Month: May 2011

Today’s post was written by my brother, Jim.  He sent me this via email and told me if I was having writer’s block, I was welcome to use it.  I remember the Vietnam draft clearly and my mom clutching a piece of paper with all my brother’s birthdays and their draft number next to it.  A low number would certainly mean they could leave us, and though my mom tried to act like it was no big deal, you could feel the fear.   You should also know that the need to write seems to be a family trait and most importantly, this isn’t the first time a brother has bailed me out.  Gracias Friar Jim…………

Unless you’re a crafter you might not know that injuries frequently happen while working on a project.  I’ve been cut, stuck with pins, burnt hundreds of times by a glue gun, stapled my fingers and nearly passed out from paint fumes.  One time I was shaking a can of spray paint and hit my knee so hard that I fell over in the driveway and laid there making little animal sounds.  By the time Big Daddy came along, all I could say was, “Un gaa, gaa, gaa…..” or something like that while pointing to my knee.

Today I was making pillows.  I needed the iron but decided to skip the ironing board because I was too lazy to put it up. I ironed on the living room floor.  Doesn’t everybody?  While trying to get a fold mark out of the fabric, I cranked up the temperature and hit the steam.  Thing is, I had my legs spread out with the fabric between ’em and dang near steamed my vajayjay.  Another few seconds and I’d have had to call the fire department to put out my crotch.

It was a close call and I could have been injured, injured bad. 

This would be our cat.  Up in a tree.  Hiding from the big, black cat that ruled the hood until Beemer came on the scene and decided he wanted to hang out in his own yard.  Well, he can but he has to do it in a tree.

BD and I had just finished dinner on the patio when there was one hell of a cat fight in the backyard.  BD sprang up to investigate.  I sprang up because I noticed my pot of petunias needed some water and I had an empty glass after finishing off a refreshing gin and tonic.  There I was at the spigot when a big, black cat comes running by.  I flung my glass of water at him which scared the bejeezus out of him and he hid behind the grill so I refilled and did it again.  Oh Lordy, he was FREAKING OUT and took off right back into our yard again when BD gave chase and then noticed something……..

The big black cat was not the neighborhood menace, but our next-door neighbor’s cat.  Dora the Explorer.  Sweet Dora.  Wouldn’t hurt a flea Dora.  No front claws Dora.  Who let the Ginger into the hood and why is that crazy bitch dousing me with water Dora.

Oh, geez, we felt like complete morons.  Dora got the hell out of Dodge and probably had a nervous breakdown behind the wood pile.  We hidey-hoed the neighbors a little while later, commented on the lovely nite and didn’t let on that we waterboarded their cat.  We’re invited over for dinner in a few days.  Steak dinner.  Maybe some sangria.  If Dora gets a look-see at us coming in the front door, it’s gonna get real awkward, real fast.

My Boy Child is named Will.  He was named after my father who died three weeks before his birth.  It is a name that suits him to a T, and over the years I’ve met many boys named Will.  I tend to instantly like them, but I’m prejudiced when it comes to that name.

On Sunday, we drove Will and his friend to the airport for three weeks in London for a summer class to study architecture.  On the way there, my husband pointed out the thunderheads and said somebody was going to get a hell of a storm.

That night, we learned the storm we saw brewing in the afternoon unleashed its fury on Joplin, Missouri which is about two hours from here.  Joplin High School was having their graduation ceremony and another boy named Will and his dad were headed home.  The rest of the family left before them and when they were a mile from home, the dad called to say they could see the tornado and to keep the garage door open so they could run for cover in the house as soon as they arrived.

They never made it to the garage and the dad is in the hospital.  Will was ripped from the car (which happened to be a Hummer), seatbelt and all through the sun roof.  He has not been seen since and his aunts are wandering around showing his picture to everyone, with hopes that he’s out there somewhere and hasn’t been able to call his family.

The day they celebrated his graduation from high school and the future that lay before him was the last time he was seen, and I don’t know what a family is to do when they can’t find their Will.

When you live in Mayberry, you get to know most of its citizens.   One of our more famous is the Mr. Goodcents man.  Mr. G. did not own a car and every day when I took #1 child and then #2 child to the high school, we’d see him walking to work in the early hours, presumably to start baking bread.  All sorts of weather, nearly every day and usually in shorts.

His demeanor always seemed content, like walking to a sandwich shop every day was about as good as it gets in life.  I wondered why he didn’t own a car, why making turkey sandwiches was all he ever seemed to want to do and thanked God I had kids with ambition and goals in life.

When the kids would come home for breaks during college, they’d meet a friend who shared their love of Mr. G. and go to the shop for lunch.  They’d happily report back to me that he was there, like they’d spotted a celebrity who also happened to not be a jerk.   And then last summer Mr. G. was gone.  Moved on without even a goodbye.

Mr. Goodcents real name was Aaron.  He was from Vermont.  His mama had cancer and he gave up the life he made here to move back home to take care of her.  He is fondly remembered and if you mention him, people will say that they miss seeing him around town.  It was his absence that made me realize that during all those years of watching him, he had the highest of goals.  Living a simple life, being kind, feeding the hungry and tending the sick.  In the big picture that really matters, Aaron happened to be a very successful man and wouldn’t we all be proud to have a kid turn out like him?

This is the patio we put in last summer.  The space was awkward and when you mowed it, you’d be engulfed in a cloud of dust since no more than ten blades of grass grew there.  I looked at that space forevah and said to Big Daddy. “That’s gotta go.”

A friend was moving and offered us a huge stack of pavers if we were interested.  Say no more.  If it weren’t midnight when she told us, we’d have gone right then and there to load ’em up.  The table was free from my next-door neighbor.  The iron chairs were $5.00 each at an estate sale in the dead of winter (when nobody but an idiot would venture outside to have a look) and can I tell you how many times somebody has offered to buy them from me?  The tub is from a yard sale and is now a koi pond.  I bought the lounger from a guy who told me his uncle used to farm his fields then sit in it, have a glass of lemonade and take a nap when he was done.  The lightening rod was bought at a flea market and BD nearly killed the deal I was making when he started cracking on Glen Beck right there at the booth.  I gave the hubs the death stare, poured the charm on and waved cash under Mr. Conservative Dealer’s nose and money’s money even if the buyer is some hippie, liberal, atheist commie.

Now we sit out there all the time like we’re at some French cafe watching the world go by and I tell the kids at least once a week that we hit the jackpot on funding this project.  All right all ready, they say and roll their eyes because they know that besides loving a good deal, I crazy love the stuff we live with to have a good story.

I was perusing my favorite blogs and got the craptacular idea to make some candles after seeing a photo from Martha Stewart.  Shell candles.  Melt some wax, pour them into seashells, stick a wick in there and voila…….a little seashore ambiance.  Just what we need here in Kansas when we’re surrounded by dirt, dirt and some dirt.

Nancy is the proud owner of hundreds of shells so I went to her house to check them out.  We chatted about THE BIG SALE COMING JUNE 4TH (shameless shouted plug) while picking out shells.  I left with a nice stash and got to work.  It was warm and muggy out, but I hovered over the stove watching my wax melt because it happens to be highly flammable and I didn’t need to burn down da howse.  Anyhoodle, Martha says to put your shells in a baking dish filled with sand as to keep them from tipping.  Martha thinks of everything.  Oh me, oh my, they were so cute until Boy Child came sniffing around the crap project and said, “How are you going to keep the wax from running out the sides when you start to burn it?”  Martha already thought of that.  Doesn’t she always?  You glue small shells to the bottom like little feet to level your shell.  They no sticky, Martha.

There I was massaging another cluster when Boy Child says, “Maybe you should put them in something.”  Oh, he’s so smart right out of year two of university.  Off he went and I got a vase to try out my new grand plan to float the candles.  I filled the vase with water, dropped my little shell of wax into it and it sank right to the bottom.  Me, not so smart.  Me need more university. 

Final Assessment of the Hot Mess of a Bad Idea:  Shells weren’t big enough.  Didn’t have underlings like Martha has to stand over a hot stove on a hot night.  Spent $10.00 at the Hob Lob and God knows I hate giving those cranky people any of my money.  Realized Hob Lob employees are cranky due to being around crafts all day.  Had a beer.  Called it a night.  Shells, sand and wax all over the counter mocking me.  Mocking me real bad.