And the Universe laughs, because I didn’t specify size or function. But that’s okay. My other car is a super cool hippie van.
Peace and love!
I got those vehicles at a thrift store and cleaned them up to toss into the small box of toys for youngsters who spend time at The Compound. It began when Hanley was a wee one and Tim would bring her over to visit. There was nothing Hanley-friendly for her to enjoy. So I gradually collected some baby toys for her and Lila. Even though over time I’ve added older child toys to the box, I always laugh when they go for the baby toys with an excited “I remember this from childhood!” attitude. As Hanley told us in Target the other day when we passed the aisle of infant toys, “I’m not a baby anymore.”
Lila likes to play with cars from the movie Cars. I don’t know if she and Hanley will have any interest in the toy-box cars. But I like playing with them! As you can see from the photos below, no matter what we threw into the mix for the grandkids–all toys being available to all kids–my camera seems to have caught them falling into “boy/girl” choices. Maybe it’s for the best, since Gina used the gender-neutral croquet mallet to bash Daniel in the head.
Josh and DanielGina and Sarah
ETA: Frequently after I post something, I’ll see an article about it within a couple of days. I hesitate to link to articles anymore because the comments are generally so deplorable. If you’re interested in reading more at your own risk, from cnn.com, When Kids Play Across Gender Lines by Emanuella Grinberg.
Back in the Permian period, sometimes photo processing labs where we sent our film(!) to be developed provided you with one normal-sized print and two little ones–the real-life version of thumbnails. This was a good idea for struggling young families; proud parents kept the prints and sent the free “thumbnails” to other family members. My mother had a “brag book” of these little photos for grandson Josh. I finally scanned those in so I can actually see them–my eyes not being what they were in said Permian period.
I have quite enjoyed them and hope to share several in the future. Here’s a Christmas morning when Aunt Becky helped Josh ride Daniel’s horse, Fido. Though I’m not sure diapers are proper riding apparel, he seems to be having a good time. Giddy up!
This is from Lynne’s button collection and is from her days of going to Junior Achievement as a youngster. One time I went to a JA party with her and won a door prize. And as proof that you can find EVERY DAMN THING IMAGINABLE on the Internet, even though I long ago got rid of my prize, there’s one for sale on The Pink Picker’s Etsy site. Just in case you can’t live without a bit of vintage craftiness with a light that FLICKERS.
I’m sorry if I’m repeating myself, but I’m so tired that though I’ve sort-of checked the archives for this story, I could have missed it. However, I had to hear it lots of times, so it’ll be just like you’re my father’s kid if you’ve heard it before.
Among the “college was a huge financial struggle” stories my parents told, one was about my father’s coat. It was a different time, when men wore sports coats and jackets, and my father always wore his to class. He said by graduation time, he hated that jacket with every fiber of his being. The day of his last exam of his senior year, his bus let him off as usual near a field. Before he began the walk home to Northington campus where their apartment was, he said he took off that coat, wadded it up, and hurled it as far as he could into that field.
I don’t know if it was this jacket, but since he always made it sound like there was only one, I’m guessing so. Today when I was taking a nap, I had a bunch of dreams. One of them was about my parents. He was not wearing this jacket. I know he’d appreciate that.
Most of The Compound has privacy fencing around it–the kind of wooden fencing that I never saw until I moved to Texas, where it’s practically standard except in the poorest or wealthiest neighborhoods. You see it in those, too, just not as abundantly. However, the area where we live also has many homes with iron fencing, and when we had work done on the property in the summer of 2000, we decided we wanted an iron fence at least across the front and down one side of the house (the other side already had it).
The contractor we selected for all the other jobs agreed to install the fencing, too. He went on a hunt for vintage or salvaged fence that would match our house and the existing fencing. When he couldn’t find exactly what he was looking for, he finally hired an elderly man, who did welding jobs for him, to custom-construct the fence. This gentleman came to measure the property and talk to us so he’d know exactly what we wanted. He did an outstanding job, and when it was completed, he told me one of the specifications he’d set for himself. He’d met our dachshunds, Pete and Stevie, and this was how he made his decision for spacing the pickets. As he told me, “I wanted to make sure your little ones would stay safe inside the fence.”
Sadly, Pete died on August 18 of that year, and Stevie died five days later on August 23. I remember sitting on the front steps and staring at the new fence that would have enabled them to spend so much more time running around the yard chasing lizards and squirrels or checking out the other dogs and their people who passed by. In the years since, I have often thanked the two of them for their legacy. Many Compound dogs and fosters have been able to enjoy playing, exploring, and sunning while also keeping an eye on the world around them. And thanks to one tradesman and his pride in his work, only Lynne’s Paco is able to slip out–and when I call him, he promptly walks to the gate and waits for me to open it so he can come back in. Apparently that space only works one way.
I have a plastic container to keep or transport deviled eggs, but as anyone knows, a Southern belle has at least one and preferably several deviled egg plates, and this is mine. I love the rooster and the sunflower, but here is its quirk: there are slots for nine eggs. I don’t know how y’all make deviled eggs, but I cut my boiled eggs in half, scoop out the yolk, mix it with stuff, and fill the egg hollows with that stuff. At the risk of sounding mathy, you can’t add egg halves and come up with nine. I’ve decided this means the person who prepares the deviled eggs must, therefore, eat the extra one. This also works if you need a poison tester, because I connect deviled eggs to stuff like picnics and families, and you know both of those can be treacherous.
Daddy at a picnic–who brought those Pepsis? We’re a Coke family!
The process of deviling the eggs led me to think about two kinds of picnics: planned and spontaneous. My earliest impressions of picnics are the ones we took while we traveled during my childhood. Interstates were rare–we were more likely to take state highways and old backroads to get anywhere. We were also not yet a fast food nation. So trips meant either stopping at wonderful diners and cafes in small towns or–because we didn’t really have the budget for eating out that way–my mother packed sandwiches, fruit, chips, and drinks. When the back seat started sounding cranky, my parents knew it was time to find a shady roadside picnic area, pull over, and stuff food in us. The place might have been left to chance, but not the fixings, because everybody had to have the right things to eat (this one doesn’t like mustard, that one won’t eat Fritos, the other one hasn’t tasted much beyond peanut butter in two years, etc.).
A friend at a church picnic.
Somewhat irrelevant aside: One time I was watching an episode of Mad Men (set in the early Sixties, if you don’t know), and the Draper family was having a picnic in an idyllic spot–green grass, shade trees, nothing but the sounds of nature and the kids being kids. Don finished his beer and rocked my world by tossing the can as far as he could throw it. Then when it was time to go, Betty told the kids to get their things, stood up, shook the blanket free of plates, cups, napkins, and food remnants, and they all got in the car and drove off, leaving a pile of debris behind. I GASPED. I would just like to say that my family did not behave in a way that would make the Keep America Beautiful Indian shed a tear. We properly disposed of our trash before moving on.
Mother at a family reunion.
I think anytime children are involved, a picnic requires planning, and I used to be a champion planner myself, so I understand the compulsion. However, as I aged, I began to see how overplanning takes all the joy out of an event–both for the planner and everyone else. Because there will always be things you can’t prepare for, and I’m not talking about only nuisances like ants, mosquitoes, drunks, and rain. The world will not end if a picnic does not go exactly as planned–well, unless it’s taken over by zombies, but that hasn’t happened to me yet, so I disregard it. Consequently, I’m more in favor of the spontaneous picnic.
A garage picnic with friends from high school and college.
One such occasion began on a spring night when Lynne and I had a discussion about fried chicken. She said Craig didn’t really like fried chicken, and I said it was probably because he’d never had mine. (Y’all know Lynne is a fantastic cook, right, and taught me a lot of what I know? But never let it be said an Aries will miss an opportunity to be a little cocky.) So we decided to have a cook-off. We each separately spent a late night frying chicken and packed some other random foods. Early the next morning, we loaded Craig’s van, then the two of them, Tom, and I rode toward the Hill Country looking for the perfect picnic spot.
Aunt Lola (Headless! Maybe there were zombies?) and Uncle Gerald at a family picnic.
This is Texas, and they really mean it when they say if you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes. A couple of hours later we were unloading the van in a bucolic setting with wildflowers and singing birds. And without warning, the temperature dropped about thirty degrees. Fortunately, Craig had some work coveralls in his van, so Lynne and I put those on, and we managed to stuff our food past blue lips with shivering hands. Crazily, that memory is one of my favorite picnics ever. And I can’t say it’s because Craig liked my chicken best–he did!–but it turned out that Tom and I liked Lynne’s best, so it all evened out. But we laughed ourselves stupid, rode home in the cozy van, and probably played cards all night with some good cussin’ and cold chicken.
Daniel making a face about his steak that should have alerted us he’d one day be a vegetarian.
Recently, Lynne asked me if Jess was with us on that picnic, and I remembered that he wasn’t. I’m not sure where he was–he might have been on spring break in Alabama with his great-aunts–but I knew for sure if he’d been with us, he’d have had the sense to get out of the cold.
Saturday night, Lila informed me that I am old. She’s right. I’ve earned every gray hair that I ask Tim to color dark brown, every wrinkle I refuse to see in the mirror when I brush my teeth, and every anniversary of my thirty-fifth birthday. But inside me, there’s still a girl for whom summer means:
Being outside all day with friends like Daffy (Daphne the cat).
A pool in the back yard with a hose swung over a pine tree to keep the water level up and provide a little extra splash.
A sensible bedtime–freshly bathed with teeth brushed–and after hours of untroubled sleep, I could wake to another day of no bills to pay, car issues to think about, meals to cook, and that nagging feeling that I’m not the best person I can be.
August 18 is Tom’s parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. They put together the most wonderful book of photos and their written memories of their first meetings, their courtship, and their wedding–a true gift of legacy writing for all their children and grandchildren to cherish. I snagged a couple of photos to share here.
Mary and Jerry on their wedding day.
There are so many good photos that show how gorgeous her dress was, and she and her mother together created it on this old Singer machine. Just seeing this picture conjures up the sound of my mother’s Singer machine as she made curtains, kids’ clothes, and Barbie fashion. And I’m sure Mary and Mother did all that sewing without nearly the amount of cussing that happens in the room with me and my Brother machine!
It’s hard to believe Amy and Richard’s son Jonathan is ten years old today. I remember when Tom and I went to meet him as a newborn in the hospital. This photo was taken at their house when Jonathan was less than a month old. Happy birthday, Jonathan!
We don’t get to see them much, but that’s understandable. Even though we live only about twenty miles apart, they are busy with the millions of things raising four boys entails. I know that two of the qualities that make Amy such a great friend–her ability to listen, to really hear what someone is saying, and her knack for building people up, for recognizing and verbalizing their best qualities–make her a great mother. She’s doing exactly what she should be doing, and I admire her and Richard for the enthusiasm and thought they put into their family.
You may not be able to see it in this not-so-great photo, but on the wall behind Amy and Richard is a picture of their oldest son Bryce with Rex. They were the family that brought Rex through his earliest years before he came to The Compound to be Tim’s best friend.
And you live life with your arms reached out.
Eye to eye when speaking.
Enter rooms with great joy shouts,
happy to be meeting.
And bright,
bright,
bright, bright as yellow,
warm as yellow.
And I do not want to be a rose.
I do not wish to be pale pink,
but flower scarlet, flower gold.
And have no thorns to distance me,
but be bright,
bright,
bright, bright as yellow,
warm as yellow.
Even if I’m shouting, even if I’m shouting here inside.
Even if I’m shouting, do you see that I’m wanting,
that I want to be so so
bright,
bright,
bright, bright as yellow,
warm as yellow.
A very happy birthday today to Camden–a great son, brother, nephew, cousin, and grandson. (And extra special to me, because he loves the Beatles.) You’re a good man, Charlie Brown!
Granma with Tyler, Rome, Evan, Morgan, and Camden.The whole Kid Crew at Granma’s house: Cassidy, Tyler Amelia, Rome, Morgan, Evan, Camden
Lyrics: “Bright As Yellow” by The Innocence Mission. Thanks Sarah, Gina, Dalyn, and Debby for letting me dip into your photos. And in the photo I took of Camden crying, his mama is picking him up, not shaking him!
