Monday Morning Mantra

“Today’s gonna be a better day!”
By the grace of God,
I’ll try, I’ll pray.
I’ll shower, I’ll dress—
And call that “success.”
I’ll write, I’ll be
A happier version of me.
“Today’s gonna be a better day!”
By the grace of God,
I’ll Be OK.


(I’m not normally a fan of poems with rhymes,
But they’re fun to write—and comforting, at times.)

Image: Sunrise in Finnish Baltica, from http://www.travelblog.org/

Sunday Sigh

Bleak mood

(Must be Sunday)

Too much sugar

Too much time to think

Not enough time to do

All I see that needs doing

(Can’t—it’s Sunday)

Before the week resumes

And routine distractions deter

Deep thoughts and dreams

About all the ways I could, should, would be better

(Sigh—Sunday)

Image: Self standing umbrella, by Hiranao Tsuboi

Summer Summary

Vi went to 3 camps this summer:

1) Covenant Camp, her fun-filled week in the woods with other kids her age

2) Lighthouse Camp, her fun-filled week with us, her fam, plus cousins

…and then there was:

3) Camp Grandma! The days and days at a time Vi would disappear to that peaceful place 6 blocks away, where she:

a) started sewing lessons with G’ma (who herself started sewing around Vi’s age)

b) helped G’ma prepare crafts for our church’s Vacation Bible School—a monumental, multitudinous task

c) took advantage of G’ma and G’pa’s significantly superior cable menu, watching made-for-tween shows such as The Suite Life of Zach & Cody, Wizards of Waverly Place, and assorted, fluffy “family movies” on Disney

d) reportedly read books, and

e) practiced trombone, often with Grandpa—offertory music at our church this coming Sunday will be a G’pa-Vi t-bone duet, with G’ma on piano

Ben’s best moments of the season included:

1. Vacation Bible Schools, plural—he and cousin Caroline, age 4, attended at least 3 other churches’ week-long programs, in addition to our own. Pearl also participated in 2 of the 4, and I’ve caught the kids singing snippets of the songs they learned at this year’s Vee-Bee-Esses. Surprisingly, one of the songs goes something like: “You shake me, You break me, You make me … Jesus!” Despite my master’s degree in theological studies (or maybe because of it), these lyrics puzzle me exceedingly, but so far I have been unable to track down the lyrics online, making the VBS theme “Son Rock Kids’ Camp” all-the-more suspicious. (Even though I’m kidding, it is a little alarming how trustingly—eagerly!—we parents submit our kids to religious instruction for the sake of a break during the Mom-I’m-bored stretch between June and September.)

2. Camp—our Lighthouse experience, where he learned to ride his 2-wheeler and collected lots of cool rocks on the beach

3. Kindergarten anticipation—This has been a summer-long activity for Ben, who gets to meet his teacher tomorrow morning. He is so excited!

Pearl’s pearls:

1. Learning to write her name…and proceeding to write it on every surface in sight!

2. Getting strong enough to carry the cats around the house (and being loved by them so much they do not scratch her).

3. Graduating to a big-kid bed. Now if we could only get her to sleep in it.

Goodnight!

Poll & Post: Weigh in here

Here it is, A-Town readers! Your chance to weigh in on the question looming in so many people's minds: "Should the true identity of 'A-Town' and its characters be revealed?" Cast your vote by 12 noon on Sept. 1st! Post survey opinions as Comments to this post.

Speaking of weighing in, there's a new post over at my 100-day "body blog," Grace's A-Town-Oh-Me: Red Dress redress (a.k.a. regression confession).

Thanks for reading. Thanks for caring.

‘Y’ Pearl is so precious

(Or, ‘Precious Pearl-isms, Pt. 2’)

In Pearl’s language, the letter L sounds like the letter Y (‘and sometimes W’), yielding many adorable utterances, such as:

“How do my yook?” – posing in her new-to-her dress, hands on hips

Last week, we camped at “Yake Ontario.”

“Make a heart yine.” – when the kids are crafting and want me to fold paper after paper in half and draw half a heart so they can cut it out, open it up, decorate it, and use too much tape to post it on the refrigerator

At nighttime: “We need to turn on a yight.”

“Mommy, my yuv you!” – flinging her Slim-Jim arms around my neck and holding on for dear life (dear, dear girl)

. . . . .

Another speech impediment she’ll unfortunately outgrow: ’tupid. As in “stupid.” She can’t quite say the “st” sound yet. So when she’s really mad at her brother, she might call him ’tupid. (Unacceptable, I know—but stupid-cute.)

When it’s time to go to bed, we have to head up’tairs.

When it’s time to rise and shine, we go down the ’teps.

When I try to teach her things by repetition and she’s had enough, she says: “’top it, Mommy! ’top saying that!” And she might add: “You’re making my bwain hurt!”

And one of our fave family friend’s is: ’tephy.

P.S. Thanks to A-Town reader “AJ” for posting this partial poem on her Facebook profile. It’s yuv-yee!

i thank You God for most this amazing day:

for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

e.e. cummings (1894–1962)

I Smell a Book Deal…and other brain children

Rotten potatoes. It was a concealed bag of rotting potatoes stinking up the kitchen, not the fish stick stomp I had imagined. Nor the dead animal in the chimney I had further surmised, a few days after the fish stick post. I dealt with the putrid, drippy potato sack last night, and now our kitchen smells fresh and clean. Well, except for whatever it is in the ’frig that needs throwing away. I’ll figure that out next.

After these other tidbit-updates:

My psoas muscle strain? Still strained. Yesterday, my chiropractor (whose other name should be Superwoman, imho) thought to examine my opposite knee as part of our ongoing investigation into the problem and its solution. She found a trigger point on my inner right knee that—to quote my dad, who has also experienced trigger pain—“made me want to jump off the table.” It’s still very tender, 24 hours after she worked on it. It feels like a fresh bruise.

Lastly, I’ll be away from blogging for the next few days. In addition to my regularly scheduled life, I’ll be assisting a friend with a special, time-sensitive project. I’m happy to help, of course, and frankly glad for the excuse to step away from my day-to-day sense that “I should blog about this or that.” Ever since camp and hearing Leena talk about her writing life—including her book-in-the-works—I’ve been conceiving of a bigger-than-blogging writing project myself. Don’t get me wrong: I’m enjoying the blogging adventure thoroughly. I just think a little time away from it might give me some needed rumination space for this other idea.

In the meantime (or anytime, for that matter), I commend A-Town readers to my blogger-friend Holly Goes Lightly, whose latest post, “When We Used to Be in Love,” was so sweet (but not at all sappy) that I woke up thinking about it, with a smile.

Camp Chronicles, Part 3: The Demise of Ben’s Boots

A few months back, I wrote about Ben’s boots. Once persuaded (forced) to shed the snakeskins, he took to the “new” boots like a real cowboy. In fact, he wore the brown boots almost as persistently as the previous pair. The boots were with him at the Dinner Dance, the boots were with him at the Pre-K Concert, and the boots were with him on his first victorious 2-wheeler ride. But 2 days hence, the boots kicked the bucket.

I was in our cabin when it happened. Ben was playing outside with his cousins. Cousin Percy burst in. I could hear Ben’s wailing half a football field away.

“What’s going on?” I gasped, dashing for the door.

“Ben’s boot broke,” Percy said sympathetically. (Sweet kid—he’s 8 and probably couldn’t care less about the boot, but he cares about his cousin, so he seemed sincerely sad.)

“Ohhh,” I groaned—but only for a moment. I’d seen the sole separating from the body of the boot during the days leading up to this “tragedy” and felt much less distraught than the boys.

I simply reached for the extra pair of shoes I’d packed for Ben and handed them to Percy, along with some clean socks. By then, I could see Will tending to Ben’s hurt feelings.

“Here, give him these,” I instructed. And I returned to my book.

A little while later, I moseyed down to the playground, only to find Ben still wearing his surviving boot on one foot, and a formerly white sock on the other.

“Ben!” I exclaimed, confused. “Why aren’t you wearing your other shoes?”

“I’m not wearing those,” Ben grouched. “They’re stupid!” Loyal to the boots, to the end.

Vi tried to repair Ben’s boot the next morning, using half a roll of masking tape. Ben was delighted by big sister’s kind gesture. Unfortunately, his rough ’n’ tumble cowboy moves undid the fix in less than 5 minutes. Fortunately, the boot died the day before camp ended, and Ben agreed to make do with the so-called “fat shoes” for the brief remainder of our vacation.
. . . . .
I forgot to mention something small but significant about Ben the Beginner Biker in my ‘Banner Day’ post: The day after Ben’s first foray into the 2-wheeling world, he had a classic wipe-out.

We were headed to a friend’s cabin to visit, Ben wheeling ahead, Pearl and I lagging behind with the stroller. Ben kept wheeling, then stopping and waiting, then wheeling ahead again. It was bound to happen: On one of his re-starts, his wheel caught on the gravel, he lost his balance, and he fell, palms first, off the bike. Wiping the small stones off his meaty little mitts, he turned his teary eyes to me. At first, he cried because his hands hurt. Then, he got angry—at his bike, and at himself. It was a classic human experience, as far as I could see. I knew exactly how he felt, but I had to stand by and watch him process the aftermath of the fall. Of course, I could offer comfort, empathy and—wahoo!—ice:

One of the many great things about this camp is the level of familiarity, security—intimacy, really—among its inhabitants. While we were merely renting 2 tiny cabins for the week (a “boy cabin” and a “girl cabin,” which worked out great), many families from our church and surrounding churches in our denomination actually own cottages on the campgrounds. Ben’s wipe-out happened just outside the “O’H” cottage. I knew they wouldn’t mind us stopping for a handwash and makeshift icepack…even though, it turned out, they weren’t there. That was OK. I felt perfectly free to let myself in, along with my children. We helped ourselves to their potty, their soap and sink, and their freezer. There was even a plastic bag right there on the counter, which I stole, guilt-free.

It’s good to have friends. It’s good to have boots. (eBay, here I come—my boy needs a new pair-o-shoes!)

Camp Chronicles, Part 2: Ben's Banner Day

Yesterday, I wrote about the 3 R’s of reading, writing, and running. Today, I realized that this Christian camp we attend boils down to 3 B’s: Bicycles, the Bible, and the beach (in that order). Here’s a bicycle tale for the Waters annals:

One of the main challenges of any vacation, especially with kids, is the packing. For this particular getaway, we not only need to cram our van with clothes, sleeping bags and foodstuffs, but we also have to add 6 bikes to the transport, plus a 2-seat jogging stroller. Oh—and the children themselves. Impossible? Yes! The solution? We hire a 1-man moving company called Grandpa.

Grandpa is generosity personified. He not only loaned us his vehicle and made the trip to camp to help us settle in, but he also equipped the kids’ bikes with headlights, taillights, and whiz-bang helmets. And! He made an extra, special trip to fix the bike of our nephew Percy, who had rolled his tire over a stray thumbtack on the second day of camp.

Our Ben, age 5, observed the miracle of his older cousin’s bike restoration, and his own wheels started turning. By the end of Day 2, Ben started asking us to use those tools to remove his training wheels. Like most people in charge of 6 children at once, we ignored his initial requests, too busy to really hear the little guy. But by the third day, Ben got through. In fact, Day 3 proved to be a Banner Day for Ben. First, the breakthrough: We took off the extra wheels, and he took off like a pro! The transition from training-wheeled preschooler to 2-wheeling bigshot lasted about 90 seconds. As if that wasn’t enough power to jack up a 5-year-old’s independence, Ben got another boost:

We had gone blueberry picking that afternoon, the kids and I, and as we made our way back on the dusty road leading to the campground, the older ones asked to be dropped off at the camp store (a.k.a. the candy shop), just a few hundred yards from our cabin. Pearl had fallen asleep in her carseat, and Ben didn’t want to be left out of the fun. The older kids had money to spend, and I decided Ben deserved some sugar, too—big 2-wheeler rider that my son had now become. So I gave him the only cash I had: A 10-dollar bill. I hoped I would get some of it back, but Ben would prove to be a future banker. That evening, the cousins exclaimed about Ben’s impressive cash stash.

“I’ve got 7 bucks!” Ben bragged, patting his pocket possessively.

“I know,” I said. “I gave it to you.”

“No,” Ben replied seriously. “The lady did.”

The lady? Since when did I become “the lady”? I wondered. I mean, I realize you ride a 2-wheeler and all, but I really didn’t expect to be phased out as “Mommy” this very day.

“What do you mean, ‘the lady’—what lady?” I asked my boy.

“The lady at the store!” Ben chirped, and he wheeled away merrily.

Change! I realized. He paid for his candy with the 10, and the cashier gave him back “7 bucks,” apparently.

What a thrill for a child—to hand over 1 piece of paper, get sweet stuff, and then be given even more papers back, good for even more sweet stuff.

Life is beautiful. Camp is magical.

Photo: Life is Beautiful (1998)

Camp Chronicles, Part 1: Writing Irregularly

This morning I woke up feeling constipated. I know lots of people have this problem when they’re away from home and routine...and fiber. But mine is not the usual form of irregularity. Here’s what I mean:

My friend Leena is a kindred spirit. She understands what the 3 R’s are: reading, writing, and running. In describing the highs and lows of the 3-R Life as our camp speaker the other day, Leena confessed that she nearly abandoned it for a “day job.” Following a series of disappointments in her publishing endeavors, she had decided to put in for a post at her local library. “For a person who loves books,” she rationalized, “what better place to work?” But midway through the interview process, when Leena’s chances for landing the library gig looked good, she started to twitch. She couldn’t figure out why…at first. What could possibly be bad about being around books all day, every day? It was the “all day, every day” bit. How could she possibly write (or even read, for that matter) if she was filling the hours with…well, “book management”—or whatever it is that librarians do all day, every day? And the prospect of not writing felt like the prospect of not breathing, Leena said. I understood.

For me, it’s the constipation sensation. I process life through my pen (or my keyboard). When I can’t find time to write, I start to feel…backed up. Leave it to Leena to come up with a far more poetic analogy. I’d say she’s less punchy than I am, except she used the word “fart” in the camp tabernacle the next day. Right up front! Like, where the preacher stands. Gosh, I love that lady!

Photo: Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn as Henry Higgins and Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady (1964). Meaning: You know you’ve got a problem when the words of the lullaby/love song “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Face” come to mind as you pine for your computer at camp.

Bowling pin cake pans and more miraculous signs

This week in A-Town and elsewhere…

Vi turned 10. We celebrated with a bowling bash—10 friends on a summer’s eve and a bowling pin cake topped with gumballs (I had already planned the party when I serendipitously scored the pin pan for 25 cents at a garage sale 2 weeks ago). Good times, good times.

. . . . .

My cousin Karin, in whose memory Life in A-Town was begun, has a new nephew, born Thursday morning. Karin’s mother Nina wrote: “His name is angelic, and his aunt is an angel.” Welcome to the world, Gabriel Benjamin Walsh!

. . . . .

I started a supplemental “body blog,” Grace’s A-Town-Oh-Me (a stretch of an analogy to “Grey’s Anatomy”). I figured (pardon the pun), by creating a topic-specific “problem spot” for weight-loss ruminations, I could let A-Town readers self-select: Those who care, and those who don’t care to “go there.” (My dear brother, for example, were he to grace this virtual A-Town with his presence, would likely not choose to read detailed descriptions of my pelvic injury and commensurate bodily contortions to try to stretch the darn thing!)

. . . . .

This week also marked my first realization, as chief administrator of a non-profit charitable organization, that I do not know, week to week, where or when our funding will come from…or even whether, in fact, the funding will come. “In God We Trust” takes on a whole new meaning.

(Do you think I should have entitled this post, “Bowling for Dollars”?)

Plan A: Further thoughts on ‘Home’

In response to the responses to my previous post:

1) Thank you. I love to weave with words. And, if I do have a way with them, I’ll try to weave for the good of the Way. Most times, I write to enlighten myself as much as anyone else. To write is to learn, I am learning.

2) When I was in college, I had a boyfriend who justifiably judged Will as a threat to his own matrimonial intentions. “Jay” tried warning me away from Will by proposing that journalistic ambition and photographic talent would land Will in exotic locales, sharing rare sights with the rest of us via National Geographic magazine or some such prestigious publication. And in fact, many others have also predicted and/or recommended that Will pursue “greener pastures” of his trade. Even if greener pastures existed (and I really don’t think they do, given the current economy, combined with the web-driven media revolution), I doubt Will would budge. The truth is, he adores the A-Town pastures and surrounding region as much as I do—possibly more.

I should have foreseen Will’s attachment to A-Town 13 years ago. After about a month of living here, meeting folks and seeing the sights (he was very excited by the Erie Canal—said it was like meeting a celebrity), Will came home one day from the local cemetery, determined to purchase a plot. It is an above-average burial site—a sprawling, multi-level, lovely, lawny, tree-filled, peaceful place. Of the well-known war memorial tower in its center, Will has probably penned a half-dozen articles and tributes (so far). On a clear day, from the top of the tower, you can see the Great Lake 10 miles north of us. Since seeing that vista, Will has seen fit to stay.

It’s certainly not that he lacks ambition. It’s simply a dig-in-your-heels-and-make-this-place-a-better-place kind of drive. Imagining him in a safari suit photographing aboriginal tribes or rare flower specimens seems somehow laughable when I watch him first thing every morning, sitting in our front room/home office, “hammering out” news of the previous night’s board meeting in his pajama pants and pre-shower bed-head (zoning board, planning board, town, village, historical society, board of education…some nights he has a half-dozen to choose from—how could he possibly be bored?!). After completing an article (or 2 or 3), he’ll help ready the kids for school, or wash the dishes, or fold some clothes (however imperfectly). Jay was way off—Will’s as down-home a family man as they come.

3) For the few years we lived near our mutual alma mater, we felt as if we were “camping out.” I couldn’t figure out why I didn’t feel settled. I didn’t even really realize I didn’t feel settled until the opportunity presented itself to move back to A-Town. We were looking at houses for sale here, I remember, when I heard the whir of small-town traffic outside the unfamiliar walls. Somehow the cars sound different passing through these village streets than in suburbia. We didn’t end up buying that particular house, but I remember that sound, that sense of relief sweeping over me: Ahhh! I’m home! Would I feel the same way in any small-town setting? I don’t know. And I don’t feel likely to ever find out.

4) For me, the anchor of our A-Town-born friendship will always be the front porch. Fortunately, in this uber-techno day and age, the “front porch” is exceedingly portable.

I should add that my ultimate “Comfort of Home” is my theological understanding that this world is not it!

A meandering post about staying put

Tonight I walked to the A-Town post office to mail a letter. No, it wasn’t quite as romantic as that. It was a bill. I needed to pay for our cheap Wall Street Journal subscription or else lose out on the deal. At any rate, it presented a good excuse to take a stroll in the cool summer evening air. I took my time, striding slowly, but purposefully, 2 blocks to the small brick building that is our village snail-mail center.

It is, by far, the most modest edifice in the Courthouse Square. Have I romanticized about the A-Town Square here before? I’m sure I have. I can’t help it. Even though I keep learning (against my wistful wishes, but consistent with my condition as a grown-up capable of doing my part) about the sadder, seedier side of this place and its people—nevertheless, my heart swells with affection for her. I love living here.

Maybe I would love living elsewhere too. But it doesn’t seem to be my destiny to leave this place. Will never wants to move—Ever Again—if we can help it. (Not that we relocated all that often in the past, but our first 6 years together, we did occupy 4 residences—not counting the 2 weeks we lived at my sister’s house, between apartments.) Some folks are more prone to wander, I think—not just spiritually, but geographically. “Wanderlust,” I think it’s called. We don’t have that. I suspect I might have as a younger woman. I can imagine myself, 15 years ago, pining to experience life in all 4 time zones of the continental 48, plus at least 3 foreign countries. But not anymore—at least, not now.

A-Town is my Home, Sweet, Home. And I intend to keep trying to make it sweeter—not by consuming as much Reese’s Puffs cereal and Mint Ting-a-ling ice cream as one can unreasonably ingest in 2 days’ time (although, to the outside observer, that might have appeared to be my weekend’s goal). No, I repent of that ill-fated attempt to fix the problems of my heart, my town and the world all around. I will combat bitterness and strife with the peace of Christ. He’s the only Way I know.