"This is a story about God."

Today, God welcomed home my grandfather.

I can't say much more until it becomes real -- only that I'm functioning much better than I imagined I would on this day, and no practice drill quite prepares us for the real thing. Today, for my son and my dad, I hurt more than for anyone else.

The rest of us had our time with the force of nature we called Paw Paw. We might have liked more, but we got what we got. And we got plenty. A good measure...
My dad and my son, they're the ones who seem they might still have lingering business with the pater familias. My dad (arguably) has the most to lose with the end of his father/son relationship, and my son (arguably, again, and not to discount the other male cousins) has the most to gain from more time spent with his eldest, strongest-willed male relative.

I worry for them both, the gray haired 50-something and the red-haired toddler-something. But I worry a little less after hearing Miles in the next room this afternoon.

As soon as we came home from school, he asked for cartoons. Too spent to do anything else, I nodded OK. He turned on PBS and found a documentary about ancient Egypt. The images moved from the Valley of the Kings to Mt Sinai and St. Catherine's monastery to the rock city of Petra in Jordan.

I was surprised that Miles watched this; I expected him to protest the landscapes and demand animation. But he actually liked it. He hunkered down, silkie in mouth and La-Z-Boy in full rock, while he puzzled out what he was watching. At first he muttered through the security blanket so that I couldn't understand him. Then I clearly heard,

"Oh, I get it! This is a story about GOD."

I'm not sure what he was referring to, specifically. But I'm not sure he was wrong. All amazing creations in this world bear the stamp of the Creator, do they not? All His people sure do. My grandfather, James Arthur, did. And that is what makes today, truly, a story about God. A story of what God did in one long life, well lived, and what he has done, today, to make that life His very own.

I like to think Paw Paw is running in Heaven. One arm tucked tight to keep a pigskin safe, the other extended against the lesser athletes who were never really in the chase, anyway.

I hope he has wind behind him. Wind and late-afternoon sun and a yielding stretch of grass. Godspeed to the Galloping Goon. I love you, Paw Paw!

Memoir Class Continues...

OK, OK! In a rush... Much talking during today's class. Therefore not much writing time. And we got out late. So, this is more like a mem-let -- a memory fragment -- than an actual bit of memoir. However, it is what I came up with -- oh that I had hours and hours to follow this fun and winding road rather than work for a living!




You wouldn't think her irrational or prone to flights of fancy, just to look at her. Especially when she was in her thirties, as she would have been when I was 8 or 10 or 12.
She had a way of blending in. Fashionable, but not showy. A brunette with curled, above-the-shoulders hair and a purposefully made-up face. A brown or russet lipstick and a heavy coat of mascara, always. Clothes in earth tones, or as I called them, "varying shades of dirt."

She worked at a savings and loan. She sang in a church choir. She made homemade sweetbreads and pecan sandies and always iced her cakes. She was a perfectly normal mom. But she chased UFOs. Down one-lane country roads. With her two kids in tow.

My mother's UFO fixation was something I had completely forgotten until today. It's endearing, now, to recall this lost part of her, this pull to something unproven and unclear, this desire to investigate the inexplicable.

The Morether the Merrier

Miles has a new word. His very own superlative, not found in many dictionaries.

"The morether I swing, the higher I get!" he says with glee.

It's strange, because he used to use the words "more" and "less" with Queen's English precision. Suddenly, however, the simple 4-letter more is not good enough. If you've got a lot of something, you've got "morether."

"I have many morether Star Wars action figures than you, Mom, because you don't have ANY."

"I will make morether and morether bubbles until I have THE MOST BUBBLES IN THE WHOLE WORLD in my bath."

Anyone else see a slight bend toward Mama-style embellishment? Just wait 'til he starts to write.... I'll forever be shaking my head and lamenting my genes for all the drama and hyperbole that unfolds in Big Chief tablets.

Oh, this reminds me! I got to see some actual little-kid writing this Sunday. And it was un-hyperbolied perfect! I took up the prayer concern cards and spoke the "prayers of the people" at my church. A 6-year-old named Mary had written:
"It is Valintine s and I wont to give a heart to the pipple" (sic).

I hope I will always wont to give my heart to the pipple. :) All the pipple God puts in my path. And not just on Valentine's. How about you?

Seen in passing...

Now this is a quote for me!

"She is too fond of books, and it has addled her brain."
--Louisa May Alcott

Something has most definitely muddled it. 'Cause this is one of those weeks where I can't concentrate on work to save my life.

:) The whole state of affairs reminds me of the day I finished reading "Return of the King" in between retailer calls. Not my most shining, professional moment. But what a great book!

Dislike the Frey; Love the Lemony

This is NOT my piece of creative and intellectual property. It comes from the HarperCollins web site for "A Series of Unfortunate Events". (In light of the conversation I'm starting, I figured honesty is the best policy.)

I was thinking about "Unfortunate Events" today. Thinking about the books themselves -- of which there are about to be 13 -- and about their something-of-a-mystery author, Lemony Snicket. Lemony probably came to mind in reaction to the brouhaha over James Frey fabricating parts of his "nonfiction" bestseller, "A Million Little Pieces." (Google this real winner's name for acres of news coverage. Great background comes from the article "Oprah's Book Flub" at Salon.com. Oh, and Tim Carvell has a tasty, sharp-and-snarky op-ed piece about the book in the 1-11-06 NYTimes. It's called "A Million Little Corrections.")

So I was just wondering, if one must be a literary scam, why can't one be a Lemony Snicket scammer? That way, no one gets hurt and the kids have something good to read in the meantime.

'Cause, clearly, folks, LEMONY SNICKET is not his real name! (Actually, it's Daniel Handler.) All I'm saying is that some fabrications can serve the cause of the writing, and some cannot. And a MEMOIR, for Pete's sake, cannot be served by the kind of gross exaggeration and inattention to honesty Mr. Frey perpetuated. Self-serving ass.

That's all I have to have.

Desktop Cowgirl

Out in the West Texas town of El Paso...
I was on hold with a store from Pokomoke.

I heard this song and it rattled my senses,
lodged in my brain and e-rased all work.

Now I can't focus on callback or emails;
I have to sing all my thoughts through my head

Phrases, they come out so rolling and lilting --
So SAD Marty Robbins makes my mind go dead.

Subversive Me

Hey! I just reached for an Oreo and got one with three cookies, two centers. A double-decker!

This would be quite a treat for someone who LOVES Oreo filling. Sadly, I am not that person. (I mostly scrape it off to get clearer access to the chocolate cookie.)

Still, I'm impressed that the double-decker ended up in my standard-issue Oreo bag...
'Cause they gots some serious quality control over at the Kraft Foods, ya' know, and it seems like they ain't gonna let these things happen on purpose.

I just LIKE that the occasional oddity will still slip through a standardizing system. Power to the imperfects!

This is me, being subversive.

I think the world's governments and are safe, don't you?

Zoo Day!

Our morning was spent at the zoo -- woo-hoo! I LOVED the giant parakeet house where the birds could be fed for $1. (I am a sucker for the feeding of any animal -- even uncute ones with gills.) This little lime green fella is perched on my finger as it snacks from Miles' posicle stick of seeds. See the other, blue bird at front right? He's about to put the WWF moves on our buddy and cause quite a squabble. I noticed the yellow and green ones seemed very amicable, but the blue ones were greedy little bastards! (Feathered "friends," I just bet....)

...OK, this anecdote was not exactly riveting, but as it's been ages since I posted a photo, it seemed a good way to toss one in. Also, I am supposed to be studying a Sunday School lesson, so I had some procrastination time on my hands.....

Observation

I'm ready for messy.

I just figured that out. While pouring coffee. In my unfinished kitchen.

I'm ready. And, boy, does it sting. 'Cause all I have is orderly. When I'm finally ready for messy.

More Memoir!

Hey, all you story fans; Stand up and clap your hands! (Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.)

Ridiculous; silly; sorry. (I just get in these moods....)

Today marked the return of Memoir Class, and as we did no timed writing, I think I'll type out the little bit I did for last class. This time around, we analyzed a Coke can in amazing detail. 25 minutes and 8 categories of categorization (sorry, silly mood strikes again). But back to last class -- we were prompted to write about "a first." Other people's firsts included scuba diving, a vacation with no parents, a pet, the first Christmas in memory. But I wrote something about my husband.



First Sight

We'd spoken once on the phone, so at least the voice was familiar when we met. I'd roamed my parents' asphalt driveway for the length of that obligitory call. Balancing a cordless phone and a never-used note pad, I was upbeat but vaguely unnerved, relieved but also loath to believe. So the household was coming together. But this reality-in-motion was actually... mine? Past the brown Chevrolet, to the curve in the asphalt and back again, I paced. I talked too loud, and every time I spoke I crossed my fingers that no family member would peek.

Later, he'd say I sounded like a cheerleader -- so very perky, and of course from Texas. I thought he sounded like the anchor of the evening news.

Still, I was predisposed to like him before the doorbell rang. Of my three chats with three very different roommates, our "audition" went the smoothest, our quips the quickest and our laughs the least forced. I told my mother he was my first prospect for a real friend. Two weeks later, I opened the door at 254 Spruce Street and watched something spark through the screen.

Straight nose. Polo glasses. Blue eyes. Blue Jays baseball cap.

"Mi casa es su casa," I said with a florish of my right hand and a sudden, brief laugh, left hand stuck fast to the knob I'd just twisted. The second, storm door hung between us for a moment or an age. My line, so cute and flip in practice, had escaped in some way not planned. He finally glanced down to pull the latch. I caught my breath. Becasue that's when it hit me, the weight of those words, and the knowledge that I really, truly meant them.

Domestic Dropout

Dammit!

Sorry for the language, but I just bungled Rice Krispie treats. Rice KRISPIE treats! HOW is this possible?

I swear I am going to convert the kitchen into one long countertop, plastered in take-out menus, and completely give up. RICE KRISPIE treats, for Pete's sake!

Mine are all floppy instead of solidifying, hours later, and they taste too gooey sweet. I think I was misled into believing marshmellow creme is directly substitutable for marshmellows. Clearly it is not. (Also, I'm not even sure "substutitable" is a word.)

Maybe it's the humidity. It IS unseasonably warm... But no, I made the treats at Halloween, and it was pretty warm then, too. (For the record, they did work the one time. Otherwise, I wouldn't know they failed tonight.)

It must be ME! I simply CANNOT manage any consistency!

Come to think of it, this is so true. We either have too many clean clothes (so that the smaller drawers barely close), or no matching socks and one pair of underwear apiece. One might find mounds of snack foods in the cabinets, or not a carb in the house. (This week we were down to one piece of bread!) Some days, I've got four magazines and the innards of two newspapers spread on the coffee table; for weeks after, I'll find nothing to read in the house. My plants drown in water or gasp in drought. My make-up drawer is either full of redundancies or down to the dregs.

Why, oh, why is life like this? Upon reflection, I'm not sure it always was. What has HAPPENED?!

Do other thirty-something women find the simplest acts of both homemaking and face-making Herculean in nature?

...I think these questions are rhetorical.

But, still! Just one week of clean countertops, powder-perfect skin and dinners by 7 would go SO far toward rebuilding my youthful confidence! I'm not even asking for glossy straight hair or undies that match.

(Sigh.) It's probably not gonna happen. As modest as my domestic goddess goals, my down-home life will contrive to thwart them. Even now, my sticky socks are a red flag that I've missed a spill on the breakfast room floor. And that reminds me, I sure hope I didn't throw away that Chili's menu when I swept last week....

It's A Bird! A Plane! The Turning of a Calendar Page!

Well, well. One flip and a fast rip and it's a new year. Welcome, one and all, to aught-six.

(Quick, I need to write a check so I can get used to this new number in print!)

It' s not like I can claim January snuck up on me or anything. I do regularly use a calendar, and they're fairly strong predictors of what is to come. All grids and patterns and regimentation, they are. Dates are not obtuse.

Yet, so far, it seems like I'm only wrapping up the old, not yet encountering anything "new."

Yesterday, I packed away Christmas decor. Today, I need to clean out a linen closet to make room for my boxed clothes. (Still at work on the unpacking, 7 months in to the new house.) And, speaking of w-o-r-k, I have a whole LIST (Santa-like, it unscrolls and dips to the floor, an accounting of the kids who have been bad, not good) of follow-up calls that have lingered for a month.

Life keeps rolling, I know; but so often I don't feel the motion. Like, even though the globe is on spin cycle, the sky is still up and the ground is still... still to me. If January is a state of mind, I definitely haven't reached it yet.

I wouldn't dare a grudge against a year so new, so I'm not complaining. It's just that I could use a breath of the fresh, as soon as that can be arranged. Until then, I wrap things pending and await things portending. Welcome, 2006.