C the B

The old house is clean and waiting. We have spent the last two days getting her ready for the renters. All the cobwebs, dust and sand are gone. The porch has been swept and the fridge cleaned out. There remains nothing to remind them that we were here at all. All personal items are banished to the owners' closet. Sad, isn't it?

They will discover the sticking kitchen drawer and the toilet that flushes slowly. They will fill the fridge with their food and maybe it will be more exotic than ours. We left the sand toys and balls that were not used this year. I hope their kids enjoy them. The house is wating for them.

What they won't have is the history that we have. I know how the screen on the front door got broken. I know who slept where and who likes the the back bedroom most. We all know who painted the birds on the stairs. The ugly mugs in the kitchen make me laugh every summer, but no one wants to toss them out. One of the slipcovers is currently being held together with duct tape.

The owners' closet isn't locked, but I hope that the renters will respect our privacy by not opening it. My cherry mug is in there as is the new one I bought for my other half. The rest of the stuff looks like a photo album of times past. Cast off baby toys and other special things including our signature cups with the cottage number on them are in there too. That stuff as well as the ancient furniture is waiting for the family, our family,  to return. The cottage waits for another summer.

We are sitting on the porch reading the Sunday paper. We do this every week; just somehwere else. Here is where we slow down and listen to "the worms breathing", he says. The house is quiet because our guests have left. The children are not here this year and that makes both of us sad and more than a little wistful. Watching the grandchildren repeat the rituals of this place is what we miss the most. There is a hole in my heart.

It's been a strange time without our family around us; not a ritual I'd like to repeat. This place, our summer home, is lonely without them. No amount of beauty can replace the beauty of family. I can honestly say that I miss even the sand and melted ice cream! The mess of the family stuff is not something we ever anticipate missing, but there it is. Families are messy. Feelings get hurt, wet towels get left all over the place and ice pops melt into puddles on the porch, but we are together and that, my friends is messy.

Today I am going down to the beach. I may need a sweater because here in this place, the sun has come but not yet the warmth. I will gather some stones for my garden at that other place we call home. They will remind me of the time we spent here this summer. I will scatter the stones like we are scattered this year.

Gathering stones from the water is messy business, but not as messy as families can be. I miss the messy family and my heart is a stone in my chest.

Little boys

He smells a little like rusty nails and soap. Today he dressed in his Batman pjs, strapped on the new pistol (a Yankee one! more on that later), and donned his cape. He looked for tall the world like a confused soldier caught between being the caped crusader and Wyatt Earp!
After my trip to Wallyworld, he is now the proud owner of a "supersoaker". The water gun with the large tank is much better than the smaller version purchased two days ago, which needed refilling every 2 minutes. We do tend to underestimate the power of a 5-year old!
Now for the pistol story. We made a trip to Old Salem yesterday for a walk through the restored village and to see the Guinnea hens roaming the streets. Nevermind that it was hotter than the hinges on the gates of Hell! The hens must have agreed because they were no where to be seen. Undaunted, we moved onto the water pump which used to be the highlight of all trips to the village. The pump was dry! So it was on to the shop which I told him had the kinds of toys that little boys played with 200 hundred years ago before WII and video games. Did he want the pop gun or the wodden wagon? No sir, he spotted the Civil War pistols with holsters. Great, I thought. What a great time to celebrate Southern pride. Buying him a "Johnny Reb" gun with the "CS" on the belt would do it! Did he want that one, no. He chose the "Yankee" version with "US" on the holster! What was that about? The Rebel one was superior in my opinion and I pointed out, naming all the men he knew, that we were Rebels, not Yankees. He wasn't having it, so the Yankee one it is now in bed with him, right next to his heroes, Batman and Buzz Lightyear. Explaining the buy to his mother was another thing and to add insult to injury, the offending item is a YANKEE PISTOL!

Also in included in the Wallyworld purchases are two packs of caps for the weapon. Don't tell anyone, but I think that they were made in China.

Mother's Day--I wouldn't change a thing

This weekend we celebrated me. In a note on Facebook one of our sons posted a thank-you and some very nice words about his mother (me) and his mother-in-law. I responded with tears in my eyes that I only had one ambition; to be a good mother. I hope that he reads it and understands that I didn't mean that I never wanted to do or be anything else. Motherhood happened and there was absolutely no turning back. There was a time when I thought that my mother was the greatest mom ever, but boring. She was the "June Cleaver" of the neighborhood from her perfectly ironed apron to her comfortable "at home " shoes.  With a smear of lipstick on, she'd meet Daddy at the backdoor as he came home from work. Next, after everyone had washed our hands and faces, we sat down to a perfectly orchestrated meal including a homemade dessert. I'm not kidding! Stay with me here, we did this every single day. My angst-ridden teenage self thought that her style was boring and mundane. Check out those very grown-up words, gleaned from the latest (at the time) vocabulary list. The term "role model" was far into the future and besides, I didn't see what she did as modeling. Mother told me that one day I'd need to learn some homemaking skills, but her words fell on my deaf ears.

Fast forward to my falling in love/dating/marriage/ after the honeymoon days. Oops, I should have paid more attention. I was forced to learn all those things that that my mother had warned me about, but that is a whole other post for another time.

Despite the cooking, cleaning, laundry, and just general wifey stuff; I did sometimes work outside the home. Not a career, mind you, just a means to an end. The end in our case having a little extra "pin money". That pin money sometimes fed us or paid a bill, but we could never depend on it, so when it came, it was a bonus. Sometimes the kids demeaned my stay-at-home status. They can be excused, however, because when it came time for a mom to bake cupcakes for the bake sale, drive for the field trip, organize the book sale, or help in any capacity at their school or outside activities, I volunteered or was volunteered for the job. Somewhere along the way, mothering became my career. I wouldn't change a thing.

That career has allowed me the opportunity to see a child light-up like the scoreboard at a baseball game when he or she finally "got it" after a tutoring session. Some of the kids would never have been able to go to the zoo, for instance, without career moms doing the driving. Cupcakes have become quite trendy, I see. We career moms were on the cutting edge years ago! I have cupcake pans that are older that the pyramids (not really, but that sounded good to say). Hundreds of cupcakes passed through them into the hungry mouths of as many children and a few adults along the way. We career moms have also proctored tests for English as a second language students even we if couldn't speak their language. Most important to me is that I was there for everything my children did, whether they wanted me there or not. I'd like to think that most often they wanted me there. My husband could be called a career dad, because I swear that I can't for the life of me remember his ever wanting to be anywhere more than he wanted to be with our kids and me. His responsibilities to his job could get in the way, but he somehow managed to be there for all the important events, no matter what. I wouldn't change a thing.

The young women of today are career women. They have broken the glass ceiling and are earning big bucks and slaying dragons at work. They have ipads, iphones, Twitter, Facebok, tele-commuting, tele-conferencing and wifi at the Starbucks. It's not a bad thing, mind you, to be so connected. My daughter and daughters-in-law are working mothers. They somehow get it done and manage to post pictures of the grand-darlings on Facebook so that their tech-challenged parents can see them. I admire them. They are all good mothers. They will make mistakes too just like I did and my mother before me. I can't imagine the pressure of a job as well as a home to manage! I wouldn't change a thing.

Who is baking the cupcakes? Who is organizing the book sale? Do schools even have those anymore or can a parent just offer to buy some books to be downloaded to a student's e-reader? Are all the cupcakes bakery-made? Who helps with the tutoring? It  bothers me that the young mothers of today's world are missing some joy, but it will be up to them to figure it out. I have been there and done that to replay an adage. I wouldn't change a thing.

I never set out to be the best mother on the planet. Learning along the way and trying always to be as good a mother as I could be was my only real goal. From the moment I found out that I was carrying that first child; Being a mother was my chosen career. It is one that I am proud of and still find joy in. I pray for all mothers whether they work outside the home or not. I pray for God to give them the courage and strength to handle whatever challenges their kids face. I pray that they will have the dignity and grace to see their kids through when they fail or are rejected. I pray that they can rejoice in their kids' successes and hold their hands and hearts when they are sad or dejected. My mother prayed these things for me, I know that in my heart. I was a good mother, I know that too. After all, I did have a good role model. I wouldn't change a thing.

Connections

We can go for months and sometimes years without seeing or speaking to each other and then one of us picks up the phone and we connect. The call feels like sitting together over a glass of sweet tea or a glass of wine just being together before miles separated us. The kids are older and have kids of their own in my case. She is just growing into the mother-in-law role. My husband is newly an at-home guy. Hers has been working successfully from home for years. Their reasons for being at home differ, but as we talk, I realize our concerns are the same. We talked of common things and the not so common. We talked so long that her phone battery suffered a silent death. I've been accused of having mouth the "Ever-ready Bunny" would envy, so I was happy that it was _her_ phone and not mine.

I have not always been the friend to her that I should have been. There was a time that I know now when I could and should have reached out more when I suspected that she was suffering. Letting it go and preferring to not get too involved is the mistake I apologized for making. She understood, especially now that I am the one who needs the comfort. At least she won't have to ever apologize to me for the same sin. Sometimes life gets in the way of doing the right thing. I hope to never let that happen again. Being kind to each other and standing up for one another is what friends should do, but we don't always do it. My good old sense of southern sensibility got in the way. My mother would be proud and ashamed of me at the same time. That is surely a concept that most of the rest of the world wouldn't understand, but in the south we do understand.

Friends are important. We pick them much like flowers because we like them. Sometimes they smell good and reward us with their beauty. We gather bouquets around us and enjoy them. Like flowers; friendship blooms. Our call and the connection is the rose in my bouquet.

Proud to be an American

We spent the night in a nameless ordinary hotel. Sometimes the ordinary is followed by the extraordinary and we are surprised and delighted. This was the case yesterday.

I'd never been to a citizenship ceremony before so I had really no idea what to expect. Our beautiful Luana had studied, made flash cards (besting her friends at American facts), and taken her citizenship test. now the moment had arrived for her to take the oath; to swear her allegiance to the USA. Was she nervous? Did she feel like a traitor to her home? How did her family feel? I was abuzz with the questions and she calmly stated that all was well on all counts. This was right for her and for her budding family. We felt the excitement.

I had shopped for all things American, not easy to find in the middle of February. The local party store offer up sequined tiaras, flags, bandannas, Uncle Sam hats, leis (red, white and blue of course) stars and stripes sunglasses and flag wrapped mints. I bought some of everything! She was delighted, donned the tiara, waved the flags and posed in the parking lot of the USIC building for a pre-ceremony picture.

We moved inside with a sea of what looked like a cross section of the world. Women in flowing Arab garb, dark exotic-looking turbaned men, Asian people of all colors, small laughing children and the rest of us moved through security into a holding room. Everyone had papers to present and a few last minute details to take care of and then they, the almost citizens, were ushered into the ceremony room.

We followed and were seated in a room wrapped in red, white and blue bunting with our flag proudly displayed above every thing else. My throat caught as I looked at our grand-darling quietly taking it all in. She is the perfect mingling of the genes, of course, I am biased. She won't remember the day her mother became a citizen of this great country but we who were there will weave into our family lore like a colorful comforting quilt. Each home country was recognized, 45 in all. All the right things were said by the emcee and then it was oath-taking time. Our son moved into position to record the moment. His father, his brothers and I listened as they spoke their names and promised to defend the United States with all their might. Karaoke-style we sang the "Star Spangled Banner" and said the pledge of Allegiance. The real weeping moment for me was a video of American scenes with background music. I guess it was the music. Lee Greenwood's "Proud to be an American" does it to me every time. I don't know why, but it does. "From the lakes of Minnesota to the hills of Tennessee" is the lyric that pulls at my heartstrings because we are the Hills of Tennessee. Funny. It occurred to me yesterday that my homesickness for those hills for all the years we've been North Carolina transplants, is pale in comparison to those in the room who are so far from their homeland. They, these newly minted Americans, are now our sons and daughters. They come to us from many lands and rich cultures. I wondered about all these new citizens. What were there stories? I wish I'd had the time to ask, but we raced from the room to the parking lot for more pictures and then to a celebration lunch.

That the lunch was a Mexican feast struck me as funny! Maybe it should have been hamburgers or some other American dish, but she wanted Mexican so Mexican it was. I've always joked that she is my most American child. After all, her favorite meal is the Thanksgiving meal. She claims that she dreams about the meal in November for weeks before we actually eat it! We even had it in May as a welcome dinner for her Brazilian family when they came for her wedding. There is nothing like the smell of sage, onions and roasting turkey with the a/c running!

We were not complete yesterday. A few of us were missing, but there is a cake with red, white and blue frosting in the freezer for the next time we are all together. The most important thing she said to me yesterday was to freeze the cake for the next "family" get together. Eat the cake we will. This American family knows how to celebrate.

Home

You tell me your stories and I'll tell you mine. Isn't it bizarre the way we'll strike up a conversation with a total stranger and before the coffee has a chance to chill, we've shared a slice of life?

We had just sat down to have a drink on the deck of the big ship when a burly young man joined us. You do that on a cruise. He was a roadie for a band whose groupies were ever present. He told us his stories about the endless driving, travel, long hours, no sleep and how he missed his mama and daddy. We laughed and told him our stories about our kids and their antics. We even told him about the dog (ours) who ate the bag of weed that had been left behind by a college student (also ours) and how she (the dog)was depressed but very hungry afterward. I thought that he might pop a gut laughing. That story will probably be repeated up and down the east coast forever.

That same night we sat next to a very athletic as well as attractive young couple at dinner. Married for three years both in the banking industry, I thought that they'd like our kids since they were so like them; young, attractive, athletic, hopeful, you get the picture. Two days later after several chance encounters and a few drinks with them the talk turned to children. I asked if they wanted to have kids. The young woman looked wistful and said that, yes, they would and in fact had had a son who'd lived for just two short days. He was born too soon and didn't survive. She went on to say that it had been a year that week and she'd been given the go-ahead to try again. That was the impetus for the cruise; to try again, but not to forget the first. She had done a little sun-bathing that day to build up her vitamin D . Behind the wistfulness in her eyes was a faint whisper of hope. I promised to pray for them by name. Explaining that the way I pray is not for the outcome, but rather for the good to come from the journey and the strength to handle what might come next. I pray for grace, peace, health and happiness.

While Gene slept one morning, I ventured alone to the dinning room for breakfast. Feeling very alone, I wished I'd brought my book to hide behind. I shouldn't have feared being alone, however, because I was whisked upon my arrival to a table of older ladies laughing and talking like old friends. I apologized for crashing their party, but was quickly informed that they weren't old friends at all ! Seated next to a sweet-faced lady, I ordered a hearty breakfast and begin to chat with everyone. The lady next to me was a Hospice nurse, I discovered. She was widowed, having nursed her own husband through pancreatic cancer. After his death, she sold the house and moved to the warmer south. Her two sons visit often and she had grandchildren she loved dearly. Again, I noticed something, but couldn't quite place just what. We talked education, politics and the getting older factor. As we stood to leave, she confessed that she hadn't told the whole story about her children. There had been a daughter, gone now nine years. No, she affirmed, you don't ever get over "it"; you just go on and embrace the new normal. "It" happened when the girl was just 18 and full of college dreams. The night before the move to her new campus home the girl and a friend were busy driving around town saying good-bye to their high school friends. Her mother asked her to stay home and get her things in order and the girl promised to do so, but oh just one more good-bye, please. Mom relented and never saw her girl alive again. A car accident; the girl never knew what hit her. The friend lives on in a semi-vegetated state/limbo world in a facility in town. My sweet-faced new friend smiled and bid me a good morning and moved on to find her companions. We didn't meet again, but her story touched me because back home a dear friend of ours is this week in a courtroom facing the monster who killed her child after his afternoon of golfing and drinking. My heart hurts for them. My prayers are for them; peace and grace.

There were other stories heard as well as told last week. Many of them have already faded in my memory, but those two stories of lost hope clutched my heart. I wanted to swim as fast as I could to the solid ground where my children and grandchildren were breathing, laughing and just being. I wanted to hold them, smell their sweet scent, and tell them again and again how much I love them.

I expect never to cross paths with anyone I met last week. The world is a big place and even though we shared a small space in time, the space opened and we spilled over the land and moved on to our home place. I will pray for all of them.

Tonight I did touch, smell and love at least three of our kids and three of our grand-darlings. We handed out the gifts and shared a meal. We Skyped with the one lives far away with the other two grand-darlings. For a slice of time all of them filled our home again with their laughter. My heart filled and my prayers were answered. They are safe and happy.

Tell me your stories and I'll tell you mine. My heart is open and waiting.