My car is 11 years old with 198,000 miles, so it is understandable that is has a few quirks. Like the engine running after I take the key out. I can drive down the highway at 60 miles an hour, pull the key out of the ignition, and it just keeps running. Problems arise when I stop the car and don't fully turn it off before taking the key out. As I open the door, the warning bell dings reminding me to turn the car fully off.
This morning I thought my 11 year old car had finally incurred permanent brain damage. I parked at work, turned off the car and pulled out the key. When I opened the door, I heard the telltale "ding ding ding." The running lights were on. I reinserted the key and turned the car fully off. Rather, I attempted to turn the car fully off. Repeatedly. After 5 attempts I called my husband, Marty. "Find the fuse for the lights and pull it out," he advised. I grabbed my owner's manual and headed into my office to research the location of the fuses.
"Your lights are on," one coworker informed me. "Yes, I know. The ignition is broken and I can't turn the car off," I explained. "I can drive you to the repair shop," he offered. "Thanks," I said, "I might need a ride."
I continued to my office. Before I could read the owner's manual, another coworker suggested that I ask our resident car expert, Andy, for help. Andy popped out of his chair and hurried to the parking lot when I told him my problem. I explained the history of the broken ignition switch while the car dinged. He inserted the keys and turned a few knobs. The car stopped dinging. "How did you do that?" I demanded. "I turned your lights off," he said.
Perhaps the high mileage individual with the brain damage, is not my car.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, December 20, 2010
Merry Christmas, 2010!
For the Hobsons, 2010 has been a year of tightening our belts and counting our blessings. My employment situation changed a year ago from full time to contract. That means my hourly salary is higher, but I have no benefits. My contracts have run from 3 to 6 months. Our situation has been less secure this year, but Marty and I decided that we would thank God and enjoy our lives anyway. Twice this year our income dropped as I had to take unpaid breaks between contracts. But Marty and I decided to see it as a blessing and used the time for vacation.
For the Hobsons, 2010 has been a year of tightening our belts and counting our blessings. My employment situation changed a year ago from full time to contract. That means my hourly salary is higher, but I have no benefits. My contracts have run from 3 to 6 months. Our situation has been less secure this year, but Marty and I decided that we would thank God and enjoy our lives anyway. Twice this year our income dropped as I had to take unpaid breaks between contracts. But Marty and I decided to see it as a blessing and used the time for vacation. In March, we returned to Disney World. We la
st visited there in June, 2009. Marty began a family tradition of trying on funny hats. I took pictures of him in a Viking hat, a pirate hat, and a cowboy hat. But my favorite picture is of Marty in a princess hat.
During my November employment break, we took a vacation through the hill country of Texas. We visited Gruene, New Braunfels, and Fredericksburg. In Gruene we admired the rushing river and dined at the Gristmill. In New Braunfels, we attended a Lutheran church and ate barbecue at the New Braunfels Smokehouse. In Fredricksburg, we toured the shops and ate real German sausage. Our sightseeing gave me an appreciation not only for the contributions of German immigrants to Texas history but also an appreciation for my own German heritage.
Another of the blessings in our lives, are our good friends and family. One of those is my friend, Romie, who has been an adoptive mother to me since my mom died. This year Romie wrote a book about her life growing up on a farm in Gatesville, Texas. Our friend, Sarah, typed and edited the book and I inserted Romie’s pictures and molded it into book form. Romie debuted the book at her Wicker family reunion. Sarah and I attended the reunion and were thrilled to be inducted as honorary Wicker women.
This year has h
ad its losses and gains. In May, my sister-in-law, Bonnie Junge, passed away after a battle with cancer. Just a few weeks later, we rejoiced as my niece, Jennifer Junge, married her longtime sweetheart, Bo.
In April, we mourned the death of our 14 year old dog, Rusty. In November, we thought we were going to lose another dog, but Marty medicated and hand fed our Chihuahua and Pancho came back strong.
Marty has continued to study and experiment with internet marketing. He discovered his niche and we are both very excited about his new business plan. He is now offering internet marketing to local businesses.
I hope whatever trials come your way in the New Year, you are able to find the blessings that are hidden in them.
Merry Christmas!
Veronica and Marty Hobson
st visited there in June, 2009. Marty began a family tradition of trying on funny hats. I took pictures of him in a Viking hat, a pirate hat, and a cowboy hat. But my favorite picture is of Marty in a princess hat.During my November employment break, we took a vacation through the hill country of Texas. We visited Gruene, New Braunfels, and Fredericksburg. In Gruene we admired the rushing river and dined at the Gristmill. In New Braunfels, we attended a Lutheran church and ate barbecue at the New Braunfels Smokehouse. In Fredricksburg, we toured the shops and ate real German sausage. Our sightseeing gave me an appreciation not only for the contributions of German immigrants to Texas history but also an appreciation for my own German heritage.
Another of the blessings in our lives, are our good friends and family. One of those is my friend, Romie, who has been an adoptive mother to me since my mom died. This year Romie wrote a book about her life growing up on a farm in Gatesville, Texas. Our friend, Sarah, typed and edited the book and I inserted Romie’s pictures and molded it into book form. Romie debuted the book at her Wicker family reunion. Sarah and I attended the reunion and were thrilled to be inducted as honorary Wicker women.
This year has h
ad its losses and gains. In May, my sister-in-law, Bonnie Junge, passed away after a battle with cancer. Just a few weeks later, we rejoiced as my niece, Jennifer Junge, married her longtime sweetheart, Bo.In April, we mourned the death of our 14 year old dog, Rusty. In November, we thought we were going to lose another dog, but Marty medicated and hand fed our Chihuahua and Pancho came back strong.
Marty has continued to study and experiment with internet marketing. He discovered his niche and we are both very excited about his new business plan. He is now offering internet marketing to local businesses.
I hope whatever trials come your way in the New Year, you are able to find the blessings that are hidden in them.
Merry Christmas!
Veronica and Marty Hobson
Sunday, December 13, 2009
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 graduate
s.
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
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
Thursday, May 7, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
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.”
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.”
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
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 d
iagnosis 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.
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 d
iagnosis 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.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 2, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, February 23, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, February 16, 2009
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 liv
ing 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 De
stin 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.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
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.”
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.”
Thursday, January 8, 2009
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.
“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.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
By the Numbers
Numbers are entrenched in my brain. My mind is constantly manipulating numbers that I see. License plates, highway signs, building addresses, time on the clock, all become math problems. Numbers are real, concrete things that my brain can relate to.
Driving down the road, numbers that I see fill my head. The exit sign for highways 287 and 820 becomes a math problem. I add 287 and 820 in my head. I calculate 1107. I glance down and read 5:23 on the clock. My mind thinks 5 divided into 23. The result is 4.6. Cars passing are not Chevys, Fords and Hondas. In my brain they are a series of license plate numbers. All of this is a secret dialog that goes on in my head. Before I speak, everything I say is translated back to the language of the real world. But what if one day my internal translator broke. How would Marty communicate with me?
“Veronica, it’s after 7. What time do we need to be at the theater?”
“6 3/7”
“OK, 7 times 6 is 42. 7 times 3/7 is 3. 42 plus 3 is 45. So, we need to be at the theater at 7:45.”
I nod my head. He helps me put my coat on and we step into the garage.
“My car is almost out of gas, but it’s a pretty night and your moon roof is broken. Which car do you want to take?”
“X25CBN”
“My car. All right, we’ll stop for gas on the way.”
He opens the passenger door of his car and I get in. We head down the road.
“Check the traffic on your phone’s navigation system. What is the best route to take?”
“2 ½”
“The choices are 360 and 820. 8 divided into 20 is 2 ½, so 820 must be the route.”
He has correctly translated my answer again.
Twenty minutes later, we approach the theater.
“Can you check the address of the theater? I can’t remember if it is 1530 or 1560 Main Street.”
“4”
“1560 it is. Here we are.”
He pulls into the theater parking lot and opens my door. I feel intense guilt for him having to translate everything I say. I blurt out.
“Why do you put up with me?”
“3”
Three? My mind races. What could he possibly mean? Then I think back to our dating days. We had a secret code of affection when we were around other people. When we held up three fingers, it stood for three little words.
I love you.
Driving down the road, numbers that I see fill my head. The exit sign for highways 287 and 820 becomes a math problem. I add 287 and 820 in my head. I calculate 1107. I glance down and read 5:23 on the clock. My mind thinks 5 divided into 23. The result is 4.6. Cars passing are not Chevys, Fords and Hondas. In my brain they are a series of license plate numbers. All of this is a secret dialog that goes on in my head. Before I speak, everything I say is translated back to the language of the real world. But what if one day my internal translator broke. How would Marty communicate with me?
“Veronica, it’s after 7. What time do we need to be at the theater?”
“6 3/7”
“OK, 7 times 6 is 42. 7 times 3/7 is 3. 42 plus 3 is 45. So, we need to be at the theater at 7:45.”
I nod my head. He helps me put my coat on and we step into the garage.
“My car is almost out of gas, but it’s a pretty night and your moon roof is broken. Which car do you want to take?”
“X25CBN”
“My car. All right, we’ll stop for gas on the way.”
He opens the passenger door of his car and I get in. We head down the road.
“Check the traffic on your phone’s navigation system. What is the best route to take?”
“2 ½”
“The choices are 360 and 820. 8 divided into 20 is 2 ½, so 820 must be the route.”
He has correctly translated my answer again.
Twenty minutes later, we approach the theater.
“Can you check the address of the theater? I can’t remember if it is 1530 or 1560 Main Street.”
“4”
“1560 it is. Here we are.”
He pulls into the theater parking lot and opens my door. I feel intense guilt for him having to translate everything I say. I blurt out.
“Why do you put up with me?”
“3”
Three? My mind races. What could he possibly mean? Then I think back to our dating days. We had a secret code of affection when we were around other people. When we held up three fingers, it stood for three little words.
I love you.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Christmas Letter
It isn’t even Christmas yet, and we have already received our gift. Marty got a job. A year ago, he decided to taper off from his contract work in Houston. He wanted to find a job nearby so he could be close to wife, kids and parents. He’s been looking all year and it’s been a long journey but, on December 14 he started a new job as an imbedded software designer in Fort Worth, Texas.We started 2008 with great optimism. Marty had a few very strong job prospects in January and in April. Each time it seemed as if he had the job sewed up, then it mysteriously vaporized. Every morning he started his day by searching the online job listings and sending in applications. But after a few months, we decided there had to be more to his life than this.
He began purchasing self paced training modules for computer applications that he wanted to learn. He spent weeks learning C#, dsPic processors and Java. He also did some short term contract work. He worked two different times for Weatherford International. The first time he did firmware troubleshooting and the second time he did a Photoshop project. He also occasionally returned to Houston to work a few days.
The rest of the time he was at home. This turned out to be a really good thing. Over the course of a few months, our house required the fence mended, toilets reworked and the roof replaced. Every time, Marty was there to set appointments, greet the repairman and oversee the work. No need to schedule appointments on Saturday, go in late to work or take a vacation day, he was available to handle it.
I started depending on him to help get me ready for work every day. I tend to cut my time very close and I am always rushing in the morning: throwing some food together for my breakfast, feeding the dogs, grabbing all my stuff and running out the door. It started slowly as Marty took over feeding the dogs. But soon he was buttering toast for my breakfast, carrying my things to the car and sometimes even driving me to the carpool lot.
The other way that we took advantage of Marty’s increased free time was by taking three vacations. In April we visited “A” towns in Texas: Abilene, Amarillo, Arlington (Dr’s appointment) and Austin. One highlight was visiting my cousins, Laura and Terry Browder. Terry runs several outstanding, upscale guest houses in Abilene collectively called the Sayles Ranch. We took a second vacation in July to Illinois to attend the Hobson reunion. We rode in Marty’s car with Marty’s daughter, Carmen, her 1 year old, Julianna, and her 3 year old, Shane. Amazingly, we traveled well together. Carmen rode in the back seat between the two kids. She was occasionally awakened from a nap by a finger in her eye when Shane got bored, but otherwise she was ok. Our third vacation was in November to the Lost Maples in the Texas hill country.
Another class that Marty took was on writing and book publishing. I took the class also and was inspired to begin writing a blog. My blog inspired Marty to begin a website cancerreportdaily.com. It is a collection of late breaking news articles related to care, treatment and discoveries about cancer. He spent several weeks building a quality, easy-to-use website. He updates it once, or more, a day. Just about the time he got ready to roll out his website, he applied for one more job. Evidently this was the one that the Lord had been saving for him, because he was hired 10 days later.
We are both ecstatic. Marty is relieved to be earning a steady salary. He is excited to be at work again. Now we will have a little more leeway in our budget. We can begin saving again for car replacement and future retirement. Also, we both are looking forward to buying new shoes. There is just one drawback to this whole Marty job thing. Who’s going to pick up my dry cleaning?
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Messy House
I have let this house intimidate me for too long. For too many years I have let perpetually growing grass and constantly accumulating dust strike fear in my heart. I’m not going to take its abuse anymore. I am going to fight back.
Everything was fine when I first moved in. We were happy then. The house had just been built and all of the paint was new. The appliances were all clean and in good working order. The carpet was fresh and fluffy. I loved my house.
We got along great for the first six months. Then I began to notice a change. The air conditioner didn’t seem to be cooling very well. I tried adjusting the thermostat but it just wasn’t meeting my needs. I began to check around. I soon discovered the problem. The filter was clogged.
I went to a heating and AC counselor. “Your air conditioner needs its filter changed every month,” he told me. “Otherwise your relationship will get stale.” That was just the beginning. Soon the house was demanding that I repair the torn siding and decorate the interior. In the summer, it began asking me to water the foundation.
At first I thought that I could keep up. I set up a schedule and regularly watered the lawn. I vacuumed the carpets and cleaned the bathrooms every week. Then the paint started peeling. I realized that I was in over my head. Our relationship slowly deteriorated.
Every time I drove into the garage, the house seemed to mock me. “See the evidence of your neglect.” The paint around the garage door was peeling. The garage door keypad had lost its cover and the battery slowly swung underneath, suspended only by the wires. As I pulled my car in, I had to steer to avoid the freezer and fertilizer spreader that stuck out from the wall. After I parked, I tried to open my door, but the tool chest was in the way. I restarted the car and pulled forward until my bumper snugly fit into the hole that I had previously knocked into the wall. Only then did I have enough room to open my door.
I ran into the house, hoping to escape my guilty feeling. I collapsed into a chair and stared blankly at the ceiling. As my eyes came into focus, I could see the crack that I had failed to repair last year after the upstairs plumbing leak. Guiltily, I dropped my eyes to the floor. I let out a sigh. Then I saw the linoleum that I had torn when I dragged the dog cage across it. I quickly averted my glance to the window in the back door. I was greeted by missing paint where the dogs had scratched to get out.
That’s it! I’m not going to take it anymore. I refuse to be trapped by you, house. I won’t let you bury me under a mound of dust and guilt. I’m going to do what any self-respecting homeowner would do.
I’m going to clean out the garage.
Everything was fine when I first moved in. We were happy then. The house had just been built and all of the paint was new. The appliances were all clean and in good working order. The carpet was fresh and fluffy. I loved my house.
We got along great for the first six months. Then I began to notice a change. The air conditioner didn’t seem to be cooling very well. I tried adjusting the thermostat but it just wasn’t meeting my needs. I began to check around. I soon discovered the problem. The filter was clogged.
I went to a heating and AC counselor. “Your air conditioner needs its filter changed every month,” he told me. “Otherwise your relationship will get stale.” That was just the beginning. Soon the house was demanding that I repair the torn siding and decorate the interior. In the summer, it began asking me to water the foundation.
At first I thought that I could keep up. I set up a schedule and regularly watered the lawn. I vacuumed the carpets and cleaned the bathrooms every week. Then the paint started peeling. I realized that I was in over my head. Our relationship slowly deteriorated.
Every time I drove into the garage, the house seemed to mock me. “See the evidence of your neglect.” The paint around the garage door was peeling. The garage door keypad had lost its cover and the battery slowly swung underneath, suspended only by the wires. As I pulled my car in, I had to steer to avoid the freezer and fertilizer spreader that stuck out from the wall. After I parked, I tried to open my door, but the tool chest was in the way. I restarted the car and pulled forward until my bumper snugly fit into the hole that I had previously knocked into the wall. Only then did I have enough room to open my door.
I ran into the house, hoping to escape my guilty feeling. I collapsed into a chair and stared blankly at the ceiling. As my eyes came into focus, I could see the crack that I had failed to repair last year after the upstairs plumbing leak. Guiltily, I dropped my eyes to the floor. I let out a sigh. Then I saw the linoleum that I had torn when I dragged the dog cage across it. I quickly averted my glance to the window in the back door. I was greeted by missing paint where the dogs had scratched to get out.
That’s it! I’m not going to take it anymore. I refuse to be trapped by you, house. I won’t let you bury me under a mound of dust and guilt. I’m going to do what any self-respecting homeowner would do.
I’m going to clean out the garage.
Monday, December 1, 2008
The Name Game
My kids never knew how good they had it. They were allowed to like their middle names. I never called them by their middle names when they were in trouble. I didn’t name them after 8th century Greek poets. I didn’t saddle them with some quirky family name. I gave them nice, normal middle names.
I always thought that a middle name should be like an insurance policy. Suppose one day you wake up and you think “I want everyone to know that I’m not a kid anymore. I want to go by a different name.” Well, if you have a good middle name, you can start calling yourself by that name.
What if some politician who shares your name is involved in a messy scandal? You don’t have to go on sharing his tarnished name, you have a back up. You have a little insurance policy in your middle name. You can switch to it anytime you like. No legal paperwork required. It’s already there on your birth certificate. All you have to do is start using it. Anybody can do it. Anybody at all. Except me.
I hate my middle name. Veronica Sue. That does not sound very pretty. How about Veronica Elizabeth? That has a nice, regal sound to it. Why didn’t my parents name me that? The name Veronica Ann could flow easily off the tongue. (I didn’t get that one because my greedy, older sister took it before I was born.) But Veronica Sue sounds like a discord on the piano. Two notes that just shouldn’t be played together.
I like the Veronica part. Sue is even fine by itself, but Veronica Sue is just too, well, it’s too southern. It goes too well with Billie Joe or Billy Bob or Bubba. Buddy Holly (another southern name) made Peggy Sue a household name, but you can’t sing Veronica Sue to the same tune. I’ve tried it.
The worst part of growing up with the name Veronica Sue is that it is the name my dad used for me. He thought it was a compliment because I was named for my well loved cousin, Sue. He even made a rhyme out of it. I know. Veronica Sue does not rhyme, but when you say Veronica Sue Jungle-oo, in a twisted sort of way, it does rhyme. That’s what my dad called me.
My dad
could not carry a tune. But there were some times when he just burst into song. Sadly for me as a teenage girl, they always coincided with one of my friends calling. My dad would answer the phone. As soon as he heard it was for me, he would lower his hand holding the phone and sing out flatly, but merrily “Verooonica Suuuuue. It’s for you.” (What can I say, my dad liked rhymes.)
The phone being two feet away from his mouth did not in anyway impair the ability of the caller to hear his voice. When I picked up the phone, there was inevitably hysterical laughter on the other end. “Is that really your name? That’s the funniest thing I ever heard,” was the response. My friends learned that the surest way to make me mad was to call me Veronica Sue.
I always liked being a Veronica. You hear the name more often now, but when I was growing up, there were no other Veronicas around. I always had a unique name. I was the only one.
That’s why I was very surprised when years ago I met a waitress with my name. My husband had said my name as I left the table for the ladies’ room. “Is her name Veronica?” the waitress asked. “Yes, it is,” he replied. “That’s my name too,” she said in a surprised voice. She continued,” But I don’t go by it. I much prefer my middle name,” and she pointed to her nametag. “Sue.”
I always thought that a middle name should be like an insurance policy. Suppose one day you wake up and you think “I want everyone to know that I’m not a kid anymore. I want to go by a different name.” Well, if you have a good middle name, you can start calling yourself by that name.
What if some politician who shares your name is involved in a messy scandal? You don’t have to go on sharing his tarnished name, you have a back up. You have a little insurance policy in your middle name. You can switch to it anytime you like. No legal paperwork required. It’s already there on your birth certificate. All you have to do is start using it. Anybody can do it. Anybody at all. Except me.
I hate my middle name. Veronica Sue. That does not sound very pretty. How about Veronica Elizabeth? That has a nice, regal sound to it. Why didn’t my parents name me that? The name Veronica Ann could flow easily off the tongue. (I didn’t get that one because my greedy, older sister took it before I was born.) But Veronica Sue sounds like a discord on the piano. Two notes that just shouldn’t be played together.
I like the Veronica part. Sue is even fine by itself, but Veronica Sue is just too, well, it’s too southern. It goes too well with Billie Joe or Billy Bob or Bubba. Buddy Holly (another southern name) made Peggy Sue a household name, but you can’t sing Veronica Sue to the same tune. I’ve tried it.
The worst part of growing up with the name Veronica Sue is that it is the name my dad used for me. He thought it was a compliment because I was named for my well loved cousin, Sue. He even made a rhyme out of it. I know. Veronica Sue does not rhyme, but when you say Veronica Sue Jungle-oo, in a twisted sort of way, it does rhyme. That’s what my dad called me.
My dad
could not carry a tune. But there were some times when he just burst into song. Sadly for me as a teenage girl, they always coincided with one of my friends calling. My dad would answer the phone. As soon as he heard it was for me, he would lower his hand holding the phone and sing out flatly, but merrily “Verooonica Suuuuue. It’s for you.” (What can I say, my dad liked rhymes.)The phone being two feet away from his mouth did not in anyway impair the ability of the caller to hear his voice. When I picked up the phone, there was inevitably hysterical laughter on the other end. “Is that really your name? That’s the funniest thing I ever heard,” was the response. My friends learned that the surest way to make me mad was to call me Veronica Sue.
I always liked being a Veronica. You hear the name more often now, but when I was growing up, there were no other Veronicas around. I always had a unique name. I was the only one.
That’s why I was very surprised when years ago I met a waitress with my name. My husband had said my name as I left the table for the ladies’ room. “Is her name Veronica?” the waitress asked. “Yes, it is,” he replied. “That’s my name too,” she said in a surprised voice. She continued,” But I don’t go by it. I much prefer my middle name,” and she pointed to her nametag. “Sue.”
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Fall Color-Vacation Day 3
For two days we had been looking forward to the fall color at the Lost Maples. We anticipated this being a restful day in which we could enjoy a refreshing ride through the natural beauty of the park. We would be completely immersed in the quiet sounds of nature. Our skillful snapping of pictures would ensure we had lasting souvenirs for our trip.
We arose at 5 am which is not a good time of day for me. I often rise early but Marty has learned the danger of attempting conversation with me in the early morning. After once or twice receiving a response worthy of a mother bear asked to part with one of her cubs, he learned to limit himself to a very short greeting first thing in the morning. He now knows a groggy stare and a limp wave is the best response he can expect.
So, even though I don’t enjoy rising at 5 am, I knew the park visit would be worth it. We showered and had our free breakfast at the hotel. Marty said that rain was predicted for the day. I was unconcerned. We once again headed down the straighter but longer highway 39 toward the park. It was dark when we left. As the sun slowly rose, we were able to see many deer in the fields next to the highway. We continued on with a few sprinkles on the windshield. We arrived at the park just minutes before the 8 am opening time.
We were very pleased to see that there were only 6 people in line. We quickly purchased our tickets and we hoped this was a good beginning to a good day. The park ranger in the office gave us a receipt to tape to the inside of the windshield. We got in the car. The previous day, we had to stop at the gate. Now we waved to the ranger at the gate and drove on through. We had been told there was a restroom just one mile into the park, so we headed there for our first stop.
After using the restroom we both wandered around the rest area taking pictures. It was a little difficult. The combination of the early morning light and the cloud cover meant that any pictures required a slow exposure on the camera. I have read of several techniques for holding your camera still without a tripod: brace the camera against your body or hold your breath. I was no good at either of these. I snapped a few pictures. They looked ok on my 1” x 1 ¼” camera monitor, so I decided not to worry. We returned to the car.
I noticed that the end of the parking lot did not appear to have an exit. I also saw people getting out of their cars and walking toward the trees. “Where do we drive the car?” I asked Marty. “I think we may have to walk,” he said. We consulted the map that we had received at the ranger station. “Maple Trail 0.8 miles, East Trail 4.6 miles, West Trail 4.9 miles,” I read. “What’s this area marked ‘steep’? I don’t think I’m up to walking very far with my bad back and I think it’s going to rain. We don’t want to get out too far.” Marty said. “Oh, come on!” I chided him. “Don’t wimp out on me. You can handle a short little walk in the woods.”
We decided to start out on the shorter Maple Trail. Marty’s camera does not have a lens cap, so because of the rain, he decided not to bring it. I thought about carrying his tripod for my camera, but it was really heavy, so I decided that I could do without it. As we started on the trail, it began to rain. We had left the umbrella in the car. Marty pulled his jean jacket over his head and I pulled my leather jacket over mine. We carefully walked on the large rocks that were slippery with wet, loose leaves.
The ranger told us that a few days ago; the leaves had reached their peak of color. Many of the leaves had fallen. They
made a beautiful orange-red carpet on the ground. Occasionally there was a tree full of yellow leaves that made a nice contrast with the red maples. The maple trail climbed along the edge of a hill with stone steps leading up and over the hilly ground. The trail had been constructed with a wooden railing alongside the stone path. At intervals, there was a stone or wooden bench to rest on. Every direction we looked was like a perfect scene. As the rain slowly drizzled down, we were completely alone in the woods.
I snapped pictures all along the maple trail. The shutter speed was slow and I knew that the pictures might be blurry, but I would have beautiful blurs of color, if nothing else. We reached the end of the maple trail and it merged back into the east trail.
“Do you want to continue?” I asked Marty. “I’m not sure about that steep part of the trail. What do you think that means?” he said. “I’m sure it only lasts a short distance. We can handle 10 or 15 feet of difficult walking,” I replied. So, we continued on. Several people had joined our path from the east trail and we were no longer alone. The rain had stopped and Marty and I walked along together in the silence for about 20 minutes.
“How much further do we have to go?” I asked. Marty consulted the map. “I think we have a long way to go. We haven’t even reached the composting toilet yet.” We didn’t know what a composting toilet was, but it was one of the few landmarks on the map, so we were looking forward to reaching it. We continued walking. The path was mostly level, but it was rocky so we couldn’t walk very fast. Despite the fact that two younger couples passed us, I am sure it was the rocks that slowed us down. We were getting hungry, so we each ate the snack crackers we had put in our pockets earlier. Finally we reached the latrine, about ¼ of the way down the east trail. I decided to take advantage of the composting toilet, although after using it I still didn’t know what made it different from any other outhouse. We hurried on from there because we heard the voices of many school children behind us and they seemed to be getting closer.
After another 10 minutes walk, the path began a steady incline. A sign next to the path read Steep Trail next 1
.5 miles. “Look,” said Marty, “here is where the steep part begins.” I said, “1.5 miles, it can’t be that far.” We started up the hill. The path was laid out like a stairway. Up ahead of me I saw about 25 steps. “I can do this I thought.” I didn’t want to embarrass Marty by speeding by him, so I let him get ahead. The steps turned out to be harder than I expected and halfway up, I was getting out of breath. It was then that I thought about the blood pressure medicine I had been taking for 3 years. The symptom that drove me to consult the doctor was getting breathless after one flight of stairs. Well at least I was almost to the top.
I was surprised when I reached the top. Instead of leveling out, the path turned and began an even steeper incline. The path was no longer laid out like stairs. It was more like those pictures of mountain goats in their natural habitat. Those pictures of steep mountainsides that always made me wonder, “How could any creature live there?”
Marty continued to stay ahead of me. It was not a matter of letting him be first, my breathing was so heavy I had to go slowly. How come this guy who has to walk carefully across the carpet lest he throw out his back, was leaving me in the dust on the rocky hillside? At least the sight of his back gave me a goal to shoot for. I kept thinking, “Just a little further. Just a little further.” Each time he turned a corner out of sight I would call out “Do you see the top?” “No, not yet,” was the continual reply. As I was huffing and puffing with every step, I heard a young couple coming up the path. They were laughing and talking and passed me quite easily. “Nice to be young,” I thought. Then an older Asian couple approached. I had to step aside as they rapidly ascended the hill.
“I see a bench,” Marty called from above. “See if you can make it.” I was breathing hard and my heart was pounding. I feared a stroke if I continued to push myself, but I did anyway. Finally I reached the bench. I sat down and took short, quick breaths. I rested there for about five minutes as two more couples passed us by. Then I saw a rotund young man coming up the hill. He looked a little out of breath. “Would you like to sit down?” Marty offered. The young man looked a little doubtful, then replied, “I guess I better.” We all sat there for a minute, then I said, “Let’s go.” I wanted to be faster than somebody.
We saw another young man coming down the hill. “How much further?” we said. “Not long” he said and he was right. We didn’t reach a summit where we could see below, but the terrain gradually flattened out. We walked on for a while and encountered several more people going in the opposite direction. As they passed us, it started to rain.
We pulled our jackets o
ver our heads as it started to rain harder. We saw a large display with a map of the trail. “Looks like we are about halfway,” Marty said. “Halfway!” I moaned. I was wet and cold and my legs hurt. I had pulled a muscle in my right thigh on the trip up the mountain. Every time I took a step with my right leg, a pain shot through my hip. I had also twisted my left foot a little. When we stepped down to pause at a scenic overlook, I felt a pain in my left ankle. I took a picture of the view looking down the hill. The Guadalupe River was at the bottom and on the trail next to it, was another composting toilet.
We reached the descending part of the trail. Every step down caused a pain in my left ankle. It was not as steep as the trail up, but it was rockier. We had to concentrate on keeping our balance to prevent tumbling down the hill with the rocks. The descent down the hill was shorter and less dramatic. At least this time we had gravity on our side.
We got to the bottom of the hill and the other composting toilet. I didn’t need to go, but it was my landmark and I was glad I finally reached it. We paused to catch our breath and admire the view of the red leaved trees reflected in the river. After a few minutes I asked Marty, “Are you ready to go to the parking lot?” He started laughing. “What’s so funny,” I said. He showed me the map. We had another 1 ½ miles to walk.
We started back on the trail. The rain had stopped and there seemed to be people everywhere. Through my weary eyes, they all appeared to be more physically fit than me. We walked on until we came to the entrance of the west trail. I just looked at Marty and we kept walking.
We came to the parking lot, the overflow lot. It had about 20 cars in it. It was not the parking lot where our car was parked. We kept walking. We got to our parking lot. Our car was parked at the other end about ¼ mile away. We walked on. Finally we reached the car, opened the doors and collapsed inside.
This day had not been like we expected. The solitude of the park had turned out to be a crowded tourist attraction. The photo opportunity had turned out to be much less than perfect. The relaxing driving tour had turned out to be an exhausting climbing tour. Every time I stepped on either foot, I winced with pain. But, the maples were beautiful. The water in the river was crystal clear and there was no trash to be seen anywhere. Was all this rain and pain, frustration and exhaustion worth it? Absolutely.
We arose at 5 am which is not a good time of day for me. I often rise early but Marty has learned the danger of attempting conversation with me in the early morning. After once or twice receiving a response worthy of a mother bear asked to part with one of her cubs, he learned to limit himself to a very short greeting first thing in the morning. He now knows a groggy stare and a limp wave is the best response he can expect.
So, even though I don’t enjoy rising at 5 am, I knew the park visit would be worth it. We showered and had our free breakfast at the hotel. Marty said that rain was predicted for the day. I was unconcerned. We once again headed down the straighter but longer highway 39 toward the park. It was dark when we left. As the sun slowly rose, we were able to see many deer in the fields next to the highway. We continued on with a few sprinkles on the windshield. We arrived at the park just minutes before the 8 am opening time.
We were very pleased to see that there were only 6 people in line. We quickly purchased our tickets and we hoped this was a good beginning to a good day. The park ranger in the office gave us a receipt to tape to the inside of the windshield. We got in the car. The previous day, we had to stop at the gate. Now we waved to the ranger at the gate and drove on through. We had been told there was a restroom just one mile into the park, so we headed there for our first stop.
After using the restroom we both wandered around the rest area taking pictures. It was a little difficult. The combination of the early morning light and the cloud cover meant that any pictures required a slow exposure on the camera. I have read of several techniques for holding your camera still without a tripod: brace the camera against your body or hold your breath. I was no good at either of these. I snapped a few pictures. They looked ok on my 1” x 1 ¼” camera monitor, so I decided not to worry. We returned to the car.
I noticed that the end of the parking lot did not appear to have an exit. I also saw people getting out of their cars and walking toward the trees. “Where do we drive the car?” I asked Marty. “I think we may have to walk,” he said. We consulted the map that we had received at the ranger station. “Maple Trail 0.8 miles, East Trail 4.6 miles, West Trail 4.9 miles,” I read. “What’s this area marked ‘steep’? I don’t think I’m up to walking very far with my bad back and I think it’s going to rain. We don’t want to get out too far.” Marty said. “Oh, come on!” I chided him. “Don’t wimp out on me. You can handle a short little walk in the woods.”
We decided to start out on the shorter Maple Trail. Marty’s camera does not have a lens cap, so because of the rain, he decided not to bring it. I thought about carrying his tripod for my camera, but it was really heavy, so I decided that I could do without it. As we started on the trail, it began to rain. We had left the umbrella in the car. Marty pulled his jean jacket over his head and I pulled my leather jacket over mine. We carefully walked on the large rocks that were slippery with wet, loose leaves.
The ranger told us that a few days ago; the leaves had reached their peak of color. Many of the leaves had fallen. They
made a beautiful orange-red carpet on the ground. Occasionally there was a tree full of yellow leaves that made a nice contrast with the red maples. The maple trail climbed along the edge of a hill with stone steps leading up and over the hilly ground. The trail had been constructed with a wooden railing alongside the stone path. At intervals, there was a stone or wooden bench to rest on. Every direction we looked was like a perfect scene. As the rain slowly drizzled down, we were completely alone in the woods.
I snapped pictures all along the maple trail. The shutter speed was slow and I knew that the pictures might be blurry, but I would have beautiful blurs of color, if nothing else. We reached the end of the maple trail and it merged back into the east trail.
“Do you want to continue?” I asked Marty. “I’m not sure about that steep part of the trail. What do you think that means?” he said. “I’m sure it only lasts a short distance. We can handle 10 or 15 feet of difficult walking,” I replied. So, we continued on. Several people had joined our path from the east trail and we were no longer alone. The rain had stopped and Marty and I walked along together in the silence for about 20 minutes.
“How much further do we have to go?” I asked. Marty consulted the map. “I think we have a long way to go. We haven’t even reached the composting toilet yet.” We didn’t know what a composting toilet was, but it was one of the few landmarks on the map, so we were looking forward to reaching it. We continued walking. The path was mostly level, but it was rocky so we couldn’t walk very fast. Despite the fact that two younger couples passed us, I am sure it was the rocks that slowed us down. We were getting hungry, so we each ate the snack crackers we had put in our pockets earlier. Finally we reached the latrine, about ¼ of the way down the east trail. I decided to take advantage of the composting toilet, although after using it I still didn’t know what made it different from any other outhouse. We hurried on from there because we heard the voices of many school children behind us and they seemed to be getting closer.
After another 10 minutes walk, the path began a steady incline. A sign next to the path read Steep Trail next 1
.5 miles. “Look,” said Marty, “here is where the steep part begins.” I said, “1.5 miles, it can’t be that far.” We started up the hill. The path was laid out like a stairway. Up ahead of me I saw about 25 steps. “I can do this I thought.” I didn’t want to embarrass Marty by speeding by him, so I let him get ahead. The steps turned out to be harder than I expected and halfway up, I was getting out of breath. It was then that I thought about the blood pressure medicine I had been taking for 3 years. The symptom that drove me to consult the doctor was getting breathless after one flight of stairs. Well at least I was almost to the top.I was surprised when I reached the top. Instead of leveling out, the path turned and began an even steeper incline. The path was no longer laid out like stairs. It was more like those pictures of mountain goats in their natural habitat. Those pictures of steep mountainsides that always made me wonder, “How could any creature live there?”
Marty continued to stay ahead of me. It was not a matter of letting him be first, my breathing was so heavy I had to go slowly. How come this guy who has to walk carefully across the carpet lest he throw out his back, was leaving me in the dust on the rocky hillside? At least the sight of his back gave me a goal to shoot for. I kept thinking, “Just a little further. Just a little further.” Each time he turned a corner out of sight I would call out “Do you see the top?” “No, not yet,” was the continual reply. As I was huffing and puffing with every step, I heard a young couple coming up the path. They were laughing and talking and passed me quite easily. “Nice to be young,” I thought. Then an older Asian couple approached. I had to step aside as they rapidly ascended the hill.
“I see a bench,” Marty called from above. “See if you can make it.” I was breathing hard and my heart was pounding. I feared a stroke if I continued to push myself, but I did anyway. Finally I reached the bench. I sat down and took short, quick breaths. I rested there for about five minutes as two more couples passed us by. Then I saw a rotund young man coming up the hill. He looked a little out of breath. “Would you like to sit down?” Marty offered. The young man looked a little doubtful, then replied, “I guess I better.” We all sat there for a minute, then I said, “Let’s go.” I wanted to be faster than somebody.
We saw another young man coming down the hill. “How much further?” we said. “Not long” he said and he was right. We didn’t reach a summit where we could see below, but the terrain gradually flattened out. We walked on for a while and encountered several more people going in the opposite direction. As they passed us, it started to rain.
We pulled our jackets o
ver our heads as it started to rain harder. We saw a large display with a map of the trail. “Looks like we are about halfway,” Marty said. “Halfway!” I moaned. I was wet and cold and my legs hurt. I had pulled a muscle in my right thigh on the trip up the mountain. Every time I took a step with my right leg, a pain shot through my hip. I had also twisted my left foot a little. When we stepped down to pause at a scenic overlook, I felt a pain in my left ankle. I took a picture of the view looking down the hill. The Guadalupe River was at the bottom and on the trail next to it, was another composting toilet.We reached the descending part of the trail. Every step down caused a pain in my left ankle. It was not as steep as the trail up, but it was rockier. We had to concentrate on keeping our balance to prevent tumbling down the hill with the rocks. The descent down the hill was shorter and less dramatic. At least this time we had gravity on our side.
We got to the bottom of the hill and the other composting toilet. I didn’t need to go, but it was my landmark and I was glad I finally reached it. We paused to catch our breath and admire the view of the red leaved trees reflected in the river. After a few minutes I asked Marty, “Are you ready to go to the parking lot?” He started laughing. “What’s so funny,” I said. He showed me the map. We had another 1 ½ miles to walk.
We started back on the trail. The rain had stopped and there seemed to be people everywhere. Through my weary eyes, they all appeared to be more physically fit than me. We walked on until we came to the entrance of the west trail. I just looked at Marty and we kept walking.
We came to the parking lot, the overflow lot. It had about 20 cars in it. It was not the parking lot where our car was parked. We kept walking. We got to our parking lot. Our car was parked at the other end about ¼ mile away. We walked on. Finally we reached the car, opened the doors and collapsed inside.
This day had not been like we expected. The solitude of the park had turned out to be a crowded tourist attraction. The photo opportunity had turned out to be much less than perfect. The relaxing driving tour had turned out to be an exhausting climbing tour. Every time I stepped on either foot, I winced with pain. But, the maples were beautiful. The water in the river was crystal clear and there was no trash to be seen anywhere. Was all this rain and pain, frustration and exhaustion worth it? Absolutely.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Are We There Yet?-Vacation Day 2 (cont)
Beautiful fall color is what we were looking for. I had always dreamed of a vacation in New England in the fall. That trip was out of both our distance range and our price range. How exciting to discover that fall color was available here in Texas at the Lost Maples State Natural Area. The only question was whether Texas, known for its treeless flatlands and dusty landscapes, could live up to the hope of autumn beauty.
It was going to be a wonderful vacation. Our free hotel was only 35 miles from the Lost Maples. So even though the park campsites were full, we would be in a comfortable hotel just a half hour away. The isolation of the wilderness area would be a welcome change from our crowded city lives. My life had been so stressful lately that I was looking forward to a restful drive through the brilliant red maple trees. Marty and I both are avid, though inexperienced, photographers and this would be a perfect photo opportunity.
We arrived at our Kerrville hotel Sunday afternoon. We had just been refreshed with a delicious meal at Po Po Family Restaurant. (Marty, the picky eater, said it was the best turkey dinner he ever had.) We decided to take a preview drive to the Lost Maples park.
We headed south out of Kerrville on highway 16. Even though Kerrville was not a big town, there seemed to be a lot of smaller communities on the outskirts. It took 30 minutes to reach the next turnoff. Highway 337 was two lane and very slow going. It was mostly cut out of the side of a hill. It didn’t help our confidence that the road was liberally sprinkled with signs proclaiming “Falling Rock.” By the time we reached the park, an hour and a half had elapsed. Those 35 miles from hotel to park could only be as the crow, or perhaps the helicopter, flies.
We finally made it. Now all we had to do was decide if it was worth the $6 a piece admission fee to go in the park for just an hour of daylight. It would be helpful to drive around inside the park and scout out any good picture taking locations. We took the turnoff for the park and immediately encountered a problem.
The Ranger’s station was in the middle of a 1/10 mile drive that contained a loop around and a small parking lot. There were dozens of cars competing for about 10 parking spaces. Before we could park, we noticed a line of people extending 50 feet from the Ranger’s office. Many cars had parked along the roadway and we were able to get in one of the few available parking spaces near the office. We got out of the car and went to the end of the line. After standing in line for 10 minutes, we had only moved a few feet. We checked the sign for the park hours. It was getting near the 5 pm closing time. We decided to return the next morning when it opened at 8 am.
We decided to return to our hotel by another route. Highway 187 was a hilly, but straight road and we were able to travel at 60 mph. Then we turned on to highway 39 which wound along beside the Guadalupe River. There were many resorts dotted along the route. They were obviously built to take advantage of the beautiful views of the river and the trees. However, the crooked road and the one lane bridges slowed us down quite a bit. It was an hour and 10 minutes after we left the park before we returned to the hotel. The second route was faster than the first, barely.
After arriving at our hotel, we modestly dined on homemade turkey sandwiches, canned soda from the cooler and chips purchased from the local grocery store. We went to bed early and dreamed of a beautiful, relaxing day driving past groves of trees covered in red and yellow leaves, stopping occasionally to leave the car to take a breathtaking photograph.
It was going to be a wonderful vacation. Our free hotel was only 35 miles from the Lost Maples. So even though the park campsites were full, we would be in a comfortable hotel just a half hour away. The isolation of the wilderness area would be a welcome change from our crowded city lives. My life had been so stressful lately that I was looking forward to a restful drive through the brilliant red maple trees. Marty and I both are avid, though inexperienced, photographers and this would be a perfect photo opportunity.
We arrived at our Kerrville hotel Sunday afternoon. We had just been refreshed with a delicious meal at Po Po Family Restaurant. (Marty, the picky eater, said it was the best turkey dinner he ever had.) We decided to take a preview drive to the Lost Maples park.
We headed south out of Kerrville on highway 16. Even though Kerrville was not a big town, there seemed to be a lot of smaller communities on the outskirts. It took 30 minutes to reach the next turnoff. Highway 337 was two lane and very slow going. It was mostly cut out of the side of a hill. It didn’t help our confidence that the road was liberally sprinkled with signs proclaiming “Falling Rock.” By the time we reached the park, an hour and a half had elapsed. Those 35 miles from hotel to park could only be as the crow, or perhaps the helicopter, flies.
We finally made it. Now all we had to do was decide if it was worth the $6 a piece admission fee to go in the park for just an hour of daylight. It would be helpful to drive around inside the park and scout out any good picture taking locations. We took the turnoff for the park and immediately encountered a problem.
The Ranger’s station was in the middle of a 1/10 mile drive that contained a loop around and a small parking lot. There were dozens of cars competing for about 10 parking spaces. Before we could park, we noticed a line of people extending 50 feet from the Ranger’s office. Many cars had parked along the roadway and we were able to get in one of the few available parking spaces near the office. We got out of the car and went to the end of the line. After standing in line for 10 minutes, we had only moved a few feet. We checked the sign for the park hours. It was getting near the 5 pm closing time. We decided to return the next morning when it opened at 8 am.
We decided to return to our hotel by another route. Highway 187 was a hilly, but straight road and we were able to travel at 60 mph. Then we turned on to highway 39 which wound along beside the Guadalupe River. There were many resorts dotted along the route. They were obviously built to take advantage of the beautiful views of the river and the trees. However, the crooked road and the one lane bridges slowed us down quite a bit. It was an hour and 10 minutes after we left the park before we returned to the hotel. The second route was faster than the first, barely.
After arriving at our hotel, we modestly dined on homemade turkey sandwiches, canned soda from the cooler and chips purchased from the local grocery store. We went to bed early and dreamed of a beautiful, relaxing day driving past groves of trees covered in red and yellow leaves, stopping occasionally to leave the car to take a breathtaking photograph.
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