This post is revived from five years ago. I decided it was time to share our story, again.
There we are... ages three and one. Aren't we cute?
Eighteen years ago, my brother, "Bubba," was diagnosed with erythroleukemia. He was 17 years old.
Erythroleukemia is a rare type of leukemia that accounts for only 3-5% of new acute myelogenous leukemia (AML) cases. It differs from most forms of leukemia in that it affects the red blood cells, rather than the white.
Although we were different blood types (he was O+ and I was A+), testing showed that our chromosomal match was close enough for me to donate bone marrow for my brother.
You may have heard that donating bone marrow is a painful process. I won't lie. You heard right.
When I came out of my general anesthesia-induced sleep, I felt like the victim of a blanket party. My hipbones were literally black and blue from the pressure exerted upon them to withdraw the marrow.
I'm not sharing these details to make me look like a hero.
The real hero was several floors above me, receiving 850 ccs of my bone marrow through a Hickman line. (He was so hip he had a "triple Hick," with three tubes, so he could get the orange Kool-aid colored chemo mix, a blood cocktail and a beer, all at the same time.)
On the pain scale, I rank donating bone marrow with giving birth. It's the kind of pain that I never thought twice about because the result was so valuable. Sure, it may be uncomfortable for a few days or even a few weeks... but what would you sacrifice to possibly save a life?
My brother's blood type is now the same as mine (A+). Our blood DNA is the same. If you placed blood samples from each of us side-by-side and examined the DNA structure, they would be identical.
I've had eighteen more years with my brother because I was a viable match for a life-saving bone marrow transplant. He truly is my hero, and I love him more than I can say.
Would you do the same for someone who needed a bone marrow transplant? Would you be more inclined to do so if it didn't cost you anything?
Be the Match Registry (formerly known as the National Marrow Donation Program (NMDP) Registry) provides marrow typing and registry, which can match you with a recipient to potentially save a life. The online registration process consists of a few basic questions. Once you apply, the Registry will send you a cheek swab kit to complete and send back for typing so that you may be added to the Registry and matched with potential recipients.
Please, consider registering. You may save a life... I did.
If you'd prefer not to register or are unable to because of medical conditions that prohibit your registration, please consider making a donation to the Registry. It costs about $100 to add an individual to the registry, and the program ends up providing about half the cost. Contributions are necessary to grow the Registry and find matches for those needing life-saving bone marrow transplants.
My brother is my hero. Will you be someone's hero?
Please comment to let me know when you join. Time is running out for some recipients. I'd love to celebrate your decision with you!
If you have the ability, please share this post on your own blog or social media account (click on "Share This" below this post) or email the link to your contacts. Let's see how many people we can get to register in the next 60 days!
I'll leave you with my favorite photo of my brother and me, taken in 2000 - four years post-transplant:
See the comments section for news on how people are helping. Please pass on any action you take or hear of so that I may add it! Thank you!
“It rattles, shakes and knocks,” I said to my brother, Bubba. “I’m almost afraid to drive it.”
“So, it runs like a car with 280,000 miles on it?”
“No. We refer to 280,000 miles as ‘the good old days,’” I sighed.
Big Green came to us about seven years ago. She had more miles on her than we’d like, but she started, she ran, and she accommodated enough cabooses for our giant clan. Considering I’d just rolled our family van in a three-flip horror, Big Green was in considerably better shape than our other car.
Now, she shimmies and clangs like a two-ton belly dancer. The dash lights went out a couple years ago, and because Mr. Wright deemed removing the dashboard to fix the bulb too problematic, I now use a flashlight propped on top of the steering column to check the speedometer. The back window doesn’t properly close anymore, so we have a rag stuffed into the latching mechanism to keep the interior light from staying on – or would, if the interior light worked.
A family of four could be fed from the scraps and crumbs of French fries, potato chips, dry cereal and assorted other snack foods wedged into the cracks and between the seats. We could probably create a small island with the mud caked on the headlights – which, by the way, we can’t wash because we have a low beam out, and the dirt is masking the fact that we’re driving around with our brights on all the time.
Vehicle maintenance is not a gift the Gonzos possess.
Big Green is getting on in years. She has a ton of miles on her, and she’s held together mostly by prayer. She doesn’t look as great as she used to. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m responsible for the big scratch on the rear panel. I just haven’t confessed to Mr. Wright yet that I backed into the fence around the pool. He was pretty upset at the thought of a stranger doing the damage in a parking lot, so I’m not sure how he’d react to his beloved bride proving to be the culprit.
Like Big Green, I’m getting older. I’d like to say I’m aging gracefully, but really, I’m just aging. My odometer keeps ticking, and some days I, too, am held together by stubbornness and prayer. The mirror reports I don’t look as great as I did ten years ago – though Mr. Wright swears I look better.
As beat-up and sad as our old rig is, Mr. Wright isn’t making plans for trading her in. He has this funny idea about getting a full lifetime out of things. Thankfully, he feels the same way about marriage. I’d hate to see him driving around in a new, sporty convertible. Know what I mean?
Friday night, the Gonzos were supposed to have dinner at my parents' house. It was a Big Deal, because we were going to meet my older sister for the first time, ever. In spite of this event being a Big Deal, we were running late, as usual.
At 5:42, I texted Mom, asking her what time dinner was, even though she'd already told me fifty times, and I'd forgotten as many times, like it wasn't actually a Big Deal at all, but maybe just a casual get-together that let people drop by whenever they gosh darned well felt like it.
Dinner, Mom texted back, was at 6:00. Mom lives 45 minutes away. We were still at home. All of us, that is, except Mr. Wright, who was taking advantage of the free wi-fi at the store on the hill to finish up some work.
My mother has superpowers. In fact, she is the only person I know who can actually audibly express her disapproval and disappointment via a cheery text message: That's ok! We'll just wait 4 u! the text said.
But that wasn't what she meant.
Nope. I know Mom well enough to actually hear, This is a Big Deal, and u r late. Get ur ass over here, pronto, young lady.
I, in turn, texted Mr. Wright: U need 2 come home now. He knows me (and my mom) well enough to hear: Mom's on my case about us being late. This is a Big Deal, u know! he returned: Pick me up on the way.
I pulled into the parking lot of the little store on the hill, urging Mr. Wright to get into the car, NOW, and peeled out, headed for Mom's. Dinner really was a wonderful Big Deal. My big sister is amazingly cool, and there's a whole big long story about why we haven't met until now, but I'll save it for another time. We stayed too long and drove back home too late.
So late, in fact, that we didn't remember to pick our car up at the little store on the hill.
I woke up Saturday morning, looked out the window, and exclaimed, "Shit! Someone stole our car!" Then, I remembered we'd left it at the little store, laughed at myself, and instructed Mr. Wright to drive me to the little store on the hill, where I exclaimed, "SHIT! Someone REALLY stole our car!"
It's not a nice car, readers. In fact, it looks like this:
But even crappier. And filled with the junk that mommies of seven kids fill their cars up with. So, why would anyone want to steal it, right?
Anyway, we called it in, updated our Facebook statuses (because that's what you do when stuff happens, right?), and realized we were gonna have to spend a whole lot of gas money to get me to my book signing in Woodinville Saturday in our petro-guzzling Expedition.
But then, (gratitude alert!) our neighbors, who saw our whining Facebook statuses, offered up their much more fuel-efficient car for me to get to my book signing. How cool is that? Seriously, I've got the best neighbors! (I actually baked dinner rolls last night and took some over while they were still warm, to say thank you, but my health-conscious neighbor has rules about carbs, so he only took one, and Mr. Wright ate the rest while we visited on the porch.)
I called Second Cup of Coffee, because that's what we locals do when we lose something, right? We call Second Cup and ask people to find it. I asked people to be on the lookout for a crappy Honda with a WSU sticker in the back. You'd be amazed how many cars around here match that description, but none of them happened to be mine.
So, we set off for my book signing at Edmonds Winery, grateful for the loaner but bummin' about our Honda. On the way, Mr. Wright asked me to put in a CD, and I selected Tree63, because I wanted to hear this song, to remind me that we should praise the Lord, even when things suck:
Mr. Wright put the song on repeat, and it became our anthem for the day. I was going to praise the Lord, no matter what. I began praying that the Lord would move on the hearts of the bandits who took our car, and that He would give me a spirit of gratitude for the things He has given me, and a spirit of forgiveness, so I could just let Him deal with the thugs.
My book signing was awesome, and I met some wonderful people, sold a few books, reunited with a couple of my favorite author mamas (Corbin Lewars and Monica LeMoine), and stopped off to visit an old friend in Seattle, who blessed us with some of his awesome jam, jalapeño relish and plum chile sauce. It was a good day, even though my car was stolen.
We got home at around 10:30pm, dropped the car off to the neighbors, and jumped into our Expedition to head into town to meet up with some gals Mr. Wright hadn't seen since high school. We were about two miles from town when we ran out of gas.
Yup. It was that kind of day.
Mr. Wright was near tears. He said, "Lord, could I just have a little bit of mercy? Just a little bit?" Then, he grabbed the gas can, said, "I'm walking to the gas station. Then, I'm most likely gonna get drunk. You can come with, if you want."
Hmmm... Walk two miles to town in stilettos, or sit on a dark highway in a car that won't start?
I got out of the car and locked it up, following Mr. Wright up the road. We weren't 50 feet from the rig before a bright yellow Camaro, pimped out with a big spoiler and lots of chrome, pulled over. The driver opened the door and said, "You guys need a ride?"
I didn't even care if he was a psycho killer. I just knew I wasn't going to walk two miles and back in stilettos.
He took us to the nearest gas station, where Mr. Wright filled the gas can. As we were getting into the Camaro, a Chelan County deputy pulled into the parking lot. I resisted the urge to lean out the window and yell, "Hey, Buddy! Go find my stolen car!" Our rescuer pulled out into traffic, heading back toward our rig and its empty gas tank. As we drove away, I coulda sworn I saw our car drive by the gas station, but I didn't want to be the crazy lady, imploring the stranger who picked us up to "flip a bitch" in the middle of the road and chase down a car that probably just looked like ours but wasn't, in fact.
So, I said nothing.
We put the gallon of gas in the car, and drove back to the same gas station to fill up. The deputy was gone by that time, and Mr. Wright and I were more than ready to join his high schoool chums for a drink. Or ten.
We'd just pulled into the Cantina when Mr. Wright's phone rang. It was Chelan County Sheriff's dispatcher, who said they'd recovered our stolen car! Did we want them to tow it? Heck no, we didn't want them to tow it. We don't have that kind of money, for crying out loud! Where was it? It was about three miles down the road, pulled over in front of three patrol cars, each with a juvenile in custody.
"Hey, weren't you guys just in a yellow Camaro?" asked one of the deputies. Yeah, that was us. "And wasn't that Expedition just sitting on the side of the highway?" Yeah, that was ours.
Okay, you guys are gonna pee your pants when I tell you how it all went down...
The same deputy had followed our Honda on Friday night and run the plates. Of course, it wasn't a stolen car then. Well, it was a stolen car, but it hadn't been reported as stolen yet. It just came up with our name, and it was headed toward Manson on Highway 150.
Saturday night, he drove past our out-of-gas Expedition, taking note of the license plate. He then drove a couple miles up the road, off the dark roadside, to run the plate number. He was driving by the gas station, saw the pimped out yellow Camaro, and pulled in to get a better look at it. As the Camaro left, he recognized a Honda driving by as the one he'd run the plates on the night before.
A moment after that, he got a call from his dispatcher, informing him that the plate he'd run on the Honda the night before had just come through the system as stolen. Hey! he must have thought. I just saw that car go by!
Remembering that the car had been headed to Manson the night before, he took off in that direction, and apprehended the perps a few miles down the road.
If we wouldn't have run out of gas, the deputy wouldn't have been at the gas station running our plates. If we wouldn't have been picked up by a bright yellow, pimpin' Camaro, the deputy wouldn't have chosen the gas station to pull over to run said plates. And, of course, if he hadn't been at the gas station, he wouldn't have seen our car go by, right before he was advised that it was stolen.
Is that amazing, or what?
My GPS unit was missing, but everything else seemed to still be there. Plus, the three young joyriders (15, 16 and 17) were kind enough to leave us a little "something" behind - a glass pipe and a bag of weed.
Anyone wonder where my GPS unit went? (We gave that stuff to the deputies, by the way.)
So, anyway, with much effort and prayer, I remained faithful, and the Lord gave me my car back. I think that's something to be grateful for, don't you?
Ordinarily, I try to ignore them. I tend to adopt a "live and let live" principle, and I've even been known to opine weeds are just flowers that no one wants. Unfortunately, Mr. Wright does not share my opinions.
So, this morning, I took an antihistamine and ventured out to the jungles of the flower beds.
Sometimes the Lord blesses you with abundant crops and fragrant blooms; sometimes he blesses you with weeds. I learned several lessons from the little green demons this morning:
From the weeds I'm sure I pulled before: Persistence.
From the weeds with deep, deep roots: Sometimes, getting the job done means getting my hands dirty.
From the weeds with sticker-y barbs: Look out for yourself, and don't surrender easily to defeat.
From the weeds growing among the intended ornamental grasses and shrubs: We CAN all live together. (Of course, I was out there, ripping them up by their roots - but the lesson was still valid.)
Also from the weeds growing among the intended plants: Don't be afraid to surround yourself with greatness, and consider yourself worthy of greatness in your own right.
From the weeds that refused to release their roots, but broke off at ground level: Don't give up! I may feel broken, but as long as my faith remains rooted in fertile soil, I can grow to be strong again.
I spent the summer of 1994 in the library at Fairchild Air Force Base, where Pockets's dad was stationed, because I was 19 years old, enormously pregnant, and on a quest to read every book on pregnancy and childbirth that the United States military saw fit to stack on its shelves.
Plus, the library was air-conditioned.
I read about preterm births. I read about birth defects. I taught myself Lamaze. I read What to Expect When You're Expecting enough times to not expect anything at all, and Birth After Cesarean - even though I knew I'd never be pregnant again, no matter how the kid came out. Some of the books were downright terrifying, with entire chapters written solely to keep me awake at night, worrying myself into a case of hemorrhoids. Those were the "syndrome" chapters. Down's Syndrome. Fragile X Syndrome. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Floppy Infant Syndrome...
One night, Pockets's dad came home to find his wife, curled around her beachball of a stomach, sobbing. "What if the baby is autistic?" I hiccupped through tears.
"Even worse," he countered, "what if the baby is artistic?"
My list of worries was long, and included:
The baby could be born early. (About two weeks past my due date, I remembered this fear with great fondness.)
The baby could fail to develop a hand or a foot. Later, after a particularly bad dream brought on by a combination of nectarines, Swiss cheese and jalepenos on Melba toast, I became convinced the baby would be born without a nose.
The baby could be abducted by aliens for biological research or, conversely, wasn't even my baby but an alien experiment growing in the petri dish that was my uterus. (Everyone worries about this, right? I'm not alone... right?)
The baby could look like that guy from Mask.
After watching Alex: The Life of a Child, I was sure the baby would have cystic fibrosis.
After watching the Adam Walsh story, I began to wonder why I was even going through this prenancy to birth a child that would be abducted and murdered, anyway.
Pockets's dad disconnected the television and revoked my library card.
Pockets was born, albeit nearly a month late, without complications. He was a beautiful, fully-formed newborn with a healthy scream and a nonstop appetite. I've been smothering him ever since.
Perhaps it's the result of having a worrier for a mom, but Pockets has not, traditionally, been a brave child. Maybe hearing "What if you get hurt?" "Don't touch that - you don't know where it's been!" and "Don't let anyone steal you!" over and over again during his formative years made him overly cautious.
Then again, this is a kid who held out for three and a half weeks past my due date to venture into the world, so maybe Nature wins over Nurture in this particular case. Suffice it to say Pockets has not been the most fearless child I've ever known.
He entered kindergarten a full year early with a tested vocabulary of twelve and a half years. Although he easily held his own academically, he was younger and smaller than the kids in his social circle, and I began to wonder if I'd made the right decision in petitioning for his early entry to school.
When he played on his first tee-ball team, his age and lack of physical maturity showed. The other kids had an entire year of running, throwing and catching on him, and some of the kids had athletically gifted parents who pitched balls to them in the backyard, elevating them to mini Ichiros who didn't need no stinkin' tee when batting.
Poor Pockets. He had a mom whose greatest athletic ability was running up and down the stairs of the restaurant she waited tables at, and - on a good day - not falling on her face.
He was such a beautiful, strange child; sensitive and creative, slight and undeveloped.
My first lesson in letting my kid grow wings and risk falling came during a teeball matchup with a team of steroid-injected first-graders (THEIR moms clearly let them drink the bovine growth hormone milk) coached by a Lou Piniella clone. "My kids don't use a tee," he scoffed, "but if your kids want to, we won't object."
Twelve little first-grade heads huddled with their coach - Pockets included. "Our kids won't use a tee either," announced our coach.
"Are you sure?" I cried. I pulled Pockets aside. "Honey, I know you've never hit a pitch before, and I don't want you to feel pressured. The name of this game is teeball, and if you want to use the tee, you needn't be embarrassed."
Pockets shook his head. "Mom, I can do this."
I held my breath as he got up to bat. The coach pitched the ball. Pockets swung, and missed. Another pitch; another miss. As the third pitch was released, I prepared my best "Good try, Pockets!" as he swung... and made contact.
Base hit!
This year, Pockets earned his first football letter, along with his team's Most Improved award. He turned out for track this spring, even though Driver's Ed got him up at 5:30 every morning. Then, he came home a few weeks ago and announced he's going to enroll in college next year, weeks before his 16th birthday.
"What about football?" I asked. "What about track? You'll need to be preparing for the SATs pretty soon, and..."
"Mom, I can do this," he assured me.
And really, I know he can.
I dropped Pockets off this morning to take his placement tests for Running Start. If all goes well, he'll be entering college at the same time he begins his junior year of high school.
Today, I am grateful for a kid who, in spite of having a mother who eats What If for breakfast and washes it down with a double shot of I'm Not So Sure About That, has become fearless.
Photos: 1) Pockets and Mama gun down bogeys at the National Air and Space Museum - armed and dangerous (and our fingers are loaded, too!) 2) The dynamic duo goofs off in a Metro tunnel 3) Pockets, in football mode (c) Parson's Photography
Did y'all know I've written a little poetry in my time?
Well, I have. You can stop laughing, now.
The thing is, I never had a gift for rhymed verse, though I wanted to. I totally wanted to rock that ABAB or ABBA or ABCBA rhyming scheme, but I actually sucked at it. I like to think I made up for it with my free verse, but only my English teachers and the few editors who actually published my poetry will ever know the truth.
My great-grandmother, though - she's amazing. She's darn near 100 years old and she can spout off verses she wrote sixty years ago. From memory. We should all be so blessed when we're nearing a century on this planet.
While tidying up my bookshelves today, I came across a slim pamphlet titled Madison Cutter Association Sixth Annual Winter Carnival: Saturday, February 14, 1970 - 12:00 PM. The cover features a photo of the championship team. I couldn't help but smile at the find, for two reasons: First, my great-grandpa Charlie was a cutter racer. I knew his name would be found inside the program as one of the racers. Second, Great-grandma Nellie was the cutter association secretary and poet laureate, so I know I'd find one of her written treasures inside.
I wasn't disappointed.
What is cutter racing? Go ahead; you can ask. Don't be shy. Cutter racing looks something like Roman chariot racing, but with weird little one-man open carts. Great-grandpa Charlie bred and raced horses for this foolhardy sport, and Great-grandma provided the color commentary with her writing.
Inside my antique program I found two poems attributed to Great-grandma. Dear Granny has macular degeneration, so she can't see that I'm going to share them with you, here. Let me preface the sharing by saying that I'm as protective of her copyright as I am of mine, so enjoy, but there will be positively no stealing - if you know what's good for you. That being said, here we go:
Cutter Fever
When the wind is getting chilly, and there's snow and fog and frost -- There's a bug or virus comes to life, and cutter men are lost.
They get the chariots and harnesses out and oil and clean them up, And start trying out their horses to pick the very top.
They meet in Associations and start setting up the rules, So that every man will know them and when to pay their dues!
A day is set and agreed upon for the racing season's start. And every driver feels elation and quick beating of the heart.
"Will I go to World Meeting," is what every mind will say, "or be eliminated as we race each Saturday?"
No day too cold or snowy for these NUTS who cutter race, And you wonder how men and animals can stand the grueling pace!
Then when it's finally over and the finals have been run, And the trophies are awarded, then we know it's all been fun.
All the drivers that were losers make a promise to their pride, "Next year I'll get some horses to take me to World Wide!"
(c) Nellie Hall 1970
A Cutter Racer's Prayer
God grant that I could own a team A snappy pair of colts, That can run their race in 23.0 And never try to bolt.
I'd have them with a nerve of steel But gentle as a lamb, If I could have a team like that I wouldn't give a damn.
When I put the harness on To race and go out on the track, I'd want another picture For my winning picture rack.
I think the sire should have some 3 bars blood Or Joe Reed or maybe Dial With a record on the Dams side That is bulky in their file.
I'd like to win each race I run To put me at the top So that when the World Wide Days are held, I wouldn't have to stop.
I'd like to win a few there, too, And I would be so proud; A trophy would be nice, dear Lord, While we pose before the crowd.
This is my prayer to you, Lord And don't think me out of line; I'd settle for some horses That win part of the time.
I'm pleased to report that I got a haircut and did not walk out of the salon, cringing. The barber wasn't in, though, so the 'stache remains:
Just kidding. I was feeling a bit left out at Cantina's second annual Mustache Fiesta. I didn't win the mustache contest. Our good friend, MC, did. And why wouldn't he, with a killer 'stache like this one?
Anyway, here's a better picture of me and my hair. As you can see, I didn't get the Scarlett locks I was hoping for, but it'll pass:
Oh, and here's one where my shoulder isn't smooshing the hair so much:
(That's my friend, Jimbo. He calls me his "future ex-wife." If true, it means at LEAST two more divorces in the crystal ball for me. What's a girl to do?)
And, just to show that we're not divorced yet, here's one of me and Mr. Wright:
This Monday, I'm grateful for:
Haircuts that don't make me want to stab my eyes out
Curlytop is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get.
Some days, she wakes up like a lightning storm, all flashes of anger and tantrums. Other days, like today, she's full of wit, smiles and playfulness.
She was excited to go out and wait for the school bus today.
She was really happy to find a patch of snow left to stomp in.
Can you guess what her favorite game is while waiting for the bus?
She loves to hide when she sees the bus coming. The bus driver plays along, asking, "Have you seen Curlytop this morning? Is she coming to school?" Then Curlytop pops out, saying "Here I am!"
Mommy's big girl!
Today, I'm grateful for smooth and cheerful mornings.
Last Monday, due to the holiday, both the school and the daycare were closed. Fortunately, the weather was glorious and most of the snow had melted. I took Curlytop and Snugglebug to the Japanese garden for a little run-around-a-lot-because-Mommy-wants-us-to-take-a-nap time.
For once in my life, I had my camera with me and planned on posing the girls for some sweet pics in the garden. They, on the other hand, had other ideas. Every time I got the perfect shot lined up, they took off running. As a result, I got a lot of pics of the backs of their heads and bodies.
When we got home, I uploaded our pics to Facebook with a toddler on each knee, and let them describe what was going on the photo. Instead of my boring commentary, I used the girls' words for the captions. Here are some of my favorites:
Snugglebug: Look! I silly, climbin' on a rock!
Curlytop: Snugglebug wearin' shoes, Mommy!
Snugglebug: I go on there, Curlytop. I go, one, two, three... I go on there!
Curlytop: A biddge [bridge]!
Snugglebug: I's running!
Curlytop: Is a car! It not Mommy's car...
Me: A car? Is that what you see?
Curlytop: Yes, Mommy. A car. It not you car, okay?
Curlytop: A yock [rock]. Is a big yock. A real big yock.
Curlytop: Heeeheeheehehah! Look, Mommy! Boots [pointing to Facebook ad for Uggs in sidebar]!
Me: *sigh*
Curlytop: I lookin' at songun [something] on the ground...
Today, we woke up to this:
What a difference a week makes.
This Monday, I'm grateful for:
The warm weather that allowed us to play comfortably in the fresh air last week
The snow we have this week, which is essential for our agriculture
I did that today. With Mr. Wright out of town and the kidlings safely deposited in institutions of glorious education, I slipped into a new-ish Pan Asian restaurant for lunch. Alone.
I actually rather enjoy dining alone, once I get past the hostess who, invariably, says, "Just one?" I often answer - in song, "Not JUST one... I'm ONE! SINGULAR SENSATION! Every little move I make!" It tends to be an embarrassing spectacle for everyone involved, except, of course, me.
Anyway, the staff at the restaurant actually had to pull a larger table apart to make a small table for lonely little me. About five minutes after I was seated, a waiter approached and said, "I'm bringing you some neighbors. You don't mind?" I was so engrossed in my book, I barely noticed as he pulled the adjacent table a little further away, putting a bit more distance between my table and its separated twin.
Guess who sat down? Two ladies! Two MAMA-ladies! They asked what I was having, and ordered the same thing. We talked about kids' sports, about adoption, about mama stuff. We all finished at about the same time, and I was pleasantly surprised when one of the mamas wrote down her name and email address, and asked me to keep in touch. She said, "Isn't it great when you go in for lunch, and come out with a new friend?"
Amen, Sister.
Thank you, Pan-Asian-Lunch-Place-Mamas... You made my day!
We're doing Christmas this year at my sister-in-law's home in the Yaak Valley of Montana. Christmas in Montana was supposed to happen last year, but a sudden blizzard prevented most of the family from making the trip. The Lord blessed us with good roads this year, so we were able to spend Christmas here:
View from the front door
One of those cows is employed full-time as a milk provider. As I chatted with my sister-in-law in the kitchen during the afternoons, it wasn't uncommon for a neighbor to come to the door with an empty gallon jar for their regular "fill up." Organic milk, fresh out of the cow!
The neighbors are pretty far away, but within "hollerin' distance."
View from the back door
Dusk in the mountains
My sister-in-law has a modern oven and stovetop, but also still uses this woodstove for baking, cooking, and heating the house.
(Never mind the bottle of wine that managed to sneak into the nativity...)
As we celebrate the birth of our savior, Jesus Christ, be blessed. Be happy. Be safe. Be comforted. Be well.
I haven't done a Bad Gratitude Monday for a while. That doesn't mean I haven't had anything to be grateful for. It just means I've been distracted.
Today, I'm grateful for the innocence and honesty of toddlers.
In the span of five quiet minutes, Curlytop and Snugglebug managed to sneak every single cookie left over from the care package the church sent us into their precious little mouths. I didn't have to investigate the incident.
Curlytop came running into the laundry room, where I was, and yelled, "Mommy! I ate the COOKIES!"
On her heels was Snugglebug, who struck a tiger pose - both hands raised with "claw" fingers - and growled, "GRRRRR! I eat them ALL!"
The crumbs around their mouths would have been enough to convict them, but with two full confessions, forensics weren't necessary.
While going through suitcases and boxes full of Grandma's photos, many from the 1930s, my aunt and I happened across poetry written on the back of shopping lists, humorous compositions scrawled into a stenographer's notebook full of financial notes, and more treasures that revealed to me a woman whose sense of humor I did not fully appreciate.
The first page of the stenographer's notebook does not bear a date, but records the "original cost for land" at $300.00, the "lumber to build house" at $1,000.00, the cost for "sinking the well" at $80.00, the cost for "plumbing (material and labor)" at $100.00... if these are the figures for the home that she and Papa built, I can infer the date is sometime around 1947 or 1948.
The second page breaks down every inch of over 2,000 square feet of lumber needed for a project (building the house?), and on the third page, she copied a humorous tutorial on living on a budget:
How to live on $15 a week
Whiskey and beer: $8.80
Wife's beer: $1.65
Meat, fish, groceries: ON CREDIT
Rent: PAY NEXT WEEK
Mid-week whiskey: $1.50
Coal: BORROW FROM NEIGHBORS
Life insurance (wife's): $0.50
Cigars: $.0.20
Movies: $0.60
Pinochle club: $0.50
Hot tip on horse: $0.50
Dog food: $0.60
Snuff: $0.40
Poker game: $1.40
_____
$16.65
This means going into debt, so cut the wife's beer.
A Google search revealed that Grandma did not author this funny piece (I found a variation on a postcard), but she clearly found it entertaining enough to copy it down.
Preliminary searches have not revealed the authors of poetry found written on the back of a shopping list (don't forget: butter, eggs, shortening, corn, cucumber and Friskies):
'Twas two years ago when he asked me to wed
But I refused to leave my feather bed
So we parted, with a nary a sneer
But since, I've shed many a tear.
So to all you young girls, I leave this advice:
Get you a man, and don't think twice!
and
We've been wed for many a year
With many a heartache,
And many a tear;
But I would not exchange
My home in The Sticks,
For you and me
Just seem to click.
Again, I don't know if these were humorous writings Grandma came across and wanted to remember, or if these poems were original compositions of her own. Either way, I'm grateful to have the opportunity to reflect on them, and to learn about things she treasured.
Whew! I know you darlings didn't actually expect me to post Bad Gratitude Monday on MONDAY this week (or any other week, for that matter - it's rarely posted on Monday)! So much to do, so much to buy, so much to stress over...
Melody Beattie has a wonderful quote about gratitude, and it's very fitting today:
Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow.
Amazing, isn't it? This week has been tough. Really tough. However, I have endless gratitude for:
1. Court dates. We've received a (tentative) date for finalization of Curlytop and Snugglebug's adoptions. We're hoping that everything goes as planned, and we finalize on September 22nd. I know many have been praying for our family, and for resolution of the adoption. Looks like it's finally coming!
Also, we received a notice from the prosecutor that Tattooed Necklace Guy is going to trial in October. Creepy Lurker Dude was arrested, and we'll wait to see when his trial is. Read the back-story here. I'll keep you posted. Thank you to all who have prayed for justice. It is arriving, slowly but surely. Continue to pray that these monsters will not be allowed to "work the system" and escape consequence.
2. My amazing kids. Like most families with seven kids, we are always on a tight budget, and, like many blended families, we have been able to share many expenses with our kids' non-custodial parents. This year, however, the bio mom of four of our kids decided to refuse to contribute to expenses for school supplies and clothing because - well, I don't know why. She is frequently bitter and angry, and I can't explain most of the things she does. In any event, our budget for half of the kids' needs certainly wasn't going to cover everything they needed.
When we explained to the kids that we had planned to purchase half of their clothing and supplies, and now that money was going to have to cover everything, it was heart-wrenching. I felt terrible about having to tell the kids that we were going to have to scale back our lists.
Know what their response was? They went into their rooms, did inventories, and came back and said things like, "My friend gave me this skirt because it doesn't fit her, but it's practically new. I can wear this to school," or "My backpack from last year is in pretty good shape. I don't mind using it for a while," or "I have the dress shoes you got me over the summer, so I really only need one pair of street shoes," and "It's okay. We have more than a lot of people. It's just stuff."
Can I tell you, readers, that I found a quiet, private place to bawl my eyes out? Even though things have been emotionally strained in the Wright household as of late, these are the kids that I remember choosing to spend a December collecting cups of dried soups, small bars of soap, mini-bottles of mouthwash and packaged cheese and crackers, which they assembled into care packages. On Christmas Eve, we took the packages into downtown Seattle and handed them out to homeless people. Seeing my kids blessing others who were less fortunate and praying with them is a sight I don't remember often enough. How could I ever be cross with such generous kids?
3. Provision. We live in a rural area, and between us and civilization is a bridge. Beebe Bridge is old and beautiful, but Monday it looked like this: A semi truck hauling apples made an abrupt turn on the bridge for some reason and broke through the side of the bridge. The cab of the truck snapped off and fell into the Columbia River. The driver, a 48 year-old woman from Olympia, was seat belted in. Her body was recovered hours later. Her driving partner, a male, is presumed dead and his body has not yet been recovered from the river, despite extensive searches of the water and shoreline. Please pray for the families of these victims, and that the body of the second victim is recovered soon.
The bridge has sustained considerable damage. It's sagging and it's not clear how long it will be closed. What that means for us is that in order to get to Chelan, our "town," we have to drive all the way to Wenatchee and up the west side of the Columbia - about an hour and a half, one way.
Now, I can miss my belly dance classes for a few weeks, and I can do my shopping in Wenatchee, but my kids go to school in Chelan. Driving six hours to get them to and from school (three hours round-trip, twice a day) is not in our gas or time budget, to say the least. Fortunately, the school district has stepped up to help kids in our area get to school. The buses are running an hour earlier each morning and returning an hour later each afternoon, but they ARE running, and getting our kids to school.
4. Being able to make a difference. I remember seeing the events of 9/11/01 on television as I woke and prepared for the day. I watched as news crews reported on the horrific sight, even as the crashes kept happening. I remember thinking, hoping, praying that I was still asleep - that it couldn't be real. "This is the United States," I kept crying. "How can this happen?"
That night, we joined hundreds of others in lighting candles and leaving flowers and written prayers at the International Fountain in the Seattle Center. The entire place was awash with flickers of candlelight, and the sound of quiet sobs was the only noise.
September 11, 2002 we returned to the fountain. There were noticeably fewer people, but organizers had mulched the flowers left the previous year and made packets of mulch and bulb flowers to send home with those who returned. We planted our bulbs the next day. Our dog dug them up and ate them. I was devastated.
In 2003, even fewer people went to the fountain. Our kids were saddened that theirs were some of the only candles lit. By 2004, the tradition was pretty much abandoned, though we stopped by and said a prayer. We moved in 2005.
Since then, our remembrance of 9/11 has been pretty much a quiet, private one. This year, I'm publicly doing something to help keep the memory of those lost in the tragedy alive. I hope you'll help.
Project 2,996 is an online cooperative effort to remember the 2,996 victims of September 11th. Bloggers (or even those who want to participate but don't have a blog) research and write a tribute to an assigned victim. So far, just over 675 people are signed up to write an online memorial.
I truly believe it is an honor to serve the memory of those that were lost. This project is, in my opinion, too important to not take part. Please, if you can spare an hour to research and another hour to write a tribute, sign up here. If you don't have a blog, a page to post on will be provided for you. I am endless grateful to be able to help this effort, and my plea to you is that you'll do the same.
This post is revived from five years ago. I decided it was time to share our story, again.
