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!

25 Lessons

How many of you have had the opportunity to learn wondrous mysteries from a three-year-old boy?  Well, let me tell you about the lessons I recently learned from my nephew, Grant, when he blessed me with a visit. 

My sister had some errands to run and needed a babysitter, so I was quick to jump at the chance to keep her younger son, Grant.  Grant is 3-1/2, and he’s ALL BOY!  Lesson #1:  Being the mother of three girls does not prepare you for a nephew.  I don’t care how tom-boy my girls were, it’s just not the same.

Nikki and I planned a place and time to meet, and as I pulled into the parking lot, I was immediately drawn to the cute little boy smiling from ear to ear, waving out his window at my truck.  I must admit, the moment I saw his precious smile and read his little lips mouth the words “There’s Aunt Sandy!” I fell hook, line, and sinker into those deep brown eyes.  Lesson #2:  surroundings melt away to nothingness when Grant speaks my name. 

As I loaded my little buddy and his various items into my truck, he started with the “Bye Mom” farewells.  Of course, being women, my sister and I stood and talked for a bit, increasing our volume now and again to hear one another over the echoes of “BYE MOM!” that seemed to get louder with each passing moment.  I couldn’t help but notice the little guy breathe a sigh of relief when we finally said our goodbyes and my truck started moving.  Lesson #3:  Patience is a virtue.

It was nearing lunch time, so I asked Grant what he wanted to eat.  “Hmmmm….” he pondered, “how about macawoni?”  Oh boy, that was THE one thing I wasn’t prepared for, so I made a quick phone call home to see if we had any.  Girl 2 answered the phone and went to investigate.  “Yeah mom, we have two microwaveable dishes of macaroni, I’ll fix it for him.”  Not thinking, I replied “Oh, the frozen kind?”  Now I really should have known better than to voice this aloud.  I had forgotten that little ears hear everything, and the mouth that goes along with those particular little ears only likes macaroni that comes from a blue box.  The moment I hung up the phone, Grant accosted me with his questioning. “Your macawoni is fwozen?”  Oops. When I told him yes, he continued, “Is it wegular macawoni?”  Oh boy.  My second yes was followed by, “Is it yellow?”  Yes again, then wait for it…wait for it…wait for it…he must have been thinking pretty hard about that one, because it took him a while to ponder it before he finally said “Okay, I’ll twy it.”  Whew! He had me worried there for a minute! Lesson #4:  Never have a Grant-day without blue box macaroni.

We had only driven a short distance when Grant said “Aunt Sandy, you dwive fast.”  This is not necessarily something I didn’t already know, but he pressed on, “Aunt Sandy, WHY do you dwive fast?”  I told him it was because Hataw drives fast.  (Hataw is the name he affectionately uses for my mother, Grandma Nita.)  Grant started shaking his head and said “No, Aunt Sandy, Hataw dwives sloooooooow.” (Oh really?!  Lesson #5, though I must disagree with his assessment of my mother’s driving.) Then he continued, “Hataw says Pawpaw dwives sloooooooow, but Pawpaw goes VROOM!” (Lesson #6, though everyone knows it cannot possibly be true, because my dad couldn’t drive 5 mph over the speed limit if his life depended on it.)  During that same little conversation I also learned Lessons #7 and #8:  Daddy drives fast, and Mommy drives sloooooooow.

As we exited the interstate and approached the stop sign, Grant hollered “Aunt Sandy, look!  It’s a pony!”  It was indeed a pony, so I pulled the truck over and we sat watching the pony for a few seconds before he informed me with a sad whine, “Aw, I think he’s lost.”  I had no idea what possessed him to think this, so I asked him why he thought the pony was lost.  His response: “Because.”  Lesson #9: don’t ask silly questions. 

We stayed there for a while watching the poor lost pony, then made our way home.  I told Grant that our horses were waiting for him at the end of our driveway, and when we rounded the corner, I stopped and rolled down his window to give him a better look.  “It’s Harley!” He shouted, “HI HARLEY!”  Harley’s ears perked, and he looked up from his grass-eating to see who was there.  Grant cackled, “Aunt Sandy, Harley looked at me!  And...and…and he waved at me too!”  Lesson #10:  horses can wave.  

Before we went into the house to eat lunch, we had to go through the barn lot and greet all of the other horses.  This is where Grant taught me Lessons 11 through 15: horses have long necks, horses have mommies, Grant’s mommy does not have a long neck, Grant’s mommy has a heart beat, and the doctor had to listen to Mommy’s heart beat.  (Don’t you just LOVE the random circle of conversation you get with a 3-year-old?!)

On our way toward the house, Grant stopped dead in his tracks.  “SuuuWEET!” He shouted, and he ran toward the tire swing on the old ash tree.  “What’s sweet?” I asked him.  “Your swing is a TIRE!  Tires are COOL!”  Okay, add that to the “things Aunt Sandy learned today” list as #16.  He hung on as I pushed him in the tire swing, and that’s when I learned Lessons 17 through 21:  tires are for cars, Kyle Bush has a cool car, Kyle Bush is the best driver, Kyle Bush is cool, and Kyle Bush is Grant’s favorite.  When I finally admitted to Grant that I didn’t really like Kyle Bush, he taught me Lesson #22:  “Yes you do, Aunt Sandy, you like him lots!”  

After lunch (he ate about three bites of the macawoni, by the way) Grant wanted to ride Sugar-the-wonder-pony.  We made our way to the back lot and I explained to him that he should not touch the electric fence.  Of course, his immediate response was “Why?” so I explained that it would hurt him.  “Is it hot?” he asked.  I confirmed that it was, and he continued, “What’s that snap, snap?”  I explained it was the electric fence popping, and if he touched the fence, it would feel like the fence was biting him, and that’s when I learned Lesson #23.  It went something like this:  “OHhhhhh, that’s like that God story.”  (The what?)  “You know, Aunt Sandy, that God story.  When he had the nails in his hands, and God came down and went BAM and popped the nails out? Isn’t that cool? That’s the cool part!”  Not wanting the story to end I said, “yeah, that’s cool, then what happened?”  He looked at me and thought about it for a moment, then said “Well, his hands weren’t hot anymore, the end.” 

Now, Aunt Sandy really wasn’t ready for “the end” just yet, and anxious to hear his story again, I escorted him to the barn where Girl 2 helped us saddle up Sugar for a ride.  As Girl 2 led him around the arena, I asked Grant to tell her the story of the nails.  “I don’t remember,” he said.  “Oh sure you do,” I encouraged, “remember…his hands were hot?”  That’s when Girl 2 jumped in to help “oh wow, his hands were hot?”  Grant answered “Yeah…that’s not the cool part,  Emma.”  It was obvious I had just been taught Lesson #24:  when it’s old news, there’s no need to re-tell the story.  (I guess those cool parts are fleeting moments…I’m so glad I was there to capture it the first time around!)

Throughout the day we played…and we played…and we played some more.  Blocks, legos, Little Pig, Go Fish, Mancala, hide and seek…you name it, we played it.  When it came time to take Grant home, I took a look around my house.  What a MESS!  I asked Grant to help me pick up all of the toys.  “No thanks,” he said.  “You can do it.”  I persisted, “I really need your help, Grant, I don’t think I can do it by myself.”  He shook his head no, so I took another stab with a different kind of persuasion, “You know what, if I pick all of these up by myself, then I will be the winner…look at me go, I’m gonna win!  I’m gonna beat you!” and like a fool I ran through the house picking up toys.  He watched me for a moment, giggled,  then taught me Lesson #25:  “It’s okay, Aunt Sandy, you’re the best winner!” 

And with that sentiment, I had to agree.  I was the best winner, because on that very special day, I saw the world through a little boy’s eyes, and it was a great view! 

Ageless

I’m going to tell you all a little secret about myself: I have become my mother <*Gasp!*> and I’m trying to figure out when this happened.

Now, don’t get me wrong…it is not a bad thing to be my mother… my mother is WONDERFUL!  Everyone who knows my mother loves her (and right now, as she is reading this, she is silently cursing me for making her the subject of this post!).  She’s silly and wild and full of spunk and crazy and funny…she’s loving and giving and thoughtful and prayerful and gifted and ageless…oh, there it is…that AGELESS thing.

My mom turned 40 when I was 16, and golly, she was OLD!  In a 16-year-old brain, everyone understands that 21 is the optimum age of life, and anyone over 21 is just plain ancient.  Not only was my mom OLD, she was incredibly embarrassing too.  For instance, it  was LUDICROUS that my mother had to do math in her head just to tell someone how old she was.  And I’m dead serious about this.  To this day, when someone asks my mom how old she is, she stops, rolls her eyes upward to think about it, looks at my dad, and then mumbles “Hmmm…let’s see…I was born in….” and then her fingers start moving as she counts it up.  At 16, this was a horrifying thing to watch.  

My dad is just the opposite.  The past few years Dad has been suffering from short term memory loss, but it has not affected his sense of how old he is.  For as long as I can remember, my dad has told me he is old.  It’s his excuse for everything under the sun, and I think in some weird way, he gets some sort of satisfaction out of his “old-ness.” Honestly, when it comes right down to it, my dad could probably tell you his age in years, days, hours, and POSSIBLY minutes…except for the math part…that’s another thing my dad always told me when I was younger, “You’re smarter than I was, so do your math.”

ANYHOO, through my parents’ “ageless vs. ageful” thing I have seen a bizarre cycle unfold.  Mom, of course, has no real sense of how old she is, so she doesn’t focus on feeling old.  Because she doesn’t feel old, she is fun-loving and crazy and silly, which in turn keeps her young.  Isn’t that a beautiful thing?  Dad, with his overwhelming sense of time and age, focuses on his years and suddenly begins to feel sick.  When he feels sick, he focuses on how old he is, which in turn makes him feel sicker.  See the pattern here?  This is why I’ve had my fair share of chuckles over that point in life many people commonly refer to as a “mid-life crisis.”  Oh, who am I kidding.  I don’t just chuckle, I give it a full-on laugh-out-loud bellow!  My dad has had a few mid-life crises.  His generally come in the form of worrying about his age and his health.  My mom just does not understand what the big deal is.  To her, there is no such thing as a mid-life crisis.  It doesn’t apply to her likely because she doesn’t know how old she is.

As I began to have children of my own, I began to secretly hope I could embrace my mother’s form of denial.  And I did.  It came to full fruition one day that dawned last fall.  As I washed my face that morning, I peered a little closer at the image in the mirror.  My first thought was “Who is this person?” Then “Sheesh, the gray just keeps multiplying!” Followed by “Wow, is that an age spot?!” I did a quick mental-math calculation and came up with…gulp…40?!  Okay, wait…that can’t be right…do it again.  Oh my goodness.  I’m FORTY?!  Wait…did I just count that on my fingers?!  Uh-oh.  Houston, we have a problem…make that TWO problems:

1) I’m 40.

2) I had to count it on my fingers. 

Oh wow…when did this happen?  When did I have to start counting my age?  And when did I reach 40?  Wasn’t my mother just 40?  I didn’t think I was a day over 16!  Immediately the aches and pains began in my joints and I felt sick to my stomach.  “I’m OLD…oh wait, that’s my dad talking…STOP IT!  I am NOT old, and I can deny my way right out of this mess if I think clearly.”  And it was at that moment, as I looked at the strange person in the mirror, that I decided something very epic in my life.  I decided to embrace 40 in all its wondrous glory!  I decided not to care that wrinkles were forming around my eyes and mouth.  I decided not to care that sun spots were popping out on my face and shoulders, and I decided not to care that my hair wanted to be gray instead of brown.  I just wouldn’t care, because these things are good and lovely, and they show the world just how far I’ve been in life, and if someone looks at me and thinks of me as OLD, why should I care?  I am only as old as I feel, right?  RIGHT! I made no more appointments at the salon for hair color, eyebrow waxes or manicures, and when Girl 1 visited my stylist, Liz-the-beauty-maker, she always brought home messages for me.  Liz was worried about my loss of sanity, the dear girl, but the decision was made. 

And I lived one very long blissful winter in denial. 

Sunday after church, it was evident Spring had sprung!  It was a glorious day, and Cowboy and I had one of those rare moments of Ballenger life: sitting in lawn chairs in the back pasture, watching the sunset.  We began to chat about our 20+ years in our church (this is us 20+ years ago on our wedding day at our church…oh my golly we were young!).  We talked about various members past and present that we’ve had the benefit of loving over those years. I’m not sure how or why, but our conversation seemed to have started with the oldest and progressed down in age until we hit  the teens.  We stopped there for a moment to consider how long we have known Jacob, who only yesterday was a sweet, loving, smiling, huggable brute of 5-year-old kid, and today is a sweet, loving, smiling, huggable (that is, if you can reach him) very tall 16-year-old.  We wondered over the time that escaped between age 5 and 16, then continued down the line of youngsters until we got to Baby Luke, that precious miracle that our entire church family prayed for and fell deeply in love with before he ever entered the world.  He’s sweet and adorable and perfect, and we all swoon when he smiles.  I was focusing on the swoony smile part when Cowboy dropped the bomb that exploded my peaceful little world. This is what he said:  “If Luke grows up as fast as Jacob did, you and I will be old codgers before we know it.  When Luke is 20…we’ll be in our sixties.”  I was stunned.  Are you KIDDING ME?  SIXTIES?!  Wait, my mom is 60-something…I can’t be SIXTY!

This of course started my head spinning and aches and pains began in my joints, and I felt sick to my stomach.  I sat there in silence for a minute or two, processing the thought of it all.  Then with all of the energy my ancient body could muster, I looked at Cowboy and it dawned on me that I had not consulted him in my 40-year-old denial and quest for “all natural.”  He’s the one who has to look at me every morning and every night, after all.  So I took a chance and asked him, “Honey, do you mind that my hair is turning gray?”  He looked at me with those loving blue eyes and his sweet smile, cocked his head to one side and spoke softly:  “You…should color it. Sorry. I guess I’m vain like that.”

Humph.  Well then, so much for embracing 40…er, ahem 41 (now)…in all its blazing glory.  So much for the blissful denial that allowed me to think my hair was still brown, and wrinkles didn’t grace my eyes and mouth, and my shoulders were void of sunspots.  So much for “all natural.”  I guess I’ll deal with my own personal mid-life crisis by making an appointment with Liz-the-beauty-maker.  I hear she has missed me.  Boy, she has the work cut out for her!

Cats Rule, Dogs Drool

The cats rule at this farm.  Every human and animal who lives in the area knows this simple truth.  We have the BAD-est cats this side of the Mississippi, hands down.  Jack and Lola are their names.  There is nothing known to man that  can match them.  They snicker at mice and rats.  They giggle at squirrels and rabbits. They laugh out loud at snakes.  And they frequently poke fun at the dogs.  As for the horses…they simply have no respect for the big lugs who leave huge clods of manure in the big sandbox.

Jack and Lola came to us at a time when we were in desperate need of BAD-ness.  Most of you remember our beloved barn dog, Diamond.   She was a gem.  She kept order.  No one and nothing crossed Diamond.  Everyone and everything knew better.  We thought many times of posting a warning for all creatures great and small: “Strangers Beware: Diamond Rules Here.”  She protected children, adults, horses and little dogs from raccoons, rabbits, squirrels, deer, coyotes, cars, trucks, UPS men, and IRS auditors (true story…and a mighty funny one!). 

In the fall of 2008, when Diamond died, we erroneously thought Diamond’s daughter and partner in rodent crime  fighting, Libby, would pick up where Diamond left off.  Libby was fierce against humans whom she thought were threatening, so surely mother had taught daughter the tricks of the rodent trade as well?  Alas, no. Libby wasn’t cut out for the job of rodent crime fighting.  That fact was made abundantly clear the day we introduced her to the new Chihuahua puppy, Tito. Tito, nearly exploding with curiosity,  ran straight to Libby, looked up at her with tail wagging and his tongue licking 500 licks per second, and bounced with joy…up and down, up and down…DYING to be instant best  friends.  Libby, unsure what to do with this tiny little mass of energy, cowered, whimpered,  and turned to run as fast and as far as she could possibly go to get away from him.  It wasn’t long after that Libby began leaping up into the sill of our family room window, begging to be let inside to watch Criminal Minds with her family.  We gave in of course, suckers that we are.  The house became Doggy Daycare.  The barn turned into Rodent Resort.  

While the dogs were warm and snuggly in front of the fire that winter, the Rodent Convention’s closing announcement was made: “Diamond is gone!” We could hear the cheers as news spread far and wide and rodents moved “en masse” to Jordan’s Crossing.  Mice, rats, chipmunks, squirrels, rabbits, raccoons,…they were all staking claims and taking over.  That’s when Brian put the word out that he needed cats.  Not just any cats, mind you…no, no…only BAAAAAD cats need apply. 

Enter Jack and Lola.  Jack and Lola were siblings out of a momma stray cat roaming my aunt’s neighborhood.  My aunt had been caring for them, offered them to us, and Brian gave them the job.

Jack and Lola quickly accepted their new farm life.  They established napping spots on my front porch rockers, found all the best window screens to use as claw sharpeners, and  left disgusting little look-what-the-cat-drug-in gifts at the back door.  Brian was suspicious of the origin of these gifts.  He wasn’t noticing any decrease in activity in the barn, and was pretty sure the hunts were taking place outside of our property line.  So, one morning as Brian watched Lola venture out to the front pasture, he jokingly hollered “Hey  Lola, there’s plenty to hunt up here by the house!  Why don’t you take care of that mole that is tearing up our back yard?”  She didn’t act as if she heard his plea, but she certainly must have, because when Brian returned home from work that afternoon, a dead mole was waiting for him in the middle of the parking lot.  The rodent activity in the barn slowed considerably after that, the cats were lauded as royalty, and from that point on, the cats have monitored the comings and goings of every breathing creature.

One day, Jack and Lola were sunning on the back patio, taunting the poor Chihuahua, Tito.  Tito, always a bundle of nerves, was begging to be let out to investigate the situation.  I opened the door, and he ran straight for the cats.  The three of them began peaceably scrutinizing each other, so I thought it was  okay to turn my back for two  seconds…just TWO.  Nope.  Immediately, the cry of a tortured puppy reached my ears.  I whirled around to see Tito running toward me, crying like a baby, both cats sitting prim and proper, proudly swishing their tails and smirking.  I could’ve sworn I heard “We don’t know WHAT his problem is…big baby.”

Birds are certainly not off limits for taunting.  I’ve seen both cats leap four feet into the air to bat at them mid-flight.  Humans don’t escape the taunting either.  This winter Lola came into the barn during a riding lesson and dropped a still-live chipmunk at the feet of a student’s parent.  The chipmunk ran around a little bit before Lola bounded after it again. She was of course expecting praise from the visitor, adding a little excitement for drama.  But her plan backfired.  The parent couldn’t stand to watch the event unfolding before her, and she held Lola back until the chipmunk safely escaped the confines of the barn.  Lola looked up at the parent as if to say “Now c’mon…what’d you go and do THAT for?”   

Jack recently began carrying half-dead, still-wiggly snakes  to Brian.  Somehow he found out that Brian hates snakes worse than anything, and I think Jack gains some sort of satisfaction in hearing Brian squeal like a girl.  They’re ruthless, I tell ya…ruthless!

Just yesterday I was sitting on Jack’s front porch rocker with our dog Skip at my feet.  Jack came around the corner and stopped dead in his tracks.  I thought maybe he was suspicious of Skip, but quickly realized he was wondering what in the devil I thought I was doing sitting in his chair.  He walked up to the porch, used my jean-clad leg as a scratching post, then jumped into my lap and lay down.  He obviously wasn’t going to let me get in the way of his afternoon nap.  As I sat reading, Skip gave out an excited yelp and went tearing through the yard, chasing a squirrel up the nearest walnut tree.  Skip sat at the base of the tree, yelping up at the squirrel.  The squirrel sat at the top of the tree, chattering down at Skip.  Jack opened one eye and I think I heard him snicker.  I stroked his back and assured him “Don’t worry. Skip wouldn’t know what to do with that squirrel if he caught him.” Jack closed his eye, swished his tail, and seemed to sigh.  I can’t be sure, but I think he mumbled something akin to “Dogs drool.”

Last evening, someone let our big dog Libby outside and forgot about her.  By the time we realized it, she had found the manure pile and rolled in it repeatedly.  We tried to let her sleep in the garage for the night, but the stench was overwhelming, so Brian escorted her out to the barn and closed her inside...with the cats.  This morning, we awoke to Libby clawing at the kitchen door, whimpering.  We have no idea how she got out of the barn, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Lola held the door open as Jack picked her up by the collar and booted her out.  They’re baaaad cats.  The cats rule.

The Horse Hoarder

This is my cowboy on this sunny Friday afternoon.

He put in a good half day of construction work today. I don’t really know why it was a planned half-day. I think he mumbled something earlier in the week about having a small bathroom repair for someone in the morning and that he would take the rest of the day off, but I can’t be entirely sure. I was only half listening. I’m kind of bad about that sometimes. (Oh, by the way, my camera says I took these photos at 1:57 p.m. This is really important to note.)

I came home earlier than normal today too. Girl 2 and Girl 3 take part in a science class with other homeschoolers on Friday mornings, and typically the afternoons are reserved for running errands, but not today. Why? Because this morning Cowboy said he needed Girl 2 to get home early. Girl 1 had to work, and Cowboy wanted to go look at a pony, so Girl 2 had to go with him to ride it. My friends, let me take this moment to announce: we are buying a pony.

Now before you go assuming some bad non-listening stuff about me, let me defend myself up front by telling you that this time I truly WAS listening FULLY, and even though he SAID he was going to LOOK at a pony, I have learned to listen instead to what he MEANS. He definitely means we will own a pony before this Friday is over. Do you know how I know? Look at this…

This is Cowboy in his truck. He is leaving our farm. He’s headed out to “LOOK” at a pony…with our horse trailer attached. The trailer, I’m sure he would say, is going along with him “just in case.” (For the record, my camera says this photo was taken at 2:01 p.m. Have you figured out where this timeline thing is going yet…?)

Anyway, as he left the house he defended his shopping trip by delivering his usual disclaimer: “If I buy it, it will be a project pony. I can train it and turn it in a couple of months.” There was no need for a reply on my part. That silly argument may have worked on the first nine horses, but I’m not falling for that trick again. I’m smarter this time.

At this point in the story I could post a few more “wait for it” pictures, but to save your precious time and my precious blog space I will cut right to the chase. See this…?

It’s Cowboy and his truck coming home…this picture was taken at 5:58 p.m.
Then there is this one at 6:00:
 
And, oh my golly…what is that coming out of the trailer at 6:01?

SURPRISE! Wow, that sure looks like a pony to me!

Now you should not think the story ends here. No sir. Not yet. The end is near, but before I get too far ahead of myself, let me take a moment to remind you of the quote above. You know the one…it included some silly words like project pony…training…turning…couple of months.

As Girl 1 led the pony into the barn, Girl 3 asked Cowboy how long the pony would be staying. “We’re probably going to sell him,” Cowboy said. Did you catch that? PROBABLY. Do I need to translate for you? Yeah, didn’t think so.

Meet Vegas:

Blue roan Quarter Pony

Isn’t he handsome?

He kissed my camera at 6:11…

Made his bed at 6:14…

And completely stole our hearts exactly 60 seconds later.
Welcome home Vegas.

I’m such a sucker.