a gypsy caravan

happy birthday ben

Ben turned seventeen the other day. This past year he has changed from a round faced boy to a young man. He grew several inches and gained a slimmer, more chiseled physique due to daily trips to the gym.  I can only say these things to you, dear visitor, because when I mention them to him, I get a roll of the eyes, a big smile and some sort of grunting sound followed by, "Cut it out, Mom." 

I so enjoy my son's company. I am proud of the young man that is slowly replacing the chubby cheeked, wooden sword yielding, coonskin cap wearing, bat swinging little boy from years past. The affectionate, shy fellow who used to hide behind my skirt when someone talked to him has many friends. The little boy who loved to work alongside me in the kitchen, yard and garage is now working daily at a job of his own. The boy who swore he would never go to school has finished his third year of public school where he has made the honor roll each and every quarter. 

I've even grown to love his moppy hair. :)

Wishing you a very happy birthday, dear Ben. I'm so thrilled to be your mom. 

correction

I had misspelled Annabelle's name and thus had to reset the link for the new blog. Here is the proper link if you would like to follow along. 

annabelle's diaries

My great grandmother, Anna Mae, was born on September 18, 1892.  She married and had two children, my grandma Dolores (Sis) and a son Clarence (Buster). She was a housewife and had a small farm. While my grandma was living, she told me many stories about her mother who had died in 1966,  four years before I was born. Grandma told me she preferred to be called Annabelle rather than Anna Mae. I recently found several years worth of Annabelle's diaries among my mother's things. I will be recording them daily at a new blog called, appropriately, Annabelle's Diaries.  If you'd like to follow along, feel free. I will start with the first diary in my possession dated 1950.  Many of the diaries have recipes, photos or holy cards within their pages. I will try to include those as possible. 

 

pink rollers and white nightgowns

“Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can't remember who we are or why we're here.”

--Sue Monk Kidd,  The Secret Life of Bees

Yesterday evening was beautifully slow. It was the kind of evening that I would love to rewind and replay over and over. 

 After dropping the boys off at summer camp, we spent the day swimming, got far too much sun, and, generally, wore ourselves out.  I was looking forward to a relaxing evening. I had the girls shower when we got home from swimming and I slathered Noxzema on their shoulders and faces. (Noxzema is the best for sunburns.) We all put on our cotton nightgowns. It was only suppertime but I knew they'd be cool and comfortable for the rest of the evening if they got in their nighttime clothes. In the winter, the girls and I wear flannel. But, in the summertime, we each have a white, cotton nightgown that make a body cool just by looking at them. 

We went outside and sat on the glider under the tall maple trees. We made some iced coffee, sat, rocked and sipped. Then they played a game where one child sings and the others dance. When the singing stops, the dancer must freeze in position. It was so fun to watch them dancing and hear them sing their songs.

There was a general air of silliness and much laughter happening in the yard. I ran inside to get my camera because I thought the girls looked so pretty with their suntanned faces, wearing their white nightgowns. Of course, no one wanted their photos taken but I snuck a few in anyway. We ate a shrimp cocktail which tasted wonderfully salty on a hot summer evening.

After the singing and dancing game, I put the Glenn Miller station on Pandora. It reminded me of my grandma and how we'd sit outside in her yard in the evenings in our nightgowns when I was a child. She'd play big band music on the record player loudly through the patio screened door so that we could hear it in the yard. 

 Then I rolled the girls' hair and mine in pink foam rollers and went back inside to watch the Great and Powerful Oz. My girls like to their wear pink rollers to bed and wake up with a head of ringlets. I've been setting mine often lately and attempting a lot of the vintage hairstyles from this book. (The vintage makeup book by the same author is fabulous as well.) 

It was an evening that was nothing particularly special yet everything felt special about it. Ever have a day like that? One that you'd like to freeze in time or put in the back of your mind to chew on a while?  

my pleasure

(You'll forgive the out of focus iPhone photos, won't you?)

We recently returned from a vacation to Chicago. The last (and first time) we went to Chicago was 15 years ago when a dear friend got married. My mom, Ben (who was only a toddler) and I spent one or two days in the Windy City and really didn't see much. This time, however, we planned a thorough visit and stayed in the heart of downtown Chicago. The guys wanted to center the trip around baseball which made for a fun time for them. They saw the Cubs, the White Sox and even took a short road trip to Milwaukee to watch a Brewers game. This left plenty of time for the girls and I to go shopping, swimming and have some girly fun.  

I made reservations for lunch at Chicago's American Girl Cafe. I imagined it to be such a special afternoon and the girls and I looked so forward to sharing lunch there. We were told that the girls could bring their dolls and that chairs would be provided for them as well. I wasn't certain whether Mae would sit for a fancy lunch but opted to bring her and her Bitty Baby (whose name is Flower by the way). I am so glad Mae came along. 

As we walked into the restaurant, I felt a certain heaviness in my chest that has become a common feeling since my mom died. So many times, when we are doing something fun or happy, I pause for a moment and wish she were there alongside me and my family. I thought how pleased she'd be with the restaurant, the tea and the day spent with the girls. I didn't want my feelings to ruin the meal or the day but I found myself choking back tears as we sat down to eat.  After we were seated, our waitress brought a small appetizer of vegetables, fruit and cheese stuffed pretzels which the girls really enjoyed. She also placed a small pink box on our table that contained something she called Table Talkers which were, essentially, just small strips of paper that contained a topic for pleasant conversation.  

Mary pulled the first paper from the box and read it aloud, "What is your favorite book and why?".  Then Anne pulled her paper from the box, "What is your favorite childhood memory?" Each of the girls shared a special moment and I choked out, "Drinking tea with my mother." It's funny to me that if I were to have one last hour to spend with my mother, I would spend it sitting across from her at the table drinking one last cup of tea.  Some people might want to do something exciting or adventurous, something truly memorable with their loved one. But tea was a daily sharing for my mom and I and would be my one wish. 

When the box was passed to me, I chose my slip of paper which read, "Describe your dream job." The girls shared a number of things that they might like to be such as a mommy, a marine biologist, a horse lesson teacher, etc.  When it came time for me to give my answer, I stuttered and stumbled about my answer because, as I was speaking, it occurred to me. I am living my dream job.

My dream twenty years ago was to stay home with my children and spend daily time with each of them, to cook for them, clean for them, read stories to them, to braid their hair and play catch with them and cheer them up when they are sad.  And somewhere, along the way, I'd lost sight of the fact that I am living that dream on a daily basis. A huge smile spread across my face and I said, "My dream is to spend each day being your mommy." The girls smiled and laughed and said I was sure lucky to be able to be the mommy of so many children. 

How shortsighted I've been lately, going through my days like a horse with its blinders on.  How apathetic I've been about the opportunity to wake each morning and be doing exactly what I had dreamt of for so many years! I realized that I need to act like I am working at my dream job. My family should know how wonderful my life is by the smile on my face each day. My tone of voice should reflect the happiness in my heart.  I should speak to my children the same way those cheerful, polite Chic-fil-a workers talk to each and every customer! Do you know what I mean? They speak sweetly and respectfully to even the difficult and cantakerous customers! Can I answer each of my children's many demands with "My pleasure" ? Because I should be able to do so daily if I am cognizant that I am living my dream, working my dream job. 

Funny that Mae (who was only one when my mother died and really should have no memory of her) blurted out during our dessert in a sweet voice, "My grandma in heaven would weeeeeeally wuv dis pretty place!" It made me happy that someone other than myself was thinking of her and missing her just a wee bit.