Committing to Commitment

I work better, I’ve found, when I have multiple deadlines looming over my head—even if they are self-imposed deadlines. So, I know I said back in October I was back in the blogging game, but then I fell off the edge of the planet again. Go figure. I blame my BFF Sara for that, although she doesn’t know it (then again, maybe she does, she is scary perceptive like a ninja). Sara is in her third trimester and I have gone crafting crazy trying to get my BIG plans completed before Baby arrives! So October passed in a blur of yarn and fabric and emergency poodle skirts. And I’m still not done!

So what does that mean for me? Well, November is going to be busy. As always. I don’t even try to pretend to be surprised. In addition to the crafting and NaNoWriMo, I am going to commit to getting at least two posts a week. They might be short, maybe just be a photo or two. But the more I have to accomplish, the more willing I am to manage my time appropriately and not procrastinate.

And Friends, I am a big procrastinator. If I started a list of all my faults, procrastination would be at the top. I totally blame my family for that one. As the baby of the family, I learned very early on that if I waited long enough, someone else would do my task for me. Heck! My mom and sister still do it! Remember that whole painting my house thing?

(Another fault, since I’m listing them, apparently I don’t like to take responsibility for myself. But I blame my birth order for that.)

But no one is going to craft for me. And no one is going to NaNo for me. And clearly, no one is blogging for me. So I’ve got to pick up the slack. And by pick up the slack, I really mean, actually do the stuff that I want to do: crafting, blogging, writing.

Of course, there is one teensy flaw in my plan. Work. Yup. Me working, as much as I love my job (and a post is coming out soon about that) it really is putting a kink in my whole time management plan. Although to be fair, there are a few things I can do while I am at work that doesn’t interfere with actually working especially during the slow period, but don’t tell anyone I said so!

W is for Wicked

Although I grew up in upstate New York, my family is originally from New England - just outside of Boston to be a bit more specific. Aside from a few Midwestern hiccups (and I have no idea where those came from), my accent is almost neutral. 

And I hated it. 

During the summers we'd gather with my grandparents in Maine for a few glorious weeks of fun and freedom playing capture the flag in the street, swimming in the frigid Atlantic, crabbing, and hunting salamanders in the woods. The best of all times was when my cousins trips coincided with ours. I loved listening to them talk. The dropped Rs, the long drawn out vowels. It was a beautiful thing, perhaps even the start of my love affair with accents (although as I got older I grew more and more fascinated with European accents over American ones). 

I idolized my cousin Mike. Out of all my cousins he was my favorite growing up. He never ignored me, never talked down to me, and he always made time to play with me even though he was six years older. Of course, rosy glasses being what they are, I'm sure my siblings and Mike could list hundreds of times when he joined in teasing me or, you know, locking me and his other female cousins in the bunkhouse.

I loved the Muppet Show - I still do actually - and when Mike would visit he would have be practice my Miss Piggy karate chops of rolls of paper towels and he'd sing, "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" while I hi-yah'd away at the paper towels. Best of all, he'd tell me I was wicked cool in that awesome accent.

Is it any wonder why I adored him so much?

Wicked, from the 1980s, can be used as both and adjective and a adverb. As an adjective it means excellent or outstanding, when used as an adverb it means very.

Example: Wilson wandered down a wide woody path, "Wow! Those weeping willows are wicked!"

This post has been brought to you by the Letter W and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here! 

V is for Vamoose

So we’re getting to the letters that are somewhat limited in slang selections. I feel bad for the last five letters of the alphabet sometimes. You know, they don’t get the the lion’s share of words like S and T. Y gets some vowel love occasionally, but nowhere close to the amount E gets. I scoured through the sites I bookmarked for American slang. Heck! I even looked at British and Australian slang and I was still hard pressed to find words or phrases that I really loved.

So once again, I settled. But the words I settled for work for me.

I can’t tell you how many times this month I’ve gone through the slang list and found words that I use all the time. Today’s word falls under that coincidence. When I was in high school my mom ran a daycare out of our house. So many little feet pitter-pattering up and down the hall, through the kitchen, around the dining room, back to the kitchen and then with a loud voice (to be heard over the rugrats) my mom would tell them all to, “Vamoose-a-boose!” as she was making their lunches.

When my daughter was born, vamoose-a-boose became part of my regular lingo. It’s shortened a bit over the years to just vamoose. More specifically, “Come on, let’s vamoose!” is my regular cry in the morning as I’m trying to get the girls out of the house for school.

Vamoose is a verb from the 1830s that means to leave. In an interesting side note, how cool is it that slang from the 1800s is still part of my normal everyday vocabulary? Pretty cool, right?

Example: Victoria vented violently to Vincent, “We’ve got to vamoose, Vincent, we’re late for our Voyeurs Anonymous meeting!”

This post has been brought to you by the Letter V and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here! 

S is for Scadoodle

This whole month has been a learning process for me: learning at work, learning time management again, learning to let go (as in letting the girls and Scott get chores done in their way not mine), learning new words, and even more than that learning the original definitions of words that I’ve used for as long as I can remember.

Today’s delay in posting sprung out of exhaustion, as did the post for R. Sleeping is not working out well for me and I find that I am up at odd hours, tired when I should be up, and incomprehensible far more than I like to be.

During the summer when I was little, unless it was raining, I was outside. If I lingered too long in the house I was told to scadoodle. I tell the girls to scadoodle all the time. In the kitchen while I’m trying to cook dinner? Scadoodle! Running up and down the hallway while I’m trying to get laundry done? Scadoodle! Shooting me with their water guns or the hose? I scadoodle as fast as I can!

Scadoodle, aside from being a mega-fun word to say is a noun from the 1860s that originally meant a heap or a large amount, today though, I’ve only heard it used as a verb meaning to move or to get lost.

Example: Samuel scampered straight out the side door when his mom screamed, “Scadoodle!” and threw a soda cap at him when he dropped the salad.

This post has been brought to you by the Letter S and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here! 

R is for Rugrat

So, I’m a bum or I was exceedingly busy this weekend. Either way, I’m late with my R and I might be late with my S.

Way back when I was a teenager we all doted on my nephew. He was the first grandchild, the first (and only boy), the first nephew. I loved that kid like crazy mad. Still do. He’s a great kid…young man…crap! Seriously, he’s an adult now, but I still see him as a kid. I can’t help it.

The 90s was the decade of Nickelodeon. All the very best shows from that network are firmly placed in the 90s (Double Dare and You Can’t Do That On Television excluded). The 90s saw Clarissa Explains It All, Blue’s Clues, Doug and of course, Rugrats.

Kyle and I loved Rugrats and made a big event each week watching the new episodes. I couldn’t tell you who was more excited about Tommy’s antics or Chuckie’s OCD. Rugrats was our thing. Sure Kirsten and Mom would watch occasionally, but they didn’t understand the appeal and wonder that was Rugrats.

For Kyle, I image the appeal might have been a sense of independence, taking charge of his childhood like Tommy and escaping the nursery. For me, Rugrats reminded me of the wonderful way children view the world, they way I still wanted to view the world…Heck! I still view the world like that sometimes where a sandy playground becomes a desert; a staircase becomes a Mount Everest waiting to be scaled.

Rugrats, at its heart, should remind us that adventure is always waiting sometimes it’s just a matter of how we see things.

Rugrat is a noun from the 1970s that means small child.

Example: Roger ran through the rain to the rodeo hoping that the rugrats would still be riding the sheep, easily the creepiest and entertaining portion of the rodeo. 

This post has been brought to you by the Letter R and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here! 

P is for Put a Bee in your Bonnet

When I was little I can remember running to my grandmother in conniptions of excitement, jumping up and down by her side, tugging on her hand or sleeve until I got her devoted attention. With 15+ grandchildren gaining undivided attention especially during summer vacations was tricky. I may have even used manners in interrupting, but I somehow doubt that. Impulsiveness and a serious lack of patience has always plagued me.

Inevitably, once attention was gained, I was scolded for interrupting.

“Who put a bee in your bonnet?” my grandmother would ask with a soft smile.

I would laugh because the thought of wearing a bonnet was absurd enough without having a bee shoved in one. But I never really much thought about the saying beyond it was something that my grandmother said. In the years since her death I’ve often spent time recalling my memories of her and wished that I had more. I wonder sometimes what she might think of my life now and my children. As much as I’d love to have my children know her, I know that in fact they do, a little because I see so much of my grandmother in my mom. Her smile and the twinkle in her eyes when she talks to her grandchildren are so very much my grandmother.

I know many women never want to hear that they have turned into their mothers but our mothers are our very first teachers, our cheerleaders, our greatest supporters and I can think of no higher compliment to my mom to tell her the million little ways she reminds me of grandma.

Put a bee in your bonnet is a phrase from the 1930s that means you have something interesting to tell; however, I think my grandmother used it more to mean “what the heck has gotten into you, Heather!”

Example: “Please, Penelope, stop jumping and tell us who put a bee in your bonnet?” Pansy asked. Penelope preened with pride, “I’ve practiced piccolo pretty much all day and now have Puccini’s Madame Butterfly practically perfect!”

This post has been brought to you by the Letter P and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here!

Photo A Day - Grateful

As I spent yesterday and this morning in the kitchen, struggling to cook while dizzy on pain killers (don't worry, my girls helped me out a lot!) I thought about what photo I'd use for today. But then I realized in a moment of clarity (or as the pain meds were wearing off) I might not be able to post a photo here (Oh Blogger how you disappoint me!) but I probably wouldn't have posted a photo today anyway because I don't do people photos here all that much.

And that, my friends, is what I am grateful for: people.

Amidst the potatoes, pies and turkey, I knew that even if I hadn't a single thing to put on the table today except a bowl of cold gruel, I would still be grateful because of the people I have in my life.  By nature, I am a people person. I like to pretend otherwise, but I really am. I like having people around me and with me. I like sharing my experiences with my friends and family. People make each day fuller especially when they are people you love. And I love me some amazing people!

Today as many gather around the dining room table to celebrate a completely made up holiday I am grateful for:

My Friends - Sara, Natasha, Amanda and Ericka. BFFs who've shared with me good times and bad, dreams and disappointments, celebrations, quiet times and adventures.

My Family - My Mom and Dad, my sister, who at the drop of a hat will be by my side if I need her, my brothers who grew up watching over me and protecting me even as I tried my hardest to annoy them, my extended family that I don't get to see very much but when I do it is as if no time has passed by and the family I married into, the strangers who opened their homes, hearts and worlds to me simply because I married Scott.

My Husband - We have been together for half my life and I can't imagine anyone else I'd want to share my love and life with. He loves me in spite and despite all of my flaws and idiosyncrasies. He makes me feel beautiful on days when I feel ugly, he holds me when I am sad or scared and he dedicates his life to making mine wonderful.

My Girls - If there is a center to my universe it is clearly my girls.  I am beyond grateful to have two compassionate, intelligent, playful and beautiful girls. From the very second I knew I was carrying them I loved them unconditionally. They make my world better. They make me a better person. They make me who I am.

Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it today!

Photo A Day - Night

The night holds mysteries and intrigue. It is under the cover of darkness that spies and lovers meet, when our wildest dreams are played, like a movie, across our minds. I've been a night owl for as long as I can remember. My brother Karl, the amateur astronomer, would show me the stars through his telescope pointing out planets and constellations. One of my most vivid memories is standing outside with him near the edge of the lawn as he focused his telescope on Halley's comet. Seeing this amazing comet, knowing that I would probably never get to see it again was beyond awe-inspiring. The wonder and joy of the universe that Karl instilled in me when I was a pesky younger sister, is one that I hope I instill in my girls when I set up our telescope and show them the moons of Jupiter and a faint smudge that is a whole other galaxy.

My favorite part of night, just as the sun falls below the horizon casting the sky into red and orange. Also, blinding the oncoming traffic was kind-of fun!

Ashleigh took this photo as the moon swept behind the trees. I love how the leaves have little halos around them.

I snapped this on Halloween night while we were trick-or-treating.

Photo A Day - Can't (Won't) Live Without

Out of all the topics for this month's Photo a Day, this is the one I really didn't like. I'd like to think I've grown from when I was in my twenties, when back then stuff was important. Sure I've got a collection of crafting supplies, books and kitchenware that I love. But could I live without them? Absolutely. It's just stuff.

Piles of clutter, papers, clothes, knick knacks, even my jewelry are all things I place no importance on. Sure it's nice to have. I like having things that make my life easier and prettier. But I keep going back to the fact that stuff is stuff and really in the grand scheme of things we can go without stuff.

My friends, my family, my husband and most especially my children. These are the things I don't want to live without. I couldn't for one second imagine my life without my girls or Scott. I don't want to think about not meeting Sara or Amanda or Ericka. I  might not get along with all of my family all the time (very different beliefs going on there) but I wouldn't even consider not having them as my family. They who played such an integral role in making me who I am.

By no means do I want to demean stuff but sometimes...a lot of times...I think we, as a culture, put too much importance on stuff. Too much commercialism and wants. Not enough reflection on needs and what we do have.

If all my stuff dissapeared today, sure I'd be sad (shocked and appalled because clearly I didn't realize how much my craft supplies appealed to aliens) but as long as I have my people, I'd be fine. Better than fine.

This is an old photo of my girls in Maine. It is perhaps my favorite photo of them together. Ashleigh, although occasionally exasperated by her younger sister, is very protective of her and that feeling shows through here.

My very grungy husband working on my car the other day. Sure he's got his faults, but don't we all? He gives the girls and I 120% of his love and affection. He devotes himself to making sure we are safe and taken care of, often sacrificing his own wants to make sure ours are met.

A Funk Explained.

Before I even push back the covers and sit up, I know that my period has started. In the bathroom, I confirm it, slightly pink-tinged underwear and blood on the tissue.

I start to cry as I wash my hands.

Scott calls through the door, “You okay?”

I’ve woken him with my tears.

“Fine,” I sniffle, “I’m taking a shower.”

“Alright.” A moment’s pause and then, “You need a towel?”

I nod, knowing he can’t see me but not trusting my ability to talk without crying more. I know the pause was his sleep clouded head registering why I am taking a shower. I never take a shower first except on days when I have my period.

I turn the water on and steam soon fills the small room. Scott taps on the door just as I pull the shower curtain closed shutting me into my own private space. The door opens a crack and without him saying anything, I know he is hanging a clean towel on the rack for me. He pushes the door shut with a soft click as he leaves.

In the shower the hot water beats on my back and I let the sobs I was denying take over. My eyes sting and I can’t seem to catch my breath; I gasp and lean against the tiles letting the water wash the tears from my face. I know that if Scott hasn’t gone into the kitchen yet, he can hear me. Although he is use to the tears now, I try to stop.

This is ridiculous, I tell myself, we aren’t even trying. 

But every month it is the same, hoping against hope that an accident will happen even though I monitor my cycle like a scientist with an experiment. I chart, I take my temperature, figure and refigure, count days and track symptoms. I have to. It is a habit now forged when I took medication that would have damaged or killed any life within me.

Eight years I spent taking rat poison daily until finally I had enough and begged my doctor to help me find an alternative. When he refused, I stopped seeing him and started a holistic regiment of vitamins and minerals that achieve the same results.

Eight years I spent knowing I couldn’t…shouldn’t do what I so desperately wanted to do. I stopped talking about it after the first year. It hurt too much. I focused on work and crafts and anything else just to not think about a baby. I told myself all manner of lies to make myself feel better about not having more children.

A month ago, I was out to dinner with my mom, sister and nephew, when my recent back trouble was at the most painful. I squirmed all through dinner – sitting hurt far more than standing. As we were getting ready to leave, my sister suggested that I try leaning on the railing of the deck where we ate and let my hips and legs just dangle to alleviate some of the pain.

Willing to try anything at that point, I did as she suggested to no avail. By back hurt just as much and I felt silly hanging on the railing.

“You and your odd hips!” my sister joked.

“They aren’t odd,” I said patting my hips as we made our way back into the restaurant proper, “I’ve got good child birthing hips.”

She gave me a funny look. “You do,” She said. “You should have had more children. You’re a good mom.”

Thankfully she looked away because otherwise she’d have seen the tears start to well in my eyes.

This morning I wake up after, once again, a night filled with dreams of pregnancy. I have them four and five times a month, usually between ovulation and the start of my period. I touch my stomach and sigh. The clock reads 6:21. I must have hit the snooze a half dozen times trying to stay in my dreams. Scott is making noise in the kitchen and soon I know he will come in to drag me out of bed.

While he is dressing, I tell him of my dream; he shakes his head and tells me I need to find a job or more hobbies to keep me occupied. But his gaze doesn’t meet my eyes. He tells me this because he too wants another child and it is easier sometimes to ignore the yearning. 

We’ve talked about it before, having more children. Had I not been diagnosed with PE shortly after Cyra was born neither of us doubt there would have been more children.

Twice in the past year, when alcohol muddied our senses and gave us cause to not think or worry, we played the two week waiting game. Twice I spent two weeks holding my breath, hoping, dreaming, thinking about names, picking out color schemes for a baby afghan. Twice Scott spent two weeks asking me how I felt, looking at my stomach, telling me “it is what it is,” then grinning as he suggests boys names.

In a few months Cyra will be 10, a few months after that Ashleigh turns 16. Maybe I am yearning now because my girls are growing up and I miss the babies and toddlers and little girls that they were. Maybe, as oft cited in magazines, my biological clock has kicked it into overdrive…hyper-speed. Maybe I am already anticipating an empty nest.

Maybe.

But I doubt it.

Friday Photos

It was my sister's birthday just a bit ago and all things being crazy - the end of the year, work (her's and my mom's, totally not mine), Girl Scouts and such, I lost track and ran out of time to bake her a cake, so I surprised her with cupcakes from my favorite cupcake store: Cami Cakes. Ridiculously sweet, oozing with gooey goodness and over flowing with icing. So very yummy. Never as good as homemade, of course, but a welcome treat nonetheless.

The one picked out especially for my sister: chocolate almond raspberry.

Mint Chocolate

The Elvis

Key Lime Pie

Peanut Butter Chocolate Cream

Toasted Coconut Pineapple

Monkey in the Tree

NOTE: I am prefacing this story with the following disclaimer: I do not believe in ghosts, spirits or apparitions. I never have. And despite this story, I still don't. Zombies, aliens and Bigfoot, however, I (mostly) completely believe in.

Kirsten leaned against the cool stone wall next to me. Cyra snuggled in her arms. The ghost tour had gone on longer than a two year old was capable of walking and between Kirsten, Mom and me we had taken turns holding the increasingly temperamental toddler.

The tour guide was telling a story about a Spanish woman who was buried in the cemetery behind us. Ashleigh leaned against me half listening and my nephew fidgeted in the crowd. Cyra kicked her feet against the wall making her shoes light up. Earlier, the tour guide suggested that ghosts like to follow lights, like those in her shoes, home. She wiggled and Kirsten switched her to her other arm.

“Do you want me to take her?” I asked.

Kirsten shook her head. “She’s fine.”

Suddenly something caught Cyra’s eye and she stared intently into the live oak looming over our heads. Fascinated she watched the upper branches for a few minutes while the tour guide droned on about the funeral parade of the Spanish lady.

“Look Auntie,” Cyra squeed pointing into the tree.

Kirsten and I both looked where she point. Branches and leaves swayed softly in the night breeze, but we didn’t see anything interesting or unusual.

We nodded and played along. But she was not fooled.

“No! Auntie, look.” She insisted, “See the monkey?”

I chuckled. “A monkey?”

She nodded staring into the tree. Kirsten and I exchanged a look. Do you see anything, it said. No, nothing.

Cyra giggled and laughed. “Silly Monkey.”

A few other people on the tour looked over at us and we hushed Cyra.

“I don’t see anything, sweetie,” Kirsten said.

Cyra took Kirsten’s chin in her hands and turned her head to look into the branches. “Look Auntie, the monkey!”

Again, my sister and I studied the dark branches above our heads to no avail. Whatever it was that Cyra was seeing we couldn’t spot. Cyra continued to giggle softly at the monkey’s antics while we stood there. I didn’t mention, nor did my sister, who also knew, the story of Little James.

James died in 1877 at the age of 5 years and 10 days old. According to legend, he often climbed in the large live oak that sits just inside the Tolomato Cemetery. He would scoot out onto the branch that drooped over Cordova Street. One day, he slipped and fell to the street below. His family buried him in the shade of the tree he loved so much.

Over the years, most stories about James come from children who would see a little boy dressed in “funny clothes” playing in the tree and cemetery. Some ghost hunters claim to have heard a child giggling in the cemetery. Most often though he is seen scampering in the tree.

Kind of like a monkey…

The tour guide finished up her story and we moved down along the street. Cyra waved goodbye to the monkey in the tree. The rest of the tour was uneventful and when we got home Cyra giggled as I put her to bed.

“What are you laughing at sweet heart?” I asked.

“Silly monkey, Mommy,” she giggled and twisted on her changing tabled looking around the room.

“Well,” I said with a big pretend yawn. “Tell the silly monkey it is your bedtime and he needs to be quiet.”

She did so and I read her a quick story and tucked her into bed monkey almost, but not quite forgotten.

A few days later, just after Ashleigh had left for school, Cyra sat on the couch watching Arthur while I got ready for the day. I stepped into the bathroom and started doing my hair when I heard a loud shrill giggle.

“Mommy!” Cyra yelled.

I stuck my head around the corner. Cyra, still on the couch, pointed at the T.V. now off.

“Did you turn it off?” I asked coming back into the living room.

Cyra shook her head.

“Let me have the remote, Cyra.” I said holding out my hand.

Cyra pointed at the top of the entertainment center. The remote sat in the exact spot I had placed it a few minutes before. I gave Cyra a look. I didn’t think she could reach up there yet. I better push things back farther, I thought.

I turned the T.V. back on and returned to the bathroom. The second I stepped in, I heard the T.V. click off again, followed by another giggle. I went back into the living room. Cyra sat in the same spot kicking her feet. I looked at the entertainment center. The remote was still in its spot.

“Cyra stop playing with the buttons on the T.V.” I scolded slowly. She knew how to turn the T.V. on and off with the buttons on the base of the set. But I knew I didn’t hear her get up. And certainly, I thought, she didn’t have enough time to get to the T.V. and back without me seeing her.

I picked up the remote, turned the T.V. back on and walked back to the bathroom, remote still in hand. I hadn’t taken more then three steps when the T.V. turned off again. I stopped and turned around. Cyra smiled.

“I bet someone has a universal remote outside,” I said but I I didn’t really believe that. I walked to the apartment window anyway and looked downstairs. How creepy it would be if there was someone outside. The yard was empty.

The T.V. turned back on. Then off. Then on again. Cyra laughed and jumped off the couch.

“Monkey! Monkey! Silly Monkey!” she giggled.

The set went off again. I stood in the middle of the room, remote in hand. I turned around the whole room slowly.

“Alright.” I said to the room, “I get it. Now, please stop.”

I turned the T.V. back on and waited. After a few minutes passed, I went back to getting ready. The T.V. stayed on. Over the next few months the T.V. would occasionally turn itself off and on. When it happened, we made sure to acknowledge the little monkey Cyra claimed was doing it. And after a while it stopped happening altogether.

James' headstone. I will feature other photos from the Tolomato Cemetery on Friday.

Y is for Yellow

(NOTE - Clearly I am off schedule for the Blogging A to Z Challenge. I really struggled with a topic for Y and I was also pretty busy yesterday so I took Saturday off.)

When Scott and I bought the old house, painting the girls’ rooms was easy and done before we moved in. The downstairs however, was one giant L shaped blank slate. Very open concept, the living room/dining room had so much wall space it was really hard for Scott and me to decide on a color. Quite honestly, Scott didn’t care at all what colors the walls were and left the decision mostly in my hands.

Mom and my sister, now pretty much next door, had lots of opinions about the walls. They would come over with fabric samples and color swatches trying to help me make a choice. The white walls were covered in bright splotches of spackle where Kirsten and I had filled in nail holes and small cracks. I was okay with it, for the most part, but mom and Kirsten were not. They got frustrated with my indecision.

For over six months I hemmed and hawed about paint colors. Finally, one day in early autumn mom came over with fabric swatches for me to look at, three different patterns in golden yellow, teal and orange.

“What if I make curtains with them?” Mom asked.

“Sure.” I said. “I like them.”

“What about the walls?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I really don’t care all that much, honestly.”

I liked the colors, but on the wall? I wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t that I didn’t want the walls painted but with so much wall, I was nervous of the color being overwhelming. After a few minutes argument about the wall colors – me insisting that I liked the spackle spots just fine, I finally gave up and told them that if it bother them so much they could do something about it.

The following week after a particularly hectic day, I picked up the girls and headed home. It was getting dark and I could see lights coming from inside.

“Did I not turn off the lights this morning?” I asked as we pulled in the driveway.

Ashleigh shrugged.

I was a bit nervous about going inside at this point, but in we went. All the furniture was pulled away from the walls, tarps were thrown on the floor, blue painter’s tape covered up the trim and my sister perched on a ladder happily painting the walls of my dining room yellow. The smell of fresh paint clung in the air despite the sliding glass doors being wide open. Mom painted around the trim between the dining room and kitchen. The living room was mostly done except for a corner behind the entertainment center.

“Wow,” I said slowly. “Yellow.”

“Isn’t it great?” Mom asked.

“It’s really…yellow.” I said slowly trying to wrap my head around it.

“You said you didn’t care.” My sister said.

I nodded. “Yeah…I didn’t…” I looked around the room.

“You hate it,” Mom said disappointment heavy in her voice.

“No…no, I don’t hate it.” I replied. “It’s just really yellow.”

“If you really hate it, we can change it. It’s just paint,” my sister said.

“No,” I sighed. “It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.”

And I did. I like the color despite there being so much of it. The one drawback? Every single photo taken inside made people look sallow and jaundiced. 

This is an old photo and one of the only ones I could find were I wouldn't be embarrassed by clutter or large piles of socks.

 

X is for X-Ray

I looked up at the parallel bars and took a deep breath. I was next and I knew, I just knew, that I would not be able to perform the task Coach set for us. I fidgeted in the line and tugged at my gym shirt. This was the first year I had to change for gym class. I missed jumping rope and playing kickball. Why did middle school P.E. class have to have units? Why did we need a gymnastic unit?

I watched in awe as the girl in front of me pulled herself up and propelled herself across the bars. I could see her arms straining as she held herself up and was impressed that she made it nearly all the way across before dropping neatly to the mats below.

Coach waved me forward. I tugged at my shirt again. I scuffed my feet across the floor, my sneakers squeaked and chirped. I stopped in front of Coach and listened with half an ear as she gave me instructions.

“Alright?” she asked.

I hadn’t understood a thing she said.

“Please, Coach,” I whispered up at her while my eyes were fixed on the bars looming above my head. “I can’t do this.”

“You need to at least try.” Coach gave me that look. The one that makes you feel small and like crap because you’re afraid. I was overweight in 5^th grade and Coach seemed to think I was trying to get out of any exercise.

“Coach,” I implored and nodded to a small group of girls jumping rope. “Let me do something else. I can not do this.”

“Heather,” Coach was patient but insistent, “Everyone has to give it a try first.” She leaned down, her eyes sympathetic. “I don’t expect you to be perfect. I expect you to try. That’s all I’m asking.”

I nodded even as tears pooled in my eyes.

I walked up to the bars. I could feel all sorts of eyes on my back. It made it worse. I reached up for the bars and had to go on tiptoe before I could grab them. It wasn’t as hard to pull myself up as I thought it might be, but I knew that it was going to be near impossible to lift my body up over the bars. I struggled. I pulled. I strained and grunted. Coach kept giving me very loud words of encouragement. And then I was up, my upper body over the top of the parallel bars. My arms burned and then, all of a sudden I was on the mat, my left arm bent funny underneath me.

I screamed and the tears that I had gotten a head start on flowed freely. Coach crouched beside me, assessed and gathered me to my feet. She walked me to the nurse’s office where a quick phone call to my mom had her speeding to the school. By the time she arrived my arm was puffed out twice the normal size and turning an ugly bluish purple. My tears had yet to stop. I had ice wrapped around my arm and was quickly shuffled off to the doctor’s office.

Back then doctors did everything in-house. There wasn’t a specialist just the general practitioner. Dr. Smith ushered us into an exam room, threw some lead pads over my chest and snapped a few quick x-rays – the first I’d had except for dental x-rays.

I sat as still as I could while the x-rays were being developed. Mom stood by me smoothing the hair from my forehead. The room felt too warm. I felt too clammy. Everything seemed like it was spinning and a roller coaster at the same time. I closed my eyes and gulped. With every heartbeat, my arm felt like it swelled and ebbed like the ocean tides.

“Mom?” I whimpered.

“It’ll be fine, sweetie,” she said.

I wanted to believe her. And then the doctor came back in. He waved a shiny, floppy black x-ray at us.

“It’s definitely broken.” He shoved the picture onto a light box. “Both the radius and the ulna.”

He pointed to the breaks. My bones were clearly not in the right place. The x-ray showed that just above my left wrist, both snapped – thankfully not too much and certainly they weren’t poking out through my skin. My stomach rolled as I stared at the x-ray.

“I’m going to need to set it.” 

He took out a bowl, plaster and rolls of gauze and thick cotton. I watched as he prepared everything next to the exam table setting each tool needed on a shiny stainless steal tray.

“I don’t feel so good,” I mumbled and lay back down.

“This is going to hurt, Heather,” Dr. Smith said. “I won’t lie. But I need you to lie as still as you can, understand?”

I nodded and my mom moved closer to my side. The doctor took my arm in his hands and began to gently rub.

Then SNAP! My arm clicked back into place, one of the single-most disturbing noises I have ever heard. I shrieked, my voice cracking and echoing in the room.Tears exploded from my eyes. The room spun about and tilted oddly. The door pounded open as a nurse rushed in expecting to find someone dead.

“I’m going to be sick!” I screamed and turned my head.

Mom grabbed a plastic bowl and shoved it under my mouth as heaved up my lunch. I sobbed while I puked, the smell stinging my eyes and eliciting more tears. When I was once again calm, with nothing else to come up, my mom helped me clean up and got me a drink of water to rinse my mouth out.

Dr. Smith, working quickly, wrapped my arm in the thick cotton and began slapping on warm strips of gauze dipped in plaster. My arm, throbbing slightly less than before, felt heavy and warm. The shiny white cast weighed my arm down. I felt off balance. Dr. Smith fitted me with a sling.

“The cast will need to stay on for six weeks,” Dr. Smith said. “Keep her calm – don’t let her run around. You don’t want her falling again.”

“Does this mean I can’t go to gym?” I asked staring at my arm.

Dr. Smith nodded. “I’ll give you a note.”

I smiled.

W is for Wishes

I’d like to take a break from my favorite memories today and talk, just for a minute, about a few memories I wish I had.

My grandmother, if she were still alive, would be 85 today. My last memories of her are from Christmas in 1991. My nephew was a year old and Grandmother came to visit us. He was the first great grandchild and the only one she ever got to meet. She took such delight in him, holding him, snuggling him, talking to him and responding to his baby babble. Although my nephew has no memory of this, I am nevertheless jealous that she knew him but not my children.

I wish my grandmother could have watched me graduate from high school and later from college.

I wish my grandmother could have met my daughters.

I wish I had more time with my grandmother to hear her stories and make more memories.

I wish I could remember her voice and her laugh.

T is for Three-Fingered Willy

For as long as I can remember Three-Fingered Willy has haunted the woods around my Grandmother’s house in Maine.

My maternal grandmother lived in a two bedroom home and with barely any room had a bunkhouse for storage and for the grandchildren to use when we visited. Really a small shack, the bunkhouse had three windows with stapled in screens and shutters on the outside of the building. My grandfather used it as a workshop as well, so there was a ton of old tools, cans and odds and ends.

It was my greatest joy to spend the summers with my siblings and cousins running through the pine trees, playing on the beach and having lobster bakes with all the family gathered around the stone fire pit in my grandmother’s yard. As twilight eased into night and fireflies twinkled in the trees, we would sit around the dying fire, making s’mores and telling ghost stories.

I never really paid too much attention to Three-Fingered Willy’s background. I knew he was a ghost or undead. I knew he was angry and tormented. I knew he had only three fingers on each hand because his thumbs and pinkies were lost in some kind of accident (in one story he is a mill worker, in another an iron works employee). Most importantly, I knew that when he came around he would scritch…scritch…scritch…on the walls outside to announce his presence.

One summer, when schedules permitted, my three siblings along with seven other cousins arrived at my grandmother’s house all at once. My oldest brother, Erik, was the oldest. And I think in this case the instigator. He, my other brother and my cousin Mike locked my sister and I along with four other female cousins in the bunkhouse.

I was little at the time and some of the details are fuzzy…did we know we were locked in at first? I’m not sure. But I remember that first long scritch down the back of the bunkhouse, the side that faced the woods. We tried the door. Scritch. My heart was pounding. So many stories about Three-Fingered Willy had primed me for panic.

More scratches and then pounding on the walls.

Minutes seem like hours when you are little and scared. I don’t know how long the boys kept up the torment. My sister tried to get a window open all the while the boys scratched and scritched at the walls and windows. I can’t recall how long we were in the bunkhouse before the boys let us out. Clearly I survived. I hope that the boys got in trouble but I have no recollection of any consequence.

Q is for Quilts

My mom is a quilter. She has vast stores of bright fabrics, tucked away in a closet, organized by color. I can remember her insistence that I learn how to quilt. I was reluctant at best. Quilting requires math and precision, attention to minute details and straight lines. I learned. I can quilt, but by no means do I possess any significant talent in the art.

My mom, on the other hand, does. Straight lines, pointed corners, hand quilted stitches that are virtually perfect. Although quilting is not a craft I enjoy doing, I certainly can appreciate and admire talent when I see it.

Every year a city nearby holds a massive quilt show. And though I wish my mom would enter some thing, she never does! Instead, we all go to the show. It has become a very favored tradition of mine. I may not sit down with mom to quilt – just like she doesn’t sit down with me to scrapbook – but we can certainly enjoy the finished results together.

Here are a few photos of this past year’s show. 

Best of Show winner. The back was just as amazing as the front!

This is a mini-quilt. The blocks are a scant 1 1/8 inch square.

This was probably one of my favorites.

Reminds me of olives!

I is for Impulsive

I knew I shouldn’t antagonize bees. Our neighbors kept hives and I’d been stung before. It hurt. I certainly didn’t like it. So when I discovered a ground hive just off the front porch, I knew I should stay away from it. In fact, I knew I should tell my mom about it.

Instead, I sat there and watched the bees fly in and out. They buzzed lazily around the big lilac bush, landed on flowers then flew back to the hive. They would land just outside of the hole in the ground then crawl into the darkness.

I knew that I also shouldn’t play with sticks. But I had one that I was using as a sword that day. Before I found the hive, I was a pirate on the high seas. The front porch was my ship and I had just captured some booty!

I twirled the stick in my hands as I sat on the steps watching the bees. I knew that honey was good but a hive in our front yard was bad. I twisted the stick on the ground and inched closer to the hive. I scooted down to the next step. The bees didn’t seem to mind me being so close.

I drew a circle on the ground around the hive with my stick. Then without even thinking, without even pausing to consider what I was doing, I jammed the stick into the hive. I jumped up and ran up the steps on the porch.

Nothing happened. A few bees scurried around the stick on the ground while a few more, returning from the lilacs buzzed in confusion above the stick. I eased closer to the hive again curious as to why the bees weren’t doing anything about the stick.

As I got closure, I could hear a faint hum coming from the hive. I knew I shouldn’t have stuck a stick in their home and now I felt bad that I had. The bees weren’t bothering me and I knew that I shouldn’t bother them.

“I’m sorry,” I told the bees flying above the hive and I reached for the stick.

I plucked the stick from the hive. Bees erupted from the ground like a geyser. They arched up above my head and then in a split second, it seemed like every single one of the now very angry bees turned towards me.

All at once bees were over me. I screamed and jumped up from the porch. My brother, near the pool house saw what was happening as I fled from the bees.

“Over here!” He called and I ran towards him, bees in full pursuit.

He met me at the edge of the pool and in one swoop lifted and flung me into the water. I don’t remember if he jumped in after me or how long I was in the water. But I do remember my mom rubbing meat tenderizer into each of the stings.

“Did you learn a lesson?” My mom asked.

“Yes,” I told her knowing what she wanted to hear. “Think before I act.”

The problem was I thought about the consequences. I just figured that the bees would be happy I saved them. I didn’t think they’d know I was the one that caused the problem in the first place.

H is for Hurricane

My alarm hadn’t gone off yet when the ringing phone woke me and the rest of my roommates. Jen, closest to the phone, stumbled out of bed grabbing for receiver.

“Hello?” Jen mumbled into the phone. A pause. A sigh. “Yeah. Hold on, she’s right here.” Jen put the receiver down and looked at me.

I had just put my glasses on and was sitting up. Faint predawn light filtered in through the lone window in the room.

“It’s your mom.” Jen said slipping back into her bed.

A flash of panic flew through me. Something bad must have happened for mom to call me this early. I looked at the clock. 6:45. Someone was dead. I knew it.

I jumped out of bed and ran to the phone.

“Mom?” I asked, “What is it? What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?” My heart was pounding and I was close to tears.

“What? Everyone is fine!” Mom said. “Have you been watching the news? Are you okay? The hurricane is going to hit you!”

“What?” I stammered. “Everyone is okay?”

“We’re fine. I was worried about you.” Mom said. “I thought you might go to the beach to watch the storm. Are you girls okay?”

“We’re fine mom. We aren’t going to the beach.”

After spending a few minutes reassuring her that I would call if anything changed or we were evacuated I hung up the phone.

“Why is your mom calling so early?” Another roommate asked.

“She’s worried about the hurricane.”

“I don’t even think it’s supposed to make landfall anywhere near us.”  Jen grumbled.

Later in the day as the skies grew progressively darker and rain pelted the windows in sheets, I sat in my dorm room doing an assignment. Wind howled and ripped through the breezeway and courtyard. Palm trees bent and swayed.

“You know,” I said, “all things considered, this isn’t so bad. We could have gone to the beach!”

(As a historical side note: The 1995 hurricane season was one of the most active hurricane seasons on record. Hurricane Luis, a Cat 4, never made landfall in Florida. Its outer bands swept the coast, but the Gulf Stream whisked it north to Newfoundland. And I totally went to the beach the day after the storm passed by!)