I will share with you my favorite Christmas memory in a few days, for now I will share the second favorite memory.
I was 6 years old and in the first grade. We lived on Ft. Benning and my brother and I attended McBride School. Every year the students would but on a Christmas program for the parents. The first graders were to sing "Rockin' around the Christmas Tree." A very good song, one of my favorites still. In honor of the Christmas season, I had on a frilly red and white dress, white stockings with my good shoes, and a beautiful bow in my hair. I felt beautiful.
Now, as most people know, when you put a girl in a frilly dress she twirls. It simply cannot be helped. It is something girls are born knowing. Little boys make sound effects, little girls twirl. Now, this little girl was in a beautiful frilly dress, and catchy music was indeed playing.
Apparently the large group of 6 year old children were expected to stand still while we sang this unbelievably catchy song. I however did not hear the "stand still" command, and thought that the performance could benefit from some dress swishing (a swish is a half twirl). The music teacher didn't appreciate my contribution to the concert, because she kept whispering and gesturing to me to hold still. After a few looks/whispers/gestures from the music teacher my "real teacher" started trying to get me to hold still, even my own mother gestured for me to stop. I couldn't stop.
I had to swish.
After all, the song was about dancing.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Rockin' Ol' St. Nick
When I was in the fourth grade, I was in chorus. Our Christmas program for that year was a "Rockin' Christmas." My big debut was as an elf for "Rockin' Ol' Saint Nicholas" like "Jolly old Saint Nicholas" you know the song..."Jolly old saint Nicholas, lean your ear this way..." Santa was a fifth grade boy and me and two of the other girls in my grade were his elves. We were Rockin' Elves. We wore black leotards, with red or green tights. We also word roller blades and sunglasses and were pulled onto the stage by Santa. We did the robot as our dance.
It was impressive.
It was impressive.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
5 Golden Rings
The elementary school I attended when we lived in FL had a chorus that the fourth and fifth graders were allowed to sing in. When I was in the third grade we were asked to be a part of the Christmas concert as toys for a song about Santa's shop. We came onto the stage each dressed up as a toy, and then we stayed on the stage for the last song or two. I was dressed as the Queen of Hearts, my arch nemesis was Raggedy Ann, but that's a different story entirely. The final song in the show was "12 days of Christmas" The fifth graders performed this song. There was a small boy in a tree dressed as a bird, a kick line of girls, not sure if they were the maids a milking or the ladies dancing (the later would make more since, and my personal favorite, a girl dressed in yellow from head to toe who held 5 yellow hula-hoops-bet you can guess what she was supposed to be. The girl with the hula-hoops stood right behind me, and it seemed that every time "Five Golden Rings" would be belted out by all of us, and she would extend her arms to show her hoops I would get hit in the head. I was quite annoying really, and as the Queen, I really didn't appreciate it.
Every time I hear that song now, I think of the boy in the tree who would flap his "wings" and the poor girls dressed entirely in yellow. And how, as the Queen of Hearts, I sat on the edge of the stage and everyone got to watch me.
Every time I hear that song now, I think of the boy in the tree who would flap his "wings" and the poor girls dressed entirely in yellow. And how, as the Queen of Hearts, I sat on the edge of the stage and everyone got to watch me.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Thank God for horses...
I’m bad at this!
I’ve decided that because I’m so far behind, I’ll just stop trying to catch up and start trying to remember to give my stories every day.
My last story left off with our trip up to Ohio. Once we got there, things were pretty exciting. The Christmas we spent up there was my first and only white Christmas! It was so magical. After we woke up and opened presents and ate breakfast, my Pawpaw, took up to a pasture, hooked a sled up to a tractor, and pulled us around that pasture until all that was left was muddy slush. It was so much fun! That day was the first of several in a row filled with snow. Along with the snow adventure, came many visits to relatives I’d never met, or even heard of. They would all exclaim as they opened the door “Skippy’s Home!” (Skippy was my Dad’s nick name growing up), this exclamation tended to be follow by “If I’d’ve known you were commin’ I’da put my teeth in.” The funny thing was, the entire time we were there, they never did go and put their teeth in, and sometimes, we were there a long time.
Over this vacation, I met a lot of cousins, aunts, uncles, and various other people that my Dad grew up with. I also met my namesake. See, my Dad had an Aunt Virginia. She was a character, let me tell you. Dyed her hair bright red until the day she died (no pun intended). I believe that it was also my Aunt Ginny who subjected my brother to a memory he would rather not have. We were over at her house, and Daddy had taken me outside to ride a horse. My brother was inside, playing video games with a cousin we had just met. Aunt Ginny was talking to someone (Mama I think) about her breast cancer and mastectomy. She then proceeded to lift her shirt and show whomever was present her lack of “bounty” while saying “look.” Justin, not having been paying attention to the conversation, looked.
Glad I was riding that horse.
I’ve decided that because I’m so far behind, I’ll just stop trying to catch up and start trying to remember to give my stories every day.
My last story left off with our trip up to Ohio. Once we got there, things were pretty exciting. The Christmas we spent up there was my first and only white Christmas! It was so magical. After we woke up and opened presents and ate breakfast, my Pawpaw, took up to a pasture, hooked a sled up to a tractor, and pulled us around that pasture until all that was left was muddy slush. It was so much fun! That day was the first of several in a row filled with snow. Along with the snow adventure, came many visits to relatives I’d never met, or even heard of. They would all exclaim as they opened the door “Skippy’s Home!” (Skippy was my Dad’s nick name growing up), this exclamation tended to be follow by “If I’d’ve known you were commin’ I’da put my teeth in.” The funny thing was, the entire time we were there, they never did go and put their teeth in, and sometimes, we were there a long time.
Over this vacation, I met a lot of cousins, aunts, uncles, and various other people that my Dad grew up with. I also met my namesake. See, my Dad had an Aunt Virginia. She was a character, let me tell you. Dyed her hair bright red until the day she died (no pun intended). I believe that it was also my Aunt Ginny who subjected my brother to a memory he would rather not have. We were over at her house, and Daddy had taken me outside to ride a horse. My brother was inside, playing video games with a cousin we had just met. Aunt Ginny was talking to someone (Mama I think) about her breast cancer and mastectomy. She then proceeded to lift her shirt and show whomever was present her lack of “bounty” while saying “look.” Justin, not having been paying attention to the conversation, looked.
Glad I was riding that horse.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Another two stories and I'll be all caught up!!! Here we go...
#1-Good ol' Hank
The Christmas that I was in the fifth grade we decided to travel up to Ohio to visit my Dad’s family. We hadn’t seen his family in a while, so it was quite an adventure for us. Before we left for the trip, Dad bought all of us water proof winter boots. They were the green rubber and leather ones like LL Bean sales. It should be noted that I thought that these were the coolest boots EVER. Mom and Dad also bought us all new winter coats, seeing how we would be spending a while in the Ohio winter, as opposed to south Florida. We traveled to Ohio in my Mom’s mini van, Justin was in the back and I was in the middle. It was a full two day drive.
*Side note: for those of you who have ever traveled with my father (excluding the past 3 years or so) you no what this must have entailed. For those who haven’t ever traveled with him, well, consider yourself blessed (no offense Dad). See, Daddy, bless his heart, is a bit, shall we say, high strung. When we travel, the level of high strung-ed-ness is raised to the 7th power. We must be out of the house by x time. Not 1 minute after x time. If we were one minute after x time his face would begin to tense. You could literally see his blood pressure rising. His neck would begin to turn red, and it would creep up until his entire face was red. He normally didn’t say much during these times, but you could cut the tension with a knife. No, imagine this for a two day drive. *
To help pass the time in the car, Daddy brought along a couple of books to read aloud. Now, I for one can’t read in the car. It makes me carsick. Daddy on the other hand, can apparently read for hours without one tiny bit of motion sickness, and am I glad for it. Daddy reading to us in the car wasn’t a new thing. Even now, he’ll read on long trips if he has a book. I love to listen to him read. He has such a powerful voice, you wouldn’t think he’d be one to do the voices for characters, but he does. His voice will melodiously change from gruff to stern to dumbfounded to soothing while reading. It’s amazing. The books that he brought along were the first few in a series known as “Hank the Cowdog.” This series features Hand, a cowdog, which is like a cowboy, only in dog form. Hank thinks that he’s just class A, number one on the ranch. Unfortunately, Hank’s not very bright, and this leads to many an adventure.
Daddy reading those books certainly did pass the time on the drive to Ohio.
#2-The Relatives Came (a teaser)
On the note of stories that Daddy used to read, there’s one book that I also really like. It’s called “How the Relatives Came.” It’s a book about a family who has moved away from Appalachia and how their relatives come to visit (shocking I know). Anyway, it’s a really good book. It talks about how the family from Appalachia all pile into a couple of cars, and they drive through the night, and they sleep on the floors in the house and are loud and crazy, and everyone has fun, and then when they leave in a few days, everyone breaths a sigh of relief, but then they miss them. This book reminds me of our visit to Appalachia that winter. I won’t expound too much on our Christmas in Ohio (I need stories for tomorrow), but suffice it to say that it was loud, and crazy, and no one ever seemed to have their teeth in.
#1-Good ol' Hank
The Christmas that I was in the fifth grade we decided to travel up to Ohio to visit my Dad’s family. We hadn’t seen his family in a while, so it was quite an adventure for us. Before we left for the trip, Dad bought all of us water proof winter boots. They were the green rubber and leather ones like LL Bean sales. It should be noted that I thought that these were the coolest boots EVER. Mom and Dad also bought us all new winter coats, seeing how we would be spending a while in the Ohio winter, as opposed to south Florida. We traveled to Ohio in my Mom’s mini van, Justin was in the back and I was in the middle. It was a full two day drive.
*Side note: for those of you who have ever traveled with my father (excluding the past 3 years or so) you no what this must have entailed. For those who haven’t ever traveled with him, well, consider yourself blessed (no offense Dad). See, Daddy, bless his heart, is a bit, shall we say, high strung. When we travel, the level of high strung-ed-ness is raised to the 7th power. We must be out of the house by x time. Not 1 minute after x time. If we were one minute after x time his face would begin to tense. You could literally see his blood pressure rising. His neck would begin to turn red, and it would creep up until his entire face was red. He normally didn’t say much during these times, but you could cut the tension with a knife. No, imagine this for a two day drive. *
To help pass the time in the car, Daddy brought along a couple of books to read aloud. Now, I for one can’t read in the car. It makes me carsick. Daddy on the other hand, can apparently read for hours without one tiny bit of motion sickness, and am I glad for it. Daddy reading to us in the car wasn’t a new thing. Even now, he’ll read on long trips if he has a book. I love to listen to him read. He has such a powerful voice, you wouldn’t think he’d be one to do the voices for characters, but he does. His voice will melodiously change from gruff to stern to dumbfounded to soothing while reading. It’s amazing. The books that he brought along were the first few in a series known as “Hank the Cowdog.” This series features Hand, a cowdog, which is like a cowboy, only in dog form. Hank thinks that he’s just class A, number one on the ranch. Unfortunately, Hank’s not very bright, and this leads to many an adventure.
Daddy reading those books certainly did pass the time on the drive to Ohio.
#2-The Relatives Came (a teaser)
On the note of stories that Daddy used to read, there’s one book that I also really like. It’s called “How the Relatives Came.” It’s a book about a family who has moved away from Appalachia and how their relatives come to visit (shocking I know). Anyway, it’s a really good book. It talks about how the family from Appalachia all pile into a couple of cars, and they drive through the night, and they sleep on the floors in the house and are loud and crazy, and everyone has fun, and then when they leave in a few days, everyone breaths a sigh of relief, but then they miss them. This book reminds me of our visit to Appalachia that winter. I won’t expound too much on our Christmas in Ohio (I need stories for tomorrow), but suffice it to say that it was loud, and crazy, and no one ever seemed to have their teeth in.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Because I'm bad at blogging everyday, and am now 2 days behind. I will give you 2 stories today, and 2 tomorrow...it's getting hard to think of these things!
Story #1:
Our very first Christmas in Florida I was in the third grade. Mom worked with the children’s ministry, and conducted the children’s choir. That Christmas the children’s program was the nativity story. We were wrapped in what felt like yards of cloth, that smelled like it had been stored in and attic for about 10 years; probably because they had been. Because of the lack of little girls at the church, and because my Mommy was the director, I got to be Mary. Hurt Head stared as the baby Jesus. My one line in the performance was “And they said that his name was Jesus” which came during a song that the shepherds were singing.
Story#2
At some point in our time in Florida, I’m not sure of which Christmas it was (I’m leaning towards the helmet hair one) Daddy decided that because we lived in Florida, and there weren’t “Christmas” trees that grew in our area, we should have a tree native to our area. We had a palm tree for Christmas. As odd as it sounds, it was actually quite pretty. We bought one from a nursery, so that we could plant it after Christmas. We wrapped it in white lights, and had to buy delicate gold ornaments to hang from the leaves, because all of our other ornaments were too heavy. Once decorated, it was beautiful. After Christmas (but before New Year, because it’s bad luck to go into the new year with your tree still up), we planted the palm in our front yard.
I was looking at our old house on Google the other day, and that palm is still there.
Story #1:
Our very first Christmas in Florida I was in the third grade. Mom worked with the children’s ministry, and conducted the children’s choir. That Christmas the children’s program was the nativity story. We were wrapped in what felt like yards of cloth, that smelled like it had been stored in and attic for about 10 years; probably because they had been. Because of the lack of little girls at the church, and because my Mommy was the director, I got to be Mary. Hurt Head stared as the baby Jesus. My one line in the performance was “And they said that his name was Jesus” which came during a song that the shepherds were singing.
Story#2
At some point in our time in Florida, I’m not sure of which Christmas it was (I’m leaning towards the helmet hair one) Daddy decided that because we lived in Florida, and there weren’t “Christmas” trees that grew in our area, we should have a tree native to our area. We had a palm tree for Christmas. As odd as it sounds, it was actually quite pretty. We bought one from a nursery, so that we could plant it after Christmas. We wrapped it in white lights, and had to buy delicate gold ornaments to hang from the leaves, because all of our other ornaments were too heavy. Once decorated, it was beautiful. After Christmas (but before New Year, because it’s bad luck to go into the new year with your tree still up), we planted the palm in our front yard.
I was looking at our old house on Google the other day, and that palm is still there.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Christmas 'do
When I was in the fourth grade, my family began attending First Christian Church in Sebring, FL. I was the youngest person in the church, followed by my brother, then my parents. It soon became tradition that I would sing some Christmas song that spelled Christmas out, explaining what each letter was for. C is for the Christ child, born upon this day, H for how the Herald angels sang. R is for Redeemer, I for Israel…I can’t remember the rest. Anyway, you get the picture. It’s a cute song and apparently, I looked pretty cute singing it. I wore this little red and green taffeta dress, with a strange square white collar. I also had “awesome” hair. I know it might sound strange to some of you, but my hair wasn’t always curly. I had this little chin length bob, and mom curled it all under, curled my bangs, and then applied so much hairspray that a nuclear bomb wouldn’t have disturbed the ‘do. It looked a lot like a helmet, or some sort of video game person. I was embarrassed by this hairdo, but the dress and the fact that every single old person in the church (the entire population) told me that I was beautiful, adorable, or amazing in some way or another seemed to make up for it. Apart from the hair and the weird collar, it was nice.
The first Christmas Eve night that I did this my Uncle and his family had come down to visit my Granddaddy. My Grandma also came down for Christmas, so the entire family was there to watch me sing! After church my Uncle and his family and my Grandma all came over to my house to open presents. Grandma made all the grand kids matching PJs. Well, the boys had boy PJs and the girls had nightgowns. I remember thinking as I was pulling that flannel nightgown over my helmet hair (which hurt by the way) that it was a little embarrassing. Not the nightgown. I loved it. I loved nightgowns. It wasn’t even embarrassing that my older cousin (of 4 years) and younger cousin (of 8 years) were wearing the same nightgown that I was wearing. It wasn’t embarrassing how we all had to sit on the overstuffed chair and have our pictures made together for no less than 5 pictures.
It was the hair. But luckily, I have plenty of pictures to remind me of it.
The first Christmas Eve night that I did this my Uncle and his family had come down to visit my Granddaddy. My Grandma also came down for Christmas, so the entire family was there to watch me sing! After church my Uncle and his family and my Grandma all came over to my house to open presents. Grandma made all the grand kids matching PJs. Well, the boys had boy PJs and the girls had nightgowns. I remember thinking as I was pulling that flannel nightgown over my helmet hair (which hurt by the way) that it was a little embarrassing. Not the nightgown. I loved it. I loved nightgowns. It wasn’t even embarrassing that my older cousin (of 4 years) and younger cousin (of 8 years) were wearing the same nightgown that I was wearing. It wasn’t embarrassing how we all had to sit on the overstuffed chair and have our pictures made together for no less than 5 pictures.
It was the hair. But luckily, I have plenty of pictures to remind me of it.
Friday, December 4, 2009
2 for the price of 1
Story #1
The Christmas we lived in Washington was the only Christmas that we had a live Christmas tree. We went as a family to a Christmas tree farm somewhere out in the country. The farm had all sorts of things to look at, even live reindeer! I was so excited! We were allowed to pet the reindeer and give them feed and hay to eat. It was so neat.
After feeding the reindeer we went to pick out and cut down our Christmas tree. It was Justin’s job to cut down the selected tree. Justin, being 9 years old, was sure that cutting down this tree wouldn’t be a problem. He was so macho. About 3 minutes into sawing the tree down he decided that he just couldn’t do it. He was too tired. I’m pretty sure that dad made him try for at least a few more minutes, and then ended up cutting down the tree himself. (It was only about 3 inches in diameter). Dad was also the one who ended up dragging/carrying the tree to the car. Once we got back to the car, we decided that we were hungry, and there just happened to be sausages for sell in the gift shop of the farm. Dad went and bought all of us a sausage dog. I was a very picky eater, so I was told that it was a hotdog. After eating our delicious lunch, we tied the tree to the top of the car and started on the drive home.
About half way home, Justin informed me that the “hotdog” I had eaten was really sausage. I told him that I didn’t care, because I liked it. He then told me that it was reindeer sausage, as in, MADE OUT OF REINDEER; just like the one I had petted earlier, probably on of Santa’s. At this I was really upset. I asked mom if it was true, and she confirmed it.
I had indeed eaten reindeer, but no, it was not one of Santa’s, because Santa’s live in the North Pole.
Story#2
After we got that Christmas tree home and in the house we began decorating it. Dad strung the lights (white and twinkling), then mom and I put red bows, red balls, and candy canes on the tree. It was so beautiful. It reminded me of the beautiful trees that you see in department stores. I was so moved by our trees beauty, I asked mom if we could all stand around it and sing Christmas carols while she played the piano.
Everyone laughed at me, and we did not sing.
The Christmas we lived in Washington was the only Christmas that we had a live Christmas tree. We went as a family to a Christmas tree farm somewhere out in the country. The farm had all sorts of things to look at, even live reindeer! I was so excited! We were allowed to pet the reindeer and give them feed and hay to eat. It was so neat.
After feeding the reindeer we went to pick out and cut down our Christmas tree. It was Justin’s job to cut down the selected tree. Justin, being 9 years old, was sure that cutting down this tree wouldn’t be a problem. He was so macho. About 3 minutes into sawing the tree down he decided that he just couldn’t do it. He was too tired. I’m pretty sure that dad made him try for at least a few more minutes, and then ended up cutting down the tree himself. (It was only about 3 inches in diameter). Dad was also the one who ended up dragging/carrying the tree to the car. Once we got back to the car, we decided that we were hungry, and there just happened to be sausages for sell in the gift shop of the farm. Dad went and bought all of us a sausage dog. I was a very picky eater, so I was told that it was a hotdog. After eating our delicious lunch, we tied the tree to the top of the car and started on the drive home.
About half way home, Justin informed me that the “hotdog” I had eaten was really sausage. I told him that I didn’t care, because I liked it. He then told me that it was reindeer sausage, as in, MADE OUT OF REINDEER; just like the one I had petted earlier, probably on of Santa’s. At this I was really upset. I asked mom if it was true, and she confirmed it.
I had indeed eaten reindeer, but no, it was not one of Santa’s, because Santa’s live in the North Pole.
Story#2
After we got that Christmas tree home and in the house we began decorating it. Dad strung the lights (white and twinkling), then mom and I put red bows, red balls, and candy canes on the tree. It was so beautiful. It reminded me of the beautiful trees that you see in department stores. I was so moved by our trees beauty, I asked mom if we could all stand around it and sing Christmas carols while she played the piano.
Everyone laughed at me, and we did not sing.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Southern Belles and red rings
Here it is, Christmas Story #2.
This story skips ahead a few years to when I was 7. Dad had been in Korea for a year and came home right before Christmas. Before he got home, we packed up all of our belongings (well, the Army people did) and Justin, Mom and I moved into Grandma’s for a few weeks so that once dad got home we could move to Washington. This was exciting and terrifying all at the same time. I was really excited to get to live with Grandma for a little bit, and moving was always neat, and we were going to get to see the Grand Canyon on the way to Washington, AND, Daddy was going to be home. All very exciting. The terrifying bit came into play because Justin told me that Washington was a Yankee state, and I was personally terrified of Yankees. All I knew about them was that they marched into Atlanta, burned it up and made Scarlet wear ugly dresses and eat dirt. I did not want anything to do with them, or the way they spoke too fast and loud, chewed their food with their mouths open, talked with their mouths full, ate with their elbows on the table, never said “excuse me” and were just generally rude. All of these “misconceptions” were Mom’s fault for two reasons: she let me watch WAY too much Gone With the Wind and she would tell me that Yankees did the opposite of whatever she wanted me to do (very helpful when teaching me manners).
So anyway, we’re staying at Grandma’s house in Cusseta GA and mom went and got Daddy from the airport and for Christmas/Homecoming present he gave me a pair of beautiful RED ROPERS. They were marvelous. I’m pretty sure I wanted to sleep in them, and when I couldn’t there were tears involved. Dad also made me a red belt to match my red ropers, and the belt had my name on the back, in silver! I thought I was something to look at. I was so excited.
This is also the Christmas that I acquired, via a rescue from my cousin, Hurt Head. Hurt Head is a baby doll that was in a box of hand-me-downs from my older cousin. She is named such because something in the box dug into her head and caused it to crack. Thus giving her a hurt head, thus the name Hurt Head. (Yes, that is what I call her, even now, because, that’s her name, and you do go changing people’s names!)
Back to the red ropers…a few days after Christmas it snowed! I went outside to join my brother in a snowball fight, only to find that my lovely red ropers left horrible red rings in the snow everywhere I walked. Daddy made me come inside and take off my beautiful boots so that all of the color wouldn’t fade off. He had to re-dye them and seal them before I was allowed to wear them again.
I wore those ropers the entire way to Washington, because, well, Yankee’s just don’t have shoes like those.
This story skips ahead a few years to when I was 7. Dad had been in Korea for a year and came home right before Christmas. Before he got home, we packed up all of our belongings (well, the Army people did) and Justin, Mom and I moved into Grandma’s for a few weeks so that once dad got home we could move to Washington. This was exciting and terrifying all at the same time. I was really excited to get to live with Grandma for a little bit, and moving was always neat, and we were going to get to see the Grand Canyon on the way to Washington, AND, Daddy was going to be home. All very exciting. The terrifying bit came into play because Justin told me that Washington was a Yankee state, and I was personally terrified of Yankees. All I knew about them was that they marched into Atlanta, burned it up and made Scarlet wear ugly dresses and eat dirt. I did not want anything to do with them, or the way they spoke too fast and loud, chewed their food with their mouths open, talked with their mouths full, ate with their elbows on the table, never said “excuse me” and were just generally rude. All of these “misconceptions” were Mom’s fault for two reasons: she let me watch WAY too much Gone With the Wind and she would tell me that Yankees did the opposite of whatever she wanted me to do (very helpful when teaching me manners).
So anyway, we’re staying at Grandma’s house in Cusseta GA and mom went and got Daddy from the airport and for Christmas/Homecoming present he gave me a pair of beautiful RED ROPERS. They were marvelous. I’m pretty sure I wanted to sleep in them, and when I couldn’t there were tears involved. Dad also made me a red belt to match my red ropers, and the belt had my name on the back, in silver! I thought I was something to look at. I was so excited.
This is also the Christmas that I acquired, via a rescue from my cousin, Hurt Head. Hurt Head is a baby doll that was in a box of hand-me-downs from my older cousin. She is named such because something in the box dug into her head and caused it to crack. Thus giving her a hurt head, thus the name Hurt Head. (Yes, that is what I call her, even now, because, that’s her name, and you do go changing people’s names!)
Back to the red ropers…a few days after Christmas it snowed! I went outside to join my brother in a snowball fight, only to find that my lovely red ropers left horrible red rings in the snow everywhere I walked. Daddy made me come inside and take off my beautiful boots so that all of the color wouldn’t fade off. He had to re-dye them and seal them before I was allowed to wear them again.
I wore those ropers the entire way to Washington, because, well, Yankee’s just don’t have shoes like those.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...
This one isn’t so much a memory as it is a story unfolded to me in a series of snapshots.
We have these pictures from the Christmas that I was two. Mom and Dad and Justin were apparently really excited and woke up really early to open presents. I on the other hand didn’t appear to be as excited. The first picture shows 2 year old Ginnie in her nightgown, pacifier in mouth, bed head, sitting on the couch looking not so excited. (Justin looks ecstatic.) The second picture is of Justin ripping off wrapping paper. In the background Daddy is showing me the doll stroller with Marshmallow Baby. I have my hand on my head appearing to be upset. The third and final picture in the series shows Justin and I sitting next to each other. Justin looks quite happy with all of his presents. All of my presents are still wrapped and I’m crying (with my pacifier still in my mouth). Apparently I didn’t want to be up that early with pictures being taken of me.
Tragic.
I know.
We have these pictures from the Christmas that I was two. Mom and Dad and Justin were apparently really excited and woke up really early to open presents. I on the other hand didn’t appear to be as excited. The first picture shows 2 year old Ginnie in her nightgown, pacifier in mouth, bed head, sitting on the couch looking not so excited. (Justin looks ecstatic.) The second picture is of Justin ripping off wrapping paper. In the background Daddy is showing me the doll stroller with Marshmallow Baby. I have my hand on my head appearing to be upset. The third and final picture in the series shows Justin and I sitting next to each other. Justin looks quite happy with all of his presents. All of my presents are still wrapped and I’m crying (with my pacifier still in my mouth). Apparently I didn’t want to be up that early with pictures being taken of me.
Tragic.
I know.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Christmas Lights and Choo-choo trains
Over the Thanksgiving break I was able to go to Callaway Garden’s Fantasy in Lights. Now, typically, I take my holidays one at a time, and hate to put one in front of another, but I was really looking forward to this. My Mom, sister DeAnna, my roommate Folsom, my sister-in-law Edie, my 23 month old niece Elizah, and myself tagged along with my fiancé’s family. Some of the smaller kids in the family rode in David’s aunt’s van, but for the most part, we rode in the trolley. I hadn’t been to see the lights in years, but it was magical. Listening to Christmas music with the cold air stinging our cheeks was a great way to bring in the holidays. Even more fun than seeing the Christmas lights was watching the reactions of both David’s nephew Michael, who just turned two, and my niece. Elizah was in awe the entire time, well, until she finally fell asleep. Michael on the other hand was only too happy to shoot the lights out! Upon entering the path of lights Michael begin yelling “pow” while pointing at the lights. It was so funny! He did this for about the first 10 minutes of the ride, and then randomly throughout. Apparently he thought they were too bright, too loud, or just too there. After the ride was over, my crew ventured to the Christmas village, where there were vendors selling jams, ornaments, nutcrackers and the like. The Christmas village was also where Santa was. We took Elizah to the gates outside the line to sit on Santa’s lap so she could see him. Instead of being interested in him, she was interested in the train circling around the top of the “hut” that Santa was sitting in. Elizah didn’t want to take her eyes off of that train. She would ask for it when it would travel out of sight, and when we could see it again, she would get so excited! I think that she probably would have stayed and watched that train all night. I think that maybe Santa needs to bring little Liza one for Christmas! We all had such a good time, and it brought back so many memories of when I was a little kid.
This time of year always brings back so many memories, and “stories.” So, for your entertainment, I’ve decided to try to come up with one story for each day leading up to Christmas. Think of it as you very own, very different advent calendar. I’ll begin on the first of December, but to tide you over for the next few days, I’ll give you a teaser. Some of these potential stories involve: a pair of red ropers, a red dress, a purple hippopotamus, singing around the Christmas tree, and reindeer sausage, just to name a few.
This time of year always brings back so many memories, and “stories.” So, for your entertainment, I’ve decided to try to come up with one story for each day leading up to Christmas. Think of it as you very own, very different advent calendar. I’ll begin on the first of December, but to tide you over for the next few days, I’ll give you a teaser. Some of these potential stories involve: a pair of red ropers, a red dress, a purple hippopotamus, singing around the Christmas tree, and reindeer sausage, just to name a few.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Wedding Crasher
I have a confession to make. I crashed a wedding last night for the free dinner. Did I know the bride? Well, we might have met, once. My roommate was invited to the wedding and I attended as her “date.” The bride is a sorority sister alum, so we do have mutual friends, a few of which were in attendance. I feel like this justified my presents. It was a beautiful wedding (and I normally don’t enjoy weddings), and even though I didn’t know very many people there, I had fun. The food was great, typical wedding type flavors.
As strange as it may seem, I think that this wedding will be one that I won’t quickly forget. Not having the money for groceries, or the desire to go buy a few with just short time before Thanksgiving break, was the drive behind both of us attending the wedding. These moments when we resent still being in college, when all that’s in the kitchen is ramen, well, these are the memories that you hang onto. These are the times that build character and ingenuity. These are the moments that feed you.
As strange as it may seem, I think that this wedding will be one that I won’t quickly forget. Not having the money for groceries, or the desire to go buy a few with just short time before Thanksgiving break, was the drive behind both of us attending the wedding. These moments when we resent still being in college, when all that’s in the kitchen is ramen, well, these are the memories that you hang onto. These are the times that build character and ingenuity. These are the moments that feed you.
Friday, November 13, 2009
one down four to go...
I finished my last week of clinic today. I had assumed that by this point in the semester I would be so relieved to be finished with clinic that I would celebrate its end with a MEDIUM strawberry margarita. Surprisingly I’m kind of sad. I feel certain that after finals I’ll be ready for that margarita, but right now, I just wish I’d had one more week. A few more sessions in order to reach the goals. Another opportunity to help these children improve their communicative abilities. Don’t get me wrong. There are days that I dread clinic. There are days when I’m tired and stressed and my creativity is all tapped out. There are days when I would much rather do summersaults than work on one more /r/ sound. I’m ready for a break. I’m ready to go home and sleep late and spend time with the ones that I love. But all in all, ending clinic is bitter sweet. I realize that this is what my professors were talking about when they told us that we would know if this profession is for us when we hated the classes but loved the clinic. I’m looking forward to the new challenges that next semester will bring. I’m ready to have adult clients (and if I never have to work on /r/ again, I won’t be in tears).
But first, that margarita.
But first, that margarita.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
3 little Grad students standing in a row...
This isn’t an emo blog. Neither is it deep or thoughtful. It’s just a story that I told today…a true story.
We (some people from my cohort) we eating lunch today and talking about how sensory oriented we all are. The conclusion was made that I win at being overly tactile sensitive because I wipe off my hands when I touch something I don’t like, and if I really don’t like it, I flap. The conclusion was also made that I’m the most “autistic.” You see, I made the mistake of explaining that as a child I would just sit on the floor of my room and count. Just count. Not count things, or objects, or sheep in my head. I would just sit and count. And my mom would pop her head in my room to see what I was doing, and I would proudly tell her what number I had just reached in my counting. “I just got to 5, 783 Mom!” It would get really bad if I was somewhere unfamiliar, but then I would count things. I would count bricks on the wall, rocks on the ground, and stitches on a pillow. After I had satisfactory counted my way through the room, I would let someone I trusted (normally Mom) know how many of each object were contained in that space.
I’m officially the weird one now….
Just need to learn to keep my mouth shut.
By the way, there are 17 girls in my cohort. 6 from Montevallo. 2 non-background. 1 from Alabama. 1 from Ole Miss. 2 from Auburn and 5 from AUM.
5 of those girls are married. 1 is divorced. 3 of us are engaged. 2 are in relationships and 6 are single.
There are 3 people who’s last names are Smith
2 are from other countries.
3 redheads
I can’t tell you all of their last names….
We (some people from my cohort) we eating lunch today and talking about how sensory oriented we all are. The conclusion was made that I win at being overly tactile sensitive because I wipe off my hands when I touch something I don’t like, and if I really don’t like it, I flap. The conclusion was also made that I’m the most “autistic.” You see, I made the mistake of explaining that as a child I would just sit on the floor of my room and count. Just count. Not count things, or objects, or sheep in my head. I would just sit and count. And my mom would pop her head in my room to see what I was doing, and I would proudly tell her what number I had just reached in my counting. “I just got to 5, 783 Mom!” It would get really bad if I was somewhere unfamiliar, but then I would count things. I would count bricks on the wall, rocks on the ground, and stitches on a pillow. After I had satisfactory counted my way through the room, I would let someone I trusted (normally Mom) know how many of each object were contained in that space.
I’m officially the weird one now….
Just need to learn to keep my mouth shut.
By the way, there are 17 girls in my cohort. 6 from Montevallo. 2 non-background. 1 from Alabama. 1 from Ole Miss. 2 from Auburn and 5 from AUM.
5 of those girls are married. 1 is divorced. 3 of us are engaged. 2 are in relationships and 6 are single.
There are 3 people who’s last names are Smith
2 are from other countries.
3 redheads
I can’t tell you all of their last names….
Monday, November 2, 2009
It is well
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
* Refrain:
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
* Refrain:
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Boulders and Bigfoot
I went on a hike yesterday. It was about 8 miles long and it seemed to be completely uphill. It was a long, yet fulfilling day spent with my fiancé and one of my best friends. Along the way we would stop, mostly to catch our breath, but also to admire the beautiful fall scenery and the landmarks along the way. About halfway up the mountain we started seeing boulders protruding from the ground. One small one we saw looked like a giant dog paw. This reminded me of a story….
When I was 5 we lived on Ft. Benning Army post in GA. We lived in the military housing and it sort of resembled a very plan townhouse/apartment. There were 5 or 6 of these homes per building. They were brick from the bottom to the second floor, where they switched to vinyl. Ours was a “lovely” shade of moss green. We lived in “D” which was on the right half of the building. On the left half of the building was a hill that had a large area that had been washed out. Being Georgia this pit was made of orange clay. On the occasion that my mom would allow my brother and me to play on that side of the building, we would gather friends and head to “Bigfoot’s footprint.” We had somehow come to the conclusion that this pit had areas that resembled toes and the pad of a foot and so, logically, it must have been the footprint of Bigfoot. We would emerge, orange from head to toe, from the “footprint” after playing, when the street lights came on and it was time to wash up for dinner. We never failed to have fun in that clay pit.
Several years later we drove past our old house and my brother and I asked my dad to stop the car so that we could go see “Bigfoot’s footprint.” Were we ever surprised! It was tiny; probably no more than 5 feet across in any direction, if that. It was really kind of disappointing to realize that a memory we had had for so long had been so skewed; that the Bigfoot footprint was really just a small eroded hole in the hillside and not a giant playground as we had remembered. But the funny thing is, when I think back to that time of being an orange, dirty kid, I don’t think about the reality of it all. I think about how we would play with our friends and fantasize about what Bigfoot had been doing to leave that footprint. I remember the fun first, the reality later.
Isn’t it wonderful?! To be able to hold on to those fond, sweet memories. To have them even when you know that there is a truer reality out there.
When I was 5 we lived on Ft. Benning Army post in GA. We lived in the military housing and it sort of resembled a very plan townhouse/apartment. There were 5 or 6 of these homes per building. They were brick from the bottom to the second floor, where they switched to vinyl. Ours was a “lovely” shade of moss green. We lived in “D” which was on the right half of the building. On the left half of the building was a hill that had a large area that had been washed out. Being Georgia this pit was made of orange clay. On the occasion that my mom would allow my brother and me to play on that side of the building, we would gather friends and head to “Bigfoot’s footprint.” We had somehow come to the conclusion that this pit had areas that resembled toes and the pad of a foot and so, logically, it must have been the footprint of Bigfoot. We would emerge, orange from head to toe, from the “footprint” after playing, when the street lights came on and it was time to wash up for dinner. We never failed to have fun in that clay pit.
Several years later we drove past our old house and my brother and I asked my dad to stop the car so that we could go see “Bigfoot’s footprint.” Were we ever surprised! It was tiny; probably no more than 5 feet across in any direction, if that. It was really kind of disappointing to realize that a memory we had had for so long had been so skewed; that the Bigfoot footprint was really just a small eroded hole in the hillside and not a giant playground as we had remembered. But the funny thing is, when I think back to that time of being an orange, dirty kid, I don’t think about the reality of it all. I think about how we would play with our friends and fantasize about what Bigfoot had been doing to leave that footprint. I remember the fun first, the reality later.
Isn’t it wonderful?! To be able to hold on to those fond, sweet memories. To have them even when you know that there is a truer reality out there.
Monday, October 19, 2009
sweet times
I had s’mores tonight. This was the second time I had them this week. We bought the stuff, and roasted the marshmallows over the stove. An electric stove. And amazingly the marshmallows we able to both get nice and toasty and golden brown as well as crispy and burnt. It’s been a lot of fun making and eating these wonderful treats it has been even more fun being with the people who we ate them with. Saturday, the original day of the s’more was spent with my sweetheart who drove up for a visit. He, my roommate and I had a blast standing around the stove eating and talking and laughing. Tonight we had just as much fun with a few additional friends. They’ve been here for a while now and it’s been a blast. We’ve laughed and played in ways that I haven’t been able to do for a while…
As you can probably tell from my last few emo tweets, I’ve been under a bit (or a lot) of stress lately. This weekend, and tonight, I laughed.
As you can probably tell from my last few emo tweets, I’ve been under a bit (or a lot) of stress lately. This weekend, and tonight, I laughed.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
a tiring optimist?
I was flipping through the channels the other day and saw a little snippet about the TLC special on Michael J Fox titled “The Adventures of an Incurable Optimist.” Now, we all know that Michael J Fox has a rare case of Parkinson’s disease. In my Neurology class I have learned a bit about this disease. I know that Parkinson’s is caused by the neurotransmitter Dopamine not being absorbed by the Basal Ganglia (along with a few other brain parts like the Subthalamus). There is medication for this, an artificial type of Dopamine, but the thing with the medications is, it only works for about 5 years, and it just masks the problem, so in 5 years, when the Basal Ganglia will no longer absorb the artificial Dopamine all the symptoms come back; only, their worse. They’ve been progressing over the past 5 years and you just haven’t been able to see them. Now, doctors tell you this when they diagnose you and prescribe the medication. Naturally, most people opt to take the medication. Five years is a very long time to live while facing an incurable disease. Most people aren’t diagnosed with this disease until later in life; so 5 years is even longer to live “normally” when you’re only looking at only 10 or 15 years left in your lifespan anyway. Mr. Fox’s condition is a very rare form, and he was diagnosed at a very young age. He has a very long time to live with this condition. Apparently this TLC special is about his fight in all of this; lobbing Congress for research funding, and his fight to stay positive through it all.
(Sorry for the long intro)
Watching this snippet left me wondering, were do we draw the line between being an optimist and being a realist. When do you stop seeing the silver lining? Do you ever stop when facing a problem such as this? Can you still be an optimist while taking in the entirety of the problem? Can you be an optimist and not just minimize the problem? Where does the balance rest?
(Sorry for the long intro)
Watching this snippet left me wondering, were do we draw the line between being an optimist and being a realist. When do you stop seeing the silver lining? Do you ever stop when facing a problem such as this? Can you still be an optimist while taking in the entirety of the problem? Can you be an optimist and not just minimize the problem? Where does the balance rest?
Monday, October 12, 2009
A prayer
The past two weeks have been pretty, um, interesting. I was talking to my mom last night and the subject of our conversation reminded me of a verse from Job.
Job 1:20-21 (NIV) says:
20 At this, Job got up and tore his robe and shaved his head. Then he fell to the ground in worship 21 and said:
"Naked I came from my mother's womb,
and naked I will depart. [c]
The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away;
may the name of the LORD be praised."
I taught on this verse as the Chaplin of my sorority one week when I was going through similar circumstances as my family is facing now.
You see, this verse has always meant a lot to me because I strive to be like Job but always fall short. As a “fixer” I have a really hard time “letting go and letting God.” I tend to verbally “give it to God” and then snatch it back so that I can do it myself, fix it how I want it fixed and be in control of the situation. That’s my biggest vise. I am a control freak. I want it done my way and on my schedule. Allowing myself to be seen in my imperfections, my weaknesses exposed, even to the one, true, God who knows the very number of hairs on my head, who already knows my heart and my venerability, is still very hard. To completely expose yourself, and then to praise God in the midst of sorrow and grief and shame…what a way to experience the total and complete love of God. If only we could do that, then we might be able to see a light at the end of the preverbal tunnel.
That is my prayer; to be able to fall onto my face, and to still praise the name of the Lord.
Job 1:20-21 (NIV) says:
20 At this, Job got up and tore his robe and shaved his head. Then he fell to the ground in worship 21 and said:
"Naked I came from my mother's womb,
and naked I will depart. [c]
The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away;
may the name of the LORD be praised."
I taught on this verse as the Chaplin of my sorority one week when I was going through similar circumstances as my family is facing now.
You see, this verse has always meant a lot to me because I strive to be like Job but always fall short. As a “fixer” I have a really hard time “letting go and letting God.” I tend to verbally “give it to God” and then snatch it back so that I can do it myself, fix it how I want it fixed and be in control of the situation. That’s my biggest vise. I am a control freak. I want it done my way and on my schedule. Allowing myself to be seen in my imperfections, my weaknesses exposed, even to the one, true, God who knows the very number of hairs on my head, who already knows my heart and my venerability, is still very hard. To completely expose yourself, and then to praise God in the midst of sorrow and grief and shame…what a way to experience the total and complete love of God. If only we could do that, then we might be able to see a light at the end of the preverbal tunnel.
That is my prayer; to be able to fall onto my face, and to still praise the name of the Lord.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Worms!!!
I was at a pumpkin patch today with my family. The weather was perfect for it, the sky was bright blue and the air had that autumn crispness to it. We were all going through a hay maze, following my 21 month old niece. We walked over a patch of large acorns and she bent down to pick a few up. I did the same and it reminded me of a craft project I completed in the 4th grade.
It was around Thanksgiving that fateful fall. We had a class competition on who could make the best turkey. We all had the same turkey cutout, made of a file folder. We were told to go home and decorate it however we wanted. In a week we would bring them back to school and they would be judged by our neighboring class. Our names were hidden underneath the turkey, so this would be an unbiased judging (see the vocabulary word there?). Well, I was really excited. I went home and started brainstorming with my mom and grandmother who lived with us at the time. It was decided that I should decorate this turkey in and appropriately fall manner, with acorns and fall leaves (not so easy to find in south FL by the way). At the end of our road was an oak tree, and I’m pretty sure it was the only one in our town. I’m not sure what kind of oak it was, but it made acorns that were longer than usual and very smooth and shiny. My grandmother and I walked to the end of the road with a bag and collected handfuls of these things, as well as the leaves that had begun to fall. We went home and glued these onto my turkey cutout. It was beautiful. We sprayed it with hairspray to give it a luster and to keep the leaves from crumbling apart. I took my turkey to school and everyone was talking about how great it looked. I was going to with this competition for sure!
Well, in south FL, the heat is cranked on in the buildings as soon as the temperature dipped below 70 degrees. Apparently some types of acorns have larva that live in them and apparently these larva like to hatch and crawl out of people’s 4th grade Thanksgiving turkeys in warm temperatures. I learned this the hard way. Pretty soon the entire class was gathered around the craft table staring and shrieking that “Ginnie’s turkey had worms.” By the time the neighboring class came over to judge the turkeys mine was sitting OUTSIDE the classroom, by our back door, next to our weather station. No Thanksgiving prize for Ginnie.
As you can probably tell, this was a tragic thing for a 10 year old little girl to have to deal with. Moral of the story…don’t make a turkey from leaves and acorns, well, leaves are OK, but keep the acorns outside.
It was around Thanksgiving that fateful fall. We had a class competition on who could make the best turkey. We all had the same turkey cutout, made of a file folder. We were told to go home and decorate it however we wanted. In a week we would bring them back to school and they would be judged by our neighboring class. Our names were hidden underneath the turkey, so this would be an unbiased judging (see the vocabulary word there?). Well, I was really excited. I went home and started brainstorming with my mom and grandmother who lived with us at the time. It was decided that I should decorate this turkey in and appropriately fall manner, with acorns and fall leaves (not so easy to find in south FL by the way). At the end of our road was an oak tree, and I’m pretty sure it was the only one in our town. I’m not sure what kind of oak it was, but it made acorns that were longer than usual and very smooth and shiny. My grandmother and I walked to the end of the road with a bag and collected handfuls of these things, as well as the leaves that had begun to fall. We went home and glued these onto my turkey cutout. It was beautiful. We sprayed it with hairspray to give it a luster and to keep the leaves from crumbling apart. I took my turkey to school and everyone was talking about how great it looked. I was going to with this competition for sure!
Well, in south FL, the heat is cranked on in the buildings as soon as the temperature dipped below 70 degrees. Apparently some types of acorns have larva that live in them and apparently these larva like to hatch and crawl out of people’s 4th grade Thanksgiving turkeys in warm temperatures. I learned this the hard way. Pretty soon the entire class was gathered around the craft table staring and shrieking that “Ginnie’s turkey had worms.” By the time the neighboring class came over to judge the turkeys mine was sitting OUTSIDE the classroom, by our back door, next to our weather station. No Thanksgiving prize for Ginnie.
As you can probably tell, this was a tragic thing for a 10 year old little girl to have to deal with. Moral of the story…don’t make a turkey from leaves and acorns, well, leaves are OK, but keep the acorns outside.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
I was at Target today looking for the book “The Paperbag Princess.” While I was searching I turned and saw the Disney movie Hocus Pocus. I was so excited to find it! (I also found Bedknobs and Broomsticks!) This brought back so many fond memories of watching it on television at night when it would come on the Disney Channel. This movie would only be shown during the month of October, so it was one of the movies we would look forward to every year. Other movies that we looked forward to included: The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown!; The Charlie Brown Christmas; Rudolph; Frosty the Snowman. There were plenty more to be sure, but the point is, we would look forward to these movies every year. Waiting patiently as the hot summers turned cooled and finally into fall. October brought Halloween, November, Thanksgiving and December, Christmas. These days before DVD’s and the internet that now leave us with little to know anticipation. If I want to watch Hocus Pocus in the middle of March, I can. If I want to watch Frosty the Snowman in the middle of July, well, that’s my prerogative. Now, I am by no means bashing modern technologies. I certainly did buy Hocus Pocus tonight, and I am watching it now. But I just have to wonder if the magic of it will be lost (pun intended).
Sunday, September 27, 2009
This I Know
A friend of mine, a Christian friend, has recently begun “talking to” a young man who considers himself a Deist (not okay FYI). Not knowing very much about this belief I Googled it. I was discussing this belief system with my roommate and her views on the subject. I was reading off a lists of “What Deists Believe” and “Are you a Deist?” to her and we were just baffled. How could someone believe that there is a supreme “being” that created us and the universe but then backed off to let nature run its course and not interfere?
My roommate is a music education major and a composer for our homecoming tradition. She is a very creative person. I knit. We established the fact that, in different ways, we create things. As creators of things we know how much time and energy it takes and how much of your heart goes into the things that you create. I have a very hard time knitting something for someone who isn’t going to take care of it. She has a hard time pouring her heart into her music and presenting it to people who aren’t going to at least try to appreciate it.
These things that we make, we love. If I can’t step away from a scarf and not care about how it’s treated; how could God make me and then just step away? A scarf does not have a personality. It does not have thoughts, and ideas, and emotions, and dreams.
I do.
Psalm 139:13 tells us that God created us, but more than that, he knew us, before even our mothers did.
I grew up in church, singing "Jesus Loves Me" and learning the signs for Jesus and Love. I watched as my parents would take communion and I cried the first time I was allowed to take that little piece of cracker and that tiny cup of grape juice. There has not been a time in my life that I haven’t known of God’s great and powerful love. I have had great joy in my life and known that God was there. I have had great sorrow, and as angry and hurt as I was; still, I knew God was there. How bleak it must be for someone to not know and experience the love of God. How sad and lonely they must be, when all they have to depend on are themselves.
When their only hope is in their own weakness, their imperfection; where does joy come from?
My roommate is a music education major and a composer for our homecoming tradition. She is a very creative person. I knit. We established the fact that, in different ways, we create things. As creators of things we know how much time and energy it takes and how much of your heart goes into the things that you create. I have a very hard time knitting something for someone who isn’t going to take care of it. She has a hard time pouring her heart into her music and presenting it to people who aren’t going to at least try to appreciate it.
These things that we make, we love. If I can’t step away from a scarf and not care about how it’s treated; how could God make me and then just step away? A scarf does not have a personality. It does not have thoughts, and ideas, and emotions, and dreams.
I do.
Psalm 139:13 tells us that God created us, but more than that, he knew us, before even our mothers did.
I grew up in church, singing "Jesus Loves Me" and learning the signs for Jesus and Love. I watched as my parents would take communion and I cried the first time I was allowed to take that little piece of cracker and that tiny cup of grape juice. There has not been a time in my life that I haven’t known of God’s great and powerful love. I have had great joy in my life and known that God was there. I have had great sorrow, and as angry and hurt as I was; still, I knew God was there. How bleak it must be for someone to not know and experience the love of God. How sad and lonely they must be, when all they have to depend on are themselves.
When their only hope is in their own weakness, their imperfection; where does joy come from?
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Trial by fire
I bought a pair of boots yesterday, along with a Pumpkin Spice Latte. I thought it was a fitting way to welcome Fall even if the weather doesn’t feel like it. The boots I bought are knee high, no heel, gray boots. I have deemed them my “trial boots” because I need to know if I actually like boots, or I just like the idea of them. I found this wonderful pair of red knee high boots online, the problem is, they cost no less than $170. Not bad for a pair of leather boots, but much more than I can afford myself: hence the trial boots. You see, I tend to love the idea of something more than the actual something; case in point-layered shirts. I love the look of shirts that are layered upon one another, I however, can never seem to get the layer look just right. I’m always fidgeting with the shirts, whether under or over, pulling at straps and hems and fidgeting the day away. I also tend to get far to hot when wearing layers of clothes. I can handle two shirts OK, if they are necessary and not too thick, but anything else and I feel like a middle aged woman going through “the change.”
So, back to boots; these marvelous red boots that cost oh so much are my dream boots. I plan on asking for them for Christmas if the trial boots seem to be worn enough to warrant a new pair of cooler, redder boots. Sad thing is, I haven’t been able to wear them yet, as, the weather is just too warm for knee high boots. So, fingers crossed that the weather gets that autumn chill soon and I can pull out, and pull on the boots.
Bring on the fall!
So, back to boots; these marvelous red boots that cost oh so much are my dream boots. I plan on asking for them for Christmas if the trial boots seem to be worn enough to warrant a new pair of cooler, redder boots. Sad thing is, I haven’t been able to wear them yet, as, the weather is just too warm for knee high boots. So, fingers crossed that the weather gets that autumn chill soon and I can pull out, and pull on the boots.
Bring on the fall!
Monday, September 21, 2009
Bumped my head, and I went to bed...
It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring”
This entire past week has been one rainy, muggy, nightmare here in central AL. Today our campus shut down because of all of the flooding.
Except for the thunder (which I described to David today as “thunder bursts”) it reminds me of living in Washington. We moved to Ft. Lewis WA when I was 7 (well, 7 ½ to be exact) and lived there until the summer I turned 9. Ft. Lewis just a short distance from Seattle, near Puget Sound. As most people know, it rains 9 months out of the year in this part of the country. During this rainy time of year, the weather man would announce at what time of day we could expect to have a “sun break.” During these time of sun, when the rays of sunlight would break through the clouds, people would emerge from their dwellings, their offices, the sidewalks would become crowded with people who would just turn their faces toward the sky and let the warmth of the sun wash over them.
This memory has always made me laugh, living in a part of the county since then (South FL and AL) that never has a lack of sunlight. Today I’ve been thinking about this a lot and how it’s such an analogy of what our relationship with Christ is like.
During the dark and rainy seasons of our lives, the Son will always be there. We simply must leave the comfort zone, where we are warm and dry, yet miserable. We need to seek out the Son and turn our faces towards His warmth. Turn our hearts to Him to fill with love and comfort. Comfort that we cannot find from a comfy couch and our favorite blanket.
This entire past week has been one rainy, muggy, nightmare here in central AL. Today our campus shut down because of all of the flooding.
Except for the thunder (which I described to David today as “thunder bursts”) it reminds me of living in Washington. We moved to Ft. Lewis WA when I was 7 (well, 7 ½ to be exact) and lived there until the summer I turned 9. Ft. Lewis just a short distance from Seattle, near Puget Sound. As most people know, it rains 9 months out of the year in this part of the country. During this rainy time of year, the weather man would announce at what time of day we could expect to have a “sun break.” During these time of sun, when the rays of sunlight would break through the clouds, people would emerge from their dwellings, their offices, the sidewalks would become crowded with people who would just turn their faces toward the sky and let the warmth of the sun wash over them.
This memory has always made me laugh, living in a part of the county since then (South FL and AL) that never has a lack of sunlight. Today I’ve been thinking about this a lot and how it’s such an analogy of what our relationship with Christ is like.
During the dark and rainy seasons of our lives, the Son will always be there. We simply must leave the comfort zone, where we are warm and dry, yet miserable. We need to seek out the Son and turn our faces towards His warmth. Turn our hearts to Him to fill with love and comfort. Comfort that we cannot find from a comfy couch and our favorite blanket.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
A story about stories
First off, I found a picture of the formerly mentioned red riding boots, if you a curious (or you know, wanting to find the perfect gift for me) here is the link: http://theblackapple.typepad.com/somegirlswander/2008/10/perfect-red-boo.html
As alluded to by my previous blog entry I view this blog as a place for my many-often unappreciated-stories to live. It seems that I always have a story to contribute to conversations or rants no mater their subject area. Those I love have come to tolerate, and I think love, my stories; those who are just beginning to know me tend to find them bothersome. I can't really help it though. I know my pragmatics and because of this, I know that it is acceptable to contribute to social situations in such a way.
My stories are my memories. Many of them come from times when I was younger; things that made me happy or that had a significant impact on me in some way. Some of them are just a few short sentences. Some of them are lengthy or require background information. I very rarely share the sad stories, though I do have them. I find joy in telling these stories to the people I know and love. It connects me to them in a deeper less superficial way.
I think that you can tell a lot about a person by what they share. So here it is world. Here is my heart.
As alluded to by my previous blog entry I view this blog as a place for my many-often unappreciated-stories to live. It seems that I always have a story to contribute to conversations or rants no mater their subject area. Those I love have come to tolerate, and I think love, my stories; those who are just beginning to know me tend to find them bothersome. I can't really help it though. I know my pragmatics and because of this, I know that it is acceptable to contribute to social situations in such a way.
My stories are my memories. Many of them come from times when I was younger; things that made me happy or that had a significant impact on me in some way. Some of them are just a few short sentences. Some of them are lengthy or require background information. I very rarely share the sad stories, though I do have them. I find joy in telling these stories to the people I know and love. It connects me to them in a deeper less superficial way.
I think that you can tell a lot about a person by what they share. So here it is world. Here is my heart.
Friday, September 18, 2009
A place for my stories
I decided to create this blog as a place for me to put my many stories. I will begin with one that gave me the title for this blog.
From the time I can remember, I’ve always loved red cowboy boots, more specifically, red ropers (which is boot that has a lower hill, a more rounded toe and they don’t go as far up the leg). I had at least three pairs of these growing up; and yet, I still never seemed to get my fill of them. This fascination with red ropers dissipated over the years, at least consciously.
Several years ago I bought a pair of red heels. These quickly became my favorite shoe and I found every reason to wear them. But I never really thought about why I love these shoes so much, I just love them.
Tonight I realized and remembered my fascination. I was at the Ten out of
The thought of red boots, and my past red ropers, filled me with such a great joy! I want that joy that comes from putting on shoes that make me feel like I can do anything. I want to experience that joy that come from putting on a new pair of shoes that give you some sort of mystical power. I want a pair of red ropers (well, riding boots would be nice too).
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