Dollywood - not Hollywood!

We loaded up & decided to go visit Mom and Mac in their new home in Virginia for Christmas! It was wonderful to see them in their new digs - and the kids were aching for some good, hearty grand-parent time! 

I got to try Virginia BBQ & I gotta say - I love that vinegar-based flavor overload! Kevin - he says he prefers the Texas kind... smart move, bud. It'll be easier to come by! 

We took a little time in Pigeon Forge, TN to check out Dollywood & we ABSOLUTELY loved it - in spite of this old-timey photograph with no smiles! :) 

We are glad to be home in our own beds, though! Ready to get back to the daily grind! Happy New Year friends! I have a feeling 2015 will be GREAT! 

I miss Grandpa

I miss Grandpa. Terribly. That's all.

Jess

FALL RECIPE!!!

What the !*#@ is with women?

I've been fortunate to have had some VERY good friends in my life. I learned very early that it is not about the quantity of friends - but the quality of friends. Often, this realization results in fewer friends and more meaningful friendships.
What I'm talking about are the friends who know you're hurting. They drop what they're doing (kids in tow) and walk right through your front door (without formality), set their kids up with some Legos and a cartoon, and walk right into your room to dry your tears and talk you out of your own head.
These are the friends who are comfortable - they know they belong. You know they belong. They've probably seen you in your pajamas a number of times. They know what your house REALLY looks like. They know which cupboard you keep the Advil and they know they don't have to ask for some. When you're happy and excited, so are they. When you're down and troubled, they're worried and prayerful. There isn't this "I wonder if she's mad at me" internal conversation because you already know that they'd tell you - they value their friendship with you and no one has to wade through it with blinders. If you've got a friend (or a mother, sister, cousin, etc.) like this, count your lucky stars. It's a beautiful thing - you probably already know that.
So what's up with the snarky, nasty women out there?
There's a couple out there that I just can't seem to shake! One of them sends me the most venomous, offensive e-mails under the guise of 'constructive criticism' while I thought we were on good terms (I'd been sending uplifting screen shots of beautiful quotes and had no idea she hated my family so much - which is pretty dang scary) and the other woman was encouraging this behavior. In fact, this woman knew I'd been given this e-mail, shared it with one of my parents nonchalantly, and never bothered to call to check on my well-being or the well-being of my 14 year old daughter (who had been on using my account when the message rolled in. She saw the horrible remarks and judgement heaped at her as well.) It's so weird. This same person was extremely ill a few years ago. When I learned of her condition, I ran out and bought a beautiful Nicole Miller gift set and get-well card for her. I brought this to her house, climbed in her bed and gave her my time, attention, prayers and gift. I even let it go when she told one of my family members that I hadn't extended any concern or mailed a card. I wish it were easier to delete these two women from my life.

And that brings me to this thought. What the !$%*& is with these "types" of women!????
I guess no one ever told them.

I guess no one ever told them that being a woman is a very special thing. Women are strong, powerful, intuitive, soft, gentle, knowing. If ladies would drop the jealousy and stop being snarky, they could bind together and actually MOVE some freakin' mountains! (And no, this isn't a feminist rant --- I actually believe the feminists sold us a raw deal in the midst of the good that they DID accomplish. And that is for another post.) Women have the ability to nurture to the point of healing. I see it ALL the time. I overhear some of the conversations my daughter has with friends who have called in tears, only to hear them laughing in a mere three minutes. I've been in a group of women who rallied around a shy woman who was new to town, didn't know a soul. We sat in an Applebees restaurant and visited for hours about kids, husbands, life, clothes, etc. When we left, this newbie had three new friends of whom she's kept in contact with and this was over a year ago!
This is the stuff we are CAPABLE of. This is the stuff that feeds us. It feeds us to provide it. It feeds us to receive it. It's as simple as giving a knowing smile to the mom in the grocery store with the toddler having a tantrum instead of shooting hate rays at her through your eyes. It's letting the woman who is waiting anxiously for her chiropractic appointment go in front of you - it often turns out that she's worried she'll be late to pick up the grand-kids she's due to babysit. It's dropping off a meal with a mom undergoing chemotherapy or one who's just had a baby. It's leaving some flowers on the doorstep of a woman battling depression because you know that she's not up for answering the door and feigning hospitality.
I'm telling you, we need to be loving and nurturing other women. It's time to stop being a bitch. (Yeah, I said it. I called it what it is.) It's time to step away from the clique for just a moment and make nice to the mom at the park that doesn't know anyone. Who cares if her diaper bag isn't a Vera Bradley or her purse isn't a Brighton or Yves St. Laurent?! Her baby is probably lovely and certainly good enough to play with yours. I want to hunt down a mama in need of respite - no, not the kind that want the babysitting so they can go party or pose for Playboy. I'm talking about the Mom that would give her eye teeth for a haircut and a trip to the bathroom without her toddler. Go be a light. What you put out there is what you get in return. Call it karma, call it the bible - it is what it is.
It's time for women to come to their calling. Love your tribe and lift your sister. Seriously!
You in?
Then come on over - no doorbell or knock required.

On Saying 'I Love You'...

It's been a few months since my Grandma passed away.
And stuff keeps creeping up inside of me. That inner voice. "Did she really know that I loved her? I certainly didn't visit her as much as Grandpa or Dad." And then that voice usually follows with a "You know... you could be a better grand-daughter. You really ought to be doing more cooking for Grandpa... it's what Grandma would have wanted you to do." I've always been pretty good about berating myself. In fact, I'm a professional self-berater. But that's beside the point.
It's weird. Death. You know it's coming eventually. You know it's going to take your grandma away from you. It's in the back of your mind. Heck, you really don't even want to plan anything because you're afraid it'll show up if you're not consciously worrying about it. As if worry prevents it. Proof of this is my grandma's purple mixing bowl. Apparently I'm going to tear up as I write this... anyhow. Grandma's purple mixing bowl. Coolest thing ever. Mom handed it down to me and I treasured that thing. I used it all the time and thought about Grandma. I even know that the bottom of it says Dallas Ware. I know this bowl like the palm of my hand. And then one day, it broke. It was slippery and wet and I dropped it. It broke into several pieces. I talked to my hubs about gluing it. But honestly, it's JUST A THING. It's not like it's Grandma. But lemme tell ya... I kept all the pieces of that broken bowl inside the hutch for several months until I had convinced myself that throwing away the pieces would be okay... she wouldn't die from it. And so I threw them away. And she didn't die. And all was good in the world.
 Grandpa invited me to go with him to visit Grandma one day. And on that day, the baby had childcare, the kids were in school, rode the bus, had no pending appointments, and the stars aligned. I climbed in Grandpa's Cadillac and he taught me a new shortcut to the nursing home. Grandpa mentioned that she hadn't been doing so well lately - but I didn't think anything of it because he'd said it before and Grandma was always - er - Grandma was Grandma - the toughest girl in the world - and the most ladylike!
But walking into that room was different. SO VERY DIFFERENT. She was lying in bed (not normal) and didn't look like herself. She looked thin, pale, and for a moment I questioned whether we'd waltzed into the wrong room. But it was her... NOT DOING WELL at all! And Dad was out of town. My brothers needed to know. Dad needed to know.
So I snapped a photo of Grandma. I didn't want to have to convince all three when I could simply text a photo and know they'd 'get my drift. So I jotted something about "Grandma says  Hi!" and hit send.
And we came together. Almost immediately. We gathered around Grandma's bed. We gathered around Grandpa. And for the first time in a very, very long time - I allowed the feeling of belonging - really, really belonging (no secrets, no distancing) to a family - the family I was born into - and it felt so good. Over the next few days, Grandma went to be with her firstborn son (who is also my uncle) in Heaven.
It's funny how even though you know something is coming - you can go through the motions and completely fail to process them. I knew in my head that Grandma was going to pass. But my heart kept saying "BULLS&#@, Jessica! In the thirty-two years I've known her, I have NEVER known her to die!" So when I got the call from Dad, I needed to go see for myself. My older brother and I accompanied our Grandfather to the nursing home to collect Grandma's things. And that was when about 60% of the reality of Grandma passing hit. Holding old photos, her train case, greeting cards, eye glasses - those are the things that cemented things. I found myself yearning to lie down in her bed and drink up whatever was left of her being off of the sheets. (Weirdly, it felt nice - yeah, I climbed right on that hospital bed and curled up in the last bits of Grandma that I could.
A short viewing was held at a local funeral home and it was determined that Grandma would fly to Pampa, Texas and join her son at their gravesite.
I drove Grandpa and his Cadillac to Pampa with my husband and kids leading the way in the blue minivan.
That ride, just Grandpa and me. It pulled up old memories. Like driving the golf cart at the Pampa Country Club with Grandpa in the passenger seat and myself barely able to see over the steering wheel. Or how he taught me to drive his fishing boat - the '79 Cane Cutter. And those long country road drives when he was giving me actual drive-a-car practice. And the time he let me take over the kite (and I let go) and he rode straight into a patch of sticker burs. So I digress. Point is, Grandpa spilled memories of Grandma - of Dad - of Uncle Wayne and other long gone relatives. When we did arrive in Pampa, I was eager to get to graves of not only Grandma, but those who passed long before Grandma. I was eager to place new flowers at Aunt Vee Lynn's grave (and her husband, Gail's grave) and Uncle Arland, Aunt Alma, and Henrietta Lemons (grandpa's own mother!) They were so alive in my mind from the stories. It was an honor to tend to their spaces.
Grandma's funeral was beautiful. I know she'd have been pleased too. We laid her to rest and with Grandpa's permission, I took a rose from her grave to take home and press.
Unfortunately, this rose did not want to be pressed. It molded and like Grandma's batter bowl, I had to throw it away.
I didn't realize something more was in store.
Maybe Grandma didn't want my memories to be tied to the tangible.
Maybe Grandma wanted me to feel her.
Another interesting note on the human condition is that we process things - not when it's convenient for US, but when it's time.
And sometimes you stand on your back porch and stare at two foxes that are staring back at you. And maybe you speak to them, and they just look at you - obviously uninterested since they look away. And maybe a feather floats into your path. And maybe an old handwritten letter from your grandmother finds its way into your hands. And then you find yourself yearning to paint - so you buy a canvas, you buy a brush (literally - just one stinkin' brush) and you start painting - and the swoops of your turquoise paint on your brush start following the cowlick in your grandma's hair do. And an old poem you once read re-surfaces in your heart. Tears fall and suddenly you feel her. RIGHT THERE NEXT TO YOU. And you look at this canvas - it's not even recognizable as your own work... and you know that Grandma wants you to give it away because the tangible 'Grandma memory' isn't what she wants for you. You know where this painting belongs. And in this case, it finds me knocking on Grandpa's front door. Grandpa welcoming me in, asking me to excuse his pajama shirt at 7:30 p.m.
We sat down. I took Grandma's old recliner and Grandpa sat in his. I handed him the painting and we read the poem together. You know the poem - 'Do not stand at my grave and cry...' poem. Minus the first two lines and the last two lines. We teared up. Grandpa told me about what a catch my grandma was and how very much he loves her. And that damn funeral lump is in my throat as I think about how I should've gone to see that precious lady so much more than I did. (Honestly, it's sometimes too easy to fall into the excuse of having three kids when you know a little gumption to get there would do the trick.) And the guilt that's been eating me so bad for the last few months surfaces in these words: "Grandpa? Do you think she knew (sniffle-suck-up-another-sniffle)... that I love her - do you think she knew I love her a lot?" And he looked at me with those eyes - those 'what-a-ridiculous-question-silly' eyes and said "Oh yes! She knew. She knew very well. She knew you and both of your brothers loved her so much. And I think you know she loved you too." Suddenly that small hole in my heart was finally patched - the right way.
And because you don't learn a hard lesson about telling folks you love them enough for YOUR OWN HEART everyday, I made sure Grandpa knew I love him too. A whole bunch.
He knew.
And yesterday I found one little piece of that purple mixing bowl as I was cleaning.
I think I'm going to hang onto it.

Babies In Baskets

I’m not much of a student. I like school alright – I get to see my friends and often the teachers are friends of the family. Honestly, I learn just fine – when it’s a topic I care to learn. Why do I have to learn how to sound out vowels & consonants when I can read the words perfectly as they sit on the page? I’m frustrated by the little squiggles and slash marks over the vowels and can’t really wrap my head around this. I can’t wait to get home. Eula Dean will be there.
Eula Dean is our “housekeeper” and occasional nanny, though we don’t call her that. We just call her Dean, even though most people call her Eula or Puddin’. When I see her car parked in front of the house, I haul ass to wherever she’s at (often scrubbing a tub or wiping the wooden handrails with lemon Pledge.) She’s part of our family, part of who we are and despite living on the other side of town from us, we are particularly lost without her. She is firm and insists on good behavior – she has no qualms about swatting my butt when I’ve stepped out of line, but there’s no doubt in my mind that she loves us. She tells me often I’m her favorite little white girl and I tell her she looks just like the woman on the Aunt Jemima Butter Lite Syrup bottle. She croons a belly laugh and while she’s wiping the tears from her eyes, she tells me “All you white people look alike too.” The best way to describe how she loves us is the way that she will come find me after a bad day at school. Dean innocently enters my bedroom to “lemon Pledge” something else and finds me sprawled on my tummy across my bed, hiding my tear stained cheeks in the crook of my elbow. Dean refuses to cautiously wait for an invitation. Her method is to scoop me up in her arms (even though I’m growing too big to be ‘scooped’ in anyone’s arms) and sit on the bed rocking me until the muffled sobs have turned into breathy attempts at composure. And I’ll be okay because of her.

            When Mom and Dad go out of town on business, Dean becomes our surrogate. Our meals are no longer eaten in restaurants - they morph into fried chicken or ham, spinach or green beans, cornbread and huge glasses of milk. We usually end up on the other side of town to join her at church – which I love! She lets me sing in church choir with her, swaying back and forth with the other altos and surprised by the sudden “Oh, yes sir!” or  “Amen!” that will be belted out during a good harmony or heartfelt lesson. She likes to “gussie me up” and braid my hair into multiple ponytails coming out of every side of my head as she watches her soap operas and puffs on a Marlboro. I am well taken care of – as are my brothers. Dean is ours and we are hers. To us, a comforting smell is that of stale cigarettes and Lemon Oil.

My bike is sparkly pink with a big white basket that I fully intend to carry a bunny rabbit in (as soon as I find and catch one.) I’m no stranger to animal capture. Not but a few weeks ago, I snuck a kitten up to my bedroom. I planned to feed it milk through a bottle and be so good to it that it’d never leave. That was short lived. I hadn’t planned on dealing with kitten bathroom issues. It must’ve been sick because within just a few minutes, it had leaked diarrhea all over my white shorts. Mom often wanted to know exactly what composed of the stains on our clothing so she could get them out. I can’t imagine surviving that conversation when I revealed it was “kitty cat diarrhea” so I changed my clothes and discarded the shorts in the alley dumpster. I returned the kitten where I’d found it and went on with my day.

Mom is pregnant and I will soon have a baby brother or sister. I figure it’d be best if I laid the animal-in-the-bike-basket plans to rest and just plan on driving the new baby around in that plasticbike basket. I announce my plans to Mom and she quickly suggests that I can certainly transport diapers in the basket, but not the baby. Somehow, that doesn’t sound near as fun. 

Baby Jessica Recounts.

Every morning in the small town of Pampa, Texas, I wake up in the flowers of my room. Today would be no different – as I opened my eyes, the pink and green wall-paper that my mother had carefully selected greeted me as it always did and the window light filtered through the venetian blinds softly so that I could open my eyes slowly and gently. Most little girls would love to live in my bedroom. My dresser drawers were covered in green gingham to match the pink and green theme. A small Jenny Lind table and chairs holds the bust of the lifesize Barbie head that I play ‘hairdresser’ with. A white toy box with my name printed in pink serves as a window seat. Looking out my window is one of the things I frequently spend 5 minute blocks of time doing since being on the second floor gives me the ability to see into our neighbor’s back yard. They never mow the back yard. Just the front yard. I suppose that’s partly why my neighbor friend always plays in ours. I’m glad she does.

I have an extension on my light switch so that I can reach it and turn my bedroom lights on and off. I’m not quite tall enough. My absolute favorite thing is a medium sized round plastic toybox, hot pink on bottom – but the best part is the doll house feature on top. I will save this for my own children one day.

I scamper down the stairs in my nightgown. It’s easy to scamper with great speed. Carpeted stairs just make me feel more sure-footed somehow. I’m hungry and I know Daddy’s probably awake and ready to make my breakfast. I enter the kitchen and see him (still in his bedtime clothing) rinsing something at the sink. My Daddy and I are tight. Like best friends. We hug ‘good morning’ and he asks if I’d like some eggs. I nod my head and he brings a large glass of milk for me to sip as he begins preparing my breakfast. I daydream. I don’t much care to visit this early. I’ll probably grow up to be a coffee drinker. It seems to wake up Grandma and Grandpa just fine.

The microwave beeps and I vaguely hear the door to the microwave close. My daydreams are halted when a hot bowl of microwaved scrambled eggs is placed in front of me. I devour them – Dad’s eggs are the best. Of course, no one makes eggs as often as he, so I don’t have much of a comparison to go by. I spend the night with Grandma and Grandpa pretty frequently. Grandma makes eggs in the pan and there’s always a slice of steak on my plate – and buttered toast. Dad must’ve loved growing up with her cooking!

I will go to school today. Daddy gently instructs me to go get ready for school – “and don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

I climb the stairs, pausing at the landing to play with the handrail. I want to make that squeaky sound of my sweaty hand creating friction on the lacquered wood. I remember my task and quickly zoom up the stairs before anyone tells me to get to it.

Mom always selects my clothing the night before. I see my outfit hanging on the handle of the louvered closet door, remove it from the hanger and put my clothes on.

It only feels like I’ve been in my room for five minutes but I’ve been daydreaming. I can hear my mother holler up the stairs to hurry me along. I jaunt across the hall to brush my teeth and check out Uncle Randy and Uncle Wayne. Uncle Randy and Uncle Wayne are my uncles. They passed away a few years ago in a plane crash but somehow I’ve found their silhouettes in the foiled orange and brown wall-paper of my bathroom. There are little sratches of missing wallpaper right next to the bathtub that resemble their profiles and I find good comfort in having such access to my uncles. I pointed it out to Dad once when he was giving me a bath, but he doesn’t like to talk about Uncle Wayne (his brother) or Uncle Randy. He must still be very, very sad. I try not to push it. I hope we never get rid of this wall-paper. It’ll be a death all over again.

I cannot style my own hair yet, so I see how quickly I can reach the bottom of the stairs. I hear Jason, my big brother talking to Dad in the kitchen, but I have to go see Mom for my hair-do. I am bringing the bow that was in the shirt pocket of my outfit. Mom is in her nightgown standing in the bathroom ready to do my hair. She’s standing next to a mug of hot tea (as she drinks every single morning.) The hairbrush is red and black and the bristles are a bit too long for my small head. It kind of hurts but I don’t want to complain so I watch mom in the mirror. She sticks her tongue out as she styles my hair. It looks bad, so I snicker. She looks in the mirror to see what I’m giggling about and pops her tongue back in her mouth. (That’s just what she does when she’s concentrating or busy.) Mom is finished so she gives me a love pat on my hiney and says “I love you, ladybug.” “I love you too, Mommy. Bye!”

I walk down the open hallway and find my coat slung across the banister that divides the dining room from the hallway. I slip into the piano room to grab my backpack from its’ proper place and wander into the kitchen. I suppose Jason is gone since Dad’s the only one in the room. He’s microwaving water for his hot tea. I can hear the diesel of his suburban growling. That growl is my ride to school.

Dad pulls up in front of the school. I look at him and he looks at me as he suddenly pops a finger into his mouth, moistens it and scrubs a bit of toothpaste from my chin. “I love you! Have a grand-slam day”(which is code for make perfect 100 grades today.) “I love you too Dad! I will!” I climb out of my seat and onto the curb. “Want me to bring a shrimp pizza to school?” Boy, do I ever! I grin big “YES! Yes! Oh thank you!”

Sometimes Dad and grandpa will come have lunch with me at school. You see, they work together at the family oil and gas business. They’re able to take longer breaks and treat me to special lunches. And they frequently do, especially when the cafeteria serves pigs in a blanket. And they share well. The kids who happen to be sitting next to me when Dad brings pizza will likely enjoy a few slices of pizza too… if they like shrimp. That’s Dad’s and my thing. We love shrimp. Dad’s a sailor and I’m his little mermaid. He’s got a J boat – 24 feet, we frequent Lake Meredith and often spend an entire summer in Corpus Christi – the best place I’ve ever been! We just swim and sail and if we’re with mom, we shop! Swim, sail, shop. We share this love of ocean, seafood, sunshine, and sand. It’s special that the Pampa Pizza Hut reserves shrimp for this special request – it brings a bit of the beach to this cowboy/roughneck town.