much doers.  They see a need, they tackle it.  Except for one silly little thing…their dad is not Big Dad.  Cowboy doesn’t turn a blind eye and let them do their thing like his dad did for him. 
Take, for example, the hay rack.  Girl 1 and Girl 2 know that we need a new hay rack, and they are more than willing to build one, but they first must get the okay from Cowboy.  The conversation came up one afternoon as we ate lunch.  It went something like this:

Girl 1:  Do you remember we need a hay rack?

Cowboy:  Yep.

Girl 1:  When can you build it?

Cowboy:  Some day.

Girl 2:  I can build it.

Cowboy:  Oh really?  You know how to use power tools?  You know how to use a saw?  Can you cut a straight line?

Girl 3 (jumping in):  She can’t DRAW a straight line! 

Girl 2 (shooting evil looks at Girl 3):  Sure I can do it.  How hard could it be?  Where are the tools?

Cowboy:  In my trailer.

Girl 2:  What trailer?

Cowboy:  The black trailer.

Girl 2:  (looks at Cowboy with a blank stare)

Cowboy:  The one in front of the barn…the one I take to work…the one you walk past every day…

Girl 2 (as realization dawns):  Oooooooh THAT trailer!  I knew that.  I can do it.

Cowboy:  How will you do it?  How will you draw a straight line?

Girl 2:  I’ll use the little triangle doo-hickey.

Red flags pop up in Cowboy’s mind.  First, she doesn’t know what the tool trailer is, and second, she doesn’t know the name of a speed square.  He laughs, sympathizes a bit, then says no, sorry, no can do.  Cowboy will do it when he has time.  This is where Girl 2 turned it on thick.  You know, all that annoying nagging stuff about being responsible and being able to handle the job and “don’t you trust me” and all that nonsense.  Cowboy didn’t reply, he just sat quietly eating his lunch.  Girl 2 was smiling, obviously thinking that Cowboy’s silence meant he was considering it.  She’d give him a few days to think about it and try again.

Interestingly enough, later that same day, after Girl 1 left to meet a friend, I let Libby-the-big-dog outside to use the facilities and asked Girl 2 to please remember to let her back inside shortly.  Libby, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, likes to roll in manure and eat gross stuff when no one is looking.  An hour later, Libby was scratching at the door, begging to be let in.  Uh-oh.  “EMMA! Why is Libby still outside?”  Oops, she had forgotten.  Ha ha ha, laughs all around, jokes about responsibility and independence. 

And that’s when it happened.  As we were laughing, the grossest of all doggie grossness reared its ugly head…and ears.  Libby walked over to the only piece of carpet we have in the house and without any warning whatsoever, she upchucked a full size, intact rabbit.  In one piece.  Whole.  Except the head.

Cowboy winced.  Girl 2 gagged.  Girl 3 ran away screaming.  I covered my eyes.  Libby sprawled spread eagle on the hardwood floor and sighed.   

This is where Cowboy, in an attempt at full seriousness and with the stern-dad voice he doesn’t generally use, “encouraged” Girl 2 to express her responsible independence in all its blazing glory by picking up the gross headless mess.  I was cheering:  Show him your stuff, Girl 2! Show him you can do it; you can handle it; you are willing and able to manage anything that comes your way; anything boys can do girls can do better!

With a look of complete and utter disgust, she refused. 

I guess this means she won’t be building a hay rack anytime soon either.

Old Dogs and New Tricks

If you happened to check out our blog sometime between Thursday and Saturday (that is today) you may have been a bit perplexed at the weird things going on here.  I was doing some sprucing up.   First and foremost, you can now punch in a new website name to get here, and her's our web name:  http://www.theb5gang.com/  Isn't that COOL?  It's SOOO much easier than typing "jordanscrossingriding.blogspot.com" in your brower, don't you think?  Eventually that may become a full fledged website instead of just forwarding you to blogger, but we'll see how good I get.

Which brings me to the next item I spruced up...I have wanted to learn new graphics arts tricks ever since I invested in Corel’s Paint Shop Pro software three years ago.  (Yes, three years is a long time for software to sit, and yes, it is likely outdated, but that's the way it goes around here.)  Anyhoo...on Thursday, I decided Blogspot was too boring for me.  After all, they only give you boring stuff and junky templates and there is just no fun in that, so I decided I wanted to design my own web page (hence, the purchase of http://www.theb5gang.com/).  Well, I kinda put my cart before my horse, you see, and we all know that ain't good.  After I purchased my web site, I figured out that in true web page design you have to know something about HTML codes, and that's when my eyes glazed over. 

Still, I did find some very interesting things that allowed me to change our site into what you see here!  All I had to do was pull up my trusty old Bing internet search tool and punch in “create background for blog” and up popped the most MAHVELOUS site that walked me step-by-step through the process of creating lovely backgrounds.  I was instantly hooked, and I made about a bazillion backgrounds and buttons between Thursday and Friday.  (That's what happens when a person has an addict's personality.  It's what we call "overboard.") 

After creating my bazillion different backgrounds with my outdated Corel Paint Shop Pro software, I had to figure out how to post the blasted things.  Ick.  It was HTML codes again, and let me tell ya something else I learned:  Obsessed-Graphic-Artist-Wanna-Be does not a programmer make!  Ick (did I say that already?).  Not only was it confusing and frustrating, it made me feel like an old dog trying to learn a new trick. 
I messed and fudged and messed with blasted codes until I FINALLY got my background to pop up correctly, then I messed and fudged and messed some more to make it fit right, only to realize I hated the background.  So I deleted the stupid thing and started over with a different one…then another one.  I think I finally settled on #4 which you may (or may not) see here.  If you can see it … GREAT!  If you can’t…well…sorry. 

Now if you are like me and you have NO CLUE about HTML codes and silly programming stuff, you can skip this paragraph and go to the next one, BUT if you are a code whiz (that’s not the same as cheez whiz, mind you) and you can tell me HOW to make my template float between…oh, say 1600 pixels wide to 1000 pixels wide, depending on the user...I would REALLY appreciate you leaving a "thunk about it" clue at the end of this post.  My background (created at 1600px x 1100 px) fits lovely on my new big computer’s screen (1980px x 1080px), but looks hideous on my old tiny computer screen (1024px x 728px).  I can’t figure out how to fix this tootin thing no matter how hard I try, so I quit trying.  (Sorry if you read that entire last paragraph and zoned out.  I warned you not to read it.  Maybe next time you’ll listen.)

Now, if you’re still here and coherent, I also updated our various pages (you can find the links at the top of this post and to the right under that handy button I created that says "pages").  I stuck a few old photos on the “Our History” page.  I tried really really hard not to post embarrassing photos.  You have no idea how tempting it was to post embarrassing pictures, because I seriously have a TON of them…

Pics of Cowboy riding the little tiny pony Dusty, his feet dragging the ground. 

Pics of Girl 1 at the age of 11 feeding horses while wearing shorts and her daddy’s huge rubber muck boots.

Pics of Girl 2 at the age of 8 glaring and wrapping her long hair around her face because she hated having her picture taken.

Pics of Girl 3 in various dramatic poses at the age of…oh wait, that may have been a picture from yesterday….it’s hard to tell…she always strikes dramatic poses. 

Of course there were absolutely NO embarrassing pictures of me because I burned all of them, but I hope you enjoy what’s here, and CODE WHIZZES…leave me "fix-it thunk its" by clicking the little white envelope thingy down there.  The rest of you can leave other "thunk it's.".  I promise I'll read them.

With the Flip of My Clippers

About a year ago Cowboy determined in his mind that I should be his barber.  It was totally his idea, born from three clear facts:

1. he likes it cut every 4 weeks
2. barbers cost money
3. Cowboy is cheap
 
It became clear from the moment he conceived this idea that I had no say in the matter whatsoever, though I tried repeatedly to argue that I was NOT a barber.  “There’s nothing to it,” said he, and off he went to the drug store to purchase a clipper kit.

It was late morning when he came back, tossed the kit on the table, plopped in the closest chair, closed his eyes and said “Whenever you’re ready.”

Oh boy.

Being the perfectionist that I am, I was nervous about my new responsibility, not that I didn’t have experience in barbering (if you can call it that).  My dad was a barber by trade.  He frequently cut hair for friends and family in our kitchen when I was growing up.  I always enjoyed the buzz of his clippers as I sat watching him do his magic.  I doubt Dad ever knew he was teaching me how to use a comb as a guide around the ears, or how to hold longer hair up with the comb and snip it with scissors...surely some of his talent had rubbed off on me over the years, right?

I rummaged through the pieces of the new kit, familiarizing myself with the contents, opened the little booklet titled “So You Think You Can Be a Barber” (or something of that nature), and began to read.  I effectively stalled for about 10 minutes before Cowboy finally said “Sandra, I don’t have all day.  Just do it.  It will be fine.” 

Easy for you to say Mr. Man of Few Words who knows nothing about these things, I thought to myself.  Okay, here goes…deep breath…I can do this.  And I did it; and it turned out fine.  Cowboy opened his eyes, looked in the mirror, and congratulated me on a job well done.  Pressing a thank you kiss on my forehead Mr. Cheapo said “Three more haircuts just like this and the kit will be paid for,” and out the door he went to do what Cowboy does.

From that day forward, every four weeks, I have cut his hair.  Sometimes I cut it shorter, sometimes I leave it longer, sometimes I use fancy Dad-taught methods like using a comb to cut around his ears and trim his sideburns.  I began to like being in charge of Cowboy’s hair.  In fact, I started to feel a little proud of myself.  Not to brag or anything, but his hair always turned out pretty darn good.

What is that Bible verse, again?  “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.”  Yes, that’s the one.  I should focus on it more frequently I suppose. 

It was Saturday, four weeks since Cowboy’s last haircut, and just like clockwork, he brought the kit to me, plunked himself in the chair and closed his eyes for a nap.  I set up shop, tied the cape around his neck, and humming my little haircutting tune began clipping away, clipping away, clipping away, until…

Oops.  Before I could suck that word down deep into the hidden depths of my soul, it came tumbling out of my mouth in a low whisper, just like that:  “Oops.” 

There was no emotion involved, no gasp attached, just a simple oops…similar to the way I would say it if I’d dropped my napkin or some such thing.

You know, a girl can learn a lot with a little word like “oops.” It’s such a powerful word.  It’s really amazing how that one simple little word, in combination with clippers in your hand, can strike fear in a man. 

The moment I let that little “oops” fly, and as I assessed the damage over his right ear, Cowboy’s eyes popped wide open and his eyebrows did a little dance way up high on his forehead. 

“What?” he growled.

Oh nothing…go back to sleep.

“No. What?” 

Well, it’s just that, well, I’m thinking maybe I should cut your hair a little shorter this time…you know, warm weather and all. 

I couldn’t help but notice his eyebrows as they turned down sharply, and his eyes got this little squinty thing going on.

“What did you do?” he muttered. 

Well, it’s not bad really…okay, it’s kind of sort of a little bit bad. 

“Can you fix it?” 

Depends. 

“Just taper it more.” And seemingly satisfied to have settled this little conundrum with such a simple solution, he closed his eyes again. 

Now this, ladies and gentlemen, is what you call denial.  Clearly, reality had not yet struck Cowboy's brain, because to him it was simple:  “just taper it more, I will finish my nap, and all will be good as new.”  But for the life of me, I couldn’t recall ever learning from my dad how to “taper” around a bald spot, and I began to laugh out loud.  It started as little stifled giggly stuff, then began to roll headlong into a bend-at-the-waist bellow, when (dummy me) blurted out:

Honey, I don’t think you understand the depths of this oops! 

Cowboy was not amused.  Uh-oh…low eyebrows and squinty eyes again.

“Fix it” he demanded.

I’ll try. 

“Do something.” 

Okay, okay, okay. How about this:  we’ll give it three days and I will try again.

Cowboy did not laugh. 

Five days tops, it will be good as new! 

“Am I going to have to wear a hat in church tomorrow?”

Maybe. 

“Just fix it.” 

I know, I know!  Let me find a marker, I’ll paint it! 

“NO!” 

I stood there laughing for what seemed like ten minutes.  Cowboy sat expressionless, and I began feeling those steely blue eyes piercing me.  After getting myself back under control and once again donning my clippers, I told Cowboy I would just cut it shorter.  Lots shorter. 

“Fine,” was all he said.

When I had finally done the best I could do, he went to the mirror to see for himself:

“That’s great.”

Yeah. 

“I like my hair short any way.” 

Good. 

“I look mean.” 

Sure you do. 

“I look military.” 

Yep. 

“It’s fine.” 

Whew! 

“Just don’t let it happen again.”

And with that, he planted a kiss of reassurance on my forehead, and headed out to do what Cowboy does, bald spot and all.  I guess that means Mr. Cheapo will be back in my chair again in four weeks.

Bonafide Bane

I’ve written a lot of things about my family circle, so this post will not be out of the ordinary in that regard.  As you may have gathered from reading posts like A Legacy of Love or Angels in Hay Season, I was surrounded by a ton of cousins through my growing-up years.  I had thirty-eight cousins to be exact, and times with them are the source of countless memories.
 

Our family tries to get together two or three times each year.  One Saturday every spring for lunch, one Saturday every summer for a full day of food, games, and activities (my mom is the activities director…surprised?), and of course Thanksgiving.  We used to get together for Christmas too, but finally gave that up when an extensive number of in-laws began crossing their arms and tapping their toes while glaring at us, demanding equal opportunity. 

We usually try to find a quiet private place for our gatherings…you know, just so we don’t offend innocent bystanders.  A few of our Spring Fling jaunts have been held at a rental property in the arboretum, our summertime “down on the farm” days are way out in the boondocks, and every Thanksgiving the Bane family ventures back to their roots to gather in Greens Fork’s Community Center. 

Regardless of where we meet or why, it’s lovely mayhem.
There’s tons of food:
  
Tons of people:

And a loud table or two, generally made up of these folks:

And these folks:

And these folks:

Whom I don’t know.  Because I think they just saw food and came in off the street.  Or else they are in-laws.  Which would explain a lot.

Anyway, this spring the brothers and sisters (heretofore referred to as “the adults”…and I use the term loosely) decided to do something a little different and meet at Farmers Family Restaurant, a country buffet.  It was our first time to meet in this particular restaurant, and we were there for hours.  At least two meals worth of hours. Many many memories worth of hours. And true to form, one table (of course) was exceptionally loud.  (Those people up there again.)

Me, my sister Nikki, and my cousins Dee Dee, Sharon and Claudia did not sit with those people.  We have learned that you get stares when you sit at their table.  Even people who KNOW them stare at them and their table.  At one point the loud table got so loud that while we were staring at them, Dee Dee asked what we all thought it might be like if alcohol was permitted at our family gatherings.  We decided that was too scary to think about. 

Who is Dee Dee?  Bless your hearts…I’m so glad you asked!  Dee Dee is one of my 38 cousins, and without a doubt, a large portion of my childhood memories revolve around her.  Seven years my senior, she was my closest neighbor growing up.  You must understand that closest does not necessarily mean close when you live in the boondocks like we did.  Her house may have been closest, but it was still about a half mile away.  Our families resided in two of the whopping three houses on our old gravel road. 
The youngest child of my mother’s  older sister Rose, I’m told Dee Dee was thrilled when I was born a girl because she wanted a younger sister.  She certainly treated me like one.  (This ------>  is Dee Dee; I’m in her doll high chair).  I went everywhere and did everything with her.  I couldn’t imagine that she liked any friend more than she liked me, and that made me feel pretty darn cool.

I remember Dee Dee’s dad frequently driving up to our house to see if anyone wanted to go for a drive.  Since that was before seat belt and occupancy laws, all eight or nine of us would pile in his car and take off to who-knows-where.  There was rarely a destination in mind, and even if we found the same place twice, it was never using the same roads to get there (or back!).

Throughout my childhood, our families spent countless weekends together at a place we dubbed “The Lakes” in Celina / St. Mary’s, Ohio, where members of my dad’s side of the family owned two lakeside cabins.  Those dear folks graciously put up with hosted us anytime we felt like journeying their way, and we journeyed often.  The Lakes were magical.  (When you grow up landlocked in the boondocks, any place other than home is magical…especially if it has sand and water!).  We would swim, fish, boat, sit on the dock, dive off of a board tied on a huge inner tube, dig up clams and watch them open in the sun…and if we were lucky enough to spend the night at the local hotel, we would walk to the putt putt golf place down the road in the evening. 

That is, AFTER my mom finished jumping on the  hotel beds…true story…see?  I have proof.  She did it EVERY TIME! 

Our times together were full of silliness and laughter, but generally at some point throughout the visit I would be relegated to tears at least once.  Yes, you read that correctly…relegated to tears.  And, you know me…I have proof:

That’s me in the yellow crying.  Dee Dee is next to me on my left.  And as you can see, I’m trying NOT to look at her! 

Anyway, another such time in which an abundance of tears were shed was when (at my best estimate) I was 2 or 3 years old.  I asked my mom to confirm this, and she can’t say for sure, but she agreed I was very little.  This particular incident involved a helium balloon, and as young as I was, it  is an event that I distinctly remember very well. 

Our families had taken a day trip to The Lakes to enjoy the community’s annual Lake Festival.  As with any good festival, there was a large number of street vendors, and we decided to take a look around.  While we were perusing the various booths, I was given a red balloon.  I was thrilled!  Mom told me it would float away if I didn’t hold it tightly, so I held on with all my might.  There would be no chance of that balloon getting away from me...no sir!  

The afternoon began to fade, and we piled back in the car for the trip home via Fort Wayne (why Fort Wayne?  Who knows…ask Dee Dee’s dad).  As we drove down the highway, I stood on the back seat, enjoying my red balloon.  Dee Dee was on my left, my momma was on my right.  I remember these details distinctly because what transpired next is an event so tragic, the depths of the memory so deep, that the picture of those surroundings is forever etched into my brain:  Dee Dee, cranking the car window down, sticking her head out to feel the breeze in her hair, and then…that unbelievably shocking moment when my red balloon was SUCKED OUT OF THE WINDOW!  Stunned beyond all rationale, it took only a millisecond to realize what had happened, and when it dawned on me that my red balloon was gone forever, I buried my head in my mom’s lap and cried for MILES!  My little girl brain processed all of this as being completely Dee Dee’s fault; she did it on purpose I thought, and I’m certain at that moment I vowed never to look at her again, let alone speak to her.  (I did look at her and speak to her again, of course.)

Dee Dee was always up to some silly shenanigan.  You just never knew what she would do next, and trooper that I was, I plodded along right behind her like a shadow.  Come what may, we’re in it together, my little brain determined, then the sound of aunt Rose yelling “DEE DEE!” would strike the fear of God in me and I’d go running toward the house like a whipped puppy.  (For the record, it didn’t strike anything but the funny bone in Dee Dee.)  The tone and volume of that “DEE DEE!” yell still rings in my ears, perfectly as if I just heard it yesterday.  Of course that COULD be due to the fact that Aunt Rose STILL says it that way (even though Dee Dee is a grandmother now), and it is very possible that I heard it again at Farmer’s Family Restaurant when we were reminiscing about silly things like lost red balloons, and making jokes about Michael Jackson.  But back to Dee Dee stories…

One summer day Dee Dee and I decided to lay out and tan in the sun.  We parked on a blanket in the grass for about 10 minutes, assessed the situation, discussed the best avenue for soaking up the most rays, and settled on the fact that the shed roof would be the perfect choice.  It was the optimum place, she contended, because we would be closer to the sun, AND the metal on the roof creates an awesome reflection.  I can’t remember for sure if I chickened out before I got to the ladder, or if my mom intervened and wouldn’t let me do it, but Dee Dee certainly went up, laughing at the echoes of Aunt Rose’s “DEE DEE!” wafting on the breeze.  She stayed there a large part of the day and looked like a lobster when she came down.  Ah well, live and learn!  (My learning wasn’t nearly as painful as hers on that particular day…maybe it was pay-back for the red balloon.)

Of course, if the sunburn was a pay-back, then the story of the day she got her driver’s license would be double pay-back for sure.  The plan was for Dee Dee to drive her dad’s car up to our house to get me and my mom for a day of adventure.  I call it a PLAN because in reality, she ended up walking half of the distance.  I was sitting on the front porch swing waiting for her when I saw her shuffling up our long driveway. “What in the devil is she doing WALKING?” I thought to myself.  When she finally got up to the house, she was in tears, “Aunt Nita, can you call my dad?”  She’d had a wreck.  This, I will never ever understand in all of my born days.  It was a full HALF MILE of STRAIGHT road, for crying out loud…no turns, no hills, no surprises...but Dee Dee was the driver, and well, if it was going to happen, it would happen to Dee Dee!

We spent several snow days together through our long country winters.  I remember one time in particular when the snow was dumping and quickly deepening around our house.  It was clear we were going to be snowed in pretty tight.  I was playing in my bedroom and looked out through my south window.  I yelled for Mom to come quick, “There are crazy people walking toward our house!”  There, coming through the field from the south, was Dee Dee and her older siblings, tromping through the snow to be snowed in with us.  We sat by candle light playing cards late into the night listening to the battery-powered radio, raising the volume and cheering every time the DJ announced our school among the list of the next day’s closings. 

Dee Dee can be credited with more than just her humorous ways; she was also the master of some pretty cool tricks.  Do you know she could fit an ENTIRE Pringles can lid in her mouth?!  And her musical abilities included, but were not limited to, belching the Star Spangled Banner?!  She was likely able to play that same tune with another musical bodily function as well, but I never stuck around long enough to know for sure.  Her attempts at that unique talent usually found me running from the room holding my nose (POO-EY!)  Yes, she was quite talented indeed…and I always wanted to be JUST like her.  (I praise God daily for the resounding “NO” He gave me on THAT particular prayer!)

As crazy as she was, is, and always will be, she used her clowning around for good too.  I remember one time when I was probably five or six, I was with Dee Dee at her house.  We were alone, sitting on her scratchy sofa playing a game, when a flicker outside the window grabbed her attention.  She looked out and groaned.  Her school mate, Debbie Mean Girl, had ridden up on her bicycle.  I knew this chick and didn’t like her at all.  Even though we weren’t thrilled to see her, Dee Dee let her come inside, and it wasn’t long before she started spewing her mean-spirited comments my way.  Dee Dee stood up, announced that she had something to do outside and said she would be right back.  I sat silently glaring at Mean Girl, willing her to go away.  Mean Girl sat smirking at me, enjoying the moment with me in her clutches.  When Dee Dee came back in, she told Mean Girl that the two of us had some pretty important stuff to do, so she should probably go home.  Mean Girl shrugged and walked out the door.  Dee Dee quickly ushered me to a window whispering “Watch!”  I watched as Mean Girl stood with hands on hips, looking left and right…left and right.  “She was being mean to you, so I hid her bike!”  I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle as Mean Girl circled around the old shed, then out back, and around again to the front of the house.  She returned to the back yard, still searching, scratching her head.  We continued to watch as she peeked into the old shed.  Shooting looks that could kill toward the window where we stood laughing, Mean Girl dragged her bicycle out of the shed and left the premises, cycling her way toward home. That was when I came to the conclusion that regardless of her merciless teasing of me, Dee Dee at least loved me enough to protect me.   

But I have 37 other cousins to write about!  Oh my golly, with the memories that are flooding my brain today, this post could easily become a novel.  I have so much to tell you!  Like, for instance, the time we went boating with Uncle Kenny and Aunt Pat and their kids David and Beth.  My sister was just a baby.  While we were waiting in the parking lot for our turn at the ramp, we kids jumped in the boat.  Mom handed the baby up to me just before Kenny started backing up to the ramp.  David fired the boat up, put it in reverse, and we TOOK OFF!  Uncle Kenny stood on the ramp screaming “DAA-VID!” and my mother looked panicked as her baby, in the arms of an eight year old, went scooting across the water in a boat with a young unruly fourteen year old at the wheel! 

And who could possibly forget all of the times at Grandma and  Grandpa’s house.  Poor grandma.  Every Sunday afternoon, cars filled her yard, kids ran hither and yon, and balls smacked into the side of her house (because little kids like me could NOT get the ball over the roof no matter how hard we tried…it always took a big kid on your team to “ANNIE OVER!”).  We would climb her big maple tree, and the adults (ahem…loosely, remember) would yell up at us about getting in B-I-G trouble if we fell on them while they sat at the picnic table under the tree (never mind the possible broken neck we might get).  Grandpa would cut up  watermelon, and we’d spit seeds everywhere.  Every now and then he’d get his banjo out and play for us, and we’d take turns tap dancing on the plywood that covered the old well (how dumb was THAT?!).  Once in a while, Grandpa would dig out the movie projector and show us old movies.  We’d all cram into their tiny little living room and laugh like crazy people when Grandpa made Uncle Mark walk backwards with the cow. When that fun stuff wasn’t happening, either Melissa and Beth and I would play Charlie’s Angels (somehow I always always always had to be Kate...Kate was the boring whiney one); or Kyle and Kory and I would play Dukes of Hazard on Grandpa’s old car out behind the barn.  That game stopped the day Luke Duke (aka Kory) ran a little too hard, jumped, slid across the roof of the car, and landed into the plate glass window that was propped up against the back of the barn.  He still has a scar that I’m sure he’d show you if you asked. 

Ahh…memories!  

It’s humbling to look at these pictures and think about these things and realize just how greatly I have been blessed!  One thing is certainly clear:  no matter how my childhood memories unfold, or who they involve, they are always ALWAYS a source of comfort.  The joys and laughter I have shared with my big wonderful family far outweigh any amount of sadness I’ve experienced in life.  If only everyone were so blessed, this world would be a much happier place.  I have a quote framed on my wall that I think is so true:  “Families are like quilts…lives pieced together, stitched with smiles and tears, faded with memories, and bound by love.” 

In closing, I want to return to our recent Farmer’s Family Restaurant day, because you see, while Aunt Rose was spilling her drink, and Aunt Marjorie was asking Aunt Kathy why she felt the need to “sit at the kids’ table,” and Mom was teaching the song “We Built This City on Rock and Roll” to Uncle Kenny, and Artist Monte was drawing a portrait of my mom, and Melissa was talking about Jordan’s tattoo, and Holly was discussing the refinishing project that made her high as a kite, and Sharon was listing her day’s exhausting agenda, and Dad was asking when we could eat again, and Claude was turning up his nose at the pecan dessert, and Mary was sharing stories of her plethora of farm animal babies, and I was standing on a chair to turn off the ceiling fan…the crew at Farmer’s Family Restaurant must have been planning their getaway, because a few days after our big event, I opened the paper to find this:

Farmers Family Closes
The buffet-style restaurant closed its doors for good Friday night, less than eight months after opening.
Key words to note:  Closed; For good.  I have to wonder…when we finally departed, did they lock the doors and run away screaming? 

That’s when the term “Bonafide Bane” came to mind.  And just because I’m helpful, and don’t want you scrounging around for your dictionary, I’ll give you Encarta’s World English definitions here:

bo·na fide (adjective) 1. authentic and genuine in nature
2. sincere and honest: without any intention to deceive

bane (noun) 1. something that continually causes problems or misery 2. something that causes ruin 3. deadly: a fatal poison 4. somebody or something that is a constant source of trouble or annoyance

Yep, guess we won’t be going back to THAT particular restaurant!