I'll never be a biker babe

I was stopped at the traffic light at Grant’s Trail. I saw a young family engaging in a healthy activity. Mom and dad sandwiched twin bike-riding munchkins. All wore helmets; the five year olds teetered on training wheels. The dad was panting and red in the face, the little boys were royally flushed and complaining; the big bottomed mom’s face was beet red, and I could see that she was questioning her sanity as to why she’d thought it was a good idea to hit the asphalt with beginners and bellyachers and a husband who couldn’t hustle across the cross walk.

I cringed thinking that I should be getting some exercise too. So, I dashed home, searched five rooms, my purse, the junk drawer, the silverware drawer and even the refrigerator for the shed key. Couldn’t find it, tried to remember the combination lock code on the garden box, but none of the fifty combinations I tried worked. I said a few choice words, finally found the key and got the shed open. I gawked at my bike hanging on a hook four feet off the ground alongside the crammed in garden tools, and the jillions of jars of nuts, bolts, screws. My husband organizes his shed as meticulously as Betty Crocker does the spices in her kitchen.

I dragged the step stool out from under the fifty pound bag of fertilizer. Climbed up on the stool, tried to lift the bike off that meat hook, but my left shoulder shouted stop! Even if I’d had the strength to lift the bike up, I couldn’t have found a place to drop it down, as the mower, the blower, the hose stower and the gigantic generator consumed every inch of floor.

I hopped down and locked that shed. I sat my big bottom on the porch swing and pumped my legs until I was hot, sweaty, red in the face and winded. I looked just like that bike riding mama.

What a coincidence!

Saturday I stopped at a yard sale and bought a lovely coffee table book, (big enough to clunk an intruder, and heavy enough to break a toe if it fell off the table). St. Louis For the Record is published by the Regional Commerce and Growth Association. It is a lovely book with pictorial and written accounts of the businesses and people of St. Louis.

When my daughter and her fiancee stopped by, Dave was delighted to see his place of business as it looked years ago. He was pointing out things about his work to my daughter. Watching him made me think of a time last year when my 36 year old son came over with a handful of hotrod postcards and photos. "Look what I found at a yard sale. I love these old cars. The old lady even threw in these mini cards. She said they were her son's."

I took one look and recognized right away that the small ones were not postcards, but actual photos. In the 60's they came attached to the original snapshot; back when film had to be processed and printed. They were small duplicates you could cut off and share with someone. As I looked through them, I realized that they were photos of actual cars taken at the car shows that used to be held at The Keil Auditorium in St. Louis in the 1960's - hot rods my son's dad used to covet. It was a blast from the past as I flipped through a handful of these tiny photos. And then, I saw it. I ran to the study for a magnifying glass. The photographer who had been taking a picture of a hot rod, caught a couple standing on the other side of the car. Yes, it was us. I recognized the dress and teased hair before I could actually make out my features.

Did you ever have such a coincidence?

In Honor of Mother's Day

My petite mom had such a deep abiding faith, a little wise cracking mouth, yet she was as much a "preacher" as she was a worrier. As adults, everytime she and I were together she'd try to force feed me the gospel. I would say, "Mom, I know that. I'm a believer, but if you're going to shove it in, please use a spoon not a shovel." We'd both laugh.

So, in honor of Mother's Day, I'd like to share what I sent to my mom on her last Mother's day on this earth. Her health had been in decline. It was a rough time.

Dear Mom,
Some days it doesn’t seem worth getting out of bed, but at least you can. Some days it’s difficult to put up with people. Your pains and energy fluctuate; something, somewhere always aches. And all these worries bend you even further like a tree in a storm. Well, Mama Look up! I’m returning the message you gave me whenever I had so much strife and could barely stand my own life.

Heed your own advice. Raise your head and eyes and say to heck with these aches and pains, and family problems, because, Mom, there’s not a thing you can do. But it is no secret what God can do.

I know your spine hurts, and your belly cramps and your heart aches for your #1 girl. She’s walking the paths every one of us had to walk, making her own decisions and mistakes and now there’s nothing you or I can do. You did it all. You laid the foundation, put her on solid ground so that when the time came, she’d keep her faith and find her own way. The only thing you can do is pray, once a day, not incessantly all day! God’s too busy dealing with the world’s idiots and innocents to be bothered constantly by our trivial worries. Give your worries away. God has Tracey, Jason, Ashley, Austin, Nicholas, and you and me and Johnny and everyone else who knows Him in His hands.

Mom, hold on to His finger, but don’t yank His hand all day long! When the old devil - worry - tugs on your mind, tug on God’s finger, but don't bug Him; just feel His presence and let Him work things out. He doesn’t need us to help Him figure it out. It’s His world, His way, His time. Our suffering doesn’t compare to how He suffered for us. (I quote you)

Mom, physically your appearance has changed. You are smaller, weaker and you walk slower, but that is not how I envision you. In my mind you are wearing wedgies and a sun dress, sitting in the grass on a hot summer night on Plover plucking clover flowers, tying them in a knot making me a necklace to match the string of dirt pearls under my five year old neck. I see you laughing when your mother tickled under my chin with a yellow dandelion telling me I was boy crazy. I laugh when I think of you and Jim taking grandma ("bumming" as she called it) in a bowling alley bar by her house when she turned 65.

My fondest memory is always in the forefront of my mind. You are wearing that silky, forest-green dress you wore when you crashed Jr. & Debbie’s wedding. (smile) In my mind’s eye, you aren’t at their wedding; you’re in Carondelet Park, on a balmy, sunny Easter Sunday, holding Jim’s hand, strolling along, back erect, three different hair dyes on your bouffant hair ~ your little granddaughter and grandson running far ahead holding their Easter bunnies swinging their Easter baskets, and there you are swinging your purse; all of our lives filled with warmth and sunshine and such happiness. You were there for all of us, you were sassy and we were all free-spirited that day. That image brings me such joy. I will hold it in my heart forever.

When I sat down to write this morning, I intended to write about the beautiful carpet of tiny little white flowers that appear to have been spilled all over the grass in Carondelet Park. How can one of God’s beautiful, natural portraits bring my eyes such pleasure and my heart such pain? Every time I pass by, I’m reminded of the overwhelming sadness I felt one Easter morning when Tracey was 10 and Jason was 7. I begged John to stop so I could take pictures of everyone sitting in that field of spring flowers. He complained and frowned and made me sad. I wanted to rejoice and be happy.

Today I wanted to write about that day, but it looks like God directed my mind, my memories, my heart and hand in a different direction. That’s how it is when you let HIM take charge.

Didn’t mean to choke you on a shovel full of your own words. I know, I know, some days a spoonful is enough. (I quote myself).

I love you and I hope you get to feeling better. I’m not going to ask YOU take care of yourself and please eat. I’m going to ask God to see that your mind and body are nourished, and I’m going to let Him take care of you.

All my love,
Linda

Sadly, my mother's health declined and she died three years ago, weeks before her 77th birthday. Although she did not bequeath me anything tangible such as fancy jewelry, or a diamond necklace, she left me her pearls of wisdom.

Whenever life gets me down, I gently rub the hollow in my neck, and as I reach for those "pearls" I ask myself, what would Mom suggest I do?


Happy Mother's Day to each of you!

Mom's Tea Party at Preschool

There is nothing stronger than the mother-child bond. No child can raise our ire as much as our own kid. That's because they are ours, a reflection of us and everything we stand for. Today was Mom's Tea Party at preschool. The kids anxiously anticipated their mothers' arrivals. Some of the moms were as giddy as the kids. I always have a box of tissues available, because the children draw portraits of their moms and dictate stories about them. Some moms laugh or cry so hard they shed a tear when they read that their child thinks they are 16 or 89. The kids rat out their moms on everything; they imagine what her wedding was like, and go as far as telling me what THEY did "forty years" ago at their mom's wedding. Some even tell me what their moms do with their dads now. I write it verbatim (as they say it). Believe me, kids tell it the way they hear it and see it.

The happy tears shed today won't compare to the sad tears, the worry and heartache tears that these moms will shed over (and because of) their son or daughter through the years.

Children read long before they learn letters. They read our facial expressions. The narrowing of an eye, the raising of an eyebrow are the same in all languages, but if they're YOUR mom's, there is nuance in that expression that only your child can detect. Just as you recognized your newborn's cry over all the other babies, a child's mom detector kicks in right from birth.

As I looked around at all these moms and their offspring, I realized that we worry so much about tomorrow, we forget to enjoy today. The afternoon class performance started off on a good note. The kids sang and recited poems and fingerplays. Then midway, one by one, they started. "I have to go to the bathroom." Seriously! We had to stop the show for a potty break. It was a teachable moment. A time to laugh. I demonstrated that it's more important to go with the flow, than to sweat the small stuff.

A little psychology goes a long way

Well, you know how teenagers are! Bill's grandson, Kyle, will be seventeen in a couple of weeks. Ever since this wonderful little boy (who is now handsome and man-size) was a toddler he was a builder, a connecter, either constructing or destructing everything in sight. We knew then he'd be a builder. Last weekend he had his first real project, tearing off a porch and building a deck for a neighbor lady.

Bill, an expert carpenter with year's of experience, was full of ideas and went over Saturday to offer his advice, all of which was quickly rejected. And you know how rejection hurts. Gramps came home complaining, "I'm going to call that boy Jughead. He gets something in his head, and he won't listen to reason. He needs to do this and that. He won't let me help him, and it's not going to work his way. Why won't kids listen?"

Sunday morning hubby went over again, this time to offer his physical assistance. Instead of telling Kyle how to do the project, he ASKED him. "Now, what do you think about ...? And how will you do ...? And would it work better if ...? Will you screw that here, or would it be better here?"

This was the best bonding experience for both Kyle and Grandpa. They both learned a lot. Kyle learned how to get the job done right. And Bill learned that reverse psychology is sometimes a better tool than a crowbar. Kyle went across the street, collapsed on the couch and told his mom (Bill's daughter), "I really thought Grandpa knew a lot more about building decks. He asked me a million questions and I had to help him figure out everything!"

How many is too many?

This weekend was very relaxing. Usually on Saturday mornings I am raring to go to yard sales, but after two previous weeks of disappointing sales and a quarter tank of expended gasoline, I changed my mind. Hubby left early to help grandson build a deck. The house was so quiet, I stayed in my jammies and read all morning. It was one of life's simple pleasures.

You'd think I'd have been tired of being in my PJs for two days straight. We celebrated feelings week at preschool with a pajama party during school time. I wore my white Mickey Mouse print, one piece, button down the front, flannel pajamas, pink cuffs at the neck, wrist and ankles. (Maybe it was a million Minnies, not Mickeys wearing pink hats.) The kids laughed themselves silly when they saw me. (Sorry, no photos forthcoming.)

I got a good laugh last week. One of the little boys was in the play house possessively holding the door closed. A group of girls wanted in. One of the girls said, "If you let ME come in I will be your princess wife, and you can be the handsome prince." With that, he flung his mouth and the door wide open, fluttered his eyes, greeted her with a goofy grin and allowed her to enter. One by one, the other four girls came up and forced themselves in, some declaring themselves princesses and others just wives. That Fisher-Price Playhouse was so cramped, and he was getting more frustrated with each new resident. Finally he threw his arms in the air and said, "Okay-okay, five wife-es is too much!" Of course, the girls did what all wives do when their husband-prince talks nonsense, they ignored him.

Recommended reading

I just finished a wonderful book, The Fiction Class, by Susan Breen. It is not just a story about writing. It is a story within a story, very moving and fast paced. The class setting is in a nursery school classroom; the adult fiction class students are colorful and interesting. For those of you who have taught, you'll recognize some of your students and identify with the teacher's concerns. Her personal life entwines with her fiction class instruction. The romance is sweet and tender, and the ending is a satisfying delight. I recommend this book. One of my favorite lines: "She is having a nervous breakdown in front of eleven people, twelve if you count both of Conrad's personalities."

I will now complete The Four Graces, by Patricia Gaffney. I am two-thirds of the way through it. I'll take my leisurely time reading William Least Heat-Moon's book, Blue Highways. By the way, his book, Prairy Erth is being brought to the big screen by independent film maker John O'Hara. You can check out the trailer on Dianna Gravemann's blog, http://diannagraveman.wordpress.com/

I usually read multiple books at a time. Either a talent or a sign of A.D.D. I have a book for the bedroom or living room, one in the bathrooom, and one that I read outdoors.

Which book are you reading this week?