Minds Lost

Walking down the hallway of shiny linoleum tiles, I couldn't help but notice the smell of urine, decay, and Clorox.  There were sounds of machines beeping out life function statistics and moans and groans of those unable to be up and about.  I couldn't get to my grandmother's room quickly enough. Fast enough that the smells wouldn't permeate my nose and before the feelings of degeneration settled in my thoughts.

There she was sitting in her wheel chair staring blankly at the floor of her room.  I'm not sure where her mind was at that moment.  Was it here...right now...today?  Was it back with my grandfather decades earlier happy on the farm?  Or was she further away still, back with her family as a child.  I stood there quietly in the doorway for a moment, considering how this woman who could slip cover everything that would stand still, cook Chinese cuisine, garden, crochet, and flock her own Christmas tree had been reduced to this sad state.

Damn you Alzheimer's.

She looked up to see me and smiled. Not so much a smile of recognition, just a smile of gratitude for a break in a monotonous day. I drew a deep breath in and summoned every cheerful bone in my body. I told her how happy I was to see her and that it was manicure day. This is how I passed time with what was left of my grandmother. I would bring things to do her nails and I would talk to her while I softly filed her nail tips. Depending on where she was in her mind, she would talk back sometimes.

The memory of a person with Alzheimer's can be compared to an onion. Over time the layers are peeled away with where they are and what they are familiar with. Outermost layer being current day and time, unraveling decades with each layer, until you get to the core where there is very little...perhaps like when we were tiny infants incapable of communication and merely observers of life's activities. She did not speak at all the last couple of years.

I picked up her right hand and studied the effects of a woman who had used them diligently in her lifetime. The skin no longer tight and smooth. There were age spots, big blue veins, and arthritic enlarged joints. Hands never lie. The meals she had cooked, the gardens she planted, all the crocheted afghans, and houses she had made beautiful, welcoming homes were all obvious.

She patted me on my arm and said, "Honey, it's so very sweet of you to come and do this for me." I was delighted she was actually present and spoke, and paused my work to smile and soak it up. Then she continued, "cause you don't even know me." I had become a stranger. No longer in her inner circle. I told her that she might not know me, but I knew her pretty well.

Triggers

The concrete steps leading up to the back door of my grandmother's house were always cool to the touch. I can't tell you how many afternoons I sat there with her and shelled black eyed peas that she had purchased by the big brown paper grocery bag full. I would watch her hands easily free the tender shiny peas from their earthy shells. Slitting the edges with the side of her thumbnail and pushing the peas into a bowl in one fluid movement.







The bowls we used for this purpose were not just any bowls, but melamine Texasware mixing bowls. They are practically industructible and perfect for a grandmother to use with her young granddaughter when passing on the art of cooking. No worries over breaking or spilling. The bright swirls and specks create patterns unique to each bowl...no two are exactly alike.







As we shelled peas, she had plastic insulated tumblers filled with iced tea. In the south, you never have to ask for sweet tea....it's all sweet tea. Lucille's tea was so sweet, you actually could crunch sugar crystals as you drank.




If I became bored with shelling peas, she would walk around to the side of the steps and grasp a couple handfuls of Horsetail Equistoms that grew beautifully next to the air conditioner unit. She would snap the segments apart and give me a piece of string, encouraging me to string them and make a necklace.







She was gifted at finding things for my small hands to do.  Things that didn't seem like busy work at all.  We'd go to town and buy some coordinating yards of fabric to cut up into squares and then hand stitch into a quilt.  She would hand me the back of envelopes to draw on.  I couldn't have a new piece of paper until the prior one was completely covered.  She would take me out to the garden and tell me what each plant was.  This woman is also the reason why I can never ever look at a pot of petunias without laughing of embarrassment...that was her code word for a lady's private parts.









These are all things that stay with me and follow me still. Brown paper grocery sacks, black eyed peas, Texasware bowls, sweet tea, Horsetail Equistoms, quilts, petunias....and more. They remind me of her. Like she is reaching back through time to say "hello, I'm still here....I love you."



























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Bared Roots

I climbed through the slightest suggestion of ancient fence this morning to check on the horses kicked out in the pasture behind our home.  I trekked down to the water trough to make sure it was full and was greeted by the horses.  Greeted is a strong word.  They really were just coming to see if I brought them any snacks. When they realized I didn't bring snacks, they wandered off as quickly as they came.

Walking back, I was staring at the ground.  There are more big places of dirt than grass.  The dirt is so devoid of moisture it is hard and cracked.  Parched.  The grass isn't green...just the dried up bare root structures of grass clinging...waiting...hoping...desperately longing for moisture.  Real moisture.  Not spit that dries within seconds of the constant 30+ mph wind.  We haven't received any measurable rain for 9 months.



Things don't live without water.

I looked back up at the horses...their heads like vacuum cleaners on the ground.  They were searching too. Searching for food to sustain them.  I know it is dry...I've known it for months.  Looking at the ground this morning, the desperation for moisture hit me like a brick house fell out of the sky and landed squarely on me. Yes Dorothy, there's no place like home.  Sometimes in the forecast they give us a chance percentage of rain.  Last week it was 80%...not a drop fell.

If rain doesn't come soon...there will be no more grass.  No grass for animals to eat.  Animals will have to be sold. What is a ranch without animals?  Where will food come from for the people of this nation?   It's too late for the thousands of acres of wheat.  It is dying early and going to seed at a chance of saving itself for next time.  A crushing blow.  It's all crushing right now.  The desperation of it all is starting to weigh heavily.

I caught up with my grey mare that is temporarily on break to heal her hip.  She has big kind eyes and a sweet personality that endears me to her.  My youngest child can't wait to get her back.  I put my hand on her injured hip, I looked up into the cloud covered sky, and I prayed.  Right there in the pasture, I thanked Sweet Infant Baby Jesus for all of the many blessings we had received.  I told Him how much I appreciated the animals entrusted to our care and would He please see clear to let it rain.  I specified measurable, soaking, life giving rain that went on for months.  I asked for this so we can keep our animals and take the best care possible of them.  As the wind whipped violently over and around me, I asked for Him to heal this horse and return her to the little girl that loves her...and let it all be in His perfect timing and all to His glory.

It is not in my nature to be melancholy...I always look for the humor in every situation.  I seek joy. All most always I find it too.  It's getting harder.  So, I pray more and I'm thankful more.  As I see the needs, I ask for God's peace...the kind that brings joy in abundance....and I give thanks for the many blessings.

It hasn't rained yet.  But it will rain again...one day.

Be A Blessing

Truth:  There is something about going to Wal-Mart that doesn't bring out the best in me.  My eyes inevitably focus on my fellow patrons and I stand there trying not to let my transparent facial expressions cause an incident.  Just by observing the folks at Wal-Mart I sense that the world has taken a severe left turn for the worse and I get a sick feeling in my stomach that involves my fear for the fate of our country.  I know that may sound harsh, but it's true.  

So, in a concerted effort not to lose my Jesus, I have limited my trips to Wal-Mart and started patronizing a local grocery store instead. The store is clean, well stocked, and if I go at the right times, I have the store nearly to myself.  The people who do shop there don't look like aliens from another planet, they are wearing real pants instead of pajamas, and acting in a civil and dignified manner...with exception to an older man who farts with every step he takes.

The past couple of times I have gone to my new choice in grocery stores, I have had the same cashier. Her layers upon layers of inexpensive brightly colored jewelry always catch my eye.  Last week I noticed that with every item she picked up from my cart she winced with pain. She had deep splits in her fingertips that would open from the pressure she applied to pick up an item. Item after item after item.  I felt guilty for buying so many things and torturing her...but she stood there at her register trying to smile and doing her best to do her job so she can pay her bills. 

Some days are hard enough just to get through, but when you hurt constantly just from doing your job, it has to really suck.  I couldn't get her off of my mind as I drove that thirty miles back home to the ranch. There is somebody I know that has those same splits, so I called them to see what, if anything, had worked. 

About a week later, I had to go back to the grocery store. I was disappointed I didn't see this cashier when I walked in, but I got my items and proceeded to the checkout. That cashier just happened to come back on duty from her break so I got in her line. I watched her unload my cart. There were band aids on her fingers trying to shield her fingertips from continual punishment. As she handed me my receipt, I handed her some things that will hopefully help her.  She was momentarily quiet, looking at what I had given her.  Studying it with her eyes and listening to me explain I had watched her trying to smile while doing her job and that I wanted her not to hurt so she could really smile.   She offered to pay me and I refused, telling her that this had been laid on my heart and was something I just wanted to do for her. She started to cry and asked me why I would do something so nice for her when I didn't even know her.  She didn't feel worthy of an act of love by a stranger...at first.  She looked up and asked me my name and came around the register and asked to give me a hug.  I  told her I was from the south and strongly believed in hugs.  We aren't strangers any more. 

The point of this story is not to tell you I am a good person....I'm not. I've met some really nice people in my life.  The kind that if you poked holes in them, they would bleed Jesus.  They've probably never said a bad word...not ever...and are always there when church doors are open.  Sorry, that's not me.  The point...THE POINT... is to remind you and me that every day we can open our eyes to those around us and recognize a need. A need we can do something about. We can choose to be a blessing and be the change we wish to see in this messed up world. One small act of love at a time. 

Cause what the world needs now....is love....sweet love...it's the only thing that's there just too little of.

Thawing Out

As a small child growing up in the deep south, snow was a fantasy only revealed once every seven or so years.  Like the mystical unicorn that materializes for fleeting erratic moments to keep the romance alive.  It didn't matter if there was just a dusting or an actual accumulation that could be measured in inches.  School was canceled.  You hustled to put on layers of mismatched clothes to get out in it...to embrace it...to touch the unicorn!  We would not come in for hours, not until there was no feeling left in our little hands and feet.  Wind chapped red faces and raspy breathing, we would only be staying in long enough to thaw out.  Pining to get back outside and complete the biggest snowman out of whatever white stuff could be gathered.

These were the days before I had cows in my life.  You see, there is something about animals that whenever there is a change in the atmospheric pressure their bodies decide "hey, this would be a great time to give birth."  This will be on my list of great mysteries that I save until that day that I get to crawl up in the lap of my Father.  He will lovingly brush my hair out of my face and ask me "child, what is it that you want to know?"

Storm Titan blew through the ranch in the dead of night on the second of March.  It got down to negative nine degrees that night.  There was a thick layer of snow on the ground from the last round of winter storms before this one blew through.  Nights like that I can't sleep.  In the darkness, I curl up into the fetal position and pray fervently over the animals as I listen to the wind howl over and around the house.  Please protect them I ask over and over.

Morning comes.  We hustle to put on layers of clothes covered by insulated coveralls and muck boots.  The diesel truck is loud but the crunching snow and ice under the tires is louder.  We have to put out hay because all their normal food is covered up by white stuff.  We have to break the ice in the water tanks so these lactating mommas can stay hydrated to make milk for their babies.  When it is nine degrees you hope the whole tank isn't frozen solid.  

We stop to cut the netting off the hay bale and my eyes start darting from cow to cow.  Noting which have had babies, if their babies were with them, do their bags look like they've been sucked.  The cows that just had babies are off at a distance....as is their custom.  They go off by themselves to give birth.  I see a white faced cow by herself.  Her big black calf laying there at her feet.  He is frozen solid.  She had him in the dead of night and she couldn't get him up and cleaned off fast enough.  He stuck to the ground and there was nothing she could do to get him up.  So he froze to death as she watched.

She saw us putting out the hay.  She was hungry.  Her maternal instincts were stronger.  She would not leave her baby.  Tears welled up in both my eyes and were about to spill over onto my checks.  I turned to hide my head and walked to the other side of the truck.  I wanted to hide the shame of my tears.  Kept telling myself to suck it up, this is life, this is what happens when you have cows....but my tender mother's heart was broken for my white face cow.  

We saw another cow a little further out who looked to have a new baby stashed under the cedar tree.  She would not leave her baby to come eat either, so we took some hay to her.  Her calf was black with a white face.  His black patches around his eyes made him look more like a panda bear than cow.  This momma loved her baby and wanted to take care of it, but it was obvious he hadn't eaten yet even though he was a couple hours old.  Ed jumped out of the truck and ripped the calf off of the ground.  He was starting to freeze to the ground and frost bite was evident on his tail and ears.  Ed shoved him in the front seat with me and I held him all the way to the cabin.  I studied his white eyelashes and deep dark eyes while holding onto the soft damp fur his mama had cleaned off.  

Once at the cabin, the storm of activity begins to save the calf.  Heater placed in bathroom, plastic covering the the floors, quilts gathered to maintain body heat, and rubbing all over to stimulate him.  The giant white plastic bottles filled with powdered colostrum replacement mixed with warm water have been prepared and topped with giant red nipples.  This calf didn't need much convincing.  He latched on and was eager to fill his empty belly.  He made it clear he wanted to live.  Titan wanted to live.

This is what snow means to me now. Trying not to focus on the calves lost...but find joy in the ones we rescued from an early icy end.  

Deep Abiding Love

There was a knock at my door...which doesn't happen very often out in the middle of no where.  It was my neighbor, Mr. Fields.  He was stopping by to talk to my husband about repairing some fences that separate our properties.  Mr. Fields is 96 years old. 

He stood outside my back door wearing a crisp light blue shirt, khaki pants, and nice leather loafer style shoes.  These are his work clothes and he was about to get on his tractor and plow up his fields preparing for the eventual planting of wheat when our chances of rain are better than pigs taking flight.  I told him that Ed wasn't home and had been gone every day since they last spoke.  Mr. Fields said he understood...stating that he was a hard worker too and there was nothing wrong with being a hard working man.

He has always gotten up at 5 AM without an alarm.  He goes to the café and orders one egg and one piece of toast to go with his coffee.  The other men in the café give him a hard time cause that's all he ever orders, to which he replies "I only eat what I need to.  I don't eat too much and I don't get fat or tired." His wife used to cook breakfast for him every morning.

Her name was Kate. 

When he was a spry nineteen year old, he was at the stock barn at the county fair.  He looked up to see a vision of loveliness and followed her to the building where the handmade quilts were on display.  He recalls just walking up to her and plainly stating "I'd like to know you."  They courted for the next four years.  It might be up to six months in between their dates.  In a day and time where relationships are quickly started and ended with nonstop communication, this fascinates me deeply.  They were married for sixty-four years.  Impressive by any one's standards.  In all that time he said he never found a fault with her and their time together was peaceful, without quarrel.  He said a woman like that doesn't come around very often.  She left for her eternal home nine years ago.

For an hour I watched his face as he spoke of her with such love and devotion.  His eyes lit up and there was such a respectful tone in his voice recalling the memories which he holds more dearly than any earthly possession.  I felt like I knew Kate personally when he was done talking.

I promised Mr. Fields that we would eat lunch with him this week and flush out the details on our shared fence project.  He was starting to walk towards his new shiny white Ford pickup truck with all the bells and whistles, and I asked him if he had a picture of Kate he could bring with him next week.  I want to attach a face to name and see this woman that still abides within the heart of her husband.

The word love gets thrown around a lot these days.  So much so it seems, that it has lost its meaning.  We use it to describe shoes, food, and many other temporary things that could never return an emotion.  The word so cheapened that it is forgotten as soon as the next sentence is spoken, but love...real love...isn't temporary.  It isn't a possession.  It was right in front of me as plain as day.  It was beautiful.

My Inner Indian

It is not unusual to look up and see my oldest daughter totally absorbed in reading a book.  She is an obsessive reader and it has become my parental challenge to keep her in books.  I was alarmed, however, to see her with big tears rolling down her cheeks while doing so.  She slowly closed her book and sat there and cried.  On the verge of being a moody little tween-ager,  I had to ask..."Gracie, what's wrong?"  She proceeded to explain that she just finished a series of books that she enjoyed and there were no more books to read in that series.  It was over.  She had to say goodbye to those characters and move on.  You'd have thought somebody she knows very well in real life had died.

Oh, the drama.

I breathed a small sigh of relief.  She then asked me what my favorite book was.  I used to love to read and always had a book in progress, but the last book I had read was What To Expect When You Are Expecting, which if you don't know is the worst book ever written to tell pregnant women what all COULD happen...and to EXPECT it!

Gracie then wanted to know why I didn't read any more.  The plain truth is I didn't think I had time any more.  Since becoming a wife and mother my time was filled with other things and books didn't make the Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs pyramid.  It was replaced with laundry, cooking, cleaning, and being the finder of lost things.  For the last twelve years I have told myself I didn't have time for books.  My child, the lover of books, told me that was the saddest thing she had ever heard.  Ever.  She publicly vowed that she would never let things get in the way of her love for books.

It broke my heart and my inner Indian cried.

My mind flashed to the Keep America Beautiful campaign/ public service announcement against littering that used to be in heavy rotation way back in my childhood.  The crying Indian standing on the side of the highway mourning people's trashy habits.  Tears for people who did not appreciate the beauty of what surrounded them.  Those big tears that rolled down his weathered face and the sadness in his eyes have haunted me to this very day.

So I promised her....as soon as the move is over....I would read a book. 

Move completed.  I read a book.  I did. I am in love with reading again and consuming books like they were puffy Cheetos. 

My inner Indian is now doing a happy dance despite the litter still on the side of the highway.

Riff Off

The last couple of weeks have been a blur of constant activity.  That activity primarily being building fence.  It may seem logical that when you buy a ranch you need fences to keep the cattle where you want them. Logical.  I have no idea why I didn't see this coming.  I have no idea why I didn't understand that I was now an integral part of the fence building committee.  I didn't get a vote.

I've never built fence before and had zero idea what kind of physical labor it required.  Also pretty sure I have used some of those math skills I swore I'd never use.  I now have a deep appreciation for fences and those who can build one and it not look like a drunk prank afterwards.  If I had it my way....I'd never build fence again....but...it needs to be done....and there is no end to it.  Like postal workers who have a never ending job and eventually go insane..."go insane, go insane, throw some glitter and make it rain."  Speaking of....to pass the time, I drive my family crazy by coming up with a song that starts with a word they just said, change random lyrics to be about fence building, or selecting a number that perfectly suits the moment.  That's right Aca-bitches...I challenge them to a "Riff Off" right there in the pasture.  In front of God and everybody.

Any who.

Today we were building fence and a nice rain shower popped up.  While I was thanking Sweet Infant Baby Jesus for the much needed moisture and singing Milli Vanilli's "Blame it on the Rain," I notice some calves jumping up from their napping spots.  They were bawling for their mamas and trying to figure out where they wandered off to.  It seems mama cows will just plants their babies in a location and then go about the business of stuffing their faces with food with their friends.  Human mamas take note.

One big calf was heading the opposite way from where his mother was screaming in moo language..."young man, you just stop right there and I'll get to you in a minute...don't make this harder than it has to be."  But no, he didn't listen and wandered off in the opposite direction.  Just like a man child.  He was so beautiful too...acknowledging that some times the prettiest are also the least intelligent....and men refuse to ask for directions...no matter the species.

Mama cow kept screaming to him.  He kept wandering off.  Finally, he turns around and starts heading down the line of fence we were building...mama on the other side...shaking her big bovine head.  They finally get to the end of the quarter mile section, no longer separated by five strands of barbed wire, and stare at one another.  He has worked up a thirst by now calling for her and latches on for a snack. 

I clapped joyously and started singing "Reunited and it feels so good...."

I have no idea why those people I live with think I need mental help.

Shed

It's baby calf time at the ranch...circle of life renewed....new money on the ground. We spend lots of time riding around checking on the cows.  You notice the bulging milk bags and unmistakable look of a female who has clearly had enough.  Her eyes scream out "get it out already."  The new babies have been licked clean and scamper around with their tails kinked like the number nine.  One approaches his mama and repeatedly butts his head into her gorged bag and she turns to look at him with tired disdain.  I grab my boobs in empathy and quietly tell her I have felt her pain.

Driving around looking at calves and seven miles of new fence, I notice something rising from the green spiders that are called struggling wheat.  Even at a fair distance it can be seen and I yell out "stop the truck."  About that time my kids notice the shed antler too and everybody bales out of the truck leaving doors open and Ed yelling how rude we all are (truck manners indicate closed doors at all times to reduce flies and dirt).  The race is on.  In my head I can hear the theme from "Chariots of Fire" and I tell myself I don't care if they are my kids...I saw it first!  After twenty seconds of top speed in plowed dirt the muscles in my legs start to burn and remind me that I am no longer a spring chicken.  Stop Laughing.  They also scream "but you don't run!"  I tell my legs to shut up.  My oldest is right behind me as I summon just a little more strength to snatch the shed antler from the dirt.  It's a beauty.  Five points, big, and heavy.  I hold it high in victory and basked in my glory between gasps of breath.

Don't look at me that way.  I saw it first.  I won it fair and square.  Stop judging me.  I'm older and it was harder for me.  Shut up.

Every spare moment is spent canvasing wheat pastures and fence lines for shed antlers.  We each are on a quest to find the biggest one.  The kids wise up and get sneaky about it, not announcing their potential find or asking me to slow down the gator and catapult from it and start running.  My children have become natural gymnasts in two days.  Best exercise ever invented, I swear.  Even on horse back, they ride back up to the cabin with several sheds dangling from the tie strings on their saddles.

Although the antlers were dropped by the bucks as part of natural yearly process, we admire our little pile as if we had shot them all ourselves.  Each antler like reclaimed treasure from a sunken pirate ship.  Marveling at the size, heaviness, and number of points.  I smile at my children who were not in front of a TV, playing electronic games, or texting a friend.  We have a rule that no electronics are allowed at the ranch. I smile that they have shed those things and are fully engaged in the world around them...and each other.  They are happy and feel blessed beyond measure.

Amazing what happens when you let go of things that weigh you down. 

The Call

The phone rang just after midnight.  Phone calls in the middle of the night are never good at our house. It usually means that a cow is out and needs to be put back where it belongs.  Most of the time, you get there to discover it is not even your cow, but instead your neighbor's.  Since you are already awake and there, you do the neighborly thing and return the lost animal to its proper place.

That phone call two years ago changed our lives.  It was the news that there had been a fire and James was dead.  James was a young cowboy that had worked for us for many years and was like a son to us.  Things seemed to be in slow motion and each second painfully lasted a full minute which made everything blurred and surreal.  Grasping to process it all and at the same time searching mentally for a place to retreat and make it all go away.

We found out in the darkness of night and there was no way to go back to sleep with the world crashing down around us.  I remember being on the front porch, coffee in hand and seeing the sun come up that morning.  How dare the sun rise.  Did it not get the memo that the world was to stand still?  I went to get another cup of coffee and returned to the porch.  It was a beautiful sunrise and the sun seemed closer than normal.  I realized it was a clear message that life for the rest of us goes on.  It may be painful and hard at first, but it must go on.

He was too young to die and had too much ahead of him, we reasoned over and over.  The feeling of loss was overwhelming, especially for Ed. They spent more time together every day than Ed and I did as husband and wife. Both were private and quiet, but together they shared things as they rode pens and worked cattle.  Ed loved James and wanted the best for him, teaching him things and helping him mature.  Just like the ground work on a young colt, James was being slowly groomed, bridled and refined.  Amazing what a loving hand and a kind word can do to a wild thing.  James was really starting to come into his own and become a man.

Because James was not our real son, it was awkward to let him go back to his family that were genetically linked to him.  I did not like the idea of his body being so far away from us, but I kept reminding myself of the importance of family and that James was gone...this was just the earthly remains.  What we had with him was real and lasting...transcending DNA...the family that you deliberately choose.

For over a year, we could not escape that feeling that James would be just around the corner waiting to surprise us.  We saw him everywhere.  He was at the feedyard, the horse barn, the arena, the round pen, the open pasture with the cattle, and the horse sale.  I longed to see his shy expressions, hear him excitedly describe a horse with more words than he would use for the rest of the week, or laugh at a cowboy who just got bucked off in the sale ring who just moments before described the horse as bomb proof. 

We speak of James quite often.  We have come to place of acceptance, remembering the good times and laughing with fondness.  Choosing again and again to celebrate his life and the time we had with him.  To celebrate that relationships that we have make us better in the end and that family means a forged bond not just blood.

James is gone but part of him remains with us....in every horse and in every pasture.

O Christmas Tree

At my grandmother's house, the signal that the holiday season was upon us meant plugging in the snow capped ceramic Christmas tree with colored lights. It sat on top of a large toaster oven in the corner of her dining room. Year round. That was it. I lamented even as a small child how sad and pitiful it was that she didn't do more

While I realize that some stores put out Christmas decorations in July, I have always felt it was disrespectful to the Thanksgiving holiday to not wait until the day after to hose down the house with all things celebrating the birth of Sweet Infant Baby Jesus.  This year I am not even sure where we are going to be for Christmas Day so I am reluctant to even think about my usual five decorated trees and four nativities.  It is a whole lot of work and I don't need one more thing to pack....and I don't have the time.  I really don't.

I wrestle with the question of how it will effect my Christmas spirit if I don't go all out like normal.  Is playing Elvis' Blue Christmas album and the concession of one tree enough?  It is hard to suppress my inner Martha Stewart and not make every square inch of my home scream Christmas. 

I admit it.  I bought into this commercialization of the infant savior's birth a long time ago.  Hook, line, and sinker.  I actually enjoy the decorating and embrace the creativity that comes with it....but really...what is this holiday really about?  Is baby Jesus displeased with us for not lighting things up so they can be seen from space?  Would He be happy about the hours spent decorating everything that will stand still?  Is the purpose of it all killing yourself trying to find the holy grail of gifts for each person you've ever met?

Maybe this year, in honor of simplicity....in honor of my grandmother...in honor of the true meaning of Christmas I will focus on the things that would please Sweet Infant Baby Jesus and let go of (most) all the superficial, commercial, meaningless decorations.  Just this year.  Maybe.  Okay...maybe just one tree.

I'm still playing my Elvis music...."I'll have a blue Christmas without you"...cause Christmas is not Christmas without the King...both of them!

One Moon At A Time

The sun came up today....as it does every day.  Before the sun made its grand appearance, the sky was lit up by the full moon.  It was beautiful and commanded my undivided attention for a whole minute.  Just so you know...a full minute is impressive by today's standards.  A full sixty seconds of silence, being motionless, and appreciating the beauty of the moon and what it did to the sky around it.  Not wishing it away to usher in the sun, but appreciating it in that moment.  Stunning.

It never fails, lately when I go into town I encounter at least one person who says "Have you moved yet?"  It is the same irksome feeling as when I was heavy pregnant in my last month and people would bug out their eyes when they saw you and asked "You haven't had that baby yet?"  You struggle to be polite but silently you scream on the inside.  You reason they are just making conversation and are not privy to the constant ticking clock inside your head.  You hear it so loudly...that clock ticking...it wears on your nerves.  Painfully aware of what all needs to be done within a roughly estimated time frame.  A time not yet revealed...the suspense of when has worn me out.

OK...so I am a control freak.  A planner.  A list maker.  A doer.  Asking me to stand still and be patient is not in my bag of tricks. My internal wiring is at constant conflict with this whole process.  I hate those things in life that are out of my control.  Things I have to wait and let happen on their own...or worse yet...are in the hands of somebody else.

I walk from room to room looking at our stuff knowing that what we have will not fit where we are going.  Editing what stays and what goes.  I have relinquished a large amount of things already.  Mentally it was easy to rationalize and let go...but the physical act of packing it and handing it over...actually letting go...was a small struggle.  I did it...I'm glad I did it...and I'll be glad when I can stop doing it...even if it means it's all gone.

Always having a song to sing at any given moment, I find myself going back to "One day at a time sweet Jesus."  OK....so I change it to Sweet Infant Jesus when I sing it.  Keep reminding myself that I am only required to do this one day at a time.  Each day trying to enjoy still being where I am....cause I do love where I live and am in no hurry to leave just yet.  Trying to embrace the changes...all of them.  Trying to come to terms with not being in control. 

Then I burst out into song again, "I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night..."

The First Proposal

It was the fall of 1999 and we were on our way to compete in the Permian Basin Ranch Rodeo in Odessa, Texas.  Somewhere outside of Midland, one of the tires on the trailer we were pulling behind Ed's truck had a blow out.

You can't change a tire on a trailer without first unloading the horses, so there I was holding three horses in the median of Interstate 20 with Ed trying to replace the tire.  Three horses that may or may not get along well.  Cars zipping past us on both sides.  I looked around at the terminally flat desolate horizon.  There were no trees.....nothing green...just shades of grey with giant tumbleweeds dotting the landscape.  It was hopelessly ugly to me. 

Shortly after the jack broke and the whole process became extended, Ed looks over at me grinning.  Without stopping his work, he asks me to marry him.  In the middle of I-20...holding three horses.  This was his first of three proposals he would make.  I told him as long as he promised to never make me live in Midland, Texas...yes, I would marry him.

We finally get to the fairgrounds where the rodeo was held.  Ed's parents drove there to watch their sons compete in the rodeo and meet me for the first time. Big Ed (Ed's dad) sits off quietly to himself to focus on the rodeo and not be distracted by all the chatter.  His mama sits next to me in the stands so she can size up this woman her son is dating.  Getting straight to the point, she asks me if I wear a uniform at work.  I tried to explain that my job at the casino didn't have a uniform but I wore nice clothes, especially when I went to court. She looks at me puzzled as asks, "Court?  Why would the girl who swings on the trapeze and rings the bell with her toes need to go to court?" 

This has to be one of rare times I was ever momentarily speechless.  Whoa.  I do what?  And who told you this?  Ed has a seriously twisted sense of humor which I enjoy when I am not at the center of it.  Over the next couple of hours we separated fact from fiction and I got my first glimpse into Ed's childhood.  Good bonding time with my mother-in-law to be. 

It was a weekend full of firsts...first rodeo I watched Ed compete in, first time to meet his parents, his first proposal.....and...the first time that I heard I swung from a trapeze and rang a bell with my toes.

Be

For eight years I was a full time mom at home with my children.  Twenty-four hours a day seven days a week without fail or much help.  My husband and I agreed that it was important for us to raise our children this way, and we were fortunate to be in a position where it was possible.  Although I was dedicated to the task and considered it a privilege to be able to stay at home with my girls, I often felt as though I was doing a job any monkey could do.  I had degrees and years of work experience that were not being utilized and I craved adult conversations.  I missed the mental and intellectual stimulation that quite frankly Dora just can't provide. 

Confession:  I hate Swiper, back packs, and maps.  Still.

It was the first day of school for my youngest daughter. That day would be the first day that both kids were in school and I would be alone.  Alone.  I couldn't wait to rush home and pee all by myself without anybody standing there asking questions.  No fingers wiggling under the space of the locked door pleading for something.  It was going to be my time to figure out who I am again too.  No longer just the maker of peanut butter sandwiches, doer of laundry removing mysterious stains, and finder of all things lost.

In the hallways of the school there were tearful mothers who now felt incomplete when parting with their child, like half of them literally had been removed and they were forced to leave without it.  Muttering how sad they were and they couldn't believe this time was here so soon.  Then there were the children who clung to their mothers with what can only be described as a death grip.  Wrapped firmly around the mother's leg and she struggled with trying to walk with the dead weight.  The children pleading for their mothers not to leave them there like school was a war crimes camp from which no one ever returned. 

There I was doing a touch down dance end zone style outside the school.  A victory celebration of spiking an imaginary football that signified that I had been there 24/7, had willingly sacrificed it all and left nothing on the field...exhausted and triumphant...and still managed to have some of my mind left!  Can I get an amen?!!

It's true...I was not like the other mothers that day.  I was not crying or reluctant to let go.  Neither was Sophie.  Self confident, happy, and ready to face whatever might be.  She did not look back or even give it a second thought.  I was proud.  My girls were what they were supposed to be.  What I had helped make them be.  I know they will both be fine no matter what comes their way and face the world passionately, finding their rightful place in it no doubt. 

Message to my children:  I have been there this whole time holding your hand.  I am still there.  I will always be there.

A Time To Heal

The last week has not been a long clean hair flowing in the wind, make up on, dressed up nice kinda week.  It has been about going down to the barn every day twice a day to doctor on my colt. 

This horse is special to me (confession:  they all are special) because I've been the one to work with him. Daily trips to the barn to halter him, lead him around, picking up his feet, and placing blankets on his back that will be replaced with a saddle. These rituals of exposing him to these things make him gentle and much easier to break to ride. Shotgun has always been easy. He wants to please and prefers the company of people to other horses. A true gem.

Horses are like kids, they hurt themselves and sometimes you're not sure how they did it.  You just notice the injury and then dedicate yourself to the mending process.  Horses heal from the inside out so it is very important to not let the outside scab over and the inside fester.  A wound takes time, patience, and dedication.  You take a water hose and spray the area for twenty minutes to clean it and draw the blood back to the surface.  You have to forcefully spray the water too, to get the circulation going.  In the end, you're soaking wet and muddy...so is everything else.  This is not an event you get dressed up for and since there are no bonus points awarded for appearance, practical is best.

The entire time I've spent with Shotgun to help him heal, he has stood there like a true gentlemen.  He doesn't give me any problems...just returned love and appreciation.  I wish they all could be this easy.  During this extensive quality time, it occurred to me that people should be no different.  We should daily expose ourselves to the things that build our character so they are customary, put into practice good habits til they become second nature.  We should also learn to heal from the inside out and not let things fester.   File it under "life is too short" or Tourette's, but honesty is usually the best policy.  Get it all out there...drawing it to the surface; get over it.....let it heal properly and not sabatoge potential progress with infection; and get on with it...don't make it hard when it doesn't have to be. 

I am always amazed at what I lessons I learn at the barn.

To everything there is a season...and a time to every purpose under heaven. 

The Veteran

I was on my way back to Alva from taking my six year old daughter, Sophie, to a doctor appointment in Enid.   As is my custom, I stopped to gas up at the usual place on the edge of town - very nice, clean, big bathrooms and usually has the cheapest gas.  It seems as I get older the more obsessed I am about finding the lowest priced gasoline.

Always trying to be aware of my surroundings, I noticed an old man next to me putting gas in his car.  He had to be a 100.  I observed him slightly bent over and wearing clothes that old men wear with dark sensible shoes.  He was also wearing a ball cap with the Marine eagle/anchor on it.  His license plate noted that he was a veteran and was awarded a purple heart.

Over whelmed by emotion and compelled by my heart, I stopped washing my windows for a minute and approached him. I stuck out my hand and said "Sir, I don't know you, but I see you proudly served our country and I just want to tell you thank you and I appreciate your sacrifice."

He gently took my hand and then grasped the other side of it with his other hand. You can tell a lot about people by their hands and as I looked down at his...old, wrinkled and worn, but not worn out completely...I was wondering if he even heard me as old as he was.  He studied my face for a full minute and then he spoke. He told me he hadn't heard that in a long time and thanked me. I told him no thanks was needed on his part and further added that our great country was built by the blood, sweat, and tears of good men like him and we owe them a huge debt of gratitude. He just smiled an old man smile and tilted his head to the side and said "that's good to know." He seemed half choked up when he said it and I could have sworn there was much more he wanted to say...which I would have gladly listened to.   He straightened his posture, held his head high and managed a solid, dignified "Semper Fi" and then slowly turned around and got back into his car.

When I returned to my car, Sophie asked who that old man was that I was talking to. I told her he was an American hero. She looked at me funny, crinkled her nose up, and then wanted to know if he could fly....I told her "I think so."

Left At The Alter

Sitting in the parking lot of Monjunni's restaurant in Bossier City, Louisiana, Ed handed me a credit card and said "I want a ring on your second left finger by the end of next week."  My eyes widened as I stared at the plastic card.  How much can I spend, I asked?  He said he was only buying one ring and to "knock myself out."  There was also the explanation that I was terribly picky and he wanted me to be thrilled with a ring that signified our union.  It doesn't get any more romantic than that I tell you.

A short five months later, I came down the aisle like a grown woman with a purpose, not like a child bride playing dress up.  There was organ music playing and I noticed the fifty people who were kind and crazy enough to come to a remote location to bear witness to it all.  At the end of my path, there was the man I was going to marry.  After facing Ed at the front of the church, my hands touched his and I felt my beautiful ring on the end of his finger.  That warm and fuzzy feeling lasted about thirty seconds before a feeling of panic took over.  I did not have his ring with me.  I knew right where I had left...on the stairs where I was hiding out before the wedding. 

The groom's ring belonged to my grandfather.  He was a man who was the strong silent type.  Robust with moral character and deeply private.  Ed shares a lot of characteristics with this man and it seemed more than fitting that I should use his ring in our ceremony. 

It was a split second reaction which took what seemed like an eternity in my head.  I could either fake the part of the ceremony with the exchanging of rings, or I could take 60 seconds to make it right.  I don't fake things and pride myself on always being real. There was only one choice to make.   I looked at the preacher and softly whispered...."pardon me, I forgot something."  With that and no more, I was headed back down the aisle to collect the ring from the place I left it.  Ed turns to watch me leave and yells "are you coming back?"  I could hear my mother lean over to explain "she probably just has to pee."  I snatched up the sentimental gold band and marched rapidly back down the aisle with the organist trying to keep up with my quickened pace for the second time.  I joined Ed back at the alter and told the preacher "you may proceed."

Ed loves to tell people I left him at the alter....but not as much as he loves to tell them I came back.

 

Full Circle

Nothing really prepares you emotionally for the birth of your child.  You can read countless books that describe every minute detail and scenario, watch TV programs that show women graphically giving birth, or be in the room with a friend and witness it all first hand....but until it is you...you really have no idea.

When the nurse brought my daughter to me that first night to stay with me in the room, she was all wadded up in a blanket a mile long.  Just a small part of her face was peeking out.  I carefully unwrapped her like a special treasure that was fragile and rare.  This baby girl was mine and she would not be spending the night in a cold plastic nursery bassinet alone in a room full of stranger babies.  I wanted to see the tiny toes and count the little fingers.  To marvel at what I had created that was no longer inside me but out in the world...and in my arms.

I spent the whole night gazing at her and singing to her.  I sang Elvis, Patsy Cline, gospel music, You Are My Sunshine, and countless songs from the 80's.  I think I sang so I wouldn't fall asleep.  As tired as I was, I wanted the moment to last as long as possible.  So, I sang...nursed...and studied my child. 

Staring at the dark eyes of this child and the insane mop of inky dark hair on her head, I beamed with pride.  It was starting to wash over me in waves.  I realized that the torch had been passed. The circle was moving and I had a new role.  I was no longer a child of my mother's...I was a mother to this child.  In that moment I gained a new appreciation for the sacrifices my mother had made for me.  Grasping completely and instantly what this new role meant.

Then the waves crashed again.  Driving deeper still this time.  All this love I felt for this child...all the responsibility...my pride and joy...this creation lovingly knit and nourished in my body....knowing that no matter what she ever would do or say....that I loved her unconditionally.  It struck me hard....this is the same love that our heavenly Father has for each one of us.   I am His pride and joy.   He knit me together so carefully and knew me before anybody else.  That He still loves me even though I am not perfect and have run away from Him from time to time. I can lash out all I want to and He is still right there with a love that is abundant. I am His child and He loves me unconditionally.

It was a full circle moment.  Washed away in love.

Quiet Your Mind

Sunday was not a day of rest.  Ed took the day off from his regular work at the feedyard (this never ever happens) and he and the girls went for doughnuts first thing.  I got a whole bag of doughnut holes to myself and enjoyed the moment with creamer and splash of coffee.  Then we set about cleaning the horse barn and the tack room where we store the saddles, blankets, and other riding equipment.  It was time for the task any way and would help with putting a best foot forward with listing the house on the market, making sure things are tidy and neat.

What an odd feeling this is, having a house for sale.  People you don't know coming into your home and making judgements about you based off of what they see.  We are quiet, private people and have escaped this examination up to this point.  I feel violated like I've been striped naked and forced to walk down the freezer section of Wal-Mart. My nerves are raw and exposed.  I am a little concerned to write or speak, feeling like too much has all ready been revealed.  My obsessive compulsive disorder is at an all time high as you can imagine.  I have worn myself out stalking the house inside and out with a discerning eye, looking for any imperfections.  It is the Salem witch hunt of cleaning expeditions. 

While we were at the barn clearing cobwebs and organizing, I thought it was a good time to groom some of the horses.  This is one of my fondest ways to release stress.  Ed knows this and kindly did not say a word about me leaving him with the rest of the cleaning.  I set about combing out manes and tails carefully like they are tender headed children, brushing off fuzzy coats that are thickening for the winter, oiling hooves that are dry and cracking from drought conditions.  Something about pressing your face into the neck of a horse and breathing in that wonderful smell sets the world back on its axis.  Each horse lightened the mental load. 

In between grooming horses, I noticed the girls were riding their new horses in the arena.  Smiles on their faces and practicing their stops, spins, and patterns.  So confident and totally content in the moment.  Not worried about what changes lie ahead or over analyzing what it all means. 

Everything is happening so quickly it is almost blurred.  I reach out to grasp it...to stop it....and it is already gone.  Instinctively I feel the need to hurry my pace...to catch up...struggling with doing it all or getting it all done.  A quiet voice within hushes me and tells me to be still.  Conflicted, I consider both options.  At the barn I chose to be still.  Just for a little bit and in my own way.  Returning to the ways of a child and allowing myself to be in the moment. 

Quiet your mind.  Soak it all in.  It's a game you can't win.  Enjoy the ride.

He's A Peach

Some horses take a long time to earn a name, but one big headed gray horse got his name the day we bought him and brought him home. A soon as the horse was unloaded, James, a young cowboy who was like a son to us and expert in the ways of horses, immediately crawled on him and rode off. When they showed back up James was grinning ear to ear and I asked the guru of horses what his opinion was. Without hesitation, he declared that "He's a peach." So, Peaches it was. James had nailed it perfectly. 

My family argued often over who was going to ride Peaches and James even commandeered him quite a bit.  He didn't know he was big and still got around quickly and with authority. It was his personality that we all adored too.  He loved his people and enjoyed us as much as we enjoyed him. 

Much of this past weekend was spent doing what my family loves to do. Just being on a horse can make anything worth doing for them. There was a ranch horse competition close by and we spent the better part of two days watching and performing.  When I arrived at the fairgrounds early Saturday morning, Ed was unloading the horses.  There was a stout dark gray one with a huge head among them.  My eyes widened with surprise and my heart leapt for joy.  It was Peaches.  I was told that Peaches was "going to live on that big ranch in the sky where he'd always have food and be happy" this week, so him being there was a shock.  A pleasant one. 

After seven months of being kicked out to pasture, Ed wanted to try Peaches in the ranch horse competition one more time before committing him to his fate. They competed, and despite a flawed performance, they qualified to go to the finals in Abilene in May. More importantly, Peaches didn't look to be in any discomfort and I think he enjoyed himself too. I don't know how long this will last, but I do know that any more time we can spend with Peaches is better than no time at all.

Although he is a family favorite, at the young age of four he has issues that make him unable to be used for work and these issues will not get any better despite expensive injections.  He's big, he eats a lot (you can graze up to four cows for every one horse), and keeping a horse is not a cheap proposition.  You especially can't ask an animal to live in pain with no hope.  From my short time in this world, I can reason all that in my head but my heart still feels what it wants to.  It's hard to let go when it is time. Hard to not hold on and be selfish.

Fingers crossed, hopeful heart, and prayers said.  You will have to excuse me now, I have to go down to the barn.  A big headed gray horse is waiting for me.