Monthly Archives: June 2013

Bottom Shelf

Nothing like a barfing kid to get me motivated to complete a home improvement project!  G doesn’t mind tending to sick kids and I don’t mind letting him express that side of his Latin machismo.  That’s why I was downstairs this past Sunday painting a bookshelf that has been asking for it for ten years.  Our house was built in 1961, so it is eat up with paneling.  I think the color is called “Trailer Park.”

I’m a DIY dynamo…but only when the short people are barfing.  I put the primer coat on back in February when Vivi had a stomach bug.  I let it cure until June so it could really soak into that paneling.  Then she threw up again and I grabbed a leftover gallon of paint from the garage and ran downstairs.  I spent three hours dabbing and dribbling and sweeping and swiping.

My arm was all cramped up by the time I got to the bottom of nine shelves.  As I’m contorting myself into an angle from which I can paint the bottom of the bottom shelf, it dawned on me that I might could SKIP that step.  I tried to imagine scenarios that might lead to anyone seeing the bottom of this shelf that is 16 inches above the floor in my office.  This is all I came up with, in chronological life order:

  1. You are an infant….so you’re not going to tell anyone because you don’t speak English yet.
  2. You are a kid…so you’re not supposed to be in Mommy’s office rolling around on the floor.  Get out!
  3. You are a teenager…probably snooping.  Be aware Mommy has a webcam trained on you right now.  Get out!
  4. You are getting busy on the new carpet…focus on what you’re doing and not the bookshelves, please!
  5. You are having a heart attack…you’ve got bigger problems.  Call 911!

That about covers it, right?  Why paint the bottom of the bottom shelf?

bob rossWell, I did it anyway.  This office is going to be MY space, the only place in this entire house that is just for Mommy.  The only place with a door that I can shut.  As my Pop would have called it, this is my “Poutin’ House.”  He once called my dad and said, “I want you to come over here and help me build a 10′ x 10′ shack out in the yard and all I’m going to put in it is a rocking chair, a hole in the floor for spitting, and a door that only has a handle on the inside.”  I think he was fed up with Grandmama Irene at the time.

How am I supposed to relax in my space (much less enjoy that carpet), if I know that the bottom of the bottom shelf looks tacky?

What do you think?  Can you cut corners if no one is going to see?

The Teapot On the Floor

small-delft-tulip-teapot-lgI was considering today the word “consideration.”  It can mean so many things. Careful thought, given over time.  Maybe it means “a fact or a motive taken into account in deciding or judging something.”  Something for your consideration.

Being considerate to each other–kindness.  Giving careful thought to something–much consideration.

Here’s another story from that rainy vacation in Maine.  Our room was in the East Lodge, upstairs (because we were spry enough to climb the steep and narrow stairs).  The other guest room in the East Lodge, on the main floor was occupied that week by a quiet elderly couple from Boston.

On a drippy afternoon, I went down to the parlor to find a book from the “take one/leave one” shelf.  As I walked across the large room, a drip of rain plunked on my head.  I stopped to investigate.  Another and another and another…a leak in the ceiling.  I looked around for something to catch the water and protect the rug until I could tell the owners about the situation.  The only container available was a little Delftware teapot on the mantle.  I took the lid off and positioned the teapot under the drip.  Plink, plink, plunk.

I went upstairs to get my boots on so I could walk over to the office…no phones in the East Lodge.  When I came in the room, Richard stirred from his nap and asked what I was doing.  I told him about the drip and the teapot then I went on my way.

Well, a while later when I made it back to the East Lodge from my errand…the teapot had been moved.  It was still positioned under the drip from the ceiling, but it rested atop a small side table.  OK….

Richard rolled over and smiled at me when I came through the door of our room.  I asked him if he had been downstairs and he answered,  “Yeah, I was worried that the older couple in the room below us might not see that little teapot in the middle of the rug, so I put it on the table.  They won’t trip over it now.”

Consideration was one of his dearest qualities.  He gave much careful thought to situations and solutions.  He took the time to be considerate of others and their needs.

We did get to enjoy one pretty day near the end of that rainy week, when we got to take our little boat out of Linekin Bay and sail around the point into Booth Bay Harbor.  And it just so happened to be the day that a Tall Ship Regatta was moored there.  While huddled low in the boat (I never could trust the lurch of the boat and spent most of my sailing time pressed as close to the hull as I could), Richard and our instructor took our little boat in and out among the three-masted great ladies.  Even if I was barely peeking over the side of the boat, my heart filled to bursting, like a sail catching the wind.  I felt like a mouse in a teacup, sneaking into the ball.

An Encourager

message noteOne of the biggest lessons I ever learned fit on a Post-It note.  Back in 1994, I worked with a delightful woman named Lana.  Very positive, gentle and bright.  I stopped by her cubicle one day to ask a question and spied a yellow Post-It note pinned above her phone with these three words:

Be An Encourager

That’s all.  Be an encourager.  A powerful message–I knew instantly exactly what it meant and I’ve carried that simple message for 20 years.

“You can do it.”

“It will be OK.”

“I believe in you.”

“Go on, Girl!”

“Try again.”

“You’ve done scarier stuff than this.”

“Just keep swimming.”

Give Lana’s advice a try today!  You can do it!

Leggo That Eggo

I haven’t lost a single iota of love for my children, but I certainly seem to be lacking in mothering energy this weekend.  Here’s a little vignette that illustrates what I’m getting at.

Vivi has a stomachache, so she didn’t touch her waffle this morning.  I dropped it in the dog’s bowl as I was cleaning up breakfast…about 4:30pm.  About an hour later, I hear G ask the baby, “Where’d you get that waffle, Buddy?” and in a split-second glance, I assess that:

  1. the waffle is missing from the dog bowl
  2. there have been no other sources of wafflery today
  3. the waffle in the baby’s hand is almost gone
  4. he’s eaten worse
  5. my Daddy (a veterinarian) never worries when kids eat a little dog food

CONCLUSION: I didn’t say a word.  Just went on about m’business.

Well, until now.  Hey, G!  Carlos got the waffle out of Huck’s bowl and he’s FINE!  Look how his eyes sparkle!  And isn’t his coat thick and glossy?

funny-dog-ROFL-Scooby-Doo-waffle

A Ship In Harbor

East Cottage at Linekin Bay Resort

East Cottage at Linekin Bay Resort

This cozy spot is at Linekin Bay Resort, a magical place in Maine where Richard and I took our last vacation together.  We had come there to sail–Richard had fond memories of a week his family had spent there when he was a kid.  At Linekin Bay, “all-inclusive” means a room with a view, world class dining AND a 16′ sailboat of your own and lessons each day, out on the waters of Booth Bay.  Weather permitting.

Nine years ago this week, I was sitting in one of those spindly chairs doing an ancient jigsaw puzzle atop that table by the window.  Richard took a nap.  The puzzle was missing a few pieces but assembling it under the quaint yellow light from that lamp soothed my cabin fever.  Incessant rain pelted the balsam trees outside.  A cold June fog settled in so thick that we couldn’t see Cabbage Island.

I had read both books that I had packed for a two week trip.  There were no TVs at Linekin.  No pool table or XBox.  The resort offered many activities–sailing, kayaking, canoeing, swimming, lobster bakes, hiking…weather permitting.  We had already gone shopping in the nearby towns.  Richard wasn’t usually one for sleeping, but that was about all there was to do.  We didn’t know that his energy was so low because of the leukemia.  I read, he slept.  I did puzzles, he slept.  We ate lobster for lunch and dinner.  He cracked and peeled mine for me because I found it ooky yet delicious.

Linekin Bay Boats

Linekin Bay Boats

The resort’s fleet of twenty sailboats lay moored just past the dock, but invisible in the fog.  I cracked the side window an inch so I could listen to the music of the halyards ringing against the masts.  A halyard is the rope with metal clips that lifts the sail up the mast.  This inland girl had never heard that term until a few days before, but I adored the sound of the word itself and the sound made by the thing, too.  To this day, that sound of wind flapping metal against hollow metal takes me back to Maine.

My puzzle was complete–minus the pieces lost years before–and there were several rainy hours to fill before dinner.  I opened the only book I could find in the guest room, a coffee table book about yachts.  Along with the dizzying pictures of boats slicing through the deep sea, my eyes so hungry for something to read found page after page of quotes about sailing and boats.

One stuck with me, that day as we floated in a fog dream, Richard already fighting an illness we couldn’t name and me anxiously pulling at my anchor.

A ship in harbor is safe — but that is not what ships are built for.
John A. Shedd, Salt from My Attic, 1928
 

We thought we were safe that day, but we weren’t.  I thought boredom was my greatest challenge that afternoon, but it wasn’t.  This quote came back to me a year later when I was a widow at 36.  Steering my own ship, venturing out from the harbor.  Finding out what I was built for.

Peace Be With You

After Fartbuster and I separated, I had trouble falling asleep most nights.  Too much going on in my head once life grew still around me.  On nights like that, I would close my eyes and imagine myself cradled in a large strong pair of hands, like one of the Anne Geddes baby portraits that were popular at the time.  Curled up safe, free to slip away into dreams.  Like this…

sleeping deer

What’s your favorite meditation when you want to find peace?  

The Teacher and the Professor

Virginia Bowman Wilcox, PhD

Dr. Virginia Bowman Wilcox

I am tickled pink for my Wesleyan College sister, Virginia Bowman Wilcox, who was just named one of the 20 best education professors in the state of Georgia!  She’s come home to Wesleyan and currently serves as the head of our Education department, where she funnels all her genius and passion for teaching into the next generations of classroom leaders.

Well.

Let me tell you a story about Virginia’s early years in school and a teacher who made a deep impact on her for years.  Names have been changed because…well, the usual reason.

Virginia was in first grade, Mrs. Fineman’s class, when she made the magical connection between the words printed on the page and the story they were telling–she discovered that she could READ.  She was ecstatic!  But there weren’t many books in Virginia’s house.  Just two–the phone book and her mother’s Bible.  Virginia hungered for books.

Mrs. Fineman had a shelf filled with books in her first grade classroom.  She told the children, “These are my books.  I bought them with my own money.  You are never to touch them without my permission and they will never leave this room.”  In the way of small children, Virginia knew the difference between right and wrong…but she wanted to read more than anything.  Each afternoon, she found a way to sneak two of Mrs. Fineman’s books into her bookbag.  She carried them carefully back to her bookless house and told her mother that reading them was part of her homework.  The next day, she brought them back to Mrs. Fineman’s book shelf without a scratch or a smudge.  From September to January, Virginia and her mother spent each evening snuggled close together over the purloined books.

But in January….

This is the part of the story where I interrupted Virginia and squealed, “Mrs. Fineman knew all along, didn’t she?  She was LETTING you sneak those books home!”  Shush, shush, Ashley….let the story unfold.  

One afternoon, Virginia had two books in her book bag and was headed towards the bus.  Mrs. Fineman ran after her with a permission slip that had to be signed and returned the next day.  Virginia held out her hand for the paper, but Mrs. Fineman insisted on putting it directly in the book bag so it wouldn’t be lost.  That’s when she discovered the books, HER BOOKS.  She snatched them out of Virginia’s hands and stormed off.  She didn’t need to ask any questions.  This child was stealing.

By the time broken-hearted Virginia got to her house, her mother had already been called by the school principal and had left work early to deal with her daughter.  Even after she understood that Virginia had never intended to steal the books, she punished her daughter anyway for breaking the rule and lying to her mother about homework.  There were no books to read that night.  The next day at school, Mrs. Fineman chastised Virginia in front of the whole first grade then made her move her desk into a corner of the room so she could be ostracized from the group for her crime.

Virginia stopped reading.  She didn’t read another book until she was in sixth grade.  She faked her way through book reports and did the bare minimum on assigned reading.  Mrs. Fineman’s punishment still stung.  Luckily for all of us, Virginia slipped back into reading when she found a book on the school bus and couldn’t resist it anymore.

Obviously, the story didn’t end there.  Virginia went on to be the first person in her family to graduate from college, Wesleyan College.  She excelled in school and got her degree in Early Childhood Education.  While teaching for her day job and starting her family, she finished her Master’s and her PhD at Auburn University.  Virginia landed her dream job–professor of Education–then worked her way up to department chair.  She’s boundless.

And this next part of the story is why I love and respect her so very much.  Back in May, Virginia wanted to do a Kentucky Derby themed fundraiser at the business that she and her husband own, North Macon Crossfit.  She contacted the director of the equestrian center at Wesleyan to see if there was some project that could be funded with a couple hundred dollars.  The director came up with a perfect idea!  There was a young girl who hung out at the stable and helped care for the horses.  She wanted to attend the equestrian summer camp but her family didn’t have the money.  Enter Virginia and her generous friends and her giving heart.  They raised the money and made arrangements to surprise the girl with a scholarship to the summer camp she yearned for.

That little girl’s last name?  Fineman, of course.  Granddaughter of the first grade teacher who hadn’t taken the time to find out why Virginia had “stolen” all those books and returned them without a trace.  A teacher who couldn’t bend her rule to help a child who needed a little boost.  But Dr. Virginia Bowman Wilcox, Professor of Education, gave a little girl a leg up towards reaching her dream.  I asked her what she felt when she discovered the connection, if she wanted to wreak any kind of vengeance on Mrs. Fineman.  Nope, not a bit.  

Nothing stops Virginia.  She’s just that kind of kind.  

It’s a Habit

OK, it’s Monday night and I’m high.

High on life.  Coming off a nine day vacation straight into a new job.  Where I get to do interesting things with people whom I genuinely like.  At home, I find myself surrounded by loveliness.  A sparkling jewel of a pool.   The wildflowers and roses in the backyard are singing in the rain.  Our grill still has gas in it from last summer.  I paid all the bills and had some dollars left until payday.  The children are acting like Von Trapps.  It was Father’s Day and they made hand print art in a wide variety of adorableness.

That kind of high.

Here’s a good soundtrack to that kind of high.  It’s called “Follow Your Arrow” by Kasey Musgraves, from her album Same Trailer, Different Park.  Get ready to whistle for the rest of the day!  I don’t listen to the radio much these day (or the Pandora-Sirius-youtube-interwebs either) so it took an episode of CBS Sunday Morning to introduce me to this album.  One listen to one song and I was on amazon buying it!

On another note (I promise to tie all this together, but first, to make a long story longer…), I’ve started subscribing to Seth Godin’s blog on the advice of my friend Michelle.  He’s a marketing guru (so is she!) but his daily thoughts on customer service, viral marketing, social media, etcetera get me thinking.  The other day, his topic was“Angry Is a Habit.”  Here’s an excerpt:

It’s easy to imagine habits like a scotch after dinner, biting your nails or saying, “you know” after every sentence. An event or a time of day triggers us, and we go with the habit. It’s easier than exploring new territory–it’s merely a thoughtless response to an incoming trigger.
 
But emotions can become habits as well.
 
Distrustful is a habit.
 
Lonely is a habit.
 
Generous is a habit.
 
 

Happy is a habit.  Because I’m happy today–and that “happy” translates to a complex combination of  rested+energetic+validated+challenged+cherished+nourished+useful–I see happy things all around me.  All around me in the same flea-bitten trashy house filled with the snot-nosed kids and the piles of laundry.  Seriously, we are so behind on laundry that I wore maternity underwear today.  And they weren’t exactly baggy.  Whatever!

But when I’ve had the chance to follow my arrow for a while, I get back to this happy place.  Just now, I looked over and saw Jinx the cat asleep on my cesspit of a desk.  I saw the little kitten my dad rescued from a trash can instead of the teetering stack of bills and magazines.  It’s 10pm and the kitchen still smells like the dinner dishes that are stacked in the sink, but that wrecked kitchen means we have plenty of food and I made a tasty meal from it.  Carlos still didn’t eat it, but he manages to thrive on a diet of bananas and air with some dog hair stuck to the bananas.

I tried to grill hamburgers tonight, but thunderstorms put an end to that.  So I broiled them, but they were still pink inside after 30 minutes and the smoke alarm going off twice.  So I fried those bastards in a frying pan right on top of the stove.  And while I waited for them to cook, I looked out the kitchen window and enjoyed watching the butterfly bush drinking in the rain.

Well, when I get this high (ON LIFE), I start to ramble I guess.  And I want to eat cake and Doritos, but that’s typical for any night.

So go make lots of noise, kiss lots of boys, kiss lots of girls if that’s something you’re into…when the straight and narrow gets a little too straight…follow your arrow wherever it points.

What are you seeing differently today?  Which way is your arrow pointed?

Way To Go, Carl!

About a month ago, I shared this little guy who was chasing that red dot for all he was worth.  

carl the cat

Well, BOOM.

red dot

Carl caught himself a red dot.  TRANSLATION:  Monday is my first day on the new job and I could use your good wishes!   I’ll get back to telling fart jokes and making your cry in a day or two.  Promise!

Oh, For Flux Sake…

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Last week, I packed up my office for the first time in 5 years.  And honestly, some of that stuff had been with me for the 16 years that I’ve been in my previous job.  I started in the summer of 1996, when the torch was coming through Athens.

I moved the necessary stuff to my new office.  The furniture is awkard.  There are too many drawers.  The light is strange.  I’m going to park in a different lot.  The computer didn’t work.

Then I took a week off to spend time with my daughter as she turned six.  In a week, she grew up right in front of my eyes.  Now she can read on her own.  She can take better care of herself than I remember and it makes my heart tighten up.

My son looked at me last night with his dear baby face.  I asked, “Do you want to go swimming?” and out of the blue he replied, “Yes.”  It was our first give and take conversation. Now the week is drawing to a close and I’m feeling a huge wave of anxiety because everything is changing at once.  Job.  Kids.  Home.  It’s all gotten different and I’m feeling swimmy-headed.

Oh, for flux sake.  Flux is that state of flow, always moving, like a river. After Richard died and I faced that crushing grief, my therapist suggested that I view it as a river.  If you swim against a river, you tire quickly.  But if you bob and float, taking deep breaths, you conserve your energy.  The river is going to go where it goes.  You are along for the ride.

What the flux is up with you today?