Go To Prom! Get To Church!

Dear Hubby, my John,  and I were teenagers when we first met  at Junior Achievement.  Junior Achievement was an organization, or kind of club, sponsored by local businesses that got kids together in groups of about 15 to create a company complete with product, production, selling, and management like a president and a treasurer.

John, back then, had almost blonde curly hair to his shoulders, and would pal around with two other boys always smiling and laughing and willing to participate in whatever was going on.

One of his pals asked me to a sock hop dance.  We liked each other but never really wanted to date after that, no romantic spark.

His friend suggested that John take me to prom.  He even joined John’s mom  in her push.  She was a “no ifs, ands, or buts about it” kind of lady,  She told him,  “You WILL go to prom.”  and promptly made a trunkload of snacks for the after prom trip to Kings Island!

******

Before prom, my family and I came home to find John “just a-swinging” on our front porch.  We said we were sorry but we couldn't stop to visit because we were headed to Wednesday night church meeting.  “You can come along.”  

“I can’t, in these blue jeans and tennis shoes,” And he slightly kicked up one shoed foot as evidence.

“Nobody cares, it doesn’t matter to anyone, just come on and go.”  And he did.  Our church is very humble, and seriously, nobody cared.  We're all friendly down-to-earth people.

Outside the church, on the sidewalk, Deacon JP made him feel welcome – patted him on the back while introducing himself.  Inside the church, Uncle Carl made him feel welcome, too.  It was a friendly moment he retells fondly.

He and I walked down the aisle.  Since he was new I picked the seat, right side, halfway up.   I guess he was expecting the family to sit with us.

Here I must tell you that I have 2 sisters, and 3 brothers, besides my mother, and father.  My father was a big boned man -- about 6 foot tall with big hands, all muscle, and deep voice.  His wedding ring would circle a quarter.  He would never hit us, he said, because he could cold cock us,  knock us out with one blow.  It was true; we believed him.  

Down the aisle Dad kept walking.

John watched as Dad didn't sit with the family, he walked all the way up the aisle, stepped past the podium, and sat down in the bishop’s seat.

John got bug-eyed, and shocked, “I’m dating the preacher’s daughter!”

Busing Kids, Stories Three!

Kay, 1st grader, big sis to Drew, came up to sit in the front seat on Darling Hubby's bus.  The kids have assigned seating but she asked permission to sit behind the bus driver because her buddy Jane wasn't there that day.  That put her near her little kindergarten brother with whom she doesn't get along.  

Little brother, Drew, stands up so Darling Hubby, the bus driver, can hear him.  He announces loudly, "My big sister's in juvie."   Of course, he means she's in a detention center for juvenile delinquents.

Immediately, Kay raises her voice in outrage, "You're not supposed to tell!  Now, the bus driver and the whole bus knows.  Mom told you not to tell!"

These two are something else.

Drew, Kay's little brother later tells Darling Hubby, "I had a good breakfast.  And coffee."

Just like before, Kay set the record straight, "Liar, liar, pants on fire!"  "Mom and Dad don't let you drink coffee!"

John, Darling Hubby, says, "Drew, you look like an OJ and milk guy to me."
Drew concurs, "I eat healthy.  I like water, too."

Then his friend, Toby, sitting nearby tells Drew, "I have an extra Dr. Pepper, you want one?"  "Sure," replies Drew with excitement.

John, with twinkling blue eyes, responds, "Drew!  I thought you liked water!"

Drew turns to Toby with decisiveness, "You can keep your Dr. Pepper!"

John tells me, "Loyalty doesn't go past his little lips."

John, 2nd year bus driver, now carries a bag of many bags!  Why?  Because this one Wednesday he only had 6 barf bags but 8 sick kids, so you can imagine the mess.  

That afternoon he was steam cleaning his bus because of throwing up sick kids...well, he was swinging the wand of steam from left to right on the floor and accidentally went across his right big toe!  Oh no!  Immediately, a big blister raised on top, and a bigger blister raised on the tip of his toe.  

The bus was such a mess that two bus barn mechanics came out and lifted the front end up.  This let DH hose it ALL out the back door!!!!

His bus was infamous for a week!  

Not A Boo Boo

What a mess!  

Down the hall there's a bathroom, and 2 spare rooms one of which has been lightly peppered with kid toys.  The walls have the grandkids handprints on them.  There's a few toys on a bottom bookshelf.  And tucked under the bed is a ball pit.

The ball pit is a cloth fold away container (construction much like a springy fold up kids tunnel).  The ball pit's about 3 feet across and is full of little plastic red, blue, green, yellow, orange, and pink balls.  Gobs of them!

This had been a favored toy EVERY time toddlers come over.  Clean up time includes retrieving every one of those little balls that has been pitched with glee out of the pit.  It's safe and it keeps them entertained for hours.  They think its funny to hide other toys amongst the balls.  And they try to slide into the pit from nearby furniture before getting quickly curtailed by an adult.

Sunday, the 4 y.o. boy, and the 3 and 1 y.o. girls were playing back there when the boy came scurrying into the living room stuttering, and a sharp squeal followed him from down the hall.  I went rushing to discover the reason.  Here's me side-stepping, high-stepping, navigating the balls in the hall, rounding the Cozy Coupe, and breathing sharply stopping in the doorway.  "Lilly!  Are you all right?"


The ball pit is totally empty, I know because it's now upside down, and there's a little moving knob of evidence of Lilly's head from underneath.  "Lilly!  Are you all right?  Are you crying?"

Very sweetly in a sing-song carefree voice, "I'm not crying.  I'm happy."

Shew, I swipe a brow.


The mess got worse!

I had gone upstairs to check on darling hubby who was sick.  The toddlers' mothers were busy chatting and crocheting as each is expecting in the fall.  Pregnancy makes them less quick on their feet.  Those statements explain how the toddler's "got away with murder".  The murder of my little cactus.

Who would touch a cactus anyway!?
A boy!  That's who!

Fisher Price Little People Barn contents - horses, sheep, tractor, farmer, trough, fences, and many more - were mixed with ball pit balls, and dirt.  Yep, dirt.  The boy had partially dumped my cactus on the bed.  The pot wasn't very big, less than 4 inches across, but nothing was interesting or eye catching about it, so why?  Maybe the farmer ran out of dirt.

Adult women bossing kids cleaned up the mess.  Under the beds went the broom handle, over the side table swiped a wet cloth, and throughout the room buzzed the vacuum.

After all was done, and I was getting a refreshing drink of tea in the kitchen, it dawned on me...we never did find that little sprig of a cactus!  Sigh.


Aftermath of a mess.

The 1 y.o. girl was fussing sitting on one of the orange blanketed beds.  "Ah, what's the matter?"  She points to two red marks on her ankle.  I'm thinking she's come into contact with that vanishing cactus somehow.  "My boo boo hurts."

I reach down to gently touch it.  Could there be an abrasion?  Is there a stuck nettle?

As I'm gently investigating, she says, "It not feel better."

Curiously, there's nothing.  I put a little spit on a fingertip and apply swiping action.  The red spots start disappearing, one final rub, and both spots are gone.

So are her whimpers.  With babyfied calm she says, "Oh.  It's not a boo boo."

Disaster averted.  Breath of relief!

Just like a snap of a finger, magically, she'd quit crying!

Of All Things Deviled - EGGS!

No names have been used to protect the non-innocent, and henceforth, we shall speak of eggs; and of all things eggy, only those that are deviled!

Let's begin with pitch-in dinners at church.  Deviled eggs can come from the little old lady who only makes a saucerful.  She's learned to cook for two, herself and dear hubby.  She's done her part.  Teenage boys can whimper with hunger!

Then there's the old-fashioned country farm cook, the one that says her recipes are handed down from her mother, from her mother's mother, and from the women on the ark!  Of course, they're sprinkled with paprika and sprout a sprig of mint!

Then there's the gourmet chef, the one that cut zig zags into the edges so they could lock like a finger puzzle, the one that squirts the filling in with a beauteous squeeze of her icing bag to make a perfect flower print on each waiting half.

Then there's me.  Boil, crack, cut, whip to mix, fill, display, devour.  Two dozen at a time.  Let's not be pretentious here -- a deviled egg is a deviled egg and it's a delicious one bite wonder!  "Two to go, please!"

Yep, I secretly dearly love deviled eggs and would eat the one that tore because it wasn't the least bit presentable, oh so tasty.  And it was a wonder to behold when I realized that maybe, just maybe, there was someone else out there that loved 'em as much as I.

He was tall, he was muscular, he was broad, he was dark haired, he was happy, he was my teenaged son's best friend, and when he went through line to fill his plate at the church dinner, his eye caught my eye as that FIRST deviled egg slid into his mouth and his lips closed over, and his eyes twinkled with merry devilment while his fingers reached to put two more on his plate.  Gulp!  Evidence gone!

But there was a moment of discord, dare I say tragedy, in the timeline of my life when my deviled eggs were doctored.

I had the yolks all smashed and the ingredients mixed in and had turned my back when a visiting old lady decided it needed something.  By her sons she was called "The Queen of Substitutions".  As I turned back around she quickly tried to hide the bottle of Ranch Dressing.  Insult!

Lately, though, I received the greatest compliment of all time.

We were preparing for a cookout for Memorial Day, a long three day weekend for most people, when my youngest son brought his girlfriend over, "Mom, would you show her how you make your deviled eggs?"

"They're the best."

Well, I'll be deviled!  My sons dearly love 'em, too!

Infiltration of Little People

Little People, a girl, a boy, and a baby, entered our sons lives first, then ours.

Immediately, they stole our hearts, and we capitulated, "Awwwww."

Then they toddled on 2 feet and said "Nana" not as endearment but as in "We want your bananas!"

After two of them reached doorknob height, they quietly forayed into the bathroom and discovered our toothbrushes, they returned to the living room to bare their pearly whites and declare, "Teef clean!"

But all was held in the balance when the youngest put together two awe inspiring words; breaths were held, women were askance, men mentally bowed to her intelligence when with a Vanna White grin the one year old patted her padded rear end and bragged, "I farted."

Finally, we knew without a drop of doubt that all was lost when we located their misplaced shoes -- the granddaughter's first, then days later the kinship care boy's --  sitting left beside right, purposely parked next to Grandpa's on the shoe shelf.

Little People!  They decided.  They planted their flags.  They're here to stay.

Planting Dandelions

"They were here!"

I knew it.  I knew they'd been in my house while I was gone.

Little cars here, milk messes there, dino findings under the couch, evidences of an ouchie, and from-home-toys left behind, all proclaim the truth about the toddlers previous presence, "They were here."

And I'm sure being little toddlers tied to their car seats,  it was a long destination for Jayden and Miss Lilly, to arrive at our house, after all, they can't see anything out those windows except passing telephone poles and a few billboards.

Remember those maps on the wall of the visitor centers where you stopped for a rest along the interstate during a long drive to your vacation's destination?  The buildings were usually of brick, and the wall map always had a pin to draw your eyes with "You are here!" written in big red letters.

Well, my eyes are drawn to last nights ravages; little evidences of little people, "They were here!"

***
In case you don't know how my house is laid out, I can stand in the kitchen, look over the pony wall, across the family room to see whoever is standing at the sliding glass doors on the deck outside.  Well, adults I can see.  Children and pets I can not see unless I reposition myself.

One day, "Knock, knock, knock" I hear, and it's a quick happy knock but not adult-loud.  At first I thought, "What is that?"  Brain kicks into gear,  "Sounds like knocking on glass."
So I step from behind the pony wall looking to all the doors to see if I can catch a glimpse of something or someone, when I spy little 3 y.o. Jayden.  He's grinning happily, clutching his jacket slung over his arm, face pressed against the glass trying to see in, and pecking at the glass with his other hand.

I opened the door and he says, "Hi.  It's me!"  I'm laughing now because I sure do know him.  He's still talking, "Pa-em?  I love you."

Ah, my heart gets all soggy sweet.

***

Just the other day when Jayden came to visit he brought nothing except his jacket.  So out came the toys.  First the red trike.  While I cleared a path, he took off.  "Pa-em", he called.  And, let me tell you I don't know how he says my name.  It starts out sounding like Pam, but it ends up sounding like pen as in ink pen, it seems like 2 syllables but he says 'em snappy together as one, really fast, something like "Pa-em."

"I found white ball.  I need a hole."
So I get the bulb planter and make a hole.  Jayden gets pouty, points to the cement pad under his feet, and insists, "Right here."  I had to laugh at his thinking I could dig a hole in concrete.  He's so innocent.

While I put the bulb planter back in the garage, he spies a red handled tool and scuttles out of the garage into the fenced yard, plops on the ground and starts digging.   WITH A SCREWDRIVER he digs!!!!  Many holes!  I tell you, he dug a bunch of holes.  I just kept my eye on that screwdriver.  If I didn't, hard telling when and where I'd find it next.  I know this.  Six boys later it's something I know.

This Jayden works hard.  After triking, playing with the kitties, swinging a golf club at the white ball 20 times, swinging in the tree, building towers out of buckets, and digging holes, I knew he worked hard.  In the end, he plucked two gossamer dandelions and planted them both into one hole.  "Look, Pa-em, look!"

The world needs more dandelions, right?
Well, it does need more innocent dandelion planters.

If for no other reason than to say "I was here."

"Can't walk" with The Pirate

“I can’t walk,” said Jay.

“Come on, Jay.”  I said as we got out of the truck.  I trudged through a ridge of snow formed on Mary’s sidewalk. 

He replied, “I can’t walk.”

I looked back and he was doing okay, carrying his hat and gloves, wearing snowsuit and snow boots. He was following happily like a trailing puppy.

“You’re doing fine, just follow my foot prints.”

It was noon, time to take Jay to Mary Ann’s house.  We’d babysat this 3 y.o. foster child of Rusty’s all morning, so at noon we’d planned to take him next door.   Here in Indiana we’d just suffered negative degree weather with power outages, and there was lots of snow piled around.  Jay was struggling but managing all right.

Next thing I knew, Jay called, “Mar-ry.”

I said, “She can’t hear you, honey.  She’s inside her house.”

I just had to laugh ‘cause this little tyke was funny, he informed me with a nodding head,   “I vwery woud.” then raised his voice, A LOT, and YELLED, at the top of his lungs,  “MAR-REEEEE!”  

I chuckled.  Earlier he had me laughing, too.

“Pirates!” I heard Jay’s upset voice. 

“There’s a pirate,” he said adamantly to me.

“He has a sword.”  And he nodded his head for emphasize.

“I don’t like sword.”  It took me a minute to figure out what on earth he was talking about, when I did figure it out, I reassured him that yes, it was a pirate, but it was just a figurine, like some of his toys.

He had pointed to the top of the 6 foot tall cabinet in the bathroom where John’s 10-inch ceramic pirate stands proudly on a wooden peg leg, with a hand on his hip, a sword stabbed into the ground, and a black tricorn hat set crookedly to show his black patched eye.

“I don’t like pirates.”

I said soothingly, “But he’s a good pirate.”

Evidently  he didn’t think I was taking him seriously enough. He just wasn’t getting through to me. He left and went to the kitchen and told John all about it, “He’s a BAD pirate!”   “He a monster!  BAD!”

Well, really, you can’t dispute that.  I made him walk and Pirates make ya walk, too.  “Walk the plank, m’heartie!”  Someone’s always making you walk when you can’t.  “Monster! Bad!”