tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44687808529085710752024-03-05T06:17:10.207-06:00Penned from the PorchJoin me on the front porch swing, where we'll watch the world go by and take the time to enjoy life's little pleasures, like donuts on the porch. (Speaking of, do you have donuts? Please bring them with you. Crumbs are not a problem here). Oh. And I'll make this up as I go along, okay?Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-29976002979378038292015-04-22T14:39:00.000-05:002015-04-22T15:56:27.313-05:00When that Blogger Gets Old and Thinks She Knows Stuff<br />
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<br />
Today is my 45th birthday. <br />
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I've always <i>loved</i> my birthdays: the cake; the celebration of another year well-lived, or at least survived; the cake; the pressure on family and friends to send gifts and cards; the cake; the birthday <strike>spankings</strike> song followed by my carefully chosen wish that may or may not feature Hugh Jackman; and most importantly, the cake.<br />
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The third of four children, birthdays have always been a big deal to me. Middle kids, if they aren't particularly outstanding or particularly troubled, are just sort of, well,<i> there</i> -- sandwiched between the oft-photographed leader of the kid pack and the much-adored baby of the group (case in point: my senior portrait is a modest 8x10, while my little brother's portrait is approximately the size of a billboard).<br />
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That's why I was always ridiculously excited about an entire day acknowledging my presence -- and my presents. Mainly the latter. Because <i>PRESENTS!</i> (Please email me if you would like to know where to send the cases of wine).<br />
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I also relished the jelly-bean-topped bunny cakes Mom baked me, since my birthday falls near Easter; her special version of the birthday song, always followed by Dad's comical, deep "<i>Annnnd mannnnny more!</i>"; and the annual story of my creation, which goes something like this: In late 1969, Dad was hospitalized following a severe allergic reaction. Mom apparently missed him a whole big bunch. Yadayadayada. I was created. <i>Yea for hives!</i><br />
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Funny thing is, I've never quite outgrown the joy of birthdays.<br />
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I still remember the excitement of turning four and tearing open two huge, wrapped presents that had tortured me all day. They did not disappoint. Not every four-year-old gets the Fisher Price Little People Play Family House <i>and</i> the Little People Farm on her birthday. But I did. You are allowed to hate me a little for that because I <i>also </i>had the Little People A-Frame Vacation Home and the Little People Airport. Let's face it: You can't have that many Little People and ever seriously claim you had a bad childhood.<br />
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My fourth birthday was infinitely better than my 13th. That was the year I hosted my first slumber party on a stormy April night. If that stupid tornado siren had not wailed at 1 a.m., my parents never would have discovered those neighborhood boys hiding in the basement, and I might not have been grounded until my 14th birthday. Thanks, Mother Nature. Thanks, a lot.<br />
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But birthdays are about more than presents, parties and cake. Well, they are about more than presents and parties. Cake is still veryveryveryveryvery important. I cannot stress this enough. Do not show up at my house on my birthday without some sort of buttercream frosted confection or God help you. I once had a husband who did not get me cakes for my birthdays. The key word there is "<i>had</i>". (Just kidding, ex-husband. Okay, mostly kidding. Okay, I'm not kidding at all. No, I'm still kidding. Only I'm not. Or am I?)<br />
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In addition to cake, birthdays also are a great day for reflecting on the past year and taking stock of what you have learned in life so far. I'm no Buddha, but I know some stuff.<br />
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The following are just a few things I have learned on this crazy journey (look at me rambling away because I have caught The Old!):<br />
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1. Life is a gift. Treasure it. Even when it is hard, it is still pretty damn good. Like everyone, I have things in my life that are hard right now. But I am sitting on the back deck, the sun is shining and I'm talking to you while birds sing overhead. So find the good, yo. Always find the good. Need some help getting started? Okay. <i>Bacon exists</i>. Focus on that.<br />
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2. Your mom is a gift. Call her. Today. Right now. Man, do I miss hearing my mom sing to me on birthdays. As cheesy as her annual rendition of "Happy Birthday" was, it also was the best part of my day. That's why I do not have a voicemail saved of her singing it. When my mom called, I answered the phone. You do the same. Odds are, your mom always did the the best she could for you.<br />
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3. Give Dad some props, too. After all, when you threw your shoes out your second-floor window so you could sneak out of the house quietly in middle school, he did not freak out like your Mom would have. He simply carried your shoes back upstairs and dropped them by your bed. Then he stared at you for a long, long, long, <i>oh-my-God-is-he-going-to-kill-me</i> long time, saying nothing, as you pretended you were asleep and had no idea how your shoes went flying out the window and landed near your friends waiting in the alley. He followed his hour of staring at you with a long heavy sigh, which made his point without a word being said. Amazingly, he didn't tell your mother, who would have grounded you until you were 15 -- which she did, anyway, after you tied those bedsheets together and climbed down the front of the house. You know what? I'm grounding you right now. Geez, you were ridiculous. Hug your parents, friends. If you can still do that, you are very, very lucky.<br />
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4. Do what you love, and do it well. It might not pay all the bills, so I'm sorry to say you will likely need a "real job." Bummer, right? I need to get one of those, too. But don't give up on what you are passionate about, either. Squeeze it in -- whether it is writing, painting, taking photographs, dancing, acting, playing piano or learning guitar, crafting, woodworking, cooking, knitting, or doing whatever gives you solace when Prince's elevator of life tries to bring you down. You might not do it better than anyone else, but who gives a flip? Isn't the pleasure it gives <i>you</i> enough? I've been a writer in some form or fashion most of my life, working it in around school, kids and other jobs. It hasn't made me rich or famous, but unlike anything else I do, writing makes me feel at home in my own skin, like I'm doing what I'm <i>meant</i> to do. I'm not willing to abandon that. Of course, if anyone would like to help me become a rich and famous writer, that's cool. In fact, that would make a nice birthday gift. Call me.<br />
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5. Relationships are hard. Marriage is hard. Divorce is hard. Dating is hard. Second marriages are hard. Love is hard. It just <i>is </i>sometimes. I would like to say I have all the the answers to a Happily Ever After by now, but I don't. Instead, I refer back to #1 every day: <i>find the good</i>. Does your significant other make you smile, even when you are so, so, so mad at him or her? Annoying, isn't it? But it's also good. Did he start your 45th birthday with surprise donuts from your favorite bakery? If so, keep trying. Just keep trying. I'm pretty sure that's what your grandparents did. They didn't expect a perfect spouse or have some grandiose ideas about romantic love. They certainly didn't have syrupy Facebook posts about what makes a good man or a great woman. Nah. They just woke up every day and decided not to kill each other. And that worked. Try that.<br />
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6. Your children are amazing people-in-training. I'll have plenty of regrets late in my life, but I'll never regret the time I have spent with my kids. Still, give your children some space to be their own people, make their own mistakes and learn their own lessons. I know it's hard, but self sufficiency is one of the best gifts you can give them. So back off a little. This is totally how you can justify all that time you spend on the Internet.<br />
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7. Get real. My sister-in-law had a grand idea. She suggested we spend a day posting photos of our <i>real </i>houses, not our fake, company-is-coming homes. Did you refuse to post that adorable photo of your dog because of all the unfolded laundry on your bed? Did you crop out the dirty dishes on the counter in the photo of your kids? Get over it! Real people have messy houses and messy lives. It's not going to kill you to be uncropped or unfiltered occasionally. I promise. You might even find it freeing. That doesn't mean you need to air <i>all </i>of your dirty laundry publicly. But we can help each other out if we will at least admit we aren't perfect. If you are the friend who has the perfect marriage, perfect family, perfect career, perfect home, perfect hair and perfect life, well, I want whatever drugs you are taking that make you believe that. Seriously. Is there a prescription?<br />
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8. Speaking of drugs, I prefer wine as my Instagram filter for life. It is okay to allow yourself the occasional indulgence. But all things in moderation -- unless it is cake on my birthday, and then screw that.<br />
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9. Faith is important to me. The world is hard, and I for one, don't like to go it alone. I posted more about faith in <a href="http://pennedfromtheporch.blogspot.com/2015/04/to-my-daughter-at-graduation.html" target="_blank">the piece I wrote for my daughter,</a> and I meant every word. I won't be as poetic here, but I'll cut to the chase: faith is like the day's first cup of coffee. Without it, most things are intolerable. Get you some. But please don't ever use your faith to attack others who aren't exactly like you. That's not cool. It's pretty much the opposite of what your faith should be teaching you.<br />
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10. If other people don't like you, or don't approve of your choices, ask yourself this important question: <i>Am I an asshole?</i> If you are, in fact, an asshole, please try to fix that. If you are <i>not</i> an asshole, and you are doing the best you damn well can, then go on with your bad self. I'm not going to tell you it doesn't matter what other people think because that is a big, fat lie. It <i>does</i> matter sometimes. It hurts sometimes. This is why therapists exist, to help us deal with all the different voices telling us how we should be. But at the end of the day, you have to do you, boo. No one does you better.<br />
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11. Last but not least, ask for help when you need it, and give it when you know others need it. I am terrible at this. Really awful. Like I suck so hard at it. But I am slowly learning that it isn't weak to admit you can't always do everything or handle everything alone. Admitting you sometimes need help or feel fragile takes real strength and courage. I'm also learning that giving what you have to others -- whether it is your time, your love, your gifts, your grace or your forgiveness -- amazingly, fills you back up. I hope I get better at this in the years to come, and I pledge to try. I want to be fat with all the love.<br />
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Today I'll be fat with cake, my memories of birthdays past and my hopes for birthdays future. Even though I have to apply more anti-wrinkle serum every year, I still really dig this whole birthday thing. I'm a little older, a little wiser, a little wider and a little more who I am. Here's to finding the good.<br />
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p.s. When my husband asked what kind of cake I wanted, I had PMS, so I requested a half-strawberry, half-lemon layer cake, with a cheesecake center,
iced with buttercream frosting and topped with chocolate cupcakes with peanut-butter frosting. Fingers crossed!!Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-26096366291940672092015-04-11T10:07:00.001-05:002015-04-12T12:15:07.459-05:00To My Daughter at Graduation<h2 class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-weight: normal;">For Kelsey</span></i></h2>
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<br />
<i>There you are</i><br />
<i>Finally, yet all too soon</i><br />
<i>Stepping to the edge </i><br />
<br />
Life has always been on your terms, even before you were born, even before you were a tiny ball of multiplying cells. You were not easy to conceive, daughter. I wanted you, prayed for you and tried for you to the point that your father once asked if he could watch television while we worked to create you (it was March Madness in Kentucky, so that is excused). Every month, when the irrefutable proof of your non-existence arrived, I wept at the unfairness and cried to my mother that my womb was a frozen tundra. I stood on my head for you. I saw doctors for you. I peed on sticks for you. The yearning for you became impossible to separate from the wiring of me. I was no longer me. I was me without you. Every errand became painful. The mothers in stores unsettled me, especially the ones who yelled at their children. I would be a better mother, so why was I denied you? One April, after a year of effort and unanswered prayers, I stopped by the drug store for yet another pregnancy test. The cashier grinned as she bagged the pink box and said, "Good luck, hon'!" I smiled awkwardly at her intrusion. At home, I dropped my pants dejectedly, anticipating the lack of you. But a few moments later, I held the test in my hands and watched -- amazed, shocked, elated, terrified, grateful -- as you emerged in the tiny plastic window. A plus sign. There you are<i>.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Here I am</i><br />
<i>Proudly, reluctantly</i><br />
<i>Watching you perch on the cusp of your life</i><br />
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The December night you were born, you fought the body birthing you. A larger baby than anticipated, you took root in my narrow pelvis and would not budge. I pushed-pushed-pushed-pushed, again and again, pushed-pushed-pushed<i>-pushed</i>. You would not come forth, my diva, as if waiting to arrive at the party fashionably late. After hours of grunting, without benefit of the epidural that had been ordered off once you stalled, I understood the word "labor" on a visceral level. Lamaze breathing long abandoned, I was bearing down, panting, more animal than woman. I could feel the pressure of you, the mass of you, the whole life of you, pressing against me, resisting your entry into the world. The obstetrician, who had abandoned a Saturday of hanging Christmas lights to deliver you, asked if I had more pushes in me. Exhausted, I did not. I fell back against the bed, too drained to be ashamed, as a nurse and my sister pulled my knees back to my ears. The physician reached into me and affixed a suction cup to your head. I remember the rubbery feel of it, the baby blue cord attached to the cup, extending from you like a leash. He began to pull you forth, the muscles in his arms straining and pulsing, the insides of me, ripping and tearing. Still, you balked. As your head emerged, your shoulders lodged and locked against my bones. I never realized the danger you were in as the doctor reached inside me, adjusted your shoulders and turned you, corkscrewing you out of me. At last, you slipped from me in a gush of warmth. I was suddenly depleted, sore, empty. I felt hollow without you, my belly an unfamiliar mound of squishy flesh. They held you to me, and I tried to put you to my breast, but I was too tired for bonding, and you were too mad for suckling. You looked up at me, red and angry -- your face and head mottled with the battle scars of a birth so intense that it temporarily molded your fragile skull into a cone. My first words whispered to you were, "I'm sorry." How could I be a mother? Why was everyone oblivious to my fear, entrusting this squirming, stubborn life to me? Here I am<i>.</i><br />
<br />
<i>There you are</i><br />
<i>Eagerly, excitedly</i><br />
<i>Scanning the horizon</i><br />
<br />
When you were three, you yanked your foot away from me as I attempted to tie your shoe. With<span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"> steely determination in your impossibly large brown eyes, you said, "I can do it." You slipped off your canvas sneakers, stomped to your room and slammed the door. Your dad
and I winced, hearing your groans of frustration. I cautiously peeked into your room and told you that you didn't <i>have</i> <span class="text_exposed_show">to
learn to tie your shoes <i>that very day</i>. What was the hurry? You were only
three, and most toddlers weren't tying their own shoes. Glowering, you demanded I leave your room. Thirty minutes later, your
door opened, and a single, untied shoe flew from your room, slamming into the wall. "Enough's enough," I said, "Honey, it's fine. Let me help you." A pint-sized pit bull, you paused
in your doorway for only a second before pulling your shoulders back, marching out
into the hall and retrieving your shoe. Your door slammed again. An hour
later, you emerged and handed me a perfectly tied sneaker, the look on your plump, toddler face one of triumph, victory, defiance. There you are.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<i>Here I am</i><br />
<i>Fearfully, nervously</i><br />
<i>Scanning your horizon</i><br />
<br />
No matter the venue, you could never resist an empty stage: the bookstore platforms for storytelling, the mall stages, the amphitheatres for community festivals. If unoccupied, they were all yours for the taking. Walking to center stage, you would survey your audience. Perhaps you were taking stock of us, perhaps taking stock of yourself. "Watch out," my mother said, laughing, as her two-year-old granddaughter danced for random admirers on an otherwise empty stage, "This one <i>lives </i>for the limelight." You always have. The spotlight calls to you, a beacon guiding you home. In first grade, you signed up for your school talent show. <i>Would you sing?</i> I asked. <i>Dance?</i> No. You said you were working on a stand-up comedy routine. I desperately tried to talk you out of it. The talent show was well-attended, drawing large numbers of proud parents, grandparents and siblings. What were the odds of a seven-year-old mastering comedic timing? What if you froze and couldn't remember your material? What if no one laughed at your jokes? What if you bombed? But you insisted. Trying to save you from embarrassment (or was it me, I was hoping to save?), I asked to hear your routine, expecting a tiring string of knock-knock jokes. I explained that good comedy must be drawn from real life, an art form a child would struggle to master. You contemplated this for all of two minutes, then disappeared to write your act. I was so nervous the night of the talent show that my hands shook violently, ruining the video I hoped to capture. Most of the little girls sang Carrie Underwood's popular "Jesus Take the Wheel" or songs from Bible school. I groaned. The last to perform, you took the microphone like a tiny Tina Fey and said, "I need everyone to look under there." The audience murmured, and you paused exactly the right amount of time before deadpanning, "I just made you say underwear." The crowd roared. You then segued with, "Speaking of underwear," and continued to tell slightly inappropriate jokes about your little brother, your football coach father, your dog Freddie. You also brought home a giant, shiny trophy, the first of several you would earn for your believability on stage in the years to come, as you starred in various school and community plays. I set that first trophy on your bookcase, ashamed at myself for doubting you. Since then, I have tried so hard <i>not </i>to be a stage mother, or manage you. But do I sit <i>too </i>far back in the audience? Do you know I am always there, mouthing your lines from a distance, basking in your light, even if I'm in the last row? Oh, how you shine. Here I am.<br />
<br />
<i>There you are</i><br />
<i>Hesitantly, carefully</i><br />
<i>Testing your wings</i><br />
<br />
Do you remember how we would take bike rides to your "special place", and you would collect rocks from the end of the cul-de-sac to put in your jean pocket? Or do you recall those bright pink sneakers, the ones you couldn't take your eyes off of when you walked, so I constantly feared you'd bump into something? Or what about the day you made the paper crown, carefully gluing straws around its perimeter? I have all of those things still: the jean shorts, the pink sneakers, the crown, the magical rocks from the special place. They are in a blue plastic box in the top of the closet, with trophies, ribbons and school awards. Recently, you cleaned out your winter clothes and set aside the cream and gray striped cardigan you wore so often throughout high school. Now stretched and faded, with torn pockets, the sweater was discarded in the Goodwill pile. I could not bear it, and I carried that sweater to the dining room table, littered with your academic and drama scholarship offers, your college acceptance letters. I held the sweater close to me for a while, and I allowed myself to cry. Some were tears of pride. I knew all along that your strong will, as aggravating as it could be for me, would serve you well. But I also cried because, like the night of your birth, my gut suddenly felt hollow and unfamiliar. Where have you gone? Then I dried my eyes and put your sweater in the blue plastic box, tucked among the other pieces of you. There you are.<br />
<br />
<i>Here I am</i><br />
<i>Painfully, achingly</i><br />
<i>Resisting the urge to pull you back</i><br />
<br />
Have I prepared you enough? Taught you enough? Praised you enough? Humbled you enough? Disciplined you enough? Loved you enough? Liked you enough? Scared you enough? Reassured you enough? Asked you enough? Answered you enough? Nurtured you enough? Pushed you enough? Embraced you enough? <i>Been enough</i>? These questions wake me at 3 a.m. nightly. I lie in tangled sheets, rewinding my life, fast-forwarding yours. I peer in vain through the murky future, trying to catch a glimpse of grown-up, on-your-own you. Are you okay? Are you happy? How was the Play-Doh of you molded and shaped by my hands? God, I made so many mistakes along the way. I grimace as I recall the awful day when you were five, when your baby brother was crying, and I needed diapers, but you refused to go into the grocery, throwing a terrible tantrum because you were scared of the Halloween displays. I was exhausted. I needed to nurse your brother, and my breasts were full and sore. I just wanted to go home, but I couldn't do so without diapers, and it was the only grocery in our small town. The more you cried, and the baby cried, the angrier I became, finally turning to face squalling, scared you. I didn't care that you were scared of Halloween. I didn't care that you were crying. I didn't care that you were my flesh and blood, who I would die to save if needed. All I cared about in that moment was getting what <i>I </i>needed. "<i>I don't like you!</i>" I snapped. You froze. In that moment, we changed. I hang my head even to write these words. Hadn't I begged God for you? And promised Him that I would never be that kind of mother? Oh, child, I <i>do</i> like you. I like you so very much. I have always been afraid to ask if you remember that day, or what I said. Maybe that moment motivated you. Maybe that is why you are such an overachiever. Maybe that is why you strive for perfection, or why you still squirm away from those parting hugs I always insist on giving you. Perhaps this explains your fierce independence. It's possible you have forgotten that day, but I have not. I will always remember it, just as I will never forget the early spring day when your father and I told you and your little brother that we were getting a divorce. I won't share what you said, for that is your story, but I carry the weight of your words like an anchor every single day. It holds me to the earth until my soul takes root in deep, dark recesses, for that is the price of change. Dearest beautiful girl, I am sorry for the wrongs I could not make right. I am sorry for all the times I hurt you, when I chose roads that were harder for your young, tender feet to navigate. Another parent once said to me, "Children are like pancakes. You're probably not going to get parenting right with the first one, but you'll get better at it."I did the best I could, learning along the way. Your brother, as unfair as it is, benefits from the mistakes I made with you. I'm not a <i>bad </i>mother. You're a successful, confident young woman. But are you happy? Are you aware that your life is still precious, even if it is not perfect? I don't need a perfect daughter. Instead, I want a daughter who is pleased with her life, even if it is messy at times. A daughter who looks back and says, "Hey, that wasn't so bad, after all." I hope happiness follows every hurdle. But I'm not finished yet, daughter. Here I am.<br />
<br />
<i>There you are</i><br />
<i>Courageously, boldly</i><br />
<i>On the verge of flight</i><br />
<br />
There is something truly special about you. I suppose most parents feel that way, that their children are remarkable. But in case you don't know, I think you are ridiculously smart, strong, brave, talented, beautiful and funny (the only way I know for sure you aren't a robot is because your room is atrocious. Seriously. It's gross. God bless your future roommates). As a student, you are rarely challenged, equally accomplished in math, science, English and the arts. Adventurous, you take cross-country trips by yourself to pursue your dreams, with nary a glance back. Your wit matches any comedian's, and your work ethic is extraordinary. And on stage? You <i>glow</i>. As your Mimi said, "Let us pray she always uses her powers for good." Amen. When you started school, I asked you to be a leader, not a follower. I cautioned you to never take your gifts or education for granted, reminding you how fortunate you are to have such opportunities. Thankfully, you put my words in action. You are your own person, one who does not compromise who she is to please others, but who is enviably at home in her own skin. High school was easy for you academically, but I fear it was hard for you socially, the rare bird that you are -- the one who is not afraid to sing her own song, to stand up for what she believes, to express her opinions, popularity be damned. But I must tell you something before you leave me, something important. You are strong-willed, but weakness has a place in this world, too. It is okay to feel weak and afraid sometimes. It makes you human. Temper your strength and toughness with kindness and faith. Kindness can take many forms, large and small, but others need it desperately, in whatever form you can muster. Extend your hand and your heart to others, trusting that kindness rolls out, like rivers to the ocean. Lower your shields, and realize the chinks in your armor, miraculously, make you stronger. And don't be afraid, dear one, to have faith in a love and creator that is bigger than you. You are the smartest person I know, so it is difficult for you to compute faith, I think. You try to rationalize it, but faith is not cerebral. Organized religion is hard for you because your heart judges none, and I admire that about you. But faith is as beautiful and as simple as the sun on your face, darling. It is the translucent rope above your head, offering solace and peace, and an escape from the murky depths of our human failings. Faith will be there, even when you are sure it has forgotten you. It carries the nourishment you'll need when the journey seems endless, a crumpled knapsack that holds your dreams and all of our love. Look out there, child. See the sky waiting for you, so vast, so limitless? You lift your arms to it, while I reach out to you, knowing my arms are the ones that must push you when you need it, but hoping they also are the arms to catch you if you fall. Like most mothers, I raised you for this moment, knowing you will visit home but never really be home again. I remind myself of Kahlil Gibran's <i>On Children</i>: "Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you." You were never mine. Not really. But when the world is inevitably unkind to you, as it is for all who walk upon it, I will reach for the blue plastic box and tell you of its treasures. I will remind you that you are the girl who rode her bike to her special place, who wore paper crowns, who ruled her elementary school talent shows, who starred in plays and who worked her ass off to be accepted to the best schools. Most importantly, you are the girl who threw her untied shoe into the hall but stomped back to retrieve it, to try again and again to get it right. The world? Oh, honey, it's just another untied shoe. March out and get it.<br />
<br />
<i>Here I am...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>There you go.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>By Jennifer Jenkins McAnulty 2015 </i>Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-37214471097383300962015-03-27T18:22:00.003-05:002015-03-28T09:06:41.500-05:00Dear John, I mean, Winter<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We need to talk.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This isn't working out.</span><br />
<div style="font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">You're
a bit...<i>clingy</i>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Newsflash: It's Spring. That's your cue to go, but once again, you've overstayed your welcome.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Sure, we had the occasional good time. You were sort of charming at Christmas. Sledding that one day was kind of fun. And I enjoyed those drinks by the fire in my flannel pajamas. But I thought you always understood that I wasn't serious about pursuing anything with you.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Don't look so surprised. </span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We're not exactly on the same page.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">To quote Patty Loveless and to paraphrase every Taylor Swift song, you don't even know who I am. You want me to be covered up all the time, and that's not me. It never has been. You're cloudy and cold, while I'm sunny and warm. You're boots, and I'm flip-flops. You're hot chocolate, and I'm sweet tea. (Okay. Okay. I'm wine. I'm always wine. <i>Whatever</i>.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The point is, we aren't
compatible.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">No,
don't go down that road. This is <i>not</i> all about Spring. What a tease, that one. Hot one day, cool the next, hinting at wonderful things to come but taking its sweet time giving up the goods. Spring is merely my rebound, a fun little
fling. We'll have a few laughs, maybe roll around in the tulips, but Spring will never have my heart. That belongs to Summer.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">What
I have with Summer is real and beautiful. It's porch sits, fireflies and fireworks, baby. Even if what you say is
true, and Summer does eventually leave me again, it's still worth the
time we have together. I'm needy like that with Summer. You know how it is.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Please
wipe those flurries away and let me move on. It's time to let go, dammit. I can't even bear to open the coat closet and see your things. I'm packing them up today. No more, Winter.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Also, don't draw this thing out. No lingering, hoping I'll change my mind. I won't. In fact, I'd prefer it if you don't come around for a long, long time. I've
tried to just be friends, but -- can we get real? -- you're a pain in the ass with serious attachment issues.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Maybe you need some therapy. You're even driving away those who once defended you. </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I live in Kentucky, and I think you're rude -- what with all that school canceling and family bonding you forced upon us. (Thank God for individual Netflix queues, am I right?)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I can only imagine how New Englanders feel about you now. You came on way too strong this year. What's with you and the Polar-Vortex-Siberian-Express-snow-for-months-on-end bullcrap?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Oh, geez. You're upset. That explains this whole "out like a lion" March thing. Look, it's not <i>all </i>bad. I sort of admire you for being true to yourself and owning it, but to everything there is a season, and it's time to turn! turn! turn!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It's not you, Winter. It's...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Sigh. I can't lie.</span></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It's totally freaking you.</span></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I'll leave the ice scrapers and gloves by the door.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I know Summer won't answer my calls yet (I've been trying since January. Does that make me look too eager?), so I'm going to see if Spring wants to hook up this weekend, maybe show me some blossoms.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Good riddance, Winter. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-66164286382343729342015-03-14T07:56:00.000-05:002015-03-14T07:56:49.322-05:00Daffodil Dreams<br />
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I walk through March,<br />
the season<br />
of snow and sun<br />
shadow and light<br />
freeze and thaw.<br />
<br />
I yearn for the verdant rooms of spring<br />
yet linger in the cool corners of winter.<br />
<br />
Be like the crocus,<br />
the daffodil<br />
the tulip,<br />
I urge myself.<br />
<br />
Break through the frosted earth.<br />
Allow the dormant, tight parts to<br />
unfold<br />
open<br />
and gloriously<br />
Be.<br />
<br />
But you pull me under the pines<br />
where remnants of yesterday’s snows<br />
are slow to melt<br />
and daffodils<br />
are<br />
but<br />
dreams.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPnqRKIvccGL9flA_UNqlCVsdqlc0BeP-DTTYnYuj8VCNPLHmA_zmbavhZEbSCBl0bNkaJNlJtiAZGhOq3dD_ENRTxoIcB1d6eSN0WJE88TlB3e3V7nbti9e5ZqzWAyC-DdXjq8YRGU2Y/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-03-13+at+11.35.12+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPnqRKIvccGL9flA_UNqlCVsdqlc0BeP-DTTYnYuj8VCNPLHmA_zmbavhZEbSCBl0bNkaJNlJtiAZGhOq3dD_ENRTxoIcB1d6eSN0WJE88TlB3e3V7nbti9e5ZqzWAyC-DdXjq8YRGU2Y/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-03-13+at+11.35.12+AM.png" height="302" width="400" /> </a></div>
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Daffodil Dreams poem by Jennifer Jenkins McAnulty, Penned from the Porch, 2015 </div>
<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-5084046290623355462015-03-12T14:15:00.000-05:002015-03-13T11:27:09.624-05:00Penned: The Sequel. Starring that Woman who Hordes ChocodilesLet's try this again, shall we?<br />
<br />
Blogging, I mean.<br />
<br />
Writing, I mean.<br />
<br />
<i>Living</i>, I mean.<br />
<br />
I haven't been doing any of those things. Not really -- and certainly not fully.<br />
<br />
<i>Why not</i>, the two of you (myself included) who still read this blog might ask?<br />
<br />
Was it because: <br />
<br />
(a). I was held hostage by grief after my mother's death.<br />
(b). I was trying to save a fun and challenging -- ultimately floundering -- real job.<br />
(c). I was easing into a second marriage (to a <i>REPUBLICAN</i>).<br />
(d). I was prioritizing precious, all-too-fleeting time with my busy adolescent children.<br />
(e). I was hording snack cakes, thanks to Hostess resurrecting my beloved <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=76RrdwElnTU" target="_blank">Chocodiles .</a><br />
(f). All of the above?<br />
<br />
Did you bubble in "C"? That's understandable. After all, my husband retweeted Ann Coulter the other day and still owns a Rush Limbaugh "Patriot Police" mug, in spite of his marriage to the coolest liberal woman ever (next to the glorious, wine-sipping Ruth Bader Ginsburg). Or maybe you answered "E" because you noticed I've gained 10 pounds.<br />
<br />
The correct answer, however, is "F. All of the above". Each one, in some way, factored into my failure to pen from the porch<i>.</i><br />
<br />
But frankly, my friends, I lost my writing voice. <br />
<br />
I lost my voice when I temporarily misplaced my confidence. I did not practice what I penned. I did not extend grace to myself, and I certainly did not believe I was enough.<br />
<br />
I could explain why, and in time, I might. Let's just say, for now, that we all have crosses to bear in life, and I am bearing mine. I have tried to carry it all gracefully, and most importantly, sanely. There are days that takes everything I have. While lugging around my past, my burdens, my regrets, my misgivings and my fears, I muted my muse. I stopped writing.<br />
<br />
I convinced myself that I did not have anything important or unique to say, that my words didn't matter to anyone. I started to believe all the negative things my inner critics were shouting -- the bastards -- and I quit on my muse. She was here, waiting for me to match the work with the inspiration, and I flipped her the bird.<br />
<br />
Admittedly, I also spent too much time on social media and Netflix. In my defense, <i>Orange is the New Black</i> is the shiz. (Related: Netflix is convinced I'm a black lesbian. If only, Netflix. If. Only.)<br />
<br />
But you know what? <i>I forgive myself.</i><br />
<br />
No matter what life threw my way, I woke up every day, planted two feet firmly on the floor and tried to find the good. Over and over, I did this. Every. Day. That counts, friends. That counts big-time. We should congratulate more people for standing up each day. There are days that is as monumental as climbing Everest.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I'm strong. My mama didn't raise weenies. I'm also a Taurus, and while I don't subscribe to astrology, I am incredibly stubborn and bullish. If I believe in something, I fight for it.<br />
<br />
Did I give up Chocodiles? No. Did Chocodiles return to store shelves? Yes. Did I remove the seats from my minivan to buy every box in the Tri-state area? Yes. Do my jeans fit? No. Did I have a point to make? That remains to be seen.<br />
<br />
But that is what the Porch is for, isn't it? Seeing if I have any points to make? Even if I don't say anything wise, I can at least, maybe, make someone, somewhere, feel <i>something</i>. Perhaps that something is "Why did I read this dribble?" But that's okay. It still means that I showed up and tried to connect what is my head to your heart. That matters to me.<br />
<br />
Writing is my calling. I might find other jobs to pay the bills, but I am my truest, best self when I write.<br />
<br />
I like to filter the world through words; sift through the junk drawers of my mind; and pull out whatever is in there -- whether it is silly, embarrassing, heavy or dusty. And I can explain those double-A batteries in the nightstand of my head. They go in the TV remote for my brain's Hugh Jackman channel. <br />
<br />
I want to blog again, even though I probably won't get a book deal from it. Or write "you guys" enough. Or use the F-word gratuitously (mainly because I still literally say "the F-word", and that's pretty wordy). Check this: I won't even tell you how to parent. Therefore, it is unlikely the Porch will draw in thousands of followers. I don't care. It's still a great place to romp and roam and stretch my creative muscles.<br />
<br />
I didn't give up on delicious, chocolate-dipped Twinkie flesh, and I won't give up on my calling. In addition to blogging, I'm dabbling in poetry, memoirs and other ventures. As the floodgates opened, I even began fleshing out a manuscript idea that I don't hate. Perhaps I'll gather the courage soon to send my words out into the places where people pay writers.<br />
<br />
If Hostess can bring back my beloved snack cake, anything could happen.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I hope you'll return to the Porch and sit a spell. I've missed you. Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-66545024524446870872013-12-29T10:37:00.000-06:002013-12-29T10:37:08.818-06:00To: Me / From: Me / Re: GRACE<br />
Dear Jennifer,<br />
<br />
Here is a gift I thought you could use. While it is belated, I wanted to make sure you received it before this hard year falls behind you, for you will need this present in the new year.<br />
<br />
It is not exactly practical.<br />
<br />
It did not make any of the "must-have" gift lists.<br />
<br />
It is not too big, nor too small. It is one-size-fits-all, though it might take some adjusting on your part. <br />
<br />
Of course, you can return it if you don't like it -- only I fervently hope you will choose to keep some of it for yourself.<br />
<br />
I am giving you -- or us -- the gift of <i>grace</i>.<br />
<br />
The other day, while reading your daily devotion, your eyes quickly scanned the passage that said you should become a "gift of grace" to your family and friends. Well, <i>duh</i>. You have always known that, even if you haven't always succeeded at it.<br />
<br />
But then you paused because the devotional went on to say something you had never considered before: <i>become a gift of grace, even to yourself.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Even to yourself. </i><br />
<br />
That is something we are not very good at, are we? We are so unaccustomed to such a gift that we stumbled over that line, questioning if such a thing were even possible.<br />
<br />
But it <i>is possible</i>.<br />
<br />
And it is a gift you deserve. Stop protesting. Stop telling me you cannot possibly take what I am giving you. Yes, you can.<br />
<br />
No matter our stumbles and mistakes, our trespasses and our faults, we all deserve to be gifts of grace to ourselves, too.<br />
<br />
How do you receive such a gift?<br />
<br />
You decide to accept it.<br />
<br />
You slip off the cumbersome, scratchy, woolen cloak of doubts and slip into a fine, silken robe of grace. Yes, you will be naked for a short while when you shed your coat of armor, but do not be afraid to be vulnerable. It is who you were born to be. While our daily armor protects us, it also prevents us from receiving real, true grace.<br /><br />
When you are vulnerable, you must extend to yourself the kindness and forgiveness you have sought from others. Have you forgiven yourself? Have you been kind to you? Do you say nice things about yourself, <i>to</i> yourself?<br />
<br />
Please nurture your soul, in the ways only you know best, whether that is through poetry or a porch sit or time with a dear friend.<br />
<br />
You already have seen glimpses of the grace I give to you. <br />
<br />
Remember how you danced at your high school reunion because, by God,
you had lost your mother a few weeks before and you needed to dance, to
lose yourself in music? You didn't care who was watching or how
ridiculous you might have looked. You danced because you needed to
dance. You danced and danced and danced.<br />
<br />
That was a form of grace - to yourself - to celebrate <i>your</i> life, which moves forward even as you try to hold onto the past.<br />
<br />
Remember how you were hurt by those you love most, but even as you sobbed at the utter unfairness, you knew you loved them still?<br />
<br />
That, too, is a form of grace to yourself, allowing yourself to forgive and to love -- and yes, even to hurt.<br />
<br />
Tell yourself that you are enough, over and over again, until you believe it, until you can toss the armor aside.<br />
<br />
If you want more grace, you must peel yourself open like an onion, layer after layer. If you weep while doing so, all the better. Release whatever has held you back from grace. Peel, peel, and peel, until all the outer layers of you, all those past hurts, mistakes and misgivings, are stripped away - and you are the core of who you are, <i>who you have always been.</i><br />
<br />
Hold this green center in your hand. Clasp your fingers around it. Do you feel that? The pearl of who you are? That child who rode her bike down the street, not a care in the world, happy to feel the wind in her hair, happy to be alive?<br />
<br />
This is what grace extended to yourself feels like. It feels like freedom.<br />
<br />
It is okay to give this to yourself. I am holding it out to you. To us <br />
<br />
Please take it. Accept this small token and allow it to be part of your life in the new year. Allow this seed of grace to grow, to carry us through love and loss, victories and defeats.<br />
<br />
I am waiting for you to hold out your hand to yourself.<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
JenniferPenned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-85710296197624397222013-12-19T10:35:00.001-06:002013-12-19T10:35:29.554-06:00A Gift from AboveI do not know where my family will gather for Christmas Eve this year.<br />
<br />
For as long as I can remember, we have celebrated at Mom and Dad's wonderful old Kentucky home, a tradition that became known as "Jenkinsmas".<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxf0Bn9FavEyFteUj5xrZHhB0TOoRRjAOrZtiF14WKYKTxBnqbGzQswtNIY8UwNy3Q6HsowaqJA6do6-8bSNvbBpCGUeovZioobj8QZ6_I7bl8apiZnj3AJwv4JFeNk6PBi7PDx_GfiyI/s1600/016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxf0Bn9FavEyFteUj5xrZHhB0TOoRRjAOrZtiF14WKYKTxBnqbGzQswtNIY8UwNy3Q6HsowaqJA6do6-8bSNvbBpCGUeovZioobj8QZ6_I7bl8apiZnj3AJwv4JFeNk6PBi7PDx_GfiyI/s1600/016.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is where I fell in love with porch swings.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Every family has their own Christmas traditions. Jenkinsmas is no exception -- only our family traditions are, um, especially unique. Consider Mom's <i>grape</i> tree, for instance:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dCx9CuSvRU2iRinxZGXUX0DB8mDraMxl8VZ9jJHFMFZ_gp-F56Gi143ZQ6aEr_fjGu8lPyuXpfxDoInK2rdVLKsPNpvLyNwdbnG0LzPMfbX96U6hyphenhypheniR03AUyeN1M2eyVVeyr-s3xGW4/s1600/grapetree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dCx9CuSvRU2iRinxZGXUX0DB8mDraMxl8VZ9jJHFMFZ_gp-F56Gi143ZQ6aEr_fjGu8lPyuXpfxDoInK2rdVLKsPNpvLyNwdbnG0LzPMfbX96U6hyphenhypheniR03AUyeN1M2eyVVeyr-s3xGW4/s1600/grapetree.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All it needs is a little love. And some grapes.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Then there was the year Mom suggested we play "Christmas flutes." The egg nog must have been especially noggy that Christmas.<br />
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<br />
And we can't forget our beloved "Otto", a blue ottoman who became the Jenkins family mascot.<br />
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<br />
Last year, we celebrated Jenkinsmas in our jammies.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjWHNEPeoE6UM3g3AaVL0TCqWlWri1jgg8gnjzu3mWCYEtJ9YpSxyifxTPqxhCwbHlobjS9iqREHKoxki-DiMKTeluTffoKrJNpuZTZr9W_VeDBfO4YG0FOjjK8qPXMK9_jAB7P4wYv0E/s1600/pajamamas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjWHNEPeoE6UM3g3AaVL0TCqWlWri1jgg8gnjzu3mWCYEtJ9YpSxyifxTPqxhCwbHlobjS9iqREHKoxki-DiMKTeluTffoKrJNpuZTZr9W_VeDBfO4YG0FOjjK8qPXMK9_jAB7P4wYv0E/s1600/pajamamas.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pajama-mas!</td></tr>
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As you can see, we always partied in style. Jenkinsmas is a very classy affair.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Merry Mustache-mas</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
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No matter our antics, Jenkinsmas has always been the very best kind of Christmas.<br />
<br />
Before you read the rest of this post, please take a moment to<a href="http://www.courierpress.com/news/2013/nov/18/memories-of-christmas-filled-with-mom/" target="_blank"> read this column</a> I wrote for this year's holiday edition of <i>Evansville Woman</i> magazine:<br />
<br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent"><a href="http://www.courierpress.com/news/2013/nov/18/memories-of-christmas-filled-with-mom/" rel="nofollow nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.courierpress.com/news/2013/nov/18/memories-of-christmas-filled-with-mom/</a></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent">Then you'll understand why my siblings and I wonder if we can still find the magic of Jenkinsmas without our beloved mother, who died in August from cancer. How can it be Christmas without her?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent">As it turns out, we aren't without Mom at all. Not really.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent">Mom
had been diagnosed with Stage IV gallbladder cancer in August, 2012 --
and although she was responding beautifully to treatment over the
holidays and never once showed her family anything but hope and strength
-- she wanted to ensure she was with us this year.</span></span><br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent"><br /></span></span>
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent">So last January, as she put away decorations, Mom wrote a note to us and placed it in a box, on top of the Christmas lights.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent">My siblings discovered her letter while helping Dad decorate the massive 10-foot Christmas tree he placed in the living room in honor of Mom.</span></span><br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent"><br /></span></span>
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent">This, friends, is Mom's gift to us at Christmas -- a gift from above -- left for those she cherished. You see, Christmas for us has never been about things. Not ever. It has always been about family.</span></span><br />
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent"><br /></span></span>
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<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent"><br /></span></span>
Thank you, Mom, for letting us know that you are still with us, even if we are unable to find the strength to gather in that big, old house this year.<br />
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You will find us, wherever we are.<br />
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Chances are, we will be by your grape tree, tears mixing with laughter, celebrating Jenkinsmas, celebrating you. Just like we Otto.<br />
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We will remember the true meaning of Christmas, which began in a manger long ago, and carries over in a mother's note, tucked among strands of lights...<br />
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The gift of eternal love.<br />
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Merry Christmas, Mom. <br />
<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-71048182914240181572013-11-21T07:19:00.001-06:002013-11-21T07:19:08.612-06:00You're so vain, you probably think this journal is about you. Oh, wait. It is.<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Flipping
through <a href="http://pennedfromtheporch.blogspot.com/2013/02/i-like-em-big-and-fat.html" target="_blank">old journal entries</a> in the wee hours of the morning, I found
this poem I had quickly written earlier this year, when I was worried
about Mom and couldn't sleep. I love it when Past Me writes something
for Current Me, and I glean what I need from myself (is that vain? But let's face it. No one else understands me like, well, me).</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">As one dear friend said, "</span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[4gcvo].[1][3][1]{comment10151951060922182_28873436}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[4gcvo].[1][3][1]{comment10151951060922182_28873436}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[4gcvo].[1][3][1]{comment10151951060922182_28873436}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">Funny how we already know exactly what we need. Sometimes it just needs to catch up to us. Or us to it."</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> <i>Dear Lord,<br /> Please give me strength<br /> When I don't have it.<br /> Give me courage<br /> On days I lack it.<br /> Give me hope<br /> Because I need it,<br /> And give me the faith<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> required to feed it.<br /> <br /> Please help me love<br /> When love is tough.<br /> Give me patience<br /> When I've had enough.<br /> Give me conviction<br /> When mired in doubt,<br /> And be the light<br /> that guides me out.</span></i></span><br />
<br />
<i><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Amen.</span></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">(c) 2013 Penned from the Porch, Jennifer Jenkins McAnulty </span></span></i><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span>Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-80906506971894829882013-09-18T17:19:00.003-05:002013-09-18T17:20:24.444-05:00I Hate Coats (and other lessons from grief)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Sorrow makes us all children again. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson</i><br />
<br />
I recently read Justin Lee's excellent <a href="http://gcnjustin.tumblr.com/post/59426244539/my-mom-just-died-heres-what-you-should-say">post about grief</a> on his blog, <i>Crumbs from the Communion Table.</i> Like me, Lee lost his mom a few weeks ago. He offered words of wisdom for dealing with those of us in the throes of grief.<br />
<br />
His thoughtful advice confirmed what I, too, have learned the last 24 days: grief is a difficult, erratic, unpredictable beast.<br />
<br />
For instance, I walked in the park earlier this week as the sun was setting, and I felt perfectly fine. The evening was just cool enough for a long, brisk walk, maybe even a run. My legs felt good and strong, and my pace quickened. Endorphins worked their magic, and I smiled at passersby.<br />
<br />
But then the Avett Brothers' song, "Through My Prayers", streamed through my ipod, and I was<i> </i>just as quickly<i> not</i> fine. I had never listened to that particular song, and the heart-twisting lyrics were the poetry of my life. I went from jogging and smiling to stopping cold on the trail from the sudden, <i>crushing</i> blow of grief. I bowed my head to hide my tears from others in the park. I moved off the path and sat on a rock by the pond to weep, question, pray, doubt and hope. Eventually, I wiped my eyes and moved forward again.<br />
<br />
This is what you do in the midst of loss. You grieve; you move; you grieve; you move. Life will not pause for you to pause. This is both the beauty and curse of the mourning process.<br />
<br />
I finished my walk, at a much slower pace, and I found my favorite tree. I leaned against its curved trunk, and I watched clouds play peek-a-boo with the moon. As I breathed in and out, in and out, the inner storm calmed. Once again, grief <i>s-l-o-w-l-y</i> released its vise.<br />
<br />
This fluctuating process is daunting and frustrating, especially for someone like me, who <i>always</i> seeks to be happy, who believes in counting blessings, and who counts <b>on </b>those blessings.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I'm not at all sure what to do with this unhappiness. I wear it like an awkward, heavy coat, and I despise coats. I want to toss the damn thing in a closet and be done with it already, but grief is a long, hard winter.<br />
<br />
I absolutely did not understand the magnitude of the loss of a parent before I lost my mother. I apologize profusely to my friends who have been on this journey, for failing to understand how incredibly fragile you must have felt - and probably sometimes still feel. As we age, we understand that we will lose our parents eventually. It is the natural order of things. So why does it feel so <i>unnatural</i> when it happens? This is what I never grasped before. Losing a parent is like losing a vital part of your identity. It's an amputation. You suddenly don't know who you are.<br />
<br />
Is it strange that I sometimes cry quietly for my "Mama", or have even heard myself whisper "Mommy", though I have not called her anything but "Mom" for decades? In those torrents of grief, which come without warning, I am a lost child frantically searching for my mother. Panic surges when she does not appear. Again and again, I relive that 1:50 a.m. phone call from my dad. Was Mom scared when she died? Was she in pain? Did I suddenly awaken 20 minutes before Dad's call that night because I <i>knew</i>? Was it Mom whispering goodbye that woke me, or just the wind?<br />
<br />
My heart pounds-pounds-pounds, as if I am five, not 43.<br />
<br />
Three weeks after Mom's death, I still find myself wondering if she and Dad will invite me to lunch, as they periodically did. I realize I am eager to show her my newly decorated family room and imagine her face when she sees it. I want her to come to my son's Saturday football game.<br />
<br />
This morning, I reached for my phone to call Mom when I learned my daughter was cast as the lead in the school play.<br />
<br />
But I can't call her. I can't go to lunch with her. She will never be in my family room again, and my children won't see her at their school events, graduations, or weddings.<br />
<br />
If this is terribly self-indulgent, please understand that I do not think for one second that the world revolves around me and my loss. Oh, goodness no. My mom died of cancer, which claims far too many. Sadly, I am hardly alone on this journey, though grief can make you feel that way.<br />
<br />
We all wear the cumbersome coat of grief eventually, and some will bear winters that are harder and longer than mine. Some seasons of grief are downright cruel, and for many of you -- whose losses are confounding, senseless and <i>not </i>the natural order of things -- spring must seem forever away.<br />
<br />
I share because writing is my therapy and catharsis -- but also because my heart goes out to anyone who has been on this path, or who loves someone who is on it. Loving someone who is grieving isn't easy, either. <br />
<br />
I would be lost without those who love me, especially those who are deeply familiar with my journey the past few years and understand why my grief is amplified and why peace seems elusive. Life does not always wrap itself up in pretty, shiny packages, and death occasionally leaves things undone.<br />
<br />
But I loved my mom deeply, and I know she loved me. We had the good sense to tell each other that often, no matter what. The bond between mother and child never breaks completely. Not even death can do that. That will have to be enough for me, though admittedly, there are times it feels like it is not. There are days I am terribly angry and feel cheated in ways I cannot describe. There are things I simply will never understand, and I have to find a way to accept that. So I cling to what I know: faith, hope and family. These will tether me. These will carry me home.<br />
<br />
I am forever indebted to those who hold my hand, or gently put a hand on my arm because they understand there is no quick fix to what I feel, no Band-Aid, no magic words.<br />
<br />
My husband runs marathons, and he has talked of "hitting the wall." While I'm hardly a distance runner, I think I understand what that feels like now -- how every part of you aches, and it hurts to breathe, but you know the only way to the end of the race is one heavy, tired foot in front of the other. This is the path I am forced to walk, or even crawl, when I desperately want to sprint. I want to cross the finish line; I want to look back and know that I made it.<br />
<br />
I do not want to do the <i>work</i> of grief, but I have no choice, because I want to embrace each day and be happy. Life will not tarry. There are children and a husband to love; a job to perform; a house to clean; stories to write.<br />
<br />
The following excerpt, from the aforementioned Justin Lee post, gets it just right. I hope he doesn't mind that I share his thoughts here. They spoke to me, and I hope they are helpful to others who are grieving or know someone who is:<br />
<br />
<i>"Understand that this is a slow, difficult, often confusing journey. Sometimes, I might seem very inconsistent in what I want. As I write this, I’m feeling fine. That’s no guarantee I’ll be feeling fine ten minutes from now. The day after my mother died, I poured myself into work like nothing was wrong. Today, I’m taking the day off to be alone. Months from now, when you’ve forgotten this post, I may still be grieving and have times when it seems like more than I can bear—but feel awkward bringing it up for fear of being a downer.<br /><br />Don’t assume everything is fine just because I seem to be my usual cheerful self, and don’t assume I’m not fine if I say I really am. Sometimes, grief comes in waves.<br /><br />The grieving process is a weird thing. But if you are comfortable enough to let me grieve in my own way, you can make it much easier for me to do what I need to do and keep moving forward. And that is one of the marks of a true friend."</i><br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
Thank you for your patience and understanding, your hand-holding, your compassion and encouragement.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I found a small sign that I loved, so I bought it for my living room, where it sits near a photo of my young, smiling mother. The sign reads, "<i>Find the good.</i>" It is my reminder.<br />
<br />
Eventually, spring will come again, and though I will never stop missing my mother, I hopefully will trade this heavy coat of grief for something lighter.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I continue my journey to peace, through my prayers.<br />
<br />
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<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-43255910118776094102013-09-04T11:16:00.001-05:002013-09-04T11:18:45.500-05:00The Long Way<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I take the long way.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Walk.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Remember.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Walk.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Remember. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I breathe in the September evening.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I breathe you out into the setting sun.</span></div>
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I pause by the pond</div>
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where reflections of trees</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
shimmer on the surface,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
there,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
but not there.</div>
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I walk past rows of corn</div>
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where ears wither on stalks.</div>
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I cannot tarry here. </div>
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I leave the path for the honeysuckle</div>
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that tumbles over the old fence</div>
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still lush, still fragrant,</div>
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denying fall.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I pluck two blossoms,</div>
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inhale their sweetness.</div>
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I find myself at this tree </div>
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two trees, really,</div>
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growing in opposite directions</div>
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yet bound by roots.</div>
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I touch the earth,<br />
where the two trunks meet.</div>
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I breathe you in.</div>
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I breathe you out.</div>
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Walk.</div>
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Remember.</div>
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Walk.</div>
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Remember.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Walk. </div>
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<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-92116856251521501812013-08-25T08:24:00.000-05:002013-08-25T08:55:58.424-05:00The Things We SayPeople ask, "How is your Mom?"<br />
I say, "She is a <i>warrior</i>!"<br />
Or "Her spirit is<i> incredible</i>!"<br />
<br />
In the quiet of the night<br />
As I stand at the kitchen sink, staring at nothing<br />
hands submerged in gray suds <br />
My husband says, "What's wrong?"<br />
<br />
"I am tired," I say.<br />
Or I say, "It's nothing. I'm okay."<br />
I <i>am</i> tired.<br />
I am not okay.<br />
It is not nothing when your mother slips from your grasp.<br />
<br />
"The cancer has spread," the doctor says.<br />
"I tried to get as much as I could," he says.<br />
<br />
Our faces fall.<br />
Our heads bow.<br />
Our bodies bend,<br />
as if carrying bricks on our backs.<br />
<br />
Dad puts his face in his hands,<br />
Rubs and rubs and rubs his forehead.<br />
"We will try chemo," the doctor says.<br />
<br />
"You are buying us time," I say.<br />
I am the only one who says anything.<br />
"There are miracles sometimes," the doctor says,<br />
as if he is unable to bear my hopelessness.<br />
<br />
The doctor's words become the Kool-aid.<br />
We greedily gulp.<br />
Mom acts like she only has a cold. <br />
"Chemo is nice, quiet time to read my book," she says.<br />
"I have this wonderful quilt that was sewn by an inmate in upstate Indiana," she says.<br />
"It could be so much worse," she says. <br />
<br />
On the day she learns she will have to wear a pump<br />
for more aggressive chemo, she says,<br />
"It is amazing what you can get used to!"<br />
After 18 sessions of radiation,<br />
she says, "I am just a little tired."<br />
<br />
A friend who lost her father hands me prayer beads over breakfast at Denny's.<br />
"Hold onto these," she says.<br />
"Keep them as long as you need them," she says.<br />
I push cold scrambled eggs around my plate. <br />
<br />
My siblings and I talk<br />
But don't talk.<br />
"Mom has a great attitude," we say.<br />
<br />
No one says <br />
That we fear future Christmases<br />
And graduations<br />
And weddings.<br />
No one says<br />
That we can't look our father in the eye now.<br />
<br />
Dad takes Mom to lunch every day.<br />
They take rides on country roads<br />
Count the red-tailed hawks<br />
Eat cheeseburgers by the lake.<br />
<br />
Dropping by one day,<br />
I catch them heading out the door.<br />
"Lunch out <i>again</i>?" I say.<br />
"It's a new day, isn't it?" Dad says.<br />
<br />
That night, <br />
Standing at my counter,<br />
Peeling potatoes for supper<br />
I slip away...<br />
<br />
I find myself in my mother's kitchen,<br />
Where she peels potatoes<br />
And I stand on tip-toes on cold linoleum.<br />
I reach for a slice from the colander.<br />
"Potatoes aren't very good raw," Mom says,<br />
Handing me a slice, anyway.<br />
<br />
I bite into the raw potato and grimace.<br />
"Yuck," I say.<br />
She laughs.<br />
"I told you so," she says... <br />
<br />
Back in my own kitchen,<br />
Peeling and slicing,<br />
I tell that little girl <br />
That when her mother hands her the slice of raw potato<br />
She is to grip her mother's hand<br />
Hold it tight.<br />
Hold it so tight. <br />
<br />
"Don't let go" I say.<br />
<br />
Don't let go. <br />
<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-10161518774234373912013-08-06T20:40:00.003-05:002013-08-06T20:44:14.077-05:00A Note from the Murky Gray<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is a far cry from my usual Porch musings, but I'm compelled to share. Please know that wherever you are spiritually, no matter what you believe or dismiss, the Porch welcomes you. I like to think we can learn from each other. If not, we can simply sit quietly, rock and be grateful for one another. That's nice, too.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
This past Sunday, I attended church physically, but I certainly didn't feel like I was there mentally or spiritually. Troubled and stressed, my heart was guarded as I entered the sanctuary. I could almost feel the weight of the chains wrapped around it.<br />
<br />
I stood in the pew, trying to feel something from the contemporary music belted out passionately on stage, but <i>eh</i>. I didn't. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Although the music usually moves me, I was sad and preoccupied and certainly not in church mode.<br />
<br />
I chided myself, "You're<i> here</i>, so show up. Get something out of this." Still, I could not focus or feel connected, no matter how much I <i>wanted</i> to, no matter how many church members smiled at me and wished me a good morning. I smiled on the outside, but on the inside? Wary. That happens to me sometimes in church. I often don't feel like the other people there seem to feel. A control freak, I have never been one of those people who can throw my hands up in surrender. I am envious of those who can.<br />
<br />
Frustrated, I quietly prayed: <i>Hey, Big. G</i> (I call God "Big G", and He is totes cool with that). <i>I am not here today. I know I should be, but frankly, I'm not, and you know me well enough to know all the reasons why. I attended for my kid today, but not for myself. I don't feel like being in this pew today. I don't feel like hearing YOU today. I'm sorry, but I thought you should know the deal. I hope you understand.</i><br />
<br />
As soon as I uttered those words, the ultra-contemporary, rarely-plays-classic-hymns church band began to sing the old hymn, "Crown Him With Many Crowns."<br />
<br />
<i>Whooooooaaaaa. Does everyone hear that - or just me?</i><br />
<br />
See, when I was a kid, I attended a sunrise Easter service in our local park with my mom and my grandparents. I remember that cool dawn, the rising sun softly filtering through the trees as the preacher spoke in front of the town fountain. I don't recall the sermon, to be honest. But I know the way I felt when the couple dozen of us who braved the chilly morn sang "Crown Him With Many Crowns." Although I must have been very young, and I didn't understand the Bible yet, that hymn <i>moved</i> me, <i>stirred</i> me -- so much so that I took the Easter bulletin that featured the hymn's lyrics, folded it, and held it tight in my small hand.<br />
<br />
I've never told anyone this, but when I was troubled as a child, I would climb on top of the family carport, lie on the roof, take out that crumpled Easter bulletin and whisper the words of the hymn:<br />
<br />
<i>Crown Him with many crowns, the Lamb upon His throne.</i><br />
<i>Hark! How the heavenly anthem drowns all music but its own.</i><br />
<br />
I can't explain why, other than having the faith and trust of a child, but that song brought me peace and comfort. I would stare into the blue sky above and feel connected to its Creator. <br />
<i> </i><br />
<br />
When I heard that old hymn in that modern sanctuary this week, I was stunned. Truthfully, I was a little shaken. <i>Really, Big G? You pulled out my childhood hymn to get my attention?</i> <i>What's up with THAT?</i><br />
<br />
Then, as we humans are prone to do, I immediately scoffed at that notion. I mean, talk about delusions of grandeur: You're so vain. You probably think this hymn is about you.<br />
<br />
I apologized in prayer again, telling God that it was unbelievably self-centered and egotistical -- and let's face it, a tad crazy -- to think that He, with billions of humans to worry about, would send a direct message to insignificant me. Who am I? I'm no one. I'm a speck.<br />
<br />
No sooner had I said to myself, "It's crazy to think that the Big G would send a song to me", than the preacher began his sermon.<br />
<br />
Among the first words he spoke? I. kid. you. not.<br />
<br />
<i>"GOD IS A SENDER."</i><br />
<br />
<i>Whooooooaaaaaaaaa. Did everyone hear that - or just me?</i><br />
<br />
There I was -- as small, mistake-prone and doubtful as ever -- questioning<i> what God sends, </i>when the preacher said, clearly, "God is a sender."<br />
<br />
Oh, snap! Big G's got game!<br />
<br />
Needless to say, I sat upright in the pew. I tuned in and began to listen with a less-guarded heart.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, those of you who visit frequently know that I am not the preachy type or the judge-y type. After all, you've read my stuff, right? Who am I to judge anyone? I sin and fall short ALL THE TIME. Greedy? Check. Coveting others' lives and things? Check. Lustful? Check. Check. Check. And that's just referring to the Hugh Jackman posts.<br />
<br />
Sure, I try to be a good person when it's convenient and I feel like it. Other times, I try less hard and do less than I should.<br />
<br />
In other words -- and I hope I don't offend anyone here because you're all mah-va-lous -- I think I'm like <i>most </i>of us.<br />
<br />
I guess that's why I'm writing this.<br />
<br />
When Big G tapped me on the shoulder Sunday and told me to<i> listen</i>, I heard the pastor say that God sends. He sends <i>to</i> us, but here's the challenging part: He also sends <i>us.</i> We have a purpose (and I do not think it is the same mission for everyone), and we already have everything we need to complete it -- which is far less than we <i>think</i> we need, though I really do love my new open-toe sling backs.<br />
<br />
I truly believe God gives us each a gift to use for good (and not to procure rare Hostess Chocodiles, as I've been known to do, but I already said I'm not perfect).<br />
<br />
You don't have to go far to use your gifts, either. You can use them wherever you are.<br />
<br />
I like to think my particular gift is writing, but we've previously discussed my delusions of grandeur.<br />
<br />
What is <i>your</i> gift? Maybe you have a musical gift to bring others joy. Maybe you're an artist or a photographer with a keen eye. Maybe you are a natural teacher, or you have a kind, compassionate heart and are quick to reach out to others. Perhaps you use your fantastic sense of humor to lighten someone's load, or maybe you are good at fixing things for others.<br />
<br />
Whatever gift you have, now is the time to <i>send</i> it: to give it away, one imperfect human to another. What are you waiting for? The world needs it, and it needs you -- fantastic, fallible you.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure that in our churches, we talk about how fragile and fallible we are enough. From experience, I can tell you that pretending otherwise is intimidating to people new to church, who feel like they are somehow less than those who are in church all the time.<br />
<br />
Although I'm a Christian, I don't think faith is all black or white, left or right, Hell or Heaven. If we're honest, most of us fall in that murky gray area in the middle, right? We're all part of one big, messy, dysfunctional family. Thank goodness we share a loving, forgiving, incredibly patient, and hopefully somewhat senile father who knows we're going to screw up, but He still wants us to<i> try</i> to be our best selves. Just keep trying. He's not asking so much.<br />
<br />
<br />
If you're thinking you're not a church-y person, so you're not really sure you buy any of this, I want you to know that I get that.<br />
<br />
I sometimes feel closer to Big G on a porch swing or on an evening stroll than in a church. So pray to that magnificent sunrise or send your best thoughts out into that incredible sunset. Relish your walk in the woods, where you feel peace. Laugh when the baby laughs. Breathe in your child, fresh from the tub. Stretch out with your dog in that sunbeam. And <i>be open.</i><br />
<br />
I'm no preacher, but I think God is wherever you find Him. <i>Or wherever He finds you.</i> He often found me in my youth on my parents' carport roof, where I'd stretch out and look at the endless expanse of blue sky. Big G and I could chat for hours up there. That's a kind of church, too.<br />
<br />
Don't misunderstand. I think church is great. It offers fellowship and accountability, which are good things for anyone of faith. I often find comfort in church today. But if I had been raised in a church, I'm honestly not sure I would have such a deeply personal relationship with Big G. I can talk to Big G and His son JC about an-y-thing, and I owe that deep and abiding faith to my mother. She's not a church-y person, either, friends, but she is as closely connected to God as anyone I know.<br />
<br />
This is just me, a wanna-be writer, mom, second-time wife, and <i>very imperfect</i> Christian, reaching out to you -- wherever you are on your journey through life -- and cheering you on, one murky gray walker to the next.<br />
<br />
In this crazy, hurtful world, when people use religion for everything from politics to weapons, it's easy to doubt. It's easy to lose faith. It's also easy to question God when things are hard, but that's when I grasp most tightly to my faith. Thank goodness it tethers me.<br />
<br />
This isn't about religion because I'm not particularly religious.<br />
<br />
The most fascinating class I took in college was called "The Bible as Literature." In that class, we read and discussed the Bible like a book. Not like <i>The</i> Book, but like <i>any</i> book. I read every word of the Bible in a new way. Scripture suddenly didn't intimidate me, like it often did in a church setting, because I looked at the text as a student, who was open-minded and eager to learn.<br />
<br />
What I took from that class and our many discussions and debates, is that what we get from the Bible depends largely on what we bring to it -- our quirks, our upbringing, our parents' views, all the good and bad stuff that has ever happened to us. I'm not sure it is supposed to work that way, but it does. I once heard a preacher say that if we followed every word in the Bible verbatim, we would never eat bananas. Why? What God has joined together, let no man tear asunder, friends.<br />
<br />
Although I begrudgingly accept that others are as firmly entrenched in their beliefs as I am in mine, I get frustrated when people use the Bible to exclude others, when the purpose of the Bible is to reach <i>all </i>of us, every last one of us. I can't imagine the Bible, or the word of God, was ever meant to be a weapon or a message of hurt or exclusion.<br />
<br />
I can't speak for Big G, and I won't try to, imperfect and unqualified for that as I am.<br />
<br />
All I know for sure is that He is phenomenally cool to meet me <i>where I am, in the murky gray, and love me anyway. </i>Maybe sometimes He even sends me a song in church, to remind me of that, to loosen those chains that guard my heart.<br />
<br />
Maybe Sunday's message was a for me to write, to share what I know -- which is soooo very little -- with those who, for whatever reason, feel like they are not good enough to be loved that much. Or sadly, they feel that other people of faith would not love them, would not embrace all those pieces that make them who they are.<br />
<br />
From one murky gray, ne'er-do-well to another: You are enough. You are loved. Believe me, I do things that surely make Big G face-palm on a regular basis, but He's there for me, just the same.<br />
<br />
Here's the tricky part: Faith is not something we can intellectualize, which makes it tough to accept. Faith isn't rational. It isn't remotely logical. But it <i>is</i> real, and it will give you something to grasp, if you only allow yourself to leap. When you are ready to take a chance on faith, trust that the Big G, or whatever you decide to call Him, will be there for you. Every bit of you.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, share your gifts. Love your neighbors, even those who challenge you. Stretch out on the carport roof and know that you are worthy of that beautiful blue sky, that it was created for you as much as it was for anyone.<br />
<br />
Remember: there's room on that big ol' porch for all of us <br />
<br />
For that, for old hymns, for you, for Big G's gentle reminders, for Hugh Jackman (Big G just face-palmed again)...<br />
<br />
I am so very grateful for it all.<br />
<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-8035416753121952222013-07-15T16:49:00.001-05:002013-07-15T16:49:25.698-05:00My Magnetic PersonalityI've been pondering my writing (non)career lately and trying to decide which direction I should take it.<br />
<br />
After a review of my strengths and weaknesses, I have finally discovered my niche.<br />
<br />
Is anyone interested in a compilation of magnetic fridge poetry?<br />
<br />
Whether I'm sincere:<br /> <br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Or<i> even more</i> sincere:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxEjFouPV5RX5p_9U6SSMGbg1A6O5Hpp1Zv1Py9yMa1H3_XhPIZbIP85mcnGnIAqRjqriI4gR32_sq5ywt7TYbVXwHk4ixw4SjhNv9eJ9yIJDy9_B6zLXWqjHqpLBzzy0aGaZWKfWvmVc/s1600/fridgepoem2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxEjFouPV5RX5p_9U6SSMGbg1A6O5Hpp1Zv1Py9yMa1H3_XhPIZbIP85mcnGnIAqRjqriI4gR32_sq5ywt7TYbVXwHk4ixw4SjhNv9eJ9yIJDy9_B6zLXWqjHqpLBzzy0aGaZWKfWvmVc/s640/fridgepoem2.jpg" width="480" /> </a></div>
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<b>I totally rock this genre.</b></div>
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I'll be waiting by the phone, publishers.<b> </b></div>
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Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-70117664807176734772013-07-09T08:17:00.003-05:002013-07-09T10:32:20.198-05:00The Story of the Well-Groomed, Rare Evil South American Banana Spider<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwY2NWx1x-3jK_s-MtMIngtf6tXVrsUVJlOdK3BLPuozqdFMP8dS0bOuhRAtikOgNSSaK7crg_ygyf9RvBA9Kd_Pd6Xt__3EbjjjjPPTTXGKFlnmTUJTkTzrYnzgbqZVjcLqm0xeyza-g/s1600/spiderfunny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwY2NWx1x-3jK_s-MtMIngtf6tXVrsUVJlOdK3BLPuozqdFMP8dS0bOuhRAtikOgNSSaK7crg_ygyf9RvBA9Kd_Pd6Xt__3EbjjjjPPTTXGKFlnmTUJTkTzrYnzgbqZVjcLqm0xeyza-g/s320/spiderfunny.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">I
discovered a huge spider in the corner behind the toilet, no doubt
planning his surprise attack on the the next unfortunate victim to sit
there (me).</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">With horror, I realized my resident spider slayer
(a.k.a. reason enough to marry again) had already left for work, so I
did what any reasonable person would do when confronting one of those
giant spiders with those God-awful bendy spider legs: I cr<span class="text_exposed_show">ied for a good 15 minutes.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Then, mustering the courage that only comes from someone who has to pee
really, really badly, I realized it was him or me. And it wasn't going
to be me. Not today.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Unfortunately, I didn't have any bug spray in
the bathroom, nor could I reach behind the toilet to adequately swat him
with anything I had handy. I wasn't about to leave the restroom to get
bug spray and risk him crawling away, as I knew -- KNEW -- he'd find his
way to my bed tonight to carry out his evil spider intentions (there
are no other kind of spider intentions).</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> He undoubtedly was a Rare
Evil South American spider, inadvertently carried in with his family on
some bananas. As soon as I fell asleep, he would bring Mrs. Spider to my
bedroom to lay her venomous spider eggs in my cheek.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> With
adrenaline coursing through my veins (or maybe that was the three cups
of coffee I had?), I grabbed the first thing I saw: a can of air
freshener. And I began to spray the daylights out of the spider. HA!
Take THAT!</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> You see, I have read enough picture posts from those
wonderful organic mamas -- who don't feed their children PopTarts for
dinner, like I do -- to know that I was dousing him in dangerous, irritating,
carcinogenic chemicals. I sprayed him again.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> But I soon realized
with dismay -- as the spider raised eight middle fingers in my direction
-- that it would take years for those chemicals to do their damage,
and my bladder couldn't wait that long. Plus, the toxins probably would
only make him grow EXTRA God-awful bendy legs that he would use to carry
out his spider revenge. Damn.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Sweat dripping from my brow, I
quickly rummaged through the cabinet, anxiously peeking over my shoulder
every few seconds to make sure the spider couldn't fly.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Aha! I grabbed what I thought was a can of hairspray and ran back to the toilet.<br />
As the spider smirked about his future spider babies in my cheek, I
said, "You've got to ask yourself one question. 'Do I feel lucky?' Well,
do ya, punk?"</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Then I sprayed. And sprayed some more. And some more.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Only it wasn't hairspray.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> It was dry shampoo.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br />
At first, he laughed. I had not only made him smell divine with my
aerosol attacks, I had now fluffed his hairy spider legs. He was going
to be quite the catch at the Rare Evil South American Banana Spider
Party -- to be held later that night on my face.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> He turned to face me. We stared at each other, eye to eyes....</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> <br /> He jumped.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> <br /> I screamed. I prayed. I might have peed my pants.<br /> <br />
But then something happened. The dry hairspray was ... drying. He froze
in mid-air. It played out like a weird spider version of The Matrix.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br />
Figuring this was my only chance to slay him -- or star in a Matrix
film --l I did three slow-motion back flips (in my head) and sprayed him
again.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Again. Again. Again.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> He dropped to the floor beside the toilet, motionless, and extra coiffed.<br /> </span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">I wasn't falling for his sneaky spider antics, so I ran back to the
cabinet and returned with an arsenal of hairspray, shaving cream, heat
protection spray, brown sugar and vanilla body spray... I gave him
everything I had. Damn, he smelled wonderful.<br /> </span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">As he lie on the
floor, covered in mousse, I carefully, gingerly, cautiously reached
behind the toilet with an entire roll of toilet paper wrapped around my
hand.<br /> </span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Shuddering, I picked him up -- or rather, he stuck to the toilet paper -- and I dropped it all into the toilet.<br /> Good riddance, Rare Evil South American Banana Spider!<br /> </span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">I flushed three times. Okay. Five times. Okay. Twenty-seven times.<br /> </span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">And then I went to another bathroom to pee because I realized that I
likely only rinsed the toiletries off of him -- leaving his God-awful
bendy leg hair remarkably smooth and shiny -- and making it easier for
him to swim.<br /> <br /> I will have to duct-tape the lid down on the
toilet for a few days (months) before I feel safe. Does anyone know how
long Rare Evil South American Banana Spiders can hold their breath?</span></span>Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-35139045665058666492013-06-21T07:43:00.001-05:002013-06-21T07:43:58.237-05:00Porch PrayersSome mornings<br />
I go to the porch to pray. <br />
<br />
Other times<br />
I meet the dawn with poetry<br />
studying the world<br />
from one artist's angle,<br />
and then another. <br />
<br />
Occasionally<br />
I pay heed to the bumblebees already at work<br />
their busyness a sharp contrast<br />
to the rabbits nibbling clover,<br />
or the woman sipping coffee.<br />
<br />
Then there are the mornings<br />
I close my eyes <br />
shutting out everything <br />
but the sun's warmth on my face,<br />
a golden movie played just for me.<br />
<br />
It is tough to say<br />
<br />
which of these prayers<br />
<br />
draws me closest to God.Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-3266419101046835062013-06-18T10:26:00.004-05:002013-06-18T10:26:55.079-05:00The Post about the Pickles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4vFyDBeENq7YgKbQotTWZMIhlEDFK-uoGG-dmoMy_R5r__FFg6CGS0Cealn4qznKx6i3bm8BS4kny-mV0W5fSgPSTEbeVMkR3ijxaYLXImUFFQDFJrzZ0gcIXvU2O1rNuzbOdtaHiDc/s1600/pickles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4vFyDBeENq7YgKbQotTWZMIhlEDFK-uoGG-dmoMy_R5r__FFg6CGS0Cealn4qznKx6i3bm8BS4kny-mV0W5fSgPSTEbeVMkR3ijxaYLXImUFFQDFJrzZ0gcIXvU2O1rNuzbOdtaHiDc/s200/pickles.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Here's
what you do, friends.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Buy a regular-sized jar of your favorite dill pickle chips. Then drain
off all of the dill juice, reserving about two tablespoons. Mix the reserved dill juice with 3/4 cup of
sugar and 1/2 cup of white vinegar. Are you with me so far?</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Depending on how hot you like it -- and you like it hot, don't you? -- add to the liquid a 1/2 to 1 teaspoon of red pepper<i> </i>flakes (or more, if you're feeling spicy). In my mind, you are especially zesty people.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Pour this hot mess back into the pickle jar with the pickles.
Shake it well (uh, shake the jar, too), and refrigerate. If you can resist (you probably can't; we've all been there) give the pickles a couple of days to absorb the new flavors. This is when the magic happens.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Once a month, you will thank
me. Oh, yes. You will.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Tossing aside that empty, crumpled bag of mini chocolate donuts, you will head for your fridge and grab the jar of spicy pickles<i>.</i></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><i> </i> </span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">You will stand at the kitchen counter in your "Honey Badger Don't Care" t-shirt, and you will eat the pickles straight from the jar with a fork -- or maybe your fingers -- because no one would dare correct you this time of month.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Like you, the pickles are a little sweet, a little tart, and just the right amount of spicy.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">You might eat 10 pickles. You might eat 58 of them. It doesn't matter. You are zen.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Your children will run into the kitchen to tell you things that children tell you in the loud way that children tell them -- but you will simply raise your pickle-soaked finger and and give them The Look. Because they are bright children who recognize The Look, or because they learned bear safety tips from the Discovery Channel, they will quietly back out of the kitchen and leave you to your pickles.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">When your husband spies you at the counter with the jar of pickles, this will be a sign unto him that he is to run far and run fast and not return without a chocolate malt. If he is very, very lucky, you will maybe forget for five or 10 minutes that you hate his face.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Caught up in pickle euphoria, you will not remind him of that thing he did that one time. Or that you know he doesn't watch Giada De Laurentiis for her cooking.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Whatever. Giada can suck it because she never made pickles like this.</span><br />
<br />
Forget that no one else in your house knows how to change a toilet paper roll. Block out the ball game blaring from the TV room. Who cares that your children are blaming each other for eating the last Klondike bar? Laugh quietly to yourself because <i>you</i> ate it. It's okay; you deserved it.<br />
<br />
This is<i> your</i> time. These are <i>your</i> pickles. Carpe diem and all that crap.<br />
<br />
But where the hell is your husband with that malt? That's just like him, considering he did that one thing that one time. And who left their dirty socks on the kitchen floor? And dammit, are you the <i>ONLY one</i> who knows how to put a dish in the dishwasher?!<br />
<br />
Sigh. Thank you, anyway, 58 pickle chips. It was nice while it lasted. Maybe you can lick some of the chocolate from the donut bag.Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-3808509056735439342013-05-23T08:19:00.001-05:002013-05-23T08:20:22.840-05:00It's Not the Size of Your Branch..Actually, It Is<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
After a day of spring yard work and tree trimming, my husband asked if I thought our city sanitation department would cart off the bigger branches we now had littering our yard.<br />
<br />
I giggled and assured him they would.<br />
<br />
"How do you know?" he asked. "And what is so funny about that?"<br />
<br />
Turns out, I had called the city about that very issue after a major storm a few years ago. Several large tree limbs were piled at my curb, and I was concerned they were too big for the the city's yard debris services.<br />
<br />
"Are they skinny?" the female sanitation worker asked. "Or are they big and fat?"<br />
<br />
"Um, long and skinny," I said. "But they are<i> very</i> long."<br />
<br />
"Honey, it doesn't matter how <i>long</i> the branches are," she said, "It's the <i>thickness</i> of the branch that really counts. You know what I mean?"<br />
<br />
I couldn't see her over the phone, but I am fairly certain she winked at me.<br />
<br />
"I think I do," I said.<br />
<br />
And now you know. As if you didn't already.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvv667ZB3-qKfMAGUaUzQHzy8cCgxJyg_BZZKq8IynWiorXx5WBz2BjdOwdkJ-5XCOscKwi4Tp8Ole_CEPQFv1eGT957b96QRc79Ogm03fVAqWDQmW9fHS5NYCeZ__X6TtxsNU-qMpxo/s1600/treeface.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvv667ZB3-qKfMAGUaUzQHzy8cCgxJyg_BZZKq8IynWiorXx5WBz2BjdOwdkJ-5XCOscKwi4Tp8Ole_CEPQFv1eGT957b96QRc79Ogm03fVAqWDQmW9fHS5NYCeZ__X6TtxsNU-qMpxo/s320/treeface.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My tree is not amused. I can't wait until he talks to me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-84539875727463307932013-05-17T08:53:00.001-05:002013-05-17T15:08:42.876-05:00Thank you, Mr. ArmstrongToday is my son's last day at his elementary school. Although he won't be dismissed until 3 p.m., and I haven't yet attended his "Fourth Grade Farewell" ceremony, I'm typing this post through tears. Part of that is my 40-something-year-old hormones (I cry a lot. I broke a wine glass the other day and <i>grieved</i>. We had been so close).<br />
<br />
But most of the tears today are because my little boy is growing up -- and I will dearly miss those who helped him become the fine young man he is.<br />
<br />
We have been fortunate that his (public) school has been such a loving, nurturing, enriching place for my son and other students. He has been blessed by many teachers and staff members who always go above and beyond what is asked of them.<br />
<br />
As much as his school staff rocks, though, this is dedicated to someone else -- someone who volunteers his time each and every school day to brighten the lives of children.<br />
<br />
Mr. Armstrong is my son's school greeter. He also is my daily inspiration.<br />
<br />
He stands in the school's parking lot each day, opening the car door for youngsters and greeting them with a smile, a small pep talk for the day, and a "fist bump." Come rain or shine, Mr. Armstrong is <i>present</i>. It's more than showing up each day for kids. Mr. Armstrong is present in the sense that he is <i>engaged</i>. He is <i>involved</i>. He is <i>committed</i>.<br />
<br />
Mr. Armstrong, who has worked for ESPN and others as a monster truck commentator (so the kids already think he is super cool), could easily choose to relax at this station in life. But that isn't who he is. He is a man who must do something, something that matters.<br />
<br />
I had the opportunity to speak with him at length one day, and he explained why he volunteers his mornings greeting elementary school students.<br />
<br />
He told me it was important to him that children begin the day with a smile and some encouragement.<br />
<br />
"I like to think it makes a difference in their days," he said.<br />
<br />
Moms and Dads can get in a rush. We might gripe about the milk that was spilled. We might have our minds on that big meeting at work.<i> </i>We might be mad that our child just told us he needs khaki pants that night for the chorus concert he also forgot to mention.<br />
<br />
<i>We might forget to let our children know each and every day that they matter. </i><br />
<br />
Mr. Armstrong's gift is that he helps children remember.<br />
<br />
Every. Single. Child.<br />
<br />
Every. Single. Day.<br />
<br />
"Hey, sport!" he'll say, as a student climbs out of the car. "You look sharp today! I hear good things about you from your teachers. Go get 'em today!" <br />
<br />
If Mr. Armstrong notices a child who is having a bad morning -- and he <i>does</i>
notice -- he often pays a little extra attention to him or her,
asking the youngster to hang out for a few minutes and keep
him company. He'll tell his trademark funny stories, making sure smiles
outshine tears before
the child heads into school.<br />
<br />
He reminds parents they matter, too. <br />
<br />
He often leans into the car, greets any siblings and says to us frazzled, harried parents -- some of whom are still wearing pajama pants and flip flops and just trying to keep it together (er, not that <i>I </i>know anyone like that) -- "You have great kids, you know. <i>Great</i> kids.<i> Super</i> kids."<br />
<br />
I nod. I remember. I <i>do</i> have great kids. <i>Super</i> kids. He has reminded me and my son of this every school day for the past five years, and I am thankful.<br />
<br />
As I pulled away from the elementary school one last morning, I said to my high school daughter, "I wish I could be more like Mr. Armstrong."<br />
<br />
I wish we all could be more like Mr. Armstrong. <br />
<br />
<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-75466388575862672592013-05-07T16:25:00.000-05:002013-05-07T16:32:49.078-05:00Scenes from a Marriage: Send me something sexty next time, k?<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">The husband <span style="font-size: small;">sent me some<span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: small;">constructive criticism <span style="font-size: small;">on a Porch post.<span style="font-size: small;"> I told myself to respond <span style="font-size: small;">maturely.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nailed it. </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-1299045725592745772013-05-01T08:37:00.001-05:002013-05-02T06:00:15.801-05:00Well, I'll Be...It's official!<br />
<br />
As of today, <a href="http://pennedfromtheporch.blogspot.com/2013/04/you-are-enough.html?spref=fb">You Are Enough</a> is my most popular post on the Porch. That's probably not saying much -- since most of my regular readers are relatives who only check the Porch to see if I embarrass or slander them (uh, yeah. Why <i>else</i> would I write this?). Still, I am truly grateful to those of you who read the post, shared it or "liked" the Porch on Facebook. <i>Thank you! </i><br />
<br />
The greatest thing about being a pretend writer is feeling like your words matter to someone. In case you're curious, the second greatest thing about being a pretend writer is saying, "Honey, I can't be pretend Morena Baccarin tonight because I'm being a pretend writer!"<br />
<br />
If you are new to the Porch, you might be wondering who I am. I would love to tell you, but I often wonder that myself. The problem with being an overly right-brained creative type (besides not being able to help my kids with math after <strike>second grade</strike>, <strike>first grade, </strike>kindergarten) is that it's too easy to imagine myself as someone else.<br />
<br />
In kindergarten, I was the weird, quiet kid with imaginary friends. I'm still that kid, but people look at me funny in the grocery when I tell my imaginary friends to stop eating the grapes, so I've toned that down.<br />
<br />
The thing is, I never <i>really</i> grew up. Not really. Don't believe the wrinkles because they lie about who I am.<br />
<br />
Of course, I act like a Very Responsible Adult when acting like a grown up is required (too damn often, if you ask me), but on the inside, I'm very much the child, sprawled on the cool kitchen linoleum, watching adults hustle and bustle and step over me, wondering why they never slow down and lie on the floor.<br />
<br />
That makes being an adult more challenging -- as does finding my bra size in the girls' department, but that's a story for another day. <br />
<br />
Sadly, we live in a world that discourages adults from playing Red Rover, but how totally friggin' awesome would it be if you and your colleagues went outside at lunch today and played tag until the boss called you back inside? (When she does, please say, "J<i>ust FIVE MORE MINUTES?!"</i>).<br />
<br />
Like everyone else, I'm doing the best I can -- and that's enough, right? Right!<br />
<br />
I'm a work-in-progress mother of two amazing kids, but please don't look for me to be<a href="http://pennedfromtheporch.blogspot.com/2010/08/this-is-how-you-dont-get-asked-to-be.html"> PTO president </a>anytime soon.<br />
<br />
I'm on my second (of three. Because Hugh Jackman) husband, which proves I have an amazing sense of humor. He does, too. Plus, he's very secure in his masculinity, since he <a href="http://pennedfromtheporch.blogspot.com/2012/12/scenes-from-marriage-banzai.html">married the Karate Kid.</a><br />
<br />
I have a real j-o-b, so I have to write in my spare time (hahahahaha. <i>Spare time.</i> Whatever!). I also write a column for an area women's magazine, so it's only a matter of time until Oprah calls. Don't take this dream away from me.<br />
<br />
This morning, it took me a good five minutes to deduce that I actually had to <i>plug in the iron</i> before the wrinkles in my shirt would disappear. That's how much I iron.<br />
<br />
I also just painted only the toenails that show in my open-toe heels -- <i>while wearing the heels</i>. I am surprisingly good at this.<br />
<br />
What else? I love all chips that end in "o"; I cried when Hostess declared bankruptcy; and I have never had anything pierced. Nope. Not even my ears. I don't know why, really. It just never seemed like a good idea to put holes where holes were not.<br />
<br />
I believe in God, fear religion and wholeheartedly believe the world would be at peace if everyone had porch swings.<br />
<br />
Last but not least, I love to write and am grateful for the opportunity to do it here. Thank you for allowing me to be me, whoever that is.<br />
<br />
You are always welcome on my Porch. Just so you know, it will be home base when we play tag at lunch. Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-35855473265863449782013-04-27T15:11:00.001-05:002015-03-16T08:33:00.887-05:00You Are EnoughToday, a dear friend shared three words with me that filled my eyes -- and my heart.<br />
<br />
<i>You are enough</i>, she said.<br />
<br />
What? <br />
<br />
<i>You are enough</i>.<br />
<br />
I paused. Am I?<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Yes,</i> she said. <i>Yes. </i><br />
<br />
I had no idea how badly I needed to hear those words until someone spoke them to me. Only then did I truly realize how <i>not enough</i> I often feel, how I sometimes cannot see the glass as half-empty <i>or</i> as half-full. I just see that it is half of whatever it is supposed to be.<br />
<br />
This is not a pity party. This is womanhood.<br />
<br />
Not long ago, a beauty campaign went viral with its "social experiment", an advertisement demonstrating that women are their own harshest critics. What a revelation, huh, ladies? I mean, it's not like we spend a fortune on makeup, beauty creams, hair color and shoes (though the shoes are totally justified, because, well, <i>shoes</i>).<br />
<br />
I almost resented the ad for telling us what women already know: we never feel like we are <i>enough</i> as we are.<br />
<br />
We aren't pretty enough, smart enough, successful enough. We aren't working enough. We aren't mothering enough. We aren't reading enough. We aren't exercising enough. We aren't recycling enough. We aren't doing the laundry enough (okay, I really don't do the laundry enough). We aren't having sex enough.<br />
<br />
<i>Enough, already!</i><br />
<br />
How did we get this way, we who have so much more than those before us?<br />
<br />
Maybe it is because we work hard for a living, and we fear our children are missing out on something.<br />
<br />
Or maybe it is because we are home with our children and fear <i>we</i> are missing out on something.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it is because we never had children at all.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it is because we don't even want to have children, and others insinuate that makes us incomplete. <br />
<br />
Maybe it is because we never wrote that novel (raises hand), or we disappointed our parents when we dropped out of school, or we disappointed our spouses when we lost that job.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it is because women on magazine covers look nothing like us. Maybe it is because that swimsuit model makes us feel like our boobs are too small or our waists are too big. Maybe it is because the reflection in the mirror doesn't match the image in our minds. Were those lines there yesterday?<br />
<br />
Do we feel inadequate because we divorced? Or is it because we never married? Maybe it is because we are gay, and we have to fight so damn hard to be married, to be equal.<br />
<br />
Maybe it is because our spouse had affairs, or we had affairs, and our anger or guilt has become attached to us, like limbs.<br />
<br />
Maybe we have a child with an illness, disability or disorder, and we fight so hard for their well-being that we forget to be well ourselves.<br />
<br />
Or it could be that our house is too small, our kitchen too outdated, our car too old. Are we less because we don't carry that designer handbag that everyone has this year? Is this two-year-old tote from Target a symbol of our inadequacy?<br />
<br />
Maybe it is because last year's jeans no longer fit, or we have a father who now struggles to remember our name, or we had that late-in-life baby, and we're tired. God, we're tired.<br />
<br />
Then again, maybe it is <i>none</i> of that and <i>all </i>of that. Maybe this is who we are: fragile souls whose well-meaning parents told us we are EVERYTHING! We can do ANYTHING! Yet, we aren't. We can't.<br />
<br />
We try, though, don't we? We wear ourselves out with the trying. We have advanced degrees and work out five days a week, and our 40 is certainly not our mothers' 40, is it? We have smart, talented children and never miss a soccer game or a piano recital. Exhausted, we work late nights and weekends to get that promotion. We volunteer at the PTO or the civic club and stayed up past midnight recreating Pinterest treats for the school party. We make kale chips and drink expensive wine with friends.<br />
<br />
And in spite of that, we go to bed feeling less than, making mental lists of the ways we will change tomorrow. We will do better tomorrow.<br />
<br />
But here's the thing: <i>we are doing the best we can</i>.<br />
<br />
We are. I am. You are.<br />
<br />
That is enough.<br />
<br />
The fact that you go to bed, exhausted, thinking of how you will do better tomorrow? Sister, it's enough.<br />
<br />
We need to tell each other that more.<br />
<br />
To the worn-out young mom of twins, who can't recall putting on a top not splattered with mashed sweet potatoes, <i>you are enough</i>.<br />
<br />
To the teacher who gives everything to her students and fears she has lost patience for her own children, <i>you are enough</i>.<br />
<br />
To the woman who ran that first half-marathon and feels like her husband should have been more supportive, <i>you are enough</i>.<br />
<br />
To the 60ish-year-old who has so many Facebook friends, but who feels alone, <i>you are enough</i>.<br />
<br />
To the woman who fights for equal rights, <i>you are enough</i>.<br />
<br />
To the exhausted mother caring for her own mother, <i>you are enough.</i><br />
<br />
To the woman executive who is making less than the male executive, you are enough.<i> </i><br />
<br />
To the woman who appears to have it all: the husband, the career, the amazing house, the perfect kids, and who still feels like no one truly understands her, <i>you are enough.</i><br />
<br />
To the <span><span class="oneClick-link oneClick-available">divorcee who wonders if she'll ever meet the right man again, <i>you are enough</i>.</span></span><i> </i><br />
<br />
To the single working mom whose child wore the faded t-shirt to school and didn't have a haircut because you forgot it was picture day, <i>you are enough</i>. It's okay. It will probably be your favorite school picture.<br />
<br />
To the mom who fed her kids instant oatmeal for dinner because it was a long day at work and you just want to curl up on the couch and watch Netflix, <i>you are enough</i>.<br />
<br />
To the teenage girl who didn't get invited to the party, <i>you are enough. </i> <br />
<br />
To the woman crying quietly into her pillow at night, <i>you are enough.</i> <br />
<br />
To you, fabulous, imperfect, doing-the-best-I-damn-well-can you, <i>you are enough. </i><br />
<br />
You need to hear this today. Your girlfriend needs to hear this today. Your colleague, and yes, even your boss, needs to hear it. Your sister needs to hear it, and your mother, too. Your daughter needs to hear it from you, over and over again.<br />
<br />
Tell them today they are enough. Tell yourself, too.<br />
<br />
It's not easy being us. It really isn't. But it is enough.Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-5923282782411200722013-04-12T08:33:00.001-05:002013-04-12T08:39:00.500-05:00Scenes from a Marriage: PinterestHere's how<i> <span style="font-size: large;">I</span> </i>use Pinterest:<br />
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<i>Annnnnd </i>here's how <i><span style="font-size: large;">the husband</span></i> uses Pinterest:<br />
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He wins.</div>
<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-19665306098106295412013-04-10T11:03:00.001-05:002013-04-10T11:15:33.507-05:00Happy Anniversary, DadTwenty-five years ago today, I climbed out of my friend's car after school to see my mother standing on the front porch. It was unusual for her to be home from work at that hour, and I was immediately nervous. Turns out, I had good reason to be.<br />
<br />
"Sweetie," Mom said, "I'm afraid you won't be doing anything with your friends for spring break."<br />
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"<i>What?!</i>" I cried. "Why not?"<br />
<br />
"It's your Dad," Mom said, fighting back tears. "He's checked himself into the chemical dependency unit at the hospital."<br />
<br />
"I really don't understand," I said, "What does that have to do with <i>me</i>?"<br />
<br />
"He's admitted he's an alcoholic, honey," Mom said, looking a bit unsure herself. "And we all need... Well, we need to support him."<br />
<br />
A self-absorbed, resentful 17-year-old, this was a hell of a pill for me to swallow. I threw myself down on the porch swing, fuming. I didn't feel like my dad had supported me much, but suddenly I was being asked to give up my senior year spring break to do.. to do.. what, exactly?<br />
<br />
To get to know my Dad. <br />
<br />
That's what I began to do 25 years ago today.<br />
<br />
Mom, my little brother and I attended an Al-Anon meeting that night, a support
group for families of alcoholics. There, we learned the "twelve steps"
-- the process Dad would go through on the arduous journey to sobriety.
We heard stories much like -- and some much worse -- than our own. Mom
fidgeted with the strap on her purse. My 13-year-old brother largely
stared at the floor. I rocked off-rhythm in a chair that had one leg
shorter than the others.<br />
<br />
I have never wanted out of a
place so badly as I did that night. I had never discussed my family problems with anyone, and I certainly didn't want to begin with
strangers. Unfortunately, my make-myself-invisible trick didn't work,
and the group leader asked me how I felt about my dad.<br />
<br />
"I don't know," I told her.<br />
<br />
"Just share with us how you feel about your father," she encouraged.<br />
<br />
"I just told you," I said through clenched teeth. "I don't know." <br />
<br />
It was true. I loved my Dad, but I didn't know him. Not really.<br />
<br />
So it was with trepidation that I visited my Dad at rehab for "Family Nights." The man I saw was too close to me in that tiny hospital room, on that institutional twin bed. The setting was too intimate, and the conversations made me long to be home watching "The Cosby Show." I wasn't yet comfortable with the man in front of me, a man who was finally revealing himself as he really was. Gone was the bravado induced by alcohol. In its place was a father who wanted to reach out to me, but didn't seem to know how. Yet, I couldn't miss his message: he was trying.<br />
<br />
For 25 years, my dad has tried. It's been a long and admirable quest, his life without crutches.<br />
<br />
He has faced numerous moments when his mouth has watered for a swig of beer at the end of the day -- and he has endured incredibly long, hard days. Many times I have heard him say, "I need a drink."<br />
<br />
Somehow, he has found the strength and courage to resist.<br />
<br />
To his credit, he also has helped others resist. Dad has taken many calls in the middle of the night, nodding knowingly as he listens to whomever is on the other end of the line. Inevitably, he pulls on his coat to meet the caller wherever they are, physically, but more importantly, emotionally.<br />
<br />
If they need to hear his story, he will tell it. If they need to tell him their own, he will listen. And if they need him to sit with them simply to keep them from getting up to get a drink, he will sit. <br />
<br />
He is a respected community leader; a loyal friend; a loving, supportive husband; and a doting father and grandfather.<br />
<br />
On this silver anniversary, I celebrate my father. I celebrate his courage. I celebrate his conviction. I celebrate his life -- and how he has enriched mine by checking himself into the hospital that spring day many years ago.<br />
<br />
As someone who understands now how challenging it is to walk into The Great Unknown, I realize how difficult it must have been for Dad that April day -- standing at that door, wondering if he had the strength to open it and close his old life behind him.<br />
<br />
Thank you, Dad, for walking though that door.<br />
<br />
Thank you for being brave for 9,125 one-day-at-a-times.<br />
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Thank you for forging a new path, and allowing us to walk it with you.<br />
<br />
Thank you for<i> </i>having the serenity<span class="st"><i></i> to accept the things you could not change; the courage to change the things you could; and the wisdom to know the difference. </span><br />
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I love you. And I'm incredibly proud of you today and every day.Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-13945419365726049392013-03-01T07:41:00.002-06:002013-03-01T07:41:19.600-06:00No Good Deed Goes Unpunished<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd8S93g36AknfGFUMFlK1nE2BNMO5rEW2mhEhUdtwSezBxhKhMxYkrPWZlUZOxMIOg0GYyHGQh9V2qXLSxq18MgTkRL1E4G5pUWXPaDcwnYR8fyx1J-DnEzbosCDsCMDE4eyEc90Tj6N4/s1600/groundhog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd8S93g36AknfGFUMFlK1nE2BNMO5rEW2mhEhUdtwSezBxhKhMxYkrPWZlUZOxMIOg0GYyHGQh9V2qXLSxq18MgTkRL1E4G5pUWXPaDcwnYR8fyx1J-DnEzbosCDsCMDE4eyEc90Tj6N4/s400/groundhog.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
When I was eight, my parents, siblings and I were out for a Sunday afternoon drive. Dad, who often had a Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand, always took the country roads and tolerated our backseat whining and squabbling fairly well (see previous note about Pabst Blue Ribbon).<br />
<br />One afternoon, on the way home from an outing at Daisy Mae Lake, he suddenly veered to the side of the road and stopped the car beside a vacant field. Curious about our unexpected layover, we watched him frantically searching under his seat. A moment later, he clasped a pistol and bounded from the car.<br />
<br />My three siblings and I -- now alarmed -- tumbled over each others' legs to get out of the backseat. Why did Daddy have his gun? Was someone following us with the intent to do harm? Had our father spied an escaped felon in the field? How many beers did he drink, anyway?<br />
<br />"What's going on, Daddy?" we cried. "What is it?"<br />
<br />"Shhhhhh," he said, raising the pistol and pointing it toward the field. "You see that? You see that out there?"<br />
<br />We scanned the field. Nothing.<br />
<br />"What?" I said. "I don't see anything."<br />
<br />"That brown bump out there near the cornstalks," Dad said. "It's a big ol' groundhog."<br />
<br />Sure enough, on closer inspection, we spied him. Lawd, he was fat. Crouched on his hind legs and munching on a dried ear of corn, the critter looked at us more out of curiosity than alarm.<br />
<br />"What are you going to do?" my sister asked.<br />
<br />"Shoot that sumbitch!" my Dad replied. "That's one of the biggest damn groundhogs I've ever seen!"<br />
<br />"Yeah, Dad! Let me take the shot!" my older brother said, reaching for the pistol.<br />
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Dad shooed my brother out of the way as my sister asked why he was going to shoot the poor thing. He'd hunted his fair share of deer, squirrel and rabbits, but we'd never had groundhog (to our knowledge, but Mom was prone to covering game with gravy and telling us it was chicken).<br />
<br />Dad shrugged. It was clear that he planned to shoot him, well, because he could.<br />
<br />"Noooooooooo!" I said. "Please, Daddy, no! Don't kill him!"<br />
<br />"Get back in the car with your mother and little brother, Jenny," he ordered.<br />
<br />"Nooooo!" I wailed, tears streaming down my face, refusing to budge. "Daddy, no! Don't shoot him! He didn't do anything to you! Please don't kill him."<br />
<br />My Dad lifted his pistol and once again put the groundhog in his sights.<br />
<br />But I had recently seen <i>Bambi</i>. So with all the bravado an eight-year-old can muster, I tugged on my Dad's sleeve.<br />
<br />"That might be a mama groundhog," I said. "She might have babies waiting for her. What will happen to them if she doesn't come home? Please don't kill it, Daddy. <i>Pleasepleasepleaseplease.</i>..."<br />
<br />By now, I was hysterical. My mom stepped from the car, holding my little brother's hand.<br />
<br />"Ron." she said. Never has so much been conveyed in one word. He looked at Mom. He looked at my tear-soaked cheeks.<br />
<br />He took one final glance at the groundhog, then at last, lowered his gun.<br />
<br />"Alright, alright," he said. "Back in the car, kids. Who wants to go to Candy Land?"<br />
<br />We squealed with delight (with the exception of my older brother, who looked extremely disappointed) and scrambled back into the car. The groundhog was saved AND we were going to get chocolate? It was a fine day. Yes, indeed.<br />
<br />The groundhog, oblivious to his narrow escape from death, put down his corn and sauntered lazily across the field. I leaned out the car window and waved to it as Dad pulled away.<br />
<br />
"Goodbye, Groundhog!" I yelled, my hair whipping in the wind in those glorious days before seatbelt laws. "I love you! I love you!" <br />
<br />Why do I tell you this story today?<br />
<br />Because it is the first day of March, and in spite of Punxsutawney Phil's Groundhog Day promise of an early spring, it's snowing. It's been a long, dreary, cold winter, and I am beyond ready for daffodils, tulips and lilacs; sandals and sundresses.<br />
<br />Oh, how Phil mocks our hope for sun-drenched days of sweet tea on the porch. Way to repay me for saving your kind, Phil. You bastard.<br />
<br />Sorry, Dad. I should have let you shoot him, cart him home and smother him in gravy. I bet he tastes like chicken.<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4468780852908571075.post-24210651631497208542013-02-15T08:04:00.000-06:002013-02-15T08:04:07.518-06:00Yoda Man!After the husband's <a href="http://pennedfromtheporch.blogspot.com/2013/02/men-this-is-how-you-do-it.html?spref=fb">amazing Valentine's Day gift</a>, some of you might be wondering what I did for him.<br />
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Please, folks, this blog is PG-13. I can't disclose that information.<br />
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I'm <i>kidding</i>! This blog is more like PG-40.<br />
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Anywho, I can tell you that I gave <strike>me</strike> him some cologne that <strike>I</strike> he really <strike>love</strike> likes. (Trust me: this will benefit <strike>me</strike> him in the long run).<br />
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I also baked him some cookies. But not just any ol' ordinary cookies. I baked these bad boys:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi499GV3DI-nU519csdhK3vzqM1Xi9w-lFLmyOg45uuWQkfUtrx33brGPj6ID-I9YclJeA01wLur_oPzZmfOCTD0zQv2ku_WMhNqHQxxvFUGN3JTFBXIg3YNIKY9KWIjuh1nPAsyZLZCxQ/s1600/photo(15).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi499GV3DI-nU519csdhK3vzqM1Xi9w-lFLmyOg45uuWQkfUtrx33brGPj6ID-I9YclJeA01wLur_oPzZmfOCTD0zQv2ku_WMhNqHQxxvFUGN3JTFBXIg3YNIKY9KWIjuh1nPAsyZLZCxQ/s400/photo(15).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's "Yoda ONE for me", not "Yoda EYE for me". Painting with toothpicks and food coloring is hard.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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This is what happens when geeks fall in love. We talk nerdy to each other.<br />
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The best part? I didn't even steal this idea from Pinterest (or as the husband calls it, pin-interest. His new obsession with that site is a post for another day). Nope. This came from my own warped little brain and some super fun Star Wars cookie cutters from Williams-Sonoma.<br />
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I also considered "You're the Obi Wan for me" with the X-wing fighter cookie, but those cookies look a bit, umm. Hmm. Well. Like this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrE6KHTotPAeNSxFLCHwV6SBBnoQ2lNNTB9YCblIiXpajVd_aLwn69xCEXFT1_V-X4gaXTrh6Rhcdk79js-2WFuvrK1Q1wM5IZdBYrlV1o7u_qInvXu39OhOkAPslLlgaCaQcGYBf_p34/s1600/xwing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrE6KHTotPAeNSxFLCHwV6SBBnoQ2lNNTB9YCblIiXpajVd_aLwn69xCEXFT1_V-X4gaXTrh6Rhcdk79js-2WFuvrK1Q1wM5IZdBYrlV1o7u_qInvXu39OhOkAPslLlgaCaQcGYBf_p34/s320/xwing.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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I'm obviously saving those for my birthday.<br />
<br />Penned from the Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712729531698677939noreply@blogger.com0