What I needed to know about the pandemic, I learned in Kindergarten

My girlfriends says to me, "I thought by now you would have blogged about the pandemic."

I looked up at her and replied, " You cannot type and eat at the same time."
Seriously.  A greater study than the pandemic would be the amount of calories consumed during the pandemic.

She asked me, "have you learned anything?"

Of course the answer was yes.  Being a Yankee too, she has not lived through a hurricane. 

I told her the truth, "we have air, electricity, water, gas, food, WiFi, air, did I mention air conditioning, no generators running (I hate that sound) and no need for chainsaws.  I am good"

She responded, "you are not normal."

Ok, what? 

I thought about it for a couple days.  I totally understand if you have never been through something, it is hard to wrap your mind around it.  Like childbirth for example.

Yesterday, I spent most of the day digging in the dirt so my mind wondered.

Basically, everything I learned from the Pandemic, I learned in kindergarten. 

Before I went to kindergarten, I was over the top excited.  I was leaving the nest.  Yippee.  For three hours a day 9am-11:3am,four days a week,  I was on my own.  Hot Shot.  I was going with my peers to the bottom of the Delmont Presbyterian Church. I was going to learn so I could go to the coveted First Grade.  I was going with my friends.  I was growing up.

I could not wait.  My first real independence.  I can remember this day being held over my head, "your are going to kindergarten now, you need to make your bed, do the dishes, fold laundry, listen, not talk back."  The list was endless.  It worked. 

There was not pre-school in 1966.  Just kindergarten.  It wasn't part of the school system.  All kindergarten was private.  There was only one in our area.  You paid. 


Here is what I learned in kindergarten.

1.  Wash your hands.  Before you eat, after you eat, before bed, after using the bathroom, etc.  Growing up, my mom was anal with cleanliness.  She used to say, "Your face doesn't stink but your ass does, wash it."  "Don't be the kid who stinks.  Wash your feet."  Bathe.  Bathe as often as you want.  Just bathe. Don't forget your teeth either.

In kindergarten, we would line up and go "two-sies" into the bathroom, using it and then washing your hands before snack time and then after snack time.  Remember the bathroom like it was yesterday.

2.  "Don't take seconds until everyone is served."  There is plenty.  And don't take seconds until everyone is finished."  It is your patriotic duty not to hoard.  There is plenty of toilet paper to go around.  Don't take seven 6- packs.  Only take what you need and are going use in the immediate future.  Let those who need have.  Only take seconds if you are going to eat it.  Don't waste.  There is always plenty.

3.  Take a nap.  "Even if you are not tired, just rest your eyes.  You will feel better"  Isn't it the truth? A ten minute or 40 minute nap can change everything.  It is ok to rest your soul.  Do it.

4.  We are all really the same.  Pandemics do not discriminate.  When I went to kindergarten, none of us knew our addresses, we were all getting loose teeth and we all were learning new things.  Nobody was better than the other, nobody was ahead of the curve, we were all the same.

We all have belly buttons.  That makes us all the same.  Nobody is better.  Nobody is worse. Belly buttons make us united.

5.  Vitamin D makes a difference.  Sunshine can change your mood, get in it.  Sunshine kills mold and mildew, makes plants grow and is an organic anti-depressant.  Go get some.

6. Exercise your mind and your body.  Move your body.  Exercise makes your smarter.  Move.  Take a walk, play tag, jump up and down, move.  You will grow stronger and smarter.

7.  "Hands to yourself."  How many times did you hear this in kindergarten?  Keep your hands to yourself. 

8.  "Keep your hands off your face."  I honestly think my mamaw said this....along with "get your hair out of your eyes" but I remember hearing it over and over and over again.

9.  "I teach at home and then you are taught at school."  My mom used to tell me that it was her job to prepare me at home and then the teacher's took over during the day and then she took over at night.  She would say, "if you are not prepared, I look like a bad mom.  Be Prepared."

10.  "Show and tell" is for teaching others about something they may not know about, it is not be a show-off.  "Keep it simple.  Something easy to carry, something easy to talk about and understand.  Keep it simple."

11.  If you are sick, stay home.  Stay home for school, playtime and birthday parties.  It is rude to spread germs.  Stay home.

12.  Learn to listen.  Listening is the easiest thing you can do to get smart.  Listen.  Listen intently and often.  "Open those listening ears.  They are important.  You have two years and only one mouth.  Listening is important."

13.  "Get in line and stay at an arms length".  I can remember lining up, putting my arm out and making sure we were all at proper distance before we marched to get the snack.  Sometimes we would sing.  Lining up properly was key.  Distance was so important.

14. Meditation and/or prayer is important.  Kindergarten was in the basement of the Church.  There were children of all religions.  It did not matter.  We were all the same.  We said prayers at the beginning of the day.  And then we had silent prayer.  It is good to mediate and/or pray.

15.  Ice Cream makes everything better.  Always.  When I was in kindergarten, I was allergic to milk, chocolate and artificial flavoring.  Every Thursday, my grandfather would pick me up from kindergarten and we would stop at the Tastee-Freeze on 66 in Delmont.  He always order a hot fudge sundae, I always ordered a vanilla cone dipped in chocolate.  We always sat in the booth and didn't really speak.  Before we got home, he always reminded me, "don't tell your mom."  By Friday night I was in desperate need for that allergy but I was never going to give up my ice cream hook up.  This is my favorite memory of my grandfather.

16.  Respect your teachers.

17.  It is good to entertain yourself.  Learn to read, build a puzzle, knit, anything, learn to be ok with yourself.  Learn to occupy yourself, play with yourself and be good in your own skin. 

18.  It is good to play, even if it is just  a game of "Upset the Fruit basket,"it is good to play.  It is good to win and good to lose.  It is fun to have fun.

19.  On the days that things do not go your way, it is not permanent. If you don't get a sticker for good behavior, it is not forever.  Do better the next day.  Don't get picked first for the kick ball team, no trouble, you will get picked at some point.  Nothing stays the same.  Things that go up, must come down.  Things that are down, go up.  

20.  Do not every sneeze on anybody, cough on anyone or spit on anyone.  Ever.  It is not nice.  It is gross.  And it is not sanitary at all.  And please, do not eat your boogers.  No nutritional value at all.  Don't eat your boogers.



And  finally,   It is good to have friends.  Friends make bad days good.  Even when you have that self-inflicted pity party, it is good to have a friend lift you up, laugh with you, listen to you and basically tell you it is okay to lose it every now and then. Friends are good to have, good friends are even better to have....even if they have to be six feet away for awhile.

Giddy for Gobs

Some folks eat to live, other live to eat.  I was raised in the "live to eat" family.
My mom still equates every big event in our lives by the food.  "Remember how soft the rolls were?"   "Best cookie table EVER at a wedding."  "He made the best anti-pasta that evening" and on and on.

There were a few things in my life that my palate has never experienced, boxed or frozen mashed potatoes and frozen pie.  The dominate females cooked and baked everything.  The only store bought cookie my mom ever bought was a fig newton.  I used to look lovingly at my friend, Cheryl and her fudge striped cookie at lunch.  We were in elementary school and she would have three Keebler fudge striped cookies in her baggie. Every day I admired those Keebler cookies.  Later she confessed she was admiring my homemade cookies.   

If you are a family that lives to eat, you best be spending time in the kitchen.


As luck would have it, my Great-Grandmother, Emma, my mamaw, my Aunt Judy and my mom were great cooks and even better bakers.  We all loved sweets. 


They all baked with pride.  My great grandmother did not have recipes, she baked from memory and my mamaw never measured anything, she just threw it in there and my mom never left an event without getting a new recipe.  My Aunt Judy was a combination of the three.

One of the greatest childhood memories my brother and my three cousins would ever have came from my mamaw's oven,  GOBS.  In western Pennsylvania, GOBS are a common treat.  Usually, they were in the baked good isle of the store, individually wrapped like a Little Debbie Oatmeal snack.  GOBS are a chocolate sandwich with butter cream icing.  They are delicious.

Somewhere in my childhood, my mamaw attended an event and someone brought homemade GOBS.   I think it was my uncle's sister-in-law.  Doesn't matter.   Our lives changed forever.

My mamaw mastered this recipe better than anyone on the planet.  She would bake these, wrap them indviaully with saran wrap and keep them in her freezer.  She had a freezer that pulled out from the bottom of the refridgerator.  The GOBS were always placed in a bag, on the left hand side of the freezer.  Opening the freezer and seeing this bag of GOBS was like finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the golden ticket in the candy bar and a snow day all in one.  GOBS, when eaten properly, make your teeth black and most definetly taste better with a cold glass of milk.  

I can see my cousin Stephen sliding an extra GOB in his pocket for the ride home like it was yesterday.  There were five grandkids and I cannot tell you if there was of the five who loved GOBS more, we all did. 

As my mamaw aged, we all tried to make the GOBS just like she did.  Nobody has ever come close.  But we have tried.  Because she didn't measure and "just threw stuff in there", I think our throwing technique is off.

Our annual family vacation is approaching.  Thirteen hours in the car.  `Cookies make the ride go faster.  They do.  A chocolate chip cookie after you enter a new state makes the trip go faster.  Period. 

This year, in addition to cookies, I decided to make some GOBS. 
First, I can still hear my mamaw saying, "These are a bitch to bake you know."  Her GOB recipe makes a significant amount of little GOBS that need to be iced and then wrapped.  It is time consuming.


And after all is baked, iced and wrapped, you need to find the perfect hiding spot.

When I was wrapping GOBS, I started to cry.  I missed my mamaw.  I missed my cousins or my brother saying, "She brought GOBS".  I missed those family outings.  I can still see my uncle at the grill, with a green glass with a G on it, cooking hotdogs, sliced down the middle with American cheese in them, as an appetizer.  I missed hours of kickball and then sitting on a bench eating a GOB.  I missed moms yelling at us to throw the saran wrap in the trash and not just "letting it sit there for someone else to pick up." 

I am guessing that every family has a "food memory" like this...Christmas eve lasagna, chicken parm, coconut cake, whatever the choice, there is a warm memory that accompanies.

As we got older and could drive, I swear my mamaw would tell us she made GOBS just so we would come over and visit.  I am certain that was her tactic. 
``
Franklin was leaving and he saw there was one GOB sitting on the shelf in the fridge.  He asked about it.  I said, "it is for you."  Test run.


Later, I asked, "did you eat the GOB?" 


"Oh yes, it was delicious."


So, they are packed and ready for the big family vacation.  I bag of old family sweetness and new family memories all in one. GOBS.  Giddy for GOBS.

Best Valentine's Day Ever!

I started this blog years ago because my oldest son was in heavy addiction and while I thought we could offer him help, we could not.  As a result, we were a family in crisis.


Through the pain, the visiting days at rehab and the county jail, the arrests and the horrible words that were spoken, I found peace in this blog.


It is never easy airing your dirty laundry to the world.  But, if you can help one person it is worth the pain. 


During this time, my preacher at church did a sermon about "You have to be broken before you can blossom", the story of the sunflower. 


The sunflower seed has a hard case, it is planted in the dark soil, and after a few days, rises to the surface.  Over weeks, the stalk gets bigger and stronger and finally a blossom appears.  And finally, the blossom opens and faces the sun.  "You have to be broken before you can blossom."


After that sermon on that Sunday, Addie and I bought every packet of sunflower seeds we could find and we started planting, everywhere and anywhere.


During those years of addictive addition, it was hell.  Then, he was shot and became a paraplegic.  Again, hell.  Followed by more hell. 


And finally, last March, some peace.  Forward motion.  Renewed Hope and love.


Yesterday, I was coming through the neighborhood and saw the Flower Delivery truck leaving our neighborhood.  Never thought a thing about this.


When I got home, there they were....flowers.  Sunflowers!  And a card, but without a name.  I had no idea who they were from.


I had a few guesses but they just didn't make sense.

I asked my husband if they were from him and he said, no.  I could tell they were not from him.

I was stumped.  Stumped.

I had to leave the house for an event...and on my way there, I was melancholy.  My last wrestling event.  I was sad so I called my "button".  Seemed fitting that on the way to my last wrestling event, I would call the one that started wrestling.

And then he asked, "have you been home yet?"

It was the tonality.  "yes, did you send me flowers?"

"Of course."

Of course?  Years of hell.  Years.  With no hope and I seriously did not know that I would ever see my son again.

I was stunned and happy.  And loved.  After all the love, care, patience and hope that was extended over some very dark years, finally the kick in the heart that made me know, it was not in vain but with purpose and love.

I can remember when I was a new, young mother, waking up during the middle of the night and early in the mornings, I was just waiting for the first smile, the first sign of "I know you are my mom".  I will never forget that first smile...I was putting on a onsie talking to Walker, describing his outfit when he looked at me and smiled, big and bright.  It was the fuel that kept me going.

It wasn't about the flowers, it was absolutely the thought.  Absolutely.  And it was the message, "you have to be broken before you blossom."  Always stay addicted to HOPE.

Cheers for Cheer!

Before my daughter was born, I wanted three boys.  After she was born, I still wanted three boys.  I looked at her for three consecutive days and said out loud, "what am I going to do with a daughter?"


I have owned one accessory my entire life, pompoms on my roller skates and the only thing I ever owned with glitter was my original Christmas stocking (and my mom put the glitter on).


I don't own a hair brush and I don't even have pierced ears.  I wear a wedding band because Franklin insisted. 


I would rather have a pressure washer than a piece of David Yurman and I could care less about hair bows.


My favorite things to wear are WVU sweatshirts, Steeler T-shirts and nightgowns.  I'm a vision.


And so I have a girl.  I didn't just have a girl, I had a girl with crazy curly hair, a dislike for elastic, tags, seams in socks, underwear and anything I bought for her.  Dressing her was hell.


And then, somewhere in the midst of her life, she put on underwear, started brushing her hair and wanted to dance. 


I was cool with all of this, especially the underwear part.  And I supported her.   Until she said these words, "I want to try out for cheerleading."


I convulsed.  Silently.  But I still convulsed.


Cheerleading?  You have got to be kidding me.  Hair bows, hair spray and pom-poms and rector scale drama?  No.


Of course she made it.  Of course she did.


The day the middle school team was announced, I had a television shoot and I had Walker and his friend E with me.  When I heard them screaming in the distance and laughing, I knew she made it.  When I looked down from the balcony and them, they were rolling and laughing and calling me a "cheer mom."  I wanted to gag.


And so my journey as a cheer mom began.  I was horrible cheer mom.  I had a boy who wrestled, played football and baseball and I would watch her cheer, only because he played.


I could not embrace the $50 hair bows and just didn't get it.  I never understood why cheer was considered a sport.  What sport do you apply hair spray for?  Seriously?


Last summer, I noticed Addie had arms like a swimmer, muscular as hell.  I guess I thought it was from running, I wasn't sure.


Fast forward to this year, her cheerleading team won states.  I wasn't there, I picked the wrestling tournament and sent Franklin to Raleigh instead.


It was after the state title that we discovered we qualified to nationals. 
I went to a meeting and came away with one thing, I was in over my head.  We had six weeks to raise about $20k.


I have often said, instead of sending our military to search for Osama Bin Laden, they should have offered a five thousand dollar gift card to Target for any female who could find him.  No disrespect to our military, but a woman would have sniffed him out in days. 


This group of women dug in like I have never seen before, silent auctions, clinics, donations and they pulled a community together.  Checks arrived in the mail and in no time at all, our goal was met.  The cohesiveness was incredible and genorisity amazing.


Off we were to Nationals.  I choose to ride the bus with the girls.  It was painless.  No drama.  None at all.  There was no drama all weekend.  Everyone was kind and helpful to one another.  Supportive.  No drama.  I was so nervous about drama.  Not used to it with boys and didn't want it.  There was none.


Our first stop was registration.  There is where my world changed.  As we approached the ALL STAR resort, there were cheerleaders everywhere, everywhere.  19,000 of them in every color combination, every mascot, from all over.  Everywhere.    They were practicing everywhere.  There were seven thousand Emmas, Emilys and Taylors.  But they were committed.  All those girls had "game on faces".


Saturday game.  Competition day.  Nerves, hair, make up and hair bows. 


Across the state of North Carolina, my boys (aka the wrestlers) were wrestling for the state title.  Not going to lie, my heart was with "my boys."  Every wrestling mom uses that term, "my boys, our boys".  Never "the boys."  We take ownership of these fellows.


I have felt guilty the last couple of years that Addie has been "tossed aside" because she only cheers and the boys always played so many sports and I was eager to attend those.  Even though I was surrounded by 19,000 cheerleaders and their families, I was still thinking about "my boys".




But, as my daughter ran out on that stage with that dazzling smile, my heart melted.




Turns out, the bows catch the light and help you follow the girls. 
They were fabulous.

As we walked out of the stadium, our girls were still psyched.  They made it there.  They learned.  They were still excited.


I thought about being a cheer mom as I laid in bed Sunday morning.  My Addie was across from me sleeping soundly. 


She can hoist a girl over her head and hold her and then catch her.  She has stamina for a very focused three minutes.  She packs her bags, organizes her schedules around practice and games, she studies her sport, she forgives others for mistakes, cheers them on and hopes they do the same to her in return.  She keeps her grades up and is committed.  There are injuries, concussions and physicals, strong arms, all the makings of the athlete.


I am proud of her.  Cheerleading is way more than hair spray and hair bows.  It is a sport and the talent on those mats is incredible. 


I am a cheer mom.  And I have never been more proud.

The next Skate is for Couples only

Sunday mornings, there is always unusual calmness in my home.  It is my favorite time of the week, always.  If I am inside with a cup of coffee, I can hear the kitchen clock ticking and Ranger snoring.  That's about it.  Maybe the sound of the refrigerator coming on, but nothing else. 


If I am sitting outside on the back porch, I get to hear the day come alive with the sounds of the birds, maybe the breeze blowing the tress, but nothing else.


This morning, I was up even earlier than usual.  I was rested so I got up.  As I started conquering my list of things to do, I was stunned at how many of those things were about my children.  "Get haircuts, get BBQ plate tickets sold, fill out permission slip, pay for this, pay for that, fill this out, gather this and take to there" and the list kept growing.


Monday is the end of the semester and the warm up for the second semester of a senior and junior year.


I know my memory is not what it used to be, but I seriously do not remember the stress and the amount of "stuff" for the senior year.  It simply didn't exist.  And I graduated.  We all graduated.  It was fine.


Last night, for the first time in months, the four of us were at the dinner table together (shameful I know) and were discussing "senior" year and what our year might be like next year at this same time.  Still so many unknowns.  As the night progressed, I found myself alone and the house was still and I started thinking and going way back.


On a visit home in September, my brother, along with my sister-in-law, rode in the car together.  We were home for our favorite uncle's sudden funeral.  We were sad.  Heartbroken.  Any visit home, under these circumstances will throw you back in the memory bank.  Way back.


As we left the private service, we took "the long way home" and passed our Saturday afternoon passion, Rock Springs Roller Rink.  As we passed it, my brother and I said simultaneously to nobody and to everyone in the car, "the next skate is for couples only, couples only."


Rock Springs Roller Rink was the reason to go to school Monday thru Friday and my mom's built in baby sitter for three hours on a Saturday.  All week long, we either spoke to one another, on the phone, at recess or the lunch table or via notes that were passed to one another that read, "are you going skating this weekend, sat or sun?  Check yes or no".

My mom would line up the car pool and we were set.  It was 50 cents to get in.  That is right.  Fifty cents.  Then, because we owned our own skates, my mom gave us an extra fifty cents to get a drink and a snack.  I would ALWAYS drink a sprite in the red, waxy Coca-Cola cup that would get soft if the drink sat too long and a peppermint patty.  This snack was always taken during the boys skate only.  Always. 


I would always use the bathroom during the boys skate too.  You would skate up to the door, that didn't have a spring on it, so it would slam open.  There was one toilet in this cement block bathroom that was painted gray.  This bathroom on a Saturday was the most humid room ever.  Sweat and water.  What a combination. 


When you were lucky enough to have your own skates, you were somebody.  My friend Julie M. said having skates versus not having your own skates is when upper class and lower class started.  She might have something there.  She saved her babysitting money to buy her skates from another classmate when she outgrew them. 


My skates were a Christmas present.  They even had red and blue pom-poms on them.  To die for.  The only accessory I have worn.  My cousins got them too.  Oh, and a case.  A case to preserve our skates from week to week.  Mine was red and blue.  Metal.  Big Metal case that we swung out of the car from week to week with pride as we slid out two quarters under the shield to gain admittance.


If you were a couple, you skated with him during the couples skate.  He didn't ask, she wasn't asked, you just went out on the floor, looked at one another and locked hands.  After all, this was planned all week long.


The final skate of the day was the couples skate.  Twilight Time and Donny Osmond's Puppy love was played.  Two songs.  Six minutes of the sweatiest palm hand holding ever. 


It was to die for.  And as this romantic music was playing, all you could really hear in the background was kids sliding their rental skates back across the counter, kids yelling "Hey, your mom is here" and the bathroom door banging open.


The good ole days, the simple times.


The last couple months have been filled with life and adult lessons for my kids.  While this is always a good thing to learn and grow, sometimes in this world, it appears the lessons come too quickly and are too severe. Why are we in such a race to have our kids grow up so quickly?  Am I the only one who thinks Adulthood is a scam?  Once you have entered planet Adulthood, there is no way out.  Why are we pushing kids to learn adult lessons as kids? 


 Face-to-face conversations, tonality, birthday cards, sympathy cards, all seem to have disappeared.  My daughter's phone RANG the other day and she said, "HMMM my phone never rings."  Think about that for a minute.  Her phone never rings.


I myself think I lost a friend over a text message that was misunderstood, but it was in writing and my friend went with the message. (a blog forthcoming on that one for sure)


So many times I feel a sense of "mom shame" simply from social media.  My family would never wear matching Christmas pajamas in front of tree and allow me to document it.  Never. 


And when mom's were posting acceptance letters, when I was begging my son to hit the "submit" button, I felt like I had failed a bit. 


If I feel that way as a grown adult, imagine how kids feel?


When did everything become so "big" and yet become so "small"?
When did birthday cards go out of style?  A birthday text is nice, yes, but a card grand.
A sympathy card, grander.  A phone call, to hear a voice, to hear the delivery, so many times tells you what the conversation is going to be about. Cursive handwriting? 


I keep hearing about "above all be kind."  When or why did people stop, why would you?
When did the "golden rule" turn into something else?


Why can't roller skating be enough on a Saturday? 




Why do college dorm rooms need to be nicer than my first grown up apartment?
One time when I complained about my "shit hole apartment in Morgantown", he said, I think it is a good thing you live in one of those.  You will aspire for greatness and never want to be that low again."  I was angry but he was correct.


Since the visit back home in September, I have looked at this picture of one of my favorite childhood memories cause I was so proud.  I have told my kids about Rock Springs Roller Rink many times in the car when the song "Spirit in the Sky" would come one the radio.  They tell me every time this is the "cringiest" thing about me.


When I showed my daughter the picture of the roller rink, she said, "looks like a crack house."


I was so sad that was her impression.  When I looked recently, she might have something.  The picture didn't dampen my memories.  I did think there was some symbolism there. 


If we have a world that is aspiring to be kind above all else, then let's have a world that goes back to basics.  Conversations, tonality, looking people in the eye when conversing, birthday cards, thank you notes and celebrating the simplest pleasures.


"The Next Skate is for couples only".

Hope Always Floats

My husband and I have a family motto. "Stay Addicted to Hope".


We created this motto about nine years ago and it has stayed in our hearts since.

On January 2, 2017, we got the dreaded call about the 'button's" accident.


Initially, we were told he may not survive, there is spinal cord damage, he is a quad and it will be months of repair.


Hours later we started the recovery process.


And as the days progressed, there was even more Hope.  He could breath on his own, he could move his shoulders, the little boy involved, was going to make it and the "button" would have the life he was intended to live.  Not the life he wanted, the life he was intended to live.


And as quickly as we felt progress, and were hopeful, our hopes were dashed.


Seven days into the recovery process, we were kept out.


Funny thing about the health care system, they will take your health insurance funds from your adult child that the parent pays provides but they can withhold intel if the child says.  Bull---.


Anyway, for months, we knew very little out the "button."  We learned what we could from health insurance statements and there was a victim's right advocate and public records, but literally, we were in the dark.  And honestly, that is why I didn't write about him.  I didn't even know where he was.


Years ago when the button was in addictive addiction, my daughter and I went to church.
The preacher looked at me the ENTIRE service.  It was a message from God.  The message was this, Sunflowers.  Sunflowers come in a thick, hard casing.  The seed is inside that thick, hard casing.  You put in the ground, where it is dark.  Water penetrates through and softens the thick, hard casing and opens.  Then, the seed is able to grow, push through the dark soil and see the sun.  And it grows.  The stalk is thick and hard but it needs to be to support the head, filled with new seeds.  The sermon's lesson, you have to be broken before you can blossom.


As the preacher spoke, my young daughter whispered to me, "He is talking to us".


We left church, went to the Dollar General and purchased every sunflower seed we could find.


A few weeks later, a lady walked by my house and said, "Oh I love your sunflowers.  I guess you are trying to save the bees."


"Hell no, I am trying to save myself."


And my love for sunflowers began.  You have to be broken before you can blossom and it takes awhile.


My husband and I never gave up Hope for our "button."  It dwindled, but it was still there. 


Our "button" was filled with anger and rage for the new life he was intended to live.  Filled.  Epic anger.  I get it.  23 physical male, gets things straightened out, working his way, bang.  All changes.  Epic anger and hostile behavior.  Not  recipe for relationship  success.
I have no idea what it is like to look at legs you cannot use.


Fast forward to March, a phone call and a conversation.  A window was opened, a tiny bit but enough to let some air in.  Progress and hope.


A few weeks ago, the "Button" came to visit.  Actions speak louder than words. 


It was a great visit.  A great visit.  A huge step.  Hope.


He finally said these words, "I had to make peace with the life I was intended to live."




And he admitted, "The disappointment will never leave my heart.  ever.  But I have great memories and experiences that will pull me through."


Disclaimer:


*I wrote the above portion of this blog two weeks ago and didn't finish.  I am not sure why.
He lives independently, he drives and he has a job he loves.  None of these things I ever thought would happen.


Over the last couple days, we got another dose of "the life you are intended to live."
Swallowing this message is tough and sometimes you gag on it or even puke in your mouth but you swallow it.  It doesn't always taste good, but you swallow it. Sometimes you want more, like winning the lottery, but very rarely does this statement apply to moments of greatness.


And somehow during dark moments, opportunities present themselves that you never saw coming.


Yesterday, I had a pity party in honor of somebody else.  Nobody came except for three smelly teenagers who ate me out of house and home, then partially cleaned up the kitchen and then left.  A sweet girl came too who laughed at me being in bed at 9pm on a Saturday night. Nothing changed. 
Today is a new day.


I was scrolling through my phone for a picture, and I found this one.  The most broken my family ever was, January 2, 2017.  Hope Floats.  I did not think I would ever see my oldest son again and I certainly never thought I would have this picture.  But we do.

I think about the life I thought I was going to live versus the life I have now.

Disappointments got me to this life on Shoreline Drive.  The journey wasn't roses and unicorns but if I had to do it again, I would. Bad turns so many times lead to the greatest places.


Hope Floats.

Damn Dorian!

So less than one year later, here we go again.  A Hurricane. 


I get it.  We live on the coast, it goes with the territory.  Good and the bad.  I get it.

Just over a ago year, I was driving home from work.  Naked billboards and nobody else on the highway but me, Linemen and State Troopers.  The was no wind, no movement.  And it was so quiet.  Even when I went to the Food Lion for the last trip, nobody spoke.  Nobody.  Everyone was on a mission.  It was like "we knew"  We could feel it.  We could feel Florence knocking on our door.  It was odd. 

Nobody ever says "Florence".  They always just say, "the storm." 
It is like Florence is our "F" word. 



Today, I was thinking about the drive home just about year ago and how eerie it was and how horrible the aftermath.




I also reflected on the kindness that was shown everywhere afterward. 


I saw a social media post about Southerners and how we were all at the liquor store getting ready for Dorian.


I shook my head.  Seriously, as much as I would love a shot of Fireball, or seven, I think everyone would agree that is the last thing on our minds.  We were all on a mission.


I watched a friend post a video all about Hurricane Prep.  You get good at it, especially after you have lost everything.


Many folks are still displaced or living in campers in their driveways.  There are still tarps on roofs.  Some folks gave up and walked away from their home.  Others have to knock or burn down their homes and start over on the same land.  And they are no where near that process.


I needed to replace a few windows and the window company said "we might be able to get to you in 2020." 


I get it. 


Yesterday at the Food Lion, same feeling.  Nobody spoke, they crossed things off the lists in business like fashion.  No Hurricane Parties, serious business. 


I look at the pictures of the Bahamas and I think about the wet shoes, the heat and humidity, the wetness all around and just the feeling of hopelessness.


Last year, when the rain finally stopped and we were picking up the back yard, we found a baby turtle.  There was something about that baby turtle that warmed my heart. 


And as the days went by and we were able to leave our streets and see the devastation, magnitude wasn't even real.  The devastation grew larger and larger everyday.  And everyday, you heard or more and more random acts of kindness.


Last year, I went to visit my pregnant friend after the storm.  She and her husband lost everything.  I just felt the urge to go see her and take her something.  Trash bags and candy bars.


On the way home, I saw a gas station with gas.  I went for it.  Gas.  I sat patiently in line with a man in a big white truck in front of me.  The line creeped and creeped.  And suddenly, the man in the big white truck, jumps out of his truck and runs across the parking lot and embraces another man.  Not the type of embrace where they haven't seen one another in awhile...it was the "I love you" embrace.  I sat in my car and watched.  And they hugged and I could tell they were crying.  They wiped tears and they talked and laughed and hugged and hugged again. 


Soon, it was time for the man in the white truck to move forward and pump his gas.  He walked back to the truck and his friend walked along beside him.  They hugged again and the man pulled the truck forward to the tank.  And as he got out to pump his gas, he yells, "Wait, Wait, come back, take me pants, take my pants.  You don't have any, I have more pants". 


And at that, in front of pump 3 at the Speedway, he took his pants off and handed them to his friend.  And he stood there in his madras like boxers.


Now, I have never been so desperate that I would take those dirty, sweaty, ass smelling pants and I have never known someone who would accept them. 


But there is the story.  One man had only one pair of pants.  One.  Cause Florence took all of his pants.  And one man cared enough to take off his pants and give them to his friend. 


I will never forget that scene.  Ever.


Tonight, I drove home.  It wasn't as eerie as last year but eerie enough.  I looked at those familiar sites, boarded up businesses, lineman trucks, our boat wrapped, all waiting for Dorian. 

 

I also looked at the new Burger King sign in Swansboro.  Just went up.  Hate those kind of signs but darn, it was progress.

  

I was going home to make dinner, do laundry and run the dishwasher cause I had no idea what tomorrow would bring and I needed to be ready.

I thought about how last year, my friend was expecting and lost everything and now her baby was five months old. And I bet she doesn't feel like she "lost everything" but now "she has gained everything".

 

I thought about those folks in Bahamas.  A lot.

And outside there was the most beautiful sky.  Really lovely. 

And all I could think about was HOPE. The poor folks in the Bahamas don't feel it now, but they will again.

Here's Hoping Dorian comes and goes without anybody really noticing.