My Hero

My hero was outside in the bright morning sunshine.  He came in and chased me around the house, trying in vain to touch me with his cold hands.  It was 30 degrees outside.  Why he was outside taking pictures in 30 degree weather remains a mystery to me.  "Where are the winter gloves?" he asked.

I had moved and arranged things neatly in the six weeks he was gone.  So I lead him to the closet between the kitchen and laundry room.  I reached down to pull out a basket of gloves when a small gray rodent zoomed past my hand.

"Get it!  Get it!"  I frantically yelled. 

"What?"  There he was standing calmly with his hands in his pockets.

"That huge rat in the closet!  Where are those micers we sleep with?"

Huge rat got my hero's attention.  He was thinking fast.  "Shut the doors, block off the area, go outside and get a broom.  And bring me the cats. "

I quickly scampered off to the bedroom.  "What are you doing in there?"  he asked.  "Well, I'm still in my robe and slippers.  I run, I mean, think much faster in my tennis shoes."  Duh!

So, with all doors shut, boxes surrounding the area and the cats in place, well, the cats were locked in the hall with us.  The big scardy cat was crying to be let out and the baby was playing with her pink fuzzy ball.  I was assured when we got her she would be a good mouser.  We need a refund for that free cat!  My hero went in the trenches of the closet, while I was armed ten feet back with the  broom.

He gently moved the cat food, scooted the winter gloves around, rustled the paper bags and out popped Speedy Gonzales!  "He's out!  He's out!  Do something!,"  I yelled.  It all happened so fast, I'm not sure who threw the box on top of him, my hero or me with the broom.  I am sure it was not those cats.

How to get Speedy out of the house?  My hero had a plan.  He slid a paper bag under the box and lifted it up and out and door.  "Don't kill it!,"  I called behind him.  I was rewarded with "that look."  You know the  look.  The one your husband gives you when you say oxymoron things but if he doesn't do as you ask he'll be sleeping in the hen house for eleven nights.  So off Speedy went to his new home in the field.

Now all my hero has to do is figure out how Speedy got in.  Cause if a mouse crawls in bed with me, we will all be sleeping with him the hen house.

Closed for the Season

The autumn day was crisp with brilliant sunshine.  I was driving along on my way to Harlan some eleven miles from the trusty farmstead.  Harlan was the closest town with a Dairy Queen.  While most people enjoy their ice cream during the summer, living in south Texas for many years, I think fall and winter should be the time for a cool creamy treat. 

I first noticed something amiss when I pulled into Dairy Queen's parking lot.  There were no cars or trucks.  This is the country and one must own at least one American made truck.  People gawk at us driving something made in a far away place they can't pronounce.  Anyway, the parking lot at Dairy Queen is usually like a demolition derby.  One must pounce on a parking space without ramming the truck you are trying to beat. 

I strolled up to the window.  Yes, I know what you are thinking, window?  You don't go inside?  This is the country and there is no inside.  But there are plastic tables outside you can sit on.  I supposed in the winter you eat in the car with the heater on.  Then came the moment that turned the day to night:

"Closed for the Season"

What?!  What season?  Football Season?  I know these people are crazy about high school football, but couldn't the football players stand a few calories?    I collapsed on a plastic table.  I felt for my pulse.  It was still there but sporadic.  What was I going to do?

My cell phone was out of my purse faster than a gunfighter at the O K Corral.  "Doug," I cried, "Dairy Queen is closed for some mysterious season!"

The ever calm Doug made some noise about the winter season.  Winter!  This was October.  It was fall.  Winter didn't start until December 21st.  I was now on a mission.

Denison was only 27 miles from Harlan.  They have a Dairy Queen.  No more demolition driving, now I was a Hobby car racer.   Twenty one minutes later I pulled into Denison's Dairy Queen only to see:  "Closed for the Season."  Ahhh!!

On to Carroll, only 27.4 miles away.  They have an A & W.  That would do too.  A root beer float would hit the spot. Driving with my eyes glued to the road and my foot rooted to the floor board, I whipped into the A & W parking lot.  I slammed on the brakes as my eyes bulged out of my head:  "Closed for the Season" was plastered to their front window.  Great, now I have whiplash and an empty ice cream stomach.

It took me 91 minutes to drive the 42 miles back to my house.  I had to pull over six times to wipe the moisture from my eyes.  The farm house is great, the countryside is beautiful, the people are genuinely kind, but no soft serve ice cream in the winter time is a deal breaker.  We will have to move.

My annoyingly calm husband didn't seemed phased by the "closed for the season" crisis.  "I need to go to town for gas, come with me," he pleaded.  Town is Irwin five miles away.  They have a gas station, but no ice cream shop.  I supposed that was safe.  I didn't have to see any "closed for the season" signs.

I tied a scarf around my head, arranged a blanket over my legs and closed my eyes for the ride into town.  In Irwin the twenty-first century has not evolved.  One must go inside to pay for gas.  I sat in the truck feeling sorry for myself while Doug went in to pay.

Seconds later, he bounded outside, threw open my door and demanded I come inside.  Doug never demands anything.  So I let him help me out of the truck and into the gas station/mini-mart/Godfather's Pizza store.  He pulled me over to the soda fountain.  "Look," he demanded with great joy.  I didn't want a soda, I don't even like soda.  As I started to stomp away, I saw it out of the corner of my eye.  A soft serve ice cream maker.  And there wasn't even a sign hanging on it that said "closed for the season."

This is my town.  I love it.  I will live here in happiness forever!

Where's the Lights?

Todd is our contractor remolding the kitchen and bathroom.  He and Doug are in cahoots.  Two days after obliterating our kitchen Doug leaves for seven weeks. 

Where am I supposed to cook?  The stove is in the laundry room with no hook ups.  Where am I supposed to do dishes?  The only sink is the tiny one in the bathroom.  Where do I store the dishes I can't cook on?  The only saving grace is I have a refrigerator.  It is in the garage. 

Think, I must think.  There is the front bedroom down stairs with a bed and lots of boxes.  I can put dishes on the bed.  I can throw a board over the boxes and put the microwave there.  At least I can make tea.  I've been told no one likes me if I don't get my tea.  We own a toaster oven, I can make chicken in that.  But, there is no room left on the board and it might be a fire hazard to cook on the bed.  Ah!  I can cook in the bathroom.  That sounds very appetizing!

Todd has contracted some nice men to work on the house.  The plumber/electrician for example.  He had to disconnect the light in the dining room where I ate.  He considerately asked me if he should reconnect it before he left for the day.  "Nah, I can handle that.  It doesn't get dark until 9:30."  I could be reasonable. 

"O.K.  See you tomorrow," the pleasant man said.

Nine thirty came and it got dark.  I turned on the living room light.  Nothing.  I turned on the overhead lights in the down stairs bedrooms.  Nothing.  I turned on all the upstairs lights.  Nothing.  Nothing. Nothing!  At least the bathroom lights worked, so I could see my teeth.  I stumbled my way to bed out of boredom. 

The next day I wore a hole in the carpet waiting for the plumber/electrician.  By 3:00 I was not pleasant even though I did get my tea.  (Had to move the microwave in the bathroom.)  Todd nor the plumber/electrician had shown up.  Ripping through the phone book I could not find the plumbers name any where.  I yanked the phone off the stand and punched in Todd's number.  Voice mail.  Wouldn't you figure. 

"Hey Todd.  This is Angie.  I have no lights, television, or computer.  That plumber dude didn't come today as promised.  I am not happy!  Good bye"

By five thirty I was running circles around our property.  What else was there to do?  A truck pulled into the driveway.  Todd and his helper jumped out of it with extension cords wrapped around their bodies.  I am saved!

Todd said the plumber was knee deep in someone's well and couldn't come until tomorrow.  Well the plumber was knee deep on my well list as well.  So they extension corded my house so I could live like a somewhat normal person.

The plumber/electrician came bright and early the next morning.  He restored all the lights, but the dining room.  I can live with this one more night, I thought.  Five weeks later, the lights in the dining room came on.  But the kitchen was up and working and looked fantastic!  The only thing missing in the kitchen was the refrigerator.  It was still living in the garage.   I am told the new one will be here "any day now".

Getting Modern

I followed Doug in the door of our house after a relaxing vacation in San Diego.  He was standing in my kitchen (I think it was my kitchen)  smiling and twirling in circles.  "This is so cool," he was chanting. 

Before I go any further, let me give you some background.

Doug, myself, and the giant scardy cat moved into a circa 1900 house that had an addition in 1924.  My grandparents moved into this house in 1918.  My father and his twin brother were born in the bedroom we now sleep in.  I came home from the hospital at five days old and lived in this house for nine years.  At my ninth birthday my parents ripped me out of here and moved me to the not so wonderful south Texas shore.  Forty-two years later I have reclaimed the family farm house.

Someone along the forty-two years remolded the house.  What where they thinking?

The kitchen has a dropped seventies ceiling.  One that is not clean.  Dark brown faux brick paneling adorn the walls.  Harsh florescent lighting glare down on the worn butt-ugly vinyl tile. 

On the smarter side, some one took a small bedroom on the main floor and cut it in half.  The laundry is no longer in the musty, cob-web dangling,  haunted (probably) basement.  It is on the main floor, but open for all to see.  My laundry room is the epitome of mess!  The bathroom has been enlarged.  In the old days you couldn't have 1.75 people in there at a time and the toilet was hidden behind the door.  Now it is larger, but there is no bathtub and no door!  Really?  Those are necessities!

Doug continued the twirling and chanting thing while I scooped my bottom lip off the floor and held my nose.  Walls were gone.  The ceiling was gone.  I could see my mother's blue and yellow linoleum  flooring under my feet.  (What, did they think I would want to keep that!)  There were no cabinets or counters.  Not a sink or stove existed.  Only a lone refrigerator remained to say it was once a functioning kitchen.  And what was that smell?

I finally realized I was looking at history.  I could see where windows and doors had been but were now boarded up.  Closing my eyes I imagined the homey feel the 1900's family had.  Then I could see my father and his family cozy in this room.  I could hear the generations old voices.  "Boys!  Get down in that basement and pump that cistern.  I need water up here.  Now!"

 I was still confused about the smell. Doug put his arm around me and said "Sweetheart, that is the smell of modernization."

Great.  Modern day stinks!

Happiness is retired with Grandchildren

Children are wonderful.  But grandchildren are parent's reward for not smothering their children in their sleep.  I have been blessed with four wonderful grandchildren.

My oldest daughter has a girl.  The most beautiful girl you have ever seen.  She has long silky straight hair that is the envy of every female.  But typically she gallops for the hills when her mother wants to comb it.  My daughter is a hairstylist and once got so fed up with her daughter,  she snipped off all that beautiful hair!  Today, for a nine year old, she smoothes it down herself pretty well.   And she eats like a monkey in a palm tree of bananas and sometimes asks for seconds.  I have never seen anyone eat like her and stay so slim and trim.

My youngest daughter has a girl and a boy.  The girl is the oldest at three.  She is loving and obedient.  She is striking with her short hair and different colored eyes.  Once you have a loving girl like that you long for another.  Then she had the boy.  He is not one yet, but too curious for his own good!  The plants on the ground are not safe.  As a male he is  already digging in the dirt and spreading it around the house.

My son has a baby girl that I am raising as my own.  He named her after his favorite city in Australia, and she doesn't seem to  mind the unusual name.  She amuses herself during the day and cuddles with me at night.  If  I could get her to leave my cat alone!  She thinks his tail is her personal play toy.  My cat wallops her in the face  multiple times a day.

I may be biased.  My grandchildren are beautiful, smart, and listen like none other!

My wish to you is for you to have grandchildren just like mine!

Wind Blown Baby

"Come quick and bring your camera!"  Doug phoned an acre away from his machine shed.

Huffing and puffing, camera in tow, I sprinted out.  He showed me three fluffy baby black birds hopping around the evergreen trees behind the shed chirping a mile a minute.  The howling winds must have taken away their home.  Where was their mother?

Doug said he had searched  in all the trees and the ground and couldn't find a nest.  Now what?"  Oh yeah, that great invention-google.  I huffed and puffed back to the house and up the stairs to figure out how to be a bird mother.

Sixteen minutes later I was armed with string and an empty plastic butter bowl.  I scoured the yard for leaves and dead grass.  Doug punched holes in the sides of the bowl, tied the strings in the holes and secured them to a high branch and wa-la, we had a human bird nest!  Now to catch the birds.

One had hopped its' way over the barbed wire fence into the next field.  Doug took the bird father's role and scolded the baby for hopping away.  Baby didn't take kindly to the scolding and kept hopping out of Doug's reach as he tried to nab him.  Eight minutes later with tears rolling down my face and me rolling in the dirt laughing at my 6 foot husband trying in vain to catch a three inch bird, he captured the baby fugitive.

Reverently he put the baby in our human nest.  Google said the mother would come back to find the baby.  We stood back arm in arm waiting for the mother's return.  We patted ourselves on the back for being good humans and saving the baby.

Then the damn thing flew away!

I found a birds' egg on the ground.  It must have been blown out of a nest by the wind.  Gently I picked it up and put it in my human nest.

I will go out after supper and sit on it until it hatches...

Men!

Men!

            Mid-Life crisis men these days!  They see Barbie women on the big screen and think we should all be like that.

            Actually the typical female could and do look just like that.  We just choose not to squeeze ourselves into a breathing prohibitor body spanx.  We choose not to starve ourselves for four and half days before getting our picture taken.  We choose not to sit in the sauna for hours on end to loose six pounds of water to fit into the tiny black dress.

 We every day women actually like our curves.  It defines who we are.  Our hips represent the wonderful children we have brought into this world.  Our chest (even if they may  touch our knees) also are memories of our children.  The ever expanding thighs are evidence of our ability to sit and listen to our significant other's

day and troubles and triumphs in life. We have joy lines and worry creases that represent the sensitivity we have for our family and friends.  

            Men over 50 are no Orlando Bloom.  Have they taken off their rose colored glasses and looked at themselves in the mirror?  There's hair on their back that would grow radishes!  Nose hair protrudes at all angels out of their honkers.  And the ears!  Oh how it used to be fun to kiss those ears.  But the midlife man has this disgusting fuzz curling around the inside.  Have you noticed how large and droopy those once small and firm ears have become?! 

           Do these "I can't see reality" men realize everything we have given up for them?  Suppose I wanted a pet raccoon.  One that I could cuddle with and would sleep with me.  But my man was allergic.  So I had to settle for a pet opossum instead.  While the opossum was a fine pet, he didn't cuddle and was not as loving as a raccoon.  But anything for the happiness and health of the man.

            We women seem to follow our men's dreams forsaking our own.  We move.  We leave our families and our jobs.  We go to their yawn invoking office parties. We have drinks and dinner with less than interesting females because the man thinks her husband is his new best friend.

          So mid-life crisis men get over yourselves.  We women are what we are-smart, funny, the real deal.  Buy a convertible or a Harley.  Take us for a ride with the wind in our hair.  (If the man has any on his head!)  Let's redefine ourselves together in this wonderful time of-The Children Have All Grown Up and Moved Out!

P.S.  I just want to add this text is totally irrelevant to my loving husband.  After all he did just buy me a wonderful claw foot bathtub.  So between him and the contractor that is installing it, makes them the most adored men ever!

Movin' In

                                                              

            "We can't drive in that!"

            The moving truck was scheduled to come.  The night before it snowed a mere two to three inches.  Doug and I both grew up in the south.  I reiterated, "We can not drive in that!"

            With other ideas Doug loaded the truck with our suitcases, paranoid cat, and me.  For the record, he refused to carry me to the truck.  So I pelted him with snow balls.  That'll teach him.

            Eight miles later with my fingernail marks embedded in his skin, Doug pulled safely into our snow covered driveway.  I guess a good ole southern boy can learn new tricks.

            I was presented with two options.  Did I want to drive and go meet the moving truck or shovel the driveway?  Of course, shovel the driveway.  I'm never driving in that white fluff.

            Shoveling wasn't so bad until I realized our driveway was 2.7 miles long.  But I needn't have worried.  Doug and the moving truck arrived in thirty-three minutes and the moving truck promptly slid off the road towards the ditch. 

             Low and behold a smaller moving truck appeared behind the stuck big one.  I guess they are used to this kind of weather and prepare for slides and getting stuck.  Wouldn't you think they would just say "Screw It,"  and stay home with a hot toddy waiting for better weather.  That's what I plan to do!

            Then the news came that filled my heart with joy.  We provided entertainment for our new neighbors.  One such neighbor stopped at the truck saying everyone was saying "Go look at the new neighbors.  Their moving truck is in the ditch!"  Ahh to be the center of attention.
            After losing all feeling in my toes from standing outside checking off inventory numbers, the tow truck arrived and pulled the truck from the ditch.  It was time to go inside, unpack, find a blanket, and crawl under.  The scardy cat had the same idea.

The journey has ended and the living begins on the gravel road.

The Beginning of the New Chapter

            Just the facts.  I married my husband and the Navy 24 years ago.  In those 24 years I have moved 12 times, covering 19,698 miles, been a single mother to three children for 132 months, and changed 13,104 diapers.  In 23 years my husband, Doug, has been home for 8 moves, but never moved with three kids, two cats, a rabbit, a guinea pig, and a frog in one mini van.  He has been a single father for 6.75 days and changed .5 dirty diapers.  I'm convinced he perfected the gag in front of the mirror first.

            Now the light at the end of the tunnel is blinding.  Retirement from the Navy is here.  Doug can come home every night from an organized, calm job.  We can buy a house  close to our children and have family dinners every Sunday.  I can become Donna Reid. 

            Just the facts-I knew the light was blinding.  I didn't realize it had blinded me.  The calm job is in a war country.  The home every night is home every six weeks.  The house close to our children is 1,682 miles away.  The new chapter begins on a gravel road...

            I must confess I am backing up a couple months.  I sped away from San Diego in January with the Navy in my rearview mirror.  However; not much had changed.  It was just me and the giant scaredy cat driving across country.  Our first destination was Corpus Christi, Texas. 

           

            We blew by El Centro with the Blue Angels soaring and dipping over head.  We coasted by giant cacti in Arizona and smelled too many dairy cows in New Mexico.  We passed helicopters in Texas being towed by a truck advertising giraffe sales.  Really!

            Twenty six hours later we made it to my parents house.  Time to rest and recoup.  However my father had other ideas-chores.  I thought chores after fifty was outlawed.  But there I was climbing up the grapefruit tree to get the last few at the top.

            When the grueling day of chores was finished.  My sister (who had not helped with chores) and I felt the need to relax.  We jumped in her still smelling new SUV and drove to the Party Barn.  We pulled in the red barn structure.  A friendly gentleman sauntered up to the window and we ordered our liquid refreshment.  It arrived in seconds hidden in the nondescript paper bag.   Off we raced to relax!

          Thus ending my time in Corpus Christi.  The journey to the gravel road continues.