I was walking through my kitchen last night when a song popped into my head. Well, not a song really. More like a ditty. It's been stuck there ever since. I can't sing it for you, obviously, but it goes like this:
Order in the court.
The judge wants to speak.
The first one to talk is the monkey of the week.
Now my question is, where the hell did that come from? I mean, I recognize it. It's a little song that my fourth grade teacher used to sing when she wanted us to quiet down. How's that for sudden and serious clarity of memory? But the point is, it's not been a part of my waking consciousness for the past 21 years. So why now? Why that moment as I passed the fridge heading for the sink? Seriously. It makes me wonder what else is lurking around in there.
Maybe one of these days all that Spanish I learned in high school will come rushing back. Perhaps I'll suddenly recall why I dyed my hair orange in the 10th grade. Hmmm. Actually, maybe I'd rather not know. And that's the thing about these suddenly reclaimed memories. It's a crap shoot. Can I remember the names of grammar school class mates when I run into them at the local Wal-Mart during my annual trips to visit my folks? Nope. And these are people that I saw and interacted with on a daily basis for years. Where's my super memory then? There are years of useful information floating around up there, just waiting for the appropriate trigger to activate the pathways to memory and I end up with Order in the Court? I'm certain this says something important about my early childhood development. I just can't remember what.
January 20, 2010
January 13, 2010
Madame
The Captain informed me tonight that I would make a great Madame. As in:
Line up girls. There's a customer waiting to buy your favors. Don't forget to smile. Josie, get that chew out of your mouth! Clementine, show a little more leg!
At first, I wasn't sure how to take this observation. He says I have the personality and temperament for it. I have to wonder how he came to that conclusion. Was it from studying successful madames from centuries past to discern their common personality traits? Or was it from watching me interact with the world at large for the past 10 years and just one day realizing I may have missed my calling?
After giving it some thought, I've decided not to be offended. I am choosing to believe that a.) What he meant was my natural leadership and management capabilities combine with a strong sense of self confidence to create a force of personality that would keep both the doves and the dudes in line, and b.) He thinks I'd look good in a corset. Yeah. I'm going with that.
Line up girls. There's a customer waiting to buy your favors. Don't forget to smile. Josie, get that chew out of your mouth! Clementine, show a little more leg!
At first, I wasn't sure how to take this observation. He says I have the personality and temperament for it. I have to wonder how he came to that conclusion. Was it from studying successful madames from centuries past to discern their common personality traits? Or was it from watching me interact with the world at large for the past 10 years and just one day realizing I may have missed my calling?
After giving it some thought, I've decided not to be offended. I am choosing to believe that a.) What he meant was my natural leadership and management capabilities combine with a strong sense of self confidence to create a force of personality that would keep both the doves and the dudes in line, and b.) He thinks I'd look good in a corset. Yeah. I'm going with that.
January 9, 2010
They're Out There?
One balmy night this past August I was letting the dog out one last time before heading to bed. It was late-ish, probably 11:30p or so. Weather permitting, I always go outside with her after the sun sets. I'm a worrywart puppy mamma, and there are wolves and coyotes and bears out there. Seriously, there are. It's one of the perks of living in the Great North Woods. My usual routine is to step out on the deck with the spotlight to shine the field around the house before letting the dog out. Usually, all I see are deer. The occasional skunk. Perhaps a raccoon. On this particular night I saw nothing. So, I let the dog come out and she scampered down the steps to do her business. (Note to self: find out why the act of excreting bodily waste is referred to as doing business.)
So, while she searched for a prime piece of real estate, I turned my eyes to the heavens. I was blithely looking for a constellation or two, pleased with myself for remembering them from the half of an astronomy class I took ten years ago, when I noticed flashing lights in the sky. I was surprised, but not alarmed. I stepped further down the deck to see if I could get a better look. As I changed positions, I realized the lights were not moving, just flashing. They were in a cluster and appeared to be hovering above the tree line north east of the house. I say appeared, because I couldn't really see the tree line. If you've ever experienced a summer night in the country, with no ambient light from houses or street lamps, you'll appreciate just how dark it was. The porch light and mercury light in the yard only illuminate about a 50 ft circle.
I stared at those lights for a good minute or two before it occurred to me what they probably were. The awareness came to me slowly, as I stared and tried to reason it out in my mind. The little hairs on the back of my neck came to attention. That hot needle, prickly feeling swept up my chest and over my face as I came to the conclusion that there, hovering above my field, was...... Eeeeeeeek! A UFO!!!!!! An honest to God UFO, right there in my field! Given that I was reared on Unsolved Mysteries, I am ashamed that it took me so long to come to this conclusion, but once I did, my mind went immediately to alien abduction, which is, of course, the most logical conclusion. Why else would they be there? I mean, I am the perfect candidate. I have what my granny referred to as birthing hips, obviously made to withstand the rigors of an alien/human hybrid birth. My thoughts started racing...
Will it hurt?
How long will they keep me?
Will I remember the procedure or just think I'm getting fat and one day pop out a little alien baby?
No one will believe it. I'll be one of those crazies we make fun of on the Sci-Fi network. I owe them an apology.
All these thoughts and more went through my head, but my major concern was: Could I actually love an alien baby? Could The Captain?
Something in my heart twisted at the thought. I think it was a mini stroke.
I briefly considered getting The Captain, but I was trying to stay reasonably calm and rational. He was sleeping and I was hesitant to wake him if the UFO posed no actual threat. He values sleep more than I do, and in some corner of my mind I knew I may be slipping off the Unsolved Mysteries deep end. Mostly, I was afraid they'd make a move when I wasn't looking. So, I stood there watching the UFO, waiting to see what would happen next. As I watched, I edged back closer to the door, called the dog in and prepared to make a lunge for it, incase they did indeed have abduction in mind. My anxiety driven thoughts were all over the place.
Could that really be an alien air craft?
Is there really life on other planets?
If God could do it here, He could do it anywhere.
Wait, are they like us, with the whole free will thing?
I bet they are. I bet some idiot pisses them off by taking pot shots at their spaceships.
We're screwed. No way we could withstand an alien invasion. Superior strength, superior technology.
Maybe they won't actually want to eat us or exterminate us. Maybe they'll make us slaves. Or pets.
While thinking these profoundly rational thoughts, my attention never wavered from those flashing lights in the sky. I must have stood watching them for a good 15 minutes. There was a light breeze teasing the ends of my hair. It felt good in the summer heat but did nothing to relax my jumping nerve endings. I was about to turn tail and head inside, not sure if my pounding heart could withstand much more of just standing there. Vulnerable. But also not sure if I could just leave with them there, watching, not being able to see when they made their move. I had almost convinced myself they were just sight seeing, when it happened. The wind picked up and the UFO started moving. Eeeeeeek! I started to make a break for the door, my eyes still trained on it when a huge gust of wind came out of nowhere and the UFO was revealed in its entirety. There, in the sky before me, suspended above the tree line, was...................... the moon. I had only one thought:
Thank God! I am so not ready to decide what to do with an alien baby.
Yes. I am that big of an idiot. My whole UFO experience consisted of the moon hanging just below the tree line at the very corner of the trees, where the slight breeze rattled the leaves, making the light sparkle and twinkle through.
As relief flooded my system, calming my frazzled nerves, the coyotes started yipping and howling in the field, sending them bouncing and jiggling all over again. I high tailed it inside, crawled into bed, snuggled up to The Captain and spent the rest of the night dreaming about The Borg.
So, while she searched for a prime piece of real estate, I turned my eyes to the heavens. I was blithely looking for a constellation or two, pleased with myself for remembering them from the half of an astronomy class I took ten years ago, when I noticed flashing lights in the sky. I was surprised, but not alarmed. I stepped further down the deck to see if I could get a better look. As I changed positions, I realized the lights were not moving, just flashing. They were in a cluster and appeared to be hovering above the tree line north east of the house. I say appeared, because I couldn't really see the tree line. If you've ever experienced a summer night in the country, with no ambient light from houses or street lamps, you'll appreciate just how dark it was. The porch light and mercury light in the yard only illuminate about a 50 ft circle.
I stared at those lights for a good minute or two before it occurred to me what they probably were. The awareness came to me slowly, as I stared and tried to reason it out in my mind. The little hairs on the back of my neck came to attention. That hot needle, prickly feeling swept up my chest and over my face as I came to the conclusion that there, hovering above my field, was...... Eeeeeeeek! A UFO!!!!!! An honest to God UFO, right there in my field! Given that I was reared on Unsolved Mysteries, I am ashamed that it took me so long to come to this conclusion, but once I did, my mind went immediately to alien abduction, which is, of course, the most logical conclusion. Why else would they be there? I mean, I am the perfect candidate. I have what my granny referred to as birthing hips, obviously made to withstand the rigors of an alien/human hybrid birth. My thoughts started racing...
Will it hurt?
How long will they keep me?
Will I remember the procedure or just think I'm getting fat and one day pop out a little alien baby?
No one will believe it. I'll be one of those crazies we make fun of on the Sci-Fi network. I owe them an apology.
All these thoughts and more went through my head, but my major concern was: Could I actually love an alien baby? Could The Captain?
Something in my heart twisted at the thought. I think it was a mini stroke.
I briefly considered getting The Captain, but I was trying to stay reasonably calm and rational. He was sleeping and I was hesitant to wake him if the UFO posed no actual threat. He values sleep more than I do, and in some corner of my mind I knew I may be slipping off the Unsolved Mysteries deep end. Mostly, I was afraid they'd make a move when I wasn't looking. So, I stood there watching the UFO, waiting to see what would happen next. As I watched, I edged back closer to the door, called the dog in and prepared to make a lunge for it, incase they did indeed have abduction in mind. My anxiety driven thoughts were all over the place.
Could that really be an alien air craft?
Is there really life on other planets?
If God could do it here, He could do it anywhere.
Wait, are they like us, with the whole free will thing?
I bet they are. I bet some idiot pisses them off by taking pot shots at their spaceships.
We're screwed. No way we could withstand an alien invasion. Superior strength, superior technology.
Maybe they won't actually want to eat us or exterminate us. Maybe they'll make us slaves. Or pets.
While thinking these profoundly rational thoughts, my attention never wavered from those flashing lights in the sky. I must have stood watching them for a good 15 minutes. There was a light breeze teasing the ends of my hair. It felt good in the summer heat but did nothing to relax my jumping nerve endings. I was about to turn tail and head inside, not sure if my pounding heart could withstand much more of just standing there. Vulnerable. But also not sure if I could just leave with them there, watching, not being able to see when they made their move. I had almost convinced myself they were just sight seeing, when it happened. The wind picked up and the UFO started moving. Eeeeeeek! I started to make a break for the door, my eyes still trained on it when a huge gust of wind came out of nowhere and the UFO was revealed in its entirety. There, in the sky before me, suspended above the tree line, was...................... the moon. I had only one thought:
Thank God! I am so not ready to decide what to do with an alien baby.
Yes. I am that big of an idiot. My whole UFO experience consisted of the moon hanging just below the tree line at the very corner of the trees, where the slight breeze rattled the leaves, making the light sparkle and twinkle through.
As relief flooded my system, calming my frazzled nerves, the coyotes started yipping and howling in the field, sending them bouncing and jiggling all over again. I high tailed it inside, crawled into bed, snuggled up to The Captain and spent the rest of the night dreaming about The Borg.
January 8, 2010
Cookies
I did some baking over the holiday season. I say "holiday season" because I baked between Christmas and New Year's Eve. As usually happens in my life, a general lack of planning and time management meant I didn't get to the baking before Christmas and felt compelled to complete it before New Year's. It's my little way of making up for the monumental sense of failure I get to experience every Christmas when I realize that it's two days before and I haven't sent out cards or put up decorations. And the thing is, I really would like to do those things. Send out home made cards. Decorate with clever objects in interesting ways. In my mind, that's the kind of person I am. In reality, I'm the woman who waits til the last minute and says F*ck It when I realize it would take a miracle or a night with no sleep to get it all done. Yeah. It's not pretty, but that's really what goes through my mind. You can see how important sleep is to me.
So, I baked. Between the holidays. I made zucchini cookies (interesting, but I probably won't make them again), chocolate chip cookies (wonderful as always. It's a little known fact that I have the best recipe in the known universe.), two batches of peanut brittle (Grandma F's recipe, which never goes wrong), and ruined two batched of chocolate fudge (it just wasn't my year). I packaged all the goodies up to be delivered to various relatives, and during the packaging I stumbled across one of the mysteries of the universe. The phenomenon of bread and cookies.
If you're not familiar with this particular phenomenon, let me explain. One of the simplest ways to keep your cookies from drying out is to close them up in a container or bag with a slice of plain old, grocery store white bread. You know the type. Wonder Bread works great, although Sarah Lee Soft & Smooth Whole Grained White Bread worked perfectly as well. Now here's what happens. The cookies get nice and soft and the bread gets dry and hard as nails. It goes from normal squishy goodness to petrified in no time. I have no idea why this happens. It's always the same. Cookies get soft, bread gets hard. Never the reverse. It's a mystery, and I'm okay with that. I enjoy a good mystery.
This phenomenon came to mind, though, while The Captain and I were doing our tour of the two families over the Christmas season. I have realized that I know a lot of cookies. Well, maybe not a lot, but certainly enough to leave me feeling petrified. You know these people too. They're the ones who suck the life right out of you, leaving you feeling used up and just plain tired. They're high maintenance and demanding. They are fans of imposing guilt trips and obligation. And sometimes they are subtle. You don't even realize how challenging they are to deal with until they're gone. Drama queens fall into this catagory. So do overly emotional people. Overly sensitive people, as well. And toddlers.
Yup. I said it. Toddlers. Well, kids under the age of 7 in general. Especially at Christmas. They're high on sugar, over stimulated by new toys and new people. They run around like little psych ward patients: screeching and fighting and laughing and whining and tattle telling, all competing for whatever attention they can attract. Oh, how I love them. But seriously. They're cookies. And me? I'm bread for sure.
So, I baked. Between the holidays. I made zucchini cookies (interesting, but I probably won't make them again), chocolate chip cookies (wonderful as always. It's a little known fact that I have the best recipe in the known universe.), two batches of peanut brittle (Grandma F's recipe, which never goes wrong), and ruined two batched of chocolate fudge (it just wasn't my year). I packaged all the goodies up to be delivered to various relatives, and during the packaging I stumbled across one of the mysteries of the universe. The phenomenon of bread and cookies.
If you're not familiar with this particular phenomenon, let me explain. One of the simplest ways to keep your cookies from drying out is to close them up in a container or bag with a slice of plain old, grocery store white bread. You know the type. Wonder Bread works great, although Sarah Lee Soft & Smooth Whole Grained White Bread worked perfectly as well. Now here's what happens. The cookies get nice and soft and the bread gets dry and hard as nails. It goes from normal squishy goodness to petrified in no time. I have no idea why this happens. It's always the same. Cookies get soft, bread gets hard. Never the reverse. It's a mystery, and I'm okay with that. I enjoy a good mystery.
This phenomenon came to mind, though, while The Captain and I were doing our tour of the two families over the Christmas season. I have realized that I know a lot of cookies. Well, maybe not a lot, but certainly enough to leave me feeling petrified. You know these people too. They're the ones who suck the life right out of you, leaving you feeling used up and just plain tired. They're high maintenance and demanding. They are fans of imposing guilt trips and obligation. And sometimes they are subtle. You don't even realize how challenging they are to deal with until they're gone. Drama queens fall into this catagory. So do overly emotional people. Overly sensitive people, as well. And toddlers.
Yup. I said it. Toddlers. Well, kids under the age of 7 in general. Especially at Christmas. They're high on sugar, over stimulated by new toys and new people. They run around like little psych ward patients: screeching and fighting and laughing and whining and tattle telling, all competing for whatever attention they can attract. Oh, how I love them. But seriously. They're cookies. And me? I'm bread for sure.
December 17, 2009
My Shameful (Non)Secret: Episode I
I like to think that I am a reasonably responsible person. In my mind's eye, this includes things like taking out the garbage on the regular basis and keeping the snow cleared from the sidewalks. Okay, so The Captain actually takes care of those things, and God Bless him for it, because realistically, if it were left up to me those particular chores might not get done. I do write out the bills every month, though. I also keep the house clean, do the cooking and organize our lives. I'm not so good with the birthday cards.
There is one area of life maintenance at which I fail miserably. Well, there's actually more than one, but for this first installment, I feel compelled to focus on the one, due to a situation that evolved the other day.
My car. It's a mess. It's a cluttered, dirty, crumb riddled mess. It's a giant black whole, into which things go in and never come out. Until I go on a road trip and realize I need to clear out the clutter to make room for things like The Captain, luggage and the dog. In those instances, it's a mad dash to get the garbage cleared out, so I can see what useful things are actually residing in there. Everything gets loaded into garbage bags and set inside the back door for processing when I get back, because invariably, I have waited until the last possible minute to do this.
We have just such a trip coming up next week, when we'll make the sojourn to my parent's house, nine hours down the road, for Christmas. The other day, it occurred to me that I should get a jump on the car issue. I couldn't bring myself to actually clean it out, but I did motivate myself to take it for an oil change. Despite the lack of order and cleanliness in the car, this is the one car related chore that I take care of on a regular basis. I think that's because it's a great diversion from actually having to clean out the car itself. I have a moment of clarity that allows me to see just how disgusting my car is, and I feel compelled to act. That feeling results, more often than not, in either a trip through the oil change place or a trip through the car wash, whichever is currently most appropriate.
So, being winter and only 10 degrees, my intention to get a jump on the car thing resulted in a trip to the oil change place. I love my oil change place. It's a local place, but still a drive through. I drive in. They change my oil, clean my windshield, give me coffee, check my lights and fill up my fluids. All for around $32. It's wonderful. There's this thing they like to do, though, that drives fear straight to my heart. They like to oil my door hinges. All four of them. Eeeeeeeek! As you can imagine, this involves them actually opening my doors and seeing what is in the back seat. Unacceptable!
I tell them when I pull in, You don't need to oil the hinges. They nod and start their routine. I have to watch them, though, because their routine is so ingrained that they reach for that door handle without really thinking about it. As they start to open my door (they always start with the driver's door) I hold onto the window casing firmly saying, Uhm, you don't need to do the doors. This gets me an Oh, yeah. But for the duration of the event I'm on edge, watching their every move lest they reach for one of those door handles while my attention is elsewhere.
Well, my car is particularly dirty at the moment, due to, well, I was going to make up an excuse, but truly, it's due to shear laziness. I suck. Anyway, it's dirty. So, we go through the usual Don't do the hinges, nod, really, please don't look into my car, oh, yeah routine, but I'm getting increasingly agitated and paranoid that they'll actually look in my car. I'm watching them with hawk eyes. No move is escaping my notice. They probably think I'm enthralled with their looks and charm, I'm watching them so closely, but whatever. It's necessary!
I'm so incredibly focused that when they ask me to turn on my headlights and then my high beams, I'm stumped. Jarred from my careful observation of their every move, I can't for the life of me remember how to turn the damn lights on. I'm looking intently at the dashboard, the console, and my steering column wondering how in the world I could have forgotten how to turn the lights on. I flip a few switches, because the last thing I want is for the to know I've forgotten how to turn them on. My thought process sounded something like this:
OMG, how is this possible?
How do I turn the stupid things on?
Wait, could this be early onset Alzheimer’s?
I'm only 30. It can't be. Can it?
What's he doing back there?
Is that a can of lubricant in his hand?
Crap, lights. Okay. I got nothing.
The nice man ended my suffering by saying, That's good. Can you step on the break and use your turn signals? God bless him. I, of course, remembered how to turn the stupid lights on after he asked me to move on to something else, but.....Hey, wait a minute. I never got the lights turned on. Why did he give me the okay?
This is when I realized that my hawkish watching wasn't flattering. It was just creepy. It's true. I made him uncomfortable to the point that he wanted me out of there so badly, so quickly, that he ceased to care if my car was functioning properly. My embarrassment knew no bounds that day.
I'm happy to report that I'm over it. But my car is still a mess. And I still have a road trip coming up. Car detailing is affordable, right?
There is one area of life maintenance at which I fail miserably. Well, there's actually more than one, but for this first installment, I feel compelled to focus on the one, due to a situation that evolved the other day.
My car. It's a mess. It's a cluttered, dirty, crumb riddled mess. It's a giant black whole, into which things go in and never come out. Until I go on a road trip and realize I need to clear out the clutter to make room for things like The Captain, luggage and the dog. In those instances, it's a mad dash to get the garbage cleared out, so I can see what useful things are actually residing in there. Everything gets loaded into garbage bags and set inside the back door for processing when I get back, because invariably, I have waited until the last possible minute to do this.
We have just such a trip coming up next week, when we'll make the sojourn to my parent's house, nine hours down the road, for Christmas. The other day, it occurred to me that I should get a jump on the car issue. I couldn't bring myself to actually clean it out, but I did motivate myself to take it for an oil change. Despite the lack of order and cleanliness in the car, this is the one car related chore that I take care of on a regular basis. I think that's because it's a great diversion from actually having to clean out the car itself. I have a moment of clarity that allows me to see just how disgusting my car is, and I feel compelled to act. That feeling results, more often than not, in either a trip through the oil change place or a trip through the car wash, whichever is currently most appropriate.
So, being winter and only 10 degrees, my intention to get a jump on the car thing resulted in a trip to the oil change place. I love my oil change place. It's a local place, but still a drive through. I drive in. They change my oil, clean my windshield, give me coffee, check my lights and fill up my fluids. All for around $32. It's wonderful. There's this thing they like to do, though, that drives fear straight to my heart. They like to oil my door hinges. All four of them. Eeeeeeeek! As you can imagine, this involves them actually opening my doors and seeing what is in the back seat. Unacceptable!
I tell them when I pull in, You don't need to oil the hinges. They nod and start their routine. I have to watch them, though, because their routine is so ingrained that they reach for that door handle without really thinking about it. As they start to open my door (they always start with the driver's door) I hold onto the window casing firmly saying, Uhm, you don't need to do the doors. This gets me an Oh, yeah. But for the duration of the event I'm on edge, watching their every move lest they reach for one of those door handles while my attention is elsewhere.
Well, my car is particularly dirty at the moment, due to, well, I was going to make up an excuse, but truly, it's due to shear laziness. I suck. Anyway, it's dirty. So, we go through the usual Don't do the hinges, nod, really, please don't look into my car, oh, yeah routine, but I'm getting increasingly agitated and paranoid that they'll actually look in my car. I'm watching them with hawk eyes. No move is escaping my notice. They probably think I'm enthralled with their looks and charm, I'm watching them so closely, but whatever. It's necessary!
I'm so incredibly focused that when they ask me to turn on my headlights and then my high beams, I'm stumped. Jarred from my careful observation of their every move, I can't for the life of me remember how to turn the damn lights on. I'm looking intently at the dashboard, the console, and my steering column wondering how in the world I could have forgotten how to turn the lights on. I flip a few switches, because the last thing I want is for the to know I've forgotten how to turn them on. My thought process sounded something like this:
OMG, how is this possible?
How do I turn the stupid things on?
Wait, could this be early onset Alzheimer’s?
I'm only 30. It can't be. Can it?
What's he doing back there?
Is that a can of lubricant in his hand?
Crap, lights. Okay. I got nothing.
The nice man ended my suffering by saying, That's good. Can you step on the break and use your turn signals? God bless him. I, of course, remembered how to turn the stupid lights on after he asked me to move on to something else, but.....Hey, wait a minute. I never got the lights turned on. Why did he give me the okay?
This is when I realized that my hawkish watching wasn't flattering. It was just creepy. It's true. I made him uncomfortable to the point that he wanted me out of there so badly, so quickly, that he ceased to care if my car was functioning properly. My embarrassment knew no bounds that day.
I'm happy to report that I'm over it. But my car is still a mess. And I still have a road trip coming up. Car detailing is affordable, right?
December 16, 2009
Giving
My family was a receipient of a lot of charity during my childhood. We were poor. Powdered mild, peanut butter and cheese from WIC were staples for the first six years of my life. My parents had a plan, one that certainly didn't include five kids, but it fell apart. Dad had polio as a child and was told he was sterile as a result. Mom got pregnant during their honeymoon. Then mom went on birth control and proceeded to get pregnant three more times, while on the pill. True story. So, dad got a vasectomy, which they found out had corrected itself when mom turned up pregnant with baby number five. You can imagine the tension in the house as that situation evolved.
Dad was in the navy, but was medically discharged when it was discovered, 2 years into the gig, that he was color blind. Mom was in nursing school at the time. Dad got a job working a machine in a factory. Then he got a second job making and delivering pizzas at night. Then he got a third job doing handiman and painting projects on the weekends. Mom finished nursing school and started working at the local nursing home. Dad gave up the job at the pizza joint.
They were good, hard working people, doing everything possible to support their family.
When our pastor showed up at the door on Christmas Eve when I was seven, with hand me down bikes that had been donated and fixed up by memebers of the church, it surely wasn't expected. But it was appreciated. When the ladies aide got together and made a blanket for each of us children, it wasn't expected, but we loved those blankets, still have them, infact. When bags of clothes would appear on the front porch, filled with cast offs from the older girls and boys at church, we'd put on impromtu fashion shows and make our selections with excited anticipation. When boxes of groceries, containing foreign foods like Count Chocula cereal and Chef Boyardee, found their way into our kitchen, we thought we were having gourmet feasts.
We were poor, and we knew it. We knew it, but we didn't own it or really even comprehend it, because it wasn't a condition that had anything to do with us. We were kids. We accepted what we had, because it was all we knew. Did we have wants that weren't met? Sure. But we never had needs that weren't met. Mom and Dad worked their fingers to the bone to enusre that.
So, when these gifts, this charity, would show up on our doorstep, we were astounded. It was a surprise every time. It was exciting. It was like magic. Not an expected or anticipated part of our existance, but a little miracle every time it happened.
Here's something else it was for us. A learning experience. We learned first hand what the generosity of the human spirit can do for a child, a family. When we were finally old enough to understand that the giving was charity, we felt humbled. Our church family was not an affluent one. But they took care of their own. They nurtured us.
Consequently, all of us kids are givers in one way or another. Soup kitchens, adopt a family, battered women's shelters, Children's Hospital, Habitat for Humanity... the list goes on. We have first hand knowledge about the joy and sense of community a little charity can offer a child. It says, We see you. We care about you and your well being. You're worth our time and effort. You belong.
Dad was in the navy, but was medically discharged when it was discovered, 2 years into the gig, that he was color blind. Mom was in nursing school at the time. Dad got a job working a machine in a factory. Then he got a second job making and delivering pizzas at night. Then he got a third job doing handiman and painting projects on the weekends. Mom finished nursing school and started working at the local nursing home. Dad gave up the job at the pizza joint.
They were good, hard working people, doing everything possible to support their family.
When our pastor showed up at the door on Christmas Eve when I was seven, with hand me down bikes that had been donated and fixed up by memebers of the church, it surely wasn't expected. But it was appreciated. When the ladies aide got together and made a blanket for each of us children, it wasn't expected, but we loved those blankets, still have them, infact. When bags of clothes would appear on the front porch, filled with cast offs from the older girls and boys at church, we'd put on impromtu fashion shows and make our selections with excited anticipation. When boxes of groceries, containing foreign foods like Count Chocula cereal and Chef Boyardee, found their way into our kitchen, we thought we were having gourmet feasts.
We were poor, and we knew it. We knew it, but we didn't own it or really even comprehend it, because it wasn't a condition that had anything to do with us. We were kids. We accepted what we had, because it was all we knew. Did we have wants that weren't met? Sure. But we never had needs that weren't met. Mom and Dad worked their fingers to the bone to enusre that.
So, when these gifts, this charity, would show up on our doorstep, we were astounded. It was a surprise every time. It was exciting. It was like magic. Not an expected or anticipated part of our existance, but a little miracle every time it happened.
Here's something else it was for us. A learning experience. We learned first hand what the generosity of the human spirit can do for a child, a family. When we were finally old enough to understand that the giving was charity, we felt humbled. Our church family was not an affluent one. But they took care of their own. They nurtured us.
Consequently, all of us kids are givers in one way or another. Soup kitchens, adopt a family, battered women's shelters, Children's Hospital, Habitat for Humanity... the list goes on. We have first hand knowledge about the joy and sense of community a little charity can offer a child. It says, We see you. We care about you and your well being. You're worth our time and effort. You belong.
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