Our sidewalk woes have ended.
Between snow storms, the fellas finally finished up the job and everyone who came to our Christmas open house last week was very complimentary of our new walkway.
We’ve been to West Virginia to see the Ump’s parents and tomorrow we leave for Covington to see mine.
Christmastime is a whirlwind of travel, visits, parties and various other activities. It seems like we are constantly running from one place to the other.
It’s hard to believe another year is sliding off the calendar.
It seems like just yesterday I was filling out 05 on the year line of my checks so I wouldn’t write the wrong year on the January bills.
Can’t say I am sorry to see 2005 leave. It was a challenging year.
The Ump started it off on one leg. It wasn’t until March that he was able to get rid of the wheelchair and finally could sit up in the car instead of riding around flat on his back in the Pacifica.
Good thing we bought that big car. I would never have been able to haul him around in the Jeep and the truck didn’t have a cap at that time.
That was an interesting lesson for me. The Ump was the best patient he knew how to be, but there were many times I lost my patience with him and the situation in general.
Of course, in February we discovered that I had an impinged rotator cuff which meant, among other things, my range of motion was greatly reduced. Fortunately, it was my left arm, but it still made it hard for me to help the Ump.
Many nights I went into the kitchen and curled up in my favorite chair and just cried after getting him in bed and settled down for the evening. The smallest tasks seemed to require Herculean effort.
By June he was off his crutches. And by July football had started and he was spending much of his time at school with the kids and other coaches, preparing for the football season which continued through November.
In between, we did get to North Carolina to visit my brother and his family did come see us over the summer. My Dad retired from Westvaco after 46 years and we attended his retirement party.
It was the first year Olivia spent away from home too which was quite strange. She had to attend summer school and she worked two jobs. She moved into a house on Claytor Lake with her boyfriend, Webb, which was a big issue we dealt with this summer.
I think she was a little worried what her dad would say about the issue, but we had actually discussed it before and were kind of prepared. We want what is best for Olivia and Webb seems to want the same for her.
She called us yesterday with two good pieces of news. She made the dean’s list at Radford again – this time with a 3.56 average. And, Webb’s present to her this Christmas is a beautiful Golden Retriever they adopted from the Floyd County animal shelter. He’s 3 years old and his name is Cooper.
I’m so proud that they chose to adopt an animal who had no home rather than getting a puppy. From experience, I know that the gratitude and love of a rescued dog is like none other.
So we’ve had a year of ups and downs just like everyone else, I guess.
I’m not sad to see the door closing on 2005. I have a lot of hopes and dreams for 2006.
But I’ll save that for the next column.
Merry Christmas. And God Bless all creatures, great and small.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Monday, December 12, 2005
Walk the walk
I put a lot of value in being polite, kind, forgiving.
One can't always be Emily Post or Mother Teresa...
Sometimes, when the situation arises, you have to channel your inner Vivian Leigh (circa Gone With the Wind)... "As God is my witness, I'll never go hungry again!" she says to the heavens after eating raw vegetables in the burned out garden behind Ashley Wilkes' home and throwing them up.
Now, my challenge has not been one of life and death, but it is certainly one that has challenged my desire to maintain a calm and even life.
Back in September, the Ump and I decided to proceed with a project at the house that ended up being a little larger in scope than I realized.
When I looked at the drawing, it seemed very doable. What I didn't foresee was that in order to dig up the area against the house to repair the foundation, our entire yard would essentially be stripped of grass and the landscaping that we have been working on the past two years would essentially be wiped out.
We saved the plants. Actually put them in the vegetable garden out back for safe-keeping. But the mulch beds were massacred.
This job also required the removal of at least six feet of our sidewalk and the front stoop.
It was my bright idea to try something different instead of just your standard concrete sidewalk with the broomstick brushing.
For the past couple of years I have wanted to make the sidewalk brick or stone or something. Something to add to the character of the house.
Four years ago, I watched as a crew put in the sidewalk down at the Main Street Park in Woodstock. It was a cool thing to see because they used concrete, but when it was finished it looked like slate.
I asked our contractor about that and he said that he could not do it, but he could find someone who would.
I met with the subcontractor in October and hoped that perhaps he would be able to have the sidewalk finished by the first weekend in November because we were having a church-related event at the house on that Saturday.
Well, the foundation was late being finished, so the sidewalk would be late as well.
Fine. I was OK. I didn't like having to bring everyone in the back door, but it was a nice morning - fallish without being cold. They just had to dodge the green bombs from the walnut tree and try not to trip on the gravel.
A second contract was drawn up just for the sidewalk. The terminology was "reasonable date of completion is Friday, Nov. 18."
I signed the contract despite the fact that seemed like an awful long time to wait. I was concerned also that the weather would get too cold to do this. He had mentioned that the best weather is when it is above 50 degrees.
The days passed. I raced home each day at lunchtime hoping to see something in the trench from my front door to the street and each day I was greeted by dirt and rubble.
Finally, on the 16th, I received a call. Telling me they would not be there Friday. He said he would have to get with the subcontractor and call me back.
A week later, I get another call and heard him say that the guys would be here on Dec. 1 and 2.
My blood pressure shot past Vivian Leigh and straight to Sigourney Weaver in "Aliens" the second in the trilogy where she straps on this hydraulic outfit to fight the alien monster.
Of course, I also was dealing with a broken bone in my foot. Having my front door unusable meant that if I wanted to get the mail or the paper when the Ump wasn't home, I had to stump my way on crutches and in a boot all the way down the driveway and to the street.
And, honestly, that was just one tiny facet of the big picture.
I believed when I signed that contract in good faith that my sidewalk would be finished. It would not be put on hold because the workers were off hunting.
I am married to a hunter. I understand men want to go shoot stuff in the woods. Answer the call of the wild. Stomp around in freezing temperatures and fall asleep in some tree stand because they got up before dawn cracked.
But my hunter understands how to get a deer and a paycheck. The two do not cancel each other out.
I told the guy who called me to say they would not be here until December that if that sidewalk was not put in soon "I will lose my mind." And I did use quite a bit of emphasis.
I don't know if you remember that the first snowfall of the year came then, but it did. Of course. So there was another delay.
This time I told the middle man that our holiday open house was scheduled for Friday, Dec. 16. "There are 100 people coming to my home and I need a sidewalk!"
Another storm system came through and they called us and said the subcontractor should be here "the first of the week."
I called the Ump and told him to call the people back and make sure their "first of the week" is the same as my "first of the week."
He did not want to make this call, but I made him because I think sometimes contractors and such will blow off a "hysterical or unreasonable" woman.
What's the point of having a huge, hairy husband if you can't haul him out to be a sniper every now and then?
He told me he called him and said, "Dwight, you're married, right? Well, you understand when I say my wife forced me to call you about the damn sidewalk, right? I mean, don't take it personally..."
If I thought he really said that, I would hide all his guns.
In a creek.
I am happy to report that the concrete as poured last week and they came today (Monday) and finished the job. Well, it's almost finished. There are still some restrictive posts up to keep us off the walk until it dries I guess.
Now I have to get the landscaping guy in to put the mulch back the way it is supposed to be and hopefully I will find the time to get out there and decorate the outside of the house - something I haven't been able to do because of the lack of walkway and stoop.
I imagine we'll be getting a bill here pretty soon.
As God is my witness, I will pay them just as quickly as they serviced us - and not a minute later.
One can't always be Emily Post or Mother Teresa...
Sometimes, when the situation arises, you have to channel your inner Vivian Leigh (circa Gone With the Wind)... "As God is my witness, I'll never go hungry again!" she says to the heavens after eating raw vegetables in the burned out garden behind Ashley Wilkes' home and throwing them up.
Now, my challenge has not been one of life and death, but it is certainly one that has challenged my desire to maintain a calm and even life.
Back in September, the Ump and I decided to proceed with a project at the house that ended up being a little larger in scope than I realized.
When I looked at the drawing, it seemed very doable. What I didn't foresee was that in order to dig up the area against the house to repair the foundation, our entire yard would essentially be stripped of grass and the landscaping that we have been working on the past two years would essentially be wiped out.
We saved the plants. Actually put them in the vegetable garden out back for safe-keeping. But the mulch beds were massacred.
This job also required the removal of at least six feet of our sidewalk and the front stoop.
It was my bright idea to try something different instead of just your standard concrete sidewalk with the broomstick brushing.
For the past couple of years I have wanted to make the sidewalk brick or stone or something. Something to add to the character of the house.
Four years ago, I watched as a crew put in the sidewalk down at the Main Street Park in Woodstock. It was a cool thing to see because they used concrete, but when it was finished it looked like slate.
I asked our contractor about that and he said that he could not do it, but he could find someone who would.
I met with the subcontractor in October and hoped that perhaps he would be able to have the sidewalk finished by the first weekend in November because we were having a church-related event at the house on that Saturday.
Well, the foundation was late being finished, so the sidewalk would be late as well.
Fine. I was OK. I didn't like having to bring everyone in the back door, but it was a nice morning - fallish without being cold. They just had to dodge the green bombs from the walnut tree and try not to trip on the gravel.
A second contract was drawn up just for the sidewalk. The terminology was "reasonable date of completion is Friday, Nov. 18."
I signed the contract despite the fact that seemed like an awful long time to wait. I was concerned also that the weather would get too cold to do this. He had mentioned that the best weather is when it is above 50 degrees.
The days passed. I raced home each day at lunchtime hoping to see something in the trench from my front door to the street and each day I was greeted by dirt and rubble.
Finally, on the 16th, I received a call. Telling me they would not be there Friday. He said he would have to get with the subcontractor and call me back.
A week later, I get another call and heard him say that the guys would be here on Dec. 1 and 2.
My blood pressure shot past Vivian Leigh and straight to Sigourney Weaver in "Aliens" the second in the trilogy where she straps on this hydraulic outfit to fight the alien monster.
Of course, I also was dealing with a broken bone in my foot. Having my front door unusable meant that if I wanted to get the mail or the paper when the Ump wasn't home, I had to stump my way on crutches and in a boot all the way down the driveway and to the street.
And, honestly, that was just one tiny facet of the big picture.
I believed when I signed that contract in good faith that my sidewalk would be finished. It would not be put on hold because the workers were off hunting.
I am married to a hunter. I understand men want to go shoot stuff in the woods. Answer the call of the wild. Stomp around in freezing temperatures and fall asleep in some tree stand because they got up before dawn cracked.
But my hunter understands how to get a deer and a paycheck. The two do not cancel each other out.
I told the guy who called me to say they would not be here until December that if that sidewalk was not put in soon "I will lose my mind." And I did use quite a bit of emphasis.
I don't know if you remember that the first snowfall of the year came then, but it did. Of course. So there was another delay.
This time I told the middle man that our holiday open house was scheduled for Friday, Dec. 16. "There are 100 people coming to my home and I need a sidewalk!"
Another storm system came through and they called us and said the subcontractor should be here "the first of the week."
I called the Ump and told him to call the people back and make sure their "first of the week" is the same as my "first of the week."
He did not want to make this call, but I made him because I think sometimes contractors and such will blow off a "hysterical or unreasonable" woman.
What's the point of having a huge, hairy husband if you can't haul him out to be a sniper every now and then?
He told me he called him and said, "Dwight, you're married, right? Well, you understand when I say my wife forced me to call you about the damn sidewalk, right? I mean, don't take it personally..."
If I thought he really said that, I would hide all his guns.
In a creek.
I am happy to report that the concrete as poured last week and they came today (Monday) and finished the job. Well, it's almost finished. There are still some restrictive posts up to keep us off the walk until it dries I guess.
Now I have to get the landscaping guy in to put the mulch back the way it is supposed to be and hopefully I will find the time to get out there and decorate the outside of the house - something I haven't been able to do because of the lack of walkway and stoop.
I imagine we'll be getting a bill here pretty soon.
As God is my witness, I will pay them just as quickly as they serviced us - and not a minute later.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Friday morning was a long day.
Before the sun came up, the Ump and I were traveling I-81 with commuter traffic to Winchester where he was scheduled to have his heart catheterized to look for blockages.
Too soon to deal with things like this. The implications so over-whelming I squeezed them to the side of my brain so I could not go into full rumination. Over-thinking is my special talent.
By 12:30, we were home. The all-clear had been sounded and we both sank onto the sofa with guilty pleasure knowing that we could - in theory - go back to work, but we didn't. In celebration of his excellent test results.
I've always known he has a great heart. Now I have scientific proof.
Before the sun came up, the Ump and I were traveling I-81 with commuter traffic to Winchester where he was scheduled to have his heart catheterized to look for blockages.
Too soon to deal with things like this. The implications so over-whelming I squeezed them to the side of my brain so I could not go into full rumination. Over-thinking is my special talent.
By 12:30, we were home. The all-clear had been sounded and we both sank onto the sofa with guilty pleasure knowing that we could - in theory - go back to work, but we didn't. In celebration of his excellent test results.
I've always known he has a great heart. Now I have scientific proof.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
The heart is the matter
I ran my hand across the stubble and told the Ump that when the hair grows back it is really going to itch.
Two bald strips on his chest are the only indicators of the scare we had Sunday night.
Well, I think there are a few bald patches on his back as well.
We were watching Extreme Home Makeover. I enjoy this show. I sniff and weep through the whole thing even though I know it is designed to tug at my heartstrings and make me desperately desire Sears appliances. (Cold day in hell - but that is another story. See refrigerator below.)
He stood up.
"What're you doing?" I asked.
"My heart is just racing," he said, looking a little unsteady. He sat back down.
"Are you OK?" I asked, now sitting up and staring at his face which is flushed.
"I don't know."
I walked to him and put my hand on his head to see if he was hot, instead I discovered he had broken into a hard sweat. How many times have I read the signs of a heart attack?
"I feel like I'm being choked here," he said, placing his hand at the top of his chest.
I brought him an aspirin. That's what the ads always advise.
He took the pill with a long swallow of water and sat still, evaluating the situation.
It didn't take too much convincing to get him to go to the hospital. I didn't even grab my crutches, just my keys, and we went into the cold, rainy night.
At the emergency room, the guard looked at me expectantly and I realized that my hobbling gait made me look like the patient. "No, it's him. His heart," was all I said, and we were ushered into triage.
All he said to the nurse was his chest hurt and she had him in a wheelchair and was whisking him away, leaving me to do the paperwork one more time. I wanted to say "I was just here last week!" but I don't think it would have made any difference and it gave me something to do while they helped my husband behind closed doors.
I picked up some magazine. O, I think. Oprah's magazine. What did I read? It was a helpful article, I remember that. What I needed was a really good article on how not to lose my mind to the fear that was swelling like a balloon in my gut.
The nurse who took him away appeared from a different set of doors with two paper streamers. One streamer contained his heart reading when we arrived. 230 beats per minute. The second was of his heart beats after they administered a drug which actually stopped his heart for a few seconds before it returned to a more normal rate.
"I'll come get you as soon as I can," she said as she disappeared again.
I looked at the teen-age girl sitting with her mother on the other side of the waiting room. A couple with a crying baby sat behind me. A scruffy man who smelled like cigarettes slid into a chair with his back to me.
Somebody coughed. A lion roared in some animal documentary on the TV suspended from the ceiling. Desperate Housewives was on. The Ump and I never miss that show. Only we were missing it tonight and not missing it together. He was behind the doors and that balloon was swelling and swelling.
Hot tears boiled into the corners of my eyes and I blinked them back. And blinked again. I rubbed my eyes like they were itching or something to hide the emotions teetering near the edge.
"Mrs. Rinker?"
Most of the time that name sounds funny to me. I feel like I should turn and look for my mother-in-law. Sunday night it sounded beautiful. It was my ticket out of the wretched waiting room and behind the closed doors.
It always unnerves me to see my husband in a hospital gown in a hospital bed. He looks so out of place. And he had wires attached all over the place and monitors were tracking his heart and blood pressure.
He looked so much better and I could see that his heart rate was below 100 and his blood pressure was actually a little low.
While we waited for the doctor, we talked in low voices about the ER and other patients and he told me about his chest X-ray and EKG experience.
The consensus among physicians was to keep him overnight and do a stress test on a treadmill in the morning. While they moved him to ICU, I went home and got some clothes for him and checked on the dogs.
I stayed with him while they asked a million questions about everything from his religious denomination (Methodist) to his allergies (penicillin and bees).
The only time he showed any emotion at all was when I was coming around the bed to tell him good night. It was fleeting. A little catch in his voice. I had been staring intently all night to judge his state of mind. Had I been in that bed - well, it would have been very different because I find it hard to hide my feelings. And even when I do apparently they stay so close to the surface that anyone who really looks can read me clearly.
I knew he was being tough. I knew he didn't want me to be upset. He keeps his emotions tightly bottled inside while I freely paint my world with my emotions.
But I saw that twinge and I brought my face close to his and asked him if he was OK. It was gone as quickly as it surfaced and I almost felt ashamed for noticing because he was trying so hard to keep Pandora's box closed,
On Friday, he will undergo a catheterization of his heart to determine if the stress test correctly diagnosed that the left side of his heart is not getting enough blood.
Last night, when I kissed him before we went to sleep, I put my hand on the freshly shaved spot on his chest. I left it there for a little bit. Lingering on the vulnerable spot on his manly chest.
Right over his heart.
Two bald strips on his chest are the only indicators of the scare we had Sunday night.
Well, I think there are a few bald patches on his back as well.
We were watching Extreme Home Makeover. I enjoy this show. I sniff and weep through the whole thing even though I know it is designed to tug at my heartstrings and make me desperately desire Sears appliances. (Cold day in hell - but that is another story. See refrigerator below.)
He stood up.
"What're you doing?" I asked.
"My heart is just racing," he said, looking a little unsteady. He sat back down.
"Are you OK?" I asked, now sitting up and staring at his face which is flushed.
"I don't know."
I walked to him and put my hand on his head to see if he was hot, instead I discovered he had broken into a hard sweat. How many times have I read the signs of a heart attack?
"I feel like I'm being choked here," he said, placing his hand at the top of his chest.
I brought him an aspirin. That's what the ads always advise.
He took the pill with a long swallow of water and sat still, evaluating the situation.
It didn't take too much convincing to get him to go to the hospital. I didn't even grab my crutches, just my keys, and we went into the cold, rainy night.
At the emergency room, the guard looked at me expectantly and I realized that my hobbling gait made me look like the patient. "No, it's him. His heart," was all I said, and we were ushered into triage.
All he said to the nurse was his chest hurt and she had him in a wheelchair and was whisking him away, leaving me to do the paperwork one more time. I wanted to say "I was just here last week!" but I don't think it would have made any difference and it gave me something to do while they helped my husband behind closed doors.
I picked up some magazine. O, I think. Oprah's magazine. What did I read? It was a helpful article, I remember that. What I needed was a really good article on how not to lose my mind to the fear that was swelling like a balloon in my gut.
The nurse who took him away appeared from a different set of doors with two paper streamers. One streamer contained his heart reading when we arrived. 230 beats per minute. The second was of his heart beats after they administered a drug which actually stopped his heart for a few seconds before it returned to a more normal rate.
"I'll come get you as soon as I can," she said as she disappeared again.
I looked at the teen-age girl sitting with her mother on the other side of the waiting room. A couple with a crying baby sat behind me. A scruffy man who smelled like cigarettes slid into a chair with his back to me.
Somebody coughed. A lion roared in some animal documentary on the TV suspended from the ceiling. Desperate Housewives was on. The Ump and I never miss that show. Only we were missing it tonight and not missing it together. He was behind the doors and that balloon was swelling and swelling.
Hot tears boiled into the corners of my eyes and I blinked them back. And blinked again. I rubbed my eyes like they were itching or something to hide the emotions teetering near the edge.
"Mrs. Rinker?"
Most of the time that name sounds funny to me. I feel like I should turn and look for my mother-in-law. Sunday night it sounded beautiful. It was my ticket out of the wretched waiting room and behind the closed doors.
It always unnerves me to see my husband in a hospital gown in a hospital bed. He looks so out of place. And he had wires attached all over the place and monitors were tracking his heart and blood pressure.
He looked so much better and I could see that his heart rate was below 100 and his blood pressure was actually a little low.
While we waited for the doctor, we talked in low voices about the ER and other patients and he told me about his chest X-ray and EKG experience.
The consensus among physicians was to keep him overnight and do a stress test on a treadmill in the morning. While they moved him to ICU, I went home and got some clothes for him and checked on the dogs.
I stayed with him while they asked a million questions about everything from his religious denomination (Methodist) to his allergies (penicillin and bees).
The only time he showed any emotion at all was when I was coming around the bed to tell him good night. It was fleeting. A little catch in his voice. I had been staring intently all night to judge his state of mind. Had I been in that bed - well, it would have been very different because I find it hard to hide my feelings. And even when I do apparently they stay so close to the surface that anyone who really looks can read me clearly.
I knew he was being tough. I knew he didn't want me to be upset. He keeps his emotions tightly bottled inside while I freely paint my world with my emotions.
But I saw that twinge and I brought my face close to his and asked him if he was OK. It was gone as quickly as it surfaced and I almost felt ashamed for noticing because he was trying so hard to keep Pandora's box closed,
On Friday, he will undergo a catheterization of his heart to determine if the stress test correctly diagnosed that the left side of his heart is not getting enough blood.
Last night, when I kissed him before we went to sleep, I put my hand on the freshly shaved spot on his chest. I left it there for a little bit. Lingering on the vulnerable spot on his manly chest.
Right over his heart.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Back to work I go
After a week of mostly lying around with my foot propped up, I am headed back to work tomorrow.
I guess I am lucky that I had some time off left. The bad news is that now it is all gone and once again I am facing Christmas without any extra time off. The same thing happened last year when the Ump fell and tore his quad tendon and I had to use my vacation time to help him get around after surgery.
In that respect, I am also lucky because my injury was nowhere near as severe as what he suffered through. Other than not being able to drive for a week, I've been pretty self-sufficient.
He was so confidant in my ability to get around that he spent the majority of the week in the woods staring at squirrels. He was looking for deer, but he saw turkeys, squirrels and a big red fox. He saw some deer too, just not the one he wanted, I guess.
On the first day of black powder season, he bagged a good-sized 3-point buck, so we have deer meat in the freezer.
Olivia was home over the holiday, however, and went back to school with a cooler full of deer meat (she is her father's daughter) and now the Ump feels he needs to get one more deer before the season is over.
There is a big buck with a huge rack wandering around Columbia Furnace - that is the one he truly wants. In fact, so many people have spotted this buck (outside of hunting season) that he has almost become a mythological creature. Our version of Big Foot.
The Ump pointed out that the reason this deer has grown such a huge rack is because he has been around for awhile - meaning that he must be wiley enough to vacation elsewhere during hunting season.
We had planned to go to my parents' for the weekend, but my mother got sick and thought I probably should not have the flu and a broken foot at the same time. I certainly appreciated her concern, but I really did miss having Thanksgiving at home.
It is more than just a traditional eating fest. It is a traditional cooking fest and I get plenty of time in the kitchen with my mom while we prepare the family meal. Aunt Ruthie usually shows up mid-day on Saturday to help as well and Aunt Jean usually rounds out the group. This year, my cousin Beth would have been there because she has finally returned to the East Coast after living in the Virgin Islands and Colorado.
Hopefully, the same group will gather for Christmas. The only difference is that I won't have any extra time off because of this foot ordeal.
I tried to use my time wisely during this unexpected vacation. I had to balance that with staying off my foot. It's not easy because there is so much to do at this time of the year and I am so far behind in terms of shopping and general preparation for the season.
I did finish the first round of Christmas cards during the Virginia Tech game last night. This round is mostly family and people I correspond with once a year. The rest of the cards I send will be "response" cards to ones we receive.
It has felt weird not being in the office for a week. Not an unpleasant sensation, just weird. It won't be easy figuring out a way to prop my foot up during the day to keep the swelling down. My cube is very limited.
Also, I have been using crutches and am supposed to continue using them for awhile. That causes almost as much pain as the broken bone. Thank goodness I can put some weight on my foot. If I had to swing it, I'm sure I would be breaking other bones as well.
So back to work I go.
Is it Christmas yet?
I guess I am lucky that I had some time off left. The bad news is that now it is all gone and once again I am facing Christmas without any extra time off. The same thing happened last year when the Ump fell and tore his quad tendon and I had to use my vacation time to help him get around after surgery.
In that respect, I am also lucky because my injury was nowhere near as severe as what he suffered through. Other than not being able to drive for a week, I've been pretty self-sufficient.
He was so confidant in my ability to get around that he spent the majority of the week in the woods staring at squirrels. He was looking for deer, but he saw turkeys, squirrels and a big red fox. He saw some deer too, just not the one he wanted, I guess.
On the first day of black powder season, he bagged a good-sized 3-point buck, so we have deer meat in the freezer.
Olivia was home over the holiday, however, and went back to school with a cooler full of deer meat (she is her father's daughter) and now the Ump feels he needs to get one more deer before the season is over.
There is a big buck with a huge rack wandering around Columbia Furnace - that is the one he truly wants. In fact, so many people have spotted this buck (outside of hunting season) that he has almost become a mythological creature. Our version of Big Foot.
The Ump pointed out that the reason this deer has grown such a huge rack is because he has been around for awhile - meaning that he must be wiley enough to vacation elsewhere during hunting season.
We had planned to go to my parents' for the weekend, but my mother got sick and thought I probably should not have the flu and a broken foot at the same time. I certainly appreciated her concern, but I really did miss having Thanksgiving at home.
It is more than just a traditional eating fest. It is a traditional cooking fest and I get plenty of time in the kitchen with my mom while we prepare the family meal. Aunt Ruthie usually shows up mid-day on Saturday to help as well and Aunt Jean usually rounds out the group. This year, my cousin Beth would have been there because she has finally returned to the East Coast after living in the Virgin Islands and Colorado.
Hopefully, the same group will gather for Christmas. The only difference is that I won't have any extra time off because of this foot ordeal.
I tried to use my time wisely during this unexpected vacation. I had to balance that with staying off my foot. It's not easy because there is so much to do at this time of the year and I am so far behind in terms of shopping and general preparation for the season.
I did finish the first round of Christmas cards during the Virginia Tech game last night. This round is mostly family and people I correspond with once a year. The rest of the cards I send will be "response" cards to ones we receive.
It has felt weird not being in the office for a week. Not an unpleasant sensation, just weird. It won't be easy figuring out a way to prop my foot up during the day to keep the swelling down. My cube is very limited.
Also, I have been using crutches and am supposed to continue using them for awhile. That causes almost as much pain as the broken bone. Thank goodness I can put some weight on my foot. If I had to swing it, I'm sure I would be breaking other bones as well.
So back to work I go.
Is it Christmas yet?
Monday, November 21, 2005
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Foot fault
Wednesday was one of those blustery, rainy days that give fall a bad name.
Fall. Hah. Now there is some irony. Or is it coincidence. I've always had trouble with those two.
So, Wednesday. Yes. I was not running late for Rotary like usual because the Ump took care of the dogs and I didn't have to run home before going to lunch. I was looking forward to Wednesday's Rotary meeting because my Rotary anniversary would be announced. I have been in the Woodstock club for 12 years. I am involved in many different community organizations, but Rotary is one of my favorites. I have gotten as much out of it as I have put into it - it's hard to say that about most things.
But I'm getting off the trail here.
So when I arrived at the meeting place, I noticed there were many more cars there than usual. I figured since I was early, I might be able to grab a parking place near the door since it was cold and rainy.
Unfortunately, I picked Wednesday to wear my green suede suit and new brown suede shoes. Well, it wasn't raining when I left the house.
So, I parked at the first available space and debated on whether or not to take an umbrella. I just don't like dealing with them and only use them when it is really pouring.
It was only spitting rain and the wind was really gusting, so I chose to leave everything in the car except the $7 in cash for lunch and my car keys.
I wasn't even hustling to get into the building, but I was watching the money that was whipping back and forth in my hand. I was not watching my feet. Too bad.
I stepped right into a pothole that was full of muddy water. The right foot went into the pothole and I landed - first on my knees and then on my hands - in the muddy water and dirt.
My inclination was to hop up. You know that feeling that you get when you take a tumble. "Man, I hope no one saw me..." And you jump up and pretend like nothing happened.
Only problem was I could not jump out of this pothole. It was like my leg was stuck in there.
So, I rolled to the side, extricating my foot from the hole, and taking a look at my other knee which was dripping with blood and mud.
I spotted a Rotarian's car coming around the corner and decided to make the Herculean effort to get up before I was spotted. He did see me struggling, and came running to see if he could help, but I waved him off. I was embarrassed and injured and all I wanted to do was go home.
First, however, I snatched the soaked dollar bill that remained from my $7 off the wet pavement and collected the car keys that I had pitched 20 feet ahead of me when I fell.
I sat in the car a minute and regrouped. Both legs were screaming pain songs - the left knee and the right foot.
As I headed for home, I changed my mind and pulled up at the meeting place and went into the front desk and asked to speak to the manager. In strangled words, I told her to look at me and see what happened when I stepped in the pothole on their parking lot.
I don't think I was complete rational. I was in so much pain and my dignity was a shredded as my pantyhose. I think I wound the conversation up by telling them that I had lost $6 in the parking lot and I wanted it back.
When I got home, I called the Ump who was handling In School Suspension (ISS) at the time. I barely got my story out of my mouth before he said he was coming home.
As a football coach, the Ump has been around a lot of injuries. He used tweezers to pick the threads of hose burned into my knee by my asphalt plunge. Then he felt my foot and moved my toes, trying to determine what was wrong.
His analysis was a bad sprain.
I did not go back to work that afternoon and I continued to walk on that foot until after work on Friday, when the Ump convinced me to go to the emergency room to get it checked out.
BINGO. I have a broken bone in my foot.
The doc couched his diagnosis with the old "I've got good news and bad news." The good news was no surgery. The bad news was - I will be on crutches for three to six weeks.
Actually, there was one other piece of good news and that was that he didn't see any arthritis in my foot. "At your age, you deserve to have some," he told me - a statement which on its own merits clearly would go in the bad news category.
So, I'm hopping around and trying to stay off my foot and keep it elevated and all that jazz. It's difficult. Because I cannot do things, now I want to do them. I could have helped the Ump clean up the lawn today and put away the mowers and air conditioners etc., but I couldn't do it.
Now, under normal circumstance, I might have complained about spending my Sunday doing these chores, but because I could not participate, I really wanted to help.
When I think about it, I remember there was another broken bone. I broke my little toe when I was in college. That required a trip to the emergency room and a very painful impromptu realignment.
My Friday trip to the emergency room was much milder. I got to ride in a wheel chair. Everyone was friendly. Not many emergencies - though I could hear someone coughing and hacking a few doors down.
Two hours later I was learning how to use crutches and getting fitted for a protective boot.
This all has a vaguely familiar feel to it. Ten days before Christmas last year, the Ump feel and tore his quad tendon in his knee and did have to have surgery.
My is the cheap version of his, I guess. Thanksgiving instead of Christmas. And a minor bone break as compared to tearing a major tendon.
I'm grateful for the cut-rate accident. If for nothing else, just to have the Ump do the grocery shopping alone for the first time in our four years together.
Fall. Hah. Now there is some irony. Or is it coincidence. I've always had trouble with those two.
So, Wednesday. Yes. I was not running late for Rotary like usual because the Ump took care of the dogs and I didn't have to run home before going to lunch. I was looking forward to Wednesday's Rotary meeting because my Rotary anniversary would be announced. I have been in the Woodstock club for 12 years. I am involved in many different community organizations, but Rotary is one of my favorites. I have gotten as much out of it as I have put into it - it's hard to say that about most things.
But I'm getting off the trail here.
So when I arrived at the meeting place, I noticed there were many more cars there than usual. I figured since I was early, I might be able to grab a parking place near the door since it was cold and rainy.
Unfortunately, I picked Wednesday to wear my green suede suit and new brown suede shoes. Well, it wasn't raining when I left the house.
So, I parked at the first available space and debated on whether or not to take an umbrella. I just don't like dealing with them and only use them when it is really pouring.
It was only spitting rain and the wind was really gusting, so I chose to leave everything in the car except the $7 in cash for lunch and my car keys.
I wasn't even hustling to get into the building, but I was watching the money that was whipping back and forth in my hand. I was not watching my feet. Too bad.
I stepped right into a pothole that was full of muddy water. The right foot went into the pothole and I landed - first on my knees and then on my hands - in the muddy water and dirt.
My inclination was to hop up. You know that feeling that you get when you take a tumble. "Man, I hope no one saw me..." And you jump up and pretend like nothing happened.
Only problem was I could not jump out of this pothole. It was like my leg was stuck in there.
So, I rolled to the side, extricating my foot from the hole, and taking a look at my other knee which was dripping with blood and mud.
I spotted a Rotarian's car coming around the corner and decided to make the Herculean effort to get up before I was spotted. He did see me struggling, and came running to see if he could help, but I waved him off. I was embarrassed and injured and all I wanted to do was go home.
First, however, I snatched the soaked dollar bill that remained from my $7 off the wet pavement and collected the car keys that I had pitched 20 feet ahead of me when I fell.
I sat in the car a minute and regrouped. Both legs were screaming pain songs - the left knee and the right foot.
As I headed for home, I changed my mind and pulled up at the meeting place and went into the front desk and asked to speak to the manager. In strangled words, I told her to look at me and see what happened when I stepped in the pothole on their parking lot.
I don't think I was complete rational. I was in so much pain and my dignity was a shredded as my pantyhose. I think I wound the conversation up by telling them that I had lost $6 in the parking lot and I wanted it back.
When I got home, I called the Ump who was handling In School Suspension (ISS) at the time. I barely got my story out of my mouth before he said he was coming home.
As a football coach, the Ump has been around a lot of injuries. He used tweezers to pick the threads of hose burned into my knee by my asphalt plunge. Then he felt my foot and moved my toes, trying to determine what was wrong.
His analysis was a bad sprain.
I did not go back to work that afternoon and I continued to walk on that foot until after work on Friday, when the Ump convinced me to go to the emergency room to get it checked out.
BINGO. I have a broken bone in my foot.
The doc couched his diagnosis with the old "I've got good news and bad news." The good news was no surgery. The bad news was - I will be on crutches for three to six weeks.
Actually, there was one other piece of good news and that was that he didn't see any arthritis in my foot. "At your age, you deserve to have some," he told me - a statement which on its own merits clearly would go in the bad news category.
So, I'm hopping around and trying to stay off my foot and keep it elevated and all that jazz. It's difficult. Because I cannot do things, now I want to do them. I could have helped the Ump clean up the lawn today and put away the mowers and air conditioners etc., but I couldn't do it.
Now, under normal circumstance, I might have complained about spending my Sunday doing these chores, but because I could not participate, I really wanted to help.
When I think about it, I remember there was another broken bone. I broke my little toe when I was in college. That required a trip to the emergency room and a very painful impromptu realignment.
My Friday trip to the emergency room was much milder. I got to ride in a wheel chair. Everyone was friendly. Not many emergencies - though I could hear someone coughing and hacking a few doors down.
Two hours later I was learning how to use crutches and getting fitted for a protective boot.
This all has a vaguely familiar feel to it. Ten days before Christmas last year, the Ump feel and tore his quad tendon in his knee and did have to have surgery.
My is the cheap version of his, I guess. Thanksgiving instead of Christmas. And a minor bone break as compared to tearing a major tendon.
I'm grateful for the cut-rate accident. If for nothing else, just to have the Ump do the grocery shopping alone for the first time in our four years together.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Final game is bad ending to good year
Well, my first term as a "football wife" ended Friday night.
Unfortunately, they did not win the final game which would have given them a 5-5 season. That would have been a good ending for a tough year that saw the school move from A to AA with a new head coach at the helm and the Ump (my husband, for the unitiated) as an assistant coach.
No, what fans witnessed Friday night was one part amazing and one part deeply troubling.
A running back for the opposing team entered the night with 349 yards to go in order to achieve a state record. This senior has had a tremendous year, his name splashed in newspapers and no doubt every team that faced this school came in with one high priority - shut this kid down.
Few could, however. There is no doubt he is a talented athlete. He would take off running, zigging and zagging his way across the field. Just when you were sure he had been boxed in, his hips would swivel and his powerful legs would take off in a different direction.
Made me think of Tony Dorsett, my favorite football player when I was a kid. Nothing like Tony D of the Dallas Cowboys who also was the first running back to gain over 6,000 yards in Division 1-A when he played at the University of Pittsburgh.
So there was no doubt this kid was authentic. That was the amazing part.
The troubling part came in the final minutes of the game. It was clear that we were losing, but we had possession of the ball and we were starting our drive to the goal posts. That's when the weirdest thing happened.
One of our players caught the ball and no one on the other side seemed interested in keeping him from getting into the end zone - 73 yards away. The kid picked up quickly what was happening and he did some crazy loops before crossing the line, eating up what time he could.
They let us score so they could get possession of the ball and give this star player the opportunity to reach the record.
Understandably, this public smack in the face did not sit well with our football players, who did just about everything they could to stop the star from reaching his record. That became the mission. The game was forgotten, the coaches were forgotten, it was all about this kid.
They ran a no-huddle offense and gave him the ball every time.
In the waning seconds of the game, he got his record.
Yes, he did.
What was supposed to be a high school football game between district rivals, became - instead - a one-star production.
As soon as they "let" us score, everything changed. He didn't really earn those yards, even though his legs carried him every step of the way.
By placing the emphasis on the record, his coaches not only tainted his record, they sent the message to their players and ours that the individual is more important than the team.
It's a common message. Anyone who follows professional sports sees it all the time. A glaring recent example is Terrell Owens who now is sitting at home after getting dozens of second chances to be a team player.
His need to shine - especially at the expense of his teammates - has probably doomed him to short contracts for the rest of his career. Despite the fact that he is a talented athlete.
Where do you think that attitude was born? In high school?
I heard Allen Iverson (another classic example) tell a story about his mother not paying the electric bill resulting in the lights being turned off in their home just so that he wouldn't have to wear no-name basketball shoes when he played in high school.
He told this story with pride. It should have been with shame.
I understand that this kid, this running back, is actually a nice boy from a good family. I am glad for that and I hope that somehow they are able to anchor this local star and keep the notoriety from going to his head.
His coaches didn't do that.
They failed him and they failed his team.
They put the record first and that is wrong. One even confessed to a local daily that the record was not won "honestly."
Do they think history will not record this fact? That when locals tell the story, they won't tell about the extreme measures taken to reach the goal?
Or do they think in this world of steroids, corked bats and overpaid egomaniacs no one cares anymore? That it's OK to push past the rules? That records are more significant than doing what's right?
I only know what I think. And I think it's sad.
Unfortunately, they did not win the final game which would have given them a 5-5 season. That would have been a good ending for a tough year that saw the school move from A to AA with a new head coach at the helm and the Ump (my husband, for the unitiated) as an assistant coach.
No, what fans witnessed Friday night was one part amazing and one part deeply troubling.
A running back for the opposing team entered the night with 349 yards to go in order to achieve a state record. This senior has had a tremendous year, his name splashed in newspapers and no doubt every team that faced this school came in with one high priority - shut this kid down.
Few could, however. There is no doubt he is a talented athlete. He would take off running, zigging and zagging his way across the field. Just when you were sure he had been boxed in, his hips would swivel and his powerful legs would take off in a different direction.
Made me think of Tony Dorsett, my favorite football player when I was a kid. Nothing like Tony D of the Dallas Cowboys who also was the first running back to gain over 6,000 yards in Division 1-A when he played at the University of Pittsburgh.
So there was no doubt this kid was authentic. That was the amazing part.
The troubling part came in the final minutes of the game. It was clear that we were losing, but we had possession of the ball and we were starting our drive to the goal posts. That's when the weirdest thing happened.
One of our players caught the ball and no one on the other side seemed interested in keeping him from getting into the end zone - 73 yards away. The kid picked up quickly what was happening and he did some crazy loops before crossing the line, eating up what time he could.
They let us score so they could get possession of the ball and give this star player the opportunity to reach the record.
Understandably, this public smack in the face did not sit well with our football players, who did just about everything they could to stop the star from reaching his record. That became the mission. The game was forgotten, the coaches were forgotten, it was all about this kid.
They ran a no-huddle offense and gave him the ball every time.
In the waning seconds of the game, he got his record.
Yes, he did.
What was supposed to be a high school football game between district rivals, became - instead - a one-star production.
As soon as they "let" us score, everything changed. He didn't really earn those yards, even though his legs carried him every step of the way.
By placing the emphasis on the record, his coaches not only tainted his record, they sent the message to their players and ours that the individual is more important than the team.
It's a common message. Anyone who follows professional sports sees it all the time. A glaring recent example is Terrell Owens who now is sitting at home after getting dozens of second chances to be a team player.
His need to shine - especially at the expense of his teammates - has probably doomed him to short contracts for the rest of his career. Despite the fact that he is a talented athlete.
Where do you think that attitude was born? In high school?
I heard Allen Iverson (another classic example) tell a story about his mother not paying the electric bill resulting in the lights being turned off in their home just so that he wouldn't have to wear no-name basketball shoes when he played in high school.
He told this story with pride. It should have been with shame.
I understand that this kid, this running back, is actually a nice boy from a good family. I am glad for that and I hope that somehow they are able to anchor this local star and keep the notoriety from going to his head.
His coaches didn't do that.
They failed him and they failed his team.
They put the record first and that is wrong. One even confessed to a local daily that the record was not won "honestly."
Do they think history will not record this fact? That when locals tell the story, they won't tell about the extreme measures taken to reach the goal?
Or do they think in this world of steroids, corked bats and overpaid egomaniacs no one cares anymore? That it's OK to push past the rules? That records are more significant than doing what's right?
I only know what I think. And I think it's sad.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Is the election over yet?
I had been in the house about 10 minutes. Already, I was deep into the preparation of pork chops smothered in onions and potatoes.
The phone rang.
I picked up a tea towel, wiped my hands and headed for the phone. Of course, it was not in its cradle. It was on the coffee table where the Ump left it last night.
Now I had to hustle, because the answering sometimes picks up on three rings and sometimes on six. I never know which it will be. Things like that keep life exciting.
I grabbed the phone. Wheezed hello into it. Nothing. No one. Nada. Zilch.
At least, I thought so. Just as I was about to hit the "Off" button, I heard a voice.
It sounded strange, yet familiar. He was talking even though there was no conversation going on.
I pressed the receiver to my ear. It was George Bush. George W., that is. Urging me to vote for Jerry Kilgore for governor. His friend, Jerry Kilgore, I believe he said.
Despite it being a commercial for Jerry Kilgore, I listened respectfully all the way through. Well, it was the President, for heaven's sake.
As I hung up the phone, I saw that there were three messages on the answering machine. One was another hang-up. The other two were more political ads. One from Rudy Giuliani and the other from some sort of Right to Life group.
I will be so glad when this election is over.
We came out of church Sunday morning and there were glossy ads stuck under our windshield wipers. Somebody said one of the local supervisor candidates showed up at his brother-in-law's funeral and was campaigning.
Honestly, I'm not sure why anyone runs for political office. There are naysayers out there who would speculate that everyone does it to get something for themselves - to benefit in some direct or indirect way.
I don't believe that. I think that most people enter politics as honest men and women. After 20 years of covering board of supervisor meetings, town councils and school boards, I am almost certain whatever side benefit may be attained by being voted into local political power is outweighed by the crushing dislike the public has in general for its elected officials.
I know how it feels. I was a journalist for almost 20 years. We rank right above lawyers on the food chain.
Negative campaigning - basing your campaign on the defects of your opponent - drives me crazy. I don't believe in making myself look good by standing on the head of my opponent. The ads this year have been particularly brutal - and clever, unfortunately. It would be easier just to hate them if they weren't well done.
Everyone says those negative ads are awful, but the truth is that they are effective. People remember them.
The same argument used to be made to me as the editor of a newspaper. "Why don't you print good news?"
Well, I did publish good news. And the weeks that we had "bad news" on the front page - scandals, murder trials, disasters - far out-sold the good issues. At best, it's a double-edged sword.
So here we are on the eve of Election Day. All the candidates are saying their prayers (if they do that sort of thing) and crossing things off their last-minute list of stuff to do.
The Ump and I will hit the polls tomorrow morning before 7 a.m. probably. We like to go early and get it over with. Then it is all over but the waiting.
All over, that is, until the next election.
The phone rang.
I picked up a tea towel, wiped my hands and headed for the phone. Of course, it was not in its cradle. It was on the coffee table where the Ump left it last night.
Now I had to hustle, because the answering sometimes picks up on three rings and sometimes on six. I never know which it will be. Things like that keep life exciting.
I grabbed the phone. Wheezed hello into it. Nothing. No one. Nada. Zilch.
At least, I thought so. Just as I was about to hit the "Off" button, I heard a voice.
It sounded strange, yet familiar. He was talking even though there was no conversation going on.
I pressed the receiver to my ear. It was George Bush. George W., that is. Urging me to vote for Jerry Kilgore for governor. His friend, Jerry Kilgore, I believe he said.
Despite it being a commercial for Jerry Kilgore, I listened respectfully all the way through. Well, it was the President, for heaven's sake.
As I hung up the phone, I saw that there were three messages on the answering machine. One was another hang-up. The other two were more political ads. One from Rudy Giuliani and the other from some sort of Right to Life group.
I will be so glad when this election is over.
We came out of church Sunday morning and there were glossy ads stuck under our windshield wipers. Somebody said one of the local supervisor candidates showed up at his brother-in-law's funeral and was campaigning.
Honestly, I'm not sure why anyone runs for political office. There are naysayers out there who would speculate that everyone does it to get something for themselves - to benefit in some direct or indirect way.
I don't believe that. I think that most people enter politics as honest men and women. After 20 years of covering board of supervisor meetings, town councils and school boards, I am almost certain whatever side benefit may be attained by being voted into local political power is outweighed by the crushing dislike the public has in general for its elected officials.
I know how it feels. I was a journalist for almost 20 years. We rank right above lawyers on the food chain.
Negative campaigning - basing your campaign on the defects of your opponent - drives me crazy. I don't believe in making myself look good by standing on the head of my opponent. The ads this year have been particularly brutal - and clever, unfortunately. It would be easier just to hate them if they weren't well done.
Everyone says those negative ads are awful, but the truth is that they are effective. People remember them.
The same argument used to be made to me as the editor of a newspaper. "Why don't you print good news?"
Well, I did publish good news. And the weeks that we had "bad news" on the front page - scandals, murder trials, disasters - far out-sold the good issues. At best, it's a double-edged sword.
So here we are on the eve of Election Day. All the candidates are saying their prayers (if they do that sort of thing) and crossing things off their last-minute list of stuff to do.
The Ump and I will hit the polls tomorrow morning before 7 a.m. probably. We like to go early and get it over with. Then it is all over but the waiting.
All over, that is, until the next election.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
I always wanted to be red
I've always had brown hair.
Brown hair and brown eyes.
When you are a kid who is a dreamer, there is nothing more deadend than brown hair and brown eyes.
My mother and aunt have beautiful green eyes. My high school boyfriend's eyes were hazel. My husbands eyes are a beautiful, icy blue. My stepdaughter's almond-shaped eyes are almost grey.
Mine are brown.
You can buy contacts and change the color of your eye, but I've never been inclined to do that. The few times people I knew chose that option, they ended up looking a little off-kilter. Kinda nutty.
So that leaves the brown hair. Granted, my brown hair has lots of other colors in it too, most recently a shocking amount of wiry, silver hairs that poke through the brown thicket like shining swords of seniority.
Before summer came, I decided to highlight my hair. My friend's stepdaughter has a shop in Strasburg, so I decided to give it a try.
For Shenandoah County, it has a decidedly metropolitan feel. The young stylists all have multi-colored hairdos, shocking swatches of dark beside bright blonde. That certainly is not the proper style for a increasingly middle-aged, middle class, professional woman.
I chose caramel highlights which looked very nice through the summer.
However, even with the snazzy highlights, my hair was still predominantly brown.
I finally made an appointment to have my highlights redone. On the day of my appointment, I said to a few of my friends at work that I might just go red.
Not just red. Auburn.
Red makes me thinks of Howdy Doody and Archie. Auburn conjures images of Julia Roberts' mane of hair in Steel Magnolias.
There's nothing plain about auburn.
When I told Ginger, my stylist, what I wanted to do, she clasped her hands together in delight and gave a little jump. "I've been waiting for you to go red!" she exclaimed.
It is a long process. First the foil wraps. Then you wait. Then the hair dryer. Then the shampoo. Then another treatment called "shines" which is deep conditioning.
I have to take my glasses off to have this work done, so I can't see anything that is being done. I squinted and tried my best to see into the mirror behind Ginger and I thought I could see a kind of pink aura around my head.
That was troubling.
Instantly I began to regret my decision. What if I look ridiculous?
Too late to worry and I decided not to look into the mirror again until everything was over. I relaxed into the chair and half listened to the chattering in the shop and the music on the radio.
Finally, she stepped away and indicated that she was through.
I put my glasses on and looked at my reflection.
Oh.
Not only do I have auburn hair, but I have red highlights that almost look the color of my cherry kitchen cabinets. Not what I was expecting, but definitely a more modern look. I always like how she styles my hair and she did a particularly terrific job - spurred by the idea of doing something radically different for me.
Young women today think nothing of changing their hair color. I wasn't raised like that. The only girls who colored their hair at my high school were the ones who usually hung out in the smoking area (was that a long time ago...) with the bad boys.
The reviews at work today were positive. And I think I like it.
The Ump looked at me last night and said, "That's different." Which coming from him speaks volumes. You know that saying, "A picture is worth a thousand words"? Well, for the Ump, two words are worth a thousand other words. Normally, he doesn't even notice when I've had my hair cut.
So now I have auburn hair and brown eyes.
I'm thinking about new glasses...
Brown hair and brown eyes.
When you are a kid who is a dreamer, there is nothing more deadend than brown hair and brown eyes.
My mother and aunt have beautiful green eyes. My high school boyfriend's eyes were hazel. My husbands eyes are a beautiful, icy blue. My stepdaughter's almond-shaped eyes are almost grey.
Mine are brown.
You can buy contacts and change the color of your eye, but I've never been inclined to do that. The few times people I knew chose that option, they ended up looking a little off-kilter. Kinda nutty.
So that leaves the brown hair. Granted, my brown hair has lots of other colors in it too, most recently a shocking amount of wiry, silver hairs that poke through the brown thicket like shining swords of seniority.
Before summer came, I decided to highlight my hair. My friend's stepdaughter has a shop in Strasburg, so I decided to give it a try.
For Shenandoah County, it has a decidedly metropolitan feel. The young stylists all have multi-colored hairdos, shocking swatches of dark beside bright blonde. That certainly is not the proper style for a increasingly middle-aged, middle class, professional woman.
I chose caramel highlights which looked very nice through the summer.
However, even with the snazzy highlights, my hair was still predominantly brown.
I finally made an appointment to have my highlights redone. On the day of my appointment, I said to a few of my friends at work that I might just go red.
Not just red. Auburn.
Red makes me thinks of Howdy Doody and Archie. Auburn conjures images of Julia Roberts' mane of hair in Steel Magnolias.
There's nothing plain about auburn.
When I told Ginger, my stylist, what I wanted to do, she clasped her hands together in delight and gave a little jump. "I've been waiting for you to go red!" she exclaimed.
It is a long process. First the foil wraps. Then you wait. Then the hair dryer. Then the shampoo. Then another treatment called "shines" which is deep conditioning.
I have to take my glasses off to have this work done, so I can't see anything that is being done. I squinted and tried my best to see into the mirror behind Ginger and I thought I could see a kind of pink aura around my head.
That was troubling.
Instantly I began to regret my decision. What if I look ridiculous?
Too late to worry and I decided not to look into the mirror again until everything was over. I relaxed into the chair and half listened to the chattering in the shop and the music on the radio.
Finally, she stepped away and indicated that she was through.
I put my glasses on and looked at my reflection.
Oh.
Not only do I have auburn hair, but I have red highlights that almost look the color of my cherry kitchen cabinets. Not what I was expecting, but definitely a more modern look. I always like how she styles my hair and she did a particularly terrific job - spurred by the idea of doing something radically different for me.
Young women today think nothing of changing their hair color. I wasn't raised like that. The only girls who colored their hair at my high school were the ones who usually hung out in the smoking area (was that a long time ago...) with the bad boys.
The reviews at work today were positive. And I think I like it.
The Ump looked at me last night and said, "That's different." Which coming from him speaks volumes. You know that saying, "A picture is worth a thousand words"? Well, for the Ump, two words are worth a thousand other words. Normally, he doesn't even notice when I've had my hair cut.
So now I have auburn hair and brown eyes.
I'm thinking about new glasses...
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
There's a moat
Your home is supposed to be your castle.
It is to be a place of refuge and solace. A place where you can relax and and enjoy life. Somewhere you can go to escape the raw ugliness of the world.
Right now, the only thing about my home that resembles a castle is the moat three-quarters of the way around the exterior.
A week and a half ago, everything was normal. I had a front lawn. A sidewalk. A front stoop.
Then the "project" began.
The Ump has been talking about taking on this issue for - well, since we've been married. We had the buckling basement wall assessed last year and we were told that it could be 25 years before anything needed to be done about it.
That was all I needed to hear. On to more important things like new kitchen cabinets and refinishing the wood floors and pulling up carpeting. Immediate peril was erased with those words as far as I was concerned.
What I didn't know was that each time the Ump went downstairs and confronted the cracks on the front wall, it made him more determined to do something about it.
So, when I told him now would be a good time to refinance the mortgage and consolidate some bills, he said he would do it only if we fixed the basement wall.
OK. OK.
I gave in. Even though I hated the thought of shelling out that kind of money and having nothing really to show for it. I can't imagine going downstairs to show people my lovely straight wall.
BUT, I did come up with an addition to the plan. We wanted to replace the old sidewalk, but I decided I didn't just want the same old cement sidewalk back. I love the look of stamped concrete because it can be molded to resemble everything from wood to brick.
My choice is random slate in a dark gray. It will cost a little more, but now is the time to do it - I reasoned with the Ump who was loathe to spend one more dime on the project.
We haven't gotten the bid on the sidewalk, but barring something unforeseen, I believe the Ump will sign on the dotted line.
Truth be told, in the spring, when our yard looks better than it ever has because of this attractive sidewalk, he will be taking credit for the whole thing.
Fine by me.
But first we have to get through the wall straightening which is now on day seven due to some inclement weather that settled in last week and has continued into this week.
My yard is a sea of clay mud, tools, gravel and cigarette butts. I was tempted to put a butt bucket out there to try to curb the littering, but I'm sure I would be labeled fussy or something, so I guess I'll just use my stick with the nail on the end to collect them out of the yard once this is all over.
Somehow I did not realize that clay dirt - when mixed with water - becomes PlayDoh and sticks everywhere and to everything, including dog feet, people feet - even cat feet.
The contractor assured me today that when everything is finished I will be amazed by how great the yard is going to look.
I try to conjure that image in my mind as I chip the clay off my dog's tail, but all I keep seeing in my mind are the 30 or so people coming to my house the first weekend in November who will see a nice brick house without a sidewalk.
And Halloween. What about Halloween? I have always enjoyed distributing treats to the kiddies. This year I guess I will have to stand at the front door and pitch candy out to the street since not only will I not have a sidewalk, I will not have a stoop. No jack-o-lantern resting place. No place for candles. Maybe I'll put a chair on the curb by the street...
I could just turn the lights out and hide inside like an old lady who doesn't want to be bothered.
It will all be over soon.
Then I can look back at those days when it was pouring rain and I had to slosh from my car on the street to my back door through a yard full of tools, tubes, dirt and rocks.
I'm sure it will seem funny then.
Sure it will.
But it is just the start of other stuff. Like landscaping the area that has been disturbed and reseeding the grass and replacing the giant holly trees that were excavated.
Thank goodness the Ump had that great idea about the slate sidewalk...
It is to be a place of refuge and solace. A place where you can relax and and enjoy life. Somewhere you can go to escape the raw ugliness of the world.
Right now, the only thing about my home that resembles a castle is the moat three-quarters of the way around the exterior.
A week and a half ago, everything was normal. I had a front lawn. A sidewalk. A front stoop.
Then the "project" began.
The Ump has been talking about taking on this issue for - well, since we've been married. We had the buckling basement wall assessed last year and we were told that it could be 25 years before anything needed to be done about it.
That was all I needed to hear. On to more important things like new kitchen cabinets and refinishing the wood floors and pulling up carpeting. Immediate peril was erased with those words as far as I was concerned.
What I didn't know was that each time the Ump went downstairs and confronted the cracks on the front wall, it made him more determined to do something about it.
So, when I told him now would be a good time to refinance the mortgage and consolidate some bills, he said he would do it only if we fixed the basement wall.
OK. OK.
I gave in. Even though I hated the thought of shelling out that kind of money and having nothing really to show for it. I can't imagine going downstairs to show people my lovely straight wall.
BUT, I did come up with an addition to the plan. We wanted to replace the old sidewalk, but I decided I didn't just want the same old cement sidewalk back. I love the look of stamped concrete because it can be molded to resemble everything from wood to brick.
My choice is random slate in a dark gray. It will cost a little more, but now is the time to do it - I reasoned with the Ump who was loathe to spend one more dime on the project.
We haven't gotten the bid on the sidewalk, but barring something unforeseen, I believe the Ump will sign on the dotted line.
Truth be told, in the spring, when our yard looks better than it ever has because of this attractive sidewalk, he will be taking credit for the whole thing.
Fine by me.
But first we have to get through the wall straightening which is now on day seven due to some inclement weather that settled in last week and has continued into this week.
My yard is a sea of clay mud, tools, gravel and cigarette butts. I was tempted to put a butt bucket out there to try to curb the littering, but I'm sure I would be labeled fussy or something, so I guess I'll just use my stick with the nail on the end to collect them out of the yard once this is all over.
Somehow I did not realize that clay dirt - when mixed with water - becomes PlayDoh and sticks everywhere and to everything, including dog feet, people feet - even cat feet.
The contractor assured me today that when everything is finished I will be amazed by how great the yard is going to look.
I try to conjure that image in my mind as I chip the clay off my dog's tail, but all I keep seeing in my mind are the 30 or so people coming to my house the first weekend in November who will see a nice brick house without a sidewalk.
And Halloween. What about Halloween? I have always enjoyed distributing treats to the kiddies. This year I guess I will have to stand at the front door and pitch candy out to the street since not only will I not have a sidewalk, I will not have a stoop. No jack-o-lantern resting place. No place for candles. Maybe I'll put a chair on the curb by the street...
I could just turn the lights out and hide inside like an old lady who doesn't want to be bothered.
It will all be over soon.
Then I can look back at those days when it was pouring rain and I had to slosh from my car on the street to my back door through a yard full of tools, tubes, dirt and rocks.
I'm sure it will seem funny then.
Sure it will.
But it is just the start of other stuff. Like landscaping the area that has been disturbed and reseeding the grass and replacing the giant holly trees that were excavated.
Thank goodness the Ump had that great idea about the slate sidewalk...
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Miss G
As you can see from the picture below, the Ump and I recently had a visit from my brother and his family.
It was the first time that his whole family - wife Carrie and daughter Gracilyn - have visited us since we were married four years ago. Gracilyn was a little over a month old at our wedding in 2001. I don't think she remembers much about that trip.
Gracilyn was excited about visiting Aunt Cindy and Uncle Kenny because animals live in our house. Little did she know that the animals run this house - we just live here.
I loved being around Gracilyn. She is an extremely verbal child who clearly expresses her thoughts and opinions. I enjoyed trying to follow her train of thought and I discovered that she is a very logical thinker.
She hit the ground running when they arrived late Thursday night. She had already been schooled on the names of the dogs and she wanted to meet them immediately.
I thought it might be a good idea to introduce her to the dogs one at a time. First came Tip - always lead with your strongest asset. Tip recognized Scott right away and he gave Gracilyn a good sniffing before he dropped to the floor.
Next came Peanut, the latest addition. With Peanut came the explanation that he does not like little children. That's not the easiest thing to explain to a little girl who sees a toy-sized dog. His growling made it a little clearer to her and she left him alone when Major came out.
Last came the goofiest dog of our bunch, Brownie. Turns out Brownie and Gracilyn became very close in the next three days. She loved the attention showered on her by Miss G and Miss G loved how the big brown dog followed her around the house.
For most of the weekend, Gracilyn shuffled the dogs in and out of the house. "Brownie looks like she needs to go out," Gracilyn said as she opened the door. "That dog needs to come in," she added, pointing at Major who was waiting by the revolving door.
Even though Gracilyn did not get to bed until midnight, on Friday she was in the kitchen before 7 a.m. ready to play with the dogs.
It was kinda chilly in the house - definitely too early to play revolving door - so I suggested we go to my bed.
Gracilyn climbed in on the Ump's side and I loaded the bed with all four dogs and one cat, Sunday, who happened to wander through.
For the next hour or so we watched Disney cartoons from my bed-turned-ark. We had to do the same thing the next morning.
Twenty years from now, I hope Gracilyn remembers those mornings the way I do - the way I am sure I will. We live so far apart - my niece and I - that we don't often see each other. I know about her life because my brother is full of stories about his daughter which he shares every time we are together. She knows about us because her parents have had her asking God to watch over us every night when she says her prayers.
Scott said she talked a lot about her trip to the country. Uncle Kenny (the Ump) took her for a tractor ride on the farm and managed to find a family with a horse for Gracilyn to take a ride on.
We ended our visit with a bonfire at a friend's house where we sat around the fire and roasted marshmallows, made s'mores and laughed under a star-lit sky. Gracilyn played with Ethan (whom she referred to as The Boy) and Cora (also known as The Girl).
It was a good weekend. Scott said every farm they passed on the way back to North Carolina was Uncle Kenny's farm. Her favorite dog was Brownie and the most fun she had was riding on the horse.
I think she took home some good memories. I know I will always bahmember (her word) her first visit to our home. And I can't wait for the next one.
It was the first time that his whole family - wife Carrie and daughter Gracilyn - have visited us since we were married four years ago. Gracilyn was a little over a month old at our wedding in 2001. I don't think she remembers much about that trip.
Gracilyn was excited about visiting Aunt Cindy and Uncle Kenny because animals live in our house. Little did she know that the animals run this house - we just live here.
I loved being around Gracilyn. She is an extremely verbal child who clearly expresses her thoughts and opinions. I enjoyed trying to follow her train of thought and I discovered that she is a very logical thinker.
She hit the ground running when they arrived late Thursday night. She had already been schooled on the names of the dogs and she wanted to meet them immediately.
I thought it might be a good idea to introduce her to the dogs one at a time. First came Tip - always lead with your strongest asset. Tip recognized Scott right away and he gave Gracilyn a good sniffing before he dropped to the floor.
Next came Peanut, the latest addition. With Peanut came the explanation that he does not like little children. That's not the easiest thing to explain to a little girl who sees a toy-sized dog. His growling made it a little clearer to her and she left him alone when Major came out.
Last came the goofiest dog of our bunch, Brownie. Turns out Brownie and Gracilyn became very close in the next three days. She loved the attention showered on her by Miss G and Miss G loved how the big brown dog followed her around the house.
For most of the weekend, Gracilyn shuffled the dogs in and out of the house. "Brownie looks like she needs to go out," Gracilyn said as she opened the door. "That dog needs to come in," she added, pointing at Major who was waiting by the revolving door.
Even though Gracilyn did not get to bed until midnight, on Friday she was in the kitchen before 7 a.m. ready to play with the dogs.
It was kinda chilly in the house - definitely too early to play revolving door - so I suggested we go to my bed.
Gracilyn climbed in on the Ump's side and I loaded the bed with all four dogs and one cat, Sunday, who happened to wander through.
For the next hour or so we watched Disney cartoons from my bed-turned-ark. We had to do the same thing the next morning.
Twenty years from now, I hope Gracilyn remembers those mornings the way I do - the way I am sure I will. We live so far apart - my niece and I - that we don't often see each other. I know about her life because my brother is full of stories about his daughter which he shares every time we are together. She knows about us because her parents have had her asking God to watch over us every night when she says her prayers.
Scott said she talked a lot about her trip to the country. Uncle Kenny (the Ump) took her for a tractor ride on the farm and managed to find a family with a horse for Gracilyn to take a ride on.
We ended our visit with a bonfire at a friend's house where we sat around the fire and roasted marshmallows, made s'mores and laughed under a star-lit sky. Gracilyn played with Ethan (whom she referred to as The Boy) and Cora (also known as The Girl).
It was a good weekend. Scott said every farm they passed on the way back to North Carolina was Uncle Kenny's farm. Her favorite dog was Brownie and the most fun she had was riding on the horse.
I think she took home some good memories. I know I will always bahmember (her word) her first visit to our home. And I can't wait for the next one.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Three times a charm?
You hear it all the time - trouble comes in threes.
So if you have had two incidents happen, brace yourself, something is on its way.
Three weeks ago - on a Saturday - we noticed that the central vac was not working well. It could suck things up, but not with the speed and force that we need in a house full of dog fur.
The logical thing to do was change the bag in the canister in the basement. It was pretty full, but turns out that was not the problem.
The Ump banged on the pipes leading to the canister in the basement hoping to dislodge any clump, but to no avail. Not good news with company on the way.
He had a football game to attend that Saturday afternoon, so he took off and I kind of puttered around the house, collecting my thoughts before heading to the grocery store. I was listening to Aerosmith - OK, it was a little loud - so I heard no hint of the approaching disaster.
It was not until I stopped at the sink to wash my hands that I received the first clue that something was amiss. No water.
Oh no. I just knew the Ump had whacked a water pipe or something. I turned off the stereo and immediately heard gushing water.
I threw open the basement door and ran down the stairs to confront water spewing from the water softener in the corner.
Some kind of sludge was all over the floor and my guess is that the water had been flowing for a good 15 minutes because there was a large pond growing.
With the Ump gone, I ran up the stairs and outside to see if I could locate our next door neighbor who is a contractor and a very handy man. Luckily, Danny was doing his typical Saturday spit-shine on his truck and I dragged him back to the house with me.
Of course, he had to run the gauntlet of barking and growling dogs to get to the basement, but he quickly figured out where to turn off the water to the house.
I called the Ump to tell him what was going on. He was already at the game and obviously reluctant to drive home. "Well, there's nothing I can do, right?"
OK. That was a statement of fact, but it was not the statement I wanted to hear at the moment. I think one of the top 10 reasons why I got married was so that I would not have to deal with life's little wild pitches by myself.
For 20 years, I - with the assistance of various landlords - handled everything from the invasion of a sewer rat to the invasion of the town sewer. It's much better to share the distress with someone, even if they don't have any more of an idea of how to deal with it than you do. Misery, indeed, loves company.
I can tell you something you may not know about water softeners. Not only do they contain water and salt, but they also have some kind of resin which - when poured on your floor - creates a skate rink kind of slickness that makes walking a challenge.
So, with two strikes against us, it didn't take long for fate to sling a third curve ball our way.
The following Saturday morning, I was headed to Strasburg for a hair cut when I opened the refrigerator and noticed a lot of condensation on the food.
I called the Grump, I mean the Ump, who said many unfriendly words on his way to the kitchen, including a small entreaty to a higher power asking what we had done to deserve such attention.
We found a repairman who could come look at our refrigerator - which is not four years old - on a Saturday. Certainly, we could get no one here from Sears which is where we purchased the refrigerator.
This kind fellow charged us $50 for a Saturday call and told us the compressor had died which meant one of two things. Expensive repair or new refrigerator.
When we finally go through to Sears, we were told that they would not take this man's assessment of the situation and would, therefore, send one of their folks out to diagnose the problem - on Oct. 4. A full 10 days later.
What are we supposed to do for a refrigerator until then, we asked. Tricia, I think her name was, told us she had no control over anything - that is just the way it works. Besides, she was in a call center in Texas.
The rest of that story is that when the guy comes on Oct. 4, he will not repair our refrigerator. He will charge us $65 to tell us what we already paid $50 to hear, that the compressor is shot. He will then schedule the next available repairman to come see us.
The next part of this story is why you buy locally and not from national stores that aren't in your neighborhood.
We went down the street to Beidler's, picked out a refrigerator, and they were at our house within an hour. They took our old refrigerator down to the basement and installed the new one.
So, we are using an old hose on the central vacuum; we bypassed the water softener and are considering whether or not to get a new one; and we still have our appointment with the Sears guy because we are going to keep the refrigerator in the basement.
I think now would be a good time to have the furnace cleaned.
So if you have had two incidents happen, brace yourself, something is on its way.
Three weeks ago - on a Saturday - we noticed that the central vac was not working well. It could suck things up, but not with the speed and force that we need in a house full of dog fur.
The logical thing to do was change the bag in the canister in the basement. It was pretty full, but turns out that was not the problem.
The Ump banged on the pipes leading to the canister in the basement hoping to dislodge any clump, but to no avail. Not good news with company on the way.
He had a football game to attend that Saturday afternoon, so he took off and I kind of puttered around the house, collecting my thoughts before heading to the grocery store. I was listening to Aerosmith - OK, it was a little loud - so I heard no hint of the approaching disaster.
It was not until I stopped at the sink to wash my hands that I received the first clue that something was amiss. No water.
Oh no. I just knew the Ump had whacked a water pipe or something. I turned off the stereo and immediately heard gushing water.
I threw open the basement door and ran down the stairs to confront water spewing from the water softener in the corner.
Some kind of sludge was all over the floor and my guess is that the water had been flowing for a good 15 minutes because there was a large pond growing.
With the Ump gone, I ran up the stairs and outside to see if I could locate our next door neighbor who is a contractor and a very handy man. Luckily, Danny was doing his typical Saturday spit-shine on his truck and I dragged him back to the house with me.
Of course, he had to run the gauntlet of barking and growling dogs to get to the basement, but he quickly figured out where to turn off the water to the house.
I called the Ump to tell him what was going on. He was already at the game and obviously reluctant to drive home. "Well, there's nothing I can do, right?"
OK. That was a statement of fact, but it was not the statement I wanted to hear at the moment. I think one of the top 10 reasons why I got married was so that I would not have to deal with life's little wild pitches by myself.
For 20 years, I - with the assistance of various landlords - handled everything from the invasion of a sewer rat to the invasion of the town sewer. It's much better to share the distress with someone, even if they don't have any more of an idea of how to deal with it than you do. Misery, indeed, loves company.
I can tell you something you may not know about water softeners. Not only do they contain water and salt, but they also have some kind of resin which - when poured on your floor - creates a skate rink kind of slickness that makes walking a challenge.
So, with two strikes against us, it didn't take long for fate to sling a third curve ball our way.
The following Saturday morning, I was headed to Strasburg for a hair cut when I opened the refrigerator and noticed a lot of condensation on the food.
I called the Grump, I mean the Ump, who said many unfriendly words on his way to the kitchen, including a small entreaty to a higher power asking what we had done to deserve such attention.
We found a repairman who could come look at our refrigerator - which is not four years old - on a Saturday. Certainly, we could get no one here from Sears which is where we purchased the refrigerator.
This kind fellow charged us $50 for a Saturday call and told us the compressor had died which meant one of two things. Expensive repair or new refrigerator.
When we finally go through to Sears, we were told that they would not take this man's assessment of the situation and would, therefore, send one of their folks out to diagnose the problem - on Oct. 4. A full 10 days later.
What are we supposed to do for a refrigerator until then, we asked. Tricia, I think her name was, told us she had no control over anything - that is just the way it works. Besides, she was in a call center in Texas.
The rest of that story is that when the guy comes on Oct. 4, he will not repair our refrigerator. He will charge us $65 to tell us what we already paid $50 to hear, that the compressor is shot. He will then schedule the next available repairman to come see us.
The next part of this story is why you buy locally and not from national stores that aren't in your neighborhood.
We went down the street to Beidler's, picked out a refrigerator, and they were at our house within an hour. They took our old refrigerator down to the basement and installed the new one.
So, we are using an old hose on the central vacuum; we bypassed the water softener and are considering whether or not to get a new one; and we still have our appointment with the Sears guy because we are going to keep the refrigerator in the basement.
I think now would be a good time to have the furnace cleaned.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Happy anniversary
Four years ago today, the Ump and I said "I do" to each other under a nearly full moon in the backyard of a friend of mine.
In some respects it feels like our wedding was yesterday. On the other hand, I feel like I have been married 40 years, not 4.
That's not a bad thing. My life changed forever on this night in 2001. It was a banner year for the Earehart family. Gracilyn, my niece, was born in August - the first (and more than likely only) grandchild and I turned 40 and got married within a month.
I wish we had videotaped the wedding. At the time it seemed like an unnecessary expense. But during the wedding I developed intense tunnel vision. I enjoyed myself, but I really never got the opportunity to stand back and look at the crowd and the beautiful night and the lovely house and really absorb the whole event.
I was too busy freaking out over the fact that someone was taking too long in the bathroom and I was never going to get my makeup on - a ritual that my Mom and Aunt Ruthie performed like some kind of rite of passage.
I did end up being about 15 minutes late. There are pictures of the Ump wiping the sweat off his head as he waited in his tuxedo.
As I write this blog, it is almost 9:30 p.m. Four years ago, I think we finally had gotten around to cutting the cake. People were starting to leave, so they rushed us over to do the slicing.
It was a lovely wedding that is well-documented in photographs. I am so glad because it was not a month later that my Uncle John died. Those are some of the last pictures of him.
Last year, a fellow teacher/long-time friend of Kenny's who was at the wedding died after a battle with cancer and earlier this summer a dear friend of both of us, Milt, died as well.
When I look at the pictures from that night and everyone is smiling and laughing and eating good food and enjoying good company, it makes me want to have a wedding every year, just to get all those great people together.
It was all assembled from June to September, so in three months we (I - the Ump showed up to help clear a field for parking and to try on his tux) pulled together a outdoor wedding with 250 guests.
I don't think we could do it again. Everything fell perfectly into place - from the minister to the flowers.
It's fun to think back about that night. My memories may not be Memorex perfect, but they have the rosy glow of favorite thoughts and I will keep them in my heart forever.
In some respects it feels like our wedding was yesterday. On the other hand, I feel like I have been married 40 years, not 4.
That's not a bad thing. My life changed forever on this night in 2001. It was a banner year for the Earehart family. Gracilyn, my niece, was born in August - the first (and more than likely only) grandchild and I turned 40 and got married within a month.
I wish we had videotaped the wedding. At the time it seemed like an unnecessary expense. But during the wedding I developed intense tunnel vision. I enjoyed myself, but I really never got the opportunity to stand back and look at the crowd and the beautiful night and the lovely house and really absorb the whole event.
I was too busy freaking out over the fact that someone was taking too long in the bathroom and I was never going to get my makeup on - a ritual that my Mom and Aunt Ruthie performed like some kind of rite of passage.
I did end up being about 15 minutes late. There are pictures of the Ump wiping the sweat off his head as he waited in his tuxedo.
As I write this blog, it is almost 9:30 p.m. Four years ago, I think we finally had gotten around to cutting the cake. People were starting to leave, so they rushed us over to do the slicing.
It was a lovely wedding that is well-documented in photographs. I am so glad because it was not a month later that my Uncle John died. Those are some of the last pictures of him.
Last year, a fellow teacher/long-time friend of Kenny's who was at the wedding died after a battle with cancer and earlier this summer a dear friend of both of us, Milt, died as well.
When I look at the pictures from that night and everyone is smiling and laughing and eating good food and enjoying good company, it makes me want to have a wedding every year, just to get all those great people together.
It was all assembled from June to September, so in three months we (I - the Ump showed up to help clear a field for parking and to try on his tux) pulled together a outdoor wedding with 250 guests.
I don't think we could do it again. Everything fell perfectly into place - from the minister to the flowers.
It's fun to think back about that night. My memories may not be Memorex perfect, but they have the rosy glow of favorite thoughts and I will keep them in my heart forever.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Nudging fate
Maybe it's because I just turned 44.
Mid-40s. No way around it.
How did I get here? Wasn't it the day before yesterday when I was standing on the commons at Bridgewater College wondering where I would be when I turned 24? I remember it clearly. It was early spring. The dogwoods in front of Cole Hall were blooming. It was the end of my freshman year and I couldn't believe this dramatic first year away from home was coming to a close.
How could I go home and obey Mom and Dad after a year of staying up late and making my own decisions about everything?
On a hot August night, I stood on the midway at the Shenandoah County Fair and thought about how many fairs had come and gone since I arrived in Woodstock in 1985 at the ripe old age of 24.
Nineteen fairs have opened and closed since I first came here 20 years ago. I arrived in September, about a month after the fair of 1985.
It was a hasty decision on my part. The assistant editor at the daily paper where I worked in Harrisonburg chose to come to Woodstock to edit the weekly newspaper after the editor there skipped down the road to start his own newspaper.
I told Dean I would come here for awhile, never dreaming I would stay more than two years. I pretty much knew that I wanted to work for a magazine writing feature articles about exotic places and people.
That's not to say I didn't do stories on exotic places and people in Shenandoah County. There was the guy who had albino bees and 6-foot-tall bean plants. The lady who collected salt and pepper shakers. There was Katie the German Shepherd, who ran an elaborate agility course in her owner's yard. And the flowing-maned smooth-gaited Paso Fino gelding who gave me the best ride of my life.
Not all of the stories were worthy of memory and so I've forgotten them.
Or at least I've laid them to rest for resurrection only at the right time. When I get together with a few members of the original cast of characters who recall those early years at the Herald, it doesn't hurt to remember the unpleasant or embarrassing times. We're like war buddies who made it through deadlines each week, working into the wee hours of the morning to put together the best local newspaper we could.
I don't specifically remember turning 34 while at the paper, but I do remember 35. I've never done well on the odd years. Twenty-five was a hard one and so was 35. Both times I was struggling with the overwhelming feeling that I should have been somewhere else doing something much more important.
From the time I was a young writer (9 or 10), I thought something special would happen to me - that I was destined for some kind of greatness. I kept that notion a secret. It was really the only thing that made me feel special and I didn't want that silver lining to be tarnished by other things.
As the decades have passed, I've redefined my hope for something "special" in my life. Some great things have happened, and, God willing, more special times and people will be part of my future.
I confess, however, that in a shady part of my heart, I still feed tiny twigs of hope to the small bright flame that burns with those early dreams of a destiny chartered for me by fate. It is my eternal flame.
When I blew out the candles on my birthday cupcake, I made a wish.
No, I can't say, then it won't come true.
Let's just say I gave fate a nudge.
Mid-40s. No way around it.
How did I get here? Wasn't it the day before yesterday when I was standing on the commons at Bridgewater College wondering where I would be when I turned 24? I remember it clearly. It was early spring. The dogwoods in front of Cole Hall were blooming. It was the end of my freshman year and I couldn't believe this dramatic first year away from home was coming to a close.
How could I go home and obey Mom and Dad after a year of staying up late and making my own decisions about everything?
On a hot August night, I stood on the midway at the Shenandoah County Fair and thought about how many fairs had come and gone since I arrived in Woodstock in 1985 at the ripe old age of 24.
Nineteen fairs have opened and closed since I first came here 20 years ago. I arrived in September, about a month after the fair of 1985.
It was a hasty decision on my part. The assistant editor at the daily paper where I worked in Harrisonburg chose to come to Woodstock to edit the weekly newspaper after the editor there skipped down the road to start his own newspaper.
I told Dean I would come here for awhile, never dreaming I would stay more than two years. I pretty much knew that I wanted to work for a magazine writing feature articles about exotic places and people.
That's not to say I didn't do stories on exotic places and people in Shenandoah County. There was the guy who had albino bees and 6-foot-tall bean plants. The lady who collected salt and pepper shakers. There was Katie the German Shepherd, who ran an elaborate agility course in her owner's yard. And the flowing-maned smooth-gaited Paso Fino gelding who gave me the best ride of my life.
Not all of the stories were worthy of memory and so I've forgotten them.
Or at least I've laid them to rest for resurrection only at the right time. When I get together with a few members of the original cast of characters who recall those early years at the Herald, it doesn't hurt to remember the unpleasant or embarrassing times. We're like war buddies who made it through deadlines each week, working into the wee hours of the morning to put together the best local newspaper we could.
I don't specifically remember turning 34 while at the paper, but I do remember 35. I've never done well on the odd years. Twenty-five was a hard one and so was 35. Both times I was struggling with the overwhelming feeling that I should have been somewhere else doing something much more important.
From the time I was a young writer (9 or 10), I thought something special would happen to me - that I was destined for some kind of greatness. I kept that notion a secret. It was really the only thing that made me feel special and I didn't want that silver lining to be tarnished by other things.
As the decades have passed, I've redefined my hope for something "special" in my life. Some great things have happened, and, God willing, more special times and people will be part of my future.
I confess, however, that in a shady part of my heart, I still feed tiny twigs of hope to the small bright flame that burns with those early dreams of a destiny chartered for me by fate. It is my eternal flame.
When I blew out the candles on my birthday cupcake, I made a wish.
No, I can't say, then it won't come true.
Let's just say I gave fate a nudge.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Devil dog
I think we have adopted a devil dog.
Peanut, the 10-pound, 9-year-old dog who came into our lives because of a yard sale, is one of the strangest dogs I have ever known.
All of our dogs have their eccentricities. Tip is afraid of thunderstorms, gunshots and cars that backfire. He tries to squeeze his large body under whatever table is available at the first rumble of a summer thunderstorm.
Brownie has the fiercest bark, but is the biggest wuss. If she really had to take someone on, she would probably keel over.
And then there is Major. I wouldn't know where to start with him. He only eats small treats. It takes him 20 minutes to eat a Milk Bone. So I have to buy special treats just for him.
But these weirdnesses take a back seat to this little Chinese Crested/Terrier mix who recently joined our merry household.
We'll start with how he eats. He sneaks up on his food bowl, growls menacingly, grabs a mouthful of food, spits it on the floor and then daintily scoops up one piece at a time.
I had been warned that his eating habits would be entertaining, but I had no idea.
Experience has taught me to make sure there's no food in his bowl overnight, because more than once the sounds of growling and spitting have waken me from a sound sleep. And it wasn't my husband...
Speaking of my husband, he is totally smitten with this dog. I never dreamed he would love Peanut so much. Every night before we go to bed, he has to "romp-a-domp" with Peanut - who sleeps with us. "Romp-a-domp" consists of a very spirited game of "bite the hand that feeds you."
Peanut is not interested in toys or tennis balls or even the other dogs. The Ump (my nickname for my husband who is an umpire) is his favorite toy.
The Ump's forearm is larger than Peanut, but he is very gentle with the little dog who is attacking his arm like a Tasmanian Devil, growling and hissing and drawing his lips back to bare his teeth.
Quite a sight.
Eventually, Peanut comes over to my side of the bed where he likes me to scratch behind his ears. When I do this, he makes odd little moaning noises - almost puppy whimpers - and grimaces, showing his teeth.
He also loves to cover my face with kisses which would be nice if he did not have the worst breath of any living creature I have ever encountered. He's got the tiniest ribbon of a tongue that snakes out between his sharp, pointy teeth and slaps smooches on us. Unfortunately it is accompanied by a smell that not even a mother could love.
Chronic halitosis, I guess.
Even as we speak, Peanut is in the living room growling at something. I think he needs to go out.
Oh, there's another thing. When he pees, he twirls around and checks out where he just watered the grass, only most of the time his back legs hang in the air when he spins. He can dance on his back legs and he really doesn't bark that much.
And when that lock of ghostly white hair falls between his ears and over one eye, he is actually quite charming.
Peanut can be a little devil, but we love him with all our hearts.
Peanut, the 10-pound, 9-year-old dog who came into our lives because of a yard sale, is one of the strangest dogs I have ever known.
All of our dogs have their eccentricities. Tip is afraid of thunderstorms, gunshots and cars that backfire. He tries to squeeze his large body under whatever table is available at the first rumble of a summer thunderstorm.
Brownie has the fiercest bark, but is the biggest wuss. If she really had to take someone on, she would probably keel over.
And then there is Major. I wouldn't know where to start with him. He only eats small treats. It takes him 20 minutes to eat a Milk Bone. So I have to buy special treats just for him.
But these weirdnesses take a back seat to this little Chinese Crested/Terrier mix who recently joined our merry household.
We'll start with how he eats. He sneaks up on his food bowl, growls menacingly, grabs a mouthful of food, spits it on the floor and then daintily scoops up one piece at a time.
I had been warned that his eating habits would be entertaining, but I had no idea.
Experience has taught me to make sure there's no food in his bowl overnight, because more than once the sounds of growling and spitting have waken me from a sound sleep. And it wasn't my husband...
Speaking of my husband, he is totally smitten with this dog. I never dreamed he would love Peanut so much. Every night before we go to bed, he has to "romp-a-domp" with Peanut - who sleeps with us. "Romp-a-domp" consists of a very spirited game of "bite the hand that feeds you."
Peanut is not interested in toys or tennis balls or even the other dogs. The Ump (my nickname for my husband who is an umpire) is his favorite toy.
The Ump's forearm is larger than Peanut, but he is very gentle with the little dog who is attacking his arm like a Tasmanian Devil, growling and hissing and drawing his lips back to bare his teeth.
Quite a sight.
Eventually, Peanut comes over to my side of the bed where he likes me to scratch behind his ears. When I do this, he makes odd little moaning noises - almost puppy whimpers - and grimaces, showing his teeth.
He also loves to cover my face with kisses which would be nice if he did not have the worst breath of any living creature I have ever encountered. He's got the tiniest ribbon of a tongue that snakes out between his sharp, pointy teeth and slaps smooches on us. Unfortunately it is accompanied by a smell that not even a mother could love.
Chronic halitosis, I guess.
Even as we speak, Peanut is in the living room growling at something. I think he needs to go out.
Oh, there's another thing. When he pees, he twirls around and checks out where he just watered the grass, only most of the time his back legs hang in the air when he spins. He can dance on his back legs and he really doesn't bark that much.
And when that lock of ghostly white hair falls between his ears and over one eye, he is actually quite charming.
Peanut can be a little devil, but we love him with all our hearts.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Back to school
Summer is over.
Well, not officially, but the major indicators are in place.
The lawn is getting brown.
The outside water dish is layered with walnut leaves and every time I blast down the driveway, my car tires launch walnuts down the street like lime green hand grenades.
My husband, a high school math teacher, returned to school this week. After a summer of work pants and shorts, I had to organize his school uniform of choice - khaki pants and knit shirts.
For the first time in eight years, he is coaching football again. It is also the first time he has coached football since we have been married. Our fourth anniversary is this month.
In the spring he spends a lot of time umpiring baseball games and is away from home a lot, but this is very different. Football invades his life all the time, not just when he is on the field with the kids.
He keeps a white board tucked under the coffee table. We'll be watching television - I am engrossed in the program and think he is too - and he'll whip that board out and start diagramming plays with black marker.
Once I looked over and he was doing the same plotting, only this time swirling his finger making invisible Xs and Os in the air.
We had a long talk before he made the decision to go back as an assistant coach. He tried to make it clear that he would be required to spend a lot of time away from home coaching, practicing, scouting other teams.
I thought I understood and I magnanimously told him that if getting involved in the game was what he wanted to do that I would stand by his decision. I now know that I truly did not realize what I was agreeing to, how much time he is and will be away from home and how that affects our life.
Football is in his blood. It has been a part of his life for probably 40 years - I bet he played midget football in West Virginia as a boy. His mom gave me the clippings that showed his was a standout high school player and that he earned football scholarships to play at JMU.
He went on to coach at three local high schools, serving as head coach at two of them.
I have never been clear about his decision to leave the game. He doesn't talk about it much. But he said that in his heart he knew that if the right opportunity came his way that he would get involved again.
The problem is that I'm not sure any woman can truly appreciate the core of football. We can love the game. We can know the stats. We can adore the players or the coaches. But football has an exclusive inner club, the price of admission paid by time spent on the field.
When he used to talk about football it was very different from how he speaks now as an active member of the club again. He told a local paper that on the field he feels like he hasn't missed a beat. I hear that in his voice.
And I know I made the right decision to support his choice to step on the field again.
Well, not officially, but the major indicators are in place.
The lawn is getting brown.
The outside water dish is layered with walnut leaves and every time I blast down the driveway, my car tires launch walnuts down the street like lime green hand grenades.
My husband, a high school math teacher, returned to school this week. After a summer of work pants and shorts, I had to organize his school uniform of choice - khaki pants and knit shirts.
For the first time in eight years, he is coaching football again. It is also the first time he has coached football since we have been married. Our fourth anniversary is this month.
In the spring he spends a lot of time umpiring baseball games and is away from home a lot, but this is very different. Football invades his life all the time, not just when he is on the field with the kids.
He keeps a white board tucked under the coffee table. We'll be watching television - I am engrossed in the program and think he is too - and he'll whip that board out and start diagramming plays with black marker.
Once I looked over and he was doing the same plotting, only this time swirling his finger making invisible Xs and Os in the air.
We had a long talk before he made the decision to go back as an assistant coach. He tried to make it clear that he would be required to spend a lot of time away from home coaching, practicing, scouting other teams.
I thought I understood and I magnanimously told him that if getting involved in the game was what he wanted to do that I would stand by his decision. I now know that I truly did not realize what I was agreeing to, how much time he is and will be away from home and how that affects our life.
Football is in his blood. It has been a part of his life for probably 40 years - I bet he played midget football in West Virginia as a boy. His mom gave me the clippings that showed his was a standout high school player and that he earned football scholarships to play at JMU.
He went on to coach at three local high schools, serving as head coach at two of them.
I have never been clear about his decision to leave the game. He doesn't talk about it much. But he said that in his heart he knew that if the right opportunity came his way that he would get involved again.
The problem is that I'm not sure any woman can truly appreciate the core of football. We can love the game. We can know the stats. We can adore the players or the coaches. But football has an exclusive inner club, the price of admission paid by time spent on the field.
When he used to talk about football it was very different from how he speaks now as an active member of the club again. He told a local paper that on the field he feels like he hasn't missed a beat. I hear that in his voice.
And I know I made the right decision to support his choice to step on the field again.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Good days, bad days
The thing about living is that you have to take the good with the bad.
I know that is a cliche, but the thing about cliches is they are always based in the truth.
So, an impending birthday had me looking for good things, hoping for some fun and a little break from work and the stress of recent weeks.
But before that could happen, I came home to let the dogs out and found Chyna, our part-Siamese cat on the front stoop. It is unusual, especially at the end of the day, for the cats to be in front of the house because that side faces west and the sun is quite hot there in the afternoon.
I opened the door and let the dogs out. Chyna did not flinch.
I scooped her up and she was completely limp - no resistance whatsoever. Normally, she is a chatty cat, like most Siamese. She has a guttural, raspy voice and always responds to us with a growly meow, snapping her tail like a bullwhip.
Except on this evening.
I brought her inside and tried to make her comfortable in the den. I brought her food and water and she ate and drank - something I took as a good sign.
Not knowing what was wrong with her, we quarantined her on the porch overnight, away from the rest of the animals - cats and dogs alike.
The last time we looked at her, she spoke to us a little and whipped her tail weakly.
But in the morning, she looked the same. Maybe even worse. So we took her to the vet - waiting outside until they opened the office.
They confirmed what we knew, that Chyna was very sick and her condition was critical. We left her there to have bloodwork done, with a promise that we would be called as soon as anything was confirmed.
Chyna did not have feline leukemia or feline AIDS, both common maladies for outdoor cats or indoor/outdoor cats which is what all our cats are.
But she was severely anemic, dehydrated and had a mass in her stomach that probably was cancer. Her mouth was yellow, a sign her liver was shutting down. She would need a blood transfusion to stay alive, but the likelihood that she would live through a trip to an emergency center was very unlikely.
So we had a horrible decision to make, complicated by the fact that Chyna is my step-daughter's favorite pet. Whenever Olivia comes home from college, Chyna always looks for her. In fact, when she was home at the beginning of August, Chyna came inside two or three times, which is unusual in the summer. I am so glad because Olivia got to play with her kitty and will have those memories always.
The best we could do for Chyna was to let her go.
This sadness colored the rest of the weekend. Even when we were having a good time, something was not quite right.
When I fed the cats in the morning, I put out three bowls of food like I always do. When I realized what I did, I just couldn't empty the third bowl.
There are a lot of roaming cats in our neighborhood. Some snack here. I have long suspected that our cats snack elsewhere.
Chyna might not be coming home, but we'll leave her bowl out for her friends.
I know that is a cliche, but the thing about cliches is they are always based in the truth.
So, an impending birthday had me looking for good things, hoping for some fun and a little break from work and the stress of recent weeks.
But before that could happen, I came home to let the dogs out and found Chyna, our part-Siamese cat on the front stoop. It is unusual, especially at the end of the day, for the cats to be in front of the house because that side faces west and the sun is quite hot there in the afternoon.
I opened the door and let the dogs out. Chyna did not flinch.
I scooped her up and she was completely limp - no resistance whatsoever. Normally, she is a chatty cat, like most Siamese. She has a guttural, raspy voice and always responds to us with a growly meow, snapping her tail like a bullwhip.
Except on this evening.
I brought her inside and tried to make her comfortable in the den. I brought her food and water and she ate and drank - something I took as a good sign.
Not knowing what was wrong with her, we quarantined her on the porch overnight, away from the rest of the animals - cats and dogs alike.
The last time we looked at her, she spoke to us a little and whipped her tail weakly.
But in the morning, she looked the same. Maybe even worse. So we took her to the vet - waiting outside until they opened the office.
They confirmed what we knew, that Chyna was very sick and her condition was critical. We left her there to have bloodwork done, with a promise that we would be called as soon as anything was confirmed.
Chyna did not have feline leukemia or feline AIDS, both common maladies for outdoor cats or indoor/outdoor cats which is what all our cats are.
But she was severely anemic, dehydrated and had a mass in her stomach that probably was cancer. Her mouth was yellow, a sign her liver was shutting down. She would need a blood transfusion to stay alive, but the likelihood that she would live through a trip to an emergency center was very unlikely.
So we had a horrible decision to make, complicated by the fact that Chyna is my step-daughter's favorite pet. Whenever Olivia comes home from college, Chyna always looks for her. In fact, when she was home at the beginning of August, Chyna came inside two or three times, which is unusual in the summer. I am so glad because Olivia got to play with her kitty and will have those memories always.
The best we could do for Chyna was to let her go.
This sadness colored the rest of the weekend. Even when we were having a good time, something was not quite right.
When I fed the cats in the morning, I put out three bowls of food like I always do. When I realized what I did, I just couldn't empty the third bowl.
There are a lot of roaming cats in our neighborhood. Some snack here. I have long suspected that our cats snack elsewhere.
Chyna might not be coming home, but we'll leave her bowl out for her friends.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Welcome Mr. Peanut
Over the weekend, Shenandoah County held its inaugural Route 11 Yard Crawl – an event based on a popular 100-mile yard sale on some road in Kentucky or Tennessee.
I have participated in several yard sales in my life, but I am not one to go roam through different sales on a Saturday morning. I’ve done it, but it does not consume me.
Truly, I was interested in two things on Saturday.
I have participated in several yard sales in my life, but I am not one to go roam through different sales on a Saturday morning. I’ve done it, but it does not consume me.
Truly, I was interested in two things on Saturday.
One, I hoped and hoped that it would be a successful event. Shenandoah County’s have a history of not pulling together. Each town or hamburg wants to make sure its needs are taken care of first. Shenandoah is a geographically divided county and loyalties and allegiances tend to be divided north, central and south.
I am happy to report that it was a great event. From Strasburg to New Market, Route 11 was covered with yard sales and other various events. Some areas were better organized than others, but there was something going on simultaneously along this main artery from 6 in the morning until 3 in the afternoon.
The second concern I had was that the little group of folks from the humane society could make some extra money for the projects that we are working on to help abandoned and unwanted animals in Shenandoah County.
Again, I am happy to report that we made more than $400 and we did not have big ticket items to sell. Most everything was $1 and under. I think $5 was the most expensive item we sold.
It was a sunny day, which worked in our favor, but it was blisteringly hot. Which actually worked in our favor, too, because we sold cold bottles of water to the parched travelers who walked in front of our area next to the Valley-Herald office.
I brought $40 with me Saturday. I thought I might find something to buy.
As it happens, I did find something I could not leave at the sale. I found Peanut.
Peanut is a small, 9-year-old dog who is a terrier, Chinese Crested mix. He was rescued from the animal shelter by a humane society member who has fostered him for more than a year while looking for a home for the little guy.
Peanut in no way resembles any dog in my house. Well, he and Tip might be the same colors – black and white - but Peanut is about a tenth of Tip’s size.
I’ve always favored big dogs. Why have a little dog, I’ve been known to say. You might as well get a cat.
But there is just something about Peanut. He has the wiry hair of a terrier complete with the beard whiskers. Between his Longhorn terrier ears is a startling, scraggy mane of bright white hair that usually stands on end. Had he been my dog from the beginning, I would have been tempted to call him Beethoven based on the pictures I have seen of the wild-haired composer.
Your first impression is likely to be that he is ugly, but there is something more going on. He has Barry Manilow Syndrome. So ugly, he is cute.
I first met Peanut about six months ago and was smitten then, but I knew my husband would give me hell if I brought home another animal. Three dogs and three cats are plenty when you live in town. So I ignore the siren’s song and went home and told my husband he was lucky I hadn’t brought another dog into the house.
“NO MORE DOGS!!!” he groused in his deep coach’s voice. “Somebody has to go first.”
I don’t think he was talking about himself, either.
So as I played with Peanut on Saturday and took him for a walk and then took him for a ride in my air conditioned car, I debated about the logic of bringing yet another critter into the Rinker household.
It was a short debate. I listened totally to my heart and completely ignored the part of my brain that was standing up in the back, shouting “Think this through!”
I brought Peanut to the house. I told my husband that he needed to come outside to see something.
“You better not have brought some damn animal home.”
It’s uncanny how well he knows me. It’s not like I bring animals home every week. In fact, he had more pets than I did when we got married.
He took one look at Peanut and I think his heart melted too. There’s something about a tiny, ugly dog that can’t find a home that sounded a note in my husbands large, sympathetic heart.
When I left to go back to the yard crawl, I said “See ya later.”
“See ya,” he grumbled back at me. “I guess I’ll see you too, dog.”
I took that as tacit approval of Peanut’s move to our house.
So the grumbly coach was not at all surprised when I came home, worn out, sunburned and carting a small wire-haired dog.
“Hello, Mr. Peanut,” my husband said, patting the little dog on his head. “Here he can sit on the couch with me.”
I think it’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
More to come.
I am happy to report that it was a great event. From Strasburg to New Market, Route 11 was covered with yard sales and other various events. Some areas were better organized than others, but there was something going on simultaneously along this main artery from 6 in the morning until 3 in the afternoon.
The second concern I had was that the little group of folks from the humane society could make some extra money for the projects that we are working on to help abandoned and unwanted animals in Shenandoah County.
Again, I am happy to report that we made more than $400 and we did not have big ticket items to sell. Most everything was $1 and under. I think $5 was the most expensive item we sold.
It was a sunny day, which worked in our favor, but it was blisteringly hot. Which actually worked in our favor, too, because we sold cold bottles of water to the parched travelers who walked in front of our area next to the Valley-Herald office.
I brought $40 with me Saturday. I thought I might find something to buy.
As it happens, I did find something I could not leave at the sale. I found Peanut.
Peanut is a small, 9-year-old dog who is a terrier, Chinese Crested mix. He was rescued from the animal shelter by a humane society member who has fostered him for more than a year while looking for a home for the little guy.
Peanut in no way resembles any dog in my house. Well, he and Tip might be the same colors – black and white - but Peanut is about a tenth of Tip’s size.
I’ve always favored big dogs. Why have a little dog, I’ve been known to say. You might as well get a cat.
But there is just something about Peanut. He has the wiry hair of a terrier complete with the beard whiskers. Between his Longhorn terrier ears is a startling, scraggy mane of bright white hair that usually stands on end. Had he been my dog from the beginning, I would have been tempted to call him Beethoven based on the pictures I have seen of the wild-haired composer.
Your first impression is likely to be that he is ugly, but there is something more going on. He has Barry Manilow Syndrome. So ugly, he is cute.
I first met Peanut about six months ago and was smitten then, but I knew my husband would give me hell if I brought home another animal. Three dogs and three cats are plenty when you live in town. So I ignore the siren’s song and went home and told my husband he was lucky I hadn’t brought another dog into the house.
“NO MORE DOGS!!!” he groused in his deep coach’s voice. “Somebody has to go first.”
I don’t think he was talking about himself, either.
So as I played with Peanut on Saturday and took him for a walk and then took him for a ride in my air conditioned car, I debated about the logic of bringing yet another critter into the Rinker household.
It was a short debate. I listened totally to my heart and completely ignored the part of my brain that was standing up in the back, shouting “Think this through!”
I brought Peanut to the house. I told my husband that he needed to come outside to see something.
“You better not have brought some damn animal home.”
It’s uncanny how well he knows me. It’s not like I bring animals home every week. In fact, he had more pets than I did when we got married.
He took one look at Peanut and I think his heart melted too. There’s something about a tiny, ugly dog that can’t find a home that sounded a note in my husbands large, sympathetic heart.
When I left to go back to the yard crawl, I said “See ya later.”
“See ya,” he grumbled back at me. “I guess I’ll see you too, dog.”
I took that as tacit approval of Peanut’s move to our house.
So the grumbly coach was not at all surprised when I came home, worn out, sunburned and carting a small wire-haired dog.
“Hello, Mr. Peanut,” my husband said, patting the little dog on his head. “Here he can sit on the couch with me.”
I think it’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
More to come.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Mystery Walk
When I was working out after work one day, a friend mentioned a program on the treadmill called “Mystery Walk.”
I was intrigued.
I have been using the treadmill for about two years now, but I seldom change the incline, just the speed and distance. Occasionally, I will jog for a couple of minutes, but never very long.
It’s hard for me to stay focused on the treadmill, so I have a variety of games I use to keep me from staring at the second hand on the clock tick each sweaty second away.
Primarily, I count. I count in fours – one, two, three ONE. One, two, three TWO. One, two, three THREE.
Only after I reach a specified goal – say 200 – can I look at the clock to see how many minutes I have left.
Then there are the days when the music that is playing matches my gait. This doesn’t happen often enough when the radio is on the Oldies station. I mean, the way-Oldies, not rock Oldies (which really don’t seem that old to me at all). It’s hard to step to “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” and actually burn a calorie or two.
So, Beth was telling me about the Mystery Walk. Instead of choosing a program of hills and varying speeds that you can watch on the grid, Mystery Walk will switch things up and keep you guessing, a big question mark on the screen.
First, you have to reveal your weight. Beth told me that she always adds some pounds in hopes that the machine will take it easy on her.
I had just weighed before I went to the gym, so I decided to log in the actual numbers. The first time I tried to punch in the numbers I accidentally hit 543 pounds. I don’t think Beth meant to pad the numbers that much.
You also have to program in how fast you are willing to walk and how high an incline you can take. I usually walk at about 3.2 mph, so I selected that speed and opted for a very low incline – this being my first Mystery Walk.
In recent weeks I have gone from counting to reading library books. Nothing constructive. I’m reading fiction by a Miami Herald journalist turned novelist. I enjoy the references to the newspaper business and he has a squirrelly way of looking at things.
With Mystery Walk selected and my book squarely in front of me, I hit Start and away I went.
Only, really slow. Usually, I don’t warm up – I go straight to 3.2. Mystery Walk had me meandering around 2.5 forever, or so it seemed.
I started reading about a woman who discovered she had a winning lottery ticket. The treadmill made a funny sound and the ramp started to rise. It went right past 1 and 2, right up to 8. My calves tightened as I tried to climb the hill. I checked the grid out and apparently instead of choosing 1.5 on the incline level, I put in 15.
Yikes.
Mystery Walk started to feel like a Mystery Ride at the fair. It cranked up the elevation and dropped the speed. As soon as I became accustomed to the climb, it dropped and the speed cranked up.
It was not easy to read while being bucked around for 30 minutes.
I am proud to report that I hung on for the entire half hour and even for the two minute cool down – which, trust me, I needed.
And, I’m pretty sure I will take the Mystery Walk tomorrow too. But when I program the walk, I might add just a few pounds.
I was intrigued.
I have been using the treadmill for about two years now, but I seldom change the incline, just the speed and distance. Occasionally, I will jog for a couple of minutes, but never very long.
It’s hard for me to stay focused on the treadmill, so I have a variety of games I use to keep me from staring at the second hand on the clock tick each sweaty second away.
Primarily, I count. I count in fours – one, two, three ONE. One, two, three TWO. One, two, three THREE.
Only after I reach a specified goal – say 200 – can I look at the clock to see how many minutes I have left.
Then there are the days when the music that is playing matches my gait. This doesn’t happen often enough when the radio is on the Oldies station. I mean, the way-Oldies, not rock Oldies (which really don’t seem that old to me at all). It’s hard to step to “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” and actually burn a calorie or two.
So, Beth was telling me about the Mystery Walk. Instead of choosing a program of hills and varying speeds that you can watch on the grid, Mystery Walk will switch things up and keep you guessing, a big question mark on the screen.
First, you have to reveal your weight. Beth told me that she always adds some pounds in hopes that the machine will take it easy on her.
I had just weighed before I went to the gym, so I decided to log in the actual numbers. The first time I tried to punch in the numbers I accidentally hit 543 pounds. I don’t think Beth meant to pad the numbers that much.
You also have to program in how fast you are willing to walk and how high an incline you can take. I usually walk at about 3.2 mph, so I selected that speed and opted for a very low incline – this being my first Mystery Walk.
In recent weeks I have gone from counting to reading library books. Nothing constructive. I’m reading fiction by a Miami Herald journalist turned novelist. I enjoy the references to the newspaper business and he has a squirrelly way of looking at things.
With Mystery Walk selected and my book squarely in front of me, I hit Start and away I went.
Only, really slow. Usually, I don’t warm up – I go straight to 3.2. Mystery Walk had me meandering around 2.5 forever, or so it seemed.
I started reading about a woman who discovered she had a winning lottery ticket. The treadmill made a funny sound and the ramp started to rise. It went right past 1 and 2, right up to 8. My calves tightened as I tried to climb the hill. I checked the grid out and apparently instead of choosing 1.5 on the incline level, I put in 15.
Yikes.
Mystery Walk started to feel like a Mystery Ride at the fair. It cranked up the elevation and dropped the speed. As soon as I became accustomed to the climb, it dropped and the speed cranked up.
It was not easy to read while being bucked around for 30 minutes.
I am proud to report that I hung on for the entire half hour and even for the two minute cool down – which, trust me, I needed.
And, I’m pretty sure I will take the Mystery Walk tomorrow too. But when I program the walk, I might add just a few pounds.
Monday, August 01, 2005
To the sea
Memories are tricky.
On Sunday I visited a place that existed mainly in my memory.
When I was a little girl, I remember going to the "beach" at Douthat with my Aunt Helen.
Well before I ever saw the ocean, I had this faux beach experience on the sandy shore of the swimming area at Douthat State Park near my hometown of Covington.
I remember the crowded beach. Towels and blankets and chairs and people covering every inch of sand.
From the water's edge I could see the wooden platform that looked like it was a mile away where teenagers - "the big kids" - were draped in conspiratorial conclaves. The boys would show off, diving close to the platform, splashing the girls who were trying in vain to keep their tresses dry.
In my memory Douthat loomed large.
It was a shock on Sunday when I left the restaurant along the lake where we had just enjoyed breakfast and walked over to take a look at the beach of my childhood.
Water in the small cove sparkled invitingly, and water rippled against the boat dock across the lake from the shore. The beach was a tenth of its size in my memory.
I asked Mom if it was the same. I mean, it's been 35-plus years since I built sandcastles there. There could have been erosion. There may have been a tsunami.
She immediately heard the disappointment in my voice and knew exactly what I was feeling. "You were so little when you came here. It must have seemed much bigger to you then."
Well, it did.
It's disturbing when memory and reality meet in the harsh daylight. I felt vaguely betrayed.
I wonder what else wouldn’t measure up in my 43-year-old eyes.
What about the beautiful white marble statues in Brookgreen Gardens near Litchfield, S.C.? Are they really miniatures?
The deep snows, what about those deep snows when I was in elementary school. So deep I could barely walk. So deep I was almost as scared as I was excited. Were they only ankle high?
Lost in thought, I watched a pair of teens on hydrobikes cycle their way across the glassy lake.
I’ve forgotten so many things. So many memories are cloudy, thin as a wedding veil. I think that’s why I was so disappointed to find the true Douthat, because the Douthat of my memory was one of the few truly clear ones.
Can you remember the first time you visited your elementary school as a teenager or adult? The halls that seemed so wide to you as a child suddenly are cramped and close. You had to bow at the waist to drink from a water fountain where you once had to stand on your tip-toes to reach the stream.
A noise behind me made me turn around and I watched my brother, Scott, and my niece, Gracilyn, come around the side of the restaurant.
“I want to go down there, Daddy,” Gracilyn said, her blond hair flying as she moved ahead on sturdy legs soon to be 4 years old. “I want to walk by the sea.”
“That’s a lake, Gracilyn,” my brother told his tyke, but the words hung on the humid air and were swallowed by the noise of late summer locust. She headed toward the stairs that would take her to the water’s edge. To the sea.
She walked past me, stepping on rocks and examining moss on the sides of trees as she made her way to the water.
I’m not going to tell her it’s just a lake.
She’ll find out soon enough.
On Sunday I visited a place that existed mainly in my memory.
When I was a little girl, I remember going to the "beach" at Douthat with my Aunt Helen.
Well before I ever saw the ocean, I had this faux beach experience on the sandy shore of the swimming area at Douthat State Park near my hometown of Covington.
I remember the crowded beach. Towels and blankets and chairs and people covering every inch of sand.
From the water's edge I could see the wooden platform that looked like it was a mile away where teenagers - "the big kids" - were draped in conspiratorial conclaves. The boys would show off, diving close to the platform, splashing the girls who were trying in vain to keep their tresses dry.
In my memory Douthat loomed large.
It was a shock on Sunday when I left the restaurant along the lake where we had just enjoyed breakfast and walked over to take a look at the beach of my childhood.
Water in the small cove sparkled invitingly, and water rippled against the boat dock across the lake from the shore. The beach was a tenth of its size in my memory.
I asked Mom if it was the same. I mean, it's been 35-plus years since I built sandcastles there. There could have been erosion. There may have been a tsunami.
She immediately heard the disappointment in my voice and knew exactly what I was feeling. "You were so little when you came here. It must have seemed much bigger to you then."
Well, it did.
It's disturbing when memory and reality meet in the harsh daylight. I felt vaguely betrayed.
I wonder what else wouldn’t measure up in my 43-year-old eyes.
What about the beautiful white marble statues in Brookgreen Gardens near Litchfield, S.C.? Are they really miniatures?
The deep snows, what about those deep snows when I was in elementary school. So deep I could barely walk. So deep I was almost as scared as I was excited. Were they only ankle high?
Lost in thought, I watched a pair of teens on hydrobikes cycle their way across the glassy lake.
I’ve forgotten so many things. So many memories are cloudy, thin as a wedding veil. I think that’s why I was so disappointed to find the true Douthat, because the Douthat of my memory was one of the few truly clear ones.
Can you remember the first time you visited your elementary school as a teenager or adult? The halls that seemed so wide to you as a child suddenly are cramped and close. You had to bow at the waist to drink from a water fountain where you once had to stand on your tip-toes to reach the stream.
A noise behind me made me turn around and I watched my brother, Scott, and my niece, Gracilyn, come around the side of the restaurant.
“I want to go down there, Daddy,” Gracilyn said, her blond hair flying as she moved ahead on sturdy legs soon to be 4 years old. “I want to walk by the sea.”
“That’s a lake, Gracilyn,” my brother told his tyke, but the words hung on the humid air and were swallowed by the noise of late summer locust. She headed toward the stairs that would take her to the water’s edge. To the sea.
She walked past me, stepping on rocks and examining moss on the sides of trees as she made her way to the water.
I’m not going to tell her it’s just a lake.
She’ll find out soon enough.
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