Souveniers From Our Trip

Technically, it wasn't a "trip." It was a quick back and forth drive back home to visit family. But we were away from our house for one whole night so I will take what I can get.

First of all I brought back these bookmarks. They are cut out of paper thin wood. My dad made them. After a few subtle hints like "You know I read alot, right? And I don't have very many bookmarks." or "So, did you make these to give out to people? You know, people like me who read alot?" and "You gonna give me one or what?" he finally said to go ahead and take one if I wanted it. I took two.

My next find was a genuine Pet Rock from 1975 that I found in a thrift shop. I showed it to my 6 year old nephew who promptly started sneezing. I told him that he must be allergic to the dander that pet rocks had. He didn't get it. And he thought I wasted my money to buy a rock. Kids these days.

My third bring back was an old purse I found at the same thrift store that had the rock. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush from finding a 36 year old pet rock that made me think the purse would clean up nicely. It's pretty nasty looking now that I'm out of the dusty, dimness of the shop.

I had a feeling I should have left it in the store when I showed it to my cousin who tried very hard to hide the motion she made that told me she was afraid to touch the nasty thing. Jason saw it and said that it looked like something that would be in a hoarder's house as he scrubbed down the spot where it had been sitting on our table. So it's going to Salvation Army ASAP. Unless of course you like it. In that case it is a vintage Veldore' handbag that has signs of gentle wear. I will sell for a very reasonable price. Just message me if you'd like to deal.


And that was just about all the money I was willing to spend until we stopped at a gas station on the way back home. Jason went inside first and told the table of Girl Scouts peddling their overpriced cookies that they'd have to ask me. He gave me fair warning when he came back out to the car and I was heading in. I was ready to tell them I had already bought ours this year from girls in our neighborhood. They pulled out their best salesman who was a doe eyed, freckle faced little Brownie in that cute little beret uniform who looked hopefully up into my stern, ready to say,"NO." eyes and said, "You'll buy some cookies, right?" I bought two boxes.

Memoires of a Tom Girl Who Loved Her Daddy's Truck

This weekend was spent going to visit our families in the town in which I grew up. On the car trip down there I whipped out the camera phone so I could take pictures of some of the things I always look for on the road. They are my own personal landmarks, I suppose, and how I gauge how much further we have on the trip. Starting out, the camera was just to stay awake so I could keep Jason company. But taking those pictures put me in a sentimental mood so the camera stayed out once we got to our destination so I could take some more pictures of other things that represented my own life's landmarks.

My first subject was Ol' Blue- the old Chevy truck that was my dad's source of transportation from my earliest memories until after I was married. Growing up, when it wasn't being driven by Daddy and was parked in its spot, it also served as our playground, our spaceship, Dukes of Hazard car, pioneer wagon, horse drawn carriage, yacht, row boat and then island that we had stowed away to, playhouse, upright sit and spin (huge steering wheel we could sit on and have someone else turn trying to knock us off) trampoline (very springy bouncy seats) depository for many rocks (the little square holes along the side of the bed--the first drop we thought it would fall through to the ground. It didn't, so we kept dropping more and more trying to find out where they were going. We never found out and were wise enough not to ask Daddy where they might have piled up, but not wise enough to stop trying to figure it out on our own) a large farm truck so we could pretend like we were driving to the Co-Op to get feed and then pretend to load up the feed, our inflicter of pain (when we let down the tail gate to load the pretend sacks of feed and its weight crushed our fingers as it fell), our ledge to jump off and see how many jumping jacks we could do in the air once we were strong enough to let down the tail gate and hook it with the chains so it stayed out instead of slamming hard on its bumper, and our death defying balance beam or high wire perched over a pool of angry sharks (balancing on the edges of the bed.)

When it was being driven it was our transportation to Little League games, fishing at the lake, driving over the dam, trips to the hardware store, to the local nursery where we could pick out our very own seedlings to grow, to the veterinarian with our dog Sarge and treks to the grocery store or school when the weather was icy. If we were lucky and the weather wasn't icy we could ride in the bed of the truck. With the exception of driving over the dam and driving down to the shore of the lake, which for some reason terrified me, riding in the bed was pure delight.

Once when my dad was out of town and took the good family car with him my mom drove us in the truck to go pick up our cousins who were visiting from out of town and bring them to our house. We had a long time to sit and visit in the truck bed as my mom searched for each hard to find gear and we rattled and lurched in the back. We mostly tried to keep from laughing ourselves silly. My mom could drive a standard, but Ol' Blue was contrary when anyone but my dad was in the driver's seat. Mom still gets a little defensive to this day about it.

Once when we were riding in the back of Ol' Blue after a baseball game and big loss by my brother's team, I decided to cheer him up by waiting until we were at an underpass where echoing could always be heard by shouting (we had lots of practice at this)to declare at the top of my lungs, "Yellow Jackets are #1!" I looked at him expecting to see some team spirit and jubilation return to his face and instead saw more bitter disappointment and my sister looking at me in utter disbelief. In my young mind I had confused the two teams and even though I thought he had played for the Yellow Jackets, I was cheering the opposite team and pouring salt in his wound. He forgave me though when he saw me beating on the back window to get my dad's attention to get him to turn around and go back through the underpass so I could shout the right team name. Dad didn't, but my brother was somewhat cheered up when I was yelled at by both Mom and Dad and told to sit down.

Another time with another cousin we took the long journey to the lake with fishing poles from our shed and worms from my grandpa's worm business. He sold the juiciest, fattest worms imaginable for only $1.00 a box. He had dried catfish heads all along his fence to show others the size of fish that were caught by using his special worms. To this day, I remember the feel of the moist cool dirt of the worm beds and the sight and sound of the worms popping to the top of the soil when I would help Papa feed them and keep them warm. I'm going to be a worm farmer, too one of these days, but I digress. Since the road was long to get to the lake and my cousin was very impatient my brother and I convinced him along the way that we had left the state and were in New Mexico where fishing laws were very strict and since we didn't have the right fishing license for New Mexico we would all go to jail if we were caught with fishing poles and worms. Either we were good actors or he was a very gullible little boy because he was near tears when we had to nearly body slam him to keep him from pitching the worms, poles and tackle boxes over the side of the truck when we yelled, "Cop!" Our fishing lures were lucky indeed because we were able to keep them from being thrown out as we cruised along and none of the adults caught the quick scrambling in the bed of the truck as we tackled him on hands and knees.

As I grew older and hit those awkward Jr. High years I began to think no one understood me or had the time to really love me. My poor mom was always getting yelled at by me either because she talked too much to me or she didn't talk enough. She never did anything with me or she wanted to be with me too much. She never wanted to read what I wrote for school or she was too nosy about what I wrote for school. I remember going into a crying fit with her because she and Daddy named me Melissa. Didn't they know there would other Melissa's and my school and so I had no real identity? Didn't she care? How they came out of that period unscathed and with all their wits I will never know. But Ol' Blue helped me to realize I was indeed important to my parents. We had gone to Abilene(I was in the cab because riding in the bed in Abilene was never an option) and as my dad made a sharp turn the passenger door swung open wide and my mom sprang into action by grabbing me to keep me from sliding out. She somehow manged to quickly stand up hunched over me and push me towards Dad's reach and as he yanked me towards him she reached out for the door and slammed it shut. This life saving feat was all done as Dad kept driving and completed the turn with perfection. They had the opportunity to give me a big push and leave me there on my own, but instead they sprang into action to keep me by their sides. They loved me after all.

Midway through my teenage years Ol' Blue became an embarrassment. I didn't want to be seen in it anymore. After I had my driver's license I no longer cared about Ol' Blue and was driving myself to school in an 84 Oldsmobile Delta 88 which strangely didn't embarrass me. One morning it was icy enough for the roads to be slick but not icy enough to cancel school. Dad insisted that he drive me to school in Ol' Blue and no matter how much I protested he wasn't going to relent and let me drive. I was mortified. That evening when the roads were thought to be clear he allowed me to drive. I hit an ice patch in my 88 and did a small fish tail. It was enough for me to see my life flash before my eyes. It was enough for me to beg my dad the next morning to take me to school in Ol' Blue and this time instead of dropping me off on the Jr. High side he could take me straight to the high school. He could even drop me off right at the front doors where everyone could see me get out. I didn't care. I was in love again with Ol' Blue if it meant I didn't have to drive on ice again. Ol' Blue had changed my view on my own life once again.

My next photo subject will be Abigail inside Ol' Blue. It's sitting in my parents' back yard. My dad doesn't have the time to work on her, but he never could bring himself to completely let her go. Abigail won't be able to ride in Blue, but she can pretend she is as I tell her the stories. Maybe one day Ol' Blue will hit the open road again, but if not, the memories will always be taking her for a spin.

Human Pretzel

I had my first chiropractic experience on Friday. My back has been hurting since I had a fender bender a few weeks ago. Many of my friends and family told me to go to a chiropractor instead of a M.D. because I would get quicker results without pharmaceutical drugs. Although, the possibility of pharmacy grade pain killers actually sounds enticing, the quicker remedy outweighed the loopy happy feeling that could have been mine. (more of a loopy feeling than I already have naturally)

I always turn into a shy person when I go to a doctor. And I find myself very nervous because I don't like to be touched by or have have a stranger really close to me. And it's for stupid reasons, too. Like, what if I have a booger in my nose, or a big glob of earwax peeking out of my ear (that's the biggest fear), or a string of mucus in the back of my throat, or bits of salad in my teeth or underarm odor that I don't smell because I'm used to it, or a patch of hair on my ankle or big toe that I missed when I shaved the last few times. I told you; stupid reasons.

I thought I would have my nervousness under control this time because I wore my pajama jeans to the appointment. I would have to backtrack to explain my long wait for the pajama jeans and how I fall in love with them more each day and I don't want to do that now, so I will just say that I assumed that my snazzy yet comfortable pants would allow me to keep my calm and allow me to be my quirky self without shutting down like a wallflower. I was wrong.

As I waited in the exam room I was scrolling through my phone. The chiropractor walked in and on impulse I threw my phone towards my purse, overshot it and then scrambled to scoop it up off the chair next to my purse where it landed. I shoved it into my purse, then tossed my purse off the chair next to me onto the floor. I have no explanation for that. I just felt as though suddenly I had been busted, so on instinct I was hiding the evidence. Again, I don't know.

He pretended not to notice, but I'm pretty sure I saw him do a quick eye sweep of the room. Because of my behavior, it's quite possible he was checking to see if I had stolen one of the models of the spine that was on display. He made a little bit of small talk and mentioned how the spine can get out of alignment for any reason. He said that for months his back had been hurting and just last week he realized it was because of his office chair and he went into telling me that tale. My pajama jeans should have given me the confidence to do what my brain was playing out. I so badly wanted to say, "Oh! Well then, I'm going to buy a new chair first before I go through this and see if that helps," as I jokingly stood up and faced the door. But instead I just politely and quietly said, "Well that is nice that it was such a simple fix." You know, maybe it was the pajama jeans that gave me the common sense to do that instead of my first sarcastic impulse since the man was about to crack every single vertebrae running up and down my treasured spine.

Anyway, onto the table I went. There is no graceful way to plop down onto a table face down. But it didn't help matters when my shoe started to slide off and I did a sidekick off the table trying to catch the shoe and maneuver it back on. There was no way to recover from that so I just did an odd spread eagle type of kerplop! down. If that wasn't bad enough, after he popped my hips he told me to roll to my side at which point I realized that pajama jeans are very slick on an slender exam table. He caught me before I pitched off the edge. He had very quick reflexes, but he might find in a couple of days that his office chair won't be the simple fix to alleviate his back pain that my little acrobatics caused him.

But overall, I'm glad I went. Being twisted like a pretzel is a fast remedy for my medical professionals touching aversion. And actually, the popping sensation of vertebrae and joints that I didn't even know I had was quite nice. I can handle this with or without my pajama jeans. . . as long as he doesn't have to look into my ears.

Evolution of a Woman. Or at least this woman.

The sign has been in my grandma's house for as long as I remember. So long, that I even recall the first time I read it for myself: "My house is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy."

The first time I read it, I didn't comprehend it. I was just proud that I had strung the letters together to make words.

Later, in elementary school I got the humor in it. It was cute.

Then came high school when I was close to graduation. I would read it and wonder how in the world someone could be happy in a dirty house? Even a small amount of clutter and dust was unacceptable and would not be tolerated when I had my own place. I even lived up to that expectation for the first few years of having my own apartment, both while being single then after being married.

A while after that, when I was working a full time job and the stress of life began to be a little weighty, I began to comprehend a different meaning. It was no longer humorous. It was a small treasure of wisdom. "Dirty enough to be happy." Relax. Enjoy the small things in life and don't let fixating on cleaning every crevice of my house distract me from seeing the fun and beauty in everyday.

The last 10 years I have had a kid and all that busyness motherhood brings to help me evolve to a completely different attitude. I see the sign now and think that whoever came up with it is a haughty, contemptuous busybody. "Clean enough to be healthy." What the blankety blank Yosemite Sam does that mean? Are you trying to tell me that I'm the only one with dust piling up on the pictures and a little mildew growing on the shower curtain where nobody looks anyway? Just don't turn off the cursed ceiling fan if you don't want to see the grime on the blades! As if I'm the only one on earth that hasn't cleaned the windows in a few months/years?! Well, if everyone would eat all that I cooked there wouldn't be fuzzy leftovers on the forgotten back shelf of the fridge! SO nobody but me in all the world has a perpetual laundry basket full of clean clothes that never make it to the drawers before being dug out and worn again? No; I don't scrub my baseboards- if the dirt doesn't fall off of them when I ram the vacuum into them during a frenzied cleaning then it is obviously meant to be there. Who the freakin' freak does she think she is? "Clean enough to be healthy." Yeah? Well, clean THIS!

I think maybe I should share this with my grandma so she will understand why I mumble and shake my fist whenever I see that stupid picture, which by the way usually has a film of dust on it. At least that gives me a small comfort of solace.

Behold, my creation!

I have a friend who has challenged herself to create something everyday and then blog about it. So, I am following her example for one day only and for one thing. I guess it could be two things if I count sewing some loose buttons back onto Abigail's sweater. That could count as creating something because she couldn't wear it, but then she could, so it's almost like I created a sweater. Yes, two things.

So here is my second thing:

I suppose one could say that taking five pre-made cedar panels out of a box, reading instructions and putting them together is not actually creating anything. But it took me an hour, so I overrule that sentiment and say I did make it.

I see the irony in the fact that I struggled to make my box since I have a dad who can piddle around with wood and make just about anything. I've seen him make snowflakes and a shed. One Christmas when I was a teenager he surprised me with a hope chest that he crafted. He even added a living room addition to our house while growing up. And on my mom's side of the family I have an uncle that creates cabinetry work and for fun works at Lowes so he can share his knowledge with others. My brother can take an old, neglected piece of wood and turn it into a birdhouse, chair, table or bench, but I didn't get even a shred of that gene.

An hour after looking at instructions, scattering screws all over the living room when I opened the bag they were in and nearly drilling a divot into our wood floor with a power drill that I had no business touching; I completed my box. Yes, I admit the irony, but I fail to see the hilarity in it that Abigail observed. I'm no Biblical scholar, but I am fairly certain that when God said, "Honor your Father and Mother" it meant don't laugh yourself silly watching your mom try to put together a pre-made cedar box. I tried explaining that to her, but it was a little hard to sound stern as I was lying on my stomach with most of my face squished against our heavy T.V.cabinet as I reached under it trying to retrieve the scattered screws.

Country Cuteness

Somebody posted on facebook that her dog was having puppies. I talked to her cute, little daughter for a short bit this morning and she excitedly told me that the mommy made and gave her puppies milk when they were hungry. That triggered a memory, so I'm fixin' to tell y'all all about it.

A few years ago when Jason's second cousin was around 3, we took her with us to Sam's. Hannah was a spit-fire little girl who is now a smart, beautiful spit-fire teen. When she was little she had long blond curls, a cherub like face and to look at her made you think she was oozing in sweet girly girlishness. She would sit and listen to you speak to her while she blinked her eyes causing her long eyelashes to nearly sweep the top of her cheeks. And then she would speak. Hearing her words would cause a brief moment of surrealism. When she spoke her voice wasn't the twinkling child-like sound you expected by looking at her. Her voice was deep, and she had the thickest most countriest slow, drawn out Texan drawl you could possibly imagine.

So there we were in Sam's not looking at anything in particular. We were just roaming around with her in the front of the basket causing people in the busy Saturday crowd to look at her and smile at her cuteness. We took a turn and ended up on the dog food aisle. Hannah reached out and touched a bag of puppy chow and explained to me in her deep, loud drawl, "My dawg just delivered a litter of lil' pups. They cain't be a eatin' solid food like this, though." By now everyone was looking at her in amused surprise at her non-cherub like (but still cuter than calf snot) voice and listening to see if she would say more. After a brief pause for dramatic affect, she noticed her audience and added more loudly so everyone could hear her explain, "They're all still suckin' the teat."

I'm not sure if anyone laughed because I was concentrating too hard on holding in my own laughter.

I told the mom of one of Hannah's little friends about it a few weeks later. She smiled and told me that the first time Hannah came over to play she stayed quiet for a long time so they thought she must have been really shy. After a long moment of silence their family cat came out of hiding and approached Hannah. She reached out to pet the cat and in her unique voice told them all, "Did y'all know that cats bury their own mess. So if you see 'em scratchin' in the dirt, don't go a diggin' to see what they done."

A wife's Dart is her husband's Demon and other such life lessons.

I heard today on the radio that a woman called the Sheriff's department because she thought someone was doing a drive by shooting near her house. It turned out it was only the neighbor working on his car. He was trying to fix it so it wouldn't backfire anymore. I can sympathize with the neighbor who had the shot gun blast decibel backfiring car.

It reminded me of 17 years ago when Jason and I were still newly weds. He had a little red truck which was a standard. I had never successfully driven a standard,but when we moved my belongings to our new apartment I drove the little pick up and he drove the moving truck. Even though the moving truck was an automatic; it was huge, so I managed to convince myself that it would be best to drive the smaller vehicle and that the only way to learn to operate a standard was to just jump in and do it. I ended up getting stranded in the middle of a busy intersection- lurching and stopping, lurching and stopping, eyes blurry from tears, frantic sobbing bursts escaping my lips, wiping the snot from my nose with my right arm while intermittently using it grab the stick shift as everyone was stopping with squealing brakes and slamming on their horns. I slowly made it out of the intersection. (It might be a good time to mention that the pick up was still decorated from the wedding reception so in bright red paint on the back window a huge pair of lips was painted with the words, "Hot Lips".) It took at least a few dozen lurches and stops to make it all the way through the intersection. 'Inch by inch, life is a cinch.' Whatever! Whoever made up that little rhyme never tried driving a standard pick-up with red hot lips on the back window through an intersection full of impatient, unsympathetic people.

My parents took pity on me and let me take the car they had let me use in high school. It had its quirks, but it and I were old friends, so I could manage driving it. I thought we had an understanding, that car and I. Until it started backfiring almost every time that I turned off the ignition. Sometimes it happened right after I turned off the key, sometimes it waited until I was several yards away. Sometimes it didn't happen at all. Everywhere I went, I was on pins and needles waiting for the sound of the blast echoing throughout everyone's ears. I was still young enough to measure my self-esteem based on what others thought of me, so the embarrassment of a car that sounded like a shotgun blast at random and unpredictable times was almost too much to bear.

Finally it got to the point where it was going to make its ear splitting blast every time the ignition was turned off. It was a little easier to deal with once it began to be a predictable event. I would kill the ignition, have enough time to get out of the vehicle and take a few steps away from it, wait for the deafening KAPOW!, then join with all the bystanders by looking around with a startled expression and participating with them in their exclamations of, "What was that?, Was that a gun?" It got to be pretty fun, actually. However, I did use wise judgment with my job. Since it required me to use my vehicle to take the daily deposits to the bank and make change orders, I would leave the car running while I went inside. I didn't think it would be wise to make gunfire sounds at a bank.

While I thought it great fun to cause people to jump and duck for cover every time I went for an outing, my dad realized the severity of our situation when he came to visit and took the car out to experience what I was talking about, so he would know how to fix it. He and Jason went to a parking lot in a not so lovely area of town, killed the ignition waited a few seconds to see if I had just been imagining the volume of the noise, jumped when they heard it and then heard "Drive by!" being shouted as he saw a group of young men hit the ground.

It turned out that it was going to cost a small fortune to fix it and it was becoming a safety issue to drive it for obvious reasons so I was forced to learn to drive the standard truck. With no other options, I got it figured out. I took the long, less traveled backroads anywhere I went to avoid traffic which worked out okay until I ended up on a steep incline of a hill with a red light in an unfamiliar area. Finally after three cycles of the light and countless horn blasts from behind me, I made it through the light. This time I didn't feel the level of humiliation that only having bright red hot lips on the back window can bring, so I gave out many angry and bold curses at the people honking behind me. I felt pride for getting the hang of driving a standard and guilty for cursing the people who only wanted to go when the light was green. The guilt outweighed the pride so I never cursed another driver again. Okay. . . I never cursed another driver who didn't deserve it again.

We kept that truck for several years. Then Jason's brother was given a 1972 Dodge Dart Demon to drive. I fell in love with that car and his brother was embarrassed to drive it so we traded. I got a baby blue Dart to drive around, which by the way was a column shift standard, and was never so proud to drive anything. I would lovingly refer to it as the little, old Dart. We ended up selling it though, much to my disappointment. It got to the point where we were pouring money into it randomly trying to fix things because it kept dying whenever Jason drove it to work. It would always give out on him at the same intersection everyday and he would have to push it while everyone was honking because they were missing their turn to go through the light. I wasn't bothered by it because on the rare occasion when it happened to me I always had someone who would offer to help give me a push, so I could pop the clutch to get it started again. Then I would give the helper a thank you wave and honk as I continued through. Jason was never so lucky with the offers to push so he referred to the car as That Demon in a contemptuous tone, and listed it for sale.

Selling it was the wise financial thing to do, but I was torn about letting it go. We sold it to an older man who was a retired mechanic so he was going to be able to fix it up nicely which was good to know. When he and his wife came to look at it, Jason wasn't around so I showed it to them. When it wouldn't start, I told the potential buyer that if he could give me a push I could get it running by popping the clutch. He looked doubtful, but the little, old Dart didn't let me down because it started right up on the first clutch pop and the grandpa aged man told me he was very impressed that I could drive a car that was older than I was. His wife told me that she had never been able to figure out how to pop clutch start a car. It's as though the car was giving me one last chance to take pride in myself. They came back a few days later to purchase the car and take it to a better home.

I still longingly think about the little, old Dart and the pride in myself I felt whenever someone would ask if they could drive it, to which I would reply that they could if they knew how to drive a standard. The men in my age group would always give me a confident, "Sure I can." as if I was stupid for even considering that they couldn't drive anything that had wheels. Then I enjoyed watching as the confusion would crawl up their faces as they tried to figure out how it could have a clutch, but no shift stick. I loved telling them, "It's a three on the tree. Don't you know how to drive a three on the tree?" in a tone like I was born knowing how to drive a standard and couldn't believe that they couldn't figure it out. They would have never been able to guess that just a few years before I was sitting in an intersection blubbering like a baby, with my teeth rattling on every lurch and stop that a hot lips decorated standard was giving me.

Maybe life isn't a cinch, inch by inch. But if inch by inch is how one learns to drive a standard, it certainly makes a confident woman who, to this day, gets a little boastful around anyone who can drive only an automatic. And thanks to That Demon I get a tad bit arrogant if someone doesn't know how to pop a clutch and downright brash when I come across a man who has no idea how to manage a three on the tree. But the humility returns the instant I think about having to drive a car with giant hot lips painted on the back window. Those cars taught me the life lesson about finding the delicate balance between self assertive pride and humility. For that I am grateful. Jason is just glad he doesn't have to look at That Demon everyday anymore or have a wife that drives a car that inflicts the terror of drive by's wherever she goes.