Merry Christmas 2009!

♫ It’s a sign of the times. ♫
Remember that 1966 Petula Clark song? Well the sign of our times, is job loss and our family has definitely seen that this year. In February, Marty got laid off of his job and in November, I got laid off of my job. My son, Adam, even went through two layoffs this year. The good news is that everyone is working now, even if not in conventional ways.

I went from being a full time employee of my company to being a contract worker. I was actually out of work for 3 weeks. I am now back writing assembly procedures for R&D and I love it. Adam has also gone on to a job that he enjoys. He is operating a laser cutting machine for Owen Oil Tools.

Marty is pursuing the path less taken. After looking for conventional work, he decided to pursue internet marketing. It is like starting your own small business. He has spent most of this year learning about subjects like search engine optimization and latent semantic indexing. We are excited about the things he has discovered. Although he has not yet developed a money making business, we feel he is getting very close. I plan to help him by writing for the business in my spare time.

Besides Adam going on to bigger and better things, two of our other children have passed milestones this year. Fallon, Adam’s wife, graduated in May with an Associate’s degree. She is already taking more courses toward her next degree. Marty’s daughter, Carmen, went to school and got her Certified Nurse’s Assistant (CNA) license. We are very proud of both of our graduates.

Marty and I were very blessed to get to take a vacation to Walt Disney World in Florida this year. We went to the wedding of Chris and Brooke Woodrow in Atlanta and decided to just keep going to Florida. Disney World was great. Even though it was my fourth trip to Disney, I got to see the electric light parade for the first time. Marty got to meet his hero, Buzz Lightyear.

On our trip, we also got to stop in Lexington, South Carolina and see many dear friends I hadn’t seen since I moved away in 1999. They in turn got to meet my wonderful husband. How many prayers were said over my 8 years as a single, that God would bring a good man in my life? The mind boggles. But God is good and my SC friends could see proof of answered prayer.

Marty had a victory early this year. His picture of neon lights in Haltom Plaza won for the category Haltom City Scenes. It appears in the 2010 Haltom City calendar which is available for free at the HC library.

This year I got to carry on a family tradition of making Christmas cookies with the kids. My grandson, Addison, and my sister, Delia, joined me for some messy, but fun cookie making. Maybe next year, more of the grandkids can come.

My goal with my Christmas letter is to go mostly to an online version. This blog version has more pictures than my printed letter and you can click on the links. Marty’s latest website is BuyAdultDiapers.net and this is my new Arlington Barbecue Restaurants Examiner column. If you prefer to receive a paper letter next year, send me a note with "paper letter" in the subject.

We hope that you will have a heartwarming Christmas spent with your family and loved ones and we wish you increased health and prosperity in the New Year.

Love,

Veronica & Marty Hobson

Give It the Gas

My Sprint Instinct phone is amazing. It is one of those phone/internet/camera/TV/GPS combinations. Last year when we went to Illinois on vacation, the GPS function was invaluable for finding our hotel, local sights and our nearest favorite restaurant. Last week my husband, Marty, reminded me that it has a function to tell you the station with the cheapest gas nearby. Today on my way home from work, I decided to give it a try.

I stopped on the corner where I usually buy gas. I like this station because it is right on my way home. No detours to get there. I don’t even have to make a left turn. But today, I was going to be a smart gasoline shopper, so I pulled out my phone. I just punched the button for “Gas by Price.” It showed that 2 miles away, Kroger had gas for $1.91. I don’t usually go to Kroger. It’s a little out of the way. I looked over at my favorite station. Gas was $2.06 there. Wow! For 15¢ per gallon, it was worth the extra 2 miles.

I headed to Kroger. Should I go the North route or the South route? The North route is shorter, but it involves turning left into the gas station just as I enter the Kroger parking lot. There are usually cars lined up waiting to get out, so it is difficult to turn. If I went to the South, it was further, but I could slip in from the back side and not worry about those left turners clogging up my path. I chose the South route.

As I approached Kroger’s lot from the South, I noticed cars lined up toward me. Then I remembered from the previous night’s grocery shopping that construction was under way on the South route. No problem. I spotted an opening in the turn lane and I shot into the parking lot. After I arrived there, I realized that I had turned too soon. I was not in the Kroger lot, but the Avante Day Spa parking lot. Not desiring a makeover, I looked for an escape route. A cruise to the back of the lot revealed that it did not connect to Kroger’s lot. I drove back to the entrance and faced the prospect of turning left onto the street under construction which was backed up past my entrance. I decided to turn right.

I chose not to get upset. I would just retrace the two miles that I had veered off my path and take the Northern route instead of the Southern one. Yes, I was making the trip twice as long, but it would be worth it. I was going to save 15¢ a gallon. As I made the right turn onto the North route, my favorite station laid a tenth of a mile back to the left. I was not tempted. They were selling overpriced gas and I would have none of it.

I followed my route and found the clogged entrance to Kroger that I had expected. I just circled around and approached from the back. I noticed a lot of cars around the gas station. I guess I wasn’t the only one who got wind of their low gas prices. As I got closer, I saw that there were no available pumps. I circled looking for an opening. Finally, I spotted a lady pulling out on the other side.

I rushed around and was able to drive up to the available pump. I looked over and realized that the pump was on the right of my car and my gas tank was on the left. I tried the hose to see if it could reach over my car to the gas tank. It was about a foot too short. I re-entered my car, reversed it in a small circle and pulled back in. This time the gas tank and the pump were both on the left side of my car.

“Don’t forget,” I said to myself. To get the best gas price, “use your Kroger card.” I fished in my purse, found my debit card and my Kroger card. I scanned them both in. As I started to make my gas selection, I glanced at the price. “With an extra 3¢ off, this should be good.” The price was $2.02. I looked at the sign out by the street. Without the Kroger card discount, their price was $2.05, one penny different from my favorite station. My favorite station that is on my path home. My favorite station that only requires a right turn. My favorite station that never has a line at the pumps. My favorite station that I was next to 5 miles earlier on my odometer. I wonder if Sprint owns any stock in Kroger.

My Clunker Brain

My mind is starting to go. It used to work just fine, but a few months ago it began working like an old car that occasionally gets stuck in neutral. My husband, Marty, tries to help me get it started. Sometimes if he gives me a mental push, I can get back on the road again.

Me to Marty: I got a call from this guy today.
Yeah. Who was it?
I get a pained expression.
He’s tall, has a lot of tatoos. Likes to take pictures.
Oh, your son, Adam.
That’s him.
What did he say?
He wanted to know what to buy.
What to buy? Was he going to the grocery store?
No he’s buying something for an occasion.
What kind of an occasion?
It’s for a holiday that’s a month or two away.
Memorial Day?
No.
Fourth of July?
No.
What is he buying for a holiday? Does he need some decorations?
No, it’s for me. He wants to buy something for me.
For you? On what occasion would your son want to buy you something? Oh no, Honey! Did I forget your birthday?
No. No. No. My birthday isn’t until January.
Are you sure he wanted to buy something for you?
Yes. Yes. Oh now I remember. My son asked what I wanted for Mother’s Day.
Oh, that’s nice.
Yes, it is. I guess remembering people’s special occasions just sort of runs in the family.

To Do or Not To Do

I am a recovering perfectionist. I used to keep a running TO DO list. I never let anything drop off of it. Every few months, the page of my Big Chief tablet would get full. (If you know what a Big Chief tablet is, I wager you’re over 40.) I would tear off the top page and rewrite my list on the next page. I would omit the items that I had completed and crossed off. But I never deleted any other items. I just carried every little thing that I ever thought of to do, forward with me month after month. I never deleted an incomplete item. It was like carrying around Santa Claus’s pack. Unlike Santa Claus whose load gets lighter with every house he visits, my list got longer with every month that passed.

No item was too old to continue nagging at me. This actually has a good side. It explains why I got my engineering license 21 years after I graduated from college and why I finished my son’s quilt 12 years after I started it. (See http://veronicajungehobson.blogspot.com/2009/02/stitch-in-time.html.) But the bad side is the weight of all those incomplete tasks dragged me down. No matter how many tasks I completed, if there were items still on the list, I felt like a failure.

I finally decided to reform. I threw away my To Do list. No more carrying around tasks that were years old. I made a fresh start. If I felt that I had to make a list, it was only for one week or one day. The next day, I started all over with blank paper, nothing carried over from the past.

I continue recovering. I still have trouble allowing myself time to do fun things, but I’m learning. Having my husband, Marty, as a companion to watch tv, go out to dinner or see movies with helps me take time to enjoy life. Sometimes I relapse and I start to feel guilty for not accomplishing more things. I complain to Marty. “Well, honey, just do what I always do,” he says brightly. I look toward my love with hope in my eyes until he says, “Just make yourself a list.”

Sugar and Spice

Little girls are so sweet. Their mothers adorn them in frilly, lacy dresses. Precious little girl smiles beam from their faces. Beautiful, flowing hair graces their heads. They are so feminine and cute.

We got to spend time with Marty’s youngest granddaughter, Julianna, this past Sunday. Carmen, Shane and Julianna traveled with Marty and me to Paris, Texas for the confirmation of Marty’s grandson, John.

We arrived at church almost an hour early. Carmen had dressed Julianna in a precious little blue and white dress. She had on white tights and dainty little white shoes. The only flaw I had noticed was that her bangs were hanging in her eyes. I decided to tie them back with a rubber band. I grabbed Julianna and began brushing her hair. She started crying. I persisted in brushing. She went limp and collapsed to the floor. I returned her to my lap and squeezed her between my legs. I started putting in the rubber band. She threw her head from side to side. I made a few more twists in the rubber band. She escaped from my lap and I barely finished putting in the rubber band before she ran away.

When church began and we sat down, she was fussing mildly and rubbing her eyes. I took her to the nursery.
“I’ll get this kid to sleep in no time and I will be able to return to my seat with a sleeping child and enjoy the service.”
So, I thought.

In the nursery I stood and patted her. I sat and rocked her. I held her tight until my arms were aching and I was sweating. It was a long service. I chased her and wrestled with her for 2 hours during the church service. She finally got so rambunctious that I took her out to the car and strapped her into her car seat. I sat in the front seat for 20 minutes and read my book.

She sat in the back and drank her juice and fussed about being confined. She finally got quiet and I was able to devote myself to reading my book. A few minutes later, I heard her shoe striking the seat after she removed it and hurled it across the car. I saw no harm in her removing her shoe. In a minute I heard the other shoe as she dropped it to the floor. Now she could relax since her feet were no longer confined. She seemed content and all was quiet for about 5 minutes. Then I heard this slurping noise coming from the back seat. It sounded as if she was sucking on a lollipop. I turned around to view a strange sight.

She had obviously been busy for the last 5 minutes. I could see that she had pulled on the tights on her right foot. She yanked on the tights until the heel was at her toe. She tugged some more until the area for her knee was down at her foot. Then she gave the tights a final stretch until she reached her goal. When I turned around, she had the toe of her tights in her mouth and she was happily sucking away. I decided it was time to put her feminine little shoes back on.

Later at Aunt Taunya’s house in the country, she was excited to check out the many amusements available to her. Mommy changed her from her frilly dress and white shoes to jeans and sandals. She ran in the grass in the big yard. She pulled on the gate to the back pasture. Her hair (bangs amazingly still in the rubber band) flew behind her as she rode through the air in the swing. Her mommy, Carmen, took her for a walk in the back lot to see the baby ducks. The ducks were in a pen. Aunt Taunya said they would soon be big enough to be released into the yard where they could enjoy the duck pond. The pond was an oval just 6 feet wide and only 1 foot deep. Even though it was small, the previous flock of ducks had gotten maximum enjoyment out of the few gallons of water in the pool.

Julianna and Mommy returned to the main yard and Julianna kept Mommy and Pa Paw and me busy monitoring her whereabouts. She opened the gate and escaped 20 feet into the back pasture before I caught her and hauled her back. She roamed about the yard, petted the dog, chased the kittens and looked for an escape route through the front gate. We felt safe when she became interested in a ball in the middle of the yard. We all sat down to rest and watch her from the comfort of our chairs. She stopped in front of the duck pond. We all watched as she gazed into the water. Then without warning, she walked right into the pond. Her jeans were soaked to the knees. Mommy took her inside and put her into a pair of dry shorts. Fortunately, the sandals just required shaking out. (I don’t know if the toes of sandals are as tasty as the toes of tights. Perhaps not. I didn’t see her sampling them.)

Later there was chocolate cake that I used to lure her once again away from the back gate. Aunt Taunya even provided an Easter egg hunt and Juli picked up six eggs. Finally at 4:30 pm it was time to go. We all loaded into the car: Marty, Carmen, Shane, Julianna and me. We got about 10 minutes down the road and Carmen said,
“Julianna is asleep.”
I turned around so I could see her. She looked so cute and feminine. When she was asleep.

Take Control of Cancer

Cancer is a disease that makes you feel powerless. You don’t know if you are going to get it and you feel powerless to prevent it. If you get it, you don’t know if you will survive and you feel like it is taking over your life. But having knowledge about research, prevention and treatment options can help you feel more in control of your life.

CancerReportDaily.com is a website that connects you with the latest news about cancer. It has links to news stories about lung, skin, breast, colon and many other types of cancer. The stories are always current because the site is updated every day. Even though a diagnosis of cancer is a dreadful thing, this website is a voice of hope.

The site’s founder has lost several friends and family members to cancer. Because of this, he created CancerReportDaily.com as a way to help people who are suffering from cancer. There are so many preventions and treatments that are advancing everyday. He wants to share this knowledge with people. He is a man with a good heart who cares about people. I should know. He is my husband, Marty.

Dog Revolution

My dogs are taking over my life. Back in the old days, I had two young dogs, Rusty and Maxine. Their coats were shiny and sleek. They hadn’t been through any cold winters, so they had no extra hair. They slept in the house on the floor. They drank out of one water bowl. They ate out of one food bowl. I just kept it filled. Once a month, I went to Wal Mart and bought a 40 lb bag of dog food for $16. Once a year, I took them to the vet for their rabies shots. Life with my dogs was simple and cheap. No more.

Twelve years later, they have been through a lot of winters and summers. Their coats never seem to catch up with the seasons. In the dead of winter, they are shedding big hunks of dog down. I suspect in the summer, they are regrowing their winter coats as they lounge all day in my air conditioned house. We also have added two more dogs, Dashell and Pancho. Both are short haired, but they still make their contributions to the high level of dog hair in the house.

No matter how I try, I cannot leave for work in the morning without getting dog hair all over my pants. I put a lint roller in my car because that is where I always discover that I have dog hair on me. I try to keep the dogs from rubbing up against me in the 10 minutes between the time I get dressed and I walk out the door. I stopped hanging my jacket over my chair because I realized that they were rubbing up against it and then when I picked it up the next morning, I got dog hair all over me.

This morning, no dogs rubbed against me, I plucked my jacket from the hook high on the door, grabbed my bag, jumped in the car and roared off. Sitting at a stop light, I noticed three dog hairs on my black pants. I easily removed these with the lint roller and was dog hair free (well as dog hair free as a woman with four dogs can ever be). When I arrived at the carpool, I snatched my purse and bag and leapt out the door. I looked down as I exited the car. My pants were enveloped in dog hair from my waist band all the way down to my cuffs. My bag! I hung my bag on the side of my chair that is next to the back door. As I let the dogs out last night, each dog must have scratched an itch by rubbing against my bag.

Besides dealing with their hair there are the requirements for special food or medicine. Rusty is now an old guy with two blown out knees. (I think he played too much tackle football in his youth.) He has to take anti-inflammatory medication at a cost of $80 every 60 days. I stick the pill and my finger down his throat every morning. Then I reward him with a spoonful of peanut butter for not throwing up. Also, kidneys evidently give out when a guy gets old, so Rusty has to eat special food to prevent further kidney damage. For variety we mix the dry food ($18 per bag) with the canned food ($20 per case). At meal time he is segregated from the other dogs to prevent them from eating his food and vice versa.

Dashell has always been a special problem. Allergies cause his skin to turn bright red whenever he comes in contact with detergent, grass or too much sun. Marty washes all of the dogs blankets in baby detergent ($8 per bottle) just so that Dashell can lay down wherever he wants to in the house without breaking out. Dashell requires two pills twice a day to calm down his allergic reactions. One pill is $27 for 100 capsules and the other is $25 for 120 capsules. On the last visit to the vet she excitedly told us about a new therapy for dogs with skin allergies: special food. Now Dashell is eating fish and rice kibble at $23 per bag. The first bag lasted about a week and a half.

No special diet or medicine for Pancho or Maxine. They just act offended that I never give them any medicine or the treat that goes with it.

Just in the last two days, Dashell has started an annoying habit. He is digging in the yard. Not just in the yard, he is digging around one of my $300 trees that I planted last year. The vitex tree has beautiful purple blossoms that erupt all over the tree and continue blooming throughout the summer. Marty and I were discussing purchasing chicken wire to surround the tree and protect it from this canine invader. I mentioned this problem in the carpool and my friend suggested that perhaps Dashell had a mineral deficiency. What a brilliant thought. With his new restricted diet, he could easily be missing out on something. A quick call to the vet and now Dashell has a new medication to take twice a day: Flintstone vitamins with iron ($10 a bottle).

I guess there is one consolation. After all this money I spent, I can be sure that only healthy, high quality dog hair will show up on my black pants.

Cooking with Grammy

Marty and I babysat my 4 year old grandson, Addison, this past weekend. Excuse me, I mean I kidsat my grandson. My sister called while he was here. When I told her I was babysitting Addison, he corrected me. “Grammy, I’m not a baby.”

One of our favorite things to do together is cooking. Ever since Addison was small, I have let him help me cook. I used to hold him while I stood at the stove. I would explain to him everything that I was doing even when he was 6 months old. This past weekend he insisted on pulling a chair over to the stove so that he could watch and help me. I measured out the ingredients and let him pour them in the bowl. He is getting pretty skilled now but it used to be when I let go of the spoon or the cup I didn’t know where the ingredients were going to end up. Some of it did actually make it into the bowl, but a lot of it ended up on the counter, the floor, or the dogs.

This weekend, I let him help set the table and I asked him to take his plate to the sink when he was through eating. I also let him help me make fruit salad. I put orange juice in the bowls to keep the fruit from turning brown. Then I let him stir it after I put the cut up apples in. I also had him cut up the bananas with a butter knife. He let me know that he is not allowed to touch knives but I showed him that this knife couldn’t cut him. I cooked about a dozen sausage patties and put them on a paper towel in a plate. I let him carry them to the table. The dogs sniffed at the plate as he was walking. His carrying height for plates is well within the dogs’ snatching range. He tried to protect the sausage by holding the plate at a 45 degree angle above his head. I pictured the sausages all sliding off the plate and landing in the dogs’ eating range. With the hair of four dogs swirling throughout the house, I am sure not going to eat anything off my floor.

Earlier Addison brought one of his Legos® to me because it had a dog hair on it. I pulled it off. He said “How did that happen, Grammy?” I said, “There is dog hair everywhere in Grammy’s house.” He looked straight up and said, “I don’t see any on the ceiling.” I had to admit that even in my house, there is no dog hair on the ceiling.

Color Me Tasteless

I have no taste. I cannot pick clothes that go together. I have no fashion sense. I cannot choose fabrics for a quilt. I was born this way. I am not color blind but I am missing the tasteful color gene. This wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have the ambition to dress attractively, be a fashion designer, and make quilts.

My mother taught me to sew at a young age. I was sewing seams on the sewing machine by the time that I was 8. In junior high I was making all of my own clothes. By high school I was sewing banquet dresses for my mother and even a wedding dress for my sister. I was good at crafting garments. I was not so good at picking the fabrics that go into one.

When I was 11 I went to Camp Fire Girl camp. Swimming, crafts, and horse back riding interested me, so I signed up. The camp brochure said that riding clothes were required for getting on the horses. My mom had confidence in my talents so she said that I could sew the necessary clothes. “Riding outfit” would be a misleading term for the pink floral concoction that I constructed. At the fabric store I reasoned that the main purpose of the riding clothes was to save my other clothes from hazards like dust, dirt and dung. Therefore, it didn’t matter what they looked like. I chose a simple pattern of poncho and elastic waist pants. I found a nice floral print in the four yards for a dollar bin. Striking a festive note, I added pink balled trim around the poncho edge and pants hems. My camp counselors were suitably impressed,
“Hey, you. Look out! You’re scaring the horses.”

Photos of me at that time reveal a complete lack of style. Sporting my headgear for my braces, I posed happily with my family on vacation. I guess I had a weakness for pink florals, because I was wearing a different wild flower print on that occasion. As a grown up, my best friend has had to struggle with keeping boys away from her young daughters. I can see that my mother had no reason for such worries.

In junior high, I began sewing for my mother as well as myself. My mom was a high school teacher and had to attend many dinners for her classes. She picked out the fabrics and I sewed all of her banquet dresses. We even created our own pattern when I made my sister’s wedding gown. My skillful construction of clothes led me to the conclusion that I would be a good fashion designer. My complete lack of taste and impaired sense of color, did not dissuade me. I discovered one of those old banquet dresses a few years ago. Evidently my poor fashion sense was an inherited trait.

I abandoned dreams of a fashion career in high school and opted for a more practical major of mechanical engineering. College, marriage and children occupied my time and there was little time for sewing. Laid off from Bell Helicopter in 1991, I became a stay-at-home mom and had more time for sewing. I took up quilting.

Quilting utilized my good construction skills and gave me an opportunity for creative expression. Unfortunately, bad taste was all I was able to express. I became infuriated one evening when I tried to assemble a simple scrap quilt. I chose to make it out of strips of different green fabrics. I had many green scraps to choose from. I tried myriad alternatives and failed to find a combination of five strips that looked good together. Blue green stood out of one fabric as I held it up to another. I put that down only to find the next piece was a yellow green that didn’t match the forest green. I didn’t have a good enough sense of color to select the few pieces that blended together. I only knew enough about color to see how horrible the combinations that I came up with were. It was an extremely simple quilt and I could have finished it in an hour, but I was so angry about the mismatched colors that I never sewed a stitch.

Then in 1997 five babies at Lexington Church of Christ were swaddled in beautiful quilts I constructed. How did that happen? I learned a trick. My quilting instructor revealed to the class one day a simple technique for matching fabrics. “Start with a print you like. Remember that fabric designers are very skilled at choosing colors. Take the print with you to the fabric store and pick out coordinating fabrics by choosing colors that are in that print.”

It worked! I made quilts for the babies at church and a wall hanging for the ladies’ craft exchange and a vest for my sister’s birthday and a queen sized quilt for the guest room. And they all matched. They all had coordinating colors.

Now I needed to find a way to dress attractively. My fabric trick didn’t seem to help me at the clothing store. Well, if I couldn’t change the way I wore colors, maybe I could change the way those colors were perceived. I needed to find a guy who had no sense of color. One who could find my twisted fashion sense attractive. Then I met Marty. He thinks I’m beautiful all the time, no matter what. I call it special brain damage. He calls it love. Problem solved.

A Good Man

They say you just can’t keep a good man down. That could have been said about my friend, Pete, who died from cancer last week. I met Haral Pederson at work eight years ago. He told me that his friends called him “Pete” so he was always “Pete” to me.

The memorable thing about Pete is that he had a life well lived. He lived fully right up to the last days of his life. He was a great example of hope and perseverance. He enjoyed his garden, his painting, his gambling and his ice cream. He kept going, he stayed active, long after most people would have confined themselves to bed.

I remember lots of things about Pete:

I remember him telling me that he snuck away from his wife, Julie, in the middle of the night to go gambling at the casino. A couple of years later, after he was so sick he couldn’t drive; I said “I guess you’re not going to be sneaking off to go gambling anymore.” “No, I guess not,” he said.

I remember how long he kept coming to work after he was sick. He said it made him feel better to be there.

I remember when I took him out to Pappadeux’s for lunch shortly after he found out that the cancer came back, again. He said, “I don’t want to talk about cancer,” and so we didn’t.

It was my mission to cheer him up. I told him many of my secrets. I told him things that I would never dare to tell a married man from work. I told him how I thought there might be a serious relationship in my future with the guy in the office next to him. I broke all of my rules with him. I thought, “What difference does it make? This guy is going to die soon and he will take all of my secrets to the grave.” Then when he seemed to be getting better, I told him, “After everything that I’ve told you, if you don’t die, I’m going to have to kill you.” I needn’t have worried, he lived for several years after that but he never betrayed my trust.

The hopeful thing about Pete’s story is that a person can be ravaged by cancer but not give into it. He knew that cancer would take his life, but he never let it take over his life. He lived his life as long as he possibly could. He didn’t ask for sympathy, he just wanted to keep living.

He kept living by always having a goal. A few years ago, he wanted to live long enough for his daughter’s wedding. He rode his wheelchair down the aisle and gave Erika away in July, 2005. She got pregnant the next year and he wanted to live long enough to see his granddaughter. Aubrey was born in July, 2007. This past fall, September 2008, he wanted to go to the beach one more time. His son, Trey, went with him to Destin Beach, Florida. In December, Pete told me he wanted to go to the casino again. His brother took him soon after that. Earlier this month, he was lying in bed during our visit because he was too weary to sit up. After we had been there an hour, he said, “Let’s go get ice cream.” He seemed to think that he was perfectly capable of getting out of bed and taking a ride to Braum’s. I convinced him to let my husband, Marty (the guy who used to be in the office next to Pete) go and bring us back some ice cream. When Marty returned, Pete ate a big bowl of chocolate almond.

When I was a kid I remember seeing a book on my dad’s shelf. It was a book by Norman Vincent Peale entitled “Stay Alive All Your Life.” That book could have been written about my friend, Pete, because that’s what he did.

A Stitch in Time

Do you think that you are a procrastinator? Do you keep putting off things that you know you ought to be working on? I know that I am a procrastinator. I just finished a project that I started 12 years ago.

In 1997 I was a happy, stay-at-home mom. My two kids were in school and I finally had some time to myself during the day. I started quilting as a creative hobby. I made about five quilts for friends at church who were having babies. I decided that it was time I lavished some of my talent on my own children, so I started a quilt for my son. He was 12.

I chose his old blue jeans as the quilting material. This involved ripping open the double seams of his jeans, pressing them, cutting them into strips and then sewing them back together. I tried a tumbling block pattern. I liked it because if the light and dark pieces are chosen correctly, it gives a three-dimensional geometric effect. I sewed a sample block. It involved 60 degree angles and precise piecing. The result was a pattern that was much too complicated for bulky denim fabric.

Next I tried a Roman Square pattern which was three rectangles sewn side by side. Simple pattern with minimum seams, it was perfect. Then my world fell apart. I went through a divorce and suddenly had to face single parenting and rebuilding my career to support my family. All thoughts of quilting flew out the window.

A few years later when I had a week off at Christmas, I ripped apart more jeans, cut more strips and sewed a few more squares. During the rest of the year it was hard to find the time and the project box would sit in the top of the closet until the next December. Some Christmases, I didn’t get the box out at all. Every summer I would say,
“I’ll finish this in time for his next birthday.”
After his October birthday passed, I would say,
“I’ll finish this for his Christmas gift.”
Several Christmases passed and I said,
“I’ll finish this for his high school graduation.”

In between I made progress on the quilt. I cut out and sewed all 88 of the Roman Squares that I needed. He became engaged and I thought,
“I’ll finish this for his wedding present.”
I didn’t make the wedding deadline. About five years ago I had a flurry of activity and got most of the rows completed. I laid them out on my bed in the order that they were to be sewed together, but my vacation time ended. I rolled up the rows, and put them back in the box. The next time I sewed a few more rows together and then had to roll them up and put them away again.

In November, 2008 I said,
“I am going to finish this quilt.”
I thought that I could get it done by Christmas.
It was a normal December: hectic and overloaded with too many activities, so I said,
“I’m not going to stress myself out by pushing to get this done by Christmas, but I will get it done.”

So, every spare moment after Christmas I crammed in a little sewing time. I got all of the rows of the quilt assembled. I returned to work after New Year’s. I kept sewing in the evenings. I sewed on the side triangles and the border. I worked on Saturdays and assembled the quilt top, batting and backing. In desperation, I temporarily abandoned writing in my blog and machine quilted the assembled pieces. Then I sewed on the outside binding.

I finished the quilt on January 26, 2008. On the following Saturday I handed over a wrapped package and I said,
“Son, this is your graduation, wedding, Christmas, and birthday gift for the last twelve years.”
My 24 year old, married son, father of my three year grandson said,
“Thanks, Mom.”

Old Fears

Public humiliation, unemployment, and sudden death are all scary issues for me. I try to be an optimist, but when I lay my head on my pillow at night I worry.
“Will I forget to dress in the morning and find myself at work in my underwear?
Will I have a job next month?
Will I have a heart attack in my sleep?”

These are the fears that creep into my mind. But for my three year old grandson, Addison, these issues are of absolutely no concern. When he comes to my house he wants to chase the dogs. He wants to play games with Grammy. He wants to go to the playground. He is a carefree, happy child. Mom and Dad go to work, pay the bills and search for health care. He has no such concerns.

Playing Mr. Potato Head was his primary concern when he came to visit me the other day. His parents sat bored on the sofa for 15 minutes while Addison and I traded hats and shoes and tongues for our Potato Head Pals. Finally his parents realized that their presence was not required for this activity so they rose from the sofa.
“We’d better get going if we are going to make the 5:30 movie.”
Addison’s Potato Head concentration was broken and he realized that Mom and Dad were leaving and he needed help with a wardrobe problem.
“My pants are soaked.”
“Addison!”
He hung his head while Mom and Dad removed his wet clothes.
“How could you wet your pants? You know better than that.”
Addison shrugged his shoulders and looked at his feet.
Grammy escorted Addison to the bathtub and Mom and Dad left for the movie.

Marty and I dread wide awake grandchildren at bedtime, so to induce sleep; I gave Addison some hot chocolate at 9 o’clock. I read him a story and pointed him toward the bed. His feet and head stretch the netting on each end of my portacrib, so I let him lie down in the queen size guest bed. An hour later, as I lay in bed in the dark I realized that the too small portacrib has an advantage that the guest bed does not, plastic sheets. I hoped that he would find his way to the bathroom in the middle of the night if nature called. I tip toed into his room the next morning and slid my hand around under the covers. To my relief, everything was dry.

Bryce is the bright, inquisitive grandson of my best friend. She takes care of him during the week while his mom goes to college. She knows much more about kid things than I do since she is a full time grandma. I am only a weekend warrior grandma. She recommended we take Addison to lunch at a nearby McDonalds. Bryce likes this particular restaurant because it has a fire engine inside, not a real fire engine, but an outside shell that contains tables and seats. The whole indoor playground has a fire fighting theme. He likes the fire engine and the slides but he refuses to climb to the top of the 20 foot play structure. He explained to Grandma.
“There are firemen stuck to the wall.”
“How cute,” I thought. There are pictures of firemen in the top level of the playground and his 3 year old brain thinks that it is real men stuck to the wall. Despite this warning, I decided to take Addison there anyway.

Addison squirmed and pulled on my arm as I tried to decide on our food at McDonalds. He had spotted the fire truck and the playground and his mind had no room for anything else. Marty took over the food acquisition while I found a table in the fire truck. Addison stood on the seat and looked over the side of the fire truck at the playground. He saw other kids who were climbing and jumping and sliding.
“Grammy I want to go play,” he pleaded.
I was going to be a good grandmother today and uphold his parents’ rule.
“No playing until after you eat your lunch.”
He moaned. He tried to climb over the edge of the fire truck. He stared longingly at the other kids.

After what seemed like an hour and a half, Marty arrived with our food. The fight to keep him inside the fire truck morphed into a fight to get him to eat his hamburger. He took tiny bites and begged to go play. I relented and told him he could play if he just ate half of his hamburger. His face was tortured and twisted as he choked down the last two bites.

He sprang out of the seat and onto the playground as soon as I gave the OK. He happily climbed up the stairs and flew down the slide. He ran back and forth and spoke to all of the children. He jumped up and down on the rubber play surface.

He ran over to our table to get a drink. He squirmed and jumped up and down as he was drinking. Pa Paw quickly interpreted his symptoms.
“Addison, come with me to the bathroom.”
“NO, Pa Paw. I don’t have to go!”
He bent over as he twisted his legs together.
“Yes, Addison, we’re going now,” and Marty dragged him off to the bathroom.

Marty chuckled a few minutes later when they returned from the bathroom. Addison scurried back up the stairs while Marty talked.
“He was in the bathroom at the urinal relieving himself at obviously high pressure when he turned and gave me an incredulous look.
“Pa Paw, I really did have to go!”

I looked up at the high walls next to the playground. I saw what looked like the physical remains of deceased firemen. Flat uniforms suspended above empty pairs of boots on either side. The headless forms were topped by worn out firemen’s helmets.
“Yuck! What happened to those guys?”
I remembered Bryce’s fear. His 3 year old brain must have reasoned that at the top of the stairs was a speeding carousel that would fling you against the wall. Maybe he thought the firemen were left hanging there on the wall to warn the children.

It occurred to me that public humiliation, unemployment and sudden death might be just exactly what a three year old worries about.