Seasons in a Mom's Heart: 2015

Saturday, June 6, 2015

Our Favorites: A Children's Book List

Thursday, June 4, 2015

My Father-A Study In Human Compassion

I wanted to write a blog post about my father for Father's Day, but struggled with putting down all the things I wanted to say in the right way. I feel, personally, that even as an adult, a child should still respect their parent, and yet, to be honest, my relationship with my father has never been a typical one.
I am not, in fact, a "Daddy's Girl", because my father was never a man who gave out hugs or compliments freely. He was not soft, tender, or sentimental, most of the time. He was, instead, a rock, an oak tree, a darkened cave whose emotions were better left unexplored.
But that didn't stop me from hero worshipping him. Or from doing whatever I could to get his love and attention. Even now at 30 years old, I still long to impress my father, for him to be proud of me and the choices I've made and the life I live, and for who I am.
It's like a long held dream that I know has a 1% or less probability of coming true. There is no affirmation, only " Haven't you learned that yet?" And "Where's your common sense?"
Which is strange that those words are still so intimidating coming from a man who never learned to read. That alone was one of the reasons I made honor roll in school. It made me proud and happy to read the newspaper out loud to him, especially the comics, and sometimes he would even brag on what good handwriting I had when he would ask me to address the envelops, or fill out a check he needed, to pay bills.
I always felt like my Daddy could do anything. He was strong and stubborn, and knew how to work hard. He would work out in the log woods, carrying his chainsaw, until his shirt was soaked with sweat, stopping only to eat his usual lunch, Vienna Sausages and a honeybun. To this day, when I see those foods sitting on a grocery store shelf I smile and think of him.
I think of him when I see someone chopping wood or I smell that woodsy smoky smell coming from someone's chimney in the dead of winter. I think of him when I see a pair of lace up work books on some stranger's feet. He used to pay me a quarter to unlace his boots and take them off his feet after a long day at work.
He hunted, and fished, and loved to be outdoors. He knew how to do the best hoot owl imitation I've ever head. It was impressive to hear them answer back to him while out camping in the woods. He loved his garden, and still does. Just last summer I helped him can several batches of homemade salsa. All the while doing each step the way he deemed they had to be done.

All it takes for thoughts of my father to come to mind is waking up on an early fall morning and feeling the crispness in the air, and I know it. I smell and feel buck fever, and I myself don't even hunt. But my Daddy's hunting always kept food on our kitchen table.
The other thing that never fails to bring my father to mind is the smell and taste of hot coffee. It was often my job to brew him a cup, and fix it up the way he liked it. Even though, later that day, he would find his way down to a little convenience store/gas station/bait shop just miles from our dirt road where he liked to sit and pass the time drinking coffee, and yakin' with a bunch of other "old cronies".
So many years have passed the little store is closed and there's only a couple of the old men left, one of them being my Dad. And so that is how I learned something new about my father. He does have a heart, something in my growing up years I often convinced myself he must not really have.
Every time I go to visit my parents, or talk to Mom on the phone, (yes, I avoid talking to Dad since it seems we only have grunts and nods on his end and sometimes mine too since I take after him more than I probably should have) all I hear about Dad is, " Tomorrow I have to go sit with Floyd"(his long time coffee drinking buddy who recently lost his wife and is in bad health himself), or "Oh, tomorrow I have to go with Floyd to the hospital." Or "Floyd needs me to drive him into town." Or "Last week when I took Floyd to lunch..."
And so I do not know if I will ever make my father proud of me, but I know he has made me proud of him. His love and friendship and compassion for his longtime friend has shown me something I needed to see with my own eyes. We are never too old to learn new tricks. There is always more to a person than meets the eye, and it is easier to view a parent favorably after becoming a parent yourself.
Some things about my father will always be a mystery. But I can't help loving the man who raised me, and I try to remember only the good times, only the best times. Like him driving me home from school in companionable silence, listening to "The Rest of the Story" with Paul Harvey, or sitting out on our covered back porch that he built himself 20 years ago, listening to, and watching the rain fall.
If nothing else, my father taught me to be silent. To absorb your surroundings. To sit and think. To drink coffee and enjoy a good newspaper article. And to have compassion on a dear friend. All qualities I think I'll keep!
And every now and then I actually hear him say "I love you too." When I'm leaving and won't see him for a while. There's still not very many hugs, or heart to heart talks, but there is usually a smile, and a wave, and the memory of a card or dice game. I think I'll keep that too.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Road Trips: "I'm Already There!"

I'm writing this as I sit in the passenger seat of our family's full size van with one leg curled up under the other, shoes kicked off, and my seat belt strapped across my chest. I have four still sleepy boys in tow, and a man in the driver's seat next to me with an A-Capella addiction he openly forces on his unsuspecting children via Pandora on his cell phone connected to the van's radio system.

As on most road trips, I've brought along what seems to be an interesting book or two to read for when it's daylight, as the next three and a half hours promise to be. After the first couple pages, I knew it was hopeless, I couldn't concentrate between the distractions of beat boxing, vocal harmonies, and scenic views of the beautiful Ozark Mountains.

Most road trips, if I'm given advance notice, which is not always, but usually, I spend the day before washing a ridiculous amount of laundry searching desperately for enough pairs of matching socks for each child to last however many days we are supposed to be gone from home.

This trip I knew about several days ago, and still, I decided to procrastinate. I'll get up at seven a.m. I promised myself. After listening to the alarm far longer than I thought it would keep going off, I got up and hit snooze at 7:53 a.m. Rise and shine, all my handsome little men! Mama's got seven minutes to pack so we can leave on schedule at 8:00 a.m.

Breakfast consisted of McDonald's drive thru sausage egg burritos, and a large sweet tea, our first “stop” before leaving town at 9:25 a.m. Our next stop, almost two hours later, is at a thankfully, large and clean, gas station for the customary restroom break. The GPS kept telling us to make a U-turn to get back onto the interstate. Which can not and will not happen until we get the three year old (wearing big boy underwear for the first time on an actual road trip) into the bathroom. My hubby emerges with our toddler now dressed in clothes pajamas, after I've reminded him not to buy bug juices or any other juice drinks that make said toddler car sick. On the road again!

And so the miles go ever on. Past lakes, hills, flat fields with perfectly plowed rows that look like green rays of sunshine springing past my window, pastures of little yellow flowers with grazing cows, toll booths (Yes we're in Oklahoma now!), small towns, and road signs providing the boys with an opportunity to engage in a battle of the old standby “Alphabet Game”.

Our phone is no longer picking up a signal, so we've switched to the regular car radio. Which, surprisingly, is picking up a nice Christian station playing older style hymns that are both soothing and relaxing. Who knows how long until the station fades, but we will enjoy it while it lasts. The boys are on letter Q in their game. They might be stuck for a while!

But that's OK, because if I were going to be stuck somewhere, I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be than in this van with my family. We are together, and that is always a good thing. Moments like this I know I will miss the most when my children are grown. My mother's heart will always wish they were in that backseat calling out letters and asking, “When's the next stop?”, “Can I have a drink now?” and “Are we there yet?” Yes, I think to myself. I'm already there. Right where I want to be. Right beside the man who looks over every now and then and smiles at me that smile that says he's thinking the same thing.

With my feet propped up on the dash and my seat leaned back on the way home I sit and think, "This is really what love is." as my husband reaches over across the distance between our two van seats and still holds my hand after twelve years of marriage. With his Pandora working again as we get closer to home, he sings love songs to me while I sleep on and off between stops. I'm tired. He's tired. The kids are tired. It's been a long trip, but a good one. It's a good kind of tired. It's a road trip kind of tired. We're almost home. I'm already there. I'll always be there when home is wherever these people I love the most are.

Seasons in a Mom's Heart