'Ask me no more questions, Tell me no more lies...'

My children ask me many, many questions for which I cannot provide honest and/or coherent answers. Partly, it’s their lack of context. We can be driving somewhere—anywhere—cousins’ house, grocery store, VBS across town, and Ben might ask, out of nowhere: “Mommy, which is meaner—white sharks or blue sharks?” Or Pearl asks: “What’s my real name?” I can answer that one. I personally chose the name (with cooperation and clearance from Will) after long, hard, laborious research. But when I provide the answer, the carefully named child stumps me by replying: “No, what’s my real name?” Huh???

Two observations:

1) The kids ask a lot of questions when we’re traveling. But time behind the wheel is also my “most likely to strike upon a brilliant solution time.” Some people’s ideal creative setting is a hot shower in a steamy bathroom. For me, it’s a lonely car on familiar roads. Half of my brain shifts into semi-auto-pilot driving mode; the other part prognosticates, envisions, deciphers, and imagines. With inquisitive preschoolers in the vehicle, my brainstorm goes haywire.

2) My real answers of “I don’t know,” “I’ll try to find out,” or “Mommy doesn’t know everything,” are generally unacceptable to my young journalists-in-training. They are evidently ill-at-ease with ambiguity. I worry about this because life is so chalk-full of uncertainties, and I wonder: When will the answer, “I’m not sure,” register as livable for my lively little people? Only God knows.

Got Nothin' But Net

Today’s a day when I don’t feel like writing, so I’m writing. Another Dad saying: “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t feel like doing.” I remember him muttering this to me sympathetically on a late fall evening, around 5:40 p.m. I had come home from a typical day of 10^th grade and laid down my sleep-needy, adolescent body on the couch. An hour later, Dad reluctantly shook me awake. “Time for basketball practice.” Ughhhhh . . . My hazy head and heart groaned resentfully. Not at Dad—it wasn’t his fault I’d signed up for this momentarily most-unwanted obligation. Why, oh, why do I get into these things?! I chided myself in a semi-stupified state. Eighteen minutes later, I was still shaking off sleep in shorts, shirt, and sneakers in the high school gym. I made it to practice on time, and I learned an important lesson about follow-through—not the kind that makes for a good basketball shot (I never did get very good at that), but the kind that makes for a good teammate, employee, spouse, parent, friend: “80% of life is showing up.”

(P.S. I actually owned a pair of these sah-weet Nike Airs! Envy of the team, I was.)

SAD: Seasonal Ambivalence Disclosure

Am I the only one who doesn’t really relish the start of summer vacation?

Most of my mom-friends on Facebook are posting chipper status updates, like: “Summer’s finally here—woo-hoo!” Or, “Got great report cards from the kiddos—now it’s time to tend my gorgeous garden, then take a quick dip in our refreshing pool before heading to [insert fun event here] with my super-cute, well-behaved children.” (Sorry for the sarcasm—I guess I’m just now-not-so-secretly jealous of mothers whose domesticity so obviously exceeds my own.)

For me, summer is no less stressful than any other time of the year. I enjoy the warmer weather (when it’s not too warm), but life goes on as usual, with its work pressures, household duties, and the added layer of lamentation: “Momeeeee, I’m borrrrred! Be my entertainment committee.”

I don’t mean to be a Grinch about this supposedly relaxing time of year (am I whining?), but I honestly don’t find the livin’ especially easy in the Summertime . . . I do, however, like the song: Click here to hear Fantasia's fantastic rendition.

My Father’s Phraseology

My good friend Jean, who grew up next door to me and who I think of quite like a sister, suggested I dedicate an entry to some of my dad’s famous quotes. Since today is Father’s Day, I’ll give it a go (although I doubt I’ll be able to exhaust the repertoire—additions, corrections and clarifications are welcome in the comment section). Also, I’ll do my best to provide explanations where necessary—and they almost always are! Here goes . . .

“How quickly we become bored.” This originated in the A-Town junior high band room where Dad worked for 32 years. Students would frequently drop their instruments during rehearsals or even concerts. This frustrated Dad, who believed it wasn’t too much to ask of kids to sit and hold their instruments while waiting for their turn to play. Nowadays, this quote often gets boiled down to “How quickly . . .” and is applicable whenever anyone drops something out of boredom, distraction or lack of concentration.

“80% of life is showing up. The other 20% involves looking for a bathroom or a pencil.” I’ve mentioned the 80% quotation before. It’s applicable whenever I “show up” for a local 5k and win my age group, even though I’m not every fast. If faster runners my age don’t “show up,” I win! I believe this quote is a Woody Allen adaptation. The comedian came up with the first part; the 20% is Dad’s addition.

“Life is not easy, and it’s also not fair.” So don’t expect it to be! (No further interpretation needed.)

“…somewhat in shambles…” Refers to a messy household, based on something my brother said about 25 years ago. Dad had gone to his hometown in Michigan for a couple weeks one summer, leaving the rest of us to manage the affairs of everyday life. The problem was, Dad quietly performed so many household tasks without us realizing it (vacuuming, laundry, lawn-mowing, taking out trash) that when he returned to our homestead, Keith looked around and acknowledged: “Things are somewhat in shambles since you’ve been gone.”

“Your reward is not on this earth.” Often shortened to “not on this earth” or even just “Judge Punch.” This refers to acts of service or participation in events that are not necessarily pleasant, but often obligatory, such as attending a Little League game (cute for about 5 minutes—thereafter rather dull) or helping someone move from one home to another (especially someone not well-known to the helper). Even though Dad likens these good deeds to court-ordered community service, he actually performs them frequently and willingly—not because he has to, but because he is genuinely kind and generous.

“Pandemonium!” Refers to noise and activity beyond what is manageable and civil. Toward the end of Dad’s teaching career (he retired 13 years ago), my sister and brother-in-law went to one of his concerts. Since the band was last on the program, they sought him out backstage and found him in a second-floor classroom with his sizeable group of adolescent instrumentalists making a non-musical racket. Kaye and Paul caught dad’s eye and as he escaped into the hall to greet them, he deemed the situation, “Pandemonium!” A dozen-plus years later, the term comes in useful when describing get-togethers involving all 8 of his grandchildren.

“Surly to bed, surly to rise . . .” Dad used to say this about himself as a reluctant music teacher who was also not a morning person. Difficult combination when he had to be at school by 7:30 a.m. daily . . . with a van-full of kids—his own, plus neighbors! Looking back, I can laugh—but I remember many tense moments waiting for stragglers to make their way to the B-mobile.

“Driving is the most dangerous thing you’ll ever do.” Statistically true, and something he reiterated often when we were teenagers. In the wintertime, he tacked on: “Two Words—Go Slow!”

“Script it!” This means that many things in life are predictable. If life were a movie script, you could anticipate This or That happening. I look to my left and see an example in my living room right now: There’s a plastic tumbler half-filled with orange juice (likely leftover from breakfast), perched precariously near the edge of the coffee table. Two of the kids are coloring at that same small, round table. Is the orange juice likely to get tipped over? Yes—“Script it!” Conversely, if something surprising or undesirable occurs: “That wasn’t in the script!”

“Is there a cure for that?” Something Dad says to unwitting customers at the grocery store where he works (his part-time retirement job). Someone might ask where to find the marjoram or an avocado—anything with multiple syllables that might be slightly unusual . . . non-everyday items. A variation of this off-beat humor is that sometimes, when customers ask for multi-syllabic grocery items, he’ll direct them to the in-store pharmacy. Only a very few customers ‘get’ it.

“Good help is hard to find.” Applicable whenever Dad receives poor customer service, or when something recently purchased breaks. Often reduced to: “Good help…” We know what he means.

Several members of my family contributed even more quotations to expound upon in this entry—including:

• “Ohhh…he can’t see!”
• “How did you know that?!”
• “Lean Machine”
• “She went for a long walk the other day.”
• “I wish I could walk that good.”
• “9 Hours”

. . . but I’ve already become too long-winded for the World Wide Web. And translation can be tiring!

I’ll save the band jokes for another entry. Suffice it to say, I’m grateful for the sense of humor I’ve inherited, as well as the life lessons wrapped up in Dad’s sayings. “Many a truth is spoken in jest” . . . or in code!

Ode to Old Friends

“I miss my friends so much,” 3-year-old Pearl called out. It was the middle of the night, about 2 months ago. Pearl was sick and semi-delirious, but lucid enough to identify her preschool pals as potential sources of strength in her time of need.

Lately, I’ve been echoing Pearl’s cry inside myself. Since coming back to A-Town full time 10 months ago (we’ve been back 6 ½ years, but I went on working 30 miles away until last August), I’ve faced a “friend funk.” My core group of gals, who gathered almost every day to gobble and gab in the college cafeteria where we worked, has scattered:

· I left the “ivory tower” to love and serve the people of A-Town.
· Elaine relinquished her corner office for an even higher-powered job: “Mommy.”
· Marie went and bought herself a bakery.
· Jess got married and moved to Namibia.

You see what I mean. Winds change. Paths diverge. We try to get together sometimes, but—well, there’s this pesky ocean blocking the way to one of us, and the rest of us might as well live worlds apart, busy as our calendars keep us.

I used to attend a weekly Moms gathering at church, but my schedule since last summer has included work on Thursday mornings—“So long, ladies.”

I have new friends now: a foursome fellowship that convenes periodically; a warm, witty trio of colleagues; lunch with a friend or 2 now and again; and I’d be lost—simply lost—without electronic access to my favorite Londoner.

Still: “I miss my friends so much.” No new ritual has replaced the daily dining-hall dose of cheap eats, easy company, and sunlight streaming into the windows of that other world. I’m not discontent—just waiting for new friend fulfillment to kick in, like comfort food for the soul.

In the evening when I rise

I am dazed by these days

of life, and death.

Enormous ideals maneuver me from on high—

I’m like a mindful marionette.

Meanwhile, minutia:

I bounce checks; I scoop cat litter;

I reinsert ‘Order of the Phoenix’ for the umpteenth time

so I can sit on a Spiderman pillow on my dining room floor

and craft ‘poetry’ during a drizzly dusk in A-Town,

My Home—for now.

But not Forever—

I, too, will Fly Away. . . . . . .

Bird of Paradise Painting by Marionette Taboniar

"Death, Be Not Proud"

Kathy Bonferraro went to Heaven at 6 yesterday morning: http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/kathybonferraro.

I am simultaneously heavy-hearted and hopeful.....

Stingless, But Excruciating

It occurred to me last night that my blog, lately, has been about a whole lotta nothin’! Here’s something real.....

As I write, my dear, sweet co-worker’s 44-year-old daughter lies in a hospital bed, clinging to life, having battled t-cell lymphoma for nearly 2 decades. Will she live? How much longer? “Where, o death, is thy sting?” (1 Cor. 15:55, KJV) But I feel so very sad and helpless by the prospect of this profound, “stingless” pain, perhaps to come upon my beloved friend and her family in the very-near future.

My heart is revisiting the grief at my cousin Karin’s passing, still present with me and my family after only 5 months (6, come next Monday). I wear her clothes almost daily, a tangible reminder of the precious gift that life is..... I’m also remembering my college classmate Matt’s death from cancer, 4 years ago. I look to the words of perspective and comfort offered by Karin’s dad, and Matt’s:

As you can imagine, we have read many things, and thought about many things, and discussed a great deal...trying to enlarge our understanding of things that are beyond understanding.

Somewhere along the way, we read and found ourselves responding to the simple, yet profound, words written by Billy Graham in his book of autobiographical reflections, The Journey. Somewhere towards the end of the book, he states: “Life is difficult; God is good; Heaven is real.” These are foundational thoughts, held together by our faith and our hope as we begin this next chapter our lives.

I know there is still hope for MJ’s daughter Kathy to win this battle! And wouldn’t that be the bomb?!* But no matter what happens—please, God: Let Love Win (as I know it has, and I know it will)—in my life, and in this “dangerous and untidy world” (JFK). Amen.



*The bomb (adj.): Very good, excellent, the best, cool, awesome. Source: The Online Slang Dictionary

Stale Cheese Puffs—Not the Answer

Stress stifles my creativity. Thus, while real-life A-Town is busy as usual (moreso in my part), on-line A-Town is quiet this week. Last night, I started to write about junk food. I got this far:

Strangely, I prefer my favorite junk foods slightly stale. For example, cheese puffs, circus peanuts, and Cookie Crisp cereal—they’re all better-tasting if left in the open air for 12-18 hours (half that time in humid conditions).

Then I remembered my To-Do list and started actually eating said semi-stale cheese puffs, in an ill-fated attempt to relieve my stress. Then I went to bed, severely regretting the effect of orange grease on my already-upset stomach. I thought I might puke. I did not. I awoke, following strange dreams, determined to do better.

Mental Name Games

Grace discovered today that sprinting up the A-Town Courthouse steps does not have the same effect—aerobically, aesthetically, or inspirationally—as Rocky Balboa’s famous climb to the pinnacle of the plaza at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. But it was fun and funny. And in the immortal words of Dr. Seuss (and my cousin Karin): “If you never did, you should. These things are fun, and fun is good.”

Other thoughts from today’s practice run of the A-Town Strawberry Festival 5k:

I like to name things—part of my wordsmithing nature, no doubt. Regular A-Town readers are privy to my opinion about pet names. The naming process for our children was…well, exhaustive, involving much poring over name books and websites, such as the Social Security Administration Section on Popular Baby Names—fascinating stuff!

In re-reading the fifth Harry Potter novel with Vi recently, I developed a fondness for the name “Neville,” and I tucked it away as a handsome moniker for a future Waters baby boy, should we be thus entrusted (No announcements here, Nor intentions—Just the possibility). While I jogged today, however, I considered Neville’s negatives: It contains the word “evil,” and it rhymes with “devil.” But the meaning is nice—“new town”—and, in addition to the underdog-turned-hero namesake of HP fame, there’s the notable conductor Sir Neville Marriner. These are the sorts of debates we conducted (“we” meaning Grace and herself, as well as Grace and Will) while settling on names for our 3 offspring. Spellings, sounds, celebrity associations—all these matters matter!

It’s much easier to name cats than people, of course—and I also find the invention of pseudonyms enjoyable. One of my best, I think, is “Hester Catherine Huber.” I started a blog by that name a couple years back, but (like several others—all others, actually, prior to A-Town) didn’t keep up with it. “Hester” is the combination of my grandmothers’ names, Helen and Esther. “Catherine” is the name of the street where my mother grew up. “Huber” was the avenue of father’s boyhood residence. Perhaps I’ll use HCH as a pen name in the future.

Another name notion I dreamed up on today’s jaunt: “A-Town Atalanta.” On Twitter, I’m “A-Town Gal.” But today while I ran, I remembered the mythical character whose story captured my imagination as a child of the ’70s memorizing the Marlo Thomas album, Free To Be You and Me. Atalanta is a girl who runs, thereby gaining strength of character and freedom from tyranny—yep, that’s me.

Finally (and this is not a note from the mental part of my workout, but from an email my mom sent this evening), a new name for Ginger: Riley. As in “the life of”—that’s the kind of treatment he’s getting these days, all thanks to Harriet…I mean Jingle. I guess, for Ginger, that bite turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

A Trip to the Vet (Warning: Slightly Sappy)

Pink Dress, Orange Cat | 20"x16" Oil | By Trent Gudmundsen | www.trentgudmundsen.com | Available at: Texas Art Gallery

My father has a saying—many, many sayings, actually, but the one that applies today is:

“The difference between a jogger and a runner? An entry form.” (Meaning an entry form into a road race, such as a 5K or 10K, as are most commonly conducted in and around A-Town.)

Today I decided: “The difference between foster care and cat ownership? A vet appointment.” Yep—Ginger’s as good as ours.

I’d been thinking about taking Gin-gee to the vet to obtain some ointment for his runny eye. That’s been going on for a couple of weeks now. But yesterday, Ginger acquired a limp. Sore paw or broken leg? I didn’t know, so I made the appointment. Turns out, sore paw. Likely bitten by the neighborhood bully, a fluffy black-and-white cat we call Jingle, who reminds me of a feline Harriet Oleson. Just not likeable. Mean-spirited. Pushy. A real mooch. And now I have one more thing to hold against her: She hurt my Ginger! (See? My Ginger. Can’t help it. Bonding has occurred.)

The gash in Ginger’s right paw requires topical cleaning (peroxide and gauze—check), painkillers (a pre-measured liquid that’s simple enough to squirt into his mouth), and antibiotic pills (those are more difficult, but I discovered they go down real easy crushed up and mixed into a gravy-laden helping of canned cat food). Plus, indoor accommodations. Yep—while Ginger’s been splitting his time living and lounging between our front and back porches for the past month and a half, he is now happily installed in our “guest cat quarters” (a.k.a. the upstairs bathroom). (Bonus points to the A-Town reader who can identify the source of that Austen movie quotation. Check the comment section of this entry to find the answer.)

Ginger’s all-expenses-paid trip to the vet also included a rabies shot (in case Jingle is rabid, which would explain a lot!), feline leukemia and feline AIDS tests (turned out negative), and commensurate immunizations. Based on my rather extensive knowledge about Ginger’s origins and background, I am confident he had appropriate tests and shots four months ago, but since he’s been living outdoors for the last six weeks, at least, I couldn’t be sure he hadn’t picked up any diseases in the meantime.

And so, we inch closer to ownership of Cat #3. Will has not yet acquiesced, although he has enough compassion to allow the injured animal to snuggle up to our chamber pot for the next several days. (I’m kidding, of course—Ginger has two soft, comfy nap spots to choose from in there, plus his own private litter box and, in the opposite corner of the room, a regularly replenished food and water dish.)

I’m still hoping for a home for Ginger. He’s already found one in my heart.

Anyone Can Wiffle

This Grace, deciding to give herself more grace.

I’m in a new job, feeling appropriately stressed and slightly overwhelmed, and yet now  is the time I tell myself to tackle that final 15 pounds of extra weight I’ve been carrying around for the last decade?! No, no, no, no, no… Grace, speak to yourself as you would to a friend:

Get through this first 3 months in your new role. Take care of yourself, yes—eat well, exercise periodically, and seek sufficient sleep. But don’t add pressure to your life by expecting to be your bathing-suit best by mid-July!

There—I feel much better!

A few other items of note in this latter part of spring:

1)      It’s downright chilly these days here in A-Town! In 3 weeks, it’s Summer. But to step outside you’d think we should be shopping for a turkey. (OK, enough whining.)

2)      In the spirit of the season (Summer, not Thanksgiving), Will is playing Wiffleball with the kids outside (dressed in corduroys and fleece). Ten minutes ago, he climbed out Pearl’s bedroom window and retrieved 8-9 balls from the back-porch rooftop. The kids were duly delighted and impressed. Who needs sunshine and warm temps as an excuse to play ball? Not the Waters fam!

3)      One thing I truly dislike (OK, I know I said I’d stop whining—just one more thing…or two): Musty clothes. This time of year, the clothes get musty, the towels get musty, even our skin gets musty, I think. Ick—I despise the persistent, pervasive aroma of…“must”!

4)      We still want to find a home for Ginger (a.k.a. Washington), but we’re running out of leads. I know I sound like a broken record, but….. (I’m wondering how much longer I should wait before delivering him back to 10 Lives.)

5)      Lastly, a shout out to Grace’s Dad—today’s his birthday. Man, am I glad you were born! (And super-glad you’re my Dad!)

Here’s my own version of American Idol/Britain’s Got Talent: Look what I found in my short search for a link to the tune, “Anyone Can Whistle.”

Ice Cream Redemption

Late last summer, I had a bone to pick with a nearby ice cream company. An actual bone. From a mammal. Of some kind.

I had been relaxing with a bowlful of ‘Mason’s’ Rocky Road Light ice cream when I bit into the bone. No one in my family was present to witness the grody moment and for a split second, I considered simply continuing on with my eating enjoyment. Really. In that instant, I thought, “It’s OK, I can overlook this disgusting occurrence—I’ll just remove the BONE from my MOUTH, get up, deposit it in the kitchen trash bin, walk back to my seat and resume eating, calm as can be. No one ever need know about this.” The next moment I thought: “Grace!?! What is WRONG with you??? You just bit into a BONE in your ICE CREAM!!!”

I spooned what was left of my ice cream from the bowl back into the carton. I placed the bone on top. I duct-taped the carton shut and wrote, “Do not open—found bone in here,” on my make-shift seal. I called Mason’s headquarters the next morning. I said, in my most courteous telephone voice: “Hello. My name is Grace Waters, I live in A-Town, and I bit into a bone in a bowl of your Rocky Road Light ice cream yesterday.” The operator directed my call to Customer Complaints. The Customer Complaints representative said, essentially, “That is unlikely. Our Rocky Road Light ice cream does not contain bones. But we’ll send you an envelope in the mail so you can send your supposed bone specimen back to our laboratories for examination.”

Two minutes after that call ended, I reconsidered. I thought perhaps Mason’s should not be trusted to investigate its own product contamination problem. I called the County Health Department and asked, “What should I do if I bit into a bone in my ice cream?” The Health Department woman replied, matter-of-factly (as if fielding this kind of question every day): “Call the State Department of Agriculture and Markets. They’ll investigate for you.”

Sure enough, they did. A state employee came to my house, sat in my living room and interviewed me for about a half-hour regarding the bone-in-ice-cream incident. He snapped a few photographs of the ice cream in question, with the bone on top, sparkling with ice crystals. The paperwork completed, he procured a small suitcase-sized chest of dry ice, all billowy-smoky-chemically-freezing-cold, and packed away my Ratty Rocky Road for its trip to the lab.

In the next few weeks, we received 2 letters:

The first, from Mason’s Ice Cream, was a letter of apology for the inconvenience caused by this incident, along with three coupons for free Mason’s Ice Cream. I refused to redeem the coupons because, a) I possessed no appetite for ice cream of any kind, least of all Mason’s; and, b) I suspected that redemption of the coupons might render us ineligible for the million-dollar settlement we might expect from Mason’s in the months to come.

The second letter came from the state Department of Agriculture and Markets. It said, in sum: We examined your ice cream. It had a bone in it.

Last week, I gave up my waiting. I surmised that no more would come of the ice cream trauma. Metaphorically, the bone was dry. I redeemed the ice cream coupons. I partook and I enjoyed—Panda Paws Light, bone-free.

Dem Bones