Sweet Potato Pie And Lumber

I had sweet potato pie for breakfast in memory of my Mamaw (who made the best ones ever) and Daddy (who loved sweet potato pie as much as me). 

Mamaw died February 2000 and yesterday would have been her 100th birthday. Daddy died November 8, 2010 and tomorrow will be rough for me and my family. I miss them both so much. 

Mamaw was the glue that held our family together. She knew everybody's secrets and never breathed a word to anyone. She taught me to bake biscuits from "scratch" and let me mess up her kitchen experimenting with recipes. 

Daddy was strict and overprotective of his girls, but it was out of love. It took me a long time to realize that. He taught me to love creating, both the process and the end product. He did woodworking and I still love the smell of sawdust and lumber. I can walk through the lumber aisle in Lowe's and be transported to his shop. I still have the first piece of furniture he made for me and hope to pass it on to my oldest son. 

Because of Dad, I can do basic troubleshooting on cars--except for changing a flat, which for some reason I never learned. 

My gift to my children is to teach them the things my mamaw and my dad taught me. And I tell them where every lesson was learned. My dad even started writing a few months before he died. He said I inspired him to do so. They both may be gone from this earthly existence, but they're always in my heart. Memories, both good and bad, are a gift. 

Vacation

We took our boys on vacation for a week.  I was told by a friend that if you are exhausted when you get back, that's the sign of a great vacation! In that case, we had one HELL of a great vacation!  Let me start by saying, one of my twins has NEVER travelled well.  Never.  Not as an infant, a toddler, nor as an eight year old.  Five minutes into ANY trip, whether an hour away or ten minutes down the road, he is asking, "Can you find our house?  Are we still near home? How much longer will it be?"

Our destination should have taken about two hours to reach, give or take a half hour.  We went the weekend of July 4th.  I know, not the brightest decision.  We sat in traffic at every highway junction we crossed.  Bumper to freaking bumper, with idiots who drove over medians, cut into traffic and generally made things more chaotic.  All three boys were restless, but my little homebody was beyond over it.  "Daddy, what's wrong? Mommy, are we almost there? Daddy, if that man can drive in the grass, why can't we?" Oh, and did I mention that our minivan was packed to the top with various and sundry crap that we had to take?  Argh!

We made it to our destination and stopped at a pizza place who's known for a giant rodent mascot and games.  It was the first time we'd ever been there. I took extra headache medicine, because even though I have a large group of small children living with me, I'm not overly fond of places frequented by large groups of children hyped up on soda and parents who decide to let them run wild.  And yes, I know such places are made for children to run wild, but...

Anyway, I ended up having a blast at the restaurant and enjoyed playing games almost as much as my husband and kids did.  After a couple or three hours, we left and went to our hotel to check in.  Thank God, some brilliant soul decided to put us on the first floor.  We'd gotten two rooms because our boys are big enough that we need the extra space.  After we checked in and got everyone settled down, it was time for showers and bed. 

We went sightseeing for a couple of days, and to a science center.  The boys liked it, but they were holding out for the big one.  We took them to Six Flags; two days at Six Flags.  Taking my boys to any sort of amusement park is an adventure.  Two of my three children under eleven enjoy riding roller coasters and that kind of thing.  My oldest child of forty-something is a thrill ride nut;  the higher, the faster, the better. My other child under eleven gets bored quickly.  He can entertain himself for hours at home, but go anywhere and expect him to do the same and NOPE! 

Day one at Six Flags was for the water park.  We played in the wave pool, went on a lazy ride on inner tubes, watched the boys play in one of the areas designed for children only.  My husband and one of the twins disappeared to ride a couple of rides. 

All-in-all, a good day. Minus the time my husband disappeared with one of the twins for about an hour and I had to send my other two to the bathroom by themselves because they wouldn't let me take them in the women's restroom. (How's THAT for a run-on sentence?!) I stood right outside the restroom yelling, "Don't talk to anybody, if anyone looks at you yell, don't leave each other alone, and get right back out here as soon as you can!"  And for those who dare call me overprotective, I wasn't the only mom of boys doing that. 

Day two at Six Flags was for the rest of the amusement park and the rides. One of my sons and I were waiting for the others--my husband and other two sons--to get done riding roller coasters and other such fun (read HELL no, we hate them!) rides. We were playing some of the skills games. The first was a water pistol one. You shoot at the target and win a cape. EVERYBODY wins! (My kind of game!). I said I wanted a Batman cape.

 "Batman? What about BatGIRL instead? You know, since you're a GIRL?" the young man asked.

I stared at him a minute. "I'm not a GIRL, and I SAID I want BATMAN!"

He gave me my cape. Then I skipped around the amusement park with my son singing, "Nah-nah, nah-nah, nah-nah, nah-nah, Batman!"

Then we see...da, da, dumm! A video arcade! We go in because, well, it's a video arcade and my eight year old is in heaven on earth. He immediately finds the token machine for me. So helpful, isn't he?  We (the royal we) purchase tokens and I give him a handful. He finds a shooting game in a matter of nanoseconds. It gives no tickets for reward. The reward is killing off massive amounts of horrendously frightening robotic skeleton creature thingies. Whee. But whatever. 

I wander over to a game that lights up and sounds like a casino game. Woohoo! Some 20 minutes later, the rest of the boys find us in the arcade. I have a fistful of tickets and tokens, and am grinning like a fool. Life is good. 

Then we decide to head towards yet another thrill ride. This one is close to the kiddie rides. My partner-in-crime is beyond excited. We head over to the kiddie rides while the hubby and his two thrill seekers get in line for more upside-down, faster than the speed of light, puke-fest fun! 

I dutifully stand by, waiting for my little guy to get on one ride after another. He even helps calm down a couple of younger kids. (Go ahead, ooo and ahh--you know you want to! Are you done yet?) Next year he will be way too tall for any of the rides.  (Mom moment here--my baby's growing up.)

The other three join us in a while and three of the four run from kiddie ride to kiddie ride. My big boy, the hubby, was a too tall for these rides. He was a little disappointed, if you ask me. 

By the end of the day, we were dead tired.  We ate dinner and got everyone ready for bed.  Nobody protested.  The next two days we spent sightseeing and lazing by the pool.  The boys were ready for some down time and didn't complain much.

We decided to head back a day early so that we could rest before my husband went back to work on Monday.  We were even more jammed in the van on the way home, but thankfully the drive was much less chaotic and stressful. We asked the boys what their favorite parts of the vacation were.  The answer?  ALL OF IT!  That makes it all worthwhile. 

Thanks for reading!

Fishing

When I was around four or so, I remember going fishing with my dad. I

And by going fishing, I mean I put on a lifejacket (is that one word or two?), my old clothes (okay, the clothes went on before the lifejacket), climbed in a boat or stood on the side of a pond with my daddy, had Daddy bait the hook, and waited patiently to catch a fish (while asking no less than 287 million questions). When we got back home, I'd watch him clean them and engage in my favorite part of the process...

Want to guess what the favorite part was? Eating the fish? No, it was good, but there's something even better! Touching the cold, slimy fish eyes! 

For some unknown-four-year-old-bizarre reason, I LOVED touching fish eyes. 

You really should try it sometime. Of course, there's a difference in being 4 and doing that, and being (cough, cough) 30ish--shut up!-- and doing the same thing. If nothing else, people look at you a little more, um, critically. "Isn't that cute?" becomes "What kinda freaky shit is that?!"

Now, you may wonder why this story popped into my head and why I felt compelled to share. Because I love you? Okay, no, not because I love you...I mean, I DO love you, of course. (Even though most of you are relative strangers. Or would that be strange relatives?) No, the reason I'm sharing this story is because we're taking our boys fishing this weekend. For the first time. Oh, and did I mention that two of my three hate bugs? Yeah, so this should be...interesting. As in, "Holy shit! What the freak were we thinking?!"  I haven't been fishing in...um...well...yeah, a while. My husband hasn't been fishing in...a long time (because we're counting the drunken, deep-sea fishing trip he went on in his 20s as actual fishing).  

But we're making memories here, folks. Making memories--fish eyes, bugs, and all!  Stay tuned for the follow-up post! Here's hoping there are no ouchies, booboos, bug bites or snake sightings!

Jumping In Puddles

Is there anything more fun than jumping into puddles after a summer rainstorm?  We spent summers outside--no video games, no organized activities. Video games hadn't been invented and organized activities were for the well-off. 

Most of our time was spent at home, Mamaw's house, or at a friend's house. We loved summer rains. At Mamaw's house, we'd play on her screened-in porch until the rain ended, then we'd head outside to catch frogs, jump in puddles or make boats out of twigs and leaves. 

Simple times, happy memories. 

Attack of the Elvi!!

Many years ago, two dear friends and I went on a road trip. We drove to Tupelo, Mississippi.  Tupelo is where Elvis Presley was born.  Now, I'm a born and bred Southern girl, with a love of a lot of things Mississippi.  Elvis is NOT one of those things.  I know, I know, I'm going to hear from haters on this one.  But after years, no not years, decades of hearing Elvis' Blue Christmas blasted over department store sound systems all winter, and radio stations that played all Elvis all the freaking time on or near his birthday, I sincerely cannot stand him.  (I will say I liked him and his movies when I was much younger, but time changes many things.)

One of my friends was from Tupelo and thought it would be a treat for us to see his childhood home and other various homages to all things Elvis.  There was lots of wine, so I was happy enough.  We stopped at his childhood home, toured some other Elvis-related places, then headed to the casinos in Tunica, Mississippi.  We walked in the first casino and saw Elvis posters and statues.  Elvis was blaring over the stereo system.  Heaven help me!  But there was wine. 

After a day and evening of casinos, Elvis and wine, we slept a few hours and headed to Memphis, Tennessee.  I was dying to hit Beale Street.  Bars, wine, music...I forgot about one thing-- Graceland.  The friend who'd arranged this trip had paid for admission for all three of us to Graceland.  But still, there was wine.  Lots of wine.  Have I mentioned I had a fondness for wine?

We headed into Graceland for the tour.  Deep breath.  We walked through a sea of Elvi.  There were short ones, skinny ones, tall ones, chubby ones, blond ones, just about any ones.  I needed to drink more wine.  Actually, that isn't true, I'd had more than enough wine.

When I drink alcohol, I get chatty.  And loud.  And I find myself to be very amusing.  I can't help it if others don't appreciate my humor.  As we walked through the grounds, touring his plane, his home, his memorial site, I began to comment on various things. 

"Attack of the ELVI!!" I screamed, as we traveled through the throng of Elvis impersonators.

"Shhh!" said my friend. "You're going to get us hurt!"

I kept up commentaries throughout the tour.  And when a guide yelled at me for using a flash camera, I held up my hands and said, "Nope! Empty hands here!  I'm not a fan!"  Shortly after that, we left.  I think it had something to do with threatening looks, words, or something from the fans.

It was a fun trip with good friends, good wine and good memories.  Okay, the crowd of Elvi chasing us away was a little freaky, but...

Just Dance!

Dancing is always something I've liked to do. I'm not good at dances that require remembering steps in a particular order. For some reason, the sequences cause me major grief. I trip over my feet, and everyone else's. It's really pretty sad to watch. But I truly love moving to music.

I love dancing around the house with my boys. They, of course, think Mom is the best at most everything. (Grinning like a fool here.) My husband doesn't dance, but he will slow dance if we're out. (Which happens about once a year, if that. Hey, with three kids it's a little tough to find the time and money to go out!) 

My parents danced a lot when I was growing up. Maybe that's where I got the love of dancing. They would invite friends over, listen to records and dance. I remember dancing and singing along while the grown ups danced. Funny how those times stick with you. And standing on Daddy's feet as a little girl, while he slow danced around with me, I felt like a princess. 

Today, I build memories with my boys. Dancing and twirling around the room.  Laughing. That's really what life's all about, making memories. 

Dance, live, laugh, be silly, love and make happy memories. Blessings!

Why Can't I Get This Written?

For two years I've been trying to write a piece about my dad. And for some reason, I can't get it written. Everything I've written comes off fake. Or makes him sound like a saint, and as much as I loved him, he wasn't.

He wasn't a bad person. He was human. He had a horrible temper, held grudges far longer than he should have, and could terrify you with a look. But he also loved his children--biological and stepchildren. He wasn't always fair, but he did love us.

His grandchildren were the light of his life. One of the biggest regrets I have is that he didn't see my boys much. We lived quite a distance away. And after he got sick with cancer, he didn't feel up to the trip or the chaos a visit would bring if we made the trip. Cancer sucks. It's one of the few diseases where the treatment poisons your body so much that it can sap your will to live.

My dad fought it, but he'd had so many other health problems and eventually he lost the fight. And he held on for his wife and kids. Until we gave him permission to let go. I miss him more than I can say.

He taught me to work with wood. We'd build things together. I love the smell of fresh cut lumber. I sometimes wander the lumber store just to bring back those memories. I learned to change oil, change brake shoes, and clean battery connections from him, too. I've helped him haul wood, herd cattle (a comedy, trust me) and work in his garden. He taught me to shoot guns, fish, dress dove. All those things a daddy might teach a boy, if he'd had one. But Dad had me, my sister and married a woman with two daughters. Poor man!

Well, look here! I actually managed to write a little about him. Huh. Who knew? Maybe I was trying too hard. Anyway, thanks for reading and please feel free to comment and/or share.

Grandma's House

Splashing in puddles after a summer rain.

The smell of honeysuckle on a hot summer night.

The sound of a storm tearing the branches from the trees.

Fireflies dancing through the night.

Freight trains roaring down the tracks.

Playing games around the kitchen table perched on a stack of books.

Secrets shared on the front porch swing.

Tea so sweet it made your teeth ache.

A crumpled dollar bill pressed into your hand.

A place to rest, to belong, always.

Prayers said all day every day.

A love unending, unconditional.

A heart big enough to love many, but not strong enough to continue beating.

An end to a life, to a family, to unity.

A sorrow unequal to any other.

(Copyright 2010, Linda Rosendale)