The grandson who is almost 3 has learned to tell jokes--well, at least the art of delivering them. One day this week, the family gathered around the breakfast table and was entertained for quite awhile listening to his jokes. Question: "Hey, buddy, do you know a joke?" Response: "Wickely, wickely, wickely." Quick pause, then with open mouth and head thrown back, the little emcee would burst into an enchanting fake laughter which would totally create genuine belly laughs from the rest of the table.
Repeat this scenario over and over again and you can imagine our breakfast that day. While we were engaged in this routine, I was reminded of how much laughter has been shared through five generations at this very table.
In fact, my earliest memories of going to my grandparents involve this table and laughter. No matter what time of day or night that we arrived at their farm, the grown-ups would circle around the table in their ladder back chairs and the hours would tick off as would the stories and laughter. Many times I can remember falling asleep or waking up to the comforting sounds of indistinguishable words followed by the most infectious laughter you could ever imagine--just like the laughter following the "wickely, wickely, wickely" mumbled by the newest generation around that table.
My Grandma and Granddad made this table for their household and raised their 4 boys around it. I was lucky enough to be able to take ownership of it when it was no longer needed for them. It has been the breakfast table for my family for the last 30 or so years. Hence, the laughter and memories continue.
Magic must have been waxed into the grain of this old oak table. It was a plain farmhouse table--not fancy but solid and practical--important traits for furniture as well as men and women during those pre-Depression days on the flat plains of windy southwest Oklahoma. It was just a round table with three or four leaves readily available to add with the sound of a knock on the door or the sight of dust stirred up in the drive.
Those leaves magically stretched that old round table to a size capable of handling the whole Strother clan, plus a friend or two who may have popped in, certainly the mail man making his rounds two or three days a week through the dusty country roads delivering not just the mail but the latest news of friends and neighbors.
The table magically became a unifying web around a family who no longer lived and worked in the area, who maybe even didn't share the same views politically or religiously anymore. It magically reconnected the family; it provided the boys a place to relive their history, to confirm their relationships, to put their own personal spin on growing up and on events that happened while growing up. It was an animate object embracing an inanimate emotion--love. There was definitely lots of love around that table.
I can still see and hear those conversations, that love, especially those with the handsome Strother boys and their dad, my Granddad, telling stories and jokes. There was probably a lot of re-telling the same stories over and over, but the laughter was as new and spontaneous as it was after "wickely, wickely, wickely."
As I picture the table from years and years ago, I can even feel the love through those sweet memories--the men would be sitting there, elbows on the table with each man leaning in eager to catch every word. There would definitely be a cup of strong, black coffee before each man and ashtrays scattered around. The smoke was as abundant as the laughter. Each one of the four brothers' delivery was right on; the pitch, the timing, all precise. Perhaps because of the frequency of the telling or perhaps because they were all natural born story tellers.
Nevertheless, the punchline would be delivered and the belly laughs would ring out as the rickety-looking wooden farmhouse chairs holding those men would tilt back on just two legs of the chairs. I remember wondering how could they lean so far back without the chair falling over, breaking, or without Grandma scolding them for leaning back in their chairs. It was like they were extending the enjoyment, the merriment, the love as far as possible--proving, at least for the moment, that nothing bad could happen or stop this feeling, this closeness, this love.
Two of those Strother brothers, the younger crop as Grandma would call them, are still around--not around that old Strother table, but thankfully, around; and I'm sure they still are telling some wonderful stories with that same great style that their brothers and others leaned far in to hear.
Now at that same Strother farmhouse table, I'm leaning in--hoping once again to catch the punch line and the laughter of those days. I think I hear it--"wickely, wickely, wickely."
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Friday, December 27, 2013
An After Christmas Poem
Yesterday morning I woke up at 4:30 and couldn't go back to sleep. The highly anticipated day had come and gone. As I walked through the still dark house, I was aware of the difference a day makes.
The house was pretty much the same--decorations, tree, lights were all still there. But it was obvious that it was over. The empty boxes were stacked together waiting to be flattened and recycled, the ribbons and wrappings were gathered and thrown into trash bags waiting to be taken out, the gifts dispersed to their new owners and taken to their rooms or neatly stacked waiting to be packed in suitcases all too soon closed for trips home. Yes, it was done. Another Christmas, another family get together, another set of memories. Wow!
I studied the remains of the day, examined the tree, looked at all the decorations that would soon be packed away for another year, thought about the night before, the excitement, the fun, the laughter still hanging in the air. It felt good; it felt sad; it was a cluster of memories wanting to find a permanent place in my head, begging not to be forgotten.
So to process it all, I sat down to write. Then the words to the season's favorite children's poem, "The Night Before Christmas," started repeating itself in my mind. Now I know this classic poem written almost two hundred years ago has been used and misused through the years, and I have found myself doing the same many times. It's just such a good poem. But this old favorite poem became the format for my thoughts on the day after Christmas, 2013.
'Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house,
Not a creature was there, not even a mouse.
The stockings were emptied and scattered without care;
It was obvious that St. Nick had been certainly been there.
The Christmas tree once festive now looks lonely and bare
With no presents spilling out from under there.
No little boy reaching in for a bright colored bow
And tossing the name tag over his shoulder with a quick throw.
Examining the trimmings, unusual things I now see
That were added discreetly to the decorated tree.
An empty wooden spool so gingerly placed
About a hand higher than a little boy's face.
A cowboy boot once part of a wreath
Now taps its toe on a tree branch underneath.
The feathers and leaves that evened the tree out
Found bundled together--by small fingers no doubt.
A frilly reindeer once participating in imaginative play
Lies forgotten in favor of toys from Christmas Day.
The wooden train engine originally bright and red
Now in three pieces--no more needs to be said.
Santa, glittery and spry, who sat in his sleigh
Has been found near a bed three rooms away.
Even the nestled metal trees on tables nearby
Were expertly relocated in the blink of an eye.
It appears the Dickens' village with its warm lights all aglow
Now has fewer villagers milling in the white snow.
Accidents happen and memories do too.
These are a few that I will treasure the whole year through.
Then knowing soon I'd be taking decorations down
I felt blessed and happy that these memories abound.
I wished to myself as I flipped off the light
That there were Happy Christmas memories for all, and for all good nights.
The house was pretty much the same--decorations, tree, lights were all still there. But it was obvious that it was over. The empty boxes were stacked together waiting to be flattened and recycled, the ribbons and wrappings were gathered and thrown into trash bags waiting to be taken out, the gifts dispersed to their new owners and taken to their rooms or neatly stacked waiting to be packed in suitcases all too soon closed for trips home. Yes, it was done. Another Christmas, another family get together, another set of memories. Wow!
I studied the remains of the day, examined the tree, looked at all the decorations that would soon be packed away for another year, thought about the night before, the excitement, the fun, the laughter still hanging in the air. It felt good; it felt sad; it was a cluster of memories wanting to find a permanent place in my head, begging not to be forgotten.
So to process it all, I sat down to write. Then the words to the season's favorite children's poem, "The Night Before Christmas," started repeating itself in my mind. Now I know this classic poem written almost two hundred years ago has been used and misused through the years, and I have found myself doing the same many times. It's just such a good poem. But this old favorite poem became the format for my thoughts on the day after Christmas, 2013.
'Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house,
Not a creature was there, not even a mouse.
The stockings were emptied and scattered without care;
It was obvious that St. Nick had been certainly been there.
The Christmas tree once festive now looks lonely and bare
With no presents spilling out from under there.
No little boy reaching in for a bright colored bow
And tossing the name tag over his shoulder with a quick throw.
Examining the trimmings, unusual things I now see
That were added discreetly to the decorated tree.
An empty wooden spool so gingerly placed
About a hand higher than a little boy's face.
A cowboy boot once part of a wreath
Now taps its toe on a tree branch underneath.
The feathers and leaves that evened the tree out
Found bundled together--by small fingers no doubt.
A frilly reindeer once participating in imaginative play
Lies forgotten in favor of toys from Christmas Day.
The wooden train engine originally bright and red
Now in three pieces--no more needs to be said.
Santa, glittery and spry, who sat in his sleigh
Has been found near a bed three rooms away.
Even the nestled metal trees on tables nearby
Were expertly relocated in the blink of an eye.
It appears the Dickens' village with its warm lights all aglow
Now has fewer villagers milling in the white snow.
Accidents happen and memories do too.
These are a few that I will treasure the whole year through.
Then knowing soon I'd be taking decorations down
I felt blessed and happy that these memories abound.
I wished to myself as I flipped off the light
That there were Happy Christmas memories for all, and for all good nights.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Tangled Roots
There are yellow and burgundy mums growing randomly against the house. They don't look as perfect as the mums in the gallon pots I bought this fall, but I like that. They are different heights and kinda wild-like but stunning.
Now when my Master Gardener friend came to visit recently, I didn't get to ask her what she thought about my garden of mums and monkey grass. I'm sure she would have been kind, but it really didn't matter to me. I like them and proud of the fact that they actually came back.
I guess I was somewhat surprised when the mums came back because I really know just very little about planting. I know that when you take the plant out of the pot, you have to spread the roots out. Generally they are very tangled; some are even growing through the bottom of the pot.
Now that is about the extent of my gardening expertise. And I haven't engaged in any of my "heavy duty" gardening in awhile. But what I have done is paint a picture for a dear friend who is about to celebrate a big birthday--you know, one of those that end in 0. After painting the picture, I decided it needed a perfect quote to top it off.
I could have thought and thought and thought and come up with a sentiment to use, but instead I resorted to "googling" quotes. Do you know that there are millions, no billions, of quotes about everything. Well, I wanted an extra special one about friendships for my extra special friend.
I found a bunch. Some were way too wordy. Scratch those. I'm sure they were very meaningful quotes, but remember, I was a preschool teacher forever. I like short books, short sentences, and lots of great pictures.
Nevertheless, I won't list all of the quotes I actually read and liked, but the one that grabbed me was this:
"Growing apart doesn't change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I'm glad for that." Ally Condie
WOW! Isn't that good?
That quote made me think not only about my garden but also my friend. You know so many of metaphors of gardens and friendships. But what struck me was the phrase, "our roots will always be tangled..."
My friend and I were young adults when we first met, but I still believe we grew into an awesome adulthood together. Although there were many times we were as carefree and playful as young children, we had our serious times as well--tangling our roots tighter with each experience.
We have helped each other through good and bad times. And I would do anything for her and I know she would for me too. Before I moved, we would spend a Saturday or two each month running around. I love her. We would laugh and laugh. We would eat Mexican food or if we were being "good," we would divide a sandwich and fore go the french fries.
We would attack painting walls or even wall-papering walls or moving heavy furniture. We discovered that if we had a beer or two, we would do much better. (Sometimes it took us until wee hours of the morning to finish our projects--and beer!) We shopped together--tried on clothes over our clothes cause we didn't want to go to dressing room. That was fine until the time she couldn't get the dress off that she pulled on over her clothes. Then there was the time we had to try out the hula hoops at a discount store.
We never were asked to leave a store, I promise. Because of her, though, we knew where every restroom was in every store in town. I could count on making memories on any day I spent with my friend.
Then the husband and I moved to Texas for five years. My friend and I still talked and saw each other a few times. Each time we got together, it was like nothing had changed. But in reality it had. When we moved back, my friend and I didn't get together as often. Those weekend days had been filled with other friends of hers; I had a grand baby that I wanted to be with. She had several grand kids that took her time. She worked full time still; I didn't. So I was sad that we weren't able to pick up exactly like we left off.
But when I read that quote, I realized that we will always be connected. Our roots run deep and are pleasantly tangled. I love her and enjoy the times we spend together as much as ever. Sure I wish it were more, but our friendship has survived and perhaps even strengthened because of realizing the value of the tangled roots.
I am glad for the side by side times with my dear friend. I'm sure there will be more and more. I am glad for those roots that through our deep friendship got tangled and strong. I am glad I have her as my friend and know that just like my perennial mums, she'll be there year after year.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Old Friends and Old Friends Long Gone
Tonight I got to see some old friends and some old friends long gone. The church celebrates its Centennial this weekend with a various activities planned--drop in reception, dinner tonight, and special worship service tomorrow to name a few.
We attended the dinner. That was where we first got to connect with some friends. I got to see those friends we usually just see on Sundays. And I got to see one of my favorite people, Milly. She has not been able to get to church for awhile but special efforts were made for her to get there tonight.
She looked beautiful. I could tell that this was an important occasion for her and she wanted to look her best. (I understand that--I just put on and took off 3 outfits trying to find one that I liked for tonight.) Her hair looked lovely and the smile on her face lit the room.
Milly is one of the church members whose example I treasure. I remember (there was a lot of remembering going on tonight) her always being at church. She faithfully attended Wednesday nights as well as Sunday mornings. That in and of itself is worthwhile but she would also have her young granddaughters in tow. Wow! She did this from the time they were toddlers. She knew the importance of being in church so she made sure those little girls were too. Because of her, they grew up in the church.
Then I saw a girlfriend I hadn't seen in probably twenty years or so. We had gone to a NLR church together at the age of 5 and 6. She was a year older than me, but we spent many an afternoon together. We also attended Ouachita together. We lost contact with each other for several years and then, lo and behold, one weekend when I went to visit my parents in Fort Smith, I discovered that she and her husband and children lived just a few houses down the street from my parents.
Time went on. My friend moved; my parents moved. I hadn't seen her since, I don't believe. But I saw her tonight! It was great to catch up on her life. I have such fond memories of our friendship.
At the end of a delightful program highlighting the events over the last 100 years, there was a slide show. Some current church members--our friends--gave their reflections of the church. There were funny stories told; there were poignant testimonies shared. There was strength in their stories--the strength that this church needs now with enough to survive the future.
Then there were those slides from earlier generations--more friends--but long gone. These old friends had been pillars of this church. There was strength in their faces. They had grit. They had courage. They had skills. They had love and pride in their church. They provided what the church needed--some did the unseen things, the repairs, the care of the building; some were the teachers, the nursery workers; some were leaders in the community who had the courage to fight for civil rights.
They all were the backbone of the church; they lived their faith so loudly that the neighborhoods wanted to be a part of this church. It was the glory days of this church.
Time has changed the church in many ways. The pews aren't always filled; the dress is no longer your Sunday best; the songs are sometimes different. But the friends are there. Friends long gone are there in their supportive spirits. Love is there.
Tomorrow is Sunday. Those friends will be there. I'll be there as well.
We attended the dinner. That was where we first got to connect with some friends. I got to see those friends we usually just see on Sundays. And I got to see one of my favorite people, Milly. She has not been able to get to church for awhile but special efforts were made for her to get there tonight.
She looked beautiful. I could tell that this was an important occasion for her and she wanted to look her best. (I understand that--I just put on and took off 3 outfits trying to find one that I liked for tonight.) Her hair looked lovely and the smile on her face lit the room.
Milly is one of the church members whose example I treasure. I remember (there was a lot of remembering going on tonight) her always being at church. She faithfully attended Wednesday nights as well as Sunday mornings. That in and of itself is worthwhile but she would also have her young granddaughters in tow. Wow! She did this from the time they were toddlers. She knew the importance of being in church so she made sure those little girls were too. Because of her, they grew up in the church.
Then I saw a girlfriend I hadn't seen in probably twenty years or so. We had gone to a NLR church together at the age of 5 and 6. She was a year older than me, but we spent many an afternoon together. We also attended Ouachita together. We lost contact with each other for several years and then, lo and behold, one weekend when I went to visit my parents in Fort Smith, I discovered that she and her husband and children lived just a few houses down the street from my parents.
Time went on. My friend moved; my parents moved. I hadn't seen her since, I don't believe. But I saw her tonight! It was great to catch up on her life. I have such fond memories of our friendship.
At the end of a delightful program highlighting the events over the last 100 years, there was a slide show. Some current church members--our friends--gave their reflections of the church. There were funny stories told; there were poignant testimonies shared. There was strength in their stories--the strength that this church needs now with enough to survive the future.
Then there were those slides from earlier generations--more friends--but long gone. These old friends had been pillars of this church. There was strength in their faces. They had grit. They had courage. They had skills. They had love and pride in their church. They provided what the church needed--some did the unseen things, the repairs, the care of the building; some were the teachers, the nursery workers; some were leaders in the community who had the courage to fight for civil rights.
They all were the backbone of the church; they lived their faith so loudly that the neighborhoods wanted to be a part of this church. It was the glory days of this church.
Time has changed the church in many ways. The pews aren't always filled; the dress is no longer your Sunday best; the songs are sometimes different. But the friends are there. Friends long gone are there in their supportive spirits. Love is there.
Tomorrow is Sunday. Those friends will be there. I'll be there as well.
Forget School Supplies and Think Nora Ephron
“Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address.” --Nora Ephron
Whew! When I read that quote, I immediately felt better about my neck, myself, my silly attraction to school supplies and my previous lengthy post titled "School Supplies." After seeing the quote on a quest for something else (can't remember what now), I thought I would just edit that post, include the justifying quote, and then be on to something else.
Well, let's forget the editing of that post and just go on to something else...like Nora Ephron. Too bad there will be no more of her books and commentaries. I've read a lot of her work and still laugh and think about her quirky wisdom and advice. And yes, I do feel bad about my neck as most women of a certain age do, but I am glad about a woman such as Nora Ephron.
Not being able to spontaneously recite interesting or famous lines from books, movies, or even songs, I turned to Google, always the smartest thing in the room. (The husband is not here right now.)
I typed in "Nora Ephron quotes" and was successfully greeted by so many funny, thoughtful lines. I simply could not quit reading them, laughing and pondering them all. I won't copy and paste them all here; you can find them and enjoy them next time you're online. You will probably agree that an essay, or blog post, could be written on any one of them.
But the following lines of a dialogue in Ephron's movie/play, Heartburn, really spoke to me. I guess it's because I always seem to have a story. My niece used to grab the camcorder when I arrived at family gatherings, ask me something, and then start recording away. (Hmmm. I better find out what she did with those!) Anyway, maybe this is why I turn things into stories. How about you?
“Vera said: “Why do you feel you have to turn everything into a story?”
So I told her why.
Because if I tell the story, I control the version.
Because if I tell the story, I can make you laugh, and I would rather have you laugh at me than feel sorry for me.
Because if I tell the story, it doesn't hurt as much.
Because if I tell the story, I can get on with it.”
Friday, August 9, 2013
Talking
I recently saw a quote and illustration on a Kleenex box (of all places) that I thought was hilarious and probably more true than anyone would like to admit. The illustration was fine but it was the quote that got my attention.
Okay, I confess--I am guilty of that at times.
I'm sure if everyone was really honest they could remember some--maybe many--occasions in which this has happened.
It reminds me of an incident that occurred while I was director of a preschool. One morning a teacher came to my office during her break to tell me this absolutely precious story that happened earlier that morning during circle time with her class of three year olds.
I think the unit for the week was "Dinosaurs," and this superb teacher would have been presenting it in a totally awesome way as usual. After talking awhile about dinosaurs and getting the children interested by showing pictures and books, she noticed a little princess of a three year old with her hand waving fiercely in the air.
The teacher sweetly called on her, thinking the child was anxiously wanting to tell something she knew about dinosaurs or that she had a new cat or something equally important, but then to the teacher's great amusement, the little girl said with much exasperation, "Can we talk about me now?"
There you go. That says it all, right? It's funny and true. I think maybe the three year old child in all of us has experienced that desire from time to time. Then there are those adults who haven't grown past that stage. They keep the conversation centered on them. Some do it to the extent to make this following quote true:
Those people are tiresome. But there are those people that you don't ever get tired of listening to. Some people, such as my brilliant husband for one, are wonderful conversationalists. The husband can talk about anything with facts, history, and humor, so it is great fun to be a listener to a person like that.
But it is equally important and takes great skill to be a good listener. I've known both great conversationalists as well as great listeners. But I am now wondering how many people are excellent at both? Hmmm. Good question. (Husband, are you reading this? If so, then you are that person! kiss kiss)
We have all listened to great speakers. These are the speakers who keep you waiting for the next word or sentence. Listening to my brother-in-law is like that. He is enthralling. I never want to miss a word in any of his sermons or his conversations.
Brother-in-law is the exception. Many times listening can be hard. Have you ever "listened" to say--directions to some place (especially if someone else is also listening), the "specials" on the menu, or someone's latest "problem du jour" and afterwards realized that you had no idea what was just said. Or you just catch some of what was said? I hate when that happens.
I also hate when you are with someone who doesn't ever start a conversation. I've come to realize how important that is. In fact, I think I would rather have someone with me that talked all the time than one who never started a conversation.
I had an occasion with a non-starter recently. It was just the two of us and once I could start the conversation, it was fine. Lots of interesting information came out. Then a long pause...Think, think, think...what else can I ask? I didn't dare think about me (too much) during the conversation with that person because I was trying to listen to know what else I could ask. Whew! Let me just say, it is much easier to "talk about me!"
But come to think of it, who TALKS anymore anyway. Talking and listening may go the way of the hand-written letter. In fact, why talk when you can just text; why listen when you can just read. So go ahead and put that phone that you keep in your hand to good use and just text me. Then we both can text about ourselves!
Oh, wait--who texts first; do you have to put a smiley face in the text or respond with a K or respond at all? Do you abbreviate everything? Do you correct spelling? Do you include others in your message? Do you wait to text until the sun comes up? Do you LOL. Gee--Forget it--Just call me. I'll be glad to listen to you talk about yourself (while I think about myself!)
ADBB4N
--in case you don't text much and would not ever know what that meant unless you googled it like I just did, it says, "All done. Bye Bye for Now." I think all I would have figured out is the 4!
"I hear what you are saying, but I'm thinking about myself."
Okay, I confess--I am guilty of that at times.
I'm sure if everyone was really honest they could remember some--maybe many--occasions in which this has happened.
It reminds me of an incident that occurred while I was director of a preschool. One morning a teacher came to my office during her break to tell me this absolutely precious story that happened earlier that morning during circle time with her class of three year olds.
I think the unit for the week was "Dinosaurs," and this superb teacher would have been presenting it in a totally awesome way as usual. After talking awhile about dinosaurs and getting the children interested by showing pictures and books, she noticed a little princess of a three year old with her hand waving fiercely in the air.
The teacher sweetly called on her, thinking the child was anxiously wanting to tell something she knew about dinosaurs or that she had a new cat or something equally important, but then to the teacher's great amusement, the little girl said with much exasperation, "Can we talk about me now?"
There you go. That says it all, right? It's funny and true. I think maybe the three year old child in all of us has experienced that desire from time to time. Then there are those adults who haven't grown past that stage. They keep the conversation centered on them. Some do it to the extent to make this following quote true:
Those people are tiresome. But there are those people that you don't ever get tired of listening to. Some people, such as my brilliant husband for one, are wonderful conversationalists. The husband can talk about anything with facts, history, and humor, so it is great fun to be a listener to a person like that.
But it is equally important and takes great skill to be a good listener. I've known both great conversationalists as well as great listeners. But I am now wondering how many people are excellent at both? Hmmm. Good question. (Husband, are you reading this? If so, then you are that person! kiss kiss)
We have all listened to great speakers. These are the speakers who keep you waiting for the next word or sentence. Listening to my brother-in-law is like that. He is enthralling. I never want to miss a word in any of his sermons or his conversations.
Brother-in-law is the exception. Many times listening can be hard. Have you ever "listened" to say--directions to some place (especially if someone else is also listening), the "specials" on the menu, or someone's latest "problem du jour" and afterwards realized that you had no idea what was just said. Or you just catch some of what was said? I hate when that happens.
I also hate when you are with someone who doesn't ever start a conversation. I've come to realize how important that is. In fact, I think I would rather have someone with me that talked all the time than one who never started a conversation.
I had an occasion with a non-starter recently. It was just the two of us and once I could start the conversation, it was fine. Lots of interesting information came out. Then a long pause...Think, think, think...what else can I ask? I didn't dare think about me (too much) during the conversation with that person because I was trying to listen to know what else I could ask. Whew! Let me just say, it is much easier to "talk about me!"
But come to think of it, who TALKS anymore anyway. Talking and listening may go the way of the hand-written letter. In fact, why talk when you can just text; why listen when you can just read. So go ahead and put that phone that you keep in your hand to good use and just text me. Then we both can text about ourselves!
Oh, wait--who texts first; do you have to put a smiley face in the text or respond with a K or respond at all? Do you abbreviate everything? Do you correct spelling? Do you include others in your message? Do you wait to text until the sun comes up? Do you LOL. Gee--Forget it--Just call me. I'll be glad to listen to you talk about yourself (while I think about myself!)
ADBB4N
Saturday, July 6, 2013
A Significant Day
Thirty-four years ago today, I was up all night just like last night. But back in 1979, it was for a much better reason. Last night was due to an unpleasant cold and stuffed up nose. Yuck.But back then, I was arriving at the hospital about this time of morning--6:00 a.m.--to deliver my second sweet daughter. Having had one baby already, one would think I would know about labor. I did but I didn't.
I definitely didn't want to get to the hospital too early this time and be told to go home or walk around the maternity floor in my breezy hospital gown throughout the night. So about 5:45, we decided to take our first born to a friend's house and then head to the hospital.
It wasn't 30 minutes until she popped out (well, was born--there really wasn't any "popping out" going on. I still remember those few minutes.) But I must say, being in labor at the hospital for just 30 minutes wasn't bad.
Of course, at that time 34 years ago moms and pops didn't know what sex the baby was and we didn't know exactly when the baby would arrive. I remember discussing what the middle name should be if it was a girl on the way to the hospital. We had already decided on the first name for a girl and just in case, one for a boy.
Good thing she wasn't a boy cause I can't remember what the boy's name would have been!
But this sweet daughter one couldn't forget. She is a bright, loving daughter with a super husband and child. She has brought much joy to our lives.
I wish her a very wonderful birthday (and I hope I can stay awake to tell her in person!)
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