10 year have gone by since Hurricane Katrina ravaged the Gulf Coast. 9 1/2 years ago I made my first trek to Pearlington, Mississippi with a group of 20 teenagers and adults, ready to do whatever we were asked to do to help with the clean-up and recovery work. We never expected to feel so tied to that community that we would go back, twice a year, for the next 6 years. It just happened.
Mississippi changed me. I found a part of myself there I wasn't aware existed. I learned some hard lessons on those trips, and did a lot of growing up...A LOT. I KNOW the grace of God. Not just because of my experience with God's grace but because of the stories of those with whom we came into contact. On that very first trip, one of the women at the First Missionary Baptist Church of Pearlington told our group "I'm so grateful for this storm! If it hadn't happened I wouldn't have gotten to meet all of you!" As I drove through town that week, as I pulled moldy sheet rock off the inside walls of the 2nd story of a house, as I heard the stories of the team each night, and slept on Army cots in a corrugated plastic pod, I couldn't really fathom being grateful for the storm. It had done so much damage and taken so much away.
And yet...and yet all these years later I can say I am grateful for the storm. I am grateful for the opportunities we had to make a difference. To help others. To make new friends. To be light in the darkness. To look into the eyes of a stranger and know that we had helped to bring hope, laughter, goodness back into their lives in whatever small way we could.
It's been three years since I've been back to Mississippi. Thankfully, there hasn't been a hurricane in that time frame. I would go back in a heartbeat, though, if there was or if Mr. Ben called and said "I need help." I would be on a plane as fast as possible.
There's a Mississippi state sign, on the edge of town that reads "Mississippi - It's like coming home". I'm not sure why - my liberal, California woman beliefs definitely have a hard time meshing with the conservative Mississippi culture - but that sign felt true. Every time we drove across the state line it felt like I was going home. I miss it.
I want to go back. I'm ready to rent a camp on the Bayou and sit in the humid breeze listening to the insects buzz. To go with Mr. Ben and Miss Sue up the road to get the best fried chicken ever made by the man who will serenade you as it cooks. I'm ready to drive through the neighborhoods and see the changes made. To sit on the porch at the Pretty House and watch the neighbors drive by, listening for the dogs at Mr. Sam's. I want to go to the Turtle and eat Fried Shrimp po'boys while watching for the alligator. I'm ready to go back and wander through the shops in Bay St. Louis and have coffee at the Mockingbird Cafe. To drive along the coastline, to walk on the beach and put my toes in the water of the Gulf. I'm ready to go back and watch for armadillos as we drive along the road (though, the armadillos might not want me to go back, I only see dead ones). To burn my mouth on the hottest (spiciest?) corn on the cob ever while trying desperately not to think about the yellow stuff that comes out of the head of the crawfish as I chow down.
Hurricane Katrina changed the Gulf Coast. For many there wasn't anything to be grateful for about that storm. I won't disagree. Hurricane Katrina changed me and for that I am eternally grateful.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
A year and a day...
The last family photo we took together was found on my Dad's computer just days after he died. He had this way of taking photo's and then editing them and never doing anything with them or at least we family members never saw them again. As soon as I saw it, I remembered taking the photo in the house in Tahoe, Thanksgiving night 2013.
We took several photos, with Dad setting up the camera and trying to figure out the timer and then rushing to sit on the arm of the couch. Little did we know, as we sat there giving him a bad time, that would be the last official "O" family photo we would have.
The man sitting on arm of the couch on the left, in this photo, just shouldn't have died so soon. There is a part of me that wishes he would just get up off the arm of the couch, walk in the room and say "Gotcha!" and erase all the pain and sorrow of the last year.
What I wouldn't give for just one more family photo.
What I wouldn't give for just one more family photo.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Dear Facebook,
I saw the generated post on my wall the other day "It's been a great year! Thanks for being a part of it!" I saw the photo that the algorithms came up with as the one to highlight my "great year"...and I pulled the drop down arrow to hide the post.
For me, Facebook, 2014 was not a great year. It was a pretty sucky year. I would give pretty much anything for a do-over. The photo chosen as the cover for that generated post was the last photo I have of just me and my Dad. I know a bunch of people liked it, which is why it was front and center on that slideshow thingy. When I saw it, though, I started to cry. I'm not blaming you, Facebook techie people. I know the intention behind the post thing was to remind people of the good things that happened, the places we've been, the people we've met, the memories we have, the things that occurred in our lives, so in one sense you did accomplished your goal.
It's not your fault, Facebook, that in 2014 leukemia disrupted my family. It's not your fault this f***ing cancer wasn't eradicated by the massive amounts of chemo my Dad was given, opening his immune system up to the infection that took hold of my Dad's lungs and wouldn't let go. The photo's that slide through my mind when I think back to 2014 aren't on your generated post. They are in my head, snapshots of moments when I knew that nothing was ever going to be the same again, as I watched my Dad go from strong, healthy, happy and hug-able to a resigned, defeated man who spelled out the word "torture" with his fingers, because he was on a ventilator and couldn't speak, and mouthed the words "I'm ready to die". You don't have the pictures of the wild look on his face when the fever spiked, nor the picture of the scene of the room when the crash team came swarming into his hospital room. You don't have a picture of the hospital chaplain who stood by my side in those moments offering a silent prayer, with her arm around my shoulders, nor of the ER doctor who rode by on his bike as I sat outside by the fountain, the day my Dad died, and gently raised his hand in greeting as our eyes met. He knew what was happening in the room three floors up.
I'm the only one who can see that slideshow. It reminds me daily that 2014 was not a great year. It was a year that my family is going to take a long time to recover from. Yes, there are some good memories in there. Somewhere down the road I'll be able to go back, look at 2014 and find the good memories. So, thanks for storing those memories, Facebook. But if you don't mind, I'm just going to skip right over everyone else's "It's been a great year posts". It just hurts too much today.
Sincerely,
Brittany
For me, Facebook, 2014 was not a great year. It was a pretty sucky year. I would give pretty much anything for a do-over. The photo chosen as the cover for that generated post was the last photo I have of just me and my Dad. I know a bunch of people liked it, which is why it was front and center on that slideshow thingy. When I saw it, though, I started to cry. I'm not blaming you, Facebook techie people. I know the intention behind the post thing was to remind people of the good things that happened, the places we've been, the people we've met, the memories we have, the things that occurred in our lives, so in one sense you did accomplished your goal.
It's not your fault, Facebook, that in 2014 leukemia disrupted my family. It's not your fault this f***ing cancer wasn't eradicated by the massive amounts of chemo my Dad was given, opening his immune system up to the infection that took hold of my Dad's lungs and wouldn't let go. The photo's that slide through my mind when I think back to 2014 aren't on your generated post. They are in my head, snapshots of moments when I knew that nothing was ever going to be the same again, as I watched my Dad go from strong, healthy, happy and hug-able to a resigned, defeated man who spelled out the word "torture" with his fingers, because he was on a ventilator and couldn't speak, and mouthed the words "I'm ready to die". You don't have the pictures of the wild look on his face when the fever spiked, nor the picture of the scene of the room when the crash team came swarming into his hospital room. You don't have a picture of the hospital chaplain who stood by my side in those moments offering a silent prayer, with her arm around my shoulders, nor of the ER doctor who rode by on his bike as I sat outside by the fountain, the day my Dad died, and gently raised his hand in greeting as our eyes met. He knew what was happening in the room three floors up.
I'm the only one who can see that slideshow. It reminds me daily that 2014 was not a great year. It was a year that my family is going to take a long time to recover from. Yes, there are some good memories in there. Somewhere down the road I'll be able to go back, look at 2014 and find the good memories. So, thanks for storing those memories, Facebook. But if you don't mind, I'm just going to skip right over everyone else's "It's been a great year posts". It just hurts too much today.
Sincerely,
Brittany
Monday, March 31, 2014
Legacy
Hello from OKC!
It's tough to blog without a full keyboard, but I had the overwhelming need to get my thoughts out on "paper"...so here goes.
Today was our first full day of work. The group was split into 5 teams and I was put in charge of one team. I chose the work I knew I could handle, Sheetrock, which is hysterical in one sense because I have struggled nightly with Sheetrock over the life of these trips. Many a swear word has been uttered.
Anyhow, my team was at Eddie's house finishing up one missing, taping, sanding and patching. Let me just say, it was a struggle. The students were excellent. They were helpful, eager, excite and ready...and none of them knew a thing about what we were doing.
About halfway through the day, after teaching mudding techniques, "scrape off the excess into the tray like this to get a clean line", showing how to fill holes and sand down excess, I faced the holes in the ceiling. I knew enough to fake it...and asked for help when I didn't but mostly I stood back, gave instruction and let the students go for it. It was a challenging day. At the end of the day, as we put one last piece of drywall in, the heard myself say to the young woman who was struggling with the screw,"Keep going,but will suck in," and I knew that I had one person to thank for the knowledge I had used all day long...it was the same man whose words had just flown from my lips...my friend Ben. Those 10 trips to Mississippi where Ben taught, encouraged, led, forced me to try and instilled his knowledge in my soul had just come to fruition. Today I passed on Ben's legacy to 2 young men and 2 young women...and it was good.
It's tough to blog without a full keyboard, but I had the overwhelming need to get my thoughts out on "paper"...so here goes.
Today was our first full day of work. The group was split into 5 teams and I was put in charge of one team. I chose the work I knew I could handle, Sheetrock, which is hysterical in one sense because I have struggled nightly with Sheetrock over the life of these trips. Many a swear word has been uttered.
Anyhow, my team was at Eddie's house finishing up one missing, taping, sanding and patching. Let me just say, it was a struggle. The students were excellent. They were helpful, eager, excite and ready...and none of them knew a thing about what we were doing.
About halfway through the day, after teaching mudding techniques, "scrape off the excess into the tray like this to get a clean line", showing how to fill holes and sand down excess, I faced the holes in the ceiling. I knew enough to fake it...and asked for help when I didn't but mostly I stood back, gave instruction and let the students go for it. It was a challenging day. At the end of the day, as we put one last piece of drywall in, the heard myself say to the young woman who was struggling with the screw,"Keep going,but will suck in," and I knew that I had one person to thank for the knowledge I had used all day long...it was the same man whose words had just flown from my lips...my friend Ben. Those 10 trips to Mississippi where Ben taught, encouraged, led, forced me to try and instilled his knowledge in my soul had just come to fruition. Today I passed on Ben's legacy to 2 young men and 2 young women...and it was good.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
It wasn't just a hand mixer
When I moved away for college, I moved into an apartment. It was a cute little place close to campus. I rode my bike across the street and then across campus most days. Moving into an apartment meant that I got to open my "hope" chest and use all the pretty dishes that I had been collecting over the years. Along with all the dishes, I took with me some hand-me-downs from family and friends to fill the cupboards of my apartment.
One of those hand-me-downs was a hand mixer that once belonged to Grandma O. My Grandma O was a fabulous baker. I never once remember going to her house and finding the cookie jar empty. She made homemade rolls for special occasions that were melt in your mouth good. Her apple pie was outstanding. Grandma O wasn't good at verbalizing her feelings for people. She wasn't an overly warm woman but I believe that Grandma O showed her love with food. She baked, she cooked, she fed her family and friends and that is how she told us she loved us.
This afternoon, I pulled out Grandma O's mixer. I had fresh lemons from my lemon tree and was determined to make a lemon meringue pie. In college I had successfully made pies using that mixer, that turned out beautifully, with no weeping or shrinking or anything. They tasted mighty good too. Of course when I moved back home after college, the recipe I used to make those fantastic lemon meringue pies got lost in the shuffle. I have tried to make that pie again, several times, with little success. My Food Network magazine arrived Wednesday with an easier recipe, I had a fresh lemons, the kitchen was empty, I had the time and so it was time to try again.
I squeezed those fresh lemons (I should have taken a picture of my lemons...the rind is at least an inch thick. They look like softballs.) and mixed together the ingredients for the base of the pie. When ready, I poured it into the waiting shell (store-bought because while I have inherited a little bit of Grandma O's baking genes, I fail at pie dough. FAIL.) I then pulled down Grandma O's mixer, ready to tackle the meringue.
Upon putting the first beater in, I noticed that it wobbled a little. The connection between the shaft and the beater blade seemed a little tenuous. The next beater was a little more solid but when I put the second beater in, I noticed the two beaters came together too closely. I tested it once outside the egg whites and they clanked together. No good! I pulled them out, switched places and tried again. A little less clanky, so I decided to give it a try. Into the egg whites the beaters went. I switched the mixer on and smoke started to come out of the motor, the beaters clanked together and then stopped, jammed together. I looked at Grandma O's mixer and realized, the end had come. There was no fixing this. I pulled the cord from the socket, tried to eject the beaters to no avail. I then pushed and pulled until they came apart. The one tenuous beater was now even more wobbly. The era of this hand mixer had come to an end.
I washed the beaters, dried them, put them back into their rightful place on the mixer, loving wrapped the cord around the mixer and took it out to the recycling bin for their future ride to their final resting place. It's just a hand mixer and yet, I will admit to feeling a little teary at the end of our time together. They will be replaced by another hand mixer. An updated one with a bigger motor. But that mixer won't have the memories attached. When I pull it out of the cupboard, I will no longer think of Grandma O and the wonderful things she made with that mixer.
As I started to write this post thinking about Grandma O and her baking, the dates started connecting and suddenly the tears that came weren't because of a silly hand mixer dying after, gosh, 40+ years of use. 22 years ago this week, Grandma and Grandpa O celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. We had a grand party, a dinner of course, at a favorite restaurant of theirs with family and friends surrounding them, celebrating their lives together. That night Grandma O went to sleep and didn't wake up.
Over the years, I have come to believe that grief meanders in ever widening circles. The first days, months and years, we cycle through our emotions, feeling the loss of those we loved in an immediate and profound ways over and over again. As the years go on, the circles of emotions become wider, with longer times between the waves of sorrow. Little things will trigger our emotions and the grief will return, maybe less intense, maybe just as intense as when we first felt the grief. For me today it was an electric hand mixer, an inheritance from a Grandmother who left earth years too soon. I grieve, not just the loss of her presence, amazing baking and cooking skills, but the relationship between a grandmother and granddaughter that was just beginning to form after years of relationship "misses".
It wasn't just a hand mixer, it was a memory catcher; a reminder of someone I loved and the way she loved me in return.
One of those hand-me-downs was a hand mixer that once belonged to Grandma O. My Grandma O was a fabulous baker. I never once remember going to her house and finding the cookie jar empty. She made homemade rolls for special occasions that were melt in your mouth good. Her apple pie was outstanding. Grandma O wasn't good at verbalizing her feelings for people. She wasn't an overly warm woman but I believe that Grandma O showed her love with food. She baked, she cooked, she fed her family and friends and that is how she told us she loved us.
This afternoon, I pulled out Grandma O's mixer. I had fresh lemons from my lemon tree and was determined to make a lemon meringue pie. In college I had successfully made pies using that mixer, that turned out beautifully, with no weeping or shrinking or anything. They tasted mighty good too. Of course when I moved back home after college, the recipe I used to make those fantastic lemon meringue pies got lost in the shuffle. I have tried to make that pie again, several times, with little success. My Food Network magazine arrived Wednesday with an easier recipe, I had a fresh lemons, the kitchen was empty, I had the time and so it was time to try again.
I squeezed those fresh lemons (I should have taken a picture of my lemons...the rind is at least an inch thick. They look like softballs.) and mixed together the ingredients for the base of the pie. When ready, I poured it into the waiting shell (store-bought because while I have inherited a little bit of Grandma O's baking genes, I fail at pie dough. FAIL.) I then pulled down Grandma O's mixer, ready to tackle the meringue.
Upon putting the first beater in, I noticed that it wobbled a little. The connection between the shaft and the beater blade seemed a little tenuous. The next beater was a little more solid but when I put the second beater in, I noticed the two beaters came together too closely. I tested it once outside the egg whites and they clanked together. No good! I pulled them out, switched places and tried again. A little less clanky, so I decided to give it a try. Into the egg whites the beaters went. I switched the mixer on and smoke started to come out of the motor, the beaters clanked together and then stopped, jammed together. I looked at Grandma O's mixer and realized, the end had come. There was no fixing this. I pulled the cord from the socket, tried to eject the beaters to no avail. I then pushed and pulled until they came apart. The one tenuous beater was now even more wobbly. The era of this hand mixer had come to an end.
I washed the beaters, dried them, put them back into their rightful place on the mixer, loving wrapped the cord around the mixer and took it out to the recycling bin for their future ride to their final resting place. It's just a hand mixer and yet, I will admit to feeling a little teary at the end of our time together. They will be replaced by another hand mixer. An updated one with a bigger motor. But that mixer won't have the memories attached. When I pull it out of the cupboard, I will no longer think of Grandma O and the wonderful things she made with that mixer.
As I started to write this post thinking about Grandma O and her baking, the dates started connecting and suddenly the tears that came weren't because of a silly hand mixer dying after, gosh, 40+ years of use. 22 years ago this week, Grandma and Grandpa O celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. We had a grand party, a dinner of course, at a favorite restaurant of theirs with family and friends surrounding them, celebrating their lives together. That night Grandma O went to sleep and didn't wake up.
Over the years, I have come to believe that grief meanders in ever widening circles. The first days, months and years, we cycle through our emotions, feeling the loss of those we loved in an immediate and profound ways over and over again. As the years go on, the circles of emotions become wider, with longer times between the waves of sorrow. Little things will trigger our emotions and the grief will return, maybe less intense, maybe just as intense as when we first felt the grief. For me today it was an electric hand mixer, an inheritance from a Grandmother who left earth years too soon. I grieve, not just the loss of her presence, amazing baking and cooking skills, but the relationship between a grandmother and granddaughter that was just beginning to form after years of relationship "misses".
It wasn't just a hand mixer, it was a memory catcher; a reminder of someone I loved and the way she loved me in return.
Monday, February 4, 2013
The car phenomenon redux
When I was in youth ministry I used to be amazed at the power held by the front seat of the car. Not just those annoying squabbles that would start the moment the car came into view about who got "shot gun" but the power the front seat had to turn the quietest kid into a veritable fountain of words. It was not the wisest decision to drive teens places by myself, I recognize my naivete looking back, but those moments driving kids home were precious and so important.
Of course, the car phenomenon also occurred when other teens were in the car but it took on a different twist. The adult driver, whoever they were, ceased to be a person with ears listening to the conversation. I learned more about the youth in the youth group I was leading driving on a 2 hour car trips than I did at youth group nights for two months. Only the shrewdest of youth members would remember that I was driving the car, but usually it was like I wasn't in there or suddenly couldn't understand their language, the fountain of words would just flow. I would pipe in from time to time with a comment, especially when the conversation got a little too iffy for a youth group trip, or burst out laughing at the most absurd parts of the conversation just because I could not contain the laughter any more. Those conversations are why we had monthly youth group excursions to places at least a half hour away.
A few former youth members, whom I now call friends, and I headed out to the Big City this past weekend. It was about an hour and a half car ride. The topics of discussion were varied and fun and we reminisced about the days of long youth group car trips. They are at a point now where they are the adults taking youth group members places and they experience what I experienced. It was awesome.
But the moment that clinched the whole day for me came in the 10 minute car ride from dropping one person off to the other persons house. I was driving, they were in the back seat (too tired to move) and the power of the back seat was immense. The fountain of words began to flow, so much so that we sat in their driveway for 10 minutes just talking. I looked in the rear view mirror at this former youth member, who I now call friend, and tried really hard not to cry. For sitting looking back at me was an adult, but also a teenager I had shuttled home for years, and there I was listening to them share their heart all these years later.
While much has changed, the phenomenon of the car remains.
Of course, the car phenomenon also occurred when other teens were in the car but it took on a different twist. The adult driver, whoever they were, ceased to be a person with ears listening to the conversation. I learned more about the youth in the youth group I was leading driving on a 2 hour car trips than I did at youth group nights for two months. Only the shrewdest of youth members would remember that I was driving the car, but usually it was like I wasn't in there or suddenly couldn't understand their language, the fountain of words would just flow. I would pipe in from time to time with a comment, especially when the conversation got a little too iffy for a youth group trip, or burst out laughing at the most absurd parts of the conversation just because I could not contain the laughter any more. Those conversations are why we had monthly youth group excursions to places at least a half hour away.
A few former youth members, whom I now call friends, and I headed out to the Big City this past weekend. It was about an hour and a half car ride. The topics of discussion were varied and fun and we reminisced about the days of long youth group car trips. They are at a point now where they are the adults taking youth group members places and they experience what I experienced. It was awesome.
But the moment that clinched the whole day for me came in the 10 minute car ride from dropping one person off to the other persons house. I was driving, they were in the back seat (too tired to move) and the power of the back seat was immense. The fountain of words began to flow, so much so that we sat in their driveway for 10 minutes just talking. I looked in the rear view mirror at this former youth member, who I now call friend, and tried really hard not to cry. For sitting looking back at me was an adult, but also a teenager I had shuttled home for years, and there I was listening to them share their heart all these years later.
While much has changed, the phenomenon of the car remains.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Milestones
January 2, 2013 was a record making day...the race car officially turned 100,000 miles. It's been 11 years since I bought the race car and it had about 9,000 miles on it when purchased. I was thinking about where the car has been in 91,000 miles. Seeing as how I had a 6 mile round-trip commute for the majority of that time, the miles came mostly in the form of trips...
To Redding for weddings and to visit cousins and their kids...
To Ashland for plays...
To LA for conventions and conferences...and Disneyland...
To San Diego for a wedding...and a stop at Disneyland on the way home...
To Tahoe many, many times...though never during the regular snow season!
To San Jose, San Francisco, Sacramento and places in-between...
To Monterey...
To Pismo Beach...
To Solvang...
To Lake Shasta for a Houseboat trip...
The beach...
Most of the long trips, I had company. The conversations that car has heard! Many conversations were short and happened after youth group as I took one or two different kids home. Those are my favorite memories in that car, bonding over songs (I wanna talk about ME!), talking about hard stuff in life, laughing uproariously about stuff that wasn't that funny, getting pelted with apples...wait, that was a different car! A baby seat and a toddler seat took up residence in the backseat for a few years, even though the kids who occupied those seats weren't in them but once a week. And there were some trips that were silent, where the point wasn't to talk but to just be with the other person as we processed the events in our lives.
There are scars on the race car. Some have been repaired...the front bumper that I tore off trying to get out of a tight parking space...the hood where Papa Bear backed into the race car with his truck. Some haven't been repaired...the back right fender where I backed into a light pole in the midst of grief that tore my soul apart. Dings where someone opened their car door too fast and hit the race car. There's a new/used drivers seat that doesn't quite match but actually sits straight up.
100,000 miles in 11 years isn't all that much but the memories those miles and years hold are huge. One day the race car will be replaced...but in the meantime I look forward to putting more miles on that car and creating many more memories. For the race car isn't just a vehicle, it's been a part of the ministry God has worked out through my life and there is still a lot of ministry left to do.
To Redding for weddings and to visit cousins and their kids...
To Ashland for plays...
To LA for conventions and conferences...and Disneyland...
To San Diego for a wedding...and a stop at Disneyland on the way home...
To Tahoe many, many times...though never during the regular snow season!
To San Jose, San Francisco, Sacramento and places in-between...
To Monterey...
To Pismo Beach...
To Solvang...
To Lake Shasta for a Houseboat trip...
The beach...
Most of the long trips, I had company. The conversations that car has heard! Many conversations were short and happened after youth group as I took one or two different kids home. Those are my favorite memories in that car, bonding over songs (I wanna talk about ME!), talking about hard stuff in life, laughing uproariously about stuff that wasn't that funny, getting pelted with apples...wait, that was a different car! A baby seat and a toddler seat took up residence in the backseat for a few years, even though the kids who occupied those seats weren't in them but once a week. And there were some trips that were silent, where the point wasn't to talk but to just be with the other person as we processed the events in our lives.
There are scars on the race car. Some have been repaired...the front bumper that I tore off trying to get out of a tight parking space...the hood where Papa Bear backed into the race car with his truck. Some haven't been repaired...the back right fender where I backed into a light pole in the midst of grief that tore my soul apart. Dings where someone opened their car door too fast and hit the race car. There's a new/used drivers seat that doesn't quite match but actually sits straight up.
100,000 miles in 11 years isn't all that much but the memories those miles and years hold are huge. One day the race car will be replaced...but in the meantime I look forward to putting more miles on that car and creating many more memories. For the race car isn't just a vehicle, it's been a part of the ministry God has worked out through my life and there is still a lot of ministry left to do.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Today was...
It's a beautiful February day in Northern California. There are somethings that should not be said in the same sentence. "Beautiful", "February" and "day" are some. We are WAY below our rainfall average this year, as is pretty much the whole state. Lil Bro is in the ski industry. He finally got to start work 2 full months after his original start date. Not good. But that's not why I posted.
I took advantage of this beautiful February day. First I had my weekly chiropractic appointment. Then I stopped into get my toes done. Yay! The people at the nail salon asked me to make sure my friends knew that they were the only "F." Nail Salon in town. Turns out that one of their employees quit after two months and is opening up a shop in town with a similar name at their old shop site! People amaze me. So spread the word! "F." Nail Salon has changed locations! The people at their old shop are imposter's!
I went from there to coffee with Jeffy and LN. LN brought me mini-oranges with my name on them.
LN and Jeffy were Mississippi buddies. When packing lunches in Mississippi I would always put a banana in the group lunch sack with my name on it. It reminded me of Mississippi.
Speaking of Mississippi, as we were sitting in the sun Ben sends me this picture and text "I forget, how do you eat these?"
He's been sending me pics all week long as Mardi Gras has been in full swing. I told him to stop sending me pictures. I want to be there too!
Then I made Creative Guy take this pic with me as I took him to the office from his after school program.
A beautiful day does deserve the top down on the race car. (And it saved me from the "toxic toots" of Creative Guy. We had quite the conversation about this bodily function and the need to have the top up on the car so I could smell them. He is all boy.) He was much better when I took the picture without him knowing. And before you "yell" at me for using my phone in the car, we were at a complete and total stop and I wasn't talking on the phone.
It was a good day...though the wrong day to forget to put on my SPF 30 moisturizer. *Sigh*
Hope your day was beautiful too!
I went from there to coffee with Jeffy and LN. LN brought me mini-oranges with my name on them.
LN and Jeffy were Mississippi buddies. When packing lunches in Mississippi I would always put a banana in the group lunch sack with my name on it. It reminded me of Mississippi.
Speaking of Mississippi, as we were sitting in the sun Ben sends me this picture and text "I forget, how do you eat these?"
He's been sending me pics all week long as Mardi Gras has been in full swing. I told him to stop sending me pictures. I want to be there too!
Then I made Creative Guy take this pic with me as I took him to the office from his after school program.
A beautiful day does deserve the top down on the race car. (And it saved me from the "toxic toots" of Creative Guy. We had quite the conversation about this bodily function and the need to have the top up on the car so I could smell them. He is all boy.) He was much better when I took the picture without him knowing. And before you "yell" at me for using my phone in the car, we were at a complete and total stop and I wasn't talking on the phone.
It was a good day...though the wrong day to forget to put on my SPF 30 moisturizer. *Sigh*
Hope your day was beautiful too!
Sunday, March 6, 2011
In memory...
Growing up in my family, there were a few things that were a given. One was that we would spend a lot of time in Lake Tahoe, another was that we would travel to Iowa. At the time, some of the travels were not as fun as they could have been. I clearly remember driving for what seemed like days in the back of the Chevy truck (with a camper shell) across the beautiful landscape of...Nevada. I won't ever forget the lightening storms in Wyoming nor will I forget the fireflies that one night camping in Iowa.
The reason for going to Iowa was always to meet up with relatives. Papa Bear's side of the family came from Iowa. Cousin Jean and family (Grandpa O's niece) live in Davenport. Aunt Iva Jean and family (Grandma O's sister) in Burlington. Every trip we spent time each side of the family. They all hold a special place in my heart for the memories and for the people that they are.
Over the years time has taken it's toll. Grandma O was the first of the family to pass away. She died in her sleep the night after celebrating her and Grandpa O's 50th wedding anniversary. Aunt Iva Jean and her husband were staying at our house. I will never forget hearing hushed voices telling Iva Jean that her sister had passed away and the mournful wail of grief that followed.
It was strange visiting Aunt Iva Jean after that. She reminded me so much of my grandmother but yet she wasn't. They worried the same, their voices had the same quality, their skin has the same feel, their hair always done just so, they looked similar being sisters and all. Aunt Iva Jean and Grandma O had the same laugh, though Aunt Iva Jean used her laugh more. Aunt Iva Jean was a little more demonstrative too. Every time we left, I knew that she wished we would stay longer. Both of them weren't the easiest women to get to know yet I know that both women loved their families with every fiber of their being...and they loved each other.
A couple of years ago, when Papa Bear and I traveled to Iowa together, we surprised Aunt Iva Jean and showed up on her doorstep...the same house I had been to time and time again as a child. She was expecting Yo Momma but when she saw Papa Bear and I her exclamations of surprise and delight were there, if carefully tamed. Her eyes lit up and she pulled us both in for good hugs. Her husband had died, the house and Aunt Iva Jean had changed some but she was still the woman I remembered, slightly reserved yet fun, fretting over little things but willing to sit down and visit, wanting us to be around longer.
Thursday Aunt Iva Jean passed away. I have no idea what heaven is like but I know she is there. If we get to meet up with those who have gone before, then she's catching up with Grandma and Grandpa O, her husband Bob and the many who have gotten to heaven ahead of her. If there is a kitchen in heaven, I wouldn't be surprised to find Aunt Iva Jean and Grandma O there, cooking and baking for the people they love...I'm pretty sure that's the picture that I will have in my mind for a long time to come.
Farewell, Aunt Iva Jean. Thanks for the many memories...and love.
The reason for going to Iowa was always to meet up with relatives. Papa Bear's side of the family came from Iowa. Cousin Jean and family (Grandpa O's niece) live in Davenport. Aunt Iva Jean and family (Grandma O's sister) in Burlington. Every trip we spent time each side of the family. They all hold a special place in my heart for the memories and for the people that they are.
Over the years time has taken it's toll. Grandma O was the first of the family to pass away. She died in her sleep the night after celebrating her and Grandpa O's 50th wedding anniversary. Aunt Iva Jean and her husband were staying at our house. I will never forget hearing hushed voices telling Iva Jean that her sister had passed away and the mournful wail of grief that followed.
It was strange visiting Aunt Iva Jean after that. She reminded me so much of my grandmother but yet she wasn't. They worried the same, their voices had the same quality, their skin has the same feel, their hair always done just so, they looked similar being sisters and all. Aunt Iva Jean and Grandma O had the same laugh, though Aunt Iva Jean used her laugh more. Aunt Iva Jean was a little more demonstrative too. Every time we left, I knew that she wished we would stay longer. Both of them weren't the easiest women to get to know yet I know that both women loved their families with every fiber of their being...and they loved each other.
A couple of years ago, when Papa Bear and I traveled to Iowa together, we surprised Aunt Iva Jean and showed up on her doorstep...the same house I had been to time and time again as a child. She was expecting Yo Momma but when she saw Papa Bear and I her exclamations of surprise and delight were there, if carefully tamed. Her eyes lit up and she pulled us both in for good hugs. Her husband had died, the house and Aunt Iva Jean had changed some but she was still the woman I remembered, slightly reserved yet fun, fretting over little things but willing to sit down and visit, wanting us to be around longer.
Thursday Aunt Iva Jean passed away. I have no idea what heaven is like but I know she is there. If we get to meet up with those who have gone before, then she's catching up with Grandma and Grandpa O, her husband Bob and the many who have gotten to heaven ahead of her. If there is a kitchen in heaven, I wouldn't be surprised to find Aunt Iva Jean and Grandma O there, cooking and baking for the people they love...I'm pretty sure that's the picture that I will have in my mind for a long time to come.
Farewell, Aunt Iva Jean. Thanks for the many memories...and love.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
The duct tape
There are many moments from this last Mississippi trip that I will never forget. Some are lessons learned that were a little painful, others were moments where I saw God work. My favorite moment had to do with duct tape.
A few years ago my friend N decided that I needed some pink duct tape. My guitar case was getting a little beat up from the airlines and so he bought the pink duct tape and I decorated my guitar case. Last February in D-land, my poncho tore, so N again came to the rescue, this time finding pink and purple plaid duct tape. My D-land poncho is now designer gear. In April the team in Mississippi found purple tie-dyed patterned duck tape and gifted me with as a special prize for being a Jefferson Award recipient. Cousin T found out about the different patterned duct tape and decided that because she loves anything ducks, that she wanted duct tape (or as we more commonly call it "duck" tape) for Christmas. I was happy to oblige.
While in Mississippi, I went to my favorite store to dislike shopping in but the only place available, and found a whole plethora of duct tape. Zebra striped, camo, bright yellow, red and yellow tie-dyed and flame patterned to name a few. I picked up the Zebra and red and yellow tie-dyed for Cousin T. That was Monday night.
On Tuesday we stopped at the Mini-Mart out on highway 90 to grab some sodas and coffee for the crew at lunch. As we walked up to the counter to pay, the lady behind the counter stood up and, as I said in a previous post, her stool that she normally sits had flames on the seat but was patched up by silver duct tape. I knew right then that I was getting her the flame duct tape.
Wednesday we went out to lunch, so we didn't go in the mini-mart. That afternoon, Ben and I had to make a run to Lowe's for more building materials. As we drove we started talking about what was happening in Pearlington. We talked about the new market that is going in on highway 604, which lead to a discussion about the mini-mart on highway 90. Ben doesn't hold high regard for that mini-mart nor the lady behind the counter. I commented that I actually got her to smile and his reply was that was because I was from out of town and that I wouldn't be around that long to bother her. It was a pretty interesting commentary on small town life.
That night, even though I was tired and had a blog to write, I drove a group to my favorite store to dislike but there are no other options and bought the flame colored duct tape.
Thursday lunchtime arrived and I was eager to get to the mini-mart. We pulled up and I jumped out and about bounced into the store. There was the lady behind the counter sitting on her stool. I walked up to the counter and produced the duct tape..."here, it's for you!" and then it happened. The lady behind the counter didn't just smile she laughed. A deep belly laugh. A laugh of surprise, a laugh of delight, a laugh that said sounded like music to my ears. I knew right then and there that my job for the week wasn't really about getting a ramp done, it was about bringing joy to the lady behind the counter.
As we left, she offered to pay for it and I refused..."it's my Christmas gift to you," I said. "Merry Christmas" was her reply. The smile was still on her face and I hope that every time she sees flame patterned duck tape she gets a smile on her face.
It's amazing what God and flame covered duct tape can do.
A few years ago my friend N decided that I needed some pink duct tape. My guitar case was getting a little beat up from the airlines and so he bought the pink duct tape and I decorated my guitar case. Last February in D-land, my poncho tore, so N again came to the rescue, this time finding pink and purple plaid duct tape. My D-land poncho is now designer gear. In April the team in Mississippi found purple tie-dyed patterned duck tape and gifted me with as a special prize for being a Jefferson Award recipient. Cousin T found out about the different patterned duct tape and decided that because she loves anything ducks, that she wanted duct tape (or as we more commonly call it "duck" tape) for Christmas. I was happy to oblige.
While in Mississippi, I went to my favorite store to dislike shopping in but the only place available, and found a whole plethora of duct tape. Zebra striped, camo, bright yellow, red and yellow tie-dyed and flame patterned to name a few. I picked up the Zebra and red and yellow tie-dyed for Cousin T. That was Monday night.
On Tuesday we stopped at the Mini-Mart out on highway 90 to grab some sodas and coffee for the crew at lunch. As we walked up to the counter to pay, the lady behind the counter stood up and, as I said in a previous post, her stool that she normally sits had flames on the seat but was patched up by silver duct tape. I knew right then that I was getting her the flame duct tape.
Wednesday we went out to lunch, so we didn't go in the mini-mart. That afternoon, Ben and I had to make a run to Lowe's for more building materials. As we drove we started talking about what was happening in Pearlington. We talked about the new market that is going in on highway 604, which lead to a discussion about the mini-mart on highway 90. Ben doesn't hold high regard for that mini-mart nor the lady behind the counter. I commented that I actually got her to smile and his reply was that was because I was from out of town and that I wouldn't be around that long to bother her. It was a pretty interesting commentary on small town life.
That night, even though I was tired and had a blog to write, I drove a group to my favorite store to dislike but there are no other options and bought the flame colored duct tape.
Thursday lunchtime arrived and I was eager to get to the mini-mart. We pulled up and I jumped out and about bounced into the store. There was the lady behind the counter sitting on her stool. I walked up to the counter and produced the duct tape..."here, it's for you!" and then it happened. The lady behind the counter didn't just smile she laughed. A deep belly laugh. A laugh of surprise, a laugh of delight, a laugh that said sounded like music to my ears. I knew right then and there that my job for the week wasn't really about getting a ramp done, it was about bringing joy to the lady behind the counter.
As we left, she offered to pay for it and I refused..."it's my Christmas gift to you," I said. "Merry Christmas" was her reply. The smile was still on her face and I hope that every time she sees flame patterned duck tape she gets a smile on her face.
It's amazing what God and flame covered duct tape can do.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
A vessel of love
In High School my favorite teacher was Mrs. C. She was my Senior English teacher but we went way back. Her daughter was in daycare with my brother (I'm not positive that I was still there when she was there but that's logistics) and Papa Bear was a teacher at the same school. Anyway, Mrs. C. was the most wonderful teacher. I wasn't the best student my senior year of high school. I had "senioritis" so bad and sometimes was doing my homework as it was supposed to be turned in. Mrs. C. would never get on my case overtly, just subtly and with love. I always knew I was loved by her, especially because I had a nickname..."B". Just "B".
Mrs. C. got sick soon after I graduated high school. She was brave, fought valiantly for life and was successful for years. During that time her daughter, now grown up and with daughters of her own, started working for our church and then attending the church. I would see Mrs. C. at special events and church dinners and she always, always had a smile, a hug, a kiss and a beautiful "Hi B". Even years after High School that "Hi B" spoke volumes and volumes of love.
Mrs. C. died a couple of years ago, way too young. Since that time my friendship with her daughter has grown and grown. A while ago I noticed that she had started calling me "B". It made me stop in my tracks...that one letter of my name was filled with so much love coming from her mom and that same respect and love was shining through her daughter. Every time she says it, it's like Mrs. C. is saying it too and my heart explodes with joy.
Mrs. C's daughter is with me this week in Pearlington. She's very amazing in her own right and has been a joy to be around. Yesterday was her birthday and we went to the beach after working for a little break. I knew that Mrs. C's daughter was missing her mom on her birthday, not to mention her hubby and 3 kids at home and had plans for later that evening to just celebrate her. As the majority of people spilled out onto the beach I noticed that Mrs. C's daughter was holding back. I turned around and yelled out "Come on M, you have to put your toes in the water!". Turns out those words didn't actually come from me. Mrs. C chose that moment to speak words of love to her daughter...and I was humbled to be the vessel.
The toes of Yo Momma, me and M in the Gulf of Mexico
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Last first day of school
Today I found myself with a whole day (after church) with nothing scribbled into the box on my calendar. Nothing. I rarely find myself with days like these, where nothing is scribbled in and nothing is piled up at home that needs to be dealt with...thanks to last weekends marathon laundry day. So I did something I've been needing to do for a long time, I went shopping for girl clothes. Not my favorite thing to do. The trying on of certain girl items always leaves me uncomfortable and irritated. Us big girls only have a few places that we can get certain girl items and when none of those items fits appropriately, well, I get pretty irritated with clothing manufacturers. But that's another blog entry.
Anyway, after my girl clothes shopping, I wandered through my favorite chain store (think bulleyes) and then decided that though I really love Aunt C. and could have dropped by her house as a surprise, I really just wanted to go home. (Thanks for understanding Aunt C.) And so I got onto the highway headed towards home. Mistake number one. Within a mile traffic came to a slow and we crawled along for a while. Then traffic stopped. I turned to the news radio station hoping to hear if this was just regular traffic or if there was an accident ahead. No word on that but the person reading the news was only too happy to share that this week we'll be having a heat wave**. Lovely. Suddenly the traffic started moving again and I happily moved along with the rest of the cars around me, past the one exit that would take me onto an alternate route and then traffic stopped again. That was enough, I quickly took the next exit and decided that my shopping time was not yet done. I then made mistake number two. I went into an office store.
The parking lot was busy but I've not been to this particular office store before, so I didn't think much of it and then I went inside. Holy cow. Parents and children were everywhere. Dads were yelling for children across the store, Mom's were pushing carts filled to the brim with back to school items and children were wandering through the aisles looking for just the right folder or pencil set. Yikes. The cashier commented that tomorrow is going to be even worse. I wished her luck and got out of there fast!
Driving home (on the alternate route) I started thinking about school. Specifically my last first day of high school. Not being in the "In" crowd I didn't' get the memo that said "wear toga's on the first day of school" but I wasn't the only one. I remember walking onto campus (having driven myself to school for the first time) and thinking "This is my Senior year". It felt different, I felt different. Maybe it was the acknowledgement that life was going to change drastically in the next year or the realization that over the summer life had changed for me. Whatever it was I remember that last first day of school and smile. It was a good year, a growing year. I wouldn't change it for anything.
Tomorrow the class of 2009 will step onto the local High School campus for their last first day of school. I hope and pray that years down the road they will be able to look back at that day and smile.
**If I had been thinking I would have known that this was the first week of school and stopped myself from making mistake number two...there's always a heat wave the first week of school. It's a given!
Anyway, after my girl clothes shopping, I wandered through my favorite chain store (think bulleyes) and then decided that though I really love Aunt C. and could have dropped by her house as a surprise, I really just wanted to go home. (Thanks for understanding Aunt C.) And so I got onto the highway headed towards home. Mistake number one. Within a mile traffic came to a slow and we crawled along for a while. Then traffic stopped. I turned to the news radio station hoping to hear if this was just regular traffic or if there was an accident ahead. No word on that but the person reading the news was only too happy to share that this week we'll be having a heat wave**. Lovely. Suddenly the traffic started moving again and I happily moved along with the rest of the cars around me, past the one exit that would take me onto an alternate route and then traffic stopped again. That was enough, I quickly took the next exit and decided that my shopping time was not yet done. I then made mistake number two. I went into an office store.
The parking lot was busy but I've not been to this particular office store before, so I didn't think much of it and then I went inside. Holy cow. Parents and children were everywhere. Dads were yelling for children across the store, Mom's were pushing carts filled to the brim with back to school items and children were wandering through the aisles looking for just the right folder or pencil set. Yikes. The cashier commented that tomorrow is going to be even worse. I wished her luck and got out of there fast!
Driving home (on the alternate route) I started thinking about school. Specifically my last first day of high school. Not being in the "In" crowd I didn't' get the memo that said "wear toga's on the first day of school" but I wasn't the only one. I remember walking onto campus (having driven myself to school for the first time) and thinking "This is my Senior year". It felt different, I felt different. Maybe it was the acknowledgement that life was going to change drastically in the next year or the realization that over the summer life had changed for me. Whatever it was I remember that last first day of school and smile. It was a good year, a growing year. I wouldn't change it for anything.
Tomorrow the class of 2009 will step onto the local High School campus for their last first day of school. I hope and pray that years down the road they will be able to look back at that day and smile.
**If I had been thinking I would have known that this was the first week of school and stopped myself from making mistake number two...there's always a heat wave the first week of school. It's a given!
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