Random Reasons Why I Love Hillcrest

The Neighborhood 'Crazy'

I live in an incredible mid-town neighborhood that is very pedestrian-friendly. I could walk to everything I ever need in life. If my boys didn't attend a private school, which is a 20 minute drive away, I would park my car and never get in it again. I tell my boys that one day I will be the neighborhood 'crazy' who wears funny hats and drives her three-wheeled 'bike' to the grocery store.
Shortly after my youngest had celebrated his tenth birthday, with his pockets full of birthday cash, we spotted a shiny adult trike parked near a store. This trike had been tempting me for a while. It was wrapped with wicker and was oh-so European looking (also oh-so expensive....$800).
"How much is that bike?" my very 'rich', generous son asked. I promise he was determined to buy that trike for me (awwww moment).
Back to my neighborhood...

Here are 25 Random Reasons Why I Love My Hillcrest Neighborhood:

1. We have a tiny hamburger 'joint' that's been around since the 40's, and they make the best chocolate malts.
2. Our neighborhood is casual and flip flops are welcome everywhere.
3. The people are very eclectic and diverse...lots of artists and creative types.
4. We have two world-class pizza places within walking distance.
5. Shady oak trees.
6. Front porches with guitar players on them.
7. Saturday home renovation sounds of hammers and saws.
8. Fresh ground coffee from our local coffee, tea & candy company.
9. The Arkansas Razorbacks play at a stadium also within walking distance. On fall game days, lots of festive tail-gating in front yards.
10. Sidewalks that get used a lot.
11. Sunday afternoons we have a very fun 'junk' shop that displays its new inventory on its front lawn. It's fun to get there first for the best bargains.
    
12. Summer walks to the shave ice stand.
13. The public library is very close.
14. I have a favorite park which makes me think I am miles away from the city.
15. We have doggie fountain.
16. Art Galleries featuring neighborhood artists.
    
17. Our bank gives out free food on Fridays.
18. The first Thursday of the month, Hillcrest opens all its shops, has street bands in mild weather and everyone rolls out.
19. The nearby middle school has a track for all those New Year's resolutions I make.
20. Church bells chime after weddings.
21. Greek, Mexican, American, Brazilian, French, and Italian food within blocks of each other.
22. Used to have a cool coffee house, but now it's 'for sale'. Somebody please buy it!
23. Seeing fresh life breathed into an old house.
24. We have bumper stickers that make me laugh.
25. We are not the McMansion neighborhood.

What Makes Your Neighborhood Special?

What I learned This Week #2

Oh my goodness, Jo-Lynne ( Musings of a Housewife), it could not possibly be Tuesday again so soon!
Learning is like a chain with many links for me. I learn simple things which lead to larger life principles. This kind of learning usually occurs when I make a mistake. I encourage myself by saying,"It is not a mistake made in vain, if I learn how to not repeat the same thing again." The simple mistakes I made doing computer stuff yesterday led to great time loss-age which led to extreme frustration but also led me to the learning curve and a resolution to not repeat the same error in the future. This makes it all good.

Easter Egg Hunting Days

My 18 year old Stuart has expressed concern regarding this blog. "Mom," Stuart advised,"you need to look forward. Quit writing about the past."
This was an upsetting advisement because I am all about the future. I just re-thought my house full of antiques in order that I would not be perceived as outdated. I just threw out tons of stuff from the attic so that I would not cling to the past. I regularly change my house's paint colors and fabrics. I am always re-doing something!
I concluded the real issue is not my blog but rather an 18 year old trying to shed his past of oxford bucks and matching brother outfits, among other childish things. Last year his brother Clayton observed that I had warped their childhood with "those geeky red-toed shoes" (See pic) . Ha.
I thoughtfully considered Stuart's warning, and confidently concluded I am not living in the past. Contrarily, I am happily pressing toward the future. Still, I do have great memories, the past brings more smiles than regrets. My writing opens my mental scrapbook. I'm not living there...I'm just remembering....

Easter Egg Drills

"Boys," I warned ominously, "the world of Easter egg hunting is a cruel one. Other kids will rip eggs right out of your hand. Hold on tight. Guard your baskets from spills and thieves. Don't stop to admire your eggs or eat candy. Keep moving at all costs."
My competitive nature always came out in times like these. So,next, we did practice drills working on speed and focus. Thus, my pre-school boys were fully prepared for their first public egg hunt.

Let The Competition Begin

A Kinleystead Easter always meant brunch followed by 3 boys on the front porch politely posing, baskets full of candy and silly putty. Our Easter egg hunts were well-anticipated and, with three boys, could be quite competitive. Someone usually gloated; someone usually cried. Such is life.
Lots of plastic eggs were filled with money and candy. The biggest prize, however, was the coveted 'Golden Egg', followed by the silver and bronze. These eggs were harder to find and were filled with Kinleystead coupons entitling the bearer to all kinds of fun activities. Lots of stuff to which Mom usually said "no".
Ballpark concession stand treats, grocery gum machine, and trips to dollar store. Other favorites were Saturday breakfast out with Dad, I get to choose the dinner menu,and I don't have to clean my room. As the boys matured, the coupons grew with them. Gumball machine morphed into I-Tune cards, quarters into dollars. Fun times.

End of an Era

Last year I made an executive decision without consulting the guys. No more Easter egg hunts. To my surprise they were visibly disappointed. It had to be. Somehow, the image of my very-soon-to-be WP new cadet looking for plastic eggs somehow just didn't seem right.

What Cool Things Have You Added to Your Easter Egg Hunts?

What I Learned This Week #1

My new blog friend, Jo-Lynne at Musings of a Housewife encouraged me to do this post. Every Tuesday I have been challenged to share something which I have learned this past week... whether it be silly, serious, life-changing, or simply an observation. I love this challenge! Taking note of life in my Hillcrest Cottage is this blog's purpose. Therefore...every week I'll be involved in this new mental exercise.

Most Improved

I learn stuff all the time...every day. That is a catch-22 statement sorta like receiving the 'Most Improved Player' award at the sports banquet. The 'Most Improved' Award has always made me ask several questions: Was I really that bad? Am I still that bad? Am I getting this because I'm awesome now...or because you had to give me something and this is all was that's left?

Do I learned something new every week because I am so 'unlearn-ed'? Do I learn new things because I enjoy both learning and keeping life fresh? Yes...and yes.

Stinky Soccer Player

In the seventh grade my Davis announced that he had joined the school's soccer team. We laughed at him...out loud. "Davis, you stink at soccer!" was my reply. (Doesn't sound like an affirming "mom" comment. Be assured that Davis and I are "cool" . He won't be entering therapy at age 30 over this comment. Trust me, there's plenty more for which my kids might need to receive counsel after having suffered the fate of being my children...ha.)
It was true...Davis, who is a gifted athlete, did stink big-time at soccer. The last time he had been on a team, he stood statue-like in the field every game refusing to move or touch the ball. I had thought that season was a soccer career ender; another activity added to the 'Well We Tried That' list.
Out of nowhere, Davis developed an extremely strong passion for soccer. He worked his tail off that seventh grade season. At the end, he did receive the 'Most Improved Player' award. He was very proud...and so was I.

Davis' Passion

This soccer season he is on the high school team; people marvel that he is such a 'young' player! He's awesome. Mom Lesson and, maybe this brings me to what I learned this week: The passion for soccer came from within Davis. This passion was not the result of parental pressure to be a 'mini-me'. Husband and I are totally free of MMSS (Mini-Me Sports Syndrome) in the soccer department...didn't have that sport when we were his age...whew. Davis doesn't have to endure the long-winded tales of our youthful greatness...double whew.
I am free to be Davis' number one soccer fan and encourager. I don't care if he ever goes 'pro'; I just want him to have fun. Oh yeah...sports are supposed to be fun.

What Passions Do You Encourage in Your Kids?
What's the Best Award You Have Ever Received?

Ode to My Pets

"Help! Something is wrong with my chick!"
My mother, still asleep in bed, opened her eyes to my seven year old self dangling a purple Easter chickie inches above her face.
"It's dead," was her reply.
"Eeeeewwww!" screamed little me, immediately releasing it upon her unsuspecting face.
There's a reason why they don't allow purple, pink, and blue chickies during the Easter season any more because of high mortality rates. Why I was allowed to have a purple chickie while living in a high-rise apartment building, I'll never know. Had she survived her purple-ness, there couldn't have been a bright future ahead of her.

No Cats Allowed

My childhood was full of pets. Multiple bunnies, turtles and goldfish. Others included a sea horse and a canary, and always a dog, but never a cat. My mother's childhood Persian had a "crazy fit" one day and Grandmother called Grandad the sheriff who took the cat away, and no one ever spoke of the results. Cruel boys on the playground , however, did suggest the nearby Mississippi River.

My Childhood Dogs

Tried to ride Pudd the Dachshund like a horse and still have the facial scars to document his response. Pepe Levine the Jewish poodle was adopted from my grandmother's friend because I had wanted a poodle so badly. On my seventh birthday I received Coquette "Cokie" the French toy poodle (in the 60's the dog was always introduced as a French poodle...with a pedigree) who survived until I was married.

Kinleystead Dog Roster

The Kinleystead has seen Tifhy the Lhasa Apso (RIP... who loved to bite my boys' rear ends. After baths they would run naked through the house screaming with Tifhy following behind), Pepper the Cocker Spaniel (now blind, who the Kinley boys wish RIP upon because she is 12 and still not housetrained), and Mac the Labradoodle ( adored, spoiled by all, promoted to human status).

The Kinleystead Zoo

I think all families should have pets. Their chirps, their licks, their dependence, their humor all breathe life into a household.
At the pinnacle , of the Kinleystead's pet keeping there were two dogs, two birds, 3 bunnies, and a revolving door of lizards, frogs, and abandoned baby birds. No cats. No ferrets. No snakes or tarantulas. No rodents with tails.

How Pets Met Their Ends

I am a very faithful pet caregiver, so I was surprised to recount how many Kinleystead pets had met"untimely" or even violent departures.

• P.J. Funnybunny: "The flies have killed my bunny!" screamed five year old Clayton from the Kinleystead back yard...too much sun.
• Spot the Bunny: gone after only two days...too much birthday party.
• Puddles, Toot, and Flops (all bunnies): ripped violently out of cages by unknown animals.
• Cotton and Brownie (also bunnies): sent to the rabbit adoption center when one hissed...didn't know they did that... at me; the other leapt through the air and bit Flops who I was holding...scary.
• Noah the Lovebird: nicknamed "Vampire" because his beak drew so much blood from any hand that came near his cage. He deserves his own blog post...stay tuned.
• Ringo the Quaker Parrot: oh...what a story...he will definitely have his own post!
• Little Caesar the Tail-less Hamster: bought for a book report visual and lasted 2 years...think that's all that can be expected out of a hamster.
• Grumm the also Tail-less Hamster: replaced Little Caesar, escaped a lot, and got on his squeaky wheel at precisely 9:00 nightly...lasted 1 1/2 years.

More Pets to Come

Have I mentioned I have always wanted to raise chickens who lay eggs? And I still have a soft spot in my heart for bunnies hopping about the garden. When my nest is empty, I wonder if I will fill it again with pets...hmmm.

What was Your Fave Pet or Pet's Name?

USMA West Point Mom and USMA Plebe Parent Weekend 2009

A friend, who happens to also be a West Point "Old Grad", recently informed me that the term used for those who have everything "West Point" is "Gray Hog". Well...sign my husband up for that club because he practically bought ,not one , but several entire bookstores when we were at West Point for Plebe Parent Weekend 2009!

Grey Hogs

I have to be honest...just call me "Gray Hog2". It is difficult to stop myself because the West Point items are reminders of the son/plebe we have living there. However, I do not have a "West Point Mom" t-shirt or hat. Husband and I made a rule for ourselves that we just wouldn't do the ole "parent" thing in hats, t-shirts, or bumper stickers. Apparently, we perceived ourselves to be "above" that practice...ha...in the beginning...before the Gray Hog fever began.

Maybe...One Little Exception

The one exception to our "No Parent Paraphernalia" rule is my "Proud Parent of West Point Cadet" tote bag. A local bank had given the free tote bags to parents on A-Day Weekend, and I do admit to carrying this item with a great sense of pride. Love it when people ask about my Cadet at West Point.

We Have a 'Disease'

Frankly, we are extremely "gray" and very "hoggish"! On our latest weekend at West Point, as were in yet another gift store, I abruptly stopped Jeff from making a purchase by saying,"Do you really need a West Point Zippo?" To my surprise, he listened...whoa.

Reason why Gray Hog1 was right to listen to Gray Hog2 : as it turned out our West Point Class of 2012 Plebe had planned a gift for Dad.

"Here, Dad, this is your Plebe Parent Weekend favor," our son said handing Jeff a small package.

Your guess is correct...a West Point Zippo engraved with "Class of 2012"on the back.

Hmmmmm.... a bit of divine intervention in the Gray Hog1's spending spree.

The Quiet Calls My Name

I can hear the Quiet this morning. A repetitive bird chirps in the back yard. Rhythmic drips from the kitchen faucet. An occasional car noise. Mac the Labradoodle sighs.

Hadn't Been Alone In 20 Years

This is a most unusual morning because I am practically alone. Clayton's birth was twenty years ago; I have not been alone since. On the day when the last boy entered kindergarten, my husband moved his office home. Here and there I will have "alone mornings", but they are rare. Rare...that's what makes them special. I don't want to wish away my family! I'm just hearing the Quiet.
My youngest resident teenager is asleep upstairs. My oldest is hundreds of miles away dead-dog tired from cleaning every particle in his barracks room for the infamous SAMI (Saturday A.M. Inspection). Husband and middle son are flying home from Las Vegas after experiencing Stuart's awesome 18th birthday/graduation gift of seeing the Cirque Du Soleil Beatles show.

Uncomfortable Chair Syndrome

Last February, after having had the flu, I said to Jeff, "Did you know that we don't have one comfortable chair in this entire house?" (A mom can't have the flu in an isolated bedroom, I still had to be out where I could see and command the troops.) So, during my illness, I had been longing for a spot to rest my flu-infested muscles and found none.
"I've been telling you that for years, " was his simple reply.
Seriously, I had never noticed that our family was plagued by UCS (Uncomfortable-Chair Syndrome) because, quite frankly, I am always moving and never sit down. This was my eye-opening epiphany regarding our UCS and, upon my recovery, I re-arranged some furniture and created the Kinleystead's favorite sitting spot enjoyed by family and visitors alike. This place which has also received the Mac the Labradoodle Seal of Approval is my wonderful daybed window seat.

Too Many Choices!!!

What do "quiet" and "UCS" have in common? The simple answer is: The Kinleystead is rarely quiet and I am rarely still, so, I find myself being "lost" in these moments. It's like when I try shopping in a department store; I look at everything and buy nothing. Too many choices paralyze me! I say to myself, "What shall you do with this quiet or with this "free" time?" I find myself frozen in the answer. Not frozen because I am boring or have no interests...frozen because I have too many choices!

Time for Me

This morning the Quiet is calling my name. I hear it, and my response is to do something just for me.

What do you do for 'Me Time'?

Film

I still use "film". Every time I buy a new roll I wonder how long it will be before film passes away like home movie reels and polaroid cameras. If I had digital options, I could pretend that film is uber-cool and superior and artsy but difficult to be plausible when comparing film -produced photos to the digital sisters.

Film Can't Compete

The competitive nature within rises when I know my photos can't compete. Frustration results from the playing field's unevenness. I feel handicapped.
Film is delayed gratification. I remember the day when people had to wait an entire week to get photos back from the drugstore. I also remember taking film to quality developing studios where each photo was hand developed. In today's world, development only takes an hour and even that seems long.
We just returned from an important weekend at West Point. With twenty four pictures on a roll, I took four rolls of film for a total of ninety six photos. Once upon a time, that was considered good documentation. In comparison, a digital photographer would have returned with five hundred pics. Knowing about the luck-factor in photography, the odds are against the film guys.
And another thing: Whenever I say to a random person, "Would you please take our picture?" (and this is done only in the "big" moments), the photo always returns to me with something chopped off or, even with an auto-focus lens, blurry. It's simply a fact on which I can always count.

Always the Photographer

Now I am brought to the present point regarding Plebe Parent Weekend and its photos which returned from Target (and, yes I did wait an entire day for them). Out of the four rolls, there were some keepers. For that I am thankful because I know that is not always the case because there are no re-do's with film. Here's the point: Where am I? Me. The mom part of "parent". Always the photographer, never in the picture. Turns out in the one photo I allowed myself to enter, the ole chopping block syndrome came to visit.

Pictures That Last Forever

When Stuart was small I caught him doing a very strange thing one day. He would put his index finger under his eye and jerk it up and down once at a time very quickly. And, then, he would turn his head slightly and repeat the motion.
"Stuart, what are you doing?" I asked him after observing this several times.
"I'm taking pictures with my mind," was his reply. And he switched to the other eye like it was the most normal thing a kid could do.
"Why did you do that?" I inquired again.
"I ran out of film," he answered with the confidence of a professional photographer.
I believed him then...and I still do. The photographs taken by our minds are superior to both film AND digital.
Guess what? I'm in every one of those pics.

Does anyone else have this problem of never being in the photo?

The Three-Cornered Hat Principle

Clayton was barely six, Stuart was four, and Davis was not quite two when we took a family trip to Williamsburg, Virginia... love the history... top places ever... spent two days of our honeymoon there. Anyway, so we were on this family vacation taking in the history and having a great time walking until our feet hurt. We still had a stroller, and everyone wanted to get in...even me.
As in any tourist destination, there are always "things" that the tourist simply must have. On this particular trip, the "must-have" was the three-cornered hat. Every kid had one! I wanted mine to have one , too.
"It would make the pictures so much cuter," I whined, trying to persuade Jeff to buy one...errr, make that three. Let's just say the ole three-cornered hats times three were going to set us back quite a bit more than had been expected and, so, they did not come to be.
Still,the more we did not have the hats and the more people we saw with the hats, the greater the desire for the hats became. We went about our day. We took tons of pictures. We had lots of fun, but not having the three-cornered hats continued to rear its ugly head.

At the Beach

Fast forward several days to where we were back at our beach house taking in the surf, sand, and shell collecting.
Jeff observed, "You know, the three-cornered hats would really look silly about now." And we laughed at the silliness of how important they had seemed in the "Williamsburg moment".

Plebe Parent Weekend

Fast forward fourteen years into the future. Clayton is only weeks away from being twenty. We are at West Point for Plebe Parent Weekend (PPW).The "must-have" of this trip... the official standard-issue wool parka with the "USMA 12" patch sewn over the heart. It's a parka made by the West Point uniform factory and only Cadets, Old Grads, and parents are allowed to have them. So exclusive.
Jeff had planned in advance to purchase the parka ("Parka" is just not a term we would use in the South. Is it Yankee-ease or traditional WP-ease? I don't know. "Parkas" to a Southern mind are worn only by Eskimos in Alaska, but this one is navy blue thick wool with a zip- down- the- middle hood.), thus, he had not packed a coat knowing that his new official West Point parka would keep him warm. And it was a very cold day to our thin Southern blood.
I simply could not justify the $90.00 X 2, so I unselfishly allowed Jeff to make the parka purchase.

Everyone Had One

However,I still wanted one...REAL badly. When they were stitching on the "USMA 12" patch, I almost caved to the desire. But, I wisely revisited the "Three-Cornered Hat Principle". I pictured both Kinley parents showing up at high school football games both wearing the USMA 12 parkas and I knew it would be like being on the beach with the three-cornered hat and a bathing suit.
On the other hand, I knew if I couldn't wear a USMA 12 parka to an Army football game, then I should probably stay at home. "How many Army football games will you be attending?" I asked myself. (Maybe one...if I am fortunate.)
Many comments throughout the weekend were made by husband as to how warm and toasty he was because of his magical, new parka. Every parent had one...many husbands and wives. They were all I could see.
I held firm.

Parkas Continued to Look Cool at the Airport

At the airport, they still looked awesome as the parkas would distinguish the WP parents from the crowd.
Today, it was 68 degrees in Little Rock. For now, anyway, the parka's magic is fading. But, it looks great in the pictures....

A "Constant"

Like most residents of Hillcrest, Saturday is another word for "Project Day". I love warm Saturdays when, with windows and doors open, the sounds of hammers and saws can be heard all about my neighborhood.My husband would say that his weekly trip to Kraftco would top his list of Saturday favorites.

Things that Don't Change

Few places are "constants". Kraftco is. There used to be others like the Heights IGA Grocery, but the stuffed monkey that for 40 years sat atop the produce section's banana "tree" was lamely replaced by a Curious George, not the same, so I crossed that place off my list.
But...Kraftco...where the linoleum tiled floors have worn paths down each aisle, and the smell of old-hardware store fills the air. Screws, nails, garden supplies, paint, and hardware of all types pack the aisles from floor to ceiling. Where, upon entering, each customer is led precisely to the exact item needed. Whether it's one screw or a chainsaw, the Kraftco men treat everyone with same amount of care and attention. Wow.
From killing ants to replacing a garbage disposal to patching a roof, the Kraftco sages have guided us through many home repair projects.

Seasonal Fun

A hint of snow in the forecast and out come the wooden "Flyer" sleds. In the summer there are wooden ice cream makers, even the ones with cranks for nostalgic souls.(Personally, I'm not that old or patient for one of those things!)

The Kraftco Sages Know All

My husband enters Kraftco's doors with, "I live in an old house in Hillcrest." Immediately the hardware heroes are smiling, nodding, and tracking with him. I enter with hand gestures similar to charades, and my message is always deciphered.

One Saturday, and I do mean one, my husband returned from his weekly Kraftco run emptyhanded.

"Kraftco didn't have it," he reported with a blank look in his eyes.

"Didn't...have it?" I repeated not believing my own words.

And we stared at one another in silence.

Ballroom Dancing Lessons

Introductory Special Package: Three 30 minute private lessons, two group lessons, one party lesson...all for $25.00. I was sold! Surprisingly, Jeff was easily persuaded to join me for ballroom dancing lessons.

Married to a Non-Dancer

Being married 25 plus years to a non-dancer will oxidize the dancing shoes. Mine were definitely crusty and full of holes. I had closed the ballroom door years ago, but, now, peeking inside made me regret I had done so.

"Clayton, we're taking ballroom dancing lessons," I announced to my W.P. Cadet, "so we can dance at Plebe Parent Weekend!"

"Are you still married to Dad?" asked the now laughing son who knows his father well.

Lesson One:

We were greeted by our instructor, Monika from Germany. Her accent was the female version of Arnold Swartzaneger's. My pop-cultured husband clued into that connection immediately and had to continually bite his lip while the "step, slide, togezah...step, slide, togezah" waltz steps were counted by the Terminator-ess. She was very pleasant, and I thought we progressed well.

Lesson Two:

We didn't actually have time to practice, but remembered well the steps from the week prior. Monika added a twirl, and we were beginning to move forward. We weren't bound for "Dancing with the Stars" but were hopeful we would soon be able to manage the Plebe Parent Weekend Ball. Sadly, between Lesson Two and Three, we experienced a set-back as we attempted a waltz demo before friends and choked. Oops.

Lesson Three:

Despite Monika's strong encouragement to get us to the Group Lesson, our busy schedule kept us away. And thoughts of the Party Lesson, where experienced and beginners mingle, made my palms sweat.

The Bombshell

"So, Monika, if we want to continue with our lessons," I innocently asked at Lesson Three's conclusion," how much might we expect to pay?"

Monika pulled out the binder containing our file with the notes re: our progression (or..."OMG, this couple is hopelessly left-footed, this could take years") and began to share her ten lesson plan. The plan included some type of discount which I did not understand because I was intent on the bottom line of...$1700....

"Make your face show no surprise," I sternly warned myself, "Holy poop, that's like a school tuition payment!"

"We certainly have enjoyed these lessons," I politely responded, "And will get back with you after discussing this plan."

Thankful for Caller ID

I had to ignore Monika's calls for at least a week. I know we would have been proficient following the $1700 investment, but I had really just hoped for the Help-We-Have-A-Wedding-Coming-Soon plan with a price to match.

Besides, my pop-cultured husband had endured all the "step,slide,togezah" he was able.

Sorry, Monika from Germany, ballroom dancing as our new hobby was not to be.

The Wrestle Room

With children comes stuff. Their toys seem to procreate nightly. The first midnight brontosaurus into the foot is a true wake- up call. Preparing meals with building blocks and action figures sprinkled about the kitchen floor can ignite claustrophobic panic.

Maxed Out

Two boys quickly maxed out our small vintage '36 bungalow. With news of number three's arrival, an immediate space search began.
"If I could only have a room for toys and playing," I wished, "I would be content."
We searched diligently for 8 months. It was a tight housing market, and nothing seemed to meet out criteria.
"God, please give us a new house before the baby chums," was our two year old's nightly prayer.
But, the baby was chummin with no new house in sight. One sleepless night I made a quick decision to buy the house offered by friends also desiring a space move. The following afternoon, we had a contract.

August Moving Day

Interesting moving day...also number three's due date.
August in Arkansas and a sweltering 100 degrees. Kind people pitched in, and I carried my own load...even lifted the forbidden heavy objects when no one was looking. A long day finally ended with everything under the new roof.
"Whew," I remember sitting in our vacant bungalow directing the final clean-up and small repairs, for I knew...the baby...was...chummin.
Labor. Delivery. It's a boy! Air conditioning condenser in new house breaks. Did I mention August in Arkansas? Finally settled. Our family was complete. Special times began on White Oak Lane.

White Oak Lane Days

A room for toys and playing had been a priority and thankfulness abounded for the granted request. However, that room, never to be called "The Playroom", was swiftly dubbed "The Wrestle Room." Being the only carpeted room in the house, and furniture-less, it perfectly matched its nickname. The floor was cushy, and it had plenty of space for rowdy rumbles with Dad. The White Oak Lane Kinleystead eagerly anticipated its nightly "Wrestle Time!"
An out-of-town job caused White Oak Lane to last only two short years. But the impact of The Wrestle Room echoes to today.

Tea Party for Pirates

Flea markets and old books are my favorite combination. One Saturday morning, happy and nicely dressed children politely pouring tea for one another smiled at me. An idea was hatched, and I rang the bell for Mom's Etiquette Class to commence.

Marketer Mom

As a good marketer, I began by creating a "need" in my target market's eyes.

"Boys, in the future, you may find yourself dining at an expensive restaurant with your boss," I ominously warned,"And there will be lots of forks and various silverware. You'll be glad, in that moment, your mother had the foresight to teach you what to do."

"I don't ever want to look like the geeks in that book," replied my oldest son.

"Yeah...geeks," parroted the youngest.

"Besides," the middle son added,"We're going to be pirates, and pirates don't have bosses."

Touche to Mom

All three smiled back smugly, quite pleased with the logic they thought had certainly derailed the entire Etiquette Class proposition.

Let the Lessons Begin

Knowing well there is not a grade school boy anywhere who appreciates the value of proper manners, despite their initial protests, and in the face of continual objections, brief readings from the little blue book soon began.

Senior Skip Day

Life fades. The normal course is not to have things ripped away. Trauma comes in ripping, but the fading leaves quietly without notice. In peaceful moments, I often mark time with the thought: This is life... my life.

True and not true. It is, and it isn't.

For, Experience reminds me that I can no more hold onto the present than I can grasp falling water. Passing over fingertips, effects are felt, but don't remain. Every present is a part, a series of weavings that one day will form a whole, will one day reveal a story completed. Only then will I say with certainty: This is my life.

Today is 'Senior Skip Day'

So... today is Senior Skip Day. Translation: Mom of Senior has to Drive Carpool Day. It's on a morning like this I am taken back to passing water.

Mom Back in the Carpool Saddle

Turning the Expedition into the school driveway, I nostalgically observed a steady stream of parents filtering into grade and middle school lots. Whistle-blowing, hand-waving traffic directors braving the cold temperatures with mittens and earmuffs. Dads on cell phones scheduling daily appointments. Moms with no-so nicely coiffed hair, toddlers in tow. Moms with business suits, sipping the a.m. brew. Slightly older moms heading kidless toward the morning work-out.

Experiences Fade

A beehive of activity in which this Mom of Senior- who- normally -drives- carpool no longer daily partakes. I looooove having a son who drives...yet, this morning, I remembered how the water once felt, and I experienced a fading.

Fabric Fades

The fabric on my favorite windowseat daybed gets all the morning sun. Mac the Labradoodle knows how fabulous a nap can be on this spot! I know one day the sun will steal away all color. Fading.

Daily Rituals Fade

Nightly bedtime gatherings at the Kinleystead were ritualistic in the early years. Stories, prayers, giggles, and poking standard fare. Clayton always asked for a "hug and pat-pat". Davis was the one needing more water. Stuart dutifully remained in bed. Fading.

The 'Lasts' Fade

Yesterday Davis, while at a friend's house, had left on two lights with dirty clothes covering his floor. I walked into his room and wondered," When will I... turn this light off for the last time? When will I... pick-up the last dirty sock?" This, too, will fade.

My Stuart is a Senior

My skipping senior just entered the front door from spending the night out, made a mid-morning lunch, and headed up to his room to eat and play a video game. I can see the fading and know its quiet. I just closed my eyes, felt the water, and wondered how I could be the mom of another senior boy.

"Hop on up, Mac" I said, motioning for my fuzzy friend to claim her place on the sunny daybed.

"Enjoy the moment...this will also...fade.

Over Stuffed

I am officially "over stuffed". Having collected all things interesting from my early youth, I'm done. There is no more wall space, floor space, closet, attic or basement space. Nada. I wish I could scrap it all and start afresh, but I can't do that because of sentimental attachments.

Aaaahhh...what a dilemma! What does a collector do when she can collect no more?

Sold the Osmonds on Ebay

I just went through a spurt of cleaning which was way overdue. I finally rid myself of high school and college clothes. I donated my entire Osmond Brothers record collection to the local thrift shop and have sold my childhood on EBay. I feel cleansed...sorta...but I miss it.

Saving Stuff

At first I saved stuff for myself. Next I saved it for my future kids. Then, my future kids became present and had the audacity to say they didn't want my stuff.

"What?," I replied with great surprise, "It's great stuff!"

I Am the Family 'Dumping Ground'

I finally came to the conclusion that I had been for many years the family dumping ground for everyone's life. They were free, but I was not. I was held captive by the family historian and curator role. I had hoped for a son, niece, or nephew to carry the family mantle of saving...but no one seems to want it.

I Am Dead...Who Wants It?

So, I faced reality, determined I would not go to the place of saving for potential grandchildren (well...just a few choice things) and arduously made my way into the attic. I pretended to be dead and asked myself, "If I am my children, would I want this?" It was a difficult task, but I did it. I threw away, Ebayed, and donated.

Can I Die Twice?

Truth is, I need to "die" a couple more times.

I'm on a Mission

This year is the year I decide what's worth saving, what needs to be trashed. I'm making my way through the trunks, and I'll probably be writing about what I find along the way.

Twenty Four Hours

Does everyone really get the same amount of time each day...the same twenty four hours? When I get to the end of each day, I am always disappointed at how little I seemed to have accomplished. I observe people whom I admire and, many times, they seem to possess the ability to get more done.

Gets My Goat

The type of person who really "gets my goat" ("gets my goat"...from where did that come and what does it mean? Or, better yet, why did I use it?).
The internet is great...just looked up that "gets my goat" expression and am now glad I used the expression all the more. Seems that race horses got anxious before races, so, to calm them down, the horse owners placed goats in front of each horse. Whatever works, I suppose. Anyway, in order to affect the race's outcome, goats were stolen and horse owners were angered.
I am that race horse... anxious to make it out of the gate... overly competitive... easily excited and wild. I want to go places, and I want to get there with great speed. Anything or one who gets in my way, including goat thieves, frustrate me. So, yeah, the type of person who really gets my goat is the one who seems to complete the list of tasks plus all the relational stuff and solitude.

My Overactive Imagination

Maybe I just read too many magazines. My ultimate phantom person is the woman living the artist's lifestyle... on a farm outside a major city with her husband, children, and photogenic dog. She has the time to cultivate an herb garden, gather fresh eggs from her prized chickens,and prune antique roses which don't seem to have those black spot things all over them like mine do. She's not Martha Stewart (I'm not into her). She's more like Tasha Tudor the artist of my childhood book which I loved so much and which Mac ate one day for no reason.

Read About This Artist

Recently, I was reading about one such artist whose work I enjoy. Oh, and, their husbands always quit their jobs and get on board. Maybe, he's the one getting the eggs, pruning ,and such.

(Pause for laughter as I close my eyes and think about my husband...no...that's not a good thought...more like a nightmare...he can't even keep the dogs for a weekend without me. The thought of him chasing down chickens and putting them in coops along with bloodied hands from roses popped into my head).

Buying Trips to France

Anyway, this artist seemed to have it all. They always live outside of New York so they can drop by their flagship retail shop in SoHo at will. And they always go frequently to the French countryside for flea market excursions.

In Her Cute Chicken Coop Studio

Yet, there she is...drinking coffee and sketching in her old- chicken- coop- turned- studio, dog at her feet. Who's minding the cute kids? And who cooked that really good dinner on the following page?

Let's Get 'Real'

Do we all really get the same twenty four hours each day? I'm just wondering about this as I drink coffee with my really cute dog napping beside me, gazing out the back window of my 1920's Tudor-style house toward a huge rubbish pile from the basement cleaning and the 3/4 complete fire pit project that needs landscaping in order to be complete while contemplating my art table covered with dust.

My Grandfather Lives

The biggest regret of my life is never having known my maternal grandfather. He died before I was born. But he was never dead to me because my mother and grandmother did such a great job of keeping him alive. There were many stories, many photos, many newspaper articles, historical society accounts, and even excerpts from books about my grandfather. His name was Howard L. Clayton. Yeah, Clayton like my Clayton...obviously a family name. In my childish mind, many parts of my life would have been greatly enhanced had my grandfather not died.
"Your Pa-Pa would make sure you had a horse if he was alive," my grandmother would say with confidence to this horse-loving grade schooler, thus transforming his persona into a Santa Claus-esque figure. A very second choice to ownership was settling for weekly riding lessons while wistfully watching the horse-owning girls.
My grandfather loved everything equestrian. His standard dress as county Sheriff was riding pants and boots, he raised Tennessee Walkers, and, as a child, my mother always had her own horse. I was convinced Fate had stolen my biggest childhood dream.
My mother had a very interesting childhood, and my grandfather had the money to make just about anything happen for her, his only child. In fact, of the many stories told of my mom's childhood (of which there are many colorful ones), the greatest was of the pony that arrived on Christmas morning...complete with surrey and a hired driver. Sure made my sting ray bike with the purple, sparkled banana seat and monkey handlebars lose its luster in comparison!
As I said before, my grandfather was a county Sheriff. Several interesting stories survived through the years regarding his career and how he was perceived by the public whom he served. Once a lynch mob surrounded the county jail; my grandfather had to sneak his prisoner out the back and to a safe place. Turns out the man was convicted and put to death legally. But because of my grandfather, he was allowed a fair trial. After the execution, as was the tradition in the 40's, a death mask was made, and it hung on my grandfather's wall until his retirement. I've seen it because it ended up in their small town's museum...creepy.
My grandfather was a well-respected political figure in Arkansas, respected by people in high places. I have pictures of him with the well-known Senator Fulbright (yes, like the coveted scholarship) and a telegram from the Governor expressing condolences at his death. But he was also esteemed by the common man. Once an escaped county jail prisoner was reported to be hiding on a nearby Mississippi River island. My grandfather rode his horse out to the island, and the prisoner was re-captured. Later the criminal said,"From the tree where I was hiding, you were in plain sight,but I couldn't pull the trigger because I like you too much." This anecdote is telling about my grandfather's character... also about how once even criminals used to have consciences.
And speaking of guns, being a Sheriff, my grandfather was an expert marksman and avid gun collector. His pair of custom designed pearl-handled pistols were "burgled"(Don't you love that word?Learned it from my English friends.) from my parents' house several years ago. Stinks for us because the pair was worth around $12,000. After Sheriff Clayton died of a heart attack while deer hunting, my grandmother distributed his guns amongst family members. Recently, my second cousin Clayton kindly returned Howard's very collectible pistol to "my" Clayton. When Jeff and Clayton fired the mint 1930's Smith and Wesson K-22 Outdoorsman at a local range, they were surprised by the huge fuss employees made over the weapon!"Hey look," they kept saying while pointing, "That's the guy with the K-22!" Some time later, while hunting, my Clayton shot a six foot rattler dead in the head. Afterwards, he proclaimed the gun "retired". Cool retirement...snake's skin's on the wall.
Howard Clayton had a strong connection to J. Edgar Hoover. He was the first sheriff to be trained at the Quantico F.B.I. training facility. There are cool photos of him dressed 1930's G-man style wielding "tommy" guns. I also have a personal letter from Hoover. Before I got married, my grandmother died and her very full attic stash became garage sale fodder. Flipping through the 25 cent book stack, Jeff discovered a personally signed copy of Hoover's "Persons in Hiding". We kept it.
What some people would call "reincarnation", I would call "strong genetics". And my Clayton has a strong genetic tie to my grandfather. My mother has taken up the mantle once held by my grandmother, "If your great- grandfather was alive, he would be tickled pink at how much you love guns and hunting!" Nobody had yet related the stories to Clayton when he, in 8th grade, announced he was going into the F.B.I. Nobody had to encourage Clayton's gun obsession or his love for deer hunting. Extremely eerie how God has designed families.
Looks like Clayton's F.B.I. career morphed into being an Army officer, but it could re-surface in the future.
The biggest regret of my life is that I never knew my grandfather, yet I can know parts of him as he lives again through Clayton.

My West Point Cadet's Xmas Leave '08 Homecoming (Mom Gets the First Hug!!!)

December 11, 2008

I have wanted to write a tribute to my dad but have had no idea where to start. I don't know how to describe him, define our relationship, to explain that it was mostly good but not without difficulty. Overall, I choose to remember the good and will the difficult to fade into haziness. His final words to me were full of love and thankfulness and pride. He told me the only things in life of importance were family and God. He told me to never forget how much he loves me. In a very coherent yet "stuck"( because of having suffered a stroke) way, he would repeatedly tell us how much we were loved by him. He would hold my hand and try to kiss me over and over.
My dad had always been a part of my life. In the growing up years, he was home every night for the family dinner that was eaten together. He came to events. We had awesome summer vacations and all of the home movies to document them. He was always encouraging and supportive with never a critical word for me. He worked very hard to provide financially for his family. We never went without anything.
In the married- life years, there were many delightful adult- family times at my parents' lake house with boating, golf, board games and cards. In the grandparent years, he tolerated yet did not embrace his grandfather role. As a result, my boys had obligatory respect and love but no deep relationship with my dad. Quite simply put, he kinda blew that segment of his life. But no one is perfect.
I worked off and on for my dad beginning in high school. Some of those times were good. But, a friend who had also worked in a family business once said , "I had to quit my job in order to get my dad back." Good advice.
September 2008, my dad suffered a stroke. It was a difficult, guilt-ridden time for all of us because his mind was trapped in a body breaking down, and we all knew he could never rehab enough to get home. Through out the long three and half months there was a lot of stress on everyone. One night he dreamed that he wandered outside and was alone and scared. This broke my heart. All he wanted was to get out. I began to pray for God to bring him , not to his condo, but to his real "home" in heaven. This was no life for my dad, a strong man with a steel will from whom I get my determination to never quit. He never quit anything in his life, and I never have either.
On one visit he told me, "I'm not in charge here," and we laughed because my dad had always been known for "being in charge". He finally hatched his escape plan, however, by not eating, and his downward spiral began.
In the midst of three awful months of being shifted from hospital room to nursing home and back again several times, my dad kept a positive attitude and a sense of humor. In the middle of that nightmarish end, he made friends and tried to encourage those around him.
His roommate in his last hospital room before ICU was a young man who, in my eyes, was an angel sent from God. Dad called him "Friend". Friend cared for my dad and got glasses of water for him, and they spent hours one night singing "Blue Christmas" with a silly singing Teddy Bear and were so loud that they prompted even the nursing staff to join the chorus. I got a repeat performance on my next visit. "Friend" whispered to me, "I want your dad to have this bear when I leave." I smiled .
My last visit was in the ICU, I said, "I love you, Dad. I'll see you soon." My three sons, one via phone, my husband and my mom each said our good-byes. I think my dad heard it all but was unable to respond.
I received "the call" at 7:35 a.m. two mornings later. We did the funeral, and I watched his namesake, my second son, place his urn in the ground.
Eighty four years of my dad's life were over. I still have trouble speaking of him in the past tense.

Last Night I Laughed

I did. It was the ab- strengthening kind. It was the kind that explodes and stops and, upon looking at one another, begins again. It was the kind that only happens when high school girls are involved. I am so thankful to have high school girls in my life! And with my family consisting of males only , it was a rare treat.
The thing that got us going was me and a really stupid thing I had said. For that reason alone, it was all the more funny because I love to laugh at myself. I can be very comical... sometimes without meaning to be.
One of my New Year's resolutions is to laugh at least once every day. Last night I laughed a whole week's quota.

THE Uniform

When I was seven, my great, great Aunt Sue seemed to be the oldest person I had ever seen. Having always been single, she was extremely devoted to her career as the U.S. Senator from Arkansas' personal assistant.
My dad was the only child of my grandparents. Sue was aunt, minus the two "greats", to my grandmother. With no children of her own, Sue considered my dad to be her son, too.
World War II came and Sue, being so close to the Senator, was able to get my dad an appointment to West Point. My dad was plucked out of line during Basic Training and was whisked away to New York just days before his company's departure to Europe. He later learned that one third of his company was killed in an ambush somewhere in France. Thanks to Aunt Sue, the only son of Charles and Lois was safe at the United States Military Academy training to be an army officer.
The War ended during my dad's first West Point year. He was always proud that he had completed that very difficult year. However, deciding to not pursue a military career, he returned to Arkansas, finishing college at the University.
And with him came the West Point uniform. THE uniform... made of the heaviest gray wool material ever. There were trousers, gray coats with plain fronts, a gray coat with very large, round , brass buttons, and a full-length overcoat.
My grandmother proudly stored the uniform in her cedar chest. It remained preserved in museum-like condition for 36 years.
Upon my grandmother's death, my mother inherited THE uniform, dutifully keeping it in her cedar chest. I'm serious when I say that the long overcoat weighed 10 pounds. It was no small thing to keep THE uniform. Around this time, my brother joined the Air National Guard. Air-Army, no one cared, it was military. THE uniform was re-assigned to his watch.
"Whew," thought my mother, "THE uniform is safe and out of my care."
Years rolled by. My brother downsized his house and needed to store some "stuff". THE uniform fell under the "stuff" category, so my mom welcomed it back into her house. By now, the cedar chest was gone, so THE uniform was given a closet position.
As Clayton began to express a serious pursuit of West Point during his 9th grade year, THE uniform was swiftly escorted to my house. We had a few yucks when Clayton was able to fit into it. I hung it in a closet, and, I will confess, it was under my guardianship that a few moth holes began to appear.
Twenty five years of marriage and three sons later, I decided I had accumulated too much "stuff". THE uniform fell under the "stuff" category, and I informed my parents that I was going to send THE uniform away. I considered Ebay and, more than once, THE uniform spent long periods of time in my car waiting an opportune moment for a Good Will donation.
"I just can't bear the burden of THE uniform anymore," I would complain to my mom.
My dad heard of THE uniform's perilous status and drove over. Again, THE uniform was safe at my parents' house.
"What is this? Uniform ping pong? I thought. " THE uniform is a burden. How long must we bear it?"
Recently, while at a local military museum, a light bulb appeared. "Why not donate it to a museum?"
I immediately called my parents with the idea. Everyone was thrilled about giving THE uniform new purpose and life. (Secretly, we were just plain glad to have it out of our lives!)
Back to my house came THE uniform. Back to the Expedition's rear it was housed until donation time. But,somehow, I just never made it to the museum.
The camel's back breaker came as I was opening my car's rear after grocery shopping, and THE uniform lept to the pavement.
"THE uniform!" I cried out loud, "THE unifoooorrrmmmmm!! How long???"
In December, Clayton experienced his first Army-Navy football game. It is at this game that the Corps of Cadets breaks out their long overcoats. During a phone conversation, Clayton informed me, "Did you know that our Long Os cost $600.00?"
"Did you know how much your grandfather's overcoat weighs?" I answered him. "And, by-the-way, I'm donating it to a museum."
"Mom," Clayton said, "please don't do that. I really want to save it. They aren't heavy like that anymore."
"Oh my gosh...THE uniform...when will I be rid of it?" I thought but did not speak. "Sure, buddy." I consented, "I'll put it in a cedar chest."
Grandmother and great, great Aunt Sue would be glad. THE uniform has had an active 62 years but will be safely returned to the cedar chest. The buttons aren't so shiny, there are a few moth holes, and it's been through 2 generations of being oral report visual. It has survived World War II, as well as, Good Will and museum donation threats.
I suppose it's safe to conclude that once it became a part of our lives, THE uniform was never meant to leave us.

Merry-Go-Round

On my grade school playground the longest line was always for the merry-go-round. To be in line next to the fastest boy was good because he would always be the one to spin us all around in the fastest way possible. The “scaredy-cats” in dresses would choose to ride in the middle. Those wanting to get the maximum thrill would hold on with both hands while tilting their heads backwards as far as possible. Opened eyes would produce nausea but eyes closed tightly captured the full spinning sensation.
Today I held onto life with knuckle-whitening tightness, and I felt so out-of-control. I spun to next fall when Stuart was gone to college. People I love were dead. Dreams I had held onto since childhood were buried beneath a pile of dirty laundry so hidden that I could no longer find them. My house was quiet…and clean…and lonely. I wished I could move closer to the center where the spinning was much slower. I wished for hamsters on squeaky wheels, loud techno music, “Good Night Moon” and my boys laughing at how I couldn’t finish “Charlotte’s Web” or “The Giving Tree” without crying.
Where did all the swords and pirate patches go? Why don’t I suck up barrel- of- monkeys and air soft bb’s in my vacuum any more? Takers for Saturday night cards are difficult to find. Suggesting an air guitar contest (like when every contestant voted for themselves and didn’t realize that Mom was the tie-breaker) would produce my kids calling an ambulance for transportation to that special floor where all the Jesus’ and Napoleons are kept in separate hallways so they don’t meet each other.
When we did the bi-annual basement cleaning, my 9th grader told me to toss the sled because no one would ever use it again. Irritated by the suggestion, I told him it didn’t snow last year and this winter I planned to ride the sled down the hill myself. Through the years, the basement had been the scene of many a chemistry set experiment. It was there that action figures were melted, mutilated and morphed. The basement lab had produced Batman with three arms and soldiers with dinosaur tails…scary stuff. Speaking of “spooky” it had been the trap door (hidden beneath a dusty braided rug) leading down a crude ladder to the room below the basement that had convinced the guys this house must be the new Kinleystead.
There’s a teenager with hair over his eyes in the room where my freckled-faced Stu likes to read Hardy Boys books. Did I talk to my son the West Point Cadet an hour ago? Not possible, I just walked past the dining room table where he is struggling to finish a report which requires cursive writing (he hates cursive writing). I also wonder why there’s that extra car in the driveway because I thought we could go bike riding down by the river or take a walk through the park and that car’s kinda in the way.
The spinning hasn't stopped. On this day I feel dizzy. I was also wondering about what happened to that fast boy from grade school who's was pushing this merry-go-round.

All My Pirates have Sailed Away

My babies were birthed in a rhythmic pattern every couple of years. After the third boy, my husband bought a personalized license plate which read, "3 Sons", and my childhood Barbie doll heads fell off ( a scary omen). I embraced the Mom-role enthusiastically, after which followed a flurry of themed backyard birthday parties.
There were also t-ball, soccer, and basketball teams. We never did the music lessons, however, because someone gave us a piano, and I stuck it in the playroom. No musical genius emerged or even gravitated toward it, but they did "take to" the computer and the video gaming console. Oh, well.
We had an acre backyard crowned with a massive spreading live oak tree. I lobbied diligently for my husband to build a tree house. Eventually, the tree house did come to be, complete with zipline. Sword fighting pirates and Jedis with light sabers began to fill the yard daily. (Historical anachronisms mean nothing to grade school boys.) The skull and crossbone flag flew proud and high in the live oak branches.
Eye patches, hooks, and swords were commonly found about the Kinleystead. There were many treasure hunts, and I could write the most challenging clues which my children became very skilled at cracking.
The pinnacle of our pirating was Stuart's 6th or 7th birthday party. I made Jeff, against his will, appear as Cap'n Hook. His very- cool costume was something my grandfather used to wear to some sort of masonic meeting, and I even blackened his face and teeth. He was more than a slightly grumpy participant. But, it was possible to rent a clown...just not a pirate...and I was desperate.
Anyone who has ever enjoyed a hummingbird feeder will understand that they hover about the garden, squeak and war against each other delightfully for a season. One day, abruptly without farewell, they are gone.
It's the same with Pirates. They just sail away. And leave the swords and eyepatches lifeless on the playroom floor.

Open Windows

My college guy called me last night. He wanted me to know that he had received his "Happy Fall" package and that it was awesome and would be great for weekend eating! He was extremely tired, as West Point Cadets tend to be, and was heading to bed early. So, after visiting briefly, I said, "I'll let you get on to bed. Thanks for calling."
"...So...uhhh...how is everyone?" was his response and a window was opened for an extremely chatty 30 minute conversation. (Mother of sons are not used to this.)
I'm slowly morphing into Mom- of -College -Person. I would talk to him every day if I could, not to instruct him on his life or to tell him what to do, but just because I miss his voice, his loud techno music, his messy room, his very smelly socks, and all his friends.
It takes a lot of discipline to be a mom in this new role. I'm learning to give him space, to keep my advice in check, and to become less instructor more cheerleader.
I'm in a unique situation with few of the "omg, my son's a college freshman" fears. (I'll save those for next fall when Stu is a freshman.) Clayton's school cares more about his grades than I do. They care more about his health and what he eats; he can't skip class -ever, and his room has to be spotlessly clean. (I'm still in awe that Clayton received the award for "Best Room in his Company". The last two months of his senior year, I had put a "CONDEMNED" sign on his door.)
Open window moments don't come frequently, and I want be wise enough to recognize them and discerning enough to not force it open myself.
I am pausing from my busy Thursday to paste this "Open Window Encounter" into my mental scrapbook.

The Cross-Eyed Trooper

Getting Stuart's driver's license was a three year quest. In hindsight, I know that I started him too soon, even though it's legal at 14. It began well when he passed Driver's Ed and the written test with ease. It was just the driving part that seemed to get in the way. Fact: Our Expedition is as appealing to a young driver as maneuvering an Abrams tank through the mall parking lot. (My first driver got his license at 16 but chose a year-long no-driving strike before conceding to the tank.)
For Stuart, the biggest obstacle was the Cross-Eyed Trooper - Arkansas Department of Motor Vehicles self-appointed Gate Keeper. He was fat, tall, and extremely mean. Stuart failed twice under his watch, once out of sheer nervousness. Hated by all, including his co-workers, he handed out failure slips with maniacal glee.
Our third effort to get the license proved successful. I stood in the waiting room praying and peeking. "Please, God, don't let Stuart get the Cross-Eyed Trooper, pleeeease."
Test-givers manned desks horizontally placed before the excessively long line of licensee-hopefuls. One-by-one they were called forward.
"Please, God, please," as Stuart inched his way to the front. "Let it be the smiling, jolly African American Trooper or the woman."
"No, God, no!" as Stuart was called to appear before the Cross-Eyed Trooper.
"Why, God, why?" as Stuart joined the smaller Road Test Group.
Then, I don't how, another Trooper appeared like an angel sent directly from Heaven, and Stuart was ushered out to his test and came back with a pass slip and we laughed and rejoiced and did high fives in line for his license photo and celebrated with a hamburger.
I have Cross-Eyed Troopers in my life...obstacles so scary that I become paralyzed. The Cross-Eyed Trooper means failure. He doesn't go away; he grows meaner and bigger the more I ignore him.

Operating Heavy Machinery

I like to be in control. For this reason even thinking about small, tight places causes my palms to sweat. The "tight space fear" is actually the result of a childhood hide-and-seek game when, while I was hiding in the laundry hamper, my brother sat on top and refused to let me out. Loss of control.
I'm not a fan of flying. I only do it because it takes me fun places; the result trumps the fear. But, I'd much rather have my feet on the ground.
I don't like prescription drugs. If I have a short-term affliction, I'll take something for that (usually has to be quite dire), and if I'm ever struck with a life-threatening disease, okay. But, long term drugs for regular stuff, no way. It represents to me a loss of control.
I especially don't like prescriptions whose bottles caution: May cause drowsiness. Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this drug.
Stuart challenged me on this one, "Mom, when have you ever operated heavy machinery?"
"Are you kidding?" was my appalled response, "A mom needs to be ready to operate heavy machinery at any given time!"
Any mother knows this fact is true. If my children need me, and I am called upon to do so, I need to always be ready to operate heavy machinery. I care not if I have ever done so in the past, this mother of three teenage boys is at all times on standby.

On the Way to West Point/ R-Day & Beast 2008/ "It"

"For More Than Ourselves"

The search for matching comforters, wondering who will bring the 'fridge, the microwave, the X-Box. How will all my clothes fit in that closet? Will I get into the fraternity I want? The list goes on and on in a familiar chorus repeated by anxious college-bound freshmen year after year.
While friends were attending good-bye parties before everyone scatters, while moms were searching Target for dorm furnishing bargains, while class '08 mates were hitting the lake "one last time" and posting Facebook pics of all their adventures; my son was learning how to salute upperclassmen, eat his dinner with 5 chews per bite while keeping his eyes firmly focused on the plate's crest, was getting up at 5 am every day to the sound of a bugle. He was crawling under barbed-wire in the mud, sleeping without ac, going to his postbox wishing for letters in a generation that has no concept of stamps. He was looking forward to each of 3 ten minute phone calls. He was too tired at night, after countless push-ups, memorizing and reciting books worth of knowledge, running 5 miles, shooting guns, throwing grenades,enduring tear gas without a mask, to even dream of home...and all that he was missing...choosing a hard path and desiring to live "for more than ourselves".

Sweet Smell of Summer Reading

Before there were public library branches in every neighborhood, there was, in my town, a privately-organized volunteer-run library. Located in the basement of a nearby old building, this library provided my first summer reading experience. I remember with fondness sitting in the street level basement windowsill on summer mornings while my mother did her volunteer shift. The quiet (yes, libraries were deathly quiet in those days...sigh) and the musty smell of a library book imprinted me.
One year I went through about 20 Nancy Drew books, and my mom continued to buy them as quickly as I could turn the pages. In recent times there have been periods of Agatha Christie. No debate, mysteries rule.
Every year I try to reproduce the summer reading feeling...the laziness...the late nights. In June, I scored a 1941 hardback novel. Murder Gives a Lovely Light. The author: obscure. The "Crime Club": now defunct. The smell: that wonderfully musty, library-book smell drew me in again.

"It" - The Ninety Second Good-Bye

Have you ever waited a long time for something bad to happen? The bad thing is not desired, yet relief occurs when the event has passed. Such was the infamous "90 Second Good-Bye".
When I first learned of "It" in all its horrific-ness, I cried every time my brain would bring it to remembrance. Throughout the "graduation season", there was a guaranteed cry-fest whenever I mentioned "It" to fellow moms (and dads) of seniors.
Life-altering events always arrive amidst a countdown. Reception Day (R-Day) at West Point was both life-altering and now upon us. The Eve had been spent triple-checking Clayton's duffel bag and eating steak.
Everyone in our hotel was delivering a son or daughter to West Point. There was an uncanny seriousness in the air. However, I was amused that night to view several future New Cadets, mine included, circling the hotel parking lot, cellphones pressed to their ears. Last calls to friends before dropping off civilization's radar for the 7 weeks of Cadet Basis Training (Beast Barracks) soon to come.
The morning "of It" came quickly and early. Soon we were in front of Ike Hall joining the "Long Anxious Line", enduring two hours of chatty stories about any body's West Point experience - complete with embellishments and urban legends. Clayton somberly inched his duffel bag forward, arms folded across his chest "Clayton-style", offering few words.
Groups of 40 soon-to-be New Cadets and their entourages of family were invited chunk-by-chunk into the auditorium for "It", accompanied by a short briefing.
"It" had been peeking its ugly head around the corner for months. I couldn't believe "It" was upon me.
Who can remember what the upfront person said or who-the-heck they were? "It" was coming: I bit the side of my cheek and tried to focus on not being a mom soon to give away her firstborn son.
The "It" lady appeared too soon at the microphone, "You now have 90 seconds to say 'good-bye' ".
Hugs, pats, kisses, tears, admonishments whispered in secret filled the room. In 30 seconds my Clayton, holding his carefully-checked bag, was in line for the transition from civilian to military, separated only by an auditorium door. Twelve hundred ninety two stepped forward that R-Day from comfort, affirmation, hometown hero-status into a new world. On the door's other side, superiors were immediately in their faces barking orders and initiating the longest day of their young lives.
"It" was over.
The door was shut on the past 19 years. The unexpectedness of life...who could have predicted that "It" would end the chapter.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to West Point

So, we were navigating through the NYC asphalt jungle, having splintered into small groups for maximum exploration. China Town, Little India, SoHo, the Village. Re-grouping at our Washington Square rally point caused lunch to rise rapidly to the mission's top priority.
Clayton and I opted for Peanut Butter and Co.*, the other 3 claimed pizza consumed in an out-of-the-way courtyard. Re-charged and ready to continue the urban safari of t-shirts, coffee mugs, quirky hats, and all-things New York; we pressed forward ignoring blistered feet, chaffed thighs, and June heat.
Somewhere in the midst of gritty urbana, taxi exhaust, and big city, we stumbled upon a Greenwich Village sidewalk oasis of culture.
Crumbled cardboard: NY Times Published Poet has Poetry for Sale.
The finer print: A Poem can be Commissioned for $5.00.
"Are you the poet?"
"It is I," he responded, straightening his posture to face his public with uncommon dignity for a man normally mistaken for a toothless vagrant.
His speech was surprisingly eloquent. His expression through poetry moving. I marveled at this discovery of culture amidst the concrete. People continued to pass hurriedly along the sidewalk highway, only briefly noting his humanity. Time suspended for me, and my spirit was opened to a beauty no other passersby could sense.
Often closing his eyes in thoughtful contemplation, words chosen slowly, the poet crafted the poem...for $5.00....
Again the sidewalk highway swept us toward our next espresso; time began once more.
While adding cream and sugar, I wondered if the NY Times Published Poet had ever sold a poem before...or since.


*Peanut Butter and Co. (240 Sullivan St., at W.3rd St., Greenwich Village). Clayton recommends the Peanut Butter & Banana Shake along with the P.B. Sampler of 8 different varieties. I suggest the Grilled P.B. & Banana with Bacon (Elvis Special).

No More Hieroglyphics

On Clayton's first full day of kindergarten I carefully packed the perfect lunch and placed it in his metal Godzilla lunch box. Tucked beneath his sandwich was, of course, a note from Mom. Trouble was, Clayton couldn't yet read so I wrote, "I love you" in hieroglyphics. Then, I drew a picture of me and him hugging one another. He stuffed it in his little pocket, reaching inside throughout the day to remember he was not alone.
This morning, I made Clayton's last school lunch. Tucked beside his sandwich, of course, was a note from Mom... and...just for old time's sake...I added hieroglyphics.
Last night at the Senior High Awards Night, an Army Colonel presented a recognition award to Clayton for his appointment to West Point. The entire crowd gave my son a standing ovation. Pretty awesome.
On my calendar I have a count-down until we say good-by...55 days. The last time I had a count-down of this significance was right before Davis was born, and 2 year old Stuart would announce daily how many more days there were " before the baby chums".
Notes will soon begin to take on significance once again, as Clayton spends the summer at West Point's basic training which is lovingly referred to as "Beast Barracks". During that period, notes will be our only communication...and Clayton has never been very good at writing...so... it's going to be pretty one-sided. Ironically, we are brought back full-circle to the hieroglyphics era and to a time when it will be important, once more, for him to know he is not alone.