When Grandma Says Duh

Sunday dinner after church was always a special time for us.  It meant that we got to walk across the street, from the little church and into the most wonderful little house.  The house with the three little stairs that led into a wonderful spacious living room with burnt orange carpet and a little coffee table with items we should not touch.  Oh, and in the other room, smell that delicious food.  That food had been prepared the evening before and had been slow cooking the whole time we had been at church.  The smell of pot roast and new potatoes filled the air.  Oh, look, what’s that in the corner?  See it, over there, with the damp towel draped over it.  Yes, it’s homemade yeast rolls.  Do you have any of your strawberry preserves, a voice called from the back room?  We were all there, my mom, brother, sister and I.  It was Sunday dinner and granny had prepared the meal.  We would set the table and argue over who would say the prayer.  Then, granddad after we had all stuffed ourselves silly, granddad would get out his apron and drape it over his 5’5” inch tall frame and fat little belly and stand at the sink washing dishes while one of us dried.  We dried those dishes at the sink; overlooking the backyard and the birdfeeder that granny hung over the carport.  Dinner dishes dried, we imagined what could be waiting for dessert.  Would it be the peach cobbler, the lemon squares, the Texas brownies, or the dreaded persimmon pudding.  No, not persimmon pudding.  No kids want persimmon pudding!  That brown kind of oatmeal looking, maybe it’s a fruit, but you warm it up and eat it in the Fall, oh, please not that stuff.  But just maybe, she would make her famous sugar cookies, so thick and fat and rolled in sugar.  I know, how about the peanut butter fudge?  Yes, Yes, she’s got the pan out.  It’s the old metal pan, with the bent handle and her wooden spoon.  Granny would stir and stir, that arm flapping and flapping in the air and one foot pumping, like she was going to run.  And in the end, she’d take a spoon and put a drop of that liquid perfection in a bowl of cold water and if that liquid turned into a ball, it was time to pour the fudge.  We waited, holding our breath, our eyes fixated on that little ball of liquid, like a science experiment for N.A.S.A.  When we saw that ball, we knew fudge was about to land on the plate and we could lick the pan!  Yes, Perfection.  And to end a perfect Sunday, we’d all gather in the living room and listen to the various stories my grandparents had to tell about the “old” days.  My grandmother taught me so much about life.  My first trip to the library was with my grandmother.  I walked hand in hand to church with my grandmother.  I learned how to set a table and so many other life lessons.  At the end of so many of our own little stories, my grandmother would simply say, “have mercy”.

Have Mercy, that’s what my grandmother would say.  But what happens, when Grandma says “Duh”?  Some of the grandmothers that I see today are very different than the grandmothers that I saw when I was growing up.  This has caused me to wonder, who are the teachers of the lessons of the past?  When I used to teach diversity classes, we would ask our students, who or what do you identify yourself as?  Today, I venture to guess that many grandmothers do not self identify as a grandmother.  When grandma is still in the club or living with her boyfriend, what is a child to think?  When Grandma and Mom are only separated by a few years in age, what is the image that we are displaying to our children? 

Is there room in our society for Grandma to take on the role of teacher and sharer of wisdom?  My grandmother and many women of that generation weren’t having plastic surgery at 70 and getting waxed at 75.    What, did you say your granny can drop it like it’s hot?  Lawd have Mercy! 

I am sure my grandmother and her friends had their vices, but perhaps they weren’t so public.  Oh, I do remember my grandmother singing “Once, Twice, Three times a lady,” loudly in a department store one day.  Does that count as bad behavior? 

I think that perhaps I have just seen too many children without enough role models lately.  Yes, there are some spectacular grandmothers out there and I do know many of them.  My concern is for those who are growing up removed from the nuclear family, without the grandparents of yesteryear.

It’s interesting; my generation were children that were termed the latchkey kids. Many of my friends came home to an empty home after school, the result of the duo income household.  The next generation, saw the disappearance of the nuclear family.  As jobs took families further and further away from their place of origin, no longer did grandparents and children live within close proximity of each other.  The current generation I believe is the generation of video chat.  Even conversations with grandma happen via Skype and Facebook. 

Yes, my granny had plastic fruit and a plastic rug that we turned over every Sunday afternoon and walked barefoot on the prickly part, screaming in delight.  Granny sang in the church choir and cooked Sunday dinner.  She believed that for every church program we should learn a recitation and if we didn’t know our lines, she’d simply clasp her hands together, shake her head and say, Mercy!

What would have happened if Granny would have said, Duh?  

Craft

"A Friday in early September. We went by coach to La Rabida, near Huelva in southern Spain, to see the monastery where Christopher Columbus spent seven years trying to persuade the local literati and public dignitaries that it would be a good idea to fund his latest hair-brained scheme. He had a notion that the earth was round, not flat, can you believe it? And thus, that in theory it would be possible to sail  west and come right back round to where you started from a easterly direction, opening up lucrative new trade routes to India, etc. as he went. The reigning monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella were busy fighting wars elsewhere, but eventually returned to their palace nearby, and with the help persuasive powers and support of the Franciscan brothers, Columbus finally persuaded them to fund his voyages of exploration.

Two small, fast boats, caravels the Nina and the Pinta, and a larger supply ship, the Santa Maria, which was much heavier and less manoeuvrable, and which was eventually to flounder on rocks and not return with the other two, were commissioned, and on August 3rd 1492, set off on the perilous journey. As they say, the rest is history. Those of us who now enjoy holidays to Disneyworld, Florida have the old chap to thank for discovering the place.

Our holiday company had planned a visit to the monastery, to be followed by a short drive to the harbour area nearby, where there were exact replicas of the three tiny, fragile ships which had undertaken such arduous journeys. We were able to go on board the Nina and Pinta, but the Santa Maria, we were informed, was currently undergoing renovation.

This, it turned out, involved one solitary man in overalls, standing precariously in a rowing boat, which was tethered at either end to the larger vessel, and from which he was stretching up, paintbrush in hand , to repaint the outside. It put me in mind of the Forth Bridge saga, whereby the job is never finished, because as soon as the far end is reached, it’s time to start painting the front end again. Besides, the other two vessels seemed to be in need of some attention too, and would benefit from a few coats of varnish. We wondered if he’d gone to his branch of Spain’s equivalent of B&Q with his over 60’s discount card, to buy the countless ins of creosote he’d surely need to complete the job."
Penny from Across the Pond 

Fingernails In My Pencil Box

And for today’s lesson, we will study, reading, writing and red lipstick.  Class, class, let me have your attention, focus, focus!  Through the rustle of notebook paper and the sweet smell of bubble gum lip-gloss, we look through the window of the class of 2021.  The hallway is now a runway and the classroom is the stage.  The bright lights of the school cafeteria are blinding.

Act 1 – And So Are the Days of My Life

I recall my tween years fondly.  I recall that my poor mother had, well, no fashion sense.  If I wanted to be in style, I was going to have to find a way to support myself.  My mom did not know the difference between Prada and Prego.  Really, she meant well, but it was useless.  I remember when she selected a pair of yellow sweats and presented them to me for gym class!  I gasped!  Where, is the label?  I could not even dare to wear anything that was not labeled.  They are labeled, she said, they are “Wranglers!”  I finally began to save my own money and purchased my first pair of Jordache jeans and I was excited.  That horse on my what I believed to be too large African American back side made me so happy.  Ahh, Jordache!  Then, there was my love affair with handbags, yes, it began early.  My first knock off Gucci handbag, I carried it proudly, everyday until I landed my first real Fendi handbag.  So then, why do the actions of today’s youth surprise me? 

Act II  - Mirror Mirror

Enter Justice, Abercrombie, Teen Vogue, Teen People, and all of the other outside influences that simply did not exist.  Next, let’s bring in Disney gone wrong, Britney, Vanessa, Lyndsey, and lest we forget Hanna Nasty Girl Montanna , A.K.A. Miley Cyrus, you name them and they are not the Mickey Mouse Club that I grew up watching after school.  Now, having said that who are our children watching?  Those images in the magazines, those characters on television, are they setting the bar in regards to beauty and character for our children?  Are they forcing are children, especially, our girls to grow up too fast?  Perhaps they are not only setting the bar, but many of them are quite frankly sitting at the bar and displaying their behavior in a very public forum.

Act III – Everybody Else’s Mom Let’s Them Do It

How long does childhood last?  Trying to protect the child, while allowing the girl to bloom, that is the challenge.  What type of flower am I trying to cultivate?  Even a beautiful rose has its thorns.  The thorns I deal with are on the make-up aisle and the teen clothing aisle of every department store.

Saturday’s journey took me to Salley’s Beauty supply.  Once again, I begin the battle of the press on nails.  Now, mind you, it begins with, “Mom, all my friends get their nails done at the salon.”  “Mom, they all have fake nails, it’s not fair.”  Ok, so what, I have seen some of their friends and yes, they do have acrylic nails at 10 and 11 years old.  Buy why, why can’t 10 and 11 year olds grow their own nails?  Next, come the pleas for make-up, in my mind, I am remembering the episode of the Cosby Show, where Vanessa secretly put on make-up at school and got caught upon arriving at home.  Anyway, there was the time, when my oldest, put on a little colored lip-gloss before her school pictures and no one would be the wiser.  That is, until the pictures arrived and my husband called to me.  “Cassie, Cassie, when did this child’s lips get this color and so shiny?”  Oh my, I must have missed that on my way out the door that morning.  Ok, let’s go back to the make-up aisle.  Did I mention the colored hair?  Oh, Oh, I forgot, what about a tattoo, Mom, can I have a tattoo, or a piercing, like my teacher?  Funny, I just don’t remember any of my teachers having a tattoo or a piercing.  They probably just didn’t display it for the world. 

Act  IV – Dr. Spock Didn’t Write This Chapter

Well, I have read a few parenting books in my time.  One piece of advice I have tried to live up to is to pick my battles.  With that, you try to minimize the amount of times that you say no, to the heavy hitter items.  Ok, so I decided that I would give into the press on nails, not acrylic nails, the press on.  Secretly hoping, that they would be such a bother, that she would not wish to keep them on, or that the glue would be a problem.  But, she picked out her nails and put them on one by one, each one with more pride then the last.  Finally, the nails were on and she just knew she looked Beyoncé Fierce.  She picked out her outfit with care and dressed for school the next morning.  She even shared a nail or two with her sister.  The first day of wear for the nails was Monday and to my surprise, the nails made it through school and cheerleading practice.  Well now, I guess she will prove me wrong.  It is now Tuesday and as I assess the situations, which are the nails on her hands, I notice that a few nails are missing.  I ask, “Where, are the nails?”   “Mom, they are in my pencil box.” 

Silly me, where else would a 5^th grader keep her press on nails?  

Age Before Beauty - Who Came Up with That?

Just how old am I anyway? I promise you, I don't know the answer to that question half of the time that it is asked. Why you ask. Because, on my fortieth birthday, I made a vow to myself, to never, ever calculate, nor acknowledge my chronological age again. Now, sometimes, this causes me problems, like when the doctor says, how old are you and I, look with a completely blank stare and say, I think, well, uh, let me think about it. No, I'm not crazy, I just figure, if I don't acknowledge the number, I cannot do what I am refusing to do. What am  I refusing to do you ask? I am refusing to get old. I just cannot.

Aging has undoubtedly got to be the scariest process I can imagine. The control freak in me is determined to control this process. Everywhere I look, I am reminded that for some reason, I am supposed to be aging, gracefully, nonetheless. I think I own or have tried every anti-aging product that the industry has to offer. I have pealed, steamed, wrapped, you name it. I will not be overtaken by the hands of time, or sands in the hourglass.

Speaking of the hourglass. Do you know what has to happen to maintain that figure that used to be so easily maintained? I remember the freshmen 15. But come on now, must I blow air kisses and eat celery sticks in order to maintain my curves. And now, who knows the name of a good surgeon? I need one. Yes indeed, as my granny would say, I need a little work. There's no shame in my game, nothing a little botox can't fix, a little lift and a little tuck. You see, keep on living and gravity is no ones friend. Mind you, sit-ups and leg lifts, they help, but, the skill of a good surgeon can speed things up just a bit. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and I do not know who is looking back at me. Surely, that person is someone else, what's that, is that a gray hair? Wait, I see a little line underneath my eye. Oh Dear Lord, but wait, "Black don't crack" isn't that how it goes.

Oh, what to wear? I am a self proclaimed fashionista. I love all things fashion. However, at whatever age I am now, I find it difficult to decide what to wear. You see, I tend to have a fascination with clothing in the Juniors section, call me Betsey Johnson. Or, the fashion I like may be a little on the pricey side and thus, not fit to spend time on the factory floor. So, what to wear, what to wear? If I wear the ripped up jeans, that will surely point to me trying to return to my youth. If, I wear the Ralph Lauren blouse with the tailored slacks and my Prada shoes, that's probably overkill. Maybe, Gap or Old Navy, I'll go there, shop in the junior's section and then run over to the adult fitting room, yeah, that's what I usually do! I have actually pretended to be shopping for my daughter and then ran over to the Women's fiting room.  I know, pitiful, just pitiful. 

My daughters just informed me that I am not allowed to have plastic surgery! Did I tell you I borrowed a sports bra from my 11 year old? In their complimentary way, they said, "Mom, you don't look too old." By the way, were t.v. shows in color when you were a kid? 

Tales of a Middle School Mother

Tales from a Middle School Mom

“Oh my God mom, this is 2013, you don’t flippin know what you’re talking about.”  Yes, this is my new life.  I had always heard about the drama of the tween years.  I even thought that I had begun experiencing little glimpses of the drama.  But now, since I clearly know nothing, I understand that I am the mother of a middle school girl, A.K.A., Sybil, sometimes also known as, No, You Didn’t, Middle Name Stop, Last name It, you get the picture. 

Middle school began with the ending of elementary school.  We had the beautiful end of year celebration.  The awards celebration, saying good-bye to friends and hello to summer.  We even got the chance to visit the new school, the Middle School.  Our visit was a two-hour introduction to the rules and overall structure of the school.  The highlight of the overview was the fashion show.  The fashion show was an attempt to show parents and students what the students were not allowed to wear to the new middle school.  Thank you Jesus!  That was my answer to the “Go back upstairs and change that outfit” But oh no, not my sweet child.  She declared, what is this, a school for the Amish?  “I do not want to go to this school.”  “This school is horrible.”  The selected fashion models paraded on the gym floor showing us a variety of outfits, no sleeveless shirts, no holes in clothes, no lace, no see through clothing and our favorite, the FLAMINGO test, All shorts, skirts, etc. must touch your calf when you stand on one leg and lift the other.  Now, mind you, my 5’7” sixth grader may have a little difficulty, but I am willing to take one for the team! 

The summer lingered on.  There were a variety of camps and activities and a testing of boundaries.   I learned new signals, the rolling of the eyes, the huff, the foot stomp and the door slam.  The door slam did not end well.  I cannot say which of us was Sybil that day, but I can say there was one door slam too many.  I geared up, like a soldier going into battle.  I focused on each stair as I went down each stair cautiously.  Next, I opened the door to the garage and began searching in the toolbox.  Next, I made my journey up the stairs and as I reached the last stair, I stared at that door that had been slammed once too often.  I stood on my tiptoes and I did what I had no previous experience in doing before.  I unscrewed every screw that held that door in place and prayed it did not fall on me.  I knew that if that door fell, someone would be singing, “Ding dong, the witch is dead!”  Finally, the last screw out, I drug that door into the hallway and laid it against the landing, the door would not slam again for 7 days!  My point was made.

Now, there would be moments of my sweet child.  We would lay together in my bed, talking about what middle school would be like.  We talked about how exciting this all could be, and then, she found out that her best friend was returning to daycare!  Life was good and she was happy.  Next it was a trip to Gatti Town, where the middle school little person played like the little girl I used to know.  Next there was the incident, where I got a phone call.  A very sad girl was on the other line.  Her American Girl doll was broken and I needed to get it to the hospital.  “What happened, I asked?”  “Mom, there was a string in the back of head and I cut it off.” “When I cut it off, her head fell off.”  “What?”  I informed her that I would call the American Girl Doll hospital and get her a room.  I did just that and called the E.M.T.s better known as U.P.S. to take the doll, A.K.A. Sage to the hospital.  My little girl wanted to know if my insurance was paying for all of this.  “Yes, I said, my insurance is taking care of her injuries.”  Yes, I said to myself, not all grown up yet. 

Vaccinations

"Please mom, please, can I have amnesia for the shots, please?"   "Amnesia, what, do you mean Anesthesia?"   "No, you cannot." " You would have to get a shot for anesthesia too."  And so it began, the pleading, the tears, the attempt to hold back a tween who was having none of the vaccination process.  The nurse looked at me and I at her.  I looked at her as if to say, you chose this profession, I, did not choose to give shots to anxiety filled tweens on the verge of middle school.  As the Turtle man would say, "This is Live Action!"  Well, we made it and down to the car we walked, a little worse for the wear, but we made it.

Next step, Middle School orientation. 

This process is a three -hour process where the parents and children are separated into groups to go through a lifelike simulation of the middle school day.  We learned about tweeting teachers, trips to Greece, Gym class, on-line homework and much more.  My daughter, learned about freedom.  She is now free to make a lot of choices.  She became very excited about Math and Science.  She was very excited about seeing all of her friends again.  There was just so much information. 

Next, the shopping trip.  

This was a six-hour journey into the mall abyss.  I had both tweens with me.  Both girls have completely different styles, neither, which are my styles completely.  I love to shop, but this took my love of shopping to a new level.  It tested my inner fashionista.  For the love of Louis Vuitton and Ralph Lauren.  We returned home with multiple bags from every designer under the mall rooftop.  I mistakenly thought all of those beautiful clothing items would be hung up nicely in the closet and placed neatly in the drawers.  I was incorrect in my assumption.  I spent the next weekend rearranging drawers and closet space, trying to organize closets and drawers and imagining what I would have done, if my back to school shopping trips would have been so elaborate.  I do fondly remember my trips the mall, but mostly it was Target and then home.  I do remember, once I began earning my own money, I was able to purchase a great deal more of the items I so dearly desired. 

In between some of this drama was the bike ride.  This is the child  that declared, “I don’t want to learn to ride a bike!”  And learn to ride, she did not.  Until one day, I looked out my window and saw my youngest saying come on, you can do it, you can do it, and to my surprise, there she was, Ms. Determined, coming down the street, flying on the new 10 speed that my youngest had received for her birthday.  The tween had decided that she wanted to learn to ride a bike that day and ride a bike she did.  She’ll make a great leader one day, determined, stubborn and clear about her goals!  A leader and not a follower, that’s my girl.  If I could just get her to follow my lead a little more. 

The week before school drew near and I mentioned that my tween would be riding the bus with her friends to the new middle school.  This provided me with a reaction I was not expecting.  “You’re not taking me to the first day of school?”  “No, I didn’t think that would be acceptable in middle school, I said. “  Keep in mind; this is the child that would not let me be seen in the halls of her elementary school, once she reached the 4^th grade.  Yes, another sign that childhood still exists.  “Ok, I’ll take you, don’t worry, I will always be there for you, I reassured her.” 

Next, the adventure begins.  

August 6^th came and unexpectedly, the tween decided the bus would be more acceptable, since her friend would be on it.  I waited all day, anxiously waiting to see how things went, what was this new experience. And well, here is what I learned:

1.     She now has a mature relationship, not one of those immature relationships.

2.     I am no longer needed to cook breakfast; she will eat in the cafeteria with her friends.

3.     I was born a long time ago.

4.     She is more responsible then I know.

5.     When she is sixteen, she is getting a jeep.

6.     She can’t understand why my mother isn’t anything like me

Now, I’ve also learned that I must treasure every moment of the little girl I used to know and the young woman that she is trying to become, maybe a little too quickly.  So, every little hug and every little request for help because there’s a noise in her room, I will answer with a little more enthusiasm. 

Now, does that mean that the continuous eye rolling will not send me over the edge from one moment to the next, no, it will just prepare me for the teenage years, for I hear those might be worse.  I just said a prayer. 

Oh, did I tell you, the school just tweeted, this week, the kids learn about sexting - I'm going to need a lot of Jesus this year. 

God Incidents

"I was on holiday in North Yorkshire, with my friend, Joy, a fellow widow. Joy is a steam train fanatic, thus I found myself on a crowded train, travelling back from Whitby to Pickering, on the scenic North Yorkshire Moors Railway.

The seaside town had been crowded with August holidaymakers and this was the last train back that day. The weather had been good, so everyone had stayed as long as possible at the seaside. So as a result, around 2,000 day trippers were waiting impatiently, from one end of the platform to the other, complete with bags, inflatable toy, windbreaks and cool bags.

Joy and I looked anxiously at each other. We would have to move quickly once the train pulled in, to ensure that we got a seat. Both of us suffer from joint problems, and on top of that, I had my dog with us. Neither of us fancied standing for the two-hour journey back to base. There were many small children amongst the hordes. Hopefully, they would sit on their parents’ knees and free up a few seats for the older folk, like my friend and me!

Ten minutes late, the steam engine pulled up at the platform and folk began to surge forward and press to board. I had to lift my dog and carry her as we mounted the footplate. Glancing round, it was apparent that seats were at a premium, and that the thought that Joy and I would be able to sit together was out of the question. At the near end of the carriage was one unoccupied seat, and likewise, at the far end, I spotted a second. I called over my shoulder

“Joy, you take that one and I’ll sit there”.

So it was that I found myself, dog squashed in on the floor, under the table at my feet, sitting opposite a young man, who told me his name was Gary, and child, Rebecca, -about ten, -and what I presumed was his attractive wife. They were talking animatedly; discussing the events of the day and pointing out to the child things that we passed as the train chugged along.

I can’t recall which little country station it was where we spotted him, but it wasn’t far beyond Whitby, and so must have been Grosmont or Goathland, I guess, but there on the platform with a film unit, was Aled Jones. (A well-known singer and TV presenter here in Britain).

“Maybe he’s filming for one of those daytime shows he presents”, I said. “Or maybe for ‘Songs of Praise’”. I added as an afterthought, “I don’t watch daytime TV”.

“No. Me neither”, the lady confessed. “Do you watch ‘Songs of Praise’ then?”

“Oh yes. I never miss it. It’s one o my favourite programmes”.

The couples’ faces broke into wreathes of smiles. “Are you a Christian too?”

And so followed an avid conversation which lasted the whole journey home and made the two hours fly by in a trice. They told me they were from Cromer, on holiday like me. They worshipped at the Parish Church there, and evidently, it was a lively place, with a vicar who was keen to encourage involvement with those often overlooked or reviled in our society. And when I mentioned that I had a particular calling to prisoners, well, Gary could hardly contain himself, and described two visits he’d made to Africa. He’d conducted worship in a prison there, and encountered a 6 year-old boy. Incarcerated with adult men, many of whom were convicted of horrendous, violent crimes Gary was obviously deeply moved by the child’s plight. And all the more so, when age boy appeared to snigger and the guard immediately approached him, threateningly flexing his evil looking whip.

Gary and his family were keen to hear about my life, both as a visitor in English prisons but more particularly, on Death Row in America and we shared many similar experiences and opinions about life behind bars. When the train pulled in to Pickering, its final destination and the end of the line, Gary and his family invited me to drop in to their church and introduce myself to their parish priest, who they assured me would love to meet me, if ever I find myself in Cromer.

As we parted, I marveled that out of the two thousand souls packed onto that train that evening, I should have found myself sharing the journey home with such kindred spirits. And I just know for certain that it was no accident. Some might call it fate. I call it God’s hand at work. And what a privilege to be part of His plan. Wow! What a day out that turned out to be!"

Across the Pond Penny