A House Divided

The story of how we met is another subject for another page. But the fact is, we both married the enemy. What am I referring to? Rival football teams! In the state of Alabama, when you are asked to declare your allegiance, it’s not to your religion, but rather are you an Alabama fan or an Auburn fan. We have an agreement—we don’t watch the big game together. Except for the horrible birthday party that we couldn’t get out of—our relatives’ Mom was turning 65 and every other family member refused to come because the party was set at the time of the big game. So—sigh—we ended up at the party glued to the little TV (we had just purchased a huge TV for our lovely basement room that same year) and yet we found ourselves sitting next to each other watching the game on a bad TV in a room full of relatives from out of state who clearly just didn’t get it and insisted on carrying on with the party. Our thoughts? Couldn’t you have been born on another day? But I digress. How has this rivalry influenced our marriage? This story has two sides:

He says: I had a roommate at Alabama. My roommate and I married a pair of Auburn sisters.

She says: My sister and I were roommates. We married two roommates from Alabama.

He says: Alabama has the better football record over all.

She says: Quit living in the distant past. The really bad fans (not my precious husband) keep propping up Bear Bryant who died a long time ago. Auburn has won the last 5 games.

He says: Auburn fans have a “poor me” attitude that got old a long time ago. They pretend to be shocked when they win.

She says: Alabama fans expect to win. They ARE shocked when they win. And yes, I am surprised when Auburn wins. I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop!

He says: I do root for Auburn when they are not playing Alabama.

She says: I do root for Alabama when they are not playing for Auburn. My precious husband even said that when Auburn was close to a national championship that he didn’t mind if they beat Alabama. He is the kindest person I know.

He says: We do not watch the game together. It is just not fun. I do know that the year we went to Mt. Zion we couldn’t watch the game together. Sharon kept coming out of the restroom with a big grin on her face. Boy, they must have really good restrooms there.

She says: We do not watch the game together. It is just not fun. However, a few years ago we were at Mt. Zion so we couldn’t watch the game together. However, there wasn’t a rule that I couldn’t go into the restroom and text message our daughter who was in the stadium and find out the score. We won.

He says: My worst memory? 17-16. I was at Alabama working on my car. Auburn won in the last 30 seconds. Couldn’t believe it. Everyone our age knows exactly what game I am referring to just by mentioning that score.

She says: I keep hearing the voice of one of our rabid Alabama fans. He says AH LA BAHMA in this most irritating voice that John likes to imitate because he knows it makes my skin crawl…Oh, and did I mention that John’s relatives put on a game at the Thanksgiving family party and played the game over and over again? That was the year Auburn lost. Come to think of it, they haven’t done it for the last FIVE years.

He says: My best memory? It was fun while Bear Bryant was alive.

She says: See what I mean? Living in the past. But if we are going to go back, 17-16 was so exciting. I had a bad date, but the game had a great score.

He says: Superstitions? Nah, don’t believe in them.

She says: One day when Auburn was winning, I was upstairs watching the game on the little TV in the kitchen. John came upstairs from watching the game on the big TV and said, “You’re doing laundry. I’m going to do laundry.” Everything got washed that day. Maybe I should do toilets during the next game…

He says: Sharon takes Auburn losses very personally and hates to see the Sunday paper the next day. It affects her mood for a day. Fortunately she has a bad memory for sports scores and gets over it quickly. What she does hold on to are all the little slights that happen over the years.

She says: John keeps the losses in perspective and realizes that he can’t control the games. He doesn’t get emotionally invested. I admire that…I should mentioned that he attended all the home games when Casey started at Auburn. It was hot as Hades but he endured the games to see Casey! I do remember that he refused to say “War Eagle.”

He says: They make great women at Auburn. Sharon graduated from there and Casey is still a student there.

She says: My sister and I agree: they make great men at Alabama. I got the coolest husband from there. And did I mention that he is precious?

When our daughter was trying to decide where to go to college, we truly didn’t mind which college she attended. Alabama is closer which would have been great for those times we go to campus to see her. I am down there a lot (I teach on five faculties for Alabama). But I am glad that she chose Auburn.

PS: The relatives who continued to play the game where Auburn lost all during the Thanksgiving family party have gotten their just reward. Their daughter fell in love with the grandson of Hare (Jordan-Hare is the name of the stadium at Auburn). Their daughter got married in Auburn (that was a pretty good day seeing all those Alabama fans on Auburn soil). The funniest moment was when the Alabama mascot, Big Al, showed up at the reception. Those rabid Alabama fans are now at Auburn all the time because their grandbabies are being born there! I love a happy ending!!

You Must Be Present to Win

I have a niece named Kelsey. She graduated from Vassar and is blessed with intelligence and a caring heart. After she finished her college education, she wanted to give two years of her time to others. She narrowed it down to the Peace Corp or Teach America, an organization that rescues failing schools. She chose Teach America. Her first year was extremely challenging. She had no resources for her class [like enough desks (!), text books (!)] She stuck it out with help from people like Bill Rush and his fabulous wife Rhonda whose Key Club adopted Kelsey's cause. Some of my husband's coworkers didn't even hesitate to send checks. Mary Anne Parks Antonio and Sue Hengel pitched in as did other caring friends (sorry if I failed to mention anyone who lovingly contributed). Kelsey had to battle a grueling environment, parents who were uninvolved, and sometimes emotional challenges from constantly fighting an uphill battle.

She again came out with a request for help this year. Her story is so compelling:

I am just starting my second year with Teach for America. I'm teaching high school chemistry and physical science at a public charter school in what is arguably the most dangerous city in the U.S., St. Louis. The public school system in St. Louis had fallen into such horrible condition that it lost its accreditation at the end of last year and was taken over by the state. With the public schools in disarray, students are flocking to charter schools, even though these schools have their own set of problems. This is the third year that the charter school I work at has been open and its plagued with disorganization, debt, and lack of resources.

Nearly 90% of our students are on free or reduced lunch plans. Gang violence, poverty, teen pregnancy, disrupted family situations, pressure to be involved in crimes, and low expectations for achievement are realities that my students live with everyday.

I've had students who have been arrested, ended up pregnant, been left homeless, been shot, and been killed. Academically, the students come to me with math and reading levels well below grade average. Their previous schools have failed them.

Even the extremely bright students are at a considerable disadvantage when competing for college admission with students across the country who went to successful schools. Once they get to college, the students will be ill-prepared for the academic demands of higher education.

I have to try to pull them up to grade level and lead a science class that is on par with science classes in the best school districts in the country. However, my school doesn't have a science lab or budget for obtaining supplies to use in my classroom.

Anything that I need for my classroom comes out of my own pocket.

It's definitely worth the investment if it helps the kids learn but I would appreciate any help with obtaining the basic school supplies that my students can't afford and which help make my classroom a much more hands-on and engaging learning environment.

Thank you for your help!

Kelsey

Kelsey's Wish List:

Hi Sharon! Here's the list of school supplies I need if anyone you know is still willing to help me out this year.

Scissors
Simple calculators
Index cards
Dry erase markers markers
Colored pencils
Crayons
Pencils
Pens
Gluesticks
Elmer's glue
Tape
Folders
Notebooks
1-inch binders
Binder dividers
Notebook paper
Construction paper
Computer paper
Thanks for your help! Love, Kelsey

Again, the Sue Hengel's and Mike Moss's of the world as well as the ever-giving Mary Anne, stepped up. And there are probably more who have been quietly stepping up to the plate. I am so lucky to be surrounded by friends who take on the needs of my family as their own. Thanks, guys. And thank you, Kelsey, for caring enough to put away a chance to earn big bucks in order to invest in our teenagers. You are the best.

Casey Lovoy: Joymaker

Today is my daughter's 21st birthday. This event brings me absolute joy and causes me to think about her self-described role in life. When she was 9 years old, my husband John, Casey and I were sitting at a restaurant on Riverwalk in San Antonio, TX. We were dining al fresco and it was a glorious night. Casey turned to me and asked me, "Mom, what is your role in our family?" I can remember thinking, "Where on earth did she learn that word?" and my second thought was, "What in the heck am I going to say?" I remembering giving a very lame answer, "Oh, I am the caregiver; I find ways to take care of you and your dad." Not a very good answer, but it was the best I could do for a fill-in-the-blank pop quiz. Casey then turned to her dad and asked the same question. John quickly got a "deer-in-headlights" look that must have mirrored my face a little earlier.

It is important to point out that John is part of that introvert crowd, and generally they don't do as well on oral pop quizzes when they haven't had a chance to ponder the question in advance. He choked out, "I am the protector; I find ways to keep you and your mom safe." Whew, dodged that bullet with an ok answer.

Casey looked at us with pity because she had clearly been considering her response. She said, "I know what my role is, I am the 'Joymaker;' it is my job to bring joy to both of you." And she wasn't finished. She continued by stating, "You are in such a hurry that you might miss all the beautiful things in life and it is my job to point them out." Yikes...out of the mouth of babes...

She has lived up to this title. Every moment, I think, "This is the best day/month/year," and I am always wrong, because the next one is always better. She is the first to point out the rainbows. She is quick to note that it is rude to be on the cell phone when we are together in the car. She gets us all out for family walks where we get a good cardio workout and even better face time with one another. She cherishes all of her friends. She worries about those who are in trouble. She has more emotional maturity in her little finger than most people have in their entire bodies. Happy birthday, Joymaker.

Hot Dog, What a Lady!!

As I have previously noted, I am one of seven children. When I calculate it out, that means that my mother was pregnant 63 months of her life! That figure astonishes me. But another figure that astonishes me is the wonderful black and white photo of my mom that I have where she is wearing her black Jansen swimsuit. She has long flowing black hair, she is casually leaning against the wall of the pier with a fishing rod.

I can recall that as little kids we were playing on the beach. My mom was walking by herself, several feet away, wearing that black Jansen swimsuit. There were several young men, probably of college age, passing by, who caught a look at this brunette beauty. I distinctly remember one of them saying, "Hot Dog, what a lady!" Word quickly spread among the kids and we ran up and told her, thinking that was really a funny comment. I can remember the guys' faces fell when they realized that she had a whole tribe of children.

We laughed for years and would repeat that comment to my mother who always giggled. When I found the photo a few months ago, I looked at her again through new eyes. I now see what they saw: not a mother of 7 children with all the chores and challenges that go with the hardest job in the world, but a woman blessed with long, flowing hair, grace and beauty. Hot dog, what a lady!

Take Your Daughter to Work Day, Uh...Year

My father has always been ahead of the times. Long before the "Take Your Daughter to Work Day" was initiated in 1993, my dad discovered the value of having your daughters present on the job site. Keep in mind this was in the 1950's and 1960's. It was not done in the spirit of feminism, but because we were cheap labor. Let me explain.

My parents have seven children. I can remember how tight money was. I can still picture my mom sitting over the grocery list and calculating the cost of every single item. She would add them up and if the amount was too much, something had to go. Feeding a family of seven, particularly with boys who could eat an entire box of cereal in one sitting using mixing bowls was tough. By the way, that was ONE box of cereal per boy. That was also in the days of home milk delivery. The milkman got quite a workout bringing our order.

My dad worked three jobs to make ends meet. Sometimes the ends wouldn't quite come together and he needed help on the job. Another factor was that my mom, who is an introvert, would be at her wits end by the time Saturday rolled around from coping with seven, rambunctious children. My dad taking us to work represented a few hours relief for my mom from the chaos. So hi ho, hi ho, it was off to work we go.

It was so much fun. We were little enough to crawl down holes and thread wires. We spackled holes in baseboards, played with all the tools, learned the difference between flat head and Phillips head screwdrivers and played with mercury (that was before it was known that it was dangerous). We rode bush hogs, road scrapers, and dump trucks. OSHA inspectors would have had a field day with all the safety violations, but we never got hurt. I was never in the dark about what my dad did at work. We knew that he had to do hard physical labor. All of my brothers could wire a house by the time they were 12. I felt totally comfortable operating a hammer and to this day, I still get a thrill when the box says, "Some assembly required." I know that I am up to the task. The smell of sawdust is better than any fine perfume. Any ol' day I would choose a trip to Home Depot or Lowe's rather than a department store.

When I got married, my wish list actually included tools and I still harbor a dream of getting the Sears tool box (the one that is shiny red and has the waffled silver border).

The benefit of going to work with my dad is that not one of my siblings has ever used the terms, "girl chores" or "boy chores" because we knew that we all had to pitch in. The work ethic of each kid is remarkable and we had tremendous role models who showed us that whether you worked inside the home or outside the home, it all counts. Thanks Mom and Dad!

Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful

I remembered the first time I heard these words on a commercial and frankly, it annoyed me. For some reason today, these same words occurred to me today during Yoga with a whole new meaning. I originally started taking Yoga because my dear cousin, Anne, who was dying from breast cancer, asked me to go. I couldn’t imagine what you could do for an hour without loud music with an instructor shouting directions akin to that of a drill sergeant at the top of her lungs. What would I do for an hour without lots of action, punishing movements and throbbing, heart pounding music? I found an oasis of quiet, poses movements that taught me to be flexible and a wholesome outlook when considering the other women in the class.

As I was thinking today during class, I was taken back to my younger years when Nan Pizitz took me under her wing at the YMCA. I wanted to be an aerobics instructor and thought I was graceful. Nan, however, saw in reality, an awkward young woman whose graceful movements were a figment of her own imagination. She must have felt a good measure of pity for me because she invited me into her basement studio and spent hours teaching me how to hold my hands, move in true rhythm and make that inner grace an outer reality. I will always be thankful for her investment in me.

From there I went on to teach at the Y and a local hospital and reveled in instructing dancing aerobics and later step aerobics. I dropped out when my travel schedule became impossible but also because this field became about breast augmentations, thong leotards, and comments that were full of comparisons and chalking up body failures.

I eventually came back as a participant but consistently avoided anything that had quiet connected to it. Then came Anne’s request and I grudgingly showed up for a class that was conducted in a dark room enveloped in slow music and included a whole new language involving downward dogs, cobra, and sun salutations. I was determined that I was going to give it one shot and then report back to Anne that I tried, but it just didn’t fit my personality. But I was so wrong. I found a group of people who were encouraging, cognizant that we are built so differently, and that I could settle down. I found that I could pray, contemplate all kinds of things (like this entry), and that the quiet was wonderful. I looked around the room today and saw Dot and Joyce who are in their 70’s and literally going strong. Joyce has gotten back the 3” in height that she lost due to osteoporosis. They are beautiful. Then there is Dana and Peg who are both built like graceful ballerinas but are graced with inner beauty that is so much more powerful. They are beautiful. LeAnn has this tiny, powerful body. She has a passion for Yoga and is challenging instructors to be better in their practices. She is joined by Marsha who works hard to make sure that each class experience is a treasure for that day. They are beautiful. There is Bettina a new mom and Deidre who just lost her mom. They are women of color, however very different. They are beautiful. There are the best friends in the back of the class who are in their 50’s, look like twins, and have fun carving out time for their friendship. They are beautiful.

All these wonderful women have reminded me that I am a treasured child of God. Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. Namaste....

Love Thy Neighbor

We are very lucky to have two sets of neighbors who are also our close friends. The three families have spent many a warm day around the pool, which fortunately is not at our house. The neighbor who owns the pool will probably rethink asking either family to watch their house while they are on vacation.

Let me explain. It all started with a "quick" trip by the house to check on the dog. The dog was fine but so was the giant ant population that had gathered in the basement. They had discovered a Cherry Coke left by one of the vacationing daughters. Coke may not realize that they have an untapped customer demographic. We, however, realized that this was a bad case of PESTILENCE. We looked around for some kind of bug spray. We couldn't find the Raid®, but we did find some hair spray. Being creative, we found that this stuff works!! The ants died, but they looked good. This might work on head lice! But I digress. One problem solved.

Then we noticed that the basement had one inch of water! Now we realized that we had a FLOOD. We figured out the problem (OK, John figured it out) was the condensate pump. John volunteered that we had an extra one at our house (OK, this really random--who stocks extra condensate pumps for heaven's sake?) The womenfolk set out to find the fuse box while the men were drying out the basement. We never did find the fuse box which was cleverly disguised behind a picture. Our brave husbands fixed the pump anyway. We later found out that the pump was the wrong size. But I digress.

Then Tim, the neighbor in charge of the pool, noticed that the pool had turned a horrible shade of green. It seems that the vacationing couple's married daughter had stopped by to take a dip and she wore a swimsuit that she had used in a lake. The pool was now infested with algae that would make any biologist proud. The pool doc had to make a house call and recommended a protocol that was very labor intensive. We nursed the pool back to health.

After this adventurous evening we called the neighbors. They asked about their house. We lied. "Things are fine," we croaked (none of us are good at this sort of thing but we knew they shouldn't cut their vacation short over ants, a flooded basement, a broken condensate pump and a green pool) They wondered why we were all gathered at their house. We told them, "You know how a pool brings people together." They replied that they were happy that we were enjoying it while they were gone. Yeah, right. That's our story and we're sticking to it.

Confession Is Good for the Soul

What words can put fear into that of a fellow woman? I can think of two: Recipe Exchange. I must confess that when I get an email from one of my friends asking me to participate, I go through a buffet of reactions:

• Do I even have 5 people to forward this on to? (Oh, and I should mention that the latest request asked me to send it on to 20 friends?!)
• Will I let down the person who sent it to me? Will she think I am a bad friend if I don't send it on? I really care about her and hate to let her down.
  
• Will the person who was supposed to be #1 on the outgoing email be upset if no one replies?
• What if the #1 person doesn't have many friends and this is a way for her to make connections with other caring women?
  
• Will my friends get frustrated with me for sending on to them? Aren't they already too busy?
• Who has 20 friends that are available for this kind of thing?
  
• Why can't I just say "No??!!??"
• What if I just don't do anything? Will anybody really know?
• If I am ever in doubt that I am a "Feeler" vs. a "Thinker" I need to reread this whole entry.
  
• These directions are so complicated! Send a recipe to the number 1 person and then move the number 2 person to the top and then put my name on the email and then forward...
  
• Are people really still cooking?
  
• With the internet and great magazines, do people really want recipes?
• Can't we just ban together and pledge not to do this to each other?
  
• Will this land me on people's spam lists?
• Will people send out recipes using spam? (ugh!)
  

You get the idea! All this angst! Several of my friends had the where-with-all to say, "I am so sorry, I just don't have the time to participate! [good response!] I thanked them for being honest! I also realized I should have crafted a similar response!

Then I got an email from the lucky recipient who was supposed to get all the recipes. She was so excited. Then I started getting recipes, all of which sounded sooooo good!

I have decided to go ahead and put out a recipe for succa (Italian for spaghetti sauce). It is a treasured recipe. From now on, every request labeled, "Recipe Exchange" will get this as a reply and none of my friends will be bothered again. They have already done their duty!

Confession really is good for the soul. I feel better (and hungry) already.

Italian Succa

Tomato sauce, large, 4 cans I use Wal-mart’s generic brand

Red wine, ½ can (I use it to “swish” out all the cans of tomato sauce)

Basil, fresh, ½ package

Lawry’s Garlic salt, 2 tsp.

Nature’s seasoning, 2 tsp

Fresh ground pepper, 2 tsp.

Sargento Romano cheese, ½ triangle grated

Combine the above and simmer for four hours

Pasta: Cook, but DO NOT let get mushy!!

Romano cheese: Put on pasta FIRST, then put on the succa!!

I Contact

"Don't stare!" I can remember being admonished with this warning anytime that I saw someone who had a physical or mental challenge. I can vividly recall quickly averting my eyes in case I might cause embarrassment to someone if my eyes lingered too long.

I realized one day that I had totally forgotten to program my daughter with this same information. The man who was putting the flooring in our house did not have his right arm and had a hook in its place. With the curiosity of a six old, Casey asked, "Well, Mr. Harden, what happened to your arm?" I imploded internally with the realization that I had failed in one of the chief duties given to Moms: Teach your children not to stare.

Ken Harden explained to Casey that he had a disease in his right hand when he was in high school and that the doctors cut off his arm to save his life. He went on further to demonstrate how his hook worked. Casey was fascinated, and I had to admit, so was I.

I later told Ken that this story had worked its way into my training classes and that he has achieved a degree of fame. He told me that children were never put off by his hook, but adults were rarely comfortable talking about it. He said that they acted like he must wake up every day with the discovery, "Oh, my gosh, my arm is gone!"

I use this story in a class where we talk about how the "don't stare" message was programmed into most of us. One class stands out as one in which I was taught a great lesson by one of the participants. A nurse who was in my class said that she worked with burn patients whose faces had been disfigured. She said that the thing they commented that they missed the most was that people refused to make eye contact with them. She said they said they felt as if they disappeared.

When reflecting on this this, I came to realize that with "Eye Contact" you grant humanity and value to others. The "Don't Stare" message seems kind on the surface but in reality, hurts. I then came to understand that "Eye Contact" leads to "I Contact" i.e., "I make Contact with you because you matter, you are a child of God, and you have value." Amen.

Happy Trails to You...

Dale Evans has always had a warm spot in my heart. I had a cowgirl outfit when I was a kid that was my first imitation of a movie star. No bare belly like some current stars. I had a cowgirl hat and cool Western clothing! She was the perfect mate for Roy Rogers and an even better role model as a strong woman.

Several nights ago we watched a very suspenseful movie. It was full of intrigue, had two top stars, clever plot twists, but I felt tense by the end of the film. My husband trolled the channels and came upon one of those stations that plays really old films. Dale Evans to the rescue! The narrator was talking about Roy Roger’s stardom. The movie started and the credits rolled. First there was Roy, then there was TRIGGER, then Gabby Hayes and finally DALE EVANS! She was 4^th on the list and AFTER the horse!! She wore some really awful clothes (hats bigger than sombreros that could have housed a small family) but she had an adorable personality. At this time Roy and Dale were not married. After the movie, the narrator revealed that Roy was married to Arlene and that after his wife died, he and Dale got married and remained married for over 50 years.

The movie and the surrounding real life story warmed my heart and changed my mood before going to bed with the exception of one nagging thought: I hope that she eventually got billing above Trigger.

Another Bedtime Story

When Casey was five years old, she told me that I didn’t play enough with her at night. At first I started to get defensive because I knew that not only did I play games with her, but gave her lots of attention. Then my conscience kicked in: "Perhaps you ought to try that listening stuff you teach in your training classes!" (It is tough having a strong conscience!)

For once I held back my response and instead said, “You sound frustrated, tell me more.” She went on to say that Daddy and I were the two biggest people in the family and we slept downstairs together. She said that because she was an only child and her bedroom was upstairs, she hated going to bed alone. I took all of this in, and tried to figure how to solve this situation. She then went on further to tell me that she didn’t expect me to start sleeping with her instead of Daddy, but she wanted me to know why she put off going to bed at night. John and I talked about it and we decided to change our family routine. We decided to:

· Turn off the 10:00 news (who wants to hear all that stuff before going to bed anyway?)

· All go upstairs together to “tuck Casey in”

· Watch while John feeds the fish

· Talk about the best thing that happened to us that day so everyone can enjoy it

· Sometimes sing silly songs and even do dance routines together (we’re certain that Broadway is looking for us)

· Throw fluorescent stars across the room after making wishes

· Sometimes hide to scare each other

· Always pray for other people

· Join hands in a family blessing

· Enjoy closing Casey’s eyes and lips and kissing her goodnight

We always do this ritual even if one of us is out of town (or even in college!) by using cell phones!

I often wonder what would have happened if I had argued with Casey when she was trying to tell me why she was so upset. I know what would have happened. “They” (our family) wouldn’t have lived happily ever after and we would have missed 16 years of what is always the best time of our day and night…Good night, Casey.

Sleep in Heavenly Peace...

Everyone has a mental image of what they think heaven looks like. I sometimes see beautiful angels all sitting on a bed … the Heavenly® Bed, from the Westin, in Atlanta. The Westin hotel chain started the Goldilocks rage (this bed’s just right!) that forced other hotels to spend money on their main purpose … a place to sleep! Not only does their bed have a great mattress but they have the most incredible linens known to man and woman kind. For once in my life, I slept past 5:30 a.m. and had to pry myself out of that luxurious bed. I just know that this must be what it feels like to sleep on a cumulus cloud.

When I got home, I couldn't get this bed out of my head. I wasted hours daydreaming about my night of floating on ten layers of pure heaven. I finally set out to recreate the glorious experience.

However, this was a time, long ago and far away, when there were no web sites where you could order this stuff with the click of a magic mouse. So I devised my game plan. The next time I traveled to a city that had a Westin, I would steal into a room in the dead of night, under the cover of darkness, in my best “spy woman” black outfit and surreptitiously make a list of everything used to create the Heavenly® Bed and maybe even (gasp!) take a mattress tag. Sadly, I didn’t get to use my game plan. They had a model room available so anyone that wanted to could order all the parts of this 10 layer confection. It begins with a feather topper for the mattress, and then sheets, blankets, pillows and comforters are added to make this lovely lasagna of luxury.

I had to have it! However, it is against my nature to pay retail for anything without first trying to secure a bargain. So, armed with Bed Bath and Beyond coupons that NEVER expire, I became acquainted with thread counts and feather quality (poor ducks)!

I was richly rewarded for my efforts. We have a bed that is an utter joy. When we make it up (well at least once a week, whether company is coming or not), we plump everything. The best part is when we hold hands and take a running leap onto the bed, fall into its marshmallow softness and make angels on the comforter. It may not be quite as good as the real thing but I rest easy sleeping in imitation heavenly peace. Amen!

Life's Way Too Short

I saw a great piece in the paper today on this very topic. It is not a new subject; I teach this same concept in my time management classes. I did, however, glean the idea of making a list that follows this concept. Feel free to add to this list; I learn from every person with whom I have contact. Life's too short to:

• Wear shoes that hurt. As much as I would like to find someone who could pre-wear my shoes (and even shop for them, because life is too short for shoe shopping). I give away shoes that hurt.
• Wear underwear that hurts. Thongs are for the feet (OK, I'm showing my age!) See the Beloit College list on aging. I believe in this analogy.
  
• Be around toxic people. These people are known as "organizational arsonists" in the workplace. I have been a part of this network before by listening to gossip and not putting a stop to it. I don't even like some of the toxic thoughts that roll around in my head and I work on dumping them immediately.
• Spend time reading message boards. A friend alerted me to a drama that was unfolding on a scrap booking message board. I study conflict for a living so I had a clinical interest in this topic. Was I observed sickened me. The comments became very personal: a person's family was dragged in, a husband's business location was attacked, cursing and slurs were used in some of the messages, apologies were dissected, motives were guessed at and then treated as reality, venting turned into gossiping, cannibalistic behavior ensued as the writers turned on one another--you get the picture. Wow. I remembered why I don't care for message boards. See be around toxic people. This can include the virtual world.
• Use my tongue to hurt. This can so easily turn into a weapon of judgment. Yikes.
• Spend too many hours playing free cell or anything else that can be a hole.
• Do busy vs. productive work. Busy = flurry of activity, nothing to show for efforts. Productive = something to show for efforts.
• Use that hammock on the deck. Rocking back and forth in a hammock is the best comfort zone of all.
  
• Fail to write or verbalize appreciation. Consider: How many thank you notes does your minister get? Is there an older person who is easily forgotten? Are there kindnesses that are taken for granted?
• Not to have candles at dinner every night. My precious husband takes care of this each evening.

I need to go--I need to tell my great husband how much I appreciate him and then spend some time with him on the hammock...

A Case for the Mattress Tag Police

I know who's picture would be on "American's Most Wanted" if there was such a show for unsolved cases of the Mattress Tag Police.

I could count on one hand the number of really good night's sleep that I had gotten on our mattress. Could it be because the mattress was 25 years old? I know my husband likes to get his money's worth out of anything before he lets it go, but this was too much! This mattress was so old that our bodies sank into valleys and we had to "climb the mountain" if we ever wanted to snuggle. You would think this would be enough to talk my husband into getting another mattress. But noooo. I guess he likes a good challenge.

Then came the lucky day I did a workshop for a very small group. I did a lot of preparation and there were only 7 people in the association, but they were so nice, I couldn't complain. One of the participants told me she worked for a mattress company. True to my extraverted personality, I told the story about my pitiful mattress. She was horrified! She said that every single year she got a new mattress. I must have changed colors (probably mint or guacamole) because it was tough to keep the envy out of my face. She took pity on me and said that she had run out of people to put on her list. "What list?" I inquired. THE LIST in which she got to name friends and family to receive new mattresses. She asked me if I wanted to be on her friend list. I am known for my speed in making friends, but this had to be a new record. She said that we would have to pay for each piece and that it would amount to about $100.00 she mentioned with some embarrassment. "That's all??" I practically shouted and almost volunteered to clean her house for a year (fortunately I stopped myself--I am a poor housekeeper). She explained further that we would have to show up within 24 hours to claim our mattress when we got THE CALL that it was in. She encouraged us to go for top of the line. She didn't have to say much because I was worried that I wouldn't get to do this for another 25 years.

Then came THE DAY. The funniest part is that I was out of town and my husband had to hook up the trailer and drive up to the mattress factory. My new (and now most favorite) friend came out and greeted him. She then took him inside and announced to the ENTIRE factory that my husband slept on a mattress that was 25 years old. Boy, nothing like public humiliation. He was mildly ridiculed and ribbed about his inability to throw anything away. He sheepishly strapped in the mattress, paid the measly $106.00 (OK, there was sales tax), and returned home.

I was so excited when I got home! There were cute pictures of sheep on the mattress and I had to restrain myself from jumping on the bed. My husband kept saying he missed the old mattress. It was out on the porch. I told him he could sleep out there because I was tired of mountain climbing. He opted for the new mattress. Smart man. Case closed.

Cool Woman, Hot Day

Today I had the privilege of attending a funeral for a friend of mine who died this week. She is the same person whom I visited last week in Atlanta. I am so thankful that I went last Saturday to see her in her final hours. Her husband told me later that the prayers we offered up were heard. It just reminds me again that God is indeed listening.

On a lighter note, I made several observations as I reveled in the final celebration of my friend's life:

• All the women had cruel shoes. When we arrived at her house for the pre-funeral gathering (or "to pay our respects" as it is called in the South), every woman had her shoes off and were putting off as long as possible the moment when the toe crushers were donned in the name of fashion.
  
• There were hats. One of the things I admire is that some African American women wear really great hats.
  
• There was great food in the kitchen. Homemade. None of that fast food or pre-made cakes from the grocery store. People took time to make some home cooked goodies.
• We got to ride in a real funeral procession, complete with a policeman, headlights, and bright orange hang tags to put on our rear view mirrors with the word "FUNERAL" in bold letters. People actually pulled off to the side to let us by. Old time reverence.
• There was a little bit of the "I was really closer to her than you were" game that is often played at funerals as people jockeyed for positions on the status of their bloodline to my friend.
• The music was rocking! People hollered out the refrains, swayed in time, and unabashedly sang with gusto. It made me think just for a few minutes about changing churches.
• Because the church was so hot due to the overwhelming number of folks that showed up, the fans were pulled out. No, not the electric kind, but the old timey hand-powered church fans with advertisements on the back. Way cool.
  
• The program was unlike any other I had ever seen! There were pictures of my friend, her husband and her children throughout her life. Cute pictures of changing hairstyles, getting married, being pregnant. Hugs and smiles all around. This one is a keeper.
  
• The highlight was when a woman got up and talked about her husband dying last year. My friend, despite her declining health was there to help her grieve. She said she got a letter from my friend which said, "My husband and I will be there to help you with anything. PS: Stay away from my husband." We could all picture my friend saying that with a twinkle in her eye. It was really funny and showed my friend's sense of humor that will surely be missed.
• The eulogies, and there were a lot of them, were wonderful and everybody added different pieces that showed us all that we are joined by our love for our dear, departed sister/friend/wife/mother/daughter/all around great human being.
  

It was worth showing up on a hot day for a cool woman.

My Mother--My Pusher

When you look at a picture of my mom, what do you see? One of the kindest, most thoughtful women in the world? Don’t let her innocent look fool you. She has a dark side. She’s my pusher. No, I’m not talking about drugs or anything illegal although John may want to change that law)! We’re talking scrapbook coupons!

Each week, my most favorite piece of mail arrives, containing the Hobby Lobby or Michael’s coupon for 40% off or, on a really good week—50%!! She understands that I have a perpetual list of things I need to continue my beloved hobby. Ever since I was a kid, I was always thrilled to see her neat penmanship. She is left-handed, so learning how to write was tough. But in the age of “hurry up” she takes the time to write each letter precisely; no F’s in penmanship for her! She’s the reason I took such pride in my penmanship in grammar school, and won the award for “Best Penmanship.”

But, even though I love my coupons, what I love the most is seeing my mother’s handwriting, with

Sharon Lovoy

and my address written on the envelope. My mother doesn’t use computer labels; she takes the time to handwrite my name. Every time I open the mailbox and see that envelope, I picture Mom sitting at the table, cutting out coupons, just for me.

It makes me feel very special.

Thanks, Mom!!

A Human Being Not a Human Doing

Remember the days when we weren't so busy rushing around...the days of sitting on the front porch, in a rocker or swing, drinking lemonade or sweet tea, talking, laughing, telling stories...or just sitting watching the world go by?

One such place was my Granny Hood’s porch. When I think of her, that porch and all those wonderful, innocent days, are what I imagine.

She had a real porch swing, hung from the ceiling by giant springs that made creaky sounds as it swung back and forth with thin, green cushions Granny made. The porch also had an old, high backed rocker and a smaller metal chair that also rocked. Her porch was screened to keep out the bugs but allowed those wonderful summer breezes. The finishing touch was a wooden floor, painted battleship gray. When I was little, we went out on that porch to play, winter or summer, blazing heat or freezing cold.

A kid could be a kid. There was nothing there to break or stain or tear.

Long ago she knew that we needed a place where one could be a human being, not a human doing...and she gave us her porch and its enchanted swing.

For Cryin' Out Loud!

As we all know the three keys to human behavior are Awareness, Accountability and Action and that it comes down to Choices. In other words, making us AWARE of things we should be doing and things we should not be doing; holding us ACCOUNTABLE and making us responsible for the ACTIONS we take and the CHOICE we make. This, by the way is the Swiss Army Knife of Parenting, Time Management, Life Management, etc.

My sister and brother-in-law's children get this. They understand the rule that if you wake up and start crying in the morning, you have to go to bed 30 minutes earlier. Continue to cry after you have been warned and you will get another 30 minutes. Continue and you could even come home from school, go straight to bed, get to eat dinner for 15 minutes but you are in bed for the entire afternoon after school and then the night.

I spend a lot of time at my sister's house because I have a wonderful client in her city. I have watched her calmly exercise this penalty. She never raises her voice and cryin' gets you nowhere, except to bed. Therefore mornings are happy and fun at their house. It is a pleasing bustle of Andy Griffith (no cable for them!) or Christian rock music, coloring, reading, breakfasts made to order, lunches being made to order, getting dressed in the laundry room because clothes are organized there (another topic, another day), kisses and hugs all around (I even get this fringe benefit) and everyone is off to school.

This morning I would be in the category of having to go to bed early. After promising ourselves that we were going to hit the bed early, we went to bed after midnight. OK, I'm not crying, but I am complaining (the adult version of crying in the morning). I am going to self impose a penalty of going to bed 1 1/2 hours earlier tonight. Thanks, Sis!!

Out of Body Experience

I love Sundays. One of the reasons is that it is the one day of the week that I actually read most of the paper on the day it arrives. My husband John teases me that I read "USA Yesterday" instead of "USA TODAY." He is right everyday except Sunday. The first thing I do is retrieve the paper from the yard (dressed in who knows what and usually wearing John's shoes because mine are down in the basement near the car). The next step is to pare that monstrous paper down to size. Out with the classifieds, the job market stuff, and all the ads for the stores that we never visit. Our routine is that John gets the funnies and I get the rest. This is sort of the same measurement used for parceling out closet space. It's not that I don't share the paper; he just likes to look at it throughout the day. I fix my decaf Cafe Mocha (using a Starbucks recipe) and peruse everything.

Next we go to church. One of the reasons I love going to church because I love my choir. We stick with each other through thick and thin. It's like having extra brothers and sisters who can tease each other, have some minor tussles, but will defend each other.

Then starts my battle to stay in church. No, I'm not preparing to flee the building; I'm talking about keeping my attention right there in the building. Paying attention to the lush liturgy, enjoying the sermon that Fr. Ray has put together, and loving the lyrics to each piece of music. I have to fight the short attention span that is part of my personality. To combat this I take notes on the sermon and write a prayer list. I don't want any "out of body experiences" where my body is present but my mind has left and gone somewhere else.

Today my prayer list included a dear friend who has a brain tumor. John and I had the joy of spending yesterday with her. She kept thanking us for driving over to see her. But honestly we were the lucky ones. She knows that she doesn't have long, and we were privileged to get a long visit with her and her husband. I told her time and again how much she meant to me and we repeatedly said how much we loved each other. Her husband has been a real saint. He has obviously honored his vows of "in sickness and in health." Great couple, great day, bittersweet day. I guess I wasn't successful in staying in church after all because my mind kept drifting back to my dear friend. I think God would understand. Going to Atlanta was worth it. You have to be present to win. Amen.