The Hubby and His Ribbon

The hubby is a very creative type of guy.  He tends to build big stuff, probably because of all his years on the railroad, but about twenty years ago, when I was doing counted cross stitch, he asked what I was doing, and once I showed him, well…I bow to the master.   He has created some beautiful pieces.

This year my friend Donna, who is an artist, talked him into entering one of his pieces in the County Fair Art Show.  Sure enough, he won a ribbon!

The hubby's ribbon-winning cross stitch

I’m pretty proud of him, and I just thought I would share.

Bullies

The oldest grandson, RJ, who is “almost seven” in that special way six-year-olds have, has been with us since Sunday.  This is the fourth year he has come for Vacation Bible School, and the week is always one the grandpa and I eagerly anticipate.

RJ recently learned to climb up poles at the park. Now he likes to climb everything. Don't all little boys?

He’s had a good week so far, I think.  Sunday, he went swimming in Aunt Jill’s pool after we celebrated Father’s Day and my father’s birthday.  Monday, he helped the grandpa finish some repairs to the house of a friend of ours. Tuesday, we went to see UP.  (Our days are a bit shortened, since VBS takes up the morning).

Yesterday, as we do each day weather permitting, we went to the local park.  The play area is big.  It’s one of those new ones that run, I don’t know, 1,000 feet from end to end.  The little kids play on the smaller end, and the other end culminates in a three-story tower and  rock-climbing wall.  The grandsons LOVE it!

There was a heat advisory in central Indiana yesterday, so the RJ and I did not hit the park until 5:30.  I don’t worry about chasing him from end to end like I used to.  He’s pretty good about staying where I can see him or answering when I call.  So, there I sat on a bench about 300 feet away from him when, to my utter amazement, I saw another little boy pull him down from the pole he was climbing and proceed to throw him to the ground and whale on him.

The adults with the other little boy yelled immediately for the boy to get up, shouting that RJ had done nothing to him, but they still had to go and drag him up.  They told him that he should apologize, but the boy just made a face and glared, and the parents didn’t force the issue.  What’s up with that?

Since it was hot, I took RJ and got him a push-up so he could cool down and calm down.  He told the girl at the concession stand about the bully, and I think he felt better after that.  Then, we went back to the playground.

I was surprised to see that the other little boy was up and playing again.  That’s not how I would have handled things had he been mine, but maybe his parents thought that was OK since I had taken RJ with me.  I stuck a little closer this time and, sure enough, when RJ was climbing the official climbing pole, the boy approached him again.  RJ looked down at the boy and told him to stay away from him and the boy, who, I observed, had been shoving boys far bigger than him in the chest, stayed put.  Then he looked at me, and I said, “You heard what he said.  Stay away from him.”  After what RJ termed a “mean smile,” the boy ran off.

In my younger days, I think I would have gone up to the boy’s parents and said something to them both when RJ first was hit and again because of the incident by the pole.  This time, though, it just seemed right to stay close, and I thought RJ handled the whole thing well.  He did not dissolve into tears, and I think he would have protected himself the first time the boy grabbed him, but he didn’t see it coming.  It’s a public playground.  Why should he have expected something like that?

The rest of this week, we have VBS and the park, of course.  We are probably going to take RJ swimming.  He and the grandpa are going to make a pirate ship at Lowe’s on Saturday.  Sunday, then, it’s back home to Ohio.  I’m sure that by then RJ will have long forgotten the boy at the park.

I know you can’t patrol a place as public as a park for bullying incidents, which is why, one would think, that the patrolling would be up to the adults accompanying the children.  I told my son recently that I had read that grandparents should keep their eyes on kids ten and under because of the way things are in our society, and he thought that was wise (although I think he thinks it’s different since I don’t have daily contact with the boys, and that’s probably true).  Still, I see the wisdom in that advice.  Any child, even an “almost-seven-year-old,” should be safe anytime, but especially in a public place.

RJ Sr. and RJ III hard at work

Father’s Day: Picking the Moments That Define Your Life

My dad will be eighty-four tomorrow, on Father’s Day.  I assume other people go through the same thing the hubby and I do with their fathers when they reach a certain age.  It’s hard to get them anything they want.  Or need.  As my father has grown older, especially since my mother died, it seems to us that what he appreciates most is time.  So that’s what we decided to give him.

My sister and I have been doing this for a couple of years, actually.  Her situation is a bit different than mine since she still has kids at home, but she makes time to come to Toledo and take care of flowers for my dad.  He wants them because he had them when my mother was alive, but he doesn’t want to weed them.  She planted perennials in some of the beds. I planted alyssum in the terrace.  The daughter helped me weed over Memorial Day.  Last weekend, my sister and her kids did the weeding.

For Father’s Day and his birthday, though, the hubby and I gave Dad a different kind of help.  He’s been talking for a while about cleaning out the house.  Last year, we helped him paint his garage, but he wasn’t ready for the cleaning.  This year, we offered.  The second time, he set a date.  That scares me a little bit, that he wants to set his house in order.  My dad is a Christian.  I know where he is going when he dies.  Just as it was with my mother, though, I am unwilling to get to the time when I have to let him go.

Anyway.  Dad rented a dumpster, which told the hubby and me that he was ready for some serious cleaning.  We got there yesterday,  just as the dumpster was set.  Then we headed to the basement.  Things have been stockpiled there for years.  I am thinking, since my sister is watching the same thing with her in-laws, that this is a normal state of affairs when you are in your eighties.  Dad’s goal was to see the floor again.  The hubby’s and mine was to get rid of as much as that dumpster would hold.  We just didn’t know how Dad would react.  In the past, he has been, ummmm….resistant.

This time was different, though.  He was ready.  Dad used to be a Latin teacher, but he bit the bullet and parted with old Latin books and teacher’s manuals.  The hubby sat him on an old chair and gave him box after box to sort.  A lot of those boxes were filled with things that he stowed in the basement because he didn’t know what else to do with them.  My mom was sick for several years, and he misses her…timely reminders.  He had sweet memories as he found some hidden treasures, though.  Here are just a few of them:

–There was a graduation certificate for kindergarten with dad’s name on it.  The date was 1997.  Puzzled, the hubby and I questioned him.  Dad taught at a Christian school that year, the year after my mother died.  He joked to one of the teachers there that he wasn’t sure he was ready for the job.  See, Dad never went to kindergarten, and that year the book  All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten was popular.  So, as a joke of her own, the kindergarten teacher gave him a graduation certificate.  “There,” she told him.  “Now you’re ready.”

–Dad found a book about football that he got for his birthday when he was ten.  It warmed my heart to see how his eyes lit up and he told us how much he enjoyed it.  Although I didn’t know it until after my mom died, my dad played football in college.  Unwilling to part with it, he has decided to give it to my sister’s oldest, who is a pretty good football player himself.

–Then there was my grandmother’s geography book.  He smiled a lot at that one, too, particular her signature.  There were a lot of things he didn’t keep, but that book went back on the shelf.

–Dad’s students once decorated his room with a beach scene.  They took a picture of him against that background–in his plaid shorts-reclining on a chaise and sipping a Coke.

–Interesting, too, were the spears that we found.  A Wycliffe Bible translator who had worked in Malaysia, gave them to my parents.  They are thin spears, used for fishing, and they, too, were something that Dad chose to keep.  They were really, really sharp!

–There was also a letter from my older sister, who went to be with the Lord three years ago.  I didn’t see all of it but, with tears in his eyes, he showed me the end, where she told him she was glad he was her dad.

As of five o’clock today, we filled that dumpster, and we didn’t get rid of everything that needed thrown away.  I think my dad is relieved.  Mostly, the things we came on were just things needed to go, but it was precious to the hubby and me to watch Dad reminisce.  My dad is of the generation of men who are uncomfortable with hugs.   He doesn’t show sentimentality very often.  My sister and I lament to one another that he signs his e-mails this way: PAX DOMINI VOBISCUM,    PATER TUUS.  If you didn’t take Latin, you might not know what that means.  It means may the Lord be with you–your father.   And that’s fine.   Just once, though, we joke, couldn’t he sign “Love, Dad?”

My sister said, in reference to her mother-in-law, that the things she has gathered are her life.  That’s why they are gathered and why they are hard to throw away.  Watching my dad go through his things, seeing the look on his face as the memories played over it, I began to think that he’s not getting rid of things to “set his affairs in order,” so to speak.  He’s going through things and deciding what matters.  Just like he matters to us.

We love you, Dad.  Happy Father’s Day, and may your eighty-fifth year be filled with many, many blessings.

Dad on his eighty-third birthday. You can be sure we'll take more pictures tomorrow!

What Kind of Mom Are You?

I found this quiz about being a mother and took it.  My results are below.  I came out as a Wii mom, which amused me because I have made my feelings about the Wii well known.

I think I was out for my kids’ independence from day one as the hubby and I thought we should prepare them to be in, but not of, the world.  Some of the choices on the quiz were different than they would have been for me because downloading and hectic schedules were just not a part of mothering–at least not until middle school–as I remember it.   The description of a Wii mom is below.  Let me know if you think this quiz is accurate about you.

Yes, just like the folks responsible for the addictive gaming system, you know that the real fun starts when you’re standing side by side with–not hovering over–your child.   You’ve encouraged your kid to be an independent thinker from her very first homework assignment.  “Wii moms want very much for their children to stand on their own two feet,” says Gold.  “And they have a strong sense of their own identity,” which is why you set a great example for others of how not to lose yourself in the role of  “Mom.”  Plus, granting your kids a little freedom means you’ll get some, too.  Still, you’re always there for guidance; he knows you’re his biggest fan.

It’s Flag Day!

Flag Day is observed on June 14 because that’s the day in 1777  the Continental Congress adopted the flag.  It is celebrated throughout the United States, although it’s only a legal holiday in Pennsylvania.  We fly our flags to show patriotism and national pride. Is your flag flying today?

To learn more about the history of our flag, go here.

Robbing the Poor to Give to…?

It’s too bad Flat Stanley wasn’t on guard at the newest Habitat house this weekend.  As we drove by the house yesterday, the hubby noticed that the door to the construction trailer was open and stopped to investigate.  The lock, a heavy-duty construction lock, had been cut.  At first glance, the only thing missing seemed to be the air compressor and its hose, but those things don’t come cheap, especially to an organization like Habitat that relies on volunteers and donations.

The hubby called the police.  He talked to neighbors who said that they had noticed the trailer’s door being open as early as Thursday evening.  They called the office number on the side of the trailer, though, and didn’t leave a message the first time.  By the time they called the second time, everyone was home for the weekend.

When the police came, the hubby was out buying another lock.  At the officer’s suggestion, he backed the trailer up to within four inches of the meter you see in the above photo.  That’ll at least make it harder for thieves to get the door open, but I suppose where there’s a will, there’s a way.

The neighbors are incensed by the theft.  This house is the third that has been built within two blocks.  People usually watch with interest as the Habitat houses go up.  I guess there was a little too much interest here.

Even though the police promised extra patrols, there’s very little chance that the thieves will be caught.   I guess all we can do is pray.  Maybe the police don’t know who those thieves are, but God does.  He can move their hearts to repentance and even to returning the air compressor!

Where’s Your Treasure?

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.–Luke 12:34

This video touched my heart and reminded me of where my treasure should be.  I hope it touches you as well.  Thanks to Ann at Holy Experience for finding it first.

They Can Raze the House, but They Can’t Touch the Memories

This is my Aunt Jeanette’s house on Tuesday, just before it was razed to make room for an exit off the interstate.  My aunt was a WWII widow and a very special lady.  Her house was always open for as many people as it could hold and then some.

Here are some of the memories I have of that house and my aunt:

–written August 1.2005

On our vacation this year, we went by my Aunt Jeanette’s house, which will soon be razed for a highway ramp. Aunt Jeanette’s was always the first place we went when we visited Fairmont, WVA, where my parents were born. Aunt Jeanette’s second husband, Finley, passed away at the beginning of May, and my cousin has been urging me to go back and see if there was anything I wanted from the house. My memories, though, are of  my aunt and of the house, not so much of anything in it.

To get there, my husband and I had to find the house, which involved getting off at interstate exits with which we were unfamiliar, but we managed. We went up East Park Street, where my dad lived until he was seven and his parents lost the house because of the Depression. We went by where the old toll bridge was. I remember my dad paying a nickel for us to cross just so I’d know what a toll bridge was.

Finally, we found State Street. I used to walk down State Street to cross the river and go to the pool. I also visited my Great Aunt Lucy. Good memories. But Aunt Lucy’s last house is boarded up, and the house she had before that was not in much better shape. It looks sort of like people have given up on this side of Fairmont already.

Then we were on Pleasant Street. We parked and walked around the house. There used to be an orphanage at the top of the hill, and that is gone. One of the neighbors noticed that we were there and came out to find out who we were. She wanted me to call my cousin, who is the executor of Uncle Finley’s will. I did call to please her, but I was sort of glad he wasn’t home. I didn’t want to go in. I wanted to remember the big garden at the side of the house and the black cocker spaniel, Prince, who lived in a house behind it. I wanted to revisit the grape arbor under which I lay on my back and watched the clouds roll by.

Then I decided I wanted to visit the house across the street. I could tell that this surprised my husband, and he actually just pulled the van up and watched. The house across the street housed an Italian family, and the summer I was ten, I played with their youngest daughter, Mary Theresa. I told the mom who I was, but she did not remember me. She remembered my cousins, who visited much more frequently. She invited me, though, to wait for Mary Theresa, who was due at any time.

I was getting a little nervous making small talk, especially since the lady I was talking to did not remember me. Neither did her older daughter. But see, I did not spend time with her older daughter. There was a group of kids just older than Mary Theresa and me, and they did not want “the kids” hanging around. So we played with each other.

Finally, Mary Theresa arrived. She knew me right away, although she had not seen me for close to forty years. I felt a lot better. We made a lot of small talk. She has one son. She showed me his picture. I pulled out the pictures of my kids and the grandbabies. When I left, she gave me a hug.

My husband was quiet after we left, and I was sort of teary. Then he told me that he had actually not been able to envision me as a child before, but as he watched me talk to Mary Theresa, it was as if we were both ten again.

That summer, see, I came back to Fairmont with my Mom’s dad because our bathroom was being remodeled. My sister had just graduated high school, and my little sister was three. I guess my parents figured it would be better for me to have my cousins to play with than to be there amidst all the remodeling chaos. We only had one bathroom. Surprisingly, I do not remember putting up a fuss, and I was a homebody as a child.

Aunt Jeanette had a lot of kids in her house, and times were safer then. She really didn’t care what you did between meals and bedtime as along as you were there for your assigned chores at the assigned time. So that summer, unlike other summers in my life, I was free to wander. I remember wandering out in the country just to see where a road would lead. And I was all by myself. I probably didn’t go more than a few miles, but it seemed like quite a trek to me. I went up the hill to visit Aunt Florence and Agnes, and I came home when I wanted to. I lay on my back and watched the clouds roll by. These are all kid things to do, but that summer is really the only one that I remember doing them.

All the houses on Pleasant Street will be gone by this time next year, so I probably will not go back to Fairmont again. I am glad, though, that I got to see it. I am glad I let Mary Theresa know that spending time with her is a pleasant memory for me. And I am glad that my husband finally got to see me as a little girl.

–written Sept. 19, 2008

When I was a little girl, one of the trips that we took frequently was to visit my mother’s older sister, Jeanette, who lived in West Viriginia.  From our part of Ohio we took the Turnpike and, as I remember those pre-superhighway days, we got off at New Stanton, PA, and made our way to her house.

We always left on Fridays after my dad had worked a full day, so we got there really late.  My mom and her sister were country girls, and I can still remember the porch light being on for our arrival, moths flitting about it.  I can still hear the slamming of the screen door as Aunt Jeanette came out to greet us.  Her kitchen was in the rear of the house, and I remember wandering through the dark to get there.  There was always a freshly-baked something for us kids, and Aunt Jeanette always put on a fresh pot of coffee for the adults.  Much of the time, her kitchen had that steamy feel from late-night canning, and I would sit and drowse in that warm, familiar atmosphere until my mom urged me gently to bed, upstairs to the bunk beds that always awaited me.

Tonight, the hubby and I await the arrival of our son and his family.  We made peach jam this evening, from peaches that somebody gave us.  We canned a lot in Ohio; I still love hearing the lids pop as the jars seal.  Our son had to work late tonight, so he and the family won’t be here until about midnight.  The porch light is on to await them.  The kitchen has that canning feel, the jam jars waiting on the counter for the hours before they can be moved.

I know that my grandsons anticipate their arrival here much as I looked forward to mine at Aunt Jeanette’s.  The daughter-in-law said that while she was packing, RJ wanted to know where they were going.  She told him Grandma and Grandpa’s, and he asked which one.  (He has three sets.)  When she told him he was coming to Indiana, he replied,” Oh, good.  That grandma and grandpa play with me.”

I remember thinking that about Aunt Jeanette, too.  She had a special knack for letting kids be kids. I stayed with her for a couple of weeks the summer I was ten, and it was one of the best summers of my life.

I can only imagine how much visitors meant to Aunt Jeanette.  She was widowed during WWII.  Her children were grown,and although they lived in the same town, I am sure she must have missed the hustle and bustle that her own growing up in a family of seven kids entailed.  I was a kid, you know, and I doubt she ever knew how much those visits meant to me, but now, as I await the late-night arrival of my own family, I have a lot more understanding of what our visits must have meant to her.

Maya Angelou says that …” people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”  What I remember about Aunt Jeanette’s house was feeling free.   What I remember is a place that everybody could feel at home.  What I remember is a place where a ten-year-old girl was free just to be. Those are things that progress, despite its bulldozers its excavators, and its never-ending hunger for freeway exits,  can never take away.

Another Icon of My Youth Bites the Dust

A while ago, they rebuilt my high school, Roy C. Start, and got rid of my favorite childhood hangout, Bowman Pool.

RJ Sr., RJ Jr. and RJ III at Southwyck Mall

This time it’s Southwyck Mall.  The mall has been vacant for two years, but it had stores–and people–as recently as six years ago when RJ was a baby.

Me, the Daughter and the Daughter-in-Law at Southwyck Mall

I’m sort of sad about the demise of malls.  There was something nice about parking your car and going from store to store without going out in the weather.  The mall in my little town was recently revamped and, although it no longer houses a movie theater like it did when we moved here and some of the stores are vacant, it adds a personality, I think, to the community.  Walkers meet there, although with the new ownership they can’t walk until the mall opens at ten.  There’s a soft play place for parents to bring small children.  There’s a snack bar that has been increasing its offerings.  The local Sweet Adelaides sings there at Christmas.  You can still see Santa and the Easter Bunny.

I guess you have to bow to the signs of progress.  I don’t think Toledo needs anymore strip malls, though, and I will be interested to see what happens with the 58-acre property that was Southwyck Mall.

Kitchen Progress

The laminate floor in the kitchen is almost done.  We ran into a little problem, not with the flooring, but with the icemaker on our fridge.  Several drips-and fixes-later, the icemaker is disconnnected.

I am sooooo excited about the flooring!