The Wedding
2009: Hey, sailor. You look pretty spiffy in that tux. How about you come home with me?”
Honey really was in the Navy. Daddy was in the war, I mean, The War. He told me to stay away from soldiers, that they didn’t respect women and said nasty things behind their backs. I went on a blind date with a sailor just off the boat. So, Daddy, you like him?
Diana planned her wedding for Memorial Day weekend so they could have a day off before they had to go back to work, both being in the Air Force National Guard, both having vacation issues. Last week Di’s daughter, a senior, was in the high school’s production of Oklahoma. They did an outstanding job. This weekend Di gets married. This Thursday, the same daughter graduates. Honeymoon? Next week. Don’t call her on her cell phone.
1973: I had just started my new job at 3M that year and accumulated all of 4 days of vacation. We set the wedding date for Memorial Day weekend. The stupid part was holding it 500 miles away in the home town. The only reason I can come up with now was that I wanted to prove to the town and graduating class that I was not doomed to be an old maid at 23.
2009: “You still have to change into your tux. It’s 1:25 now and pictures are 1:30. Pull up to the door and run in. I’ll park the car.” I park and head for the door and see Honey coming out.
“Diana is in curlers and is looking for you.”
“Jane, you have to fix my hair.” The last time I was fixing anybody’s hair, it was my daughter’s just before a danceline performance and she was trying to get away from me for good reason. The time before that, she was 3, I was trying to cut her bangs and she was crying and getting teeny hairs her eyes. “You’re sure…”
Not only that, I was to adjust her eye makeup, apply the lipstick, spread skin toner to cover her freckles, stand in between her and the window while she put the longline on, zip her dress, and stick the veil on. I loved it! What a girlfriend! Not only, that, I did a good job. She looked gorgeous. Of course, all you have to do with her hair is direct it with your fingers, it’s so thick and heavy.
1973: Storms. Tornado watch kept farmers at home rounding up livestock and locking barn doors. Someone was fussing with my veil. Someone came up to me to offer congratulations and words of something. I said thank you and was distracted by tumbleweeds — tumbleweeds! in central Illinois! — flying by the windows. Dad was ready to escort me down the aisle, stiff and military. He reminded me of the guys who held post at the tomb of the unknown soldier.
I could hear the organist playing “Oh, Promise Me” knowing I had insisted it NOT be sung. The soloist was halfway through a song I insisted she sing when the power went out. The organist kept going, the soloist kept singing and when the power went back on they were in sync and on key.
Not only that, my sister, who was one of my attendants, was 4 months pregnant and looked funny in her dress. Her son, the ring bearer, had a puffy red lip from a softball that afternoon.
2009: Nothing went wrong. Nobody tripped or fainted or forgot their lines. The unity candle did not fall and catch anything on fire. No nosebleeds, no fat lips from softballs. I did get a few chuckles at the guest book, however. Yes, I was the Guest book Nazi. “You vill sign ze book. Yah?” I even charged the assistant pastor admission which he did not pay, nor did he leave anything in my tip jar.
1973: The best man tortured me for two whole days threatening to spike the punch and write “help me” on Honey’s shoe soles. Kathy, is the punch spiked? “No nails in my glass!”
2009: Sandwiches, fruit, potato salad, pasta salad, deviled eggs, and other et cetera, plus a cake tilting dangerously.
1973: Mints, nuts, cake, punch — no nails.
2009: The bride and groom danced. Alone. Nobody got up. What a bunch ‘o’ Baptists! C’mon, Honey. We won’t have this chance again. We walked hand in hand up to the happy couple and tapped the groom’s shoulder to cut in. I took Diana who was laughing her head off, and Honey grabbed the groom. Y’know, you only go around once. You don’t seize the moment, it’s gone.
Hey, Honey. What are we doing for our anniversary? (panicked stare)
1973: “Where’s your car, Stan?” shaving cream in hand. Are you kidding me? We hid that two towns away from you guys. “Awwwww…”
We opened gifts at the reception. Diana opened gifts at the reception. I’m normally the first person out at any given wedding, but this time, I enjoyed every minute.
Thirty-six years ago the dark haired sailor in the tuxedo whisked me away. The last picture in the album was me with a rose in my teeth, winking. This year, the silver fox and I danced at our friends’ wedding.
What do you want to do for our anniversary? Being in a wedding was pretty good. How about grilling a couple steaks this Saturday? Sounds like a plan.
bags and rabbit trails
We’ve transitioned from warm spring into mild summer, highs in the low 80’s. A fan creates a tolerable comfort level and nobody is quite melting yet. I went to the mall today on a bag trip. I have a bag deficiency. I admit it. The conclusion is that there is no such thing as a perfect bag or perfect bag system. The objective is a system to get me out to Seattle and back through the airport without checking a bag. I found a leather, deep cut bag with an adjustable shoulder strap. It was the sale tag that first caught my eye, secondly the soft leather and it was the strap that closed the sale.
For some reason I still think it has to be an Ambulance Bag. Paper cut? I have the Neosporin and bandaid. Shiny nose? Here’s the Mineral Veil and brush. Hangnail? Clippers. Tic-tacs, hand lotion, hair spray, lipstick, gum, kleenex, blue tooth, tooth brush, flare gun — on and on. I am ill. I am deranged. As I was making this list Honey was lying on the deck with the binoculars looking at the sky divers. I think he was having more fun. Damn the male system of one wallet, one pocket. They need something and expect the woman to have it at her fingertips in a bag dragging her shoulder lower than the other just for his needs. Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down. That’s what my sister said about Mom when she was having her mini strokes and she finally sat down and didn’t get up much after that. Rabbit trail. Where was I?
So I started packing the new bag. It’s been years since I’ve just dumped stuff in. Instead I’ve been using those clear zipper pouches loaded by category — hair, skin, face, nails, first aid, pharmacy, etc. Now I have a big fat bag that weighs 7 pounds. Back to the drawing board. Maybe fewer bagettes in the bag. Or maybe I can take out the umbrella that came with it. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
Phone, phone, where’s the phone? Then I thought how much fun it would be to have Daughter show me how her I-phone works even though I have another year on my Sprint contract. Technology. My parents’ lives spanned the horse and buggy to putting a man on the moon to a man in the highest office in the land getting some under the desk and being admired for lying about it–not possible in their world, which has nothing to do with technology. Rabbit trail.
I remember when our telephone had no dial and was on a party line. Twenty years later I had two children in school and we were still tethered to the wall. Our town’s equipment wasn’t up to date to offer as much as call waiting. Cordless was an upgrade when I was hitting 40. Man, we were hip. BTW, “hip” is a derivative of the 40’s word “hep” as in “hep cat.” Sorry. Another trail within a trail. Suffice to say the telecommunications we were stuck with then was a far cry from what we carry in our pockets now. And bags.
Back to the bag. The best system is to have everything I think I might possibly need in a car bag and a desk bag, duplicate contents. The carry around one can be a Mood Bag, whatever strikes my fancy, with only those things I know I use throughout the day and away from either car or desk. I’ll be dragging out the previous master bag tomorrow morning and reload the duplicate tomorrow night.
There could be worse afflictions than being a hopeless bag lady.
Tomorrow is our 36th anniversary. Honey introduces me as his first wife and I refer to him as my current husband. I will let you know how Diana & Tim’s wedding went Sunday. Since the two dates are so close, and Honey wore a tux for our wedding and Diana’s and at no time for all 36 years in between, and there’s a dance involved, their wedding and our anniversary share a blog.
‘Tis been a week
My Monday through Fridays are usually a crashing bore, nothing to write about that people would want to read. This week is no exception. I get up, I go to work, you know the routine. I listen to radio in my ear bud, I read books on breaks.
Since the transition, re-grouping, whatever they’re calling how we were to do our jobs differently but are still doing them the same, I have had my breaks arranged for me. Part of our new duties include phones with headsets (yuk) but not all of us are on the phones at the same time. Prior to the change that hasn’t changed, I would be satisfied to sit through my 15 minute breaks so I didn’t miss Rush or Boortz. Now I am shooed away from my cubie cocoon. Since that mandate, I am actually getting some serious reading done.
I hope to revive my blog on books soon rather than add another type of ramble to this already scatter brained hodge podge blog.
Coming up in the near future— the next two days are Diana’s. She is one of my best friends who has since we’ve known her, given birth, separated and been divorced from her husband, shown herself to be a rock to her kids, a faithful Jesus Follower, has met a great guy and this weekend is marrying him. So tomorrow and Sunday are hers. Honey is her honey’s best man, and I am making everybody sign the guest book or else.
Monday is a great big nothing and that’s the way we like it.
The weekend of June 6th, Honey will be at a trade show in Portland and I will be joining him and the Seattle Kids Saturday night. We will be annoying them for a full week.
After that, it’s go to work, pay the bills, weed the garden-ette on the deck. Oh, and maybe I’ll paint the living room with the paint that is still being stored in the can, currently being used as a door stop to the screened porch.
Our lives are so riveting.
I still have a date with Cardio Man on the 17th. Hope he’s cute.
That went fast
Thursday morning the men went out of town to a trade show. The wimmin were on their own.
Wednesday…
Donna: How are you feeling? Are you okay alone? Do you want me to come down the mountain?
Me: I figure I’ll have enough time to call 911 if I think I need to but you’re welcome.
Donna: Why don’t we plan on something anyway.
Me: You want to sleep over?
Donna: Let me think about it.
Thursday I called back to set up something. We decided we didn’t need to bother with an overnight but dinner on Saturday sounded like a plan.
Saturday morning….
Donna: Are you okay?
Me: Playing on the computer. All is well. If I can gin up the ambition, I’m going to Lowe’s for some garden stuff. Buying dirt is always high on my list. Back in Illinois, dirt is black and tillable with a hand plow, not orange concrete like it is here, tillable only with a jack hammer..
Donna: What time do you want me there?
Me: Might as well come with me as a landscape adviser.
Donna: I’ll be there within the hour.
Donna and I have yakked and yukked it up for about 9 years now and still don’t run out of stories. She’s 20 years my senior, retired from nursing and earned a Phd in something, I forget — I’ll have to ask her next time. I never fail to learn something from her. This time she brought a book to help me deck garden. It looks thick. I’ll have to think about it.
We pilgrimiged to Lowe’s for, you guessed it, dirt, but special dirt in a bag that said Miracle Gro on it, three bags, count them — three — it looks like dirt. Next, I’ll buy water at several dollars a gallon. Anyway, I found two cherry tomato plants for hanging upside down (yes, I’m going to try that again), two sweet peppers plants, a packet of leaf lettuce seeds, a bundle of onion bulbs for which I may need (to buy) more dirt and one or two more containers, and a 32 gallon plastic trash barrel for rainwater which was filled to overflowing overnight. Have we had enough rain yet? According to Donna, no. The water table is low enough to create sink holes here and there and not high enough to get her enough pressure on her mountain to do more than one load of laundry at a time.
So I’ll get another rain barrel and two extensions to the eave gutter. That ought to ensure the rain stops for months.
While we were headed to Puleo’s Grill toward Knoxville, I was telling her about the new New Orleans restaurant behind the old Lee Greenwood Theater on the bluff overlooking the river. “So, why don’t we go there? Are we going the wrong direction?” Not if I turn left right up here.
She had the Shrimp Creole and I had the Chicken Pontchartrain. We both enjoyed the view, more chit chat, and headed back to the ranch for the movie d’jour, Donna’s choice. She chose Wit, starring Emma Thompson. “I haven’t seen Emma Thompson in anything bad and this director is great with comedy.”
Emma played a college professor of 17th century poetry who is diagnosed with 4th stage ovarian cancer. As she said, there is no 5th stage. Not your standard party entertainment, but I am glad we watched it. Very moving, very thought provoking, an effective conversation starter for a retired nurse and my incurable curiosity.
She went home to the dog, Bruce. I decided at the last minute to not sleep in on Sunday, stopped at (the) Food City on the way home, watched Elizabeth with Cate Blanchet, napped, watched the real Ocean’s 11 (the one with the rat pack made in 1960), hung the second tomato plant and planted the lettuce seeds, roasted a chicken and voila, the men are back in town to make the wimmin happy again.
My man is crashed in bed after a long working weekend. Poor baby, he’s exhausted.
Talk to y’all later. Have a pleasant Monday, Tuesday, etc.
Things I learned from Joyce that I already knew and maybe forgot
“Let’s get over our sweet little selves and do something.”
She was talking about giving and doing. In case you don’t know who I’m talking about, I’m talking about Joyce Meyer. And in case you just went into a mental balisticon over television preachers that say to give seed offerings or why women should keep silence in the church, that women shouldn’t preach or something about the evils of the filthy rich charletons’ private jets, save it. You obviously haven’t listened to Joyce Meyer, nor have you taken a look at her financials posted on the www to know that a clean 80 cents of every dollar that comes into the ministry goes overseas to dig wells and feed people. So listen up…
She addressed the attitude of wasting time on doctrine when she spoke of those of us who are still stuck on the constant argument of baby baptism vs. immersion. I love her answer….
“So do them both! Then get off it and do something for somebody else!”
Here’s another thing – works vs. faith. I object to any church telling me what my mission is. Nursery is not it. President of Women’s Circle is not it. Leader of vacation Bible school is not it. Been there, done that, crashed and burned. If you’re talking about salvation, it’s faith in Jesus that saves. Works don’t earn salvation nor do works earn points in heaven when you do good works for points. (motive, motive, motive). Joyce points out that we are to follow Jesus’ example. He rose each day and went about doing good. We should then do good because doing good is a good thing to do without thinking how good you are.
How simple is that? She went a step further to state that no longer would she ask God for an angel appearance or hold a 4 week seminar on hearing from God before she donated a ten spot somewhere to know for sure if giving the $10 is God’s will. Her new deal with God is that He is to stop her from giving, that she’s going to give and do until He says don’t do that, you’ve done quite enough.
“Indifference finds an excuse. Love finds a way.”
What would happen if we all adopted that attitude? Take it another step. Put cash in the plate. Send cash to a ministry with no return address, no way for the ministry to know you gave, no trace of your donation to report to the IRS for a tax deduction and therefore no credit to you to prove how wonderful you are. Hmmmm……
Do we know how to forgive and why? Do it. You don’t need to study it again.
Have we heard enough yet on the basics?
Max Lucado’s story on the candles in the closet who won’t come out to light the room for a multitude of reasons — too shy, still studying, need a sign — is a classic.
Things I learned from Joyce Meyer today — somebody out there needs me now.
Mothers Day and what we want
My projects surround me. I feel obligated after last weekend to catch up. Having added seeds and plants to my list last night, I just might stir up the energy to start that great American novel on the laptop. Just kidding, I will get something done and have started with applying stripper to the damaged table top on the screen porch. That reminds me, I have to scrape it .. again…after the third application.
I’m back. Now it needs the power sander operated by Honey. Table project is static for the moment and I called my sister to share my adventure in the ER. Next …. ?
The sun was out briefly but the sky is becoming overcast again. Maybe I should stick a few seeds into some dirt for the rain considering it’s been raining for what seems like months and silly me with no rain barrel for the garden.
But before that, I want to get to today’s point. What do we really want on Mother’s Day. Everything done in love is noted as such and appreciated beyond measure. However, I am quoting Cathie Laurie, wife of the minister/evangelist Greg Laurie of Harvest Ministries in California, whose blog I just discovered and am adding to the side bar. Cathie says it better than I could. Happy Mothers Day y’all.
What Mothers Really Want
By Cathe Laurie
What I want for Mother’s Day this year really isn’t much. In my opinion, the flowers fade, the perfume evaporates into the air, that new dress eventually ends up on a rack at the Salvation Army store, and you may miss out on what moms actually want.
I don’t think I’m alone in thinking the day has been hijacked by card companies, florists, and restaurants. But don’t let them pressure you into spending more than you can afford on a superficial trinket.
Here are three gifts that I think will not be forgotten:
1. A card with a handwritten note.
Not a cheesy rhyme on a pre-written card. Rather, a card, (handmade ones are the best) that says something specific and personal about why you are thankful for your mom.
One of my favorite cards I ever received was from my youngest son Jonathan. Christopher, older by 11 years and very artistic, gave me some amazing cards over the years. His cards would feature clever images and designs that were uniquely his own, and I loved and treasure every one.
But one Mother’s Day, when Jonathan was just a little boy, I opened a card that melted my heart and it still does every time I look at it. In big wobbly block letters, he printed:
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MOM.
I KNOW MY CARD ISN’T AS GOOD AS TOPHER’S, BUT I TRIED JUST AS HARD.
I LOVE YOU, JONATHAN.
Priceless!
2. A long hug.
I mean it. A long hug. Let us be the one to let go first! I want to feel your heart on mine.
My mother is a great hugger and kisser. She never entered the room without greeting us with a big hug and kiss that felt as if she was trying to inhale part of us into her.
I love hugs like that. Both of our boys are great huggers and it is one of my greatest joys this side of heaven.
3. Verbalize your love.
Look her in the eyes, let them linger a moment, then smile and say, “I love you. Thank you for being my mom.”
These are some thoughts that I hope you will find helpful as you think about the perfect gift for your mothers.
And finally, some advice for moms on Mother’s Day.
If you get a Mother’s Day card from your child, I encourage you to cherish it. Save it and keep it safe where you can find it later, years later, to read. They will especially come in handy during those teen years, when you may love them but frankly you find there is more friction than when they are younger.
In a lifetime of mothering, you may end up with a box full of cards, but nothing is a greater validation of what you have accomplished with your life.
If you get a hug, wrap your arms around them and don’t let go until they do, and then hold them a bit longer. And if you don’t get a hug from them, hug them anyway.
I remember hugging my teenage Topher and saying, “I know you may not like me very much right now, but I will never stop loving you!” Years later, he thanked me for those very words and hugs.
If you can hear their voice say, “I love you,” listen with your heart and let it sink in.
So can I, on behalf of all the mothers out there, tell all of you that it is the greatest privilege in the world to be a mom? We may sigh and groan and cry at times, but nothing—no high-paying job or celebrated career—can ever pay what we receive in the long run.
“Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised” (Proverbs 31:30).
Happy Mother’s Day!
Updates
I have a date with Cardio Man June 17th. It sounds like a long way away but if this were Canada, I’d be getting royal priority. Canadians (eh?) measure medical treatments in terms of months. If there’s a cancellation, I’m in sooner.
If something flares before that, I am in agreement with both Doc and Honey that before I can warm the ER bed, Doc is called, no question and she calls the shots.
If Cardio Man doesn’t think a cath is warranted or the insurance company won’t authorize it, I can go to a St. Mary’s facility and buy a CT scan on my own. If the CT shows something in there that needs attention, I can have it sent to CM and Doc and they will convince Ins they’re all wet and then some.
So, all that said, I’m confident all is or will be well with the least drama possible.
I stopped at Lowe’s on the way home for some garden stuff. I bought seeds for beans, radishes, bell peppers, spinach, cucumbers and 3 bags of planting soil. For those of you in places where you can actually till the land and stick seeds in it, what does orange concrete mean to you? Right. Miracle Grow bags of dirt in pots. Plants are flowers for the boxes in front and 2 big boy tomato plants. It is undecided if the tomatoes will be inverted or in the big pots. My record is dismal but maybe I’ll improve. Yes? No?
If you’ll excuse me, I am so pleased I’m not hooked up to monitors on yet another Friday night that I feel I have to spend some time with the Honey.
Well, isn’t my life changing, then?
We decided to skip the stress test but just in case it had to be done, I went in to talk about it with Dr. Wendy Can’t-Remember-That-Woman’s-Last-Name this afternoon. She is forwarding me to Cardio Man. I won’t bore you with the details or the resolutions to better health. Suffice to say I’ve had my wake up call. I’ll be dieting and exercising, period.
She asked me if I was stressed enough to call this yet another anxiety attack. “Only when I watch the news.”
Speaking of, go visit the new post on Politics & Religion, for a toxic mix that can result when the two collide and politics wins. In the middle ages when religion dictated to kings, our heroic nation was birthed from the persecution of heretical protestants. When politics overpowered religion under Hitler, the dry bones of Ezekiel’s prophetic vision stood up in May of 1948 and took on flesh as the nation of Israel.
Learn a lesson lest you wax complacent in your constitutional rights. Nothing is against the law until a law is passed criminalizing it, like, oh, let me think…..
…freedom of speech compromised by hate speech laws?
Just a thought.
Hot date at the ER
Honey took Friday off to go up to Gatlinburg to be fitted for a tux for our friends’ wedding the end of May. Following that he planned on spending some serious shop time working on his radio boxes. Buddy Jim was nowhere to be seen but Honey has a key and started work.
He called and told me that Jeff rolled up to the shop and told him that Buddy’s shortness of breath last weekend was apparently not the nothing he said it was. Chest pains and poor breathing during the night caused him to take the aspirin and have Wife drive him to the ER. No need for Honey to drop shop work, he’d call when he knew something.
The next time he called, he told me Buddy’s BP rang the bell and they whisked him upstairs for a dye job revealing serious blockage, called in the roto-rooter guys and ordered two stents. I was diligent about keeping my phone with me on breaks as well as on my desk as Honey’s Buddy is my Buddy Girl’s honey and we want to keep the foursome healthy and together.
My 4:15 break came and went with no more phone calls. All went smoothly and Buddy was resting rather uncomfortably. As Honey called to tell me it was too soon to go visit Buddy, I was shakily reaching for my second nitro pill because my own chest pain was not going away from the first one. As he was talking, I was rubbing my left jawbone, my vision was getting slightly dim and sparkly. As I stood up to tell the closest cubie girl to get the supervisor, I was able to break into the conversation and ask Honey to pick me up and take me to the ER.
Let me skip ahead here. All ended well to the best of our knowledge and efforts. By 11pm the doctor could neither confirm nor completely deny a heart issue.
I had been experiencing random chest pains since I lost my HR job in Feb, ‘06. Since I had no insurance, and was depressed, I chalked them up to anxiety attacks and several times would have chosen to check out but no such “luck” at the time. Some of them doubled me over. They became mild and continued frequently enough after I found work that my doctor prescribed little nitro pills and instructed that if 2 of them 5 minutes apart didn’t stop the discomfort I was to head to the ER. This one lasted over 40 minutes with no change.
They parked me in a bed at curtain #17, wired me to the EKG, drew blood for an enzyme analysis, followed by more stickons and wires to the unit to measure heart rate and pulse in green, oxygen levels in blue, blood pressure in big white numbers, and one funny yellow line that meant absolutely nothing and wiggled when I did. Doc checked in and came back again in about an hour to tell me the results were all negative but that I had to lay there another 4 hours for another check. He said he wanted me overnight and have a stress test the next day. Being cheap, I said I’d rather go home. Doctors get testy when you argue with them.
In the meantime, neither of us had eaten, there was no TV, and my bum was numb. Honey went out for a sandwich and said he’d bring something back. I took that opportunity to call the kids, one of which was eating, the other I left a voice mail. They both called back, one at midnight, one today. I called Charlotte whose phone cut out and gave up. While my scout was searching sustenance in the rain, Jeff comes to visit. Fortunately I was on my side by then and the blanket pulled up to my chin. We visited, then he read me a scripture before praying. The scripture of choice was his favorite for hospital visits, II Cor.5, especially the reference to the tent, knowing that the back flap creates a draft. No offense taken, you just have to know Jeff.
Almost two hours later, honey walks in with a ginormous Ruby Tuesday chicken sandwich with bacon in it and french fries. What a honey! I had to hurry to eat the fries before Doc came back, but skipped the bacon.
Without TV we had the opportunity to talk. I apologized for ruining his Friday and running up bills. He affirmed that having a Friday ruined was the furthest thing from his mind and he’d rather have me and bills than money without me. Sweet, but I still feel guilty. I had told him to go home and I would stay the night but he wouldn’t do that either. Still sweet.
This morning we talked extensively. Had the doctor felt certain this was a heart issue, I’d do the stress test in a heart beat. Since he couldn’t, I’m instead seeing my doctor Tuesday to discuss prevention, and if it’s GI. Usually if something walks, talks, and sounds like the proverbial duck, you conclude it’s a duck. He’s the professional and said he didn’t know for sure. I’m not the professional and it sure looked and felt like heart. Now that I have a benchmark of what might be a heart attack too mild to really worry about feels like, I’ll know when to run to an ER again.
As for Buddy, he’s going home today, treated, lectured and resolved to do better for himself as he rests up in the recliner for a few days.
As for Honey and me, maybe next week we’ll try dinner and a movie.
