I was in conversation with my granddaughter, Robin, a few years ago. It was just the two of us, and I no longer remember the topic of our discourse--maybe the poor or underprivileged or Grandpa Phil's homeless ministry at church. It doesn't matter. Robin said, "I think we should pray for all of the people who don't know Jesus." I was stunned. This child--this baby, who could not have been more than 8-years-old--was expressing compassion for people who could not help themselves, and that praying for them to acquire faith would help them along the way. Such maturity! I admired her in that moment and told her so. "Yes, I think we should, too. We'll do that."
The story doesn't end there. Awhile later--minutes? hours?--Robin came to me and mentioned, "We said we were going to pray for those people, but we never did." She had me there. We hadn't. She was looking to me for leadership, but I had dropped the ball. I wasn't exactly the best example of a leader in that case, now was I? We bowed our heads and said the prayer right then, but I had learned a valuable lesson. How often do we say we're going to pray for people but never actually do it??
A couple of days ago, once again I had the opportunity to view a graphic from a "friend" on Facebook who had posted it. "Let's let God back in our schools. Share if you agree." The picture was of a line of young school children looking happy at the front of a classroom. The whole "letting God back in school" thing has to do with school prayer--the practice of starting the day with a common prayer in the same way that we start with the Pledge of Allegiance. It isn't legal, and there are reasons for that. Legal reasons. Constitutional reasons. But people who were raised with school prayer are totally convinced that not starting the school day with an oral prayer means that we have rejected God and that He will cause bad things to happen to our children because of it. (No kidding--I've heard people whom I love and respect say that school shootings happen because we've taken God out of schools, and nationally, some folks say that wildfires and hurricanes, tornadoes and earthquakes are happening because we are accepting of homosexuality in our midst.)
I wasn't raised in the Bible Belt. I never attended a single school in all of our military travels where prayer was a part of a daily ritual, so I have never understood the fanaticism. I presently live in Indiana which is on the northern fringe of the BB, so many of my local friends were raised with school prayer. My comment to the Facebook post about letting God back in our schools was that He never left...that the Lord God Almighty does not need us to validate His existence in the world, and that the more important quest should be to let God back in our homes. I'm convinced that even the most devout of us fail to pray. (See my story about Robin, above!)
There is not a single law on the books to prevent a student or teacher from praying. All he/she has to do is drop his/her head and do it....silently. It can't be "led" except before or after school hours and by choice. In the high school in which I taught, there was an organization called the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. They met in a sponsor's classroom before school. Once a year, they met around the flagpole outside before school to pray for our country's leaders. It was all legal and welcome.
A couple of years ago, I saw a news story of a Christian minister who was moonlighting as a school bus driver. When he loaded the last of his students on the bus each day, he prayed out loud over them, making them also bow their heads and listen. He was warned twice to stop that practice because it was offensive to non-Christian students on the bus, but he was practicing his religious rights as he wanted to and did not stop. He was fired. The person who posted the story (on Facebook) was obviously appalled that a man should lose his job because he was praying for the students on his bus. She obviously didn't read the whole story. My response was that he'd been given fair warning from his employer but would not comply, so he reaped the consequences of that. If he merely wanted God's blessings on the kids, he could have done that in silence--but he was making a defiant point. I don't know of too many employers who will look the other way when an employee defies a directive. His head rolled. I had no sympathy for that.
The Bible teaches us, in Jesus' own words, how to pray...and that is: in secret. Jesus admonished His followers to go into a closet--a place alone--and pray to God without a big public show of things. So WHY do we need a prayer in public schools? Are we afraid that children are not getting enough of that at home? It is probably true, but it is NOT the function of schools to lead children's religious lives. That is the job of the parents. And if the parents aren't doing that, shame on them, if that's what they want!
As I age, I notice that the list of people to pray for grows longer, and the requested reasons for prayer get more serious. People with cancer. People with children who have gone astray. People who are caring for seriously ill loved ones. The list simply doesn't end. And I always say I will pray for them...but I don't always. My heart goes out to them. My thoughts are with them. But I don't always pray, and I wonder why. Maybe it's because I believe that God knows what is in my mind and heart. Maybe it's because I feel that I am overloading Him with requests when I can offer nothing in return. Maybe it's because I feel unworthy for Him to listen to me, a sinner. Or maybe it's because I am the world's best procrastinator--I'll pray later. Yeah...that's it. Lately, I have decided to pray the instant I am asked to do so. Do it now because later might not happen.
But why pray at all? What if there is no God? What if the sacrifice of Jesus was just a manipulation of Scripture? Doesn't matter! People who live without faith have nothing greater than themselves to look to for comfort. Human beings are flawed. Can you imagine a child without a parent to lead and guide and care for him/her? It is usually terrifying to children just to be lost from their parents in a store, much less have to discover that there is no one else in charge but themselves. In the face of life's challenges, we HAVE to believe in something that helps us explain what we feel and endure. Pray because you have nothing to lose. Pray because it gives you focus.
Focus? Yes, dear readers--focus. Successful people and athletes focus on the "follow through". They imagine success. Surround themselves with positive energy. They concentrate their energies on what they want and hope to achieve, then behave as if that will happen. That is faith.
Faith is believing in something that can't be seen, heard, or felt. If you have no faith, you can't survive in a happy state. You would be unable to count on anything, from the sun coming up in the morning, to your car starting when you put the key in the ignition. Some things HAVE to be taken on faith or you will crumple. So pray. Pray without ceasing. Pray to God or whatever power you think the universe holds for you...but focus and pray for what you want, what you need....and don't forget to say "thank you" for what you already have.
Many years ago, when my grandmother was desperately ill and near death, I prayed and prayed to keep her alive, just for me. And then, one day in desperation, I took a long walk and talked with God about my pain. My grandmother had pernicious anemia which put her in a coma until blood transfusions would bring her out of it. She was badly diabetic. She had been in a wheelchair unable to walk for 15 years due to a previous tumor near her spine. She had no control over her bladder, having to wear a catheter with a urine bag close to her useless legs. One of her feet had become gangrenous and black, although the doctors didn't want to perform surgery because she was so otherwise unwell. By her own admission, she was ready to go. I didn't want her to! For the first time in my then-young life, I didn't know what to pray for! I realized that I wasn't wishing for my grandmother to survive her illnesses because there would only be more comas, amputation surgery, and more indignities to await her if she merely lived. I didn't want her to suffer; I wanted to have her back whole, well, and pain-free. She was 83 years old. That was not going to happen. Finally, before I finished my walk, God put in my heart that it was time for me to let my beloved grandmother go if I really loved her, so I prayed for a merciful end. "Please, dear God, take care of my grandmother." She died peacefully a day later--slipped quietly away, surrounded by her ever-faithful husband and eldest daughter. Prayer answered.
Not knowing what to pray for can be a problem. Sometimes, when we pray for what seems like a lost cause, the time comes to say "Thy will be done". That takes us off the hook, doesn't it? No matter. Focus on what you need and what you want, then behave appropriately...and accept that you may or may not get it...but pray anyway. Pray for mercy. Pray for understanding. Pray for peace. Pray for others. But all the time that you do that, understand that YOU are the one who needs prayer:
"It's me (it's me) it's me, O Lord,
Standin' in the need of prayer.
Not my brothers, not my sisters, but it's me, O Lord,
Standin' in the need of prayer."
So while you are praying, please add me to your list!
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Monday, July 28, 2014
The Name Tag
I went to my adult Sunday school class last Sunday. We were planning a social gathering at some other members' place, and it was suggested that we all wear our church name tags because the new minister and wife would be there. Well...uh...I don't have a church name tag, so it was quickly decided that one of our number would supply some of the sticky make-your-own name tags for the occasion. No problem.
I joined Plainfield United Methodist Church back in the early 90s, before the church supplied name tags for its members. (I think.) Then, during my father's illness in Illinois and a few years past that, I was only an occasional church attender. I think they'd given up on me....but then, when my circumstances changed here at home, I went back to my old habits of attending every week. I never mentioned the name tag situation, and no one ever asked. Until last week.
When it came up in Sunday school, I casually mentioned that I didn't have a name tag. I wasn't worried about it. It wasn't of concern to anyone. But as we were sharing our joys and concerns before prayer, the leader of our group made a comment about another member: "We will pray for her because we like her. SHE has a name tag!" That got a big laugh. Vern made a funny!
That evening at the social, I arrived too late to find the sticky name tags, but I had my lanyard from school with my keys hanging from my neck. It had my name on it. When I got around to meeting the new pastor and his wife, I pointed to my name on the lanyard, and all was well. Pastor Wilfong might well remember me as the crazy ol' lady with her name around her neck!
As it happens, I got a call from the church office a few days ago asking me if I wanted "Peg" or "Peggy" on my name tag. I knew this would happen! So, I guess I am finally an official member of the church after all these years of membership. I have a name tag!
I joined Plainfield United Methodist Church back in the early 90s, before the church supplied name tags for its members. (I think.) Then, during my father's illness in Illinois and a few years past that, I was only an occasional church attender. I think they'd given up on me....but then, when my circumstances changed here at home, I went back to my old habits of attending every week. I never mentioned the name tag situation, and no one ever asked. Until last week.
When it came up in Sunday school, I casually mentioned that I didn't have a name tag. I wasn't worried about it. It wasn't of concern to anyone. But as we were sharing our joys and concerns before prayer, the leader of our group made a comment about another member: "We will pray for her because we like her. SHE has a name tag!" That got a big laugh. Vern made a funny!
That evening at the social, I arrived too late to find the sticky name tags, but I had my lanyard from school with my keys hanging from my neck. It had my name on it. When I got around to meeting the new pastor and his wife, I pointed to my name on the lanyard, and all was well. Pastor Wilfong might well remember me as the crazy ol' lady with her name around her neck!
As it happens, I got a call from the church office a few days ago asking me if I wanted "Peg" or "Peggy" on my name tag. I knew this would happen! So, I guess I am finally an official member of the church after all these years of membership. I have a name tag!
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Getting Pushed Around
There are a lot of advantages to being single. Some people run their whole lives to avoid being alone, but I have found that being alone and being lonely are two distinctly different statuses, and I don't run from it. In fact, I am sometimes envied by those who are not alone but wish they could be. Certainly, the single life is not for the faint-hearted, but clearly it does foster independence.
I've been without anyone in the house for a number of years now. I can go to bed when I please, eat what I want when I'm hungry, watch whatever I want on TV with complete control of the remote, and can make my own messes to clean up whenever I feel like it. And the only one around to criticize me for my failings is.....me!
Of course, there are also disadvantages to single status. One of these that is the most difficult to conquer is the fact that, as the only single person in my family's constellation, I get pushed around a bit. A good example of this is visiting at my daughter's. They all know that I don't have a spouse or a pet to be my excuse to go home. I can't say, "I need to go home because your father has a doctor's appointment" or "I can't stay because the cat is home alone". Nope. I have to come and go based on my desires, and that sometimes gets uncomfortable. I'm glad I am welcome, and I'm glad they all seem to like having me there, but I'm also aware that, as Poor Richard (Benjamin Franklin) once said, "Fish and visitors smell in three days". I don't want to stay so long that they will all breathe a sigh of relief when I depart, yet I also don't want them to think that I am unhappy being there. Sticky wicket, it is!
Getting pushed around like this isn't the same as being taken for granted. That's another issue entirely, and I am not so stupid as to mistake being taken for granted with my giving nature. When I visit with family, I try to pay my way. For example, when I go to my daughter's, she can be assured that I will do their laundry and I will cook a few meals. I will buy some groceries and things that I want them to have. I will run errands. These are all things that I can still do while she and her husband do what they have to do. (As far as I know, this has been helpful. No one has complained to me.) I don't do it because it has been asked of me or even expected but because that is one way I can stay and still feel good about my being there. Who knows how long it will be before I can't even do those things anymore?? I think they are coming to terms with the fact that I want them to carry on with their lives whether I can be there or not.
Sometimes when they push for me to do things with them, I have to push back. Often, we have gone places as a family when I chose to stay with the car rather than carry on with them. It was my choice, based on what I am capable of doing, and they seem to be accepting of that. Good! (Well...except for the time that they locked me in the car while they went into a store, and when I tried to get out for some air, I set off the car alarm and didn't know how to stop it. That was embarrassing!!)
As I consider all of this, I think of my grandson, Ryan. He gets pushed around, too. He is the youngest and The Boy. He got the smallest bedroom in my house because...well...he was the smallest. He got the bedroom in his mother's house that had no doors and no closet because his sister had to share a bedroom with her stepsister at their father's house. And he got pushed out of his bedroom at his father's house when his step-grandfather moved in...because he was the youngest and The Boy.
Why does being The Boy have anything to do with it? Traditionally, Ryan has been careless and inattentive to details. He changes his underwear only when challenged to do so. He eats like a crumb-making machine. He doesn't care if his bed is made or his toys are put away. And since these civilized things seem to be of little consequence to him, I believe we all have come to believe that he is oblivious to it all. But he isn't. He does care. Or rather, he keeps score.
Ryan is the dreaded 'pesky little brother' to both his sister and stepsister, but he seriously gets picked on unfairly sometimes. He is blamed for things he didn't do, punished for things he could not help, and generally left out of decisions as being irresponsible. (And he is, to a point.) But I have come to sympathize because he can't push back the way I can. He has no control over his life, right or wrong, while I do. I'm not making excuses for him. He can be a pill at times, but who knows what is going on in his brain when that happens? Intimate communications with him are not always possible...so all we can do is guess. I feel for him! I get it, Ryan!
And now, my sister is being pushed around, too. Her husband of 53 years has dementia. He certainly isn't to the point of not functioning, but he does try to control her and the circumstances of their lives in maddening ways. Repetitive conversations; repetitive behaviors, bordering on OCD; violent temper tantrums when things don't go his way--many times things that can't be fixed, like the number of cars on the road--all a part of his Fronto-Temporal Dementia with Primary Aphasia. And it's getting worse. Her life is no longer her own...or even theirs. She can no longer enjoy an occasional cigarette or even a glass of wine without his ragging and raging that he is going to leave her/divorce her--tomorrow. Of course, tomorrow never comes, and she knows this, but she wakes up every day not knowing what challenges she will face. (This is one of the occasions that makes me so very grateful that I am single!)
I pray for all of the people who get pushed around in life. Not me because I am in control of that...but for the others, like my grandson and my sister...because they aren't. We do the best we can under the circumstances we are given!
I've been without anyone in the house for a number of years now. I can go to bed when I please, eat what I want when I'm hungry, watch whatever I want on TV with complete control of the remote, and can make my own messes to clean up whenever I feel like it. And the only one around to criticize me for my failings is.....me!
Of course, there are also disadvantages to single status. One of these that is the most difficult to conquer is the fact that, as the only single person in my family's constellation, I get pushed around a bit. A good example of this is visiting at my daughter's. They all know that I don't have a spouse or a pet to be my excuse to go home. I can't say, "I need to go home because your father has a doctor's appointment" or "I can't stay because the cat is home alone". Nope. I have to come and go based on my desires, and that sometimes gets uncomfortable. I'm glad I am welcome, and I'm glad they all seem to like having me there, but I'm also aware that, as Poor Richard (Benjamin Franklin) once said, "Fish and visitors smell in three days". I don't want to stay so long that they will all breathe a sigh of relief when I depart, yet I also don't want them to think that I am unhappy being there. Sticky wicket, it is!
Getting pushed around like this isn't the same as being taken for granted. That's another issue entirely, and I am not so stupid as to mistake being taken for granted with my giving nature. When I visit with family, I try to pay my way. For example, when I go to my daughter's, she can be assured that I will do their laundry and I will cook a few meals. I will buy some groceries and things that I want them to have. I will run errands. These are all things that I can still do while she and her husband do what they have to do. (As far as I know, this has been helpful. No one has complained to me.) I don't do it because it has been asked of me or even expected but because that is one way I can stay and still feel good about my being there. Who knows how long it will be before I can't even do those things anymore?? I think they are coming to terms with the fact that I want them to carry on with their lives whether I can be there or not.
Sometimes when they push for me to do things with them, I have to push back. Often, we have gone places as a family when I chose to stay with the car rather than carry on with them. It was my choice, based on what I am capable of doing, and they seem to be accepting of that. Good! (Well...except for the time that they locked me in the car while they went into a store, and when I tried to get out for some air, I set off the car alarm and didn't know how to stop it. That was embarrassing!!)
As I consider all of this, I think of my grandson, Ryan. He gets pushed around, too. He is the youngest and The Boy. He got the smallest bedroom in my house because...well...he was the smallest. He got the bedroom in his mother's house that had no doors and no closet because his sister had to share a bedroom with her stepsister at their father's house. And he got pushed out of his bedroom at his father's house when his step-grandfather moved in...because he was the youngest and The Boy.
Why does being The Boy have anything to do with it? Traditionally, Ryan has been careless and inattentive to details. He changes his underwear only when challenged to do so. He eats like a crumb-making machine. He doesn't care if his bed is made or his toys are put away. And since these civilized things seem to be of little consequence to him, I believe we all have come to believe that he is oblivious to it all. But he isn't. He does care. Or rather, he keeps score.
Ryan is the dreaded 'pesky little brother' to both his sister and stepsister, but he seriously gets picked on unfairly sometimes. He is blamed for things he didn't do, punished for things he could not help, and generally left out of decisions as being irresponsible. (And he is, to a point.) But I have come to sympathize because he can't push back the way I can. He has no control over his life, right or wrong, while I do. I'm not making excuses for him. He can be a pill at times, but who knows what is going on in his brain when that happens? Intimate communications with him are not always possible...so all we can do is guess. I feel for him! I get it, Ryan!
And now, my sister is being pushed around, too. Her husband of 53 years has dementia. He certainly isn't to the point of not functioning, but he does try to control her and the circumstances of their lives in maddening ways. Repetitive conversations; repetitive behaviors, bordering on OCD; violent temper tantrums when things don't go his way--many times things that can't be fixed, like the number of cars on the road--all a part of his Fronto-Temporal Dementia with Primary Aphasia. And it's getting worse. Her life is no longer her own...or even theirs. She can no longer enjoy an occasional cigarette or even a glass of wine without his ragging and raging that he is going to leave her/divorce her--tomorrow. Of course, tomorrow never comes, and she knows this, but she wakes up every day not knowing what challenges she will face. (This is one of the occasions that makes me so very grateful that I am single!)
I pray for all of the people who get pushed around in life. Not me because I am in control of that...but for the others, like my grandson and my sister...because they aren't. We do the best we can under the circumstances we are given!
Friday, July 25, 2014
The Great Gun Gaffe
There are probably people who believe that, because I am politically independent, leaning toward liberal, that I am against guns. Got into a mini-discussion on Facebook today with a dear friend of mine who posted a graphic that said, "You may take my guns, but good luck taking my wife's". And the picture of the graphic was of the viewer looking down the barrel of a gun being held by a female. I foolishly responded that I don't own guns, and maybe that's why I'm still not a wife...or maybe because I choose not to be married to guns. My friend answered with "I know you don't approve, but..." And that's where my brain engaged.
Approve? Approve of what?? Approve of the post or the graphic? Approve of gun ownership? What's to approve? It is the constitutional right of most Americans to own guns. I have never questioned that, nor have I ever supported gun control legislation...but there is something about the rabidity of the political right wing, conservative, Second-Amendment-pounding American public that scares me and makes me run in the opposite direction as fast as I can.
I grew up in a farm family. My father was a hunter. My husband was a hunter. (I've eaten all the wild rabbit, squirrel, and pheasant to satisfy me for a lifetime, thankyouverymuch!) There were always guns in the household. My dad's service revolver. My dad and grandfather's rifle and shotguns, always leaning up near the back door, fully loaded. In our household, the gun was a tool to be used to gather food and stave off varmints. It was not a weapon to be used against human beings. Oh, I suppose had there ever been an intruder, it could have been, but that just never happened. I didn't grow up afraid of or against guns. Period.
Over the last ten years or so, I have watched as a number of my closest friends have gone bat-crap crazy about guns in fear that the government was going to take them away. I am here to tell you, dear readers, that it won't happen unless there is some sort of violent overthrow of the US government...and even then, the gun thing is so ingrained in our Americanhood that it would be a tough task for any junta to accomplish. But still, the "gun nuts" in our midst have a huge chip on their shoulders. "You can take my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hands"--spoken by Charlton Heston, one of my favorite actors (who died, btw, of the effects of Alzheimer's disease).
Whoa! Let's talk about this for a minute. The first time I shot a gun, it was my then-husband's shotgun. He showed me what to do, and I did it. What he didn't tell me was that the gun would recoil and leave a bruise on my shoulder because I wasn't holding it tight enough to my body, and that my right ear would ring from the blast for the rest of the day. He thought it was funny. (Obviously, I didn't. Doesn't speak to responsible gun ownership, does it? To let someone you profess to love be harmed by something you knew would happen??) Years later, I shot a rifle at a skeet shoot and did pretty well. I have shot pistols on two ranges--one of which was THE National Rifle Association's shooting range in the D.C. area a few years ago. I'm not afraid of guns, but I will never own one, and here's why:
1. If I were to be mugged, I would have to be able to access the gun in my purse, draw it, take off the safety, and shoot. I would not likely have all of the opportunity to do all of that.
2. If an intruder came into my home, it would most likely be at night, and I would be surprised in my sleep. Same consequences as in #1. Unless I slept with a loaded pistol under my pillow, the odds of my being able to protect myself with a gun in that circumstance would be slim-to-none.
3. Keeping a loaded weapon in any house creates a huge liability. If children are present, danger lurks. In that case, guns must be kept under lock and key. If the gun is needed, how easy is it to get the key, unlock the gun safe, and use it? And if children aren't present but the home is broken into, stolen guns become street weapons for those who may not be sane enough or responsible enough to use them.
Case in point: During my daughter's high school years, she had a boyfriend that I loved. David was the adopted son of his grandmother, and his grandmother was Betty Blankenship, one of the very first female police officers for the city of Indianapolis. Betty was a classy lady and gardener extraordinaire. Really kept up her appearance, yet was very down-to-earth. Talking to her, one would never guess that she was a police officer. (She didn't have to wear a uniform in her later years, except on formal occasions.) Her adopted grandson was in the drumline for the Ben Davis High School Marching Giants, and we all went everywhere for his competitions. One cool evening, Betty and I were sitting in the bleachers for a competition at the high school in Elwood, IN, when she excused herself to go to the restroom. She left her purse with me, with the admonition to watch it for her. "My Glock is in there." Her "glock" was her gun. The message was clear: she didn't care about her wallet or her money, or even her checkbook. She was worried that, if someone stole her purse, they would get her gun, and that was more important to her--that the criminals not get the weapon. (You'd better bet that I hugged that purse close to me until she returned from the restroom!) Betty is no longer with us, but I sure did admire her. Nothing pretentious about that woman or her right to carry a weapon.
So why do people assume that I have a problem with guns? Maybe because I won't own one? Probably not. That is why my tax dollars go to support police--so I won't have to be a posse of one to protect myself from the bad guys. They are trained. I am not. My issue is not with guns, but with gun owners--more specifically, gun owners with an attitude. In response to my Facebook friend (see paragraph 1), I was forced to think about this. I don't care if people think I am reckless for not having a gun in the house. I DO care that there are so many folks out there than think society is out to take away what they believe are God-given rights that they aren't thinking straight. (Or maybe I'm not?)
To explain myself, I posted this:
Here's an analogy: I taught rural kids for decades. Every male kid who lives in/near the country carries a pocket knife routinely. For them, the knife is a tool, not a weapon. As a teacher (and as a woman who was raised in a country family), I understood this. In my presence, a student might bring out a pocket knife to help cut open a box of textbooks and I wouldn't bat an eye. Knives aren't allowed in school, but these would be used, then go back in the pocket. Do you know whose knives I confiscated? The kids who secretly took the knives out of their pockets and showed them off to impress others with the power that they perceived the knife gave them. THOSE were the kids that scared me. And I guess that's how I feel about the whole gun thing. Own 'em, like 'em, and collect 'em, if that's your thing. Just don't try to impress me with how "bad" you are because you have one! Hope this makes sense...
So there it is. I don't have a problem with people who own and/or collect guns. My problem is with those who believe that there is a conspiracy afoot to take away their guns, in spite of all of the evidence through the ages in this country that it won't happen. Fanaticism for any cause is reason for me to be concerned. People who collect stamps or rocks or art or whatever simply don't make an issue out of their passions. Gun people do. Or course, stamps, rocks, art, and whatever can't kill people, so it isn't a pure comparison. And there is not a single gun enthusiast in the country that can profess that the object of their obsession/hobby won't harm a soul.
Okay...there you have it. I won't write about this again. I don't fear guns. I fear gun owners, legal or illegal. I'm sure you won't lose any sleep over it!
Approve? Approve of what?? Approve of the post or the graphic? Approve of gun ownership? What's to approve? It is the constitutional right of most Americans to own guns. I have never questioned that, nor have I ever supported gun control legislation...but there is something about the rabidity of the political right wing, conservative, Second-Amendment-pounding American public that scares me and makes me run in the opposite direction as fast as I can.
I grew up in a farm family. My father was a hunter. My husband was a hunter. (I've eaten all the wild rabbit, squirrel, and pheasant to satisfy me for a lifetime, thankyouverymuch!) There were always guns in the household. My dad's service revolver. My dad and grandfather's rifle and shotguns, always leaning up near the back door, fully loaded. In our household, the gun was a tool to be used to gather food and stave off varmints. It was not a weapon to be used against human beings. Oh, I suppose had there ever been an intruder, it could have been, but that just never happened. I didn't grow up afraid of or against guns. Period.
Over the last ten years or so, I have watched as a number of my closest friends have gone bat-crap crazy about guns in fear that the government was going to take them away. I am here to tell you, dear readers, that it won't happen unless there is some sort of violent overthrow of the US government...and even then, the gun thing is so ingrained in our Americanhood that it would be a tough task for any junta to accomplish. But still, the "gun nuts" in our midst have a huge chip on their shoulders. "You can take my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hands"--spoken by Charlton Heston, one of my favorite actors (who died, btw, of the effects of Alzheimer's disease).
Whoa! Let's talk about this for a minute. The first time I shot a gun, it was my then-husband's shotgun. He showed me what to do, and I did it. What he didn't tell me was that the gun would recoil and leave a bruise on my shoulder because I wasn't holding it tight enough to my body, and that my right ear would ring from the blast for the rest of the day. He thought it was funny. (Obviously, I didn't. Doesn't speak to responsible gun ownership, does it? To let someone you profess to love be harmed by something you knew would happen??) Years later, I shot a rifle at a skeet shoot and did pretty well. I have shot pistols on two ranges--one of which was THE National Rifle Association's shooting range in the D.C. area a few years ago. I'm not afraid of guns, but I will never own one, and here's why:
1. If I were to be mugged, I would have to be able to access the gun in my purse, draw it, take off the safety, and shoot. I would not likely have all of the opportunity to do all of that.
2. If an intruder came into my home, it would most likely be at night, and I would be surprised in my sleep. Same consequences as in #1. Unless I slept with a loaded pistol under my pillow, the odds of my being able to protect myself with a gun in that circumstance would be slim-to-none.
3. Keeping a loaded weapon in any house creates a huge liability. If children are present, danger lurks. In that case, guns must be kept under lock and key. If the gun is needed, how easy is it to get the key, unlock the gun safe, and use it? And if children aren't present but the home is broken into, stolen guns become street weapons for those who may not be sane enough or responsible enough to use them.
Case in point: During my daughter's high school years, she had a boyfriend that I loved. David was the adopted son of his grandmother, and his grandmother was Betty Blankenship, one of the very first female police officers for the city of Indianapolis. Betty was a classy lady and gardener extraordinaire. Really kept up her appearance, yet was very down-to-earth. Talking to her, one would never guess that she was a police officer. (She didn't have to wear a uniform in her later years, except on formal occasions.) Her adopted grandson was in the drumline for the Ben Davis High School Marching Giants, and we all went everywhere for his competitions. One cool evening, Betty and I were sitting in the bleachers for a competition at the high school in Elwood, IN, when she excused herself to go to the restroom. She left her purse with me, with the admonition to watch it for her. "My Glock is in there." Her "glock" was her gun. The message was clear: she didn't care about her wallet or her money, or even her checkbook. She was worried that, if someone stole her purse, they would get her gun, and that was more important to her--that the criminals not get the weapon. (You'd better bet that I hugged that purse close to me until she returned from the restroom!) Betty is no longer with us, but I sure did admire her. Nothing pretentious about that woman or her right to carry a weapon.
So why do people assume that I have a problem with guns? Maybe because I won't own one? Probably not. That is why my tax dollars go to support police--so I won't have to be a posse of one to protect myself from the bad guys. They are trained. I am not. My issue is not with guns, but with gun owners--more specifically, gun owners with an attitude. In response to my Facebook friend (see paragraph 1), I was forced to think about this. I don't care if people think I am reckless for not having a gun in the house. I DO care that there are so many folks out there than think society is out to take away what they believe are God-given rights that they aren't thinking straight. (Or maybe I'm not?)
To explain myself, I posted this:
Here's an analogy: I taught rural kids for decades. Every male kid who lives in/near the country carries a pocket knife routinely. For them, the knife is a tool, not a weapon. As a teacher (and as a woman who was raised in a country family), I understood this. In my presence, a student might bring out a pocket knife to help cut open a box of textbooks and I wouldn't bat an eye. Knives aren't allowed in school, but these would be used, then go back in the pocket. Do you know whose knives I confiscated? The kids who secretly took the knives out of their pockets and showed them off to impress others with the power that they perceived the knife gave them. THOSE were the kids that scared me. And I guess that's how I feel about the whole gun thing. Own 'em, like 'em, and collect 'em, if that's your thing. Just don't try to impress me with how "bad" you are because you have one! Hope this makes sense...
So there it is. I don't have a problem with people who own and/or collect guns. My problem is with those who believe that there is a conspiracy afoot to take away their guns, in spite of all of the evidence through the ages in this country that it won't happen. Fanaticism for any cause is reason for me to be concerned. People who collect stamps or rocks or art or whatever simply don't make an issue out of their passions. Gun people do. Or course, stamps, rocks, art, and whatever can't kill people, so it isn't a pure comparison. And there is not a single gun enthusiast in the country that can profess that the object of their obsession/hobby won't harm a soul.
Okay...there you have it. I won't write about this again. I don't fear guns. I fear gun owners, legal or illegal. I'm sure you won't lose any sleep over it!
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Endings
If you read this blog at all, you already understand that I put a lot of faith in Dr. Phil, and that is mostly because much of what he says agrees with things I believe or have already done. It affirms my confidence in my ability to call a spade a spade, to understand a given situation for what it really is. Rarely do I disagree. But today, I did.
I was watching a re-run Dr. Phil show on the OWN Network today, on which he was dealing with feuding sisters--sisters whose animosity toward each other was tearing the whole family apart. This show featured two sets of sisters, but his treatment of them was the same.
Normally, Dr. Phil will say, "This family needs a hero--someone to step up and say they are bigger than the argument and will no longer engage in animosity." He did that today, too, but he was also talking about the finality of the end of families. "Your cancer-victim father is going to die--maybe not now, but some day. And your mother will go...and your sister. Eventually, one or more of you will leave the others in this life, and whoever is left is all you will have. You need to figure out how to fix things so that you aren't left all alone in regret of what might have been."
He was right, of course, but I disagreed that life would necessarily be full of regret if the fences weren't mended. My brother died without ever reconciling with my sister and I, but it wasn't our fault.
I've written about this before. My brother had a romantic view of our family farm. He was not a farmer, nor had he been down to visit the place in the years after our father died, but he wanted to keep it in the family because it had been so for generations--well over 100 years. And I understood that. But after our father died, there were problems with maintaining the property. None of us were farmers and none of us had any experience with managing farm property. My sister worked her butt off to keep things going, from having the well repaired to having the roof replaced...to finding renters to keep the place from being declared "abandoned" by insurance. We never really saw any profit from the place. What profit there was went right back into maintaining the place. And so it went. I was campaigning to sell the farm to our tenant farmer who was willing to buy. In time, our sister began to agree with me, and our two cousins (who were also partners in the farm) who were also desiring to sell. Doug (my brother) felt secure because he had, he said, our sister Shari's word, as the executor of the property, that she would never sell.
When the sale papers were mailed out, Doug refused to sign, which threw everything into a whirlwind. The attorney was appalled and encouraged us to influence him. Our buyer-farmer only had so much time to seal the deal before everything would fall apart and have to start all over again. Doug, considering himself cornered by the 4-to-1 vote, signed the second round of papers in protest. He told my sister and I that, once the transaction was completed and he had his due, we would be "dead" to him and should not bother to even try to contact him.
I knew our brother very well. I understood that he meant what he said and that anything we did to try to contact him would just give him fodder to tighten the screws on our relationship. My sister, his "other mother" throughout our growing up years, still tried to let him know how much she loved him. She sent him a birthday card which he sent back to her as "refused". It hurt her, big time. I took the approach to respect his "no contact" wishes, thinking that he would, some day, come to his senses...and when he did, we would be there with open arms to gather him back into the family.
I didn't happen. Doug dropped dead in a store in River Forest, IL, on New Year's Eve Day of 2005. Somehow (and to this day, I don't understand how) a police officer sent me an email to ask me to call because "Mr. Covill is sick and cannot speak for himself." Mr. Covill was dead, and the rest is history. The sisters that he cut out of his life became the ones responsible for his final services. We did the best we could. Actually, I'm proud of how well we did, considering that we had not had any information about him in maybe five years.
Do you know what didn't happen? I never felt a moment of regret that I should have done more. I felt bad that Doug didn't live long enough to forgive his sisters for the "betrayal" that he felt, but my life didn't change one iota by his eternal absence. He was already gone, by his own choice. Anything I coulda/woulda/shoulda done would just have given him ammunition to rattle his swords more. Stubbornness is its own reward, I guess. I didn't buy into the madness, and I'm not ashamed of that.
Doug never hurt me again, as he did our sister. But I would have loved to welcome him back to the fold, had he decided we could be part of his life again.
Through all the years of my life, I've had a lot of "endings". As a Navy kid, leaving one place and a set of friends largely meant never seeing them again. I've learned not to count on things. Nothing stays the same, no matter how much we want it to. I don't think that makes me a pessimist--maybe a realist? If you want to see me fall apart into a heap of emotion, take away my daughter or my grandchildren. I would simply die with no desire to live any more.
Long story short, endings are part of life, no matter how much we would like to change that. My sister and I--the only remaining members of our immediate family--have buried all childhood hatchets and hold each other up in our old age, as best we can. If either of us "ended" today, there would be no regrets. Thank God for that!
I was watching a re-run Dr. Phil show on the OWN Network today, on which he was dealing with feuding sisters--sisters whose animosity toward each other was tearing the whole family apart. This show featured two sets of sisters, but his treatment of them was the same.
Normally, Dr. Phil will say, "This family needs a hero--someone to step up and say they are bigger than the argument and will no longer engage in animosity." He did that today, too, but he was also talking about the finality of the end of families. "Your cancer-victim father is going to die--maybe not now, but some day. And your mother will go...and your sister. Eventually, one or more of you will leave the others in this life, and whoever is left is all you will have. You need to figure out how to fix things so that you aren't left all alone in regret of what might have been."
He was right, of course, but I disagreed that life would necessarily be full of regret if the fences weren't mended. My brother died without ever reconciling with my sister and I, but it wasn't our fault.
I've written about this before. My brother had a romantic view of our family farm. He was not a farmer, nor had he been down to visit the place in the years after our father died, but he wanted to keep it in the family because it had been so for generations--well over 100 years. And I understood that. But after our father died, there were problems with maintaining the property. None of us were farmers and none of us had any experience with managing farm property. My sister worked her butt off to keep things going, from having the well repaired to having the roof replaced...to finding renters to keep the place from being declared "abandoned" by insurance. We never really saw any profit from the place. What profit there was went right back into maintaining the place. And so it went. I was campaigning to sell the farm to our tenant farmer who was willing to buy. In time, our sister began to agree with me, and our two cousins (who were also partners in the farm) who were also desiring to sell. Doug (my brother) felt secure because he had, he said, our sister Shari's word, as the executor of the property, that she would never sell.
When the sale papers were mailed out, Doug refused to sign, which threw everything into a whirlwind. The attorney was appalled and encouraged us to influence him. Our buyer-farmer only had so much time to seal the deal before everything would fall apart and have to start all over again. Doug, considering himself cornered by the 4-to-1 vote, signed the second round of papers in protest. He told my sister and I that, once the transaction was completed and he had his due, we would be "dead" to him and should not bother to even try to contact him.
I knew our brother very well. I understood that he meant what he said and that anything we did to try to contact him would just give him fodder to tighten the screws on our relationship. My sister, his "other mother" throughout our growing up years, still tried to let him know how much she loved him. She sent him a birthday card which he sent back to her as "refused". It hurt her, big time. I took the approach to respect his "no contact" wishes, thinking that he would, some day, come to his senses...and when he did, we would be there with open arms to gather him back into the family.
I didn't happen. Doug dropped dead in a store in River Forest, IL, on New Year's Eve Day of 2005. Somehow (and to this day, I don't understand how) a police officer sent me an email to ask me to call because "Mr. Covill is sick and cannot speak for himself." Mr. Covill was dead, and the rest is history. The sisters that he cut out of his life became the ones responsible for his final services. We did the best we could. Actually, I'm proud of how well we did, considering that we had not had any information about him in maybe five years.
Do you know what didn't happen? I never felt a moment of regret that I should have done more. I felt bad that Doug didn't live long enough to forgive his sisters for the "betrayal" that he felt, but my life didn't change one iota by his eternal absence. He was already gone, by his own choice. Anything I coulda/woulda/shoulda done would just have given him ammunition to rattle his swords more. Stubbornness is its own reward, I guess. I didn't buy into the madness, and I'm not ashamed of that.
Doug never hurt me again, as he did our sister. But I would have loved to welcome him back to the fold, had he decided we could be part of his life again.
Through all the years of my life, I've had a lot of "endings". As a Navy kid, leaving one place and a set of friends largely meant never seeing them again. I've learned not to count on things. Nothing stays the same, no matter how much we want it to. I don't think that makes me a pessimist--maybe a realist? If you want to see me fall apart into a heap of emotion, take away my daughter or my grandchildren. I would simply die with no desire to live any more.
Long story short, endings are part of life, no matter how much we would like to change that. My sister and I--the only remaining members of our immediate family--have buried all childhood hatchets and hold each other up in our old age, as best we can. If either of us "ended" today, there would be no regrets. Thank God for that!
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Bacon!
If you'll allow me one more post about my visit to Meg's, I want to write about bacon! (Bacon seems to be all the rage on Facebook these days, so I should be right in style!)
On the main drag right at the end of Megan's subdivision is a Piggly-Wiggly-supplied grocery store. Butera Market. The prices aren't particularly good, and the selection isn't as great as larger stores, but it sure is handy. Meg goes through the weekly mail flyers to check out the sales, to compare Walmart and Aldi and Jewel/Osco...and Butera. One week, Butera advertised a pound of Tyson bacon for $2.99, limit two per customer.
Next trip to Butera, I went right for the bacon...but there was none left. Sold out. At the counter, I asked for a rain check. The gal told me that they had gone through 65 cases of the stuff, so all of the rain checks were already filled out!
Next trip to Butera, within the same sale week, there was bacon, so I bought two pounds.
Meg went to Butera next, still within the same sale week, and bought two more pounds.
The next trip to Butera was in a different sale week...but the bacon was still there and still at the sale price, so I bought two more pounds.
Finally, before I left Meg's, I took the rain check and went back to Butera to buy two more pounds.
Are you counting? Eight pounds of bacon for just under $24. Not bad, eh?
A better question might be "Why does this please me so much??" Obviously, I like bacon. Even more obviously, I need a life!!
On the main drag right at the end of Megan's subdivision is a Piggly-Wiggly-supplied grocery store. Butera Market. The prices aren't particularly good, and the selection isn't as great as larger stores, but it sure is handy. Meg goes through the weekly mail flyers to check out the sales, to compare Walmart and Aldi and Jewel/Osco...and Butera. One week, Butera advertised a pound of Tyson bacon for $2.99, limit two per customer.
Next trip to Butera, I went right for the bacon...but there was none left. Sold out. At the counter, I asked for a rain check. The gal told me that they had gone through 65 cases of the stuff, so all of the rain checks were already filled out!
Next trip to Butera, within the same sale week, there was bacon, so I bought two pounds.
Meg went to Butera next, still within the same sale week, and bought two more pounds.
The next trip to Butera was in a different sale week...but the bacon was still there and still at the sale price, so I bought two more pounds.
Finally, before I left Meg's, I took the rain check and went back to Butera to buy two more pounds.
Are you counting? Eight pounds of bacon for just under $24. Not bad, eh?
A better question might be "Why does this please me so much??" Obviously, I like bacon. Even more obviously, I need a life!!
Monday, July 14, 2014
Tit for Tat
Most of the time, when I go up to visit my daughter and crew, I am a guest...but since I am also family, I try to pay my own way, as best I can. I mean, I have to eat at home, too, so I shop to put things in the "larder" that I want there. Sometimes, I plan a meal and need to provide ingredients. Sometimes, I want something they don't normally have. I buy those.
I do have a problem, though. Sometimes I want them to have something they haven't necessarily asked for--non-food things--so I buy them anyway and hope for the best.
When I arrived for the move experience, Meg handed me an envelope with some cash in it, for "incidentals". Doesn't take long for that stuff to get spent. Some days, I bought lunch. Some days, they did. Some evenings, I took them out for supper. Some evenings, they did. You get the picture. Most of the time, however, we ate at home. I did my best to supply them with meals they liked. No one starved.
I am guilty, however, of wanting to buy them things I think they should have, whether they want them or not. For example, I bought what I thought was a turkey breast. It turned out to be a whole turkey. Meg had no roasting pan. (I'd always bought disposable foil ones.) So I bought her a roasting pan. Then, too, she has long needed a griddle. I've looked for years to find a heavy-duty griddle that wasn't totally out of whack in price. This time, I gave in and got a long Calphalon griddle that covers two burners. It wasn't cheap, but it will be perfect for pancakes, syrniki, grilled sandwiches, etc. I was proud of that!
M and D bought most of the groceries. I bought the tomato plants and flowers. (Denis helped plant the tomatoes. Robin planted the flowers.) M and D bought the accessories for the children's rooms and most of the kitchen stuff. I bought some. And so it went.
One day, I was doing laundry while everyone else was constructing the "studio" furniture. As I was putting a pair of sweat-shorts into the washer, something hard hit my arm. Hmmm...there must be something in the pocket. I reached in and pulled out a thing that looked like a computer flash drive. A little while later, I presented it to Denis. Said I didn't have a clue what it was. He told me that he'd been looking all over for it--his FitBit, worth $100--and that finding it had just earned me a fancy meal out! Wow!
M and D had been bleeding money like I simply could not imagine. My spending slowed down. Theirs did, too. Still, before I left, I had purchased a nice cover for their new grill, and they had filled up the gas tank of my vehicle (with expensive gas) and presented me with a receipt for my license plate renewal!!! They didn't have to do that, but I am grateful. The renewed registration and sticker have already arrived and are installed in my car.
I guess what I am saying is that it all works out. Moving is an expensive venture. So is eating. Together, we made it all work!
I do have a problem, though. Sometimes I want them to have something they haven't necessarily asked for--non-food things--so I buy them anyway and hope for the best.
When I arrived for the move experience, Meg handed me an envelope with some cash in it, for "incidentals". Doesn't take long for that stuff to get spent. Some days, I bought lunch. Some days, they did. Some evenings, I took them out for supper. Some evenings, they did. You get the picture. Most of the time, however, we ate at home. I did my best to supply them with meals they liked. No one starved.
I am guilty, however, of wanting to buy them things I think they should have, whether they want them or not. For example, I bought what I thought was a turkey breast. It turned out to be a whole turkey. Meg had no roasting pan. (I'd always bought disposable foil ones.) So I bought her a roasting pan. Then, too, she has long needed a griddle. I've looked for years to find a heavy-duty griddle that wasn't totally out of whack in price. This time, I gave in and got a long Calphalon griddle that covers two burners. It wasn't cheap, but it will be perfect for pancakes, syrniki, grilled sandwiches, etc. I was proud of that!
M and D bought most of the groceries. I bought the tomato plants and flowers. (Denis helped plant the tomatoes. Robin planted the flowers.) M and D bought the accessories for the children's rooms and most of the kitchen stuff. I bought some. And so it went.
One day, I was doing laundry while everyone else was constructing the "studio" furniture. As I was putting a pair of sweat-shorts into the washer, something hard hit my arm. Hmmm...there must be something in the pocket. I reached in and pulled out a thing that looked like a computer flash drive. A little while later, I presented it to Denis. Said I didn't have a clue what it was. He told me that he'd been looking all over for it--his FitBit, worth $100--and that finding it had just earned me a fancy meal out! Wow!
M and D had been bleeding money like I simply could not imagine. My spending slowed down. Theirs did, too. Still, before I left, I had purchased a nice cover for their new grill, and they had filled up the gas tank of my vehicle (with expensive gas) and presented me with a receipt for my license plate renewal!!! They didn't have to do that, but I am grateful. The renewed registration and sticker have already arrived and are installed in my car.
I guess what I am saying is that it all works out. Moving is an expensive venture. So is eating. Together, we made it all work!
Organizing the Kitchen
When I was at Meg's, in the beginning at least, it fell to me to do the cooking. I tried to make sure that the family had a minimum of one home-cooked meal per day. (During the days-long moving process, fast food gets old real fast.) On the day of the actual move, and for several days before and after, we were in the "camping out" stage. Kitchen supplies were mostly still in boxes and on tops of counters until I asked Meg to take time out to put sticky notes on cabinets to help direct me as to where she wanted things to go. Pans here, dishes there, canned goods over there, boxed goods in another spot...and so it went. That helped. What she wasn't able to do at that time, however, was tell me where all of the utensils should go, and it was time for me to put it all together so I could cook. Meg was so busy doing other things that I just took it upon myself to do that by myself.
One afternoon, we went to Target in search of things. I found some OXO drawer organizers--somehwat expensive--and decided we needed three of them. Meg, not in touch with the kitchen project, was dragging her feet. I was moving too fast for her (for obvious reasons), and she announced to me that I could do all of that, but I should NOT get my feelings hurt the next time I visited if I discovered that everything had been changed. I told her that I was trying to make it so it wouldn't need to be changed, but I think she was doubtful. I don't blame her. I would be, too. The kitchen is a housewife's personal territory. It needs to be arranged conveniently--especially the utensils and measuring things. I did my best.
With the extra counter space and cabinets (and drawers) that the new kitchen provides, we had to think about "zones". Denis makes frappe's (that apostrophe is meant to be an accent over the "e") every morning. Those supplies all needed to be kept together. The canisters and measuring utensils needed to be close to each other. The spices needed to be close to the stove. And so it went. Meg was suggesting things I didn't think were going to work, so I just proceeded the best I knew how and hoped for the best. At the end of the day, I revealed to her what I had done. I was afraid Meg would still be cautious about what I had done, but what she said was, "Oh...that doesn't look as bad as I thought it would." Ha! In any case, when I left a few days ago, nothing had been rearranged. That doesn't mean that it won't be, but it does indicate that the risks I took (particularly with the spice cabinet) were fairly sound.
The spice cabinet? Meg has a LOT of spices. In the old townhome, she had to buy a special spice rack to fit the tiny cabinet, and things were just not very convenient to find. In the new kitchen, I think Meg was convinced that we could cram all of her spices in a small cabinet to the right of the stove--but if we did that, they would still be as hard to find as before. I used her old spice rack and bought a turntable for the rest and put them all on one shelf of a larger cabinet to the left of the stove. I did it because I figured it was easier to get forgiveness than permission...and knew that she could change it all if she wanted to. Again, it was so much more convenient the way I did it, I think it will stay the way I put it! (Hope so!)
The new kitchen has no room to be an "eat in" kitchen. In anticipation of that, we both bemoaned the fact that, if we needed to sit down to do food prep, we would have to take stuff to the dining room table. Ugh! I got a good look at the kitchen and determined that there was, I thought, room for a small table to be used as an island. Meg said no. However, during the move, I took one of the IKEA work tables in there--about 2' X 3'--and it was perfect. We used the daylights out of that table during the moving/unpacking process. Meg was convinced. She got online and bought a charming little counter-height table with two cute little stools to put in the kitchen. Works like a charm!!
I know how very stupid this probably sounds, but the whole process of organizing the kitchen refreshed my confidence. Like maybe Mom isn't as out-of-touch and old-fashioned as perceived?
Truly, I do understand Meg's reluctance at having someone else set up her kitchen. If she hadn't been busy doing other things that were more important at the time, I'm sure she would have liked to do it herself, and I would have let her. There are still adjustments to be made. Fortunately, there are only so many drawers in which to put things, and in whatever locations. I couldn't mess things up too badly!
One afternoon, we went to Target in search of things. I found some OXO drawer organizers--somehwat expensive--and decided we needed three of them. Meg, not in touch with the kitchen project, was dragging her feet. I was moving too fast for her (for obvious reasons), and she announced to me that I could do all of that, but I should NOT get my feelings hurt the next time I visited if I discovered that everything had been changed. I told her that I was trying to make it so it wouldn't need to be changed, but I think she was doubtful. I don't blame her. I would be, too. The kitchen is a housewife's personal territory. It needs to be arranged conveniently--especially the utensils and measuring things. I did my best.
With the extra counter space and cabinets (and drawers) that the new kitchen provides, we had to think about "zones". Denis makes frappe's (that apostrophe is meant to be an accent over the "e") every morning. Those supplies all needed to be kept together. The canisters and measuring utensils needed to be close to each other. The spices needed to be close to the stove. And so it went. Meg was suggesting things I didn't think were going to work, so I just proceeded the best I knew how and hoped for the best. At the end of the day, I revealed to her what I had done. I was afraid Meg would still be cautious about what I had done, but what she said was, "Oh...that doesn't look as bad as I thought it would." Ha! In any case, when I left a few days ago, nothing had been rearranged. That doesn't mean that it won't be, but it does indicate that the risks I took (particularly with the spice cabinet) were fairly sound.
The spice cabinet? Meg has a LOT of spices. In the old townhome, she had to buy a special spice rack to fit the tiny cabinet, and things were just not very convenient to find. In the new kitchen, I think Meg was convinced that we could cram all of her spices in a small cabinet to the right of the stove--but if we did that, they would still be as hard to find as before. I used her old spice rack and bought a turntable for the rest and put them all on one shelf of a larger cabinet to the left of the stove. I did it because I figured it was easier to get forgiveness than permission...and knew that she could change it all if she wanted to. Again, it was so much more convenient the way I did it, I think it will stay the way I put it! (Hope so!)
The new kitchen has no room to be an "eat in" kitchen. In anticipation of that, we both bemoaned the fact that, if we needed to sit down to do food prep, we would have to take stuff to the dining room table. Ugh! I got a good look at the kitchen and determined that there was, I thought, room for a small table to be used as an island. Meg said no. However, during the move, I took one of the IKEA work tables in there--about 2' X 3'--and it was perfect. We used the daylights out of that table during the moving/unpacking process. Meg was convinced. She got online and bought a charming little counter-height table with two cute little stools to put in the kitchen. Works like a charm!!
I know how very stupid this probably sounds, but the whole process of organizing the kitchen refreshed my confidence. Like maybe Mom isn't as out-of-touch and old-fashioned as perceived?
Truly, I do understand Meg's reluctance at having someone else set up her kitchen. If she hadn't been busy doing other things that were more important at the time, I'm sure she would have liked to do it herself, and I would have let her. There are still adjustments to be made. Fortunately, there are only so many drawers in which to put things, and in whatever locations. I couldn't mess things up too badly!
Sunday, July 13, 2014
My Summer Reading List
My daughter, and now my granddaughter, are avid readers. I just never was. (Never mind that I was an English teacher! I read enough American and English literature to keep me ahead of my game, but I was always busy doing other things.)
I've never been a fan of fiction. Oh, I read fiction to my classes, but if I were to pick out something to read in my spare time, it would be a biography or an account of an historical event. Don't know why. I guess I just like to read about things that are real. (Truth is stranger than fiction!) In any case, trying to keep up in conversations with my granddaughter, who often causes her mother to read the same books that she is reading, I've been prodded into the fiction world. Last fall, I read Breaking Lenin's Nose, which was a short book written from the point of view of a youngster in Leninist Russia. This last visit, I read two of Robin's picks on Megan's Kindle: The Fault in Our Stars, and Wonder.
The Fault in Our Stars just came out in a movie. In fact, it premiered the day before the family was to move...yet Megan and Denis took Robin to see it (it was that important to her). The story is about a teenaged terminal cancer patient who is forced to go to a support group by her parents. She is a practical kid...doesn't see that the group can possibly do her any good...but she goes and meets another cancer patient, seemingly in good health, with whom she falls in love. They have an adventure whereby they are granted a dying wish by a foundation, and they choose to go to Amsterdam to meet a reluctant author whose book she adores. Thereafter, the boy's cancer returns, in spades, and he ends up dying before she does. It is a testament to strength and love and reality. At one point, the main character, who is upset by the fact that her parents seem to have put their own lives on hold in order to be there for her in her illness, refers to herself as a grenade. She knows that when she dies (explodes) the shrapnel of her life is going to mess up everyone else's who love her. She feels like a burden. In the end, she feels relief in hearing that her mother has enrolled in some classes to help her help others in the same situation. I think John Green (the author) hit the nail on the head with that one! (Are you reading, Shari??)
The second book, Wonder, was about a pre-teen boy born with multiple facial abnormalities that made him ugly to look at and suffers from all of the ugly behaviors that occur around him because of the way he looks. The author seems to have caught most of the nuances of the middle school mentality--both his and his classmates'. The story is first told from the main character's point of view...then chapters thereafter capture the points of view of the other characters, one by one. In the end, it is familiarity and understanding that finally succeed as he is defended, physically, in a fight with older boys who are strangers, by some of the very kids that used to attack him, emotionally. Only one of the original characters fails to evolve to understanding--as it would be in real life.
I'm glad that Robin is reading and recommending these books. As she gets a little older, I'd like to see her progress to some classics (although I hated classics when I was a kid!!). She has the literary schema necessary to make sense of what she reads. That's my girl!!
I've never been a fan of fiction. Oh, I read fiction to my classes, but if I were to pick out something to read in my spare time, it would be a biography or an account of an historical event. Don't know why. I guess I just like to read about things that are real. (Truth is stranger than fiction!) In any case, trying to keep up in conversations with my granddaughter, who often causes her mother to read the same books that she is reading, I've been prodded into the fiction world. Last fall, I read Breaking Lenin's Nose, which was a short book written from the point of view of a youngster in Leninist Russia. This last visit, I read two of Robin's picks on Megan's Kindle: The Fault in Our Stars, and Wonder.
The Fault in Our Stars just came out in a movie. In fact, it premiered the day before the family was to move...yet Megan and Denis took Robin to see it (it was that important to her). The story is about a teenaged terminal cancer patient who is forced to go to a support group by her parents. She is a practical kid...doesn't see that the group can possibly do her any good...but she goes and meets another cancer patient, seemingly in good health, with whom she falls in love. They have an adventure whereby they are granted a dying wish by a foundation, and they choose to go to Amsterdam to meet a reluctant author whose book she adores. Thereafter, the boy's cancer returns, in spades, and he ends up dying before she does. It is a testament to strength and love and reality. At one point, the main character, who is upset by the fact that her parents seem to have put their own lives on hold in order to be there for her in her illness, refers to herself as a grenade. She knows that when she dies (explodes) the shrapnel of her life is going to mess up everyone else's who love her. She feels like a burden. In the end, she feels relief in hearing that her mother has enrolled in some classes to help her help others in the same situation. I think John Green (the author) hit the nail on the head with that one! (Are you reading, Shari??)
The second book, Wonder, was about a pre-teen boy born with multiple facial abnormalities that made him ugly to look at and suffers from all of the ugly behaviors that occur around him because of the way he looks. The author seems to have caught most of the nuances of the middle school mentality--both his and his classmates'. The story is first told from the main character's point of view...then chapters thereafter capture the points of view of the other characters, one by one. In the end, it is familiarity and understanding that finally succeed as he is defended, physically, in a fight with older boys who are strangers, by some of the very kids that used to attack him, emotionally. Only one of the original characters fails to evolve to understanding--as it would be in real life.
I'm glad that Robin is reading and recommending these books. As she gets a little older, I'd like to see her progress to some classics (although I hated classics when I was a kid!!). She has the literary schema necessary to make sense of what she reads. That's my girl!!
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Fourth of July
Normally, Meg has the children over the summer and they all come here for our traditional Fourth celebration at Hummel Park. I've already mentioned this year's complication. It became clear that they couldn't all come to Indiana...so I stayed up there.
Meg did some research to find an acceptable place to celebrate Independence Day. Great Lakes Navy Training Center seemed like a good bet, but it's a bit of a hike and not in the best neighborhood. The next best bet was Antioch, IL, just a few miles up the road. They had a parade and live music in a park, etc....and so, that's where we decided to go.
We missed the parade because no one was up in time. Meg had brats and burgers on the list for dinner.. She had already made a pasta salad and a wonderful spinach salad. I added deviled eggs to the menu. I don't think anyone left the table hungry!
After dinner, it was time to depart for Antioch. Of course, none of us had been there before, so we snagged an EMT or whatever at the place where the fireworks were to be shot off to ask questions about where to go. He directed us to a park, which was a good call. We parked through some barricades (because no one seemed to be in charge or able to tell us anything). There was a shelter with live music going on...and just behind where we located were volleyball nets. The grandkids soon got involved in play v-ball with the local kids. There was food and/or drinks available from the Lions Club...and Denis, who had an intense craving for Dairy Queen, used his phone's GPS to help him locate and walk to the nearest DQ watering hole.
As the shadows got longer, the band changed from a Dixieland group to a larger group with more horns and at least one piccolo. The spokesman for the group was British (which was a little ironic), but they played traditional patriotic music, which included--to my glee--a medley of the military's theme songs, plus the piece de resistance, Stars and Stripes Forever. Then the fireworks started...and I have to tell you that I was impressed. Antioch is a small town. Not sure who funds their fireworks display, but it was stellar!
When all was over, we headed for home to have apple pie a la mode and touch off a few sparklers in the back yard....then bed. I was reassured that the grandchildren will have a nice Fourth even after I'm gone. It was a very long and very busy Fourth of July, but we wished America a Happy Birthday in fine style!
Meg did some research to find an acceptable place to celebrate Independence Day. Great Lakes Navy Training Center seemed like a good bet, but it's a bit of a hike and not in the best neighborhood. The next best bet was Antioch, IL, just a few miles up the road. They had a parade and live music in a park, etc....and so, that's where we decided to go.
We missed the parade because no one was up in time. Meg had brats and burgers on the list for dinner.. She had already made a pasta salad and a wonderful spinach salad. I added deviled eggs to the menu. I don't think anyone left the table hungry!
After dinner, it was time to depart for Antioch. Of course, none of us had been there before, so we snagged an EMT or whatever at the place where the fireworks were to be shot off to ask questions about where to go. He directed us to a park, which was a good call. We parked through some barricades (because no one seemed to be in charge or able to tell us anything). There was a shelter with live music going on...and just behind where we located were volleyball nets. The grandkids soon got involved in play v-ball with the local kids. There was food and/or drinks available from the Lions Club...and Denis, who had an intense craving for Dairy Queen, used his phone's GPS to help him locate and walk to the nearest DQ watering hole.
As the shadows got longer, the band changed from a Dixieland group to a larger group with more horns and at least one piccolo. The spokesman for the group was British (which was a little ironic), but they played traditional patriotic music, which included--to my glee--a medley of the military's theme songs, plus the piece de resistance, Stars and Stripes Forever. Then the fireworks started...and I have to tell you that I was impressed. Antioch is a small town. Not sure who funds their fireworks display, but it was stellar!
When all was over, we headed for home to have apple pie a la mode and touch off a few sparklers in the back yard....then bed. I was reassured that the grandchildren will have a nice Fourth even after I'm gone. It was a very long and very busy Fourth of July, but we wished America a Happy Birthday in fine style!
The Curtain Project
My daughter's new home has two sets of double windows in the front of the house: one set in the dining area, and one set in the studio area...all on the same wall. Since the color scheme in both areas is black and white, Meg was looking for curtains that would work. IKEA to the rescue!
Meg found some cheap curtain panels at IKEA that are somewhat sheer white with printed black trees and Seuss-esque birds. She bought four panels for each window set--eight panels in all. They looked cute. They were way too long and would need to be hemmed, plus they were too sheer. I knew I could hem them, but in short order, she decided that they needed to be lined. Well! That do add another wrinkle!
I dragged my feet on the project for at least a week while I "ciphered" on how to proceed. If I bought lining material, how much would it take? Would it launder (shrink) at the same rate as the curtains? How would I attached the lining to the curtains without having the take the curtains totally apart and not have the lining drag down the tabs at the top? If I did all the work, would the end result be satisfactory? I worried on it for a looong time. Then, on Meg's next trip to IKEA, she came home with four panels of heavy white tabbed curtains to use as lining. We strung both sets of curtains on the same rod and discovered that maybe I didn't have to line the originals. Maybe we could just hem them all and string them on the same rod. It seemed to work....but she hadn't bought enough. Thus, the NEXT trip to IKEA netted four more panels. (Are you following me, so far??)
Both the printed curtains and the white curtains said "do not tumble dry"...yet both were able to be ironed. The printed ones needed a cool iron. The white ones needed a hot iron. I had Meg bring home another set of the printed curtains for experimenting. We washed and tumble dried them all before I ever started the hemming project. The printed curtains came out fine. The white curtain shrank about four inches in length. (Good to know!)
I started the hemming process. We were now looking at four panels of printed curtains per window (8) and four panels of white curtains per window (also 8), which makes a total of 16 curtains that needed to be hemmed. I measured from the bottom. Several days later, they were done and ready to be hung. (Slowed down by the fact that I can't stand for long.) When the first eight were hung, strung on the same rod, Meg decided that she didn't like it. Needed a double rod. (Not my problem.) I continued with the hemming project almost up to the day I left...and doggone it...one panel wasn't short enough!!! I did them all the same, assembly line style...but failed on that one panel. Next time I'm up there, I'll fix it. I hate it when stuff doesn't work like it should!
Just so you'll all feel sorry for what I was doing, I measured, pinned, cut, re-pinned, ironed up the measurements, stitched, and ironed 16 panels of curtains. Took 12 inches off the printed curtains and 23 inches off the white ones. The double rods were installed and the curtains looked good in spite of me. It took days. (Do you feel sorry for me now??)
I hope it made a difference. Meg might not be happy with the results, in which case I will invite her to tackle the next such project herself. She can do it. She just was busy with other stuff!
Meg found some cheap curtain panels at IKEA that are somewhat sheer white with printed black trees and Seuss-esque birds. She bought four panels for each window set--eight panels in all. They looked cute. They were way too long and would need to be hemmed, plus they were too sheer. I knew I could hem them, but in short order, she decided that they needed to be lined. Well! That do add another wrinkle!
I dragged my feet on the project for at least a week while I "ciphered" on how to proceed. If I bought lining material, how much would it take? Would it launder (shrink) at the same rate as the curtains? How would I attached the lining to the curtains without having the take the curtains totally apart and not have the lining drag down the tabs at the top? If I did all the work, would the end result be satisfactory? I worried on it for a looong time. Then, on Meg's next trip to IKEA, she came home with four panels of heavy white tabbed curtains to use as lining. We strung both sets of curtains on the same rod and discovered that maybe I didn't have to line the originals. Maybe we could just hem them all and string them on the same rod. It seemed to work....but she hadn't bought enough. Thus, the NEXT trip to IKEA netted four more panels. (Are you following me, so far??)
Both the printed curtains and the white curtains said "do not tumble dry"...yet both were able to be ironed. The printed ones needed a cool iron. The white ones needed a hot iron. I had Meg bring home another set of the printed curtains for experimenting. We washed and tumble dried them all before I ever started the hemming project. The printed curtains came out fine. The white curtain shrank about four inches in length. (Good to know!)
I started the hemming process. We were now looking at four panels of printed curtains per window (8) and four panels of white curtains per window (also 8), which makes a total of 16 curtains that needed to be hemmed. I measured from the bottom. Several days later, they were done and ready to be hung. (Slowed down by the fact that I can't stand for long.) When the first eight were hung, strung on the same rod, Meg decided that she didn't like it. Needed a double rod. (Not my problem.) I continued with the hemming project almost up to the day I left...and doggone it...one panel wasn't short enough!!! I did them all the same, assembly line style...but failed on that one panel. Next time I'm up there, I'll fix it. I hate it when stuff doesn't work like it should!
Just so you'll all feel sorry for what I was doing, I measured, pinned, cut, re-pinned, ironed up the measurements, stitched, and ironed 16 panels of curtains. Took 12 inches off the printed curtains and 23 inches off the white ones. The double rods were installed and the curtains looked good in spite of me. It took days. (Do you feel sorry for me now??)
I hope it made a difference. Meg might not be happy with the results, in which case I will invite her to tackle the next such project herself. She can do it. She just was busy with other stuff!
IKEA
For the uninitiated--which I was for a very long time--IKEA is a large home department store complex. Well...not just large. Huge. It's a little difficult to explain. It isn't a home store like Menard's or Lowe's or Home Depot. The only hardware that they sell at IKEA is the hardware needed to put together their products. So what do they sell? Everything else! Furniture and furniture components for every room in the house. Lights and lamps. Kitchen ware. Kitchen cabinet components. Curtains and linen. Counter top components. I simply cannot list them all! It is all from Sweden, very reasonably priced, and very versatile.
Want to design a kitchen? Pick out a style. Pick out a color. Decide what kind of cabinets and drawers you want. Measure. Put it all together...some assembly required. Everything leaves IKEA in flat boxes that you take with you (or pay them to deliver to your home). On the weekends, the place is packed, with vehicles backed up to the loading dock for people to load their own purchases. Folks travel for hours just to shop at IKEA, and because the stores are so big, they aren't very close together. (The one near Meg is in Schaumburg--an hour away. The nearest one to me here in Indy is in Cincinnati.) And, of course, no visit to IKEA would be complete without stopping in their food area for Swedish meatballs, always served with lingenberries. (At least I think they are lingenberries. If I weren't so lazy, I would look it up!)
Megan and Denis's new house has a living room upstairs and a family room downstairs. Since they are both computer people--Megan with an online art business, and Denis as a software engineer--they decided to make a studio out of the upstairs living room, with computer stations, worktables, places to stash everything (including cables), file cabinets, big printers, etc. They measured and measured, then started on their design, trying to think of everything they would need in order to make it a sweet space to meet their needs, changing the design a couple of times, then starting the search for components to build it. They were already aware of IKEA's offerings and so went about the business of shopping there to pick up what they needed. OMG! I think they bought the place out! In fact, one of the last things I posted on Facebook before I left was that if anyone was thinking about shopping there, not to bother because I was quite sure there couldn't be anything left!!
The kids paid to have the stuff delivered to their new house. For some reason, it didn't come when they had planned, so the assembly part of the project didn't start until after the actual move, which set them back a bit. It all fell to Denis, who is quite deliberate and precise in his work (which is good because he was trying to please Megan who can be, shall we say, somewhat demanding?). Denis worked for days to put the studio components together: every spare minute, while juggling work and sleep and children. Then he was charged with hiding all of the cords. (Big job!) In any case, when it was all done, there were stations for his computer, Meg's computer, and places for both children's computers, plus all of the other accessories of a computer studio. When I left just a couple of days ago, it just needed finishing touches which were already in the works.
It will be months before they can finally feel totally moved in because they still have to find places where everything will "live" in the process, but they are well on their way. IKEA helped!
Want to design a kitchen? Pick out a style. Pick out a color. Decide what kind of cabinets and drawers you want. Measure. Put it all together...some assembly required. Everything leaves IKEA in flat boxes that you take with you (or pay them to deliver to your home). On the weekends, the place is packed, with vehicles backed up to the loading dock for people to load their own purchases. Folks travel for hours just to shop at IKEA, and because the stores are so big, they aren't very close together. (The one near Meg is in Schaumburg--an hour away. The nearest one to me here in Indy is in Cincinnati.) And, of course, no visit to IKEA would be complete without stopping in their food area for Swedish meatballs, always served with lingenberries. (At least I think they are lingenberries. If I weren't so lazy, I would look it up!)
Megan and Denis's new house has a living room upstairs and a family room downstairs. Since they are both computer people--Megan with an online art business, and Denis as a software engineer--they decided to make a studio out of the upstairs living room, with computer stations, worktables, places to stash everything (including cables), file cabinets, big printers, etc. They measured and measured, then started on their design, trying to think of everything they would need in order to make it a sweet space to meet their needs, changing the design a couple of times, then starting the search for components to build it. They were already aware of IKEA's offerings and so went about the business of shopping there to pick up what they needed. OMG! I think they bought the place out! In fact, one of the last things I posted on Facebook before I left was that if anyone was thinking about shopping there, not to bother because I was quite sure there couldn't be anything left!!
The kids paid to have the stuff delivered to their new house. For some reason, it didn't come when they had planned, so the assembly part of the project didn't start until after the actual move, which set them back a bit. It all fell to Denis, who is quite deliberate and precise in his work (which is good because he was trying to please Megan who can be, shall we say, somewhat demanding?). Denis worked for days to put the studio components together: every spare minute, while juggling work and sleep and children. Then he was charged with hiding all of the cords. (Big job!) In any case, when it was all done, there were stations for his computer, Meg's computer, and places for both children's computers, plus all of the other accessories of a computer studio. When I left just a couple of days ago, it just needed finishing touches which were already in the works.
It will be months before they can finally feel totally moved in because they still have to find places where everything will "live" in the process, but they are well on their way. IKEA helped!
Friday, July 11, 2014
The Cat
Megan and Denis have a "tortoise shell" cat named Toffee. She is largely a scaredy-cat in new situations, so on moving day, she was locked into one room while the movers worked. Then she was snared and put into her carrier for the short ride to her new home. Once released, she hid for awhile, but it didn't take long before she started to explore. But her life changed. She found her food and she found her litter box, but she wasn't sure where to go for snuggling and petting because everyone was too busy to worry about a cat! New routines are being established. I'm sure she must miss me now because I was giving her canned cat food and cat treats on a regular basis. She has discovered, however, that there is a whole new world just outside the patio sliding glass door. Poor Toffee has bonked her head on the glass door several times when a ground squirrel got nose-to-nose with her with the glass to interfere.
Toffee also has a new cat tree. It's a carpeted and sissal'ed place for her to scratch and climb as the spirit moves her. She often climbs up the carpeted pole solely with her claws as her method, then thrusts herself over the top to the curved landing spot. Ninja cat!
When everything begins to settle down there, Meg and Den will find time to sit on the couch and watch TV, making a warm spot for Toffee to find a snuggle spot on their laps. In the meantime, she has decided that sleeping on Meg's computer chair is her comfort spot. (One morning, she left a lovely little hairball on the chair for Meg. Nice!)
I'm sure Toffee will miss me. We had a bond. I was always up earlier than everyone else and gave her treats...petted her while she rolled and stretched...and waited for me to do whatever it was that I was going to do. Sometimes she attacked my legs if I wasn't doing just the right thing...all in fun.
Please do not misunderstand. As much as I love that cat's furry little butt, I have NO desire to own one. If I had a pet, I could not have spent a month at Meg's. I'm retired and unattached. That means I can do what I want when I want. With critters comes responsibility. As my granddaughter would say, "I'm good."
Toffee also has a new cat tree. It's a carpeted and sissal'ed place for her to scratch and climb as the spirit moves her. She often climbs up the carpeted pole solely with her claws as her method, then thrusts herself over the top to the curved landing spot. Ninja cat!
When everything begins to settle down there, Meg and Den will find time to sit on the couch and watch TV, making a warm spot for Toffee to find a snuggle spot on their laps. In the meantime, she has decided that sleeping on Meg's computer chair is her comfort spot. (One morning, she left a lovely little hairball on the chair for Meg. Nice!)
I'm sure Toffee will miss me. We had a bond. I was always up earlier than everyone else and gave her treats...petted her while she rolled and stretched...and waited for me to do whatever it was that I was going to do. Sometimes she attacked my legs if I wasn't doing just the right thing...all in fun.
Please do not misunderstand. As much as I love that cat's furry little butt, I have NO desire to own one. If I had a pet, I could not have spent a month at Meg's. I'm retired and unattached. That means I can do what I want when I want. With critters comes responsibility. As my granddaughter would say, "I'm good."
The New House
Megan and Denis (my daughter and son-in-law) were living in a rented tri-level townhome in Grayslake, IL. They grabbed it three years ago because it was move-in-ready, and they needed a place, fast, having both secured jobs in Illinois that started immediately. Their personal effects, arriving from California, were not to arrive for a week or two, so they had to make do with whatever I could muster to send up with them. It was like camping out for a couple of weeks, but they got by...and dreaded the fact that they might want to move to somewhere else in short order. When their stuff arrived, we got the townhouse put together, and they stayed longer than anticipated. Soon enough, however, new-US-citizen Denis and native-born-citizen Meg decided that they wanted to invest in the American Dream of owning their own home. This early spring, they started their search...and found...wonder of wonders....a house that was move-in-ready with a "motivated seller" who wanted a delayed closing so her children could finish school. (That worked well for Meg and Den because they still had some time on their lease to worry about.) The seller accepted their bid right away, and my kids got the house!
The home is in a really nice neighborhood in Lindenhurst, IL. Lindenhurst is what would normally be called a Bedroom Community because it has only been in existence for 50 years. There is no downtown...just strip malls along the main drags. It has the feel of being out in the country with all of the conveniences of fairly close shopping for everything one needs.
The houses on Robincrest Lane seem close together, but the charm is all in the back. The back yards are extensive, and since it was established in the 90s, there is mature landscaping all around. Meg's house has a HUGE deck in the back, on one level, and a cement patio at ground level, with lovely shade plants all around....and birds. Lots of birds. Just off to the left in the back is a pond that attracts egrets and herons and ducks. Many a day while there, I stood on the patio and leaned on the rail just to watch the little nesting wren that sang her heart out on a tree branch only a few feet away...and ground squirrels and gray squirrels all around. I am told (although I didn't see any) that deer frequent the yards. There is a line of evergreens that cuts off the view of the neighborhood on the street behind theirs. (That's a good thing.)
The house is a bi-level. There are stairs, although not as many as there were in the townhome. It is obvious that the previous owners did much to maintain the home. All of the internal doors and baseboard trim has been replaced. The kitchen has new (painted) cabinets. The kitchen counter tops are quartz--something that was not available when the house was built. You get the picture. It isn't perfect. It isn't even luxurious. But it is nice. Very nice. Meg and Den were smart enough to understand that the perks of a more lavish home that they could probably afford just means more money on the mortgage that could be spent elsewhere. I'm proud of them for being so practical.
The neighbors are friendly and the "hood" is regal. The house has four bedrooms and a bonus room, living room, family room, formal dining room, kitchen with a lot of amenities (like many more cabinets and drawers than they are used to), huge utility room, two full bathrooms, and a lot of charm. Plus a dual garage with a lot of built-ins. This can work for them! I'm happy that I could be a part of it all.
The home is in a really nice neighborhood in Lindenhurst, IL. Lindenhurst is what would normally be called a Bedroom Community because it has only been in existence for 50 years. There is no downtown...just strip malls along the main drags. It has the feel of being out in the country with all of the conveniences of fairly close shopping for everything one needs.
The houses on Robincrest Lane seem close together, but the charm is all in the back. The back yards are extensive, and since it was established in the 90s, there is mature landscaping all around. Meg's house has a HUGE deck in the back, on one level, and a cement patio at ground level, with lovely shade plants all around....and birds. Lots of birds. Just off to the left in the back is a pond that attracts egrets and herons and ducks. Many a day while there, I stood on the patio and leaned on the rail just to watch the little nesting wren that sang her heart out on a tree branch only a few feet away...and ground squirrels and gray squirrels all around. I am told (although I didn't see any) that deer frequent the yards. There is a line of evergreens that cuts off the view of the neighborhood on the street behind theirs. (That's a good thing.)
The house is a bi-level. There are stairs, although not as many as there were in the townhome. It is obvious that the previous owners did much to maintain the home. All of the internal doors and baseboard trim has been replaced. The kitchen has new (painted) cabinets. The kitchen counter tops are quartz--something that was not available when the house was built. You get the picture. It isn't perfect. It isn't even luxurious. But it is nice. Very nice. Meg and Den were smart enough to understand that the perks of a more lavish home that they could probably afford just means more money on the mortgage that could be spent elsewhere. I'm proud of them for being so practical.
The neighbors are friendly and the "hood" is regal. The house has four bedrooms and a bonus room, living room, family room, formal dining room, kitchen with a lot of amenities (like many more cabinets and drawers than they are used to), huge utility room, two full bathrooms, and a lot of charm. Plus a dual garage with a lot of built-ins. This can work for them! I'm happy that I could be a part of it all.
Back Home Again
I have been away for awhile. No, I wasn't in the hospital or even committed to a psychiatric hospital (although perhaps I should have been). Instead, I drove to northern Illinois to help my daughter and son-in-law move into their very first home actually owned together. Although there isn't much by way of labor that I can do in the "helping" category, there are things I can do since life goes on, move or no move. My being there provided a second vehicle for errand-running, etc., plus an extra body for kid-supervision, cooking, laundry, organizing, and all of the other little things that go along with keeping up with things even during a move.
I drove up on June 4th. (The move was to take place on the 6th.) It was my plan to stay for two weeks, then come home in time to prepare for them all to come to my place for our traditional celebration of the Fourth of July at Hummel Park down the road from home. That didn't happen. What did happen was the fact that the children's father wanted them on the day after the Fourth...so I decided to stay until then. Suddenly, his request was to have them on the actual Fourth, which threw me into a tizzy because I would have had my extended stay for no good reason. (Not that I need a reason to stay at my daughter's). But I digress. Things worked out so we were able to have the children for the Fourth, but in northern IL instead of central IN.
Thereafter, it was my intention to come home on July 5th. Too tired. July 6th. 7th, and 8th, I was still working on a curtain project, which I will explain later, with rain in the area on that Tuesday. (I don't drive interstates in the rain, if I can help it). On Wednesday, the 9th, I was prepared to leave for home, but the contractors for Lowe's showed up to replace/install the sliding glass door to the lower patio in their house, and they had my car blocked in with their trucks. I was getting nervous as the afternoon passed because it is, at least, a 4-hour trip to Indy from up there, with a time zone difference of an hour later in IN. Finally, the contractors were gone, so I left for home about 3:00 IL/4:00 IN time. Even with an unexplained 30-minute traffic slowdown north of O'Hare that lasted through Hinsdale in the Chicago area, a pit stop for me, and a stop at the bank branch when I got home, I still got back before dark. I think many Indiana people had about given up on me, but I was back to my humble little house-on-a-slab as if I'd never left. I was in Lindenhurst, IL, for slightly over a month. My experiences while there will be the subject of my next few blog posts. If you read them, God bless you. If you don't, I understand. They will be disjointed by subject, but that's the way my mind works.
Mind? Did I say I have a mind?? Believe it or don't. It is what it is!
I drove up on June 4th. (The move was to take place on the 6th.) It was my plan to stay for two weeks, then come home in time to prepare for them all to come to my place for our traditional celebration of the Fourth of July at Hummel Park down the road from home. That didn't happen. What did happen was the fact that the children's father wanted them on the day after the Fourth...so I decided to stay until then. Suddenly, his request was to have them on the actual Fourth, which threw me into a tizzy because I would have had my extended stay for no good reason. (Not that I need a reason to stay at my daughter's). But I digress. Things worked out so we were able to have the children for the Fourth, but in northern IL instead of central IN.
Thereafter, it was my intention to come home on July 5th. Too tired. July 6th. 7th, and 8th, I was still working on a curtain project, which I will explain later, with rain in the area on that Tuesday. (I don't drive interstates in the rain, if I can help it). On Wednesday, the 9th, I was prepared to leave for home, but the contractors for Lowe's showed up to replace/install the sliding glass door to the lower patio in their house, and they had my car blocked in with their trucks. I was getting nervous as the afternoon passed because it is, at least, a 4-hour trip to Indy from up there, with a time zone difference of an hour later in IN. Finally, the contractors were gone, so I left for home about 3:00 IL/4:00 IN time. Even with an unexplained 30-minute traffic slowdown north of O'Hare that lasted through Hinsdale in the Chicago area, a pit stop for me, and a stop at the bank branch when I got home, I still got back before dark. I think many Indiana people had about given up on me, but I was back to my humble little house-on-a-slab as if I'd never left. I was in Lindenhurst, IL, for slightly over a month. My experiences while there will be the subject of my next few blog posts. If you read them, God bless you. If you don't, I understand. They will be disjointed by subject, but that's the way my mind works.
Mind? Did I say I have a mind?? Believe it or don't. It is what it is!
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