Networthing

Love Letter to My Parents

2011-01-29T14:02:00.005-06:00

My mother and dad will be celebrating their anniversary on 2/18/2011. This is a letter I wrote to them on their 50th anniversary:

Dear Mama and Daddy,

Happy 50^th Anniversary and happy 70^th birthdays! I am so excited about these milestones! When I was reflecting over what to write, a fact became clear to me: that with the exception of 6 days, I have been present almost your entire marriage! And what a “great ride” it has been! As I was designing your scrapbook as a vessel to hold the “works of heart” written by your children and designed by your grandchildren, I was overwhelmed with how to capture two great lives so closely joined at the heart and soul that it is difficult to imagine one of you without the other.

You know, you hear on a daily basis, “I am this way because my parents raised me this way.” Well, the reality is, that you did not have a good model to draw from. You both had tough childhoods, defined by being poor and being lonely. But if anyone ever doubts that God exists, they simply have to look at how your two paths crossed and you decided to make the rest of the trip together. In one another, you found that perfect, unconditional, and resilient love that continues to grow and envelops all of us that surround you. I look at the two of you and often wonder how you found it within yourselves to reach deep inside and find the ability to create a different future to yourselves that you, in turn, passed on to your children.

John Rosemond says in his book, “Seven Points to Raise Happy, Healthy Children,” that the first and most important point is, “Take care of your marriage.” And indeed, you have done this in the most tender, loving way. From the admonishment: “Don’t come downstairs during our Saturday night dinner,” to, “Don’t ever sit between us,” you gave us a valuable lesson that we were not the center of this family, but that your marriage and relationship was the core around which everything else would revolve and evolve. When I hear couples tell me that they can’t take time for each other because of money or lack of time, I remember how you saved Saturday night as the special date night in which you grilled steaks and watched “Man from U.N.C.L.E” and “Saturday Night at the Movies”, and carved out time ALONE. You must have desperately needed a break from us crazy children, but more importantly, you took time out to connect with each other. I also remember that we were threatened not to come downstairs unless one of us was dead or we would be dead after you got through! Somehow, you found a way to find privacy in our crazy house.

The locked door to your bedroom represents just how sacred you saw your relationship (and had to be the “key” to how there got to be so many of us!) I laughingly tell people that you can tell that you really celebrated your anniversary in February, because 9 months later (November), five us appeared on the scene! (James and Diane had to be flukes!)

In my time management class, I do an exercise in which I get people to line up the roles that are the most important to them. When I get to the part about who should come first: children or spouses, I always tell the story of how you two have always rightfully put each other first. Your fame as the champions of happy marriages is growing!

I feel so privileged to have been your first child. I will never forget one day we were talking about your elopement and I remarked that you must have been a little upset at getting pregnant six days after you were married. You told me that you were both thrilled and that I was so wanted. I cherish the feeling I get every time I remember that conversation. I feel so loved.

I have been the luckiest child because I have been around since the beginning (and no cracks from my siblings about my age!) I remember the struggles to make ends meet. I have vivid memories of your adding up the grocery list to make sure that it fell within the very tight budget. I remember Daddy working two jobs to keep food on the table. I remember I also remember very lucky because we had so much love in our family. I always felt sorry for people who were not in our family.

I feel like those struggles taught me so much! I learned that even if money is tight, you still share with those that are less fortunate. You stuck by each other through the building of the house (that almost ended the marriage!), the fire that led to the famous renovation (aka, hell on earth to put a fireplace in the den), the famous hunting trip, the umbrella pokes, trips to Gulf Shores (in the blue bomb with trailer, dog, and dog vomit/mess in tow!), loss of the job at the Land Company, and tough beginnings at Jones Williams Construction. Why you even have to put up with those stinky brothers of mine on a daily basis! The verdict is in: sainthood for the BOTH of you.

Through it all, you repeated, “God has never forgotten us, we know he will help us.” You continued to emphasize just how important God is to your relationship.

These trials were lessons passed on to me. When I was afraid to move to Atlanta, you said, “Good, we’ll have a place to visit!” I know that you were giving me the very push I needed to start my life as a Swingette in Atlanta.

When we lost John’s parents, you stepped in to help John, Fran, and me cope with the biggest tragedy of our lives. In fact, you have been there not only for us for Jan, and Anne. They, along with Mary Anne, have nothing but the highest praise for the positive influence you have had upon them and the love and unconditional love given to them in times of trouble.

When I couldn’t get pregnant (and the rest of the family could just by THINKING about it!) you talked me on a regular basis to help my flagging spirit. When I lost my job, I remember Mom going to the cabinet and getting me a calendar to start my new company. You knew that food (usually the comfort I liked the best) just wasn’t going to work.

I feel that you have instilled in me the confidence to achieve my very best in life. I marvel at this when I think that you really did not have anyone to teach you this—again this is the real power of your love! Your marriage has provided a wonderful model that John and I admire and learn from on a daily basis!

We have cherished the times we have gotten to travel with you. We have seen some spectacular sites together, shared plenty of vino and wonderful food, and memories that are irreplaceable.

I always enjoy our daily phone calls—it doesn’t feel right when a day goes by and we haven’t talked.

You have achieved a wonderful balance of working, playing and loving together—this is the legacy you have given to me.

I love you so much!

Wearing White Shoes Before, During and After Labor Day

2010-06-14T23:10:00.004-05:00

I had a bad flashback when I was washing my husband’s exercise clothes Sunday night. No, I’m not talking about sweaty gym socks resurrecting some memory of a smelly locker room. I suddenly remembered washing my gym clothes for junior high and high school P.E. We had to polish our white tennis shoes every week. You know, with that yucky polish that probably only nurses used. It was the kind with the sponge on the end and look like a giant white out bottle. We had to “polish” them or really, paint over the dirt, and then “dress out” on Monday. We had inspection. We stood in our horrible blue gym suits (check out here for an example) with our pitiful shoes. We had gone from running around until we were hot and sweaty during recess and having the time of our lives to a new regime designed to make us hate exercise. Let’s see: How can we make this as bad as possible? I know! Let’s make everyone wear a horrible outfit, clean their shoes every weekend, line them up on Monday for inspection, and then make them do exercise that is boring and, oh yes! Gets their shoes dirty so they can…you know the drill.

Career Ministry

2009-12-12T16:14:00.001-06:00

I was lucky enough to speak at every one of our church services on 10/4/2009 to introduce the Career Assistance Ministry to our parish. Here are my remarks:

"December 2, 1991 was a day I will never forget. I, along with 49 other people, was laid off from my job for economic reasons. I suffered the humiliation of being escorted out of the building and being made to come back at night to empty my desks and take out my personal possessions. This was devastating because I had worked my way through college and had, in fact, worked since I was 17 years old. I couldn’t imagine NOT working. It was probably the saddest Christmas I could ever remember. I can remember the humiliation of telling people that I had lost my job and keep in mind, this was at a time when there weren’t many job losses.
But we all know that in this day and time, layoffs have become the norm versus the exception. In fact, in the state of Alabama we have over a 10% unemployment rate. That is why I feel such a passion for the ministry we are beginning today: OLV Career Ministry (or OCM for short). We have a committee that began working on this issue just a few months ago. BJ Heard headed up our group that consisted of Eugene Maitrejean, Jim and Annette Christiansen, Mike Burns and myself. We have worked together to put together a process to reach out and help those in who are unemployed and underemployed. And notice that I did not say “in our parish” because we believe, with Msgr. Rohling and Fr. Rick’s support, that we must help anyone is suffering due to loss of work.

Here’s how it works:
Job Seekers: Make contact with BJ! He will be in the Social Hall with brochures describing the ministry. We plan to provide job search skills training as well as information on where this training can be found. We have entered into amazing partnerships with churches and organizations all over the city who are working in this area. You will have access to vast on-line and written resources as well as personal support. Monthly meetings will be announced in the bulletin. Come to the parish hall after Mass!
Career partners: Those of you in the parish who have the ability to stay in close contact with someone who is trying to find employment. You don’t have to know how to write a resume but you do need to know how to care and to pick up the phone and call the Job Seeker to offer encouragement. We need people who are willing to step up and walk this journey with the Job Seeker. Come to the parish hall and find out details on how you can help.
Career Advisors: Those of you in the parish who know stuff or you have a great network. You know how to review a resume, you know how to do interviews, you know how to help people dress appropriately, or you have contacts. We have been humbled from folks who have found out through word of mouth about the ministry and already contacted us saying, “I know how to do financial planning!” “I can input resumes for people.” This is a lot like trying to learn how to date again after the loss of a spouse and you have this expertise. We want to see you in the social hall.
Prayer Chain: We are so blessed to have a prayer chain under the direction of Kurt Sanford who has committed to pray for the specific needs of our candidates. That is what separates us from secular efforts. This group will help you with your spiritual needs.
Here’s what I know for sure: My layoff story has a happy ending. I ended up starting a highly successful consulting business that now has over 260 clients. I am so blessed. Friends and colleagues came forth and offered support and pulled me up from the depths of depression. None of us makes it alone. I am so thankful!
Gary Roden and Roman Selig, standing behind me are the face of this ministry. Both, through no fault of their own, have been laid off from their jobs. They represent a population that is sadly growing. They need work NOW. Can you walk over to the Parish Hall lobby after Mass and volunteer your services? Can you actively be on the look-out for jobs and get this information to our committee? Can you donate a book to our Career library? Are you going to turn your back on them? There are 3 keys to human behavior: Awareness, Accountability and Action. You know the need. You know what the ministry is. Here’s the final thing I know for sure. Networking is “hello, how are you and what’s in it for me. Networthing is “hello, how are you, and what can I do for you?” Let’s add to the networth of our entire parish through our actions of giving commitment and support to one another. God bless you."

Invitation--read the fine print...

2009-03-03T10:45:00.002-06:00

I just got an email invitation to an HR session on how to control obesity. There was also a banner headline: Free Food!

It reminded me of the time I was invited to an executive roundtable on how to cut health care costs. The food that was offered was greasy bacon, and other gross offerings. I think they were trying to cut health care costs by killing all of us.

A waist is a terrible thing to mind.

Cruel Shoes

2009-02-10T16:28:00.008-06:00

Oh, I can remember going to the "dime" store (boy, can't you tell there is inflation when it went from dime to dollar store?) and getting my first pair of heels. Let's clarify what I am talking about: Two pieces of plastic, usually with sparkly stuff embedded in them, with elastic that went across the feet. Ooo, I felt so glamorous when I got these for Christmas. I'm sure, given the quality of workmanship, that they lasted about 2 days. I don't even want to think that there may have been lead in them, which I am sure is the reason I had a lead foot for a few years (not now, I always drive the speed limit) I digress.

I remember longing to wear high heels. My mother had some beautiful shoes that were linen with splashes of color, that were about 4" high and had very pointed toes. Oh! They were the height of sexy shoes (although I didn't know what it meant, I knew my mother's legs always looked good when she wore them) And any time my parents went out, I got into my mom's side of the closet, got out the shoe box and would prance around wearing those shoes. My feet just couldn't grow fast enough and I couldn't grow up quickly so I could be the right age for those cool shoes.

Finally, the big day came when my mother said that we could go to Burger Phillips. It was a department store downtown and they were having a SALE. On shoes. On high heels! Mom said I could pick out a pair. I had visions of the pointy toed, 4" heels in my head as we took the long drive. We didn't have interstates back in those days, so I had plenty of time to day dream.

When we got to the store, we went directly to the bargain basement. There were shoes everywhere and the aisles were packed with shoppers who had the same idea as we: Best shoes Lowest price. I tried on many pairs of shoes but none came close to my idea of my transportation to Womanhood. I finally found a pair that could fit, and they were nothing like my vision. The heel was about 1" high, curved inward and had round toes, patent leather with a bow. My mother was thrilled: This is EXACTLY what she had in mind. I was not THRILLED. After all, my mother was responsible for my having those irrational thoughts--she is the one who had the cool shoes. I guess the only thing I thought these shoes had going for them was a bow, and there was no way these patent leather shoes would reflect my underwear, a common thought programmed into my head by the nuns at school. After I wrapped my mind around the fact that no linen shoes were in my immediate future, I quickly fell in love with my new shoes. I fall in love easily.

I then turned my active imagination to going to church on Sunday. I was already entertaining visions of how the rest of the congregation was going to be wowed when they saw my feet. Sunday just couldn't get here fast enough. Then came the big day: and for once in my Dad's life, he didn't have to cajole me to get out of bed--I was ready to go in no time flat. I was wearing a horrible garter belt with hose and my new "cool" shoes. Let the show begin!

During church all I could think about was Communion and my moment walking down the aisle. What was the reaction? Probably nothing. But in my young mind, all eyes were following me.

I hadn't thought about those shoes in years until today. My hair stylist was wearing shoes with heels shaped just like my first. We laughed about that and then reflected that just as we fought hard for the right to wear big girl shoes, we couldn't wait to get OUT of heels. I love the days when I don't have to pull out heels, and flats will do just fine. I'm not ready for orthopedic shoes yet and Dr. Scholl's will just have to take a hike. I still putting my best foot forward and hiding my Achilles Heel.

There She Is!!

2009-01-18T18:43:00.009-06:00

I can still remember Bert Parks singing that song every September in the 1950's and 60's. It was a big deal at my house to gather around the TV in September and watch the annual Miss America Pageant. This, of course, was back the day when there were only one piece bathing suits (Janzen) and the only "platform" was the stage on which the 50 state representatives stood. There was no fund raising and I really doubt if anyone entered the contest for the scholarship money. There was the happy winner trying not to do the "ugly cry" which is the one in which your mascara runs all over your face, and she headed down the runway being serenaded by Bert as she greeted her "subjects" (that would be us). Honestly, I loved watching the show. It was never put into the category of "guilty pleasure" because before feminism, everybody got into the show.

But here we are in the year 2009 and I am the first to admit that I am really looking forward to the Miss America pageant next Saturday. Why? Because I know the Miss Alabama contestant, Amanda Tapley. And my unbiased opinion, without having seen the rest of the contestants, is that she ought to win. Why? Because she is absolutely one of the purest spirits I have ever met. She is eternally kind and loving towards everyone she meets. She is totally oblivious of her external beauty and genuinely seems surprised that she even made it to the top. I'm not. I know the judges could see the same thing in her that I do. Oh, and did I mention? I sing in choir with her. Bert (R.I.P.) will be getting lot's of extra voices added this year because our entire choir wants to join in..."There She Is!" Congratulations, Amanda. You are a winner no matter what happens.

Lamaze Method at the Lovoy House

2009-01-11T20:32:00.002-06:00

Hee-hee-hoooo, push! Hhee-hee-hoooo, push! Am I talking about birthing a baby? Heck, no! I'm talking about the annual "Let's put the tree back into two boxes that seem to get too small every year for that darn 10'fat tree."

My husband was huffing and puffing and trying to shove the trees into the tiny boxes (notice how they keep getting smaller) and I was "coaching" him and giving him LOTS of encouragement. I then broke out into laughter because this felt like childbirth, only our roles were reversed. And, hey, I was really enjoying this one because I wasn't doing all the pushing (and sweating) John got tickled, too, but also reminded me that childbirth is about pushing something OUT not pushing something in. Good thing we didn't get that confused when Casey was being born...Hee-hee-hoooo, push!

A Fistful of Dollars That Make Such a Difference

2009-01-10T22:05:00.000-06:00

A Fistful Of Dollars: The Story of a Kiva.org Loan from Kieran Ball on Vimeo.

We Three Kings Disoriented Are

2009-01-04T19:54:00.005-06:00

I love Epiphany Sunday because we FINALLY get to sing the song "We Three Kings." My favorite part comes when Casey and John lean their heads together and bellow, "OH OHHHHHHH" with added emphasis when hitting the refrain. It should be pointed out that this is not a private performance and is during church with lots of people sitting around.This is the one time they don't mind singing extra loud. I have to fight the giggle factor from setting in.

This Sunday also reminds me of a fun tradition we had when Casey was little. We put up several manger sets all over the house. However, we absolutely did not put in the Baby Jesus until Christmas. Also missing were the three wise men. Why? Because we put them elsewhere in the house and moved them up a little closer to their respective mangers. We had wise men on the steps, in the living room, you name it. Pacing and making sure they got to the right manger was critical. Air traffic control nor "The Amazing Race" never had it so hard!! OH OHHHHHH!

All Are Welcome!

2009-01-04T19:40:00.005-06:00

I attended church while visiting my sister in November. At our church we celebrate "All Saints' Day" which is a wonderful way of remembering those who have helped others while living on this earth. Even though I was in another city, my sister and I found the closest church for me to attend. What I found was this lovely gentleman with angel wings and a halo waiting to welcome me and everyone else to church that day.

Each time I look at this picture, I smile because I think about the guts that it took this man to strap on the wings and don the halo.

Being the scrapbooker that I am, I whipped out my camera and asked permission to take his picture. As you can tell, he rewarded me with a big smile and let me take a front and back picture.

Maybe we ought to all start wearing wings, halos, and most importantly, BIG SMILES to remind us that we are saints on earth! Starting the year off with a little "happyness" (a nod to Will Smith) is not a bad idea. Mmm...I think I'll stop by Party City tomorrow and see if there is a pair of wings that will fit me.

Happy 2009!! :)

Where's the Bathroom?

2008-12-13T15:58:00.003-06:00

Today I was replenishing the bathrooms in our house with toilet paper. I had to pause for a moment and say, "Thank you, Lord." Lowly toilet paper. One of things we take for granted, spin around, grab a few squares, do the duty, and flush it away. But I have to think for a minute about all the people that have no toilet paper, or a place to even go to the bathroom.

Last week we attended our Beyond JustFaith meeting, which focuses on our efforts to put into place our efforts for ending poverty. Tom Bole, a real sweetheart in the group, told the story about being down at the Church of the Reconciler. He said that a man came in and Tom asked, "Can I help you!" The man screamed, "I need some toilet paper NOW." Tom said it took a moment to register what he was asking and then Tom scurried around to help the man. As Tom said, "When a man has to go, he HAS to go!" We talked at length about lack of public toilets for the homeless. I know both sides of the argument. Who would clean them? How would you keep people from being harmed by being attacked in the restroom? What about people who would sleep in the bathroom? Are people being enabled to stay 'homeless' if more infrastructure is put into place? I don't know the answer to any of the questions.

I must admit that restrooms are something to which I pay a lot of attention. First of all, there is a huge lack of stalls when there are a lot of women involved. I maintain my staunch position that it has to be because of male architects. Women would never do this to other women. Then there is the problem when you get to the airport with your luggage and you try to squash yourself into a stall with all your belongings. Again, I blame men for this misery. And I must admit that I have taken over a men's restroom by posting a woman at the door to stop any men from coming in when there are a lot of women. Paybacks are heck. And poopies happen.

But, ah, then there is Adtran. They are a lovely client of mine in Huntsville. You walk into the bathroom and there are 12 (count them because I obviously have) stalls. No line. No waiting. And the stalls are large. You could have a party in there. But then again, maybe that is a bad idea. But I digress. I never fail to stop for a minute, look down that long line of doors and say a prayer of thanks that someone had the foresight to build enough stalls. And, I never cease to find the people in charge of the bathrooms and thank them for their incredible work of keeping these stalls sparkling clean.

Thank you, Lord, for bathrooms, toilets and lowly toilet paper.

The Perfect End to a Perfect Day

2008-09-07T22:08:00.005-05:00

As an Extravert, I am often 'blessed' with saying things before my brain becomes fully operational and is able to say, "Don't say that--you'll look stupid!" One of those occurrences came at the end of an eventful day. Let me explain.

Pre-TSA, I had arrived for my flight an hour early, checked in with Delta, and knew I had plenty of time before my 6:00 a.m. flight. Knowing I had plenty of time (wow, this really is the old days!) I went to McDonald's and had breakfast. I got to the gate 30 minutes in advance, ready to stroll on to my flight (remember, this is pre-TSA). The Delta gate agent blurted out, "Where were you?" I replied, "What do you mean? I'm on time for my 6:00 a.m. flight!" The agent said, "October 1st!" Yes, this was the date, but I must have look thoroughly confused. The agent went on to explain that on on this date, the times changed for the flights and my plane left 30 minutes early. As you might have guessed, this was also pre-email, so I had no idea that anything had changed. Then I got really frantic because the client for whom I was teaching had changed two shifts of employees to get them all in the room all at the same time for my training class. In other words 60 people had rearranged their day waiting for me to show up.

To make matter worse, there were no more flights to this little town in Texas. The agent told me to go to the Continental desk because they had a later flight and to BEG. I ran in my navy blue pumps to the Continental desk crying the entire way picturing my clients angry and frustrated. I remember standing in line with sweat pouring down the back of my navy blue power suit. When I finally made it to the counter, I explained my dilemma to the agent (with probably TMI). The agent replied knowingly, "Oh, yes, it's October 1st and that all the schedules changed." This October 1st thing had to be the best kept secret!

I told her I would happily take overhead bin space if they could just fit me in. I was also filled with dread thinking about how much I would have to pay since I was making this deal the day of my class. The agent went to typing and said that they had a friendly relationship with all the other airlines and would simply swap the ticket with Delta (wow, things really have changed!) She said THERE WOULD BE NO ADDITIONAL CHARGE. Be still, my heart.

I happily boarded the flight and took the first leg to Charlotte. The Delta flight was also supposed to arrive there. I remember watching the Delta board and seeing that their flight was late. I kept watching the board and saw that they had posted that the Delta flight was not arriving. Again, be still, my heart. I got on my Continental flight and made it to the training site only 10 minutes later than my original arrive time.

I breezed into the classroom, feeling like I had dodged a bullet. Then came THE MOMENT. I saw an African American gentleman who was in my class. He looked like someone famous. At the end of the class, I blurted out, "Do you know who you look like?" Bewildered, he said, "No." I followed up with, "Morgan Fairchild!" feeling proud that I had made the connection. He walked out, looking back at me, like I was an idiot. It was only after the door shut that I realized that I had told him that he looked like a blonde headed white woman instead of an elegant African American actor (Morgan FREEMAN). Duh...could we rewind that tape?

1 degree from an Olympian

2008-08-16T12:59:00.003-05:00

My daughter Casey had the most awesome 4th grade teacher. Her name is Frances Greenhalgh and the kids used to call her "Miss Greenhouse." She was optimistic, fun loving, and made each child feel special. And the feeling was mutual.

The year that Casey was in the 4th grade, Mrs. Greenhalgh's son was in a serious accident. Through his treatment he became involved with Lakeshore Rehabilitation. Being like his mother, Tommy never asked others to feel sorry for him. Instead, he threw himself into finding his highest potential and became a Para-Olympian in sharp shooting. He also became involved in para-rugby. This sport is grueling and rough. One of his team mates, Bryan Kirkland, was at a hugh disadvantage because he didn't own a sports wheelchair.

Casey's class got into action and began a campaign called "Pennies from Heaven" that was designed to get the funding Bryan needed to get the right chair. Children from all over the school emptied their piggy banks and their parents' checkbooks to raise the funds. It was a rousing success and the money poured in. The goal was met in three short weeks. Bryan came to the school and I will never forget his reaction. But the kids got more than they gave. The Lakeshore team showed up to play a game of rugby at the school and they got to see players who gave it their all.

Last night, Bryan was on television for a news spot. Turns out he is going to the Olympics!! I couldn't have been more proud. He is now working at Home Depot (a great supporter of employees who participant in the Games) and he spoke briefly about his upcoming trip.

Wow. I am so proud to think that my daughter and her class invested in this young man who will now be on a world stage. He has already struck gold in our hearts. USA! USA! USA!

Olympics

2008-08-14T23:21:00.001-05:00

I absolutely love the fact that every two years there is this huge celebration where cool, fit people come together and share the gifts of their hard work for the last four years. Wow. I wish I was half that disciplined and I wish I could burn calories for watching the Olympics.

True Story: Several years ago, NBC decided to broadcast the Olympic Opening Ceremonies on MSNBC. Big problem for us because at that time we didn’t get that channel. I contacted Charter Cable and through persistence and people on the other end who were eager to pass me on to someone else higher on the food chain. I finally found a guy there who listened to me as I made my case for this long-time family tradition of gathering and watching every moment of the opening ceremonies. Turns out the cable station was going to get MSNBC the following week. Poor guy, I bugged him every single day the week of the opening ceremonies. He called New York and they agreed to give us the channel a week earlier than planned. The cable guy called me on Thursday to let me know that Friday I would get my wish. Way cool!!! Yes, I have that Jones gene factor in me that won’t let me take “no” for an answer.

Oh, yes!! I should mention that we have gotten to visit Athens, Atlanta, and Salt Lake City, all Olympic hosting sites. We got to see the original fields where the real Olympics were started. All with nude men. Now I am going to spend my time campaigning for that!

Another Loss of a Young Life

2008-07-27T22:09:00.004-05:00

This has been a hard week. First, I heard about the passing of Katie B, the daughter of Shelley Burkett, a beloved scrapbook designer. Then I just got news that one of my daughter's friends, Monica Chao, was fatally injured in a car wreck Friday night. This girl was at our house on many occasions and we have so many pictures, you know ("Oh, Mom, you're not getting out the camera again"), and now those pictures are all we have.

I love how Erin, Katie, Casey and Monica hung out and had a great time in high school. It can be a tough time if you are not surrounded by girls who care for you and won't criticize you behind your back. These four girls had that kind of friendship. It was a joy seeing them together.

My heart goes out to Monica's parents who are now traveling down the road already pioneered by Shelley and her husband Mike. They all join the friends of mine: Theresa, Doug, JoAnn, Steve, and Anne who have had the sad duty of burying their children. As a mom, this just breaks my heart. I also grieve for her older sister, Frances, who is having the sad job of communicating to all of us the plans. I pray for her to have strength to put one foot in front of the other.

I would like every parent out there to hug their children a little harder, call them just to say, "I love you," and take all the pictures you can, despite the protests.

Blessings to all families...

Center of the Watermelon

2008-07-27T14:59:00.007-05:00

Nothing says “Summertime” like a good watermelon. But not just any ol’ melon, it has to be ripe, red and sweet. I’m sorry, but no matter how much training I get (mainly from the produce guy or any other Wal-Mart employee who happens to be walking through the produce section at the wrong time) I just can’t hear the “thunk” that lets me know it is a good watermelon.

When I get home from the store with groceries and watermelon buying was part of the process, I immediately cut into the melon to see what I got. Ripe? Rotten? Pale pink? Mushy? All of these thoughts are racing through my brain as my ginsu knife is making its way through the rind. Anticipation while I’m holding my breath. Nothing is worse (ok, maybe it is not the end of the world) than opening up the watermelon and, darn it! Another bad watermelon.

But oh, get a good one, and that is the absolute best. And yes, I have been known to eat the center of the watermelon and leave the rest for later. And I have never had to share. John and Casey don’t care for it. Well, that was true until I heard bad news from Spain earlier this week. Casey is finishing up her Spanish minor while abroad. When we were talking about the foods to get, I was rattling off the list:

Apples (check)

Bread (check)

Jello (sugar-free, check)

Redi Whip (no-fat, check)

Chicken to be grilled (check)

And then she said, (gasp!) "I want some watermelon, too." “You do?” I questioned weakly. “Yes,” she replied, “I have been eating it over here.” Darn!! What happened? How did my watermelon monopoly suddenly collapse? I should have seen the signs.

When I was pregnant with Casey (born in September) I ate watermelon everyday. You know how they say, “You are what you eat.” Well, that had to be true, because my stomach was growing like a watermelon. I can even remember very vividly a dream that I had while pregnant. I dreamed that watermelon became scarce and was being sold for $50 a pound. Further, the only way it was being sold was by the slice and and it was displayed under glass (like the kind that covers cakes.) My husband says I dream in amazing detail and that there is usually a storyline.

After Casey was a baby, I took her to the grocery store. After I finished shopping, I strapped her in her seat first and then surrounded her with the paper bags full of groceries. On the way home, I could hear scraping sounds against the sides of the bags, and I asked, “Casey, what are you doing back there?” I didn’t get an answer. In fact, I asked her three times with the same results. She wasn’t being stubborn, she just hadn’t learned how to talk yet, That, of course, didn’t keep me from talking to her because I had a captive audience and I wanted to take full advantage of the time in which I didn’t have to worry about her talking back.

When we got home, I opened the back door of the car. Lo and behold, there was Casey, sitting in her seat with red juice dribbling down her mouth. There was the watermelon half covered in plastic. The little stinker had poked a hole in it and had been scraping out watermelon with her fingers. That was the last time I remember her eating watermelon because she has always turned up her nose anytime I offered. I didn’t care, more for me. Until now. Darn.

PS: When Casey scraped out the watermelon, wouldn’t you know it was the center? Like mother, like daughter.

Randy Pausch, You Will Be Missed

2008-07-25T22:49:00.007-05:00

I was thinking about Randy Pausch during my yoga class today. If you've missed Time Magazine's 100 Most Influential People or the Oprah show where he appeared, you need to start the hunt for information on this man. He was a professor at Carnegie Mellon. But he would be quick to tell you that he was a husband and father first and then a professor. He also has pancreatic cancer. Put away the hanky because he chides those who feel sorry for him. His motto was probably: Don't cry for me, Argentina, or any other country for that matter. His goal was to live his life to the fullest.

I frequently dedicate my workouts to him as a way to remind me to be thankful for having a healthy body. Because I know that he is dying, I know that he would have loved to have been sweating. He definitely would not have been complaining about having to exercise.

I have been closely following Randy’s progress and have been checking his blog for months and scouring the internet for information on how he was doing. What I found was almost no news. This let me know that he was engaged in the right thing: concentrating on his family during his last days and putting the rest of us to the side. Good choice. Another good lesson for us.

I returned home from the Y and a dear friend let me know that Randy died today. I would love to say that my intuition was at work and that is why I was thinking about him. But the truth is, he has been present in my thoughts for a long time and I have told every single class that I have taught for the last few months about Randy’s story. I wanted everyone to catch his joy and gusto for living.

I have personally purchased 30 copies of his book and give them to friends or acquaintances who needs a boost or simply as gifts. “The Last Lecture’ is a wonderful read and I, for one, feel that Randy left words that will help his children really get a sense of their dad. The rest of us just happened to be the lucky bystanders. If you haven't read this, run, don't walk to your near bookstore (or go online) and get it (or even download it INSTANTLY from iTunes if you are the 'instant gratification type.) You won't be disappointed. Trust me.

And I cannot forget his wife Jai. She stands out in my eyes as a woman who loved her husband to the end and honored her vows of “in sickness and in health.” Randy picked a jewel when he set his sights on winning her heart. She certainly personified grace under fire as she gave a way a lot of her privacy to share her dying husband with the world. I only wished I lived down the street from her so I could make her a dinner or two.

Which reminds me: I may not know Jai, but I do have other friends and acquaintances that are hurting and could use a dinner or two. Thanks, Jai, for this lesson.

Tonight I raise my glass to Randy, Jai, and their adorable children. I love you all and thank you for letting us in the final days of Randy’s life. Randy, your words will live on. And I promise to be more conscious of where my time is going. Time to get off the computer and snuggle with my wonderful husband. Amen.

Happy 4th of July!!

2008-07-03T21:47:00.005-05:00

4th of July is one of my favorite holidays. First, because it is my grandmother's birthday. None of those dainty, old lady cards for her. I get to make cards with pop ups with fireworks and cool flag stuff. Great way to use up all my Mrs. Grossman's stickers that I bought, well, by the gross. This year is her 99th birthday and she is likely to be a candidate for Willard Scott's 100 year birthday list sponsored by Smucker's. If she makes it to 100, her card may have to have real live sparklers that ignite upon opening. Stay tuned!!

There's even more to love. One of my favorite memories of the 4th occurred in Charleston, S.C. John, Casey and I visited a ton of forts that day (John's idea of a dream day.) We then went to the Yorktown air craft carrier. We were supposed to see the symphony on the flight deck, but the driving rain caused a change in plans. We ended up in the hangar area. The director of the symphony was unforgettable. She emerged in a striking strapless red sequined dress with a tall Uncle Sam's hat. She had salt and pepper hair and looked like the character Maude. She was elegant and one heck of a director. She had the entire crowd eating out of her hand. The music was beautiful. The audience was not only the folks in the hangar but also small boats that gathered around the large ship. Each had tiny lights and looked like stars on the water.

The rain finally stopped and we went on the flight deck to see the fireworks show. It was a duel of the best kind. There were majestic fireworks and then fantastic lightning would web the sky in the distance. Man. God. Man. God. God won.

Another cool 4th took place in Boston, one of the cradles of the Revolution. We began the day by taking the Freedom Trail and walking all over Boston. We loved each glorious step. We then returned back to our hotel room because it overlooked the park where the Boston Pops were playing. We had the best seat in the house! But wait! There's more! A Stealth bomber flew over the area and the pilot tipped his wings to his mom who was in the park. The bomber flew right by our hotel window and gave us a sight few have ever seen.

As Tim Russert would say, "What a country!"

Adults Say the Darndest Things

2008-04-27T22:36:00.005-05:00

I haven't posted for a while because I have been traveling for fun and work. However I have had an opportunity to think about some really odd things that people have said.

Here are some examples:

A woman was talking to my mom. She related that her husband had "phosphate" surgery and that they had planted "scrubbery" around their house and "uranium plants." The funniest part is that we knew what she meant. Who could make this up?

I should note that the conversation took place while the couple was sitting on my parents' bed in their hotel room. When the woman added that because of her husband's "phosphate" surgery he had to "urine all the time," my parents jumped up out of their chairs and said quick good nights to the couple and ushered them out of the room.

While in Hawaii, my mom told me that when my sister came to Hawaii with her high school choir, her choir director reminded them to be on their best behavior because they were representing "their country."

Also while in Hawaii, a fellow traveler noted that all she ever saw were cars with Hawaii tags and, "Why didn't people from other states drive their cars to Hawaii?"

Silence can be golden!

You've Got the Cutest Baby Face

2008-03-15T19:58:00.000-05:00

There are people who are photogenic and there are people like me, who are not. My niece, Claire (fondly known as Baby Claire by the family) is such a cutie. She instantly puts on the best expressions when her picture is being taken. I have yet to see a bad picture of this very cute child!!

I always put together the family calendar each year because I am the scrapbooker of the family and I love to do it. This year's calendar featured Claire on every page. Not one family member complained. We all knew that as the resident baby of the family, you get headline coverage. And Claire always delivers!!

Bless the Beasts and the Children

2008-03-04T21:38:00.002-06:00

My brother called me with some sad news this morning: he had to put down his dog Shelby. He cried as he gave me the awful news and I knew that his heart was breaking. We love our animals.

His news took me back several years ago when we had to do the same to our cat, DA. DA was a real gift from God. Let me explain.

When John and I were first married, we lived in an apartment on Valley Avenue in Homewood, Alabama. Our neighbors had this really great cat, Moses. We started helping the neighbors out by feeding their cat when they went out of town. Then it progressed to Moses spending the night at our house to Moses having his own toys. You get the picture. I know that the commandments say not to covet the neighbors wife or goods, but they never mentioned kitties. I know. I read them carefully.

And oh, I loved that cat. And that cat loved me back. Except the time that he wet on one of our umbrellas which led to a fight between John and me. I’ve already covered that fight in an earlier post, if you really care. Moses would wrap himself around my neck. Closest thing to a cat hug.

Then we got news that the neighbors were moving. I was crushed. They came over and let us know and we all cried. A lot. The wife said that she had been struggling and wanted very much to give me Moses, but she just couldn’t. I understood. As much as I coveted the kitty (ok, so maybe I did break a commandment) I knew that she loved him equally as much. But she also let me know that she had been praying for another kitty to come my way that I would love as much.

We moved into our own home. My sister came by and said she was going to get a cat at the pound. I immediately jumped on that idea and soon we were off cat shopping.

I will never forget her. She reached through the bars. She wanted to go home with me. She gave a whole new meaning to kitty hug. And yes…she was a tabby. She was close enough to be Moses’ daughter. It was starting to sound biblical!

I brought her home and she immediately took over the house. We were happy to accommodate because we were trained kitty servants.

Several years later after I had Casey, I can remember the look on our kitty’s face: Who is the pet and when is she going home? But she also grew to love Casey and Casey loved her back. There was little “sibling” rivalry. Poor Casey. Because we had cats before we had a kid, we would mistakenly refer to taking Casey to the doctor as going to the vet. We learned to correct this and I don’t think she had too many scars from this. We had a family!

Then we came home from vacation to find an awful note from our neighbors. During our trip our cat had become critically ill and they knew she needed to go to the vet. We rushed her to the weekend emergency clinic and the news was dire. She was in serious trouble and wouldn’t live long. The vet recommended euthanasia to keep her from suffering. I held her in my arms and it was peaceful. I was inconsolable.

The next morning Casey bounded into our room, dressed in a Sunday dress. She told us to get up because it was time for the funeral. She had plans. We got up, put on our good clothes and followed her outside. John found a stone that looked just like a gravestone. Casey picked some flowers. And we gathered. We ALL gathered. The cats and dogs from all over the neighborhood came and stood in a semicircle around the grave site. These were animals that normally fought, well, like cats and dogs. But if was if they knew. I witnessed the most peaceful coming together. It was beautiful. Bless the beasts and the children. Amen.

Happy Ground Hog Day

2008-01-29T17:53:00.000-06:00

I don't have much to say about this "holiday." Come on, about the best we could do is get a possum (preferably a live one) and dress it up.

I do however, have a mildly amusing story. When I was in the first grade, the teacher asked to see my mother after class. It seems that earlier in the day the teacher had announced to the class that it was ground hog day. She asked any of us if we knew what a ground hog was. I replied, "Sausage." She was still laughing when she reported this to my mom.

I answered the question like a true Southern child.

Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!!!

2008-01-28T19:46:00.000-06:00

The birth of a child is definitely something to be celebrated. The happiness we felt when we found that we were pregnant was second to none. Let’s go to the back story…

I wasn’t sure I wanted to have children. I had taken care of lots of brothers and sisters when I was growing up. I was no stranger to stinky diapers, Similac, and getting up in the middle of the night. I was so afraid that I would be tied down if I ever had children.

I don’t know what happened! I went from being scared to having to children to it being the center of mine and John’s world. Poor John. Every month he watched me sobbing in the bathroom as my unwanted monthly “friend” showed up to rob us of our dreams of having a baby. I started a round of infertility treatments that included Clomid, taking my temperature every single day and charts—lots of charts. I can remember telling John that we had to do “it” tonight and he responded, “This is not romance, this is reproduction.” Actually I could see his point of view. Three and a half long years went by. I even missed a period for 45 days. Things were really looking up. But unfortunately, it ended badly.

In the summer of 1985, my sister Diane had even done a Ouija board with one of her friends, Maria who told Diane that “Marie very sick” and then she further pronounced that I was definitely going to get pregnant. I told Diane that I thought I would be pregnant in December and that it would be a girl.

But as the summer went on to fall, we were no closer to our dream. Then came that fateful day in October 1985 when I was sitting in Dr. Orso’s office and reading the magazines. I was no stranger to spending a lot of time looking jealously at the pregnant women. This day, however I found a McCall’s magazine that had an article on infertility. Eureka!! I found information that described exactly my symptoms! I knew I had endometriosis.

I can remember taking the article into Dr. Orso’s office and he, too, was just as interested as I was. He immediately scheduled me for a laparotomy. Sure enough, my intuitive side was correct.

John could not stay with me because by this time, his company had sent him to Augusta, Georgia for a long term assignment. He was unable to stay with me for my three day stay at St. Vincent’s Hospital. John’s mom, Marie, came and spent that time with me. We stayed up and talked at night, every night. I filled her in on the whole ordeal. She was so excited that we had been trying so hard to have a baby. She and Tony had no idea that they even had a chance of being grandparents. We talked about John as a baby and stories about his family. Little did I know just how important this time together would be.

I spent the next several weeks staying at my parents’ house. By this time Diane and Jim were living there with Kelsey and I got to spend a lot of time with my shy little niece.

And wow! My intuition was definitely working overtime! It took six weeks to heal and then Christmas Eve, 1985, I went to the doctor. I was veryyyy late and just knew I was pregnant. I couldn’t wait to see Dr. Orso. I was having visions of having my whole family sitting around and breaking the big news. But that never happened. Dr. Orso came to me with an ashen face. I knew before he spoke that it was not good. I was just simply late. But the thought kept nagging, what if the test was wrong?

Christmas was good, but I to admit that I was really disappointed. John and I “celebrated” with mimosas (champagne and orange juice). What the heck?

The next day, I woke up—I had to be pregnant. I just knew. I showed up at Dr. Orso’s office with another urine sample and begged for one more test. By this time, the whole staff knew me and looked with pity as they saw my little jar of pee.

I’ll never forget it—Dr. Orso came running down the hallway—we were pregnant!! And I don’t mean the royal “we”! John, Dr. Orso and I started jumping all around!! Then I started crying because I was worried about the champagne. Dr. Orso quickly told me to let it go and enjoy.

We drove home talking ninety to nothing. We had to have a celebration. I still wanted the “moment” in which we made the BIG announcement. We had to do it right. We quickly invited Bobby and Bebe, Marie and Tony and Sally and Grant for an “after Christmas” dinner. And the menu!! Standing crown with the frou frou hats, madelines, all the best dishes I knew how to make.

We got out the best dishes and laid a gorgeous table in our dining room at our house in Bluff Park.

Then they all came. They all ate. We had so much fun. We went down to the den. It was time for the surprise. We gave out long boxes (the kind that hold necklaces) to everyone with directions to open them up at the same time. Inside there was a poem that described all of our ups and downs, ending with the wonderful news! I will NEVER forget the looks on their faces. Clearly, we all agreed that it was the best Christmas present ever. My mom commented that all the old ladies at St. Aloysius were going to be thrilled because we had been on their prayer lists. We took pictures. We still didn’t know what was ahead.

What was ahead was I was sewing the following Sunday afternoon. I was busy making maternity skirts. We got a call to come to the hospital. Marie was sick.

On the day she died she called her sisters into the hospital room and told them that she was going to be a grandmother. Everyone cried. I went into shock. Uh oh. The rest of the prediction was coming true.

She died January 8, 1986. I can remember shutting down. I was so afraid that if I allowed myself to truly grieve I would surely lose this baby. I went inside for the remainder of the pregnancy. I put up a wall to keep from coming to grips with our family’s tragic loss. I had weird dreams. I dreamed about watermelon. I dreamed about grapes. I dreamed that our baby pulled my stomach and was standing in my car near the steering wheel. I dreamed that Marie came to me and comforted me. She told me not to worry about anything that she was doing well. It was not the last time that she was going to help me.

I kept teaching aerobics. I let that belly grow and I showed it off. This was in the day long before this was popular. I was definitely a pioneer! I was so happy and relished every Braxton Hicks contraction, morning sickness at night (go figure), learning to sleep with six pillows, child birth classes, learning the Bradley method—it was quite a ride!! We even went to Spain in my last trimester since we knew we were never going to travel again.

My due date came and went. True to form, our baby was coming late. Yes, she was going to be a real Lovoy. Then the day came when I had had it. I went to the doctor in a foul mood. I was done. I went to the doctor that day and he sent me back home. Wahh.

That night we ate well—I remember having some chocolate cake. Then late that night—I knew it was time. John helped me get showered and then off we went. What a trip!! I was throwing up the entire way. Yuk!!

We got to St. Vincent’s and there was apparently there was full moon that night because there were tons of pregnant women there. Yep, the hospital was pretty full as well. Darn it!! And no delivery rooms!! They put me in a stainless steel room with a lone bed. It was eerily like a laboratory. I started crying because this is not what I pictured. Bring me a barf bag. I was getting worse by the minute. I stayed there for what seemed like hours but in reality was probably not very long. The minute the luxurious birthing suite came available, I was in!

We had a crazy delivery! I was dutifully doing my Bradley deep breathing, asking about sea urchins and worrying about whether the single delivery room nurse had a full dating life and what we could do about it. I remember feeling Marie’s presence again in the hospital and knowing that she was helping me again. Meanwhile the cheerful hospital chaplain priest wanted to come in and I was not very happy about that and I let him know my feelings. John’s Aunt Nancy made a surprise visit (also in a cheerful mood) and I wasn’t the happiest camper in the room. I was being pioneer woman and trying to tough out the pain. These cheerful visitors were driving me nuts!

Meanwhile, I was seeing other doctors in the practice but not Dr. Orso, he wasn’t on call. Finally late the next afternoon, Dr. Orso came on! Let the games begin!!! He said Casey/Elizabeth/Rebecca/Suzanne was in trouble. I should mention at this juncture that we still hadn’t settled on a name. Nothing like waiting until the last minute. Back to the baby. Dr. O said that she was getting stressed and he needed to do a C-Section ASAP. He also said that he had to give me drugs. By this time, my protest was pretty faint. When the meds started working, I was soooo happy. John stayed in the operating room while I listened to Dr. O tell all the attending folks that he remembered when we worked at Lloyd Noland Hospital together. He also talked about how badly we wanted our baby. He said that he had delivered a lot of babies but felt like this was one of his own.

By this time we knew that we wanted to name our baby Casey. Casey however, had other ideas about being born. Dr. Orso had to practically drag her out because she had nestled as high up as she could go. To this day, she loves being warm and I know the roots of that habit!

We were tired but happy. All of my family showed up and they were so excited!

Our elation turned into being scared. In the middle of the night the pediatrician came by and said that Casey was in trouble. She had swallowed meconium in utero and needed to go into intensive care. Oh no. John and I both got very quiet. We were so close to having our baby and then losing her.

The next several days were so scary. Wires, monitors, glass incubator, structured visitor’s hours. The only light spot was when Dr. Bill Johnston came into the room and told us that he hated to tell us that she was going to be short. Then John stood up. The baby doc saw quickly that Casey had gotten no help from her parents in the height department!

He also performed another miracle. I didn’t want to go home even though that was the normal practice. I could barely walk (I think my knee was sewed to my chin during the C-Section!) He decided to write an order that I had to remain there for Casey. Lovely man…

Then came the day when we hobbled to the nursery and I got to hold her. I will never forget that face looking up at me.

Hello, Sunshine. Welcome to the world, baby girl.

Casey Williams Lovoy

Don’t know why we waited so long.

My Grandmother's Attic

2008-01-13T14:33:00.000-06:00

You know, my grandmother on my dad's side was never the big lap, big chested, cookie baking grandmother. Instead she has been a trim woman who sent herself back to college after her husband died. She got a degree and became a high school biology teacher. Though she didn't fit the stereotypical grandmother mold, there was one area in which she truly topped all grandmothers: her attic. It had to be the coolest (or hottest!) place on earth! Because it was the attic, it could get as hot as Hades or stinkin' cold, depending on the time of the year. But that never seemed to matter to us as kids.

There were exotic oriental rugs on the floor. And, no, these didn't come from Wal-mart; she actually went to China to get them. In fact, she traveled all over the world! And because she was a biology teacher, there was a skeleton up there (no, not the "family" kind) but the real thing hanging on a rack. She had scales and enamel pans and other weird assorted stuff you might find in lab.

But as a dreamy adolescent, that wasn't the thing that I loved the most. I treasured the right hand side of the attic. That where all the cool mementos, furniture, and souvenirs from other countries lived. My Aunt Lucy had dried corsages, jewelry, and various stuff that girls save while in high school. My aunt is really cute, so I loved envisioning her high school days. Additionally there were postcards from around the world, strange lamps, big overstuffed chairs, odd tables, vintage clothes, an old "Pin the Donkey" set that now lives in my scrapbook room, you name it. My brothers and sisters and I spent hours discovering all the treasures packed in tissue in the mysterious boxes from stores that existed in those days such as Pizitz, Loveman's, and Burger Phillips.

When we arrived at her house, we would go through the perfunctory, "My, how you've grown stage," (or really it was usually, "Can you explain the DNA molecule?" question) But after we got all that visiting (and pop biology quiz-yikes!) out of the way, we headed straight to the double wooden doors that lead us straight to Narnia. Whoa! We didn't need a wardrobe.

Victoria's Little Secret

2008-01-02T18:41:00.000-06:00

One Saturday morning several years ago, our doorbell rang very early. It seems that the cute, single woman who was the house guest of our neighbors, had locked herself out of the house. What struck me was how she was dressed. She had darling house shoes, beautiful sexy pajamas and a silk robe. I quickly compared my own "evening attire" of a t-shirt and underwear to her ensemble. Needless to say, I came up short and felt a bit shabby.

When the neighbors came back home, I asked her if her visitor always looked that good. She smiled, ruefully, and said that she had gotten to see quite a collection of feminine nighttime attire and she found herself paying more attention to her own choices for what she wore at night. I confessed that her appearance at my doorstep had caused me to take a step back with an appraising eye at myself and I realized that I needed to shape up. And that lasted for about 6 months. I have gradually slipped back into something comfortable that would never be found on the pages of Victoria Secret. Hmmm, the Victoria's Semi-Annual Sale starts tomorrow. I think I need another house call...

Dirty Santa: Can't we all just get along?

2007-12-26T09:39:00.000-06:00

Dirty Santa can be so much fun! Coming into it with the right Christmas spirit, that is stealing from your closest friends or family and its all legal are the hallmarks of this tradition. However, in my 55 years, I have seen some real disasters!!

For those of you unfamiliar with this game, the tradition is to bring a wrapped gift, put all the gifts in a pile, draw numbers and then whoever has number 1, opens a gift. Whoever has number 2 can either take the gift from number 1 or open a new gift from the pile. Stealing is legal. Don't forget that it is supposed to be fun.

I'll never forget the year we went to our first neighborhood party. We didn't know very many people and wanted to put into practice, "Love thy neighbor as thyself." We brought our mandatory $10 ornament. Then came time to draw the numbers for the big game. Being new and naive, we didn't know there was a neighborhood bloc and I don't mean "block." Turns out there was a group that would look at the numbers as they drew them and made sure they got the higher numbers that would be picked at the end so they could build alliances and walk out with all the best stuff. There was lots of collusion among these folks that made "love thy neighbor" a REAL challenge.

The next year I was elected president of the neighborhood association. It had nothing to do with popularity. I wasn't even at the meeting where the "election" took place. But one of the perks of the position was getting to run the Dirty Santa at the next Christmas party. Ha! They didn't know who they were dealing with. I showed up with all the numbers. Sure enough, the old bloc was up to their old tricks and got all the high numbers. But they sadly underestimated the skills of their president. I showed up with a SECOND set of numbers from which to draw. In other words, we didn't go in numerical order, we DREW to see who went next. Double Ha!! because none of the alliances worked because everyone was off kilter that year. We walked out with a pretty good gift if memory serves me correctly. Even better, it was a little easier to show the love.

My sister-in-law has told me some real horror stories of going to her husband's Dirty Santas at his families houses. I think stitches and visits to the emergency clinic were involved because people got so angry and started accusing each other of stealing. Talk about dysFUNctional.

In my own family we play Dirty Santa. We seem to have trends. There was the year that the hot item was the casserole dish with handy dandy carrying case. The next year, there were three of them added to the mix. But that was so LAST YEAR and no one wanted the lowly casserole dishes anymore. Then there was the year that my grandmother picked batteries. When one of the grandsons tried to steal her batteries she gave the hairy eyeball look. Whoops. The grandson made a hasty retreat. And yes, you guessed it , there were loads of batteries brought the following year and my grandmother could have cared less. Another year was the roadside emergency kits. You could tell that there were a lot of parents of 16 year old drivers in the room who had visions of their children off in the ditch with no way to get help. The only problem is that the 16 year old drivers didn't have the same concerns and those roadside kits languished. Then because my brothers are all in construction there are loads of tools.

In another group I belong to we also play Dirty Santa. We have some crazy folks that will put on anything and I mean anything. Antlers. Red noses. Big Santa underpants. No, there wasn't any immodesty in the group. Picture the underpants pulled OVER the clothes because they were so big. Nothing distasteful, just funny. There also seemed to be a trend for a while of who could bring the best angel because angels were the item that got the most attention. We also have family blocs in this group who can gang up together. This family is usually mild mannered, but you get a whole passel of them in the room together and they go from Dr. Jekkyl to Mr. Hyde. All in all, this entire group has the most fun stealing and feelings never get hurt because we enjoy laughing and being silly.

I hope you and yours enjoyed playing Dirty Santa. And don't forget that stealing is supposed to be fun.

Sears' Wish Book

2007-11-22T12:44:00.000-06:00

Today I was looking at the newspaper. You know the one. The one that comes on Thanksgiving with all the "After Thanksgiving" sales. It was huge. Sunday paper huge. But one thing that was not huge was the Sears sale paper with the toys. Sadly, this seems to be the replacement for the coolest book of all: The Sears' Wish Book for Christmas. I know, I know, there is an on line version, but this will NEVER replace the real Wish Book. When I was little I can remember when it arrived at our house by mail. Seven kids would breathlessly wait for their opportunity to study every single page and dream, really dream about the coolest things that Santa might bring. By the end of the week, the Sears' Wish Book was dogeared, but cherished.

But the Christmas Wish Book was not the only wonderful thing about Sears. I can remember going to camp and seeing that all the girls except me had bras. Though I had nothing to train, I remember coming home and asking my mom for a "training bra" which in itself is a really curious term. She dug out the regular Sears catalog, went past all the cool clothes (I find it weird that I thought their clothes were cool at one point in my life) and found the "unmentionable" section and handed it to me. I sat for hours and tried to figure out which bra I "needed." Sigh.

Then came the fateful Friday night. Back in those days we went to Sears on Friday night as a regular family outing. We all piled in the station wagon, fought for the perfect seat, made our brothers sit in the back (we were a bunch of tough sisters!) and headed out to the best store in the world! Sally and Grant (our beloved adopted grandparents) also went on the trip. We knew we were getting close when we could smell bread at the Tip Top Bread Company located nearby.

Our first stop was always the candy counter where nuts and candy were sold in bulk. We would stop there and dream about what we might get if Sally and Grant offered to buy us some candy.

We spent hours in hardware, toys, you name it; there wasn't a "boring" section of the store; it was ALL fun.

But on the "bra shopping" night, I can remember that my mom and I slipped off from the rest of the family into the "unmentionable" area. Wow. There was even a bigger selection that I had seen in the catalog! Choosing the perfect bra was going to be tough! Not. They had one style of bra for a flat chested pre-teen, and one style only. It was white, had stretchy cups, not an inch of support and worst of all, no extra help in the cleavage area. My mom bought me two bras and I was dying with anticipation of my movement in the world of adulthood. I even went into the dressing room and put on one of the bras so the training could start immediately.

We rejoined my family and I flexed in my arms so that the outline of my bra would show through the back of my blouse. I started noticing just how immature my sisters were. They clearly didn't fit into my new image of the world of WOMANHOOD. That lasted all of 5 minutes because we again hit the candy counter when Sally and Grant announced that we could each get 1/2 pound of our favorite candy or nuts. True to our ritual we circled round and round and invariably got the same exact thing we had gotten last time.

Back in the car, perfunctory fight over places to sit and we dove into our paper bags of candy or nuts with a lot of bartering taking place. However, my sisters and brothers didn't know that now they were bartering with a woman instead of a little girl. Sigh. Two thoughts entered my head: When would they EVER grow up? And even more importantly, when was my chest ever going to grow OUT? I also believe, looking back that I thought the big chest came with the bra. Yep, all part of the Sears' Wish Book!

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year--Not!!

2007-11-18T10:51:00.000-06:00

Ooo! You look at the title of the entry and you might be thinking, "What is she talking about?" What I'm talking about, my friends, is that 25% of the population that fall into the area of preferring introversion. If you have ever taken the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator®, you may well have a sense of what it is that you prefer. In the discussion of Extraversion vs. Introversion (by the way, "Extraversion" is spelled correctly because the original spelling had an "a" instead of an "o") there are some preferences in what gives us energy and what leaves us like boneless chickens.

This entry is all about Introverts who might be looking ahead at the calendar and thinking, "Oh, Heavens, here comes all this togetherness at the holidays!" Actually it would probably be like this, "...all this togetherness." (with no exclamation mark, just a period)

Who are introverts? They are not shy people, my friend. We do them a huge disservice by confusing shyness with introversion. Shyness refers to degree of self confidence and introversion is more about needing time alone. In fact, time alone is not a luxury; it is a NECESSITY. In fact if these folks are with people ALLLL day long and then immediately go home and are with people ALLLL night long, and there is not 45 minutes to an hour of alone time built in, they will be STRESSED out.

Example: We see someone who usually lunches alone. We think to ourselves, "We feel sorry for that person." And then we proceed with a well-intentioned, "Come on, have lunch with me." And the introvert responds with, "Oh, that's OK, I'll just sit here and _____ (insert: read, pray, contemplate my navel or whatever)

We respond with, "Come on!" Thinking: "Poor thing, doesn't have any friends!" Not realizing that the person actually WANTS to be alone and doesn't feel a bit pitiful.

The introvert puts a sign outside his or her cubicle: "Working on project, please don't interrupt." Extraverts barge on in, thinking it must apply to everybody else.

The introvert shows up to work early, just to have some time alone, and the Extravert thinks, "Oh, goodie, this person is here early, just for my convenience."

The introvert gets up earlier than everyone in the house or goes to bed later than everyone else, trying to get some precious time alone. Keep in mind, it must be WAKING time and not sleeping. Sleeping just doesn't do the trick. And now the poor introvert is sleep deprived, trying to get some time alone.

The introvert turns on the History channel where some war is being played on a continuous loop (at least that's what it looks like to me) but is not really watching the T.V.; it is just "white noise" to get some alone time.

How did I get so smart? Because I am married to an introvert! When I first married John and he would disappear for hours right after dinner, I thought that he didn't love me or was socially handicapped. I really thought that after a few years of being married to me, he would get over this "problem." When I finally learned about introversion, I realized how I had trampled over his time alone. The big moment came when he was listening to "Car Talk" and I asked him a question in the middle of the show. He said, "Honey, I don't ask for much, but can I have this hour uninterrupted?" Yikes!! He was right!!

How have I reformed?

I get his running clothes clean every single Sunday so he can run everyday at the Y
I do a lot of work with his company, but I never intrude on his lunch time
I make sure that if we have a lot of company on the weekend, that I leave the house for a few hours on Sunday night so he can have time alone
I do not rush him home at night because I realize that he is probably having to play "catch up" after being bombarded with extraverts all day
I have taught our daughter about introversion and now she is worried about how he is going to get time alone when we are all on vacation together
I realize that the introverted family members will get worn out from all this holiday time together and don't need me to make derisive comments that they are being antisocial if they need to pull back for little while

That's why we have been married for almost 29 years. That's why I will make sure that during all this family time, my sweetie can escape so he can really enjoy the holidays. And that will be the best gift of all.

I Want the Wish Bone

2007-11-13T22:46:00.000-06:00

I absolutely love Thanksgiving. I know, I know. Part of the reason is that my birthday always occurs during that week (hint, hint :), but it is more than that. What's not to love? Food, family and fun.

And this is the time of year for the recycled stories. You know: the ones that family members recite to humiliate other family members.

I am going to tell these two stories for all the world so hopefully THIS Thanksgiving I can escape without having to relive them again. Let me lay down on the couch and tell all.

The first one occurred when John and I had received a smoker for a wedding gift. We were so excited! We decided to have my parents and John's parents over for a big turkey dinner. Sounds good so far, huh?

There is the matter of my housekeeping or lack thereof. Even though we only had a two bedroom apartment (probably all of 300 square feet) I was unsuccessful in keeping it clean. Nothing like the parents coming over to get me going to do the deep cleaning. I remember that I had asked John to take out the umbrella that the neighbor's cat had peed on. As I write this, I am beginning to notice the theme of cat pee in my entries. I digress.

John apparently forgot and I started crying because he didn't do the one thing I asked him to do. OK, probably the truth was that he had already done 500 other things to get the apartment cleaned up, but that would take away the drama. Great start for the family gathering.

So we have a turkey smoking out out on the grill and John has to go to the store. When left alone, I usually start talking to myself. One of the questions I asked, but didn't have an answer was, "How does one know when the turkey is done?" OK, it probably wasn't asked exactly like that (who uses one anyway?) Anyway, I dug out the booklet that came with the smoker and found the handy-dandy chart. Ah, there it was: TURKEY Leg moves easily 180 degrees

John was gone, it was just me and Buster (yes, I had a habit of naming our turkeys) Soooo, I thought, hmmm, leg moves easily, 180 degrees. I had to lift the lid (even though that was against the smoker code of conduct) I had to move the leg. Yep, I was right--it DID move easily! And more than 180 degrees! I also tested the other leg just for good measure. The lid was quickly replaced. No harm done! Right?

So John returns and after checking the gauge, according to the smoker code of conduct, to see if it was OK. He lifted the lid, fully expecting to see the Butterball picture with Buster in the legs back position, all golden and pretty. Instead, what he found was a bird with gnarled leg joints, each leg jutting in different directions. John, knowing full well that I was the only one left at home with Buster, demanded to know what happened. I pulled out the chart and showed him just how smart I was to make sure Buster was ready for the parents. "See?" I asked. "TURKEY Leg moves easily 180 degrees" John, not to be outdone, pointed out to me that it also had a ham listed and that there was nothing to twirl on the ham to test whether it was done. He said, "Sharon, that is not the degree of movement, it is the internal temperature!" Yikes. Gone were the dreams of pulling out the turkey and showing it off to our parents. We had to act fast. John got out our electric knife (another wedding gift) and assumed the scrubbed surgeon position and cut ol' Buster up as fast as he could.

I quickly got the broth and whipped up the gravy. Whew. All in time before the parents arrived. We presented the turkey in all of its sliced glory. No one was the wiser. Except one thing: don't ever make gravy with smoked broth. It is seriously nasty. Busted by Buster.

Story number two: Just a small assignment. Bring the LeSeur peas. Not Del Monte. Not any other brand. LeSeur. Got it? 5 cans. Tough assignment, huh? Go to Costco, get the little case which costs about 4.89 for 8 cans. Purchase made. Peas in the bag on the counter.

We get to the family gathering. The whole family is looking forward to the peas. The LeSeaur Peas. Not Del Monte. In the bag on the counter. At our house. Not at the family gathering. Yikes. Did you know that NO grocery stores are open on Thanksgiving? What's with that? John had to drive around and he finally found a gas station with a convenience store attached. Yep. They had them. 1/2 the size of the regular cans. And four times the price. No kidding. John had to buy 10 cans to equal what we had at home at a whopping $2.63 PER can. Yikes. $26.30 for peas. Cans were dusty and even a little rusty on top. The gas station owner was probably really giving thanks for people who can't get their act together on Thanksgiving. Glad somebody was happy.

OK, now you know my dirty cooking secrets. No need to be retold. I'm hoping for a pass this Thanksgiving! Pass the Constance (this year's turkey's name). Yes. We are bringing the turkey this year. I can guarantee no whirlybird legs. Just say a prayer that we don't forget to bring it!

Help! My Grandmother is Using My Body!!

2007-11-02T22:29:00.002-05:00

My grandmother was the type who got on to everyone. You had to watch out for Mrs. Jones. She was barely 4’ 11”, but she could be so tough. I can still remember her behind the wheel of her Dodge. There was absolutely no talking or playing the radio. She made it clear that when you got in the car with her we were to be perfectly quiet. She was also the one who would grab a girl in church if she did not have a prayer cap and take out a Kleenex and a bobby pin and pin the tissue to the poor girl’s head. Yikes! She was definitely the original church lady.When I look back on family pictures I cannot find one picture of her smiling. She has been gone for a long time, but there are times in which I feel like she is using my body to keep everyone in line.

True story that occurred many years ago when my daughter was in grammar school: There was a dad who was coaching my daughter and several others in volleyball. One of the moms was yelling at the coach about her daughter not getting played. I pulled her aside and said, "I didn't know you were going to coach next year..." She replied, "What do you mean? I don't want to coach." I said, "Wow. I find that hard to believe since you are yelling at Bob. He has made a commitment to play all the girls and is giving his time to make our girls better. Have you ever thought about how your comments are undermining him and his efforts?" She didn't say another word the rest of the season.

I hope my grandmother is resting in peace knowing that some days (ouch!) I am on the job. Amen.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree

2007-10-27T20:51:00.000-05:00

Every year we have our one fight a year and it comes at the time of year when there is supposed to be peace on earth and good will to men: Christmas.

What does it center around??? Getting the stupid Christmas tree. “Whoa,” you might be saying to yourself; “what kind of attitude is that? Where’s your Christmas spirit?” Let me explain.

We have this family tradition (documented in photos and everything) where we go to the Boy Scout tree sale and get the perfect tree. Sounds good so far, huh? Helping out the little kids, what’s not to love?

What’s not to love is that when we get the perfect tree home, it turns into World War III, fought and lost. Getting the stupid tree in the house is always terrible because it scratches up the door frame. Then let’s don’t forget trying to get it straight in our stupid frame. It never is straight, the tree scratches, and don’t’ forget how it is to clean up all the stupid needles that get in the carpet. Let’s don’t forget (oh, no, I’ll tell this part forever) about how the cats peed on the tree while it was waiting on the deck for the right time to bring it into the house. No matter what we put on the tree, we could NOT get rid of the cat pee smell. Then there was the horrible job of getting this 10’ monster down with murky water at the base. That was it. The real tree had to go.

The next year I was at a Christmas tree shop and there it was: the perfect tree. Tall. Dark. And handsome. Well, not really dark because it was pre-lit to boot. And here’s the best part: Half price. I bought it. Literally.

I went home and broke the new to John. Being the great husband that he is, he went with me, trailor in tow, to get our new tree. I was happy. The U.N. Peacekeepers were not needed at the Lovoy house.

It took two men to load the two huge boxes in our trailer. John briefly considered tying it down, but knew there was no way that those babies were going anywhere.

We got on the interstate. John sensing my happy mood, approached me with the idea of at least getting a small tree for the living room. I felt amiable—why not?? I had what I wanted. Then a man got beside us on the interstate and started doing this weird sign language. We couldn’t comprehend what he was trying to say until he pointed to the back of our car. We looked backward. Box #1 accounted for—but where was the second box? Dang, it was out on the interstate. I quickly contacted the State Troupers and explained in frantic terms what was happening. They wished me good luck. Thanks a lot.

John turned the car and trailer down the median and got to the other side of the interstate. Casey and I were crying at the top of our lungs as John waved off cars on the interstate as he approached the box that was languishing in the center of the road. Cars were weaving and dodging trying to miss the box. Powered by adrenalin, he dragged the stupid box that had taken two men to load, clear across the interstate. He tossed it in the trailer as Casey and I continued our wailing. Now we had another stupid tree. This was not a good start to having a happy home.

We made our way to our Boy Scout destination only to find out they had already closed for the season. We found a second Boy Scout place where we discovered they were also closed but they had left a few trees. A few sad, very sad trees. We got our tree and put it on top of the fake tree.

We made it home without incident. We put the new fake tree up and it was gorgeous. But so was the little sad tree because it was working so hard to be beautiful despite not being perfect. Don’t tell John, but the new tree can’t quite measure up to one of God’s creations. Except that the fact that the cats have never once thought about peeing on it. Merry Christmas!!

A House Divided

2007-09-30T21:13:00.001-05:00

The story of how we met is another subject for another page. But the fact is, we both married the enemy. What am I referring to? Rival football teams! In the state of Alabama, when you are asked to declare your allegiance, it’s not to your religion, but rather are you an Alabama fan or an Auburn fan. We have an agreement—we don’t watch the big game together. Except for the horrible birthday party that we couldn’t get out of—our relatives’ Mom was turning 65 and every other family member refused to come because the party was set at the time of the big game. So—sigh—we ended up at the party glued to the little TV (we had just purchased a huge TV for our lovely basement room that same year) and yet we found ourselves sitting next to each other watching the game on a bad TV in a room full of relatives from out of state who clearly just didn’t get it and insisted on carrying on with the party. Our thoughts? Couldn’t you have been born on another day? But I digress. How has this rivalry influenced our marriage? This story has two sides:

He says: I had a roommate at Alabama. My roommate and I married a pair of Auburn sisters.

She says: My sister and I were roommates. We married two roommates from Alabama.

He says: Alabama has the better football record over all.

She says: Quit living in the distant past. The really bad fans (not my precious husband) keep propping up Bear Bryant who died a long time ago. Auburn has won the last 5 games.

He says: Auburn fans have a “poor me” attitude that got old a long time ago. They pretend to be shocked when they win.

She says: Alabama fans expect to win. They ARE shocked when they win. And yes, I am surprised when Auburn wins. I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop!

He says: I do root for Auburn when they are not playing Alabama.

She says: I do root for Alabama when they are not playing for Auburn. My precious husband even said that when Auburn was close to a national championship that he didn’t mind if they beat Alabama. He is the kindest person I know.

He says: We do not watch the game together. It is just not fun. I do know that the year we went to Mt. Zion we couldn’t watch the game together. Sharon kept coming out of the restroom with a big grin on her face. Boy, they must have really good restrooms there.

She says: We do not watch the game together. It is just not fun. However, a few years ago we were at Mt. Zion so we couldn’t watch the game together. However, there wasn’t a rule that I couldn’t go into the restroom and text message our daughter who was in the stadium and find out the score. We won.

He says: My worst memory? 17-16. I was at Alabama working on my car. Auburn won in the last 30 seconds. Couldn’t believe it. Everyone our age knows exactly what game I am referring to just by mentioning that score.

She says: I keep hearing the voice of one of our rabid Alabama fans. He says AH LA BAHMA in this most irritating voice that John likes to imitate because he knows it makes my skin crawl…Oh, and did I mention that John’s relatives put on a game at the Thanksgiving family party and played the game over and over again? That was the year Auburn lost. Come to think of it, they haven’t done it for the last FIVE years.

He says: My best memory? It was fun while Bear Bryant was alive.

She says: See what I mean? Living in the past. But if we are going to go back, 17-16 was so exciting. I had a bad date, but the game had a great score.

He says: Superstitions? Nah, don’t believe in them.

She says: One day when Auburn was winning, I was upstairs watching the game on the little TV in the kitchen. John came upstairs from watching the game on the big TV and said, “You’re doing laundry. I’m going to do laundry.” Everything got washed that day. Maybe I should do toilets during the next game…

He says: Sharon takes Auburn losses very personally and hates to see the Sunday paper the next day. It affects her mood for a day. Fortunately she has a bad memory for sports scores and gets over it quickly. What she does hold on to are all the little slights that happen over the years.

She says: John keeps the losses in perspective and realizes that he can’t control the games. He doesn’t get emotionally invested. I admire that…I should mentioned that he attended all the home games when Casey started at Auburn. It was hot as Hades but he endured the games to see Casey! I do remember that he refused to say “War Eagle.”

He says: They make great women at Auburn. Sharon graduated from there and Casey is still a student there.

She says: My sister and I agree: they make great men at Alabama. I got the coolest husband from there. And did I mention that he is precious?

When our daughter was trying to decide where to go to college, we truly didn’t mind which college she attended. Alabama is closer which would have been great for those times we go to campus to see her. I am down there a lot (I teach on five faculties for Alabama). But I am glad that she chose Auburn.

PS: The relatives who continued to play the game where Auburn lost all during the Thanksgiving family party have gotten their just reward. Their daughter fell in love with the grandson of Hare (Jordan-Hare is the name of the stadium at Auburn). Their daughter got married in Auburn (that was a pretty good day seeing all those Alabama fans on Auburn soil). The funniest moment was when the Alabama mascot, Big Al, showed up at the reception. Those rabid Alabama fans are now at Auburn all the time because their grandbabies are being born there! I love a happy ending!!

You Must Be Present to Win

2007-09-20T22:41:00.000-05:00

I have a niece named Kelsey. She graduated from Vassar and is blessed with intelligence and a caring heart. After she finished her college education, she wanted to give two years of her time to others. She narrowed it down to the Peace Corp or Teach America, an organization that rescues failing schools. She chose Teach America. Her first year was extremely challenging. She had no resources for her class [like enough desks (!), text books (!)] She stuck it out with help from people like Bill Rush and his fabulous wife Rhonda whose Key Club adopted Kelsey's cause. Some of my husband's coworkers didn't even hesitate to send checks. Mary Anne Parks Antonio and Sue Hengel pitched in as did other caring friends (sorry if I failed to mention anyone who lovingly contributed). Kelsey had to battle a grueling environment, parents who were uninvolved, and sometimes emotional challenges from constantly fighting an uphill battle.

She again came out with a request for help this year. Her story is so compelling:

I am just starting my second year with Teach for America. I'm teaching high school chemistry and physical science at a public charter school in what is arguably the most dangerous city in the U.S., St. Louis. The public school system in St. Louis had fallen into such horrible condition that it lost its accreditation at the end of last year and was taken over by the state. With the public schools in disarray, students are flocking to charter schools, even though these schools have their own set of problems. This is the third year that the charter school I work at has been open and its plagued with disorganization, debt, and lack of resources.

Nearly 90% of our students are on free or reduced lunch plans. Gang violence, poverty, teen pregnancy, disrupted family situations, pressure to be involved in crimes, and low expectations for achievement are realities that my students live with everyday.

I've had students who have been arrested, ended up pregnant, been left homeless, been shot, and been killed. Academically, the students come to me with math and reading levels well below grade average. Their previous schools have failed them.

Even the extremely bright students are at a considerable disadvantage when competing for college admission with students across the country who went to successful schools. Once they get to college, the students will be ill-prepared for the academic demands of higher education.

I have to try to pull them up to grade level and lead a science class that is on par with science classes in the best school districts in the country. However, my school doesn't have a science lab or budget for obtaining supplies to use in my classroom.

Anything that I need for my classroom comes out of my own pocket.

It's definitely worth the investment if it helps the kids learn but I would appreciate any help with obtaining the basic school supplies that my students can't afford and which help make my classroom a much more hands-on and engaging learning environment.

Thank you for your help!

Kelsey

Kelsey's Wish List:

Hi Sharon! Here's the list of school supplies I need if anyone you know is still willing to help me out this year.

Scissors
Simple calculators
Index cards
Dry erase markers markers
Colored pencils
Crayons
Pencils
Pens
Gluesticks
Elmer's glue
Tape
Folders
Notebooks
1-inch binders
Binder dividers
Notebook paper
Construction paper
Computer paper
Thanks for your help! Love, Kelsey

Again, the Sue Hengel's and Mike Moss's of the world as well as the ever-giving Mary Anne, stepped up. And there are probably more who have been quietly stepping up to the plate. I am so lucky to be surrounded by friends who take on the needs of my family as their own. Thanks, guys. And thank you, Kelsey, for caring enough to put away a chance to earn big bucks in order to invest in our teenagers. You are the best.

Casey Lovoy: Joymaker

2007-09-17T06:31:00.001-05:00

Today is my daughter's 21st birthday. This event brings me absolute joy and causes me to think about her self-described role in life. When she was 9 years old, my husband John, Casey and I were sitting at a restaurant on Riverwalk in San Antonio, TX. We were dining al fresco and it was a glorious night. Casey turned to me and asked me, "Mom, what is your role in our family?" I can remember thinking, "Where on earth did she learn that word?" and my second thought was, "What in the heck am I going to say?" I remembering giving a very lame answer, "Oh, I am the caregiver; I find ways to take care of you and your dad." Not a very good answer, but it was the best I could do for a fill-in-the-blank pop quiz. Casey then turned to her dad and asked the same question. John quickly got a "deer-in-headlights" look that must have mirrored my face a little earlier.

It is important to point out that John is part of that introvert crowd, and generally they don't do as well on oral pop quizzes when they haven't had a chance to ponder the question in advance. He choked out, "I am the protector; I find ways to keep you and your mom safe." Whew, dodged that bullet with an ok answer.

Casey looked at us with pity because she had clearly been considering her response. She said, "I know what my role is, I am the 'Joymaker;' it is my job to bring joy to both of you." And she wasn't finished. She continued by stating, "You are in such a hurry that you might miss all the beautiful things in life and it is my job to point them out." Yikes...out of the mouth of babes...

She has lived up to this title. Every moment, I think, "This is the best day/month/year," and I am always wrong, because the next one is always better. She is the first to point out the rainbows. She is quick to note that it is rude to be on the cell phone when we are together in the car. She gets us all out for family walks where we get a good cardio workout and even better face time with one another. She cherishes all of her friends. She worries about those who are in trouble. She has more emotional maturity in her little finger than most people have in their entire bodies. Happy birthday, Joymaker.

Hot Dog, What a Lady!!

2007-09-09T15:04:00.001-05:00

As I have previously noted, I am one of seven children. When I calculate it out, that means that my mother was pregnant 63 months of her life! That figure astonishes me. But another figure that astonishes me is the wonderful black and white photo of my mom that I have where she is wearing her black Jansen swimsuit. She has long flowing black hair, she is casually leaning against the wall of the pier with a fishing rod.

I can recall that as little kids we were playing on the beach. My mom was walking by herself, several feet away, wearing that black Jansen swimsuit. There were several young men, probably of college age, passing by, who caught a look at this brunette beauty. I distinctly remember one of them saying, "Hot Dog, what a lady!" Word quickly spread among the kids and we ran up and told her, thinking that was really a funny comment. I can remember the guys' faces fell when they realized that she had a whole tribe of children.

We laughed for years and would repeat that comment to my mother who always giggled. When I found the photo a few months ago, I looked at her again through new eyes. I now see what they saw: not a mother of 7 children with all the chores and challenges that go with the hardest job in the world, but a woman blessed with long, flowing hair, grace and beauty. Hot dog, what a lady!

Take Your Daughter to Work Day, Uh...Year

2007-09-08T10:48:00.000-05:00

My father has always been ahead of the times. Long before the "Take Your Daughter to Work Day" was initiated in 1993, my dad discovered the value of having your daughters present on the job site. Keep in mind this was in the 1950's and 1960's. It was not done in the spirit of feminism, but because we were cheap labor. Let me explain.

My parents have seven children. I can remember how tight money was. I can still picture my mom sitting over the grocery list and calculating the cost of every single item. She would add them up and if the amount was too much, something had to go. Feeding a family of seven, particularly with boys who could eat an entire box of cereal in one sitting using mixing bowls was tough. By the way, that was ONE box of cereal per boy. That was also in the days of home milk delivery. The milkman got quite a workout bringing our order.

My dad worked three jobs to make ends meet. Sometimes the ends wouldn't quite come together and he needed help on the job. Another factor was that my mom, who is an introvert, would be at her wits end by the time Saturday rolled around from coping with seven, rambunctious children. My dad taking us to work represented a few hours relief for my mom from the chaos. So hi ho, hi ho, it was off to work we go.

It was so much fun. We were little enough to crawl down holes and thread wires. We spackled holes in baseboards, played with all the tools, learned the difference between flat head and Phillips head screwdrivers and played with mercury (that was before it was known that it was dangerous). We rode bush hogs, road scrapers, and dump trucks. OSHA inspectors would have had a field day with all the safety violations, but we never got hurt. I was never in the dark about what my dad did at work. We knew that he had to do hard physical labor. All of my brothers could wire a house by the time they were 12. I felt totally comfortable operating a hammer and to this day, I still get a thrill when the box says, "Some assembly required." I know that I am up to the task. The smell of sawdust is better than any fine perfume. Any ol' day I would choose a trip to Home Depot or Lowe's rather than a department store.

When I got married, my wish list actually included tools and I still harbor a dream of getting the Sears tool box (the one that is shiny red and has the waffled silver border).

The benefit of going to work with my dad is that not one of my siblings has ever used the terms, "girl chores" or "boy chores" because we knew that we all had to pitch in. The work ethic of each kid is remarkable and we had tremendous role models who showed us that whether you worked inside the home or outside the home, it all counts. Thanks Mom and Dad!

Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful

2007-09-07T07:20:00.000-05:00

I remembered the first time I heard these words on a commercial and frankly, it annoyed me. For some reason today, these same words occurred to me today during Yoga with a whole new meaning. I originally started taking Yoga because my dear cousin, Anne, who was dying from breast cancer, asked me to go. I couldn’t imagine what you could do for an hour without loud music with an instructor shouting directions akin to that of a drill sergeant at the top of her lungs. What would I do for an hour without lots of action, punishing movements and throbbing, heart pounding music? I found an oasis of quiet, poses movements that taught me to be flexible and a wholesome outlook when considering the other women in the class.

As I was thinking today during class, I was taken back to my younger years when Nan Pizitz took me under her wing at the YMCA. I wanted to be an aerobics instructor and thought I was graceful. Nan, however, saw in reality, an awkward young woman whose graceful movements were a figment of her own imagination. She must have felt a good measure of pity for me because she invited me into her basement studio and spent hours teaching me how to hold my hands, move in true rhythm and make that inner grace an outer reality. I will always be thankful for her investment in me.

From there I went on to teach at the Y and a local hospital and reveled in instructing dancing aerobics and later step aerobics. I dropped out when my travel schedule became impossible but also because this field became about breast augmentations, thong leotards, and comments that were full of comparisons and chalking up body failures.

I eventually came back as a participant but consistently avoided anything that had quiet connected to it. Then came Anne’s request and I grudgingly showed up for a class that was conducted in a dark room enveloped in slow music and included a whole new language involving downward dogs, cobra, and sun salutations. I was determined that I was going to give it one shot and then report back to Anne that I tried, but it just didn’t fit my personality. But I was so wrong. I found a group of people who were encouraging, cognizant that we are built so differently, and that I could settle down. I found that I could pray, contemplate all kinds of things (like this entry), and that the quiet was wonderful. I looked around the room today and saw Dot and Joyce who are in their 70’s and literally going strong. Joyce has gotten back the 3” in height that she lost due to osteoporosis. They are beautiful. Then there is Dana and Peg who are both built like graceful ballerinas but are graced with inner beauty that is so much more powerful. They are beautiful. LeAnn has this tiny, powerful body. She has a passion for Yoga and is challenging instructors to be better in their practices. She is joined by Marsha who works hard to make sure that each class experience is a treasure for that day. They are beautiful. There is Bettina a new mom and Deidre who just lost her mom. They are women of color, however very different. They are beautiful. There are the best friends in the back of the class who are in their 50’s, look like twins, and have fun carving out time for their friendship. They are beautiful.

All these wonderful women have reminded me that I am a treasured child of God. Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. Namaste....

Love Thy Neighbor

2007-09-06T07:36:00.000-05:00

We are very lucky to have two sets of neighbors who are also our close friends. The three families have spent many a warm day around the pool, which fortunately is not at our house. The neighbor who owns the pool will probably rethink asking either family to watch their house while they are on vacation.

Let me explain. It all started with a "quick" trip by the house to check on the dog. The dog was fine but so was the giant ant population that had gathered in the basement. They had discovered a Cherry Coke left by one of the vacationing daughters. Coke may not realize that they have an untapped customer demographic. We, however, realized that this was a bad case of PESTILENCE. We looked around for some kind of bug spray. We couldn't find the Raid®, but we did find some hair spray. Being creative, we found that this stuff works!! The ants died, but they looked good. This might work on head lice! But I digress. One problem solved.

Then we noticed that the basement had one inch of water! Now we realized that we had a FLOOD. We figured out the problem (OK, John figured it out) was the condensate pump. John volunteered that we had an extra one at our house (OK, this really random--who stocks extra condensate pumps for heaven's sake?) The womenfolk set out to find the fuse box while the men were drying out the basement. We never did find the fuse box which was cleverly disguised behind a picture. Our brave husbands fixed the pump anyway. We later found out that the pump was the wrong size. But I digress.

Then Tim, the neighbor in charge of the pool, noticed that the pool had turned a horrible shade of green. It seems that the vacationing couple's married daughter had stopped by to take a dip and she wore a swimsuit that she had used in a lake. The pool was now infested with algae that would make any biologist proud. The pool doc had to make a house call and recommended a protocol that was very labor intensive. We nursed the pool back to health.

After this adventurous evening we called the neighbors. They asked about their house. We lied. "Things are fine," we croaked (none of us are good at this sort of thing but we knew they shouldn't cut their vacation short over ants, a flooded basement, a broken condensate pump and a green pool) They wondered why we were all gathered at their house. We told them, "You know how a pool brings people together." They replied that they were happy that we were enjoying it while they were gone. Yeah, right. That's our story and we're sticking to it.

Confession Is Good for the Soul

2007-09-03T20:24:00.000-05:00

What words can put fear into that of a fellow woman? I can think of two: Recipe Exchange. I must confess that when I get an email from one of my friends asking me to participate, I go through a buffet of reactions:

Do I even have 5 people to forward this on to? (Oh, and I should mention that the latest request asked me to send it on to 20 friends?!)
Will I let down the person who sent it to me? Will she think I am a bad friend if I don't send it on? I really care about her and hate to let her down.
Will the person who was supposed to be #1 on the outgoing email be upset if no one replies?
What if the #1 person doesn't have many friends and this is a way for her to make connections with other caring women?
Will my friends get frustrated with me for sending on to them? Aren't they already too busy?
Who has 20 friends that are available for this kind of thing?
Why can't I just say "No??!!??"
What if I just don't do anything? Will anybody really know?
If I am ever in doubt that I am a "Feeler" vs. a "Thinker" I need to reread this whole entry.
These directions are so complicated! Send a recipe to the number 1 person and then move the number 2 person to the top and then put my name on the email and then forward...
Are people really still cooking?
With the internet and great magazines, do people really want recipes?
Can't we just ban together and pledge not to do this to each other?
Will this land me on people's spam lists?
Will people send out recipes using spam? (ugh!)

You get the idea! All this angst! Several of my friends had the where-with-all to say, "I am so sorry, I just don't have the time to participate! [good response!] I thanked them for being honest! I also realized I should have crafted a similar response!

Then I got an email from the lucky recipient who was supposed to get all the recipes. She was so excited. Then I started getting recipes, all of which sounded sooooo good!

I have decided to go ahead and put out a recipe for succa (Italian for spaghetti sauce). It is a treasured recipe. From now on, every request labeled, "Recipe Exchange" will get this as a reply and none of my friends will be bothered again. They have already done their duty!

Confession really is good for the soul. I feel better (and hungry) already.

Italian Succa

Tomato sauce, large, 4 cans I use Wal-mart’s generic brand

Red wine, ½ can (I use it to “swish” out all the cans of tomato sauce)

Basil, fresh, ½ package

Lawry’s Garlic salt, 2 tsp.

Nature’s seasoning, 2 tsp

Fresh ground pepper, 2 tsp.

Sargento Romano cheese, ½ triangle grated

Combine the above and simmer for four hours

Pasta: Cook, but DO NOT let get mushy!!

Romano cheese: Put on pasta FIRST, then put on the succa!!

I Contact

2007-09-03T19:49:00.000-05:00

"Don't stare!" I can remember being admonished with this warning anytime that I saw someone who had a physical or mental challenge. I can vividly recall quickly averting my eyes in case I might cause embarrassment to someone if my eyes lingered too long.

I realized one day that I had totally forgotten to program my daughter with this same information. The man who was putting the flooring in our house did not have his right arm and had a hook in its place. With the curiosity of a six old, Casey asked, "Well, Mr. Harden, what happened to your arm?" I imploded internally with the realization that I had failed in one of the chief duties given to Moms: Teach your children not to stare.

Ken Harden explained to Casey that he had a disease in his right hand when he was in high school and that the doctors cut off his arm to save his life. He went on further to demonstrate how his hook worked. Casey was fascinated, and I had to admit, so was I.

I later told Ken that this story had worked its way into my training classes and that he has achieved a degree of fame. He told me that children were never put off by his hook, but adults were rarely comfortable talking about it. He said that they acted like he must wake up every day with the discovery, "Oh, my gosh, my arm is gone!"

I use this story in a class where we talk about how the "don't stare" message was programmed into most of us. One class stands out as one in which I was taught a great lesson by one of the participants. A nurse who was in my class said that she worked with burn patients whose faces had been disfigured. She said that the thing they commented that they missed the most was that people refused to make eye contact with them. She said they said they felt as if they disappeared.

When reflecting on this this, I came to realize that with "Eye Contact" you grant humanity and value to others. The "Don't Stare" message seems kind on the surface but in reality, hurts. I then came to understand that "Eye Contact" leads to "I Contact" i.e., "I make Contact with you because you matter, you are a child of God, and you have value." Amen.

Happy Trails to You...

2007-08-30T16:36:00.000-05:00

Dale Evans has always had a warm spot in my heart. I had a cowgirl outfit when I was a kid that was my first imitation of a movie star. No bare belly like some current stars. I had a cowgirl hat and cool Western clothing! She was the perfect mate for Roy Rogers and an even better role model as a strong woman.

Several nights ago we watched a very suspenseful movie. It was full of intrigue, had two top stars, clever plot twists, but I felt tense by the end of the film. My husband trolled the channels and came upon one of those stations that plays really old films. Dale Evans to the rescue! The narrator was talking about Roy Roger’s stardom. The movie started and the credits rolled. First there was Roy, then there was TRIGGER, then Gabby Hayes and finally DALE EVANS! She was 4^th on the list and AFTER the horse!! She wore some really awful clothes (hats bigger than sombreros that could have housed a small family) but she had an adorable personality. At this time Roy and Dale were not married. After the movie, the narrator revealed that Roy was married to Arlene and that after his wife died, he and Dale got married and remained married for over 50 years.

The movie and the surrounding real life story warmed my heart and changed my mood before going to bed with the exception of one nagging thought: I hope that she eventually got billing above Trigger.

Another Bedtime Story

2007-08-30T16:10:00.001-05:00

When Casey was five years old, she told me that I didn’t play enough with her at night. At first I started to get defensive because I knew that not only did I play games with her, but gave her lots of attention. Then my conscience kicked in: "Perhaps you ought to try that listening stuff you teach in your training classes!" (It is tough having a strong conscience!)

For once I held back my response and instead said, “You sound frustrated, tell me more.” She went on to say that Daddy and I were the two biggest people in the family and we slept downstairs together. She said that because she was an only child and her bedroom was upstairs, she hated going to bed alone. I took all of this in, and tried to figure how to solve this situation. She then went on further to tell me that she didn’t expect me to start sleeping with her instead of Daddy, but she wanted me to know why she put off going to bed at night. John and I talked about it and we decided to change our family routine. We decided to:

· Turn off the 10:00 news (who wants to hear all that stuff before going to bed anyway?)

· All go upstairs together to “tuck Casey in”

· Watch while John feeds the fish

· Talk about the best thing that happened to us that day so everyone can enjoy it

· Sometimes sing silly songs and even do dance routines together (we’re certain that Broadway is looking for us)

· Throw fluorescent stars across the room after making wishes

· Sometimes hide to scare each other

· Always pray for other people

· Join hands in a family blessing

· Enjoy closing Casey’s eyes and lips and kissing her goodnight

We always do this ritual even if one of us is out of town (or even in college!) by using cell phones!

I often wonder what would have happened if I had argued with Casey when she was trying to tell me why she was so upset. I know what would have happened. “They” (our family) wouldn’t have lived happily ever after and we would have missed 16 years of what is always the best time of our day and night…Good night, Casey.

Sleep in Heavenly Peace...

2007-08-30T09:21:00.000-05:00

Everyone has a mental image of what they think heaven looks like. I sometimes see beautiful angels all sitting on a bed … the Heavenly® Bed, from the Westin, in Atlanta. The Westin hotel chain started the Goldilocks rage (this bed’s just right!) that forced other hotels to spend money on their main purpose … a place to sleep! Not only does their bed have a great mattress but they have the most incredible linens known to man and woman kind. For once in my life, I slept past 5:30 a.m. and had to pry myself out of that luxurious bed. I just know that this must be what it feels like to sleep on a cumulus cloud.

When I got home, I couldn't get this bed out of my head. I wasted hours daydreaming about my night of floating on ten layers of pure heaven. I finally set out to recreate the glorious experience.

However, this was a time, long ago and far away, when there were no web sites where you could order this stuff with the click of a magic mouse. So I devised my game plan. The next time I traveled to a city that had a Westin, I would steal into a room in the dead of night, under the cover of darkness, in my best “spy woman” black outfit and surreptitiously make a list of everything used to create the Heavenly® Bed and maybe even (gasp!) take a mattress tag. Sadly, I didn’t get to use my game plan. They had a model room available so anyone that wanted to could order all the parts of this 10 layer confection. It begins with a feather topper for the mattress, and then sheets, blankets, pillows and comforters are added to make this lovely lasagna of luxury.

I had to have it! However, it is against my nature to pay retail for anything without first trying to secure a bargain. So, armed with Bed Bath and Beyond coupons that NEVER expire, I became acquainted with thread counts and feather quality (poor ducks)!

I was richly rewarded for my efforts. We have a bed that is an utter joy. When we make it up (well at least once a week, whether company is coming or not), we plump everything. The best part is when we hold hands and take a running leap onto the bed, fall into its marshmallow softness and make angels on the comforter. It may not be quite as good as the real thing but I rest easy sleeping in imitation heavenly peace. Amen!

Life's Way Too Short

2007-08-28T15:35:00.000-05:00

I saw a great piece in the paper today on this very topic. It is not a new subject; I teach this same concept in my time management classes. I did, however, glean the idea of making a list that follows this concept. Feel free to add to this list; I learn from every person with whom I have contact. Life's too short to:

Wear shoes that hurt. As much as I would like to find someone who could pre-wear my shoes (and even shop for them, because life is too short for shoe shopping). I give away shoes that hurt.
Wear underwear that hurts. Thongs are for the feet (OK, I'm showing my age!) See the Beloit College list on aging. I believe in this analogy.
Be around toxic people. These people are known as "organizational arsonists" in the workplace. I have been a part of this network before by listening to gossip and not putting a stop to it. I don't even like some of the toxic thoughts that roll around in my head and I work on dumping them immediately.
Spend time reading message boards. A friend alerted me to a drama that was unfolding on a scrap booking message board. I study conflict for a living so I had a clinical interest in this topic. Was I observed sickened me. The comments became very personal: a person's family was dragged in, a husband's business location was attacked, cursing and slurs were used in some of the messages, apologies were dissected, motives were guessed at and then treated as reality, venting turned into gossiping, cannibalistic behavior ensued as the writers turned on one another--you get the picture. Wow. I remembered why I don't care for message boards. See be around toxic people. This can include the virtual world.
Use my tongue to hurt. This can so easily turn into a weapon of judgment. Yikes.
Spend too many hours playing free cell or anything else that can be a hole.
Do busy vs. productive work. Busy = flurry of activity, nothing to show for efforts. Productive = something to show for efforts.
Use that hammock on the deck. Rocking back and forth in a hammock is the best comfort zone of all.
Fail to write or verbalize appreciation. Consider: How many thank you notes does your minister get? Is there an older person who is easily forgotten? Are there kindnesses that are taken for granted?
Not to have candles at dinner every night. My precious husband takes care of this each evening.

I need to go--I need to tell my great husband how much I appreciate him and then spend some time with him on the hammock...

A Case for the Mattress Tag Police

2007-08-25T20:20:00.000-05:00

I know who's picture would be on "American's Most Wanted" if there was such a show for unsolved cases of the Mattress Tag Police.

I could count on one hand the number of really good night's sleep that I had gotten on our mattress. Could it be because the mattress was 25 years old? I know my husband likes to get his money's worth out of anything before he lets it go, but this was too much! This mattress was so old that our bodies sank into valleys and we had to "climb the mountain" if we ever wanted to snuggle. You would think this would be enough to talk my husband into getting another mattress. But noooo. I guess he likes a good challenge.

Then came the lucky day I did a workshop for a very small group. I did a lot of preparation and there were only 7 people in the association, but they were so nice, I couldn't complain. One of the participants told me she worked for a mattress company. True to my extraverted personality, I told the story about my pitiful mattress. She was horrified! She said that every single year she got a new mattress. I must have changed colors (probably mint or guacamole) because it was tough to keep the envy out of my face. She took pity on me and said that she had run out of people to put on her list. "What list?" I inquired. THE LIST in which she got to name friends and family to receive new mattresses. She asked me if I wanted to be on her friend list. I am known for my speed in making friends, but this had to be a new record. She said that we would have to pay for each piece and that it would amount to about $100.00 she mentioned with some embarrassment. "That's all??" I practically shouted and almost volunteered to clean her house for a year (fortunately I stopped myself--I am a poor housekeeper). She explained further that we would have to show up within 24 hours to claim our mattress when we got THE CALL that it was in. She encouraged us to go for top of the line. She didn't have to say much because I was worried that I wouldn't get to do this for another 25 years.

Then came THE DAY. The funniest part is that I was out of town and my husband had to hook up the trailer and drive up to the mattress factory. My new (and now most favorite) friend came out and greeted him. She then took him inside and announced to the ENTIRE factory that my husband slept on a mattress that was 25 years old. Boy, nothing like public humiliation. He was mildly ridiculed and ribbed about his inability to throw anything away. He sheepishly strapped in the mattress, paid the measly $106.00 (OK, there was sales tax), and returned home.

I was so excited when I got home! There were cute pictures of sheep on the mattress and I had to restrain myself from jumping on the bed. My husband kept saying he missed the old mattress. It was out on the porch. I told him he could sleep out there because I was tired of mountain climbing. He opted for the new mattress. Smart man. Case closed.

Cool Woman, Hot Day

2007-08-25T19:39:00.000-05:00

Today I had the privilege of attending a funeral for a friend of mine who died this week. She is the same person whom I visited last week in Atlanta. I am so thankful that I went last Saturday to see her in her final hours. Her husband told me later that the prayers we offered up were heard. It just reminds me again that God is indeed listening.

On a lighter note, I made several observations as I reveled in the final celebration of my friend's life:

All the women had cruel shoes. When we arrived at her house for the pre-funeral gathering (or "to pay our respects" as it is called in the South), every woman had her shoes off and were putting off as long as possible the moment when the toe crushers were donned in the name of fashion.
There were hats. One of the things I admire is that some African American women wear really great hats.
There was great food in the kitchen. Homemade. None of that fast food or pre-made cakes from the grocery store. People took time to make some home cooked goodies.
We got to ride in a real funeral procession, complete with a policeman, headlights, and bright orange hang tags to put on our rear view mirrors with the word "FUNERAL" in bold letters. People actually pulled off to the side to let us by. Old time reverence.
There was a little bit of the "I was really closer to her than you were" game that is often played at funerals as people jockeyed for positions on the status of their bloodline to my friend.
The music was rocking! People hollered out the refrains, swayed in time, and unabashedly sang with gusto. It made me think just for a few minutes about changing churches.
Because the church was so hot due to the overwhelming number of folks that showed up, the fans were pulled out. No, not the electric kind, but the old timey hand-powered church fans with advertisements on the back. Way cool.
The program was unlike any other I had ever seen! There were pictures of my friend, her husband and her children throughout her life. Cute pictures of changing hairstyles, getting married, being pregnant. Hugs and smiles all around. This one is a keeper.
The highlight was when a woman got up and talked about her husband dying last year. My friend, despite her declining health was there to help her grieve. She said she got a letter from my friend which said, "My husband and I will be there to help you with anything. PS: Stay away from my husband." We could all picture my friend saying that with a twinkle in her eye. It was really funny and showed my friend's sense of humor that will surely be missed.
The eulogies, and there were a lot of them, were wonderful and everybody added different pieces that showed us all that we are joined by our love for our dear, departed sister/friend/wife/mother/daughter/all around great human being.

It was worth showing up on a hot day for a cool woman.

My Mother--My Pusher

2007-08-22T21:21:00.000-05:00

When you look at a picture of my mom, what do you see? One of the kindest, most thoughtful women in the world? Don’t let her innocent look fool you. She has a dark side. She’s my pusher. No, I’m not talking about drugs or anything illegal although John may want to change that law)! We’re talking scrapbook coupons!

Each week, my most favorite piece of mail arrives, containing the Hobby Lobby or Michael’s coupon for 40% off or, on a really good week—50%!! She understands that I have a perpetual list of things I need to continue my beloved hobby. Ever since I was a kid, I was always thrilled to see her neat penmanship. She is left-handed, so learning how to write was tough. But in the age of “hurry up” she takes the time to write each letter precisely; no F’s in penmanship for her! She’s the reason I took such pride in my penmanship in grammar school, and won the award for “Best Penmanship.”

But, even though I love my coupons, what I love the most is seeing my mother’s handwriting, with

Sharon Lovoy

and my address written on the envelope. My mother doesn’t use computer labels; she takes the time to handwrite my name. Every time I open the mailbox and see that envelope, I picture Mom sitting at the table, cutting out coupons, just for me.

It makes me feel very special.

Thanks, Mom!!

A Human Being Not a Human Doing

2007-08-22T21:11:00.000-05:00

Remember the days when we weren't so busy rushing around...the days of sitting on the front porch, in a rocker or swing, drinking lemonade or sweet tea, talking, laughing, telling stories...or just sitting watching the world go by?

One such place was my Granny Hood’s porch. When I think of her, that porch and all those wonderful, innocent days, are what I imagine.

She had a real porch swing, hung from the ceiling by giant springs that made creaky sounds as it swung back and forth with thin, green cushions Granny made. The porch also had an old, high backed rocker and a smaller metal chair that also rocked. Her porch was screened to keep out the bugs but allowed those wonderful summer breezes. The finishing touch was a wooden floor, painted battleship gray. When I was little, we went out on that porch to play, winter or summer, blazing heat or freezing cold.

A kid could be a kid. There was nothing there to break or stain or tear.

Long ago she knew that we needed a place where one could be a human being, not a human doing...and she gave us her porch and its enchanted swing.

For Cryin' Out Loud!

2007-08-20T06:18:00.000-05:00

As we all know the three keys to human behavior are Awareness, Accountability and Action and that it comes down to Choices. In other words, making us AWARE of things we should be doing and things we should not be doing; holding us ACCOUNTABLE and making us responsible for the ACTIONS we take and the CHOICE we make. This, by the way is the Swiss Army Knife of Parenting, Time Management, Life Management, etc.

My sister and brother-in-law's children get this. They understand the rule that if you wake up and start crying in the morning, you have to go to bed 30 minutes earlier. Continue to cry after you have been warned and you will get another 30 minutes. Continue and you could even come home from school, go straight to bed, get to eat dinner for 15 minutes but you are in bed for the entire afternoon after school and then the night.

I spend a lot of time at my sister's house because I have a wonderful client in her city. I have watched her calmly exercise this penalty. She never raises her voice and cryin' gets you nowhere, except to bed. Therefore mornings are happy and fun at their house. It is a pleasing bustle of Andy Griffith (no cable for them!) or Christian rock music, coloring, reading, breakfasts made to order, lunches being made to order, getting dressed in the laundry room because clothes are organized there (another topic, another day), kisses and hugs all around (I even get this fringe benefit) and everyone is off to school.

This morning I would be in the category of having to go to bed early. After promising ourselves that we were going to hit the bed early, we went to bed after midnight. OK, I'm not crying, but I am complaining (the adult version of crying in the morning). I am going to self impose a penalty of going to bed 1 1/2 hours earlier tonight. Thanks, Sis!!

Out of Body Experience

2007-08-19T22:44:00.000-05:00

I love Sundays. One of the reasons is that it is the one day of the week that I actually read most of the paper on the day it arrives. My husband John teases me that I read "USA Yesterday" instead of "USA TODAY." He is right everyday except Sunday. The first thing I do is retrieve the paper from the yard (dressed in who knows what and usually wearing John's shoes because mine are down in the basement near the car). The next step is to pare that monstrous paper down to size. Out with the classifieds, the job market stuff, and all the ads for the stores that we never visit. Our routine is that John gets the funnies and I get the rest. This is sort of the same measurement used for parceling out closet space. It's not that I don't share the paper; he just likes to look at it throughout the day. I fix my decaf Cafe Mocha (using a Starbucks recipe) and peruse everything.

Next we go to church. One of the reasons I love going to church because I love my choir. We stick with each other through thick and thin. It's like having extra brothers and sisters who can tease each other, have some minor tussles, but will defend each other.

Then starts my battle to stay in church. No, I'm not preparing to flee the building; I'm talking about keeping my attention right there in the building. Paying attention to the lush liturgy, enjoying the sermon that Fr. Ray has put together, and loving the lyrics to each piece of music. I have to fight the short attention span that is part of my personality. To combat this I take notes on the sermon and write a prayer list. I don't want any "out of body experiences" where my body is present but my mind has left and gone somewhere else.

Today my prayer list included a dear friend who has a brain tumor. John and I had the joy of spending yesterday with her. She kept thanking us for driving over to see her. But honestly we were the lucky ones. She knows that she doesn't have long, and we were privileged to get a long visit with her and her husband. I told her time and again how much she meant to me and we repeatedly said how much we loved each other. Her husband has been a real saint. He has obviously honored his vows of "in sickness and in health." Great couple, great day, bittersweet day. I guess I wasn't successful in staying in church after all because my mind kept drifting back to my dear friend. I think God would understand. Going to Atlanta was worth it. You have to be present to win. Amen.