Viva la Mexico

The B5 Gang split up last week when Cowboy and I embarked on a much-needed vacation. Rising at o’dark-thirty, we tossed a few things in bags, kissed Girl 1, Girl 2 & Girl 3 (who didn’t get out of bed to see us off, btw), and headed to the airport. Everything went right…no traffic, quickly found airport parking in the economy long-term lot, immediately picked up by the shuttle, early check-in sped us through the ticket counter, and upon arrival at our gate were told that we would board early and leave early.  YAY! 

The flight was great…no turbulence, smooth landing. We landed 20 minutes early in Cancun, Mexico, and at 10:00 a.m. it was already a sunny 75 degrees. We easily slipped through immigration, found our bags waiting at the luggage carousel, handed our customs paperwork to the attendant, bypassed the vultures trying to sell timeshares in the lobby, and a driver called us by name, escorting us to his van.

Traffic was light, and in 20 minutes we were at Puerto Cancun. I slipped inside, bought two ferry tickets to the lovely Isla Mujeres, boarded the ferry, and in no time at all the captain began backing away from the dock.  I lay my head on Cowboy’s shoulder, breathed in the salt air, felt the tropical breeze blowing through my hair, and must have taken a bit of a siesta, because before I knew it, we were at the resort. A bellman unloaded our bags, opened his arms wide, and said “Welcome home!”

Ahhh…(deep, dramatic, contented sigh…) There could be only one explanation for the easy-breezy path there…

The entire universe had conspired to put us right there, in that very place, at that very time. This could mean only one thing:  I BELONG in Mexico. I was smiling. Cowboy was smiling. The resort staff was smiling. Even those silly Mayan gods must have been smiling.

Our week was amazing. Views previously enjoyed but erased by the passage of time once again flooded our vision. We took in every morsel of it, intent on memorizing the horizon, the crystal clear turquoise waters of the Caribbean, the reflection of the sun’s rays on each surface, the rumble of the waves.  Each night we fell asleep to the sound of waves crashing at our balcony, and awoke to the same. We soaked up the sun and wiggled our toes in sand. We marveled at sea stars, sting rays & colorful fish. We were captivated by pink sunrises, golden sunsets & burning red full-moon dusks. We watched as streaks of lightning pierced a dark night sky, and a colorful rainbow graced the morning's dawn. We met new friends, learned their stories, laughed with them, cried with them, and shared our common faith in the Creator who blessed us to be there together, embracing the beauty that surrounded us. It was an awesome week.

And suddenly, it was Friday evening…the night before the dreaded moving-out-and-going-home day. Cowboy and I decided to deviate from our normal routine and walk into town for dinner. Mistake #1. Never EVER leave a gorgeous, tranquil, private beach with lovely resort restaurant for a tent restaurant on a public beach. Never. Did you hear me? Don’t. Oh, the food was delicious, it was the experience that was excruciating. Inebriated girls stumbled into the sea and “somehow” lost their bikini bottoms. Men (and woman) blew cigar smoke right over our table. Two 60-something grannies decided to change their bathing suits, nearly losing their towels in the process. And then, as if a sign from above, it began to sprinkle. We walked back to our resort and stepped inside the lobby just as the skies opened up and torrential rains came pouring down.

Saturday morning we tossed our things in our bags, headed to the buffet for breakfast, said goodbye to our new friends, checked out of the resort, and headed to the ferry. Once there, I realized something important that would have been nice to have known exactly one week prior. Had I not been captivated by the easy-breezy path, I might have realized it sooner...I had purchased two round trip tickets for the ferry. Hmmm. Where WERE those tickets? Did I keep them? Did I toss them? As I opened suitcases, searched pockets, and dug through bags, the ferry pulled away from the dock. Darn.

After a thorough search, I came up empty handed. No tickets. Darn again. Cowboy rolled his eyes, approached the ticket booth, and bought two ONE WAY tickets to Cancun. We maneuvered our bags through the waiting area and plopped down on a bench. I opened the front zipper of my carry-on to stow away the receipts for the new tickets and guess what I found. Yeesh. The round trip tickets. Oops. This time a “SANDRA!” was attached to Cowboy’s eye-roll. Yikes.

We boarded the ferry, found a seat on the top deck, and made our way to the mainland as dark ominous clouds began to settle above us. We encountered traffic that doubled our transit time to the airport. We stood in a long line of grumpy passengers at the ticket counter, picked the wrong security checkpoint line, and got stuck behind a woman who apparently “looked suspicious” to the TSA. All the while, unbeknownst to us, a monsoon was fixin to hit Cancun. I’m not kidding. Monsoon.

We ambled to our gate where throngs of people filled the seats and overflowed to the floor. Sheets of rain pelted the windows. Grumpy home-goers were drinking their sorrows away in the airport bars. Annoying announcements were being made over ear-piercing loud speakers. Every flight was delayed by the storm.

We waited. And I got antsy. And we waited some more. And I paced.

Finally, four hours after we had arrived at the airport (two hours after we were scheduled to take off) our flight was called to board. “Just wait, San…no hurry,” said the cowboy. So I waited. Against my better judgment, I waited. I was the 2nd to the last person through the gate, and WHO do you think they chose for a “random search”…?  Me. They opened my carry-on, they opened my purse, they ran a metal-detector over me, they patted me down, and soon after they eradicated the last morsel of my dignity, they let me pass. And Cowboy chuckled. I saw it. And I wasn’t happy.

We descended the stairs to the tarmac where there was a bus waiting. Yes, a bus. The rains were so heavy that they were bussing passengers across the tarmac to the waiting plane. We boarded the bus, and I was mentally preparing to make a mad dash for those flight steps. I was DETERMINED to the be the FIRST ONE to board that dry plane, by golly! The other passengers were either old or carrying babies and car seats, so I was SURE I could win the race to the top.  My adrenaline was pumping…I was on my mark…and then Cowboy reached out, touched my arm and said “Just wait, San…no hurry.” So I waited. Against my better judgment, I waited. And I was the 2nd to the last person off the bus.

There was a looooong line of people on those steps waiting to board that plane. I was 2nd to the last in that never-ending line. I got wetter, and wetter, and wetter. The man behind me got impatient and began yelling “PUSH ‘EM IN AND RUN ‘EM OVER!” He sounded a lot like Cowboy (ahem). And it was in that moment that I realized…

The entire universe had conspired to put us right there, in that very place, at that very time. This could mean only one thing: Mexico was taunting me. I wasn’t smiling. Cowboy wasn’t smiling. The tarmac staff wasn’t smiling. And I silently cursed those stupid Mayan gods.

Hasta la vista, baby!

I Didn’t Know I Married My Father in Law

After 22 years of wedded bliss with this man I call Cowboy, it has become evident that I am married to my father-in-law.

I first met my father-in-law, Big Dad, over 25 years ago. At the time he was a burly and bearded semi driver, but his smiling eyes gave him away instantly. He teased, poked, and prodded at me, and we quickly formed a bond. I became his daughter.

A natural story-teller, I’ve often shaken my head at the yarns my father-in-law spins. He always has a funny story to tell, and he never fails to deliver increasing dramatics as his audience responds with howls of laughter. Big Dad has never met a stranger in all his born days. The man could talk the ear off a lamp post. And intuition…oh yes…if he gets a feeling that someone is having a bad day, he’ll do something to make them laugh. It’s his duty.

Big Dad is one huge tease. He pokes, prods and cajoles anyone and everyone (nearly to the point of exasperation). To say his is stubborn would be an understatement. He, of course, will deny this to his dying day. And probably the biggest thing of all:  Big Dad hates to be late to anything…that is, unless he is galavanting all over town, visiting and chatting to his heart’s content…then it’s okay to be late. It’s his call. And trust me, when he makes the call, and the man says it is time to GO, he turns completely impatient and you GO…now! There is no waiting, no last-minute chatting, no time for belabored good-byes, you simply GO. If you don’t go, he’ll leave you. I’ve witnessed it. Once when Big Dad and Mom B were visiting us, Big Dad determined it was time to leave. He threw up his hand, yelled “Goodbye!” and headed out the door. Mom B, of course, could not leave without a few parting words, hugs and kisses. By the time she made it out the door, Big Dad’s truck was rumbling down the driveway. Cowboy and I stood on the porch giggling as we watched Mom B chasing Big Dad, laughing the entire way!  

A flashback of this particular incident came to mind a couple of years later when our little family of five was preparing to meet Cowboy’s parents for dinner.  Roughly three times throughout the day Cowboy had stated what time we would leave, and roughly five more times when the bewitching hour was near, Cowboy warned his daughters that the bus would leave with or without them. That magic hour struck, and the girls were still fussing over silliness, not prepared to leave. Cowboy took me by the hand and calmly escorted me to the waiting truck. He turned the key in the ignition, backed out of the parking space, and with a honk of the horn, began slowly driving down the lane. In an instant, three little girls came flying out the door, running down the drive screaming “WAIT!  WAIT!  STOP!”  With heavy sigh and glint in his eye, Cowboy put on the brakes, rolled down the window, and asked them if they would like a ride. We made it to dinner on time. All five of us.

When I first met Cowboy, I couldn’t help but think his personality was a lot like his mother’s.  Kind, gentle, patient, helpful, bubbly and fun…but over the years he seems to have morphed into a younger version of Big Dad…that “left behind” moment was probably the first big indication.

Also like Big Dad, Cowboy is a story teller. Something always reminds him of a happening from his younger days, and time after time the girls have asked him to repeat a story he’s shared before. When the girls were really little, Cowboy would make up stories about a fictional character named “Granny Fletcher.”  To this day I imagine they think she was a real person who did the craziest things. 

Probably the strongest intuition Cowboy possesses is his ability, like Big Dad, to hone in on people’s emotions. We’ve gone to dinner many times when he has turned to me and said “our waitress is having a bad day…I’ll see what I can do about that.”  Generally I groan and say “No, please…leave her alone!” But every time that notion has struck him, he’s turned on the silliness, and we’ve always left the restaurant to the sound of a laughing waitress. 

And harassment teasing…? Cowboy, like Big Dad, has mastered it.  He often approaches drive up windows looking like a…well…a crazy man.  I was with him once when he made his away through a Wendy’s drive-up at lunch time.  When we reached the window he immediately began messing with the cashier, asking for pepper packets, knowing full well that they didn’t carry any. The fun  teasing lasted for several minutes. Finally, the girl said “wait” and quickly returned, flung a gray plastic pepper shaker through Cowboy’s truck window, and laughed “There…take that…are you happy now?” He kept that pepper shaker in his glove box for months.

I can’t even begin to list the things he has done to the tellers at our bank. It’s embarrassing. Truly. I apologize to them every time I visit.

One day this week Cowboy stayed home from the jobsite to take care of some things here at home. Just before noon he announced that he needed to run some errands. Knowing this trip would likely turn into a Big-Dad-style galavant unless someone (a.k.a. ME) was able to intervene, I spoke up, “I’ll go with you.” With a curled up  nose and a frown he looked at me and said “Who invited you?”  Not to be deterred, I grabbed my bag and headed to his truck. We made two stops: TSC and Lowe’s (or, as Cowboy calls it, “Slows”).  He of course teased and poked and prodded the staff at each store, and he of course stopped to talk to anyone and everyone he knew (and even someone he didn’t really know) when the opportunity arose, but I am proud to say I managed to keep him on a narrow path and we arrived home in time to get Lil to her dance class. Success!

One thing I can say is unique about Cowboy is that he has a knack for coming up with the strangest ideas. For instance, this morning Cowboy and I had a discussion. It was a silly discussion surrounding a check. Yes, you read that right, a check…written to me by a friend. As we sat at the kitchen table drinking our morning coffee, Cowboy looked over at the check on my errands pile and said “Wow, she has really good handwriting.”

I nodded.

“No really, look at this…that’s good handwriting.”

Again, I nodded.

“Oh my gosh, look…she used a straight edge to draw that line right there…look at that…” and he held it up for me to see, “she used a straight edge!”

This is where I spoke up. “Oh, don’t be silly, she did not use a straight edge, she simply drew a nice straight line.” 

And then it surfaced…that Big Dad stubbornness.

I listened for several minutes as Cowboy tried desperately to convince me that my friend must use a straight edge to write her checks. I kept shaking my head no. I watched as Cowboy dug through the junk drawer and pulled out a straight edge, laying it across the line drawn on the check, viewing it at several different angles. He continued to insist she used a straight edge. I continued to shake my head no, and I might have sort of laughed. A lot. This must have irritated him a bit, for it was then that he spoke a little louder: “I’ll betcha a hunnerd bucks she used a straight edge!” Seizing the opportunity, I stretched out my hand and said, “I’ll take that bet, partner…let’s shake on it!” 

Soon after, a flutter of text messages began back and forth between myself and my friend. To make a long story short, I’ll just say…I won the bet.

To further expound, let’s just say…Cowboy isn’t over it yet. He contends that she must first PROVE to him that she can draw a straight line without a straight edge. Furthermore, he’s just stubborn enough about this (and tight-fisted enough) that I’m certain I’ll never see my “hunnerd bucks.”

Following this epic disaster of a bet, and a few household chores, Cowboy announced that he was “going to town.” I groaned and reminded him that we had a family reunion at noon and we would leave promptly at 11:30. I don’t think it was a nagging type of reminder, but I can’t be sure.

Really, I knew I should have ridden with him. That little voice inside my head kept saying “someone needs to go with him!” but I had so much to do, and I figured I could always call him repeatedly on his cell phone if worse came to worse, right…? So, away he went. Alone. Disaster in the making.

My first call to his cell phone was at 11:46. No answer.

My second call to his cell phone was made as I made my way through the kitchen at 11:48. While awaiting his answer, I looked at Emma and said, “Is your phone ringing? I hear a phone ringing.” Emma rushed to find her phone, “Nope…not mine.”

Where was that ringtone coming from?  “Emma, there is a phone ringing…I hear it…it’s playing ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’” That’s when it hit me. Cowboy’s phone is programmed with a unique ringtone for each of us, and MY ringtone…you guessed it… is ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’ Wouldn’t you know it…Cowboy’s phone was lying right there on the kitchen counter. NOW WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO?!

I stood for a moment, gathering my thoughts. “What would Cowboy do in this situation?” I asked myself. Then, I took a page out of Big Dad’s book. I looked at my daughters and said “We’re leaving…dad will just have to figure it out.” We jumped in the car, and as we began our descent down the lane, guess who pulled in…grinning.

Flashback: to a time when I watched Big Dad pull away with Mom B running after him. Flashback: that moment I first became aware that I was seated next to a younger version of Big Dad, driving away from home with three screaming girls chasing us. 

Yes, it’s true, I’m married to a younger version of Big Dad. But I just can’t help but love them both dearly, quirks and all.

Things that make me feel OLD

I wrote this on Monday, April 11, 2011, a day that made me feel really old:

I feel really really old.  Why?

1.  I am pregnant.  At age 42.  I used to be able to ignore my age, but no more…I have never been so obsessed with my age as I have since March 18, the day I realized I was pregnant.

2.  My oldest daughter will soon be 20.  TWENTY!!  I have never been so obsessed with her age as I have since March 18, the day I realized I was pregnant.

3.  My middle daughter is now 16.  SIXTEEN!!  I have never been so obsessed with her age as I have since March 18, the day I realized I was pregnant.

4.  My youngest daughter will soon be 13. TEENAGER!! I have never been so obsessed…okay, I’m sure you get the idea by now…

5.  Brian and I double dated with friends Friday night. I must admit we women acted like teenagers. Sue and I guffawed through dinner, made snarky comments at the theatre, drank coffee at 11:00 p.m., ate cookies at midnight, and texted ridiculous messages back and forth as Cowboy drove me home. I didn’t get to bed until after 1:00 a.m., and I dreamed silly coffee and cookie dreams which woke me repeatedly throughout the night. I had a this-is-what-you-get-for-acting-that-way hangover all day Saturday. It wasn’t pretty. 

6.  Today I’m sore all over and can barely make it up and down my stairs.  This has nothing to do with my pregnancy and everything to do with carrying filled pizza boxes (stacks of ten at a time) five hundred and seventy three miles, then performing fourteen hundred and ninety four squats and bends with said stacks in hand. (Saturday was 4-H pizza making day…it was exhausting.)

7.  I have never felt like sleeping so much in all of my born days.  I attribute this fully to #1, #5, and #6.

8.  Today I called my obstetrician’s office to schedule my first appointment.  The receptionist’s first question was “how can I help you?”  After explaining “I’m pregnant,” her second question was “what is your birth date?” I felt a quiver in my stomach and mumbled “3/1/69.” There was a long pause followed by “Let me transfer you to the nurse’s station.  Your age is cause for concern.”

I feel very old.  I’ve. Never. Felt. So. Old.

I Don’t Like Surprises

I have never ever liked surprises…not any surprise of any kind…at all. In 22 years of marriage Cowboy has tried three times to surprise me. The first time he came home from work early and said he was whisking me away for the weekend. I had a meltdown in the car. The second time he called me about an hour before he came home, saying nothing more than “pack a bag.” I had a mini-meltdown prior to his arrival. The third time he gave me nine days to absorb and prepare. He told me he’d learned a few things over the years. 

Keeping this in mind, imagine my surprise at a totally new revelation…me…the one who doesn’t like surprises…at 42 years of age…with three nearly grown children…PREGNANT?  GASP!  Now imagine the ensuing meltdown after realization struck.  It wasn’t pretty.

The first niggling thought hit me on Friday afternoon, March 18th.  I spent the afternoon with my nephew Grant, who is four, while my sister Nikki (who is expecting in July) taught a theatre class for our local homeschoolers.  When Grant and I returned from our excursion, Nikki and I sat talking for a moment about how she was feeling. She commented repeatedly about how quickly her belly was expanding. I put my arm around her shoulders in that big-sister way and said, “Sweetie, we both may have been born small in stature, but our pregnancies always make us big as boats…” and before I could finish voicing my thought, I felt the color drain from my face. Immediately my inward struggle began “Am I pregnant?… Me? ….I can’t be pregnant…can I?…Really, Lord…?…NO!…this can’t be happening…wait…I don’t even LIKE surprises!”  I suddenly felt very queasy. 

That night Lindsay, Lily, my mother, and I went to dinner and a high school play with my aunt Marjorie. I was with my family; I had looked forward to that night; I should have been enjoying it…but I was gloomy and miserable, and I was trying with all of my might to act normal and not show any signs of distress. The night is a blur…you’d have to ask them how it went.

The next day, Brian, his mother, and I drove to Lexington, Kentucky, to pick up Emma from her spring break internship.  I could not carry a conversation to save my soul. I was lost in thought, begging God, hoping my suspicions were wrong, and pushing down that growing feeling of nausea.

On Sunday following morning church services, I sat at the lunch table with my pregnant sister and our friend Carrie. The conversation quickly turned to pregnancy, of course. I was caught between the urge to bawl my eyes out and flee.

That evening, Cowboy looked at me and said “what is up with you?  Are you sick?  Are you upset about something? You’ve been acting strange for days.”  I could only stare back at him.  He continued, “Do we need to go somewhere and talk?”  I will never forget the look on his face when I said “Ummm…maybe…I don’t know for sure…I think I might have some news for you that could quite possibly bring a HUGE life-changing experience around November or so.” At his shrug, shake of head, and the look of “I’m-completely-confused-by-women,” I whispered “I…think…I…might…be…” and I put my hand on my belly.  His glance shifted to my deliberately-placed hand, and when his eyes returned to mine, I was somewhat amused by the wave of realization that I watched slowly roll over him.  There he stood, wide-eyed and speechless. Then he laughed, “YOU? The one who doesn’t like surprises…? Well, SURPRISE HONEY!”

On Monday I decided I had to know for sure, so I trekked to our local CVS and bought a pregnancy test.  Still in complete denial, I figured I had just wasted a perfectly good $10 bill, but to my horror the next morning, that little plus sign appeared.  I slowly descended the stairs to tell Cowboy the news.  Hands shaking, I held up the stick for him to see, and immediately incoherent drivel began tumbling out of his mouth, “What’s this mean?…The lighting in here is terrible…Do I see what I think I see?…Why are you shaking…?”

Yes.  Positive.  Pregnant.  Parents over 40 with three children half-way out of the nest, and there we stood…staring at the little pink plus sign that without uttering a single word told us definitively we would soon be starting ALL over.

I closed myself in my bedroom that Tuesday, March 22nd, and I cried.  I prayed for wisdom, guidance, and most of all DESIRE for the growing baby inside me.  “Lord, I need desire for this child…please give me the desire to be a new mother again!”  I sent crazy hormonal texts to Cowboy…. I can’t DO this! … What is God THINKING?  …  Can I DO this? … WHY????!!!! …  How long do you think we can keep this a secret? … Let’s not tell until June…maybe July… We’re good parents, right? …  This is a miracle, right? 

After about 50 of those messages, I received ONE in return: “We may think we have life all mapped out, but it’s not about us, it’s about God’s plan. It’s all about reconciliation. I love you.” 

I wanted to clutch my hands around his neck, squeeze and shake until his eyes popped out…but instead I sent one final message: “Is THAT supposed to make me feel BETTER?!”

From that moment, there was no end to the odd little conversations that swirled around me.  Had everyone always talked about babies and pregnancy as much as they were now?  What was WRONG with these people?!

For example, that Tuesday night, mere hours after my pregnancy was confirmed, we went to dinner with our good friends, Bruce and Ann.  Cowboy asked if I was up for it.  “It will be good for me,” I said, “take my mind off of this for a while.” No such luck. Bruce just HAD to share the story about a friend who, several years ago, was surprised by his wife’s pregnancy…one they had determined would NEVER happen…they had taken deliberate measures to ensure it wouldn’t. Bruce and Ann laughed whole-heartedly as he related the story. Brian and I just sat stunned.

On Wednesday I saw my chiropractor friend Dr. Julie, who had recently been in contact with another 40-something friend who’d just found out she was pregnant.  “She, like you, has a 20-year-old and a 16-year-old…can you IMAGINE?!” I stood there speechless as the thought ‘Er…ummm…uh…well…NO…honestly, I CAN’T imagine…and by the way, can I get her number….?’ raced through my head.  In the end, all I could utter was a simple “Wow.”

At the dinner table that evening, out of the clear blue sky, Lindsay asked “Mom, what exactly is post-partum depression?”  Okay, God…if THIS is the way you bring me around to DESIRE, you need to try a different approach…seriously…

By Friday I was so far into the denial stage that I had convinced myself something else was dreadfully wrong. I was SURE it must be some kind of life-threatening cancer which caused that dumb pregnancy test to show a false positive. Yes, that MUST be it…I needed to talk to Susan, my nurse friend. As I related my symptoms to Susan and told her about the pregnancy test (denial CLEARLY filling my soul), I saw a look of sympathy cross her face. She cocked her head to the side and gently said, “Honey, you’re pregnant.” I stood stunned. “No, no, no Sue…you aren’t hearing me…I CAN’T be pregnant. I can’t. Something else is horribly wrong.” Another sympathetic (or was that a ‘how-can-you-be-so-stupid?’) look, “No. Sandy. Listen to me. You’re pregnant.” Then she wrapped her arms around me tight, cried with me, prayed for me, and assured me it was okay to feel angry or mad or sad or hurt or whatever I felt…it would all come in due time…God’s timing is perfect. 

On Saturday, March 26th, we had a family luncheon with that gargantuan group of descendants named “Bane.”  Sixty-seven aunts, uncles & cousins gathered at MCL Cafeteria.  Among them all, there was ONE baby present. Baby Bentley. That precious, smiling, six-month-old wonder baby, who in his short lifetime, has already overcome a myriad of challenges. I held him, fed him his lunch, snuggled with him, and the entire time kept thinking “oh wow…I don’t think I can DO this!”  Brian took him from me just as a cousin looked over and said “Does that give you any ideas, guys?”  Another walked up and said “Whoa…did you guys forget to tell us something?!”  It was all in jest, of course, and I half-heartedly laughed, but the entire time I kept thinking “If ONLY you people KNEW!” 

Another Sunday rolled around, and during lunch, my dear friend Carrie and I were playing with toddler Luke.  She shot off the smart-alleck remark “It’s not too late for you and Brother Brian to have another one, you know!”  She laughed. I squirmed.

On Monday, the 28th I saw my massage therapist.  While she was cranking away on my sore shoulder, she said “Sandy, you spend so much time taking care of everyone else…tell me what you ever do for YOU when you have the time.” I nearly cried… TIME? WHAT TIME?  DON’T YOU KNOW I’M STARTING ALL OVER AGAIN?!  I simply answered “I don’t really know…I guess I’ll have to think on that,” then I followed up with an un-voiced prayer…. “Desire, dear Lord, please give me DESIRE!” 

On Tuesday, the 29th, we saw Bruce & Ann again. Ann said “Can you believe your babies will be all grown up soon?  What will you DO when you have an empty nest?!” I simply shrugged my shoulders and said “Oh…I have a feeling Brian and I will always be surrounded by kids.”  

Desire, Lord…Desire….I know I’m selfish…I admit it…but remember, I don’t like surprises!

Sunday, April 3rd. Beautiful sunny day. I sat soaking up the sun in my lawn chair, book in hand. Cowboy walked up behind me, wrapped his right arm around my neck, and placed his left hand on my belly. “I love both of you,” he whispered, then he kissed my cheek and walked away. As joyful tears filled my eyes, the weight of my guilt was lifted, and I felt an odd feeling wash over me.  “What IS this…?” I wondered, “Joy…?  Love…?  Happiness…?” Yes, all of the above, and maybe a just a tiny hint of desire. “Oh Lord, I am so humbled by your gifts…thank you!” 

I am richly blessed, I know this for a fact. I’m beginning to come around.  Maybe this surprise won’t turn out to be so bad after all!

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.

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!

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!

A Change Would Do You Good

Brian teases me a lot about "toughing out" this marriage of 20+ years. He jokes about having invested so much time in training me that he can't possibly switch partners now. After all, a change would just be too much work. Isn't he lovely? Bless his heart. (My friend Scott laughs when I use the phrase "bless your heart." He says it's code for "you're an idiot.")

My hubby will no doubt snicker at this post, but heregoes...

I am a bit of an obsessive person. Always have been. When I'm "in the mode," you can't divert my attention. It's a lovely thing when there's work to be done, but it's not so lovely when we're trying to have fun. And I worry. About everything. It's my nature. My darling has put up with this behavior and worked around it for years, rolling his eyes or shaking his head at my "weirdness" now and then, but mostly just shrugging his shoulders and giving in to my silly obsessions because he always knows that it is pointless to argue with me.

It pains me to admit it, but I'm not reasonable when I'm obsessive.

Then came this dream of his. These horses. This barn. This ministry. Combine those things with his love of life, love of children, and his endless silliness and laughter...my personality flaws are just no match for these things. I have been plucked up out of my box and plunked down into a new one.

Case in point: Before we built the barn and started hosting large group gatherings, I would have worried myself sick over toddlers bustling about...what if someone got hurt? I would've had organized activities for little ones...they can't get bored OR dirty! I would have driven myself crazy thinking up games for teens...they can't be shy and uncomfortable, we have to help them "break the ice!" And adults...they'll need snacks, drinks, and OH MY...what if they walk into my house and see I'm not perfect?! The thought of all of these things would have sent my life into a momentary tailspin with my husband - Mr. Even, Mr. Steady, Mr. Go-With-The-Flow - bouncing wildly like the loose caboose of a roller coaster train.

But last evening, as the glorious warm spring day was ending and the sun was moving low into the sky (Brian just LOVES to tease me when I write this way), the horses were standing at their gates curiously watching craziness unfold. Two 4-H clubs were meeting together in our barn. It was filled to the brim with children, teens, and adults. Toddlers were scurrying up and down the aisles, in and out of barn doors. Little ones were getting dirty in the sand, kicking up dust and <*gasp*> climbing on the manure pile. Teens were grouped together chatting and snapping pics with their cell phones. Adults were talking and laughing, sharing stories and experiences. Everyone was enjoying their time here, and I was looking around at the crowd, realizing that I hadn't done ANYTHING to make this stuff happen! And you know what? I LOVE having a barn full of people! It's MAYHEM, and it's...yikes! IT'S FUN!

Okay, so maybe a little bit of what Brian teases me about is true. He has changed me. And he has worked long and hard to do it. Bless his heart. ;)

The Sheltering Tree

I sit at my window this morning, contemplating the day before me and all I have to do.  I’m a bit overwhelmed by the number of tasks on my list and all of the things pressing on my mind today.  I feel beaten down and tired.  Exhausted before the day has even begun.   

Quiet and alone I sit, silently speaking to God as I stare out my window.  I ask Him to teach me something; to give me strength to get up and move.  He answers.  He opens my eyes to the beauty of nature outside my window, and He asks me to turn my attention away from myself for just a moment.  He tells me to be still and just recognize the little things happening there before me. 

At once I notice the birds, flitting from tree to tree, and then, as if on cue, a bright red cardinal perches in my favorite tree.  The bird immediately lifts his head in song.  I watch him, transfixed by the upward tilt of his head, his neck stretched back as far as it will go, and his beak pulsing as he sings.  He seems to be straining with all of his might to sing loudly, as if willing the winds to carry his song of praise to the Creator above. 

I lean forward and crack my window open to listen, and as I do, I notice a pair of squirrels darting playfully up one side of the tree and back down the other.  I smile.  It occurs to me just how important this tree’s place is in nature.  Its limbs provide perches, its leaves shelter, its trunk a mix between playground and freeway… “But what is it you are trying to teach me, God?”

As I sit, transfixed by the birds and squirrels, God begins to speak to me through that tree.  He shows me, with the eye-opening awe that only silent moments can provide, a deeper meaning and purpose of this work of art in my front yard.  Roots planted firmly in solid ground.  Trunk strong and straight, willing and able to support the weight of heavy branches.  Branches, like arms, extended toward the heavens as if heralding the Mighty One who gives it life.  Some branches, at first glance, look bent and unsure.  On closer inspection, however, it is clear that they are reaching in any way possible toward the sun.  “Whatever it takes,” they seem to say to me.  “Whatever it takes to get a glimpse of His glorious light!” 

“Are you learning something?” God asks me.  I smile. 

This beautiful old tree, planted years ago by God himself, has been a source of comfort for me since we have lived here, but I’d never quite seen it in this light before.  God reminds me that my sheltering tree has been a gift for countless creatures.  It fulfills its duties without a single complaint.  It depends on God for its existence.  It receives minerals from the soil, and rain from the clouds.  It has been blown and bent by mighty winds, and pruned by strikes of lightening.  It supports children as they climb, and rocks them as they swing.  It provides refreshing shade in the summer, and glorious color in the fall.  It serves its purpose without faltering.  It is steadfast.  Unmovable.  Tested by the elements.  Protected by God. 

And as a testament to all it has seen and known, it stands…arms stretched high, in continual praise to its Master above.

We all need sheltering trees.

A Legacy of Love

The girls and I just returned from a wonderful two-day trip to Nashville, Indiana. We travelled with those we have come to affectionately call "The Bane Ladies."

My mom's family is very close-knit. My grandmother, with her unquestioning faith in the Lord and unconditional love for her 14 children, created an amazing circle of admiration -- a legacy of love. Growing up, this large famly was the center of my world. I was blessed to be raised alongside numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins who doubled as additional sets of parents and siblings, and as a child I thought we would all remain close throughout our adult lives. As tends to be the case, however, life-changes had a way of making alternative plans for us, and as the cousins married and began raising families of their own, our limited time together caused us to drift apart.

Thankfully, some years back, my mother's younger sisters decided to organize a retreat for the ladies of the family. They invited all females connected to the Bane family by blood or marriage to join them for a slumber party, and chose a wonderful bed and breakfast inn in Nashville, Indiana, as the meeting spot. Those of us who were longing for reconnection jumped at the chance! That first trip was nothing less than amazing - we shopped, talked, laughed, played games, acted silly, and swooned over delicious desserts. We enjoyed it so much we decided to go back again...and again...and AGAIN!

Our circle of "Bane Ladies" has changed since that first year. I'll never forget the last year Aunt Nancy went with us. She had lost her hair and her stamina, but not her spirit. We intentionally slowed our pace of walking from shop to shop, and we landed back at the inn early when it was apparent she was tiring. Munching on desserts, we listened to her giggle as we placed bets on what color her hair would be when it grew back.

Sadly, the next fall found our group a little smaller. The thought of going without her was difficult, and the stay was certainly bittersweet as we reminisced about our time on earth with her, and shared how hard it was without her. It was a time of healing for us all. The circle was smaller, yes, but it was tighter...and the hugs lingered a little longer in an effort to hold on to that fleeting moment of breathlessness.

The circle was extended this year as my three daughters joined us in Nashville for the first time. As a grown woman, I realize how richly I have been blessed with the wise counsel of these amazing ladies and the legacy of love that was built to support me - the legacy they recieved from their mother. It was incredibly touching to watch my daughters join the circle and to see the legacy begin its descent to the next generation.

I don't think it a coincidence that I found a small trinket at a shop in Nashville that spoke directly to my heart that first year without Aunt Nancy. It says "Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away." It still speaks expressly to me today. That the Lord has blessed me with such wonderful family - it takes my breath away. That my life's journey has been gifted with love, laughter and tears - it takes my breath away. That my daughters have now joined this circle - it takes my breath away.

Through this legacy of love I've been taught how to extend my circle to include others in need of breathless moments in their lives, and I'm thankful...so thankful!