The Old and the New

This morning I woke up to rain.  I cannot think when in the last few years I have not been happy to hear rain except perhaps when I was driving. I know that it makes everything sloppy and squelchy, but I  started fretting about rain and lack of it a few years ago.  Maybe this is a good way to end the year;  I would like to think it is an omen of more coming rains in this new year.

There are so many things I want to see us put behind us, not just drought of the land. When I look at my immediate family, my wider family, and our family of friends, I think we must be an enduring lot, for the past year has not been an easy one.

For me and mine, we have struggled with finding new jobs.  I know Jack is unspeakably frustrated on that front.  I found a job, but it has been a rough transition.  The kind of rough when I come home having somehow having rubbed my make up off when I buried my face in my hands again.  The kind of rough that keeps me always on edge and never really relaxing.  I have watched my parents struggle with job issues as my dad escaped his job in Saudi Arabia, but ended up still working away during the week.  I know my mom is so tired of only having him around on the weekend.

The Wilsons and Ruckers have dealt with countless stomach bugs, trouble with bones and joints, major surgeries, heart break, marriages failing, death, livestock problems . . . The list just goes on and on.  My mother can either be able to walk or take the medicine that keeps her cholesterol in check, but not both. My grandparents and Jack's parents (who are all 80ish) are always dealing with the frailties of age and life has become tenuous.  It just seems to be a battle of small things that wear us down.

I know that this hard year has been unspeakably hard for my family of friends.  We watched from afar as Cindy and Chris battled cancer and had to hope that she was strengthened by the love from her vast circle of friends and family.  I have worried so much for her this year, even though I know she is strong and had the help of those closer.  And then Hooper, that has been one more weight.

I look at the rest of the circle and see friends who have have lost parents this year.  There were house fires.  Apartments that didn't happen.  School that seems never ending.  I see friends who work so hard. Who juggle stolen phones and house repairs.  Who learn new things like buying cars.  Who write plays and make quilts.  Who manage more stress  than I can fathom.

It has just been a hard year.  A year of loss, of struggle, a year of enduring.  I do see some bright spots though.  Just the fact that Talaura is still pursuing her dream.  Misti is almost there.  I see some love blooming in her life.  Cindy writes of things of beauty.  She finds some joy in her little house and garden.  She ventures more than I ever could.  I see new relationships forming for my brother.  I see my child overcoming some hurdles.  I see reason to hope.

So in this last post of the year, I pray this for us, all of us who read and post here.   May this year be a year of renewal.  Let us be given new purpose, new strength, and new grace. May we be kinder to ourselves and to each other.  Let us have what we need, what we truly need.  Homes.  Jobs.  Loves.  Health.  I ask for blessings to rain down on us, soaking into our lives.

Dead Birds and Old Friends Make for Worn Out Today

Let me begin by saying that Thursday was a perfectly horrid day.  I wasn't in sync with the rest of the world.  Nothing went right.  It was with relief that I woke up Saturday with that feeling that things had balanced again, that my slate was clean.

Poor Jack.  His day wasn't as smooth.  One of the things that makes him crazy is having people at the lake.  His dad has given lots of people permission to use the lake, which isn't that bad except that sometimes they don't behave courteously.  Over the past few weeks, we have been woken at dawn by duck hunters, teens from down the road who aren't good about picking up their debris.  Yesterday, the hunters were back.  They started off badly by killing a goose and leaving it in the center of the ice.  Of course, their excuse was that they couldn't get it.  Of course not.  The lake was frozen over and they had neither boat nor dog.  Bell and I sang loudly every time we were outside, hoping to ruin their experience, but they didn't take the hint.  When Jack found the cormorant they killed, he sent them packing.  But the whole thing had him agitated.  And that cormorant?  My lovely Huxley brought it to the house for me.  It smells just heavenly, all fishy and such, and is now frozen in the snow outside the back door.

We cleaned up our filthy selves.  Bell and I had been trekking in the woods all afternoon and poking holes in the iced over lake.  She looked like she had been rolled down the hill a time or two.  Jack had been burning brush and driving the tractor.  Mmmm.  Diesel and smoke.

The day hadn't been bad, even with the hunters, but it finished on a sweet note.  We gathered at Misti's to see Talaura and Cindy while they were in.  There were new people to meet who turned out to be the right kind of funny.  It was so good to reconnect with old friends.  We took Bell, who was a bit high maintenance, but she settled down . . . eventually.  She took a lot of pictures, though I am not sure she caught any of us at our best, except Kikimama and the snowman under the tree.  Mostly, it was good food, good people, and good laughter.  I don't people to worry too much about censoring themselves around the kid.  I can live with her knowing a colorful vocabulary if it means also getting to draw from the riches of these people.  I  want Bell to learn to be with these people without being hyper, to learn to appreciate their humor and soak in their wit and wisdom.  These are the sort of people we connect with, the sort that she needs to know, who can show her different ways of thinking, how it's okay to be strong and independent but also how to be connected.

It was a cold drive home, Jack seems to have picked up some crud along the way, and we are tired this morning, but we are pretty content this morning.  I will leave my poor sick husband at home and Bell and I will finally venture down to my folks.  I think we are even going to try for the Chickasha lights since we laughed too long last night.

An Uncertain Christmas

As Christmas approached this year, I fretted a bit about the weather.  In all my years, I can think of very few holidays that weren't spent with my family.  Jack's mom and dad usually did a holiday meal the day before or after.  Sometimes his brother would be there, but often not.  I can only think of 2 holidays that one of my brothers was missing.

The predictions of snow grew daily, bouncing from a measly 20% to an ominous 100%.  I really thought I was going to be very upset about not going to Loco.  I grumbled a bit.  I took gifts down on Sunday. I waited and the sun shone.

Sure enough, the sky darkened Christmas Eve and the temps dropped.  Morning came and Jack knew that Bell and I wanted to go to the clan gathering that is a  Wilson holiday, so I made food, we bundled up, and we set forth.

We set forth for all of five miles . . . And then returned.   It was just too slick and too risky.  Oddly enough, I wasn't upset or even annoyed.  Sometime the day before I had started thinking that perhaps we just needed to be here.  The snow began in earnest, gusting huge fat flakes and obliterating the lake from view.   We bundled up and trekked across the pasture, this time to have lunch up at the big house with Harold and Rubilee.  It was a contented, peaceful day.  Dusk found the three of us curled up together under blankets watching The Christmas Story. There was time to play with Christmas gifts. Time to just be us, with us, for us.

Jack has walked to his mom's twice everyday. There have been multiple sledding outings.
Attempted snow men.  Chunks of wood skidded out on the ice of the lake.  Brush piles finally burned.  Enough mud tracked into my kitchen to plant seeds.

The roads are still too slick to venture to Loco. . . at least our drive way is.  Jack spent the morning digging his Dad's truck out to take him to the ER.  Harold just couldn't seem to breathe. They are on their way home now, after several hours at the hospital.

Perhaps we will go to Loco tomorrow.  Perhaps it will sleet tonight and we won't get there until Sunday.  I am okay with that.  I am home already.

The Up and Down, the Soberness and Magic of it All

I was slow to ease into the swing of holidays this year.  We did the usual putting of the tree on Thanksgiving weekend. We made the wickedly rummy fruitcake.  But somehow, the soberness I had just didn't shake.  There are stresses this year with jobs and lack of jobs and the wrong jobs.  Bell has a few struggles with school.  I have some worries about the Wilson half of my family and we always worry about Jack's folks.  I haven't even been on Facebook much.  I felt like I was hunkering down, just trying to make it to break.

Then last weekend, Jack brought home all that pile of Christmas music.  There are still a few songs on LP's we need to burn, favorites from my childhood like the "Do you see what I see?" song.  We copied everything else into a playlist featuring the bests of everyone from Jimmy Durante, Sinatra, Crosby, and Julie Andrews to a few more contemporary artists.

I imagine my family cringes every time I turn on the music now, but I am still smitten.  It doesn't really matter if it is Frosty the Snowman or Away in the Manger.  I like it.  Some time in the last week, I finally felt like it was Christmas and I remembered that I liked it all.  I like the pageantry.  The children's class play in which my child was the angel atop a tree.  The crowds.  The lights.  The music.  The baking and messing in the kitchen.  Eggnog.  The smells of cinnamon and nutmeg.  Boughs of evergreen tied in red ribbon.  Today was spent shopping almost the entire day, yet  I met not a single grumpy or unsmiling person. Not even the cashiers showed their weariness.  I even met a man named Princess Bob and I liked him too.  There is just magic in the air, particularly when there is a small child soaking it up with me.

The soberness is still there.  Alone in the car today, I found my self crying as I sang Silent Night.  I think of those that we loved that are not here this year, friends and family.  I think of Sandy Hook.  War.  The students I have.  I worry about grandparents who might not be here next year.  But I also think of the things that are promised and seem about to bloom.  Spring and gardens.  A new niece.  The new loves I see at working around us.  The fact that Jack and I still find things to delight in about each other.  And so overall, there is  sense of peace and hope, at least for me and mine.  

The day seemed to close on a good note.  Jack was cuing up Charlie Brown and I was making a living room picnic of bread, cheese, fruit, and wine.  I stepped to the door to evict a cat but, instead, noticed the lake.  I am not sure I have ever seen the water so still that individual tree branches and trunks were reflected.  Even though trees were bare and it was a wintry lake, the simple beauty just seemed to reinforce this mood of peace and joy I have wallowed in all day.  So, I grabbed Jack's coat and my camera and trooped down to the water to watch the sun go down, supper forgotten in that  moment when it was hard to tell which was the up and which was the down. 

Let there be music and mess

There is perfection in a day that begins with having had a solid night's sleep.  Bell crawled in our bed, but not until 7.    I luxuriated in clean sheets and a snuggle bunny.  There was good Saturday coffee.  Everyone woke up in a good mood.

Perhaps the good night's sleep was because we were all more or less well.  Jack slept in bed and not propped up in the recliner.  There was no school to fret about.

Morning found us all curled up on the couch trying to pick out Christmas music on ITunes.  My poor family does not love Christmas carols like I do, and they just endure it.  My mom always spent the entire month of December singing old fashioned songs.  As a little girl, I am not sure I knew that there was music beyond sweet melodies of Silent Night and O Christmas Tree.  She didn't go in for silly things like Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.  Most of my piano music was always in the form of these same songs.  Thus, a carol junkie was born.

We downloaded some last year, but some of my favorites are missing.  This morning, Jack foolishly revealed that his mom has loads of old LP's with Chirstmas carols.  He needs to do some work up there so I shall go rummage, even though it means putting on real clothes.  Probably leggings are not going to cut it.

My housecleaning is already done which leaves cookie messing and some bread making on the rest of the list.  My chocolate cookie dough is made and ready to bake.  Yesterday, I came home with a bag full of toppings from toffee chips to coconut to peppermint.  I foresee a mopping of the floors at the end of the day.  I wonder if I will be allowed to sing while I mop.

Tucking In

There are just days that make you want to crawl under quilts and snuggle in, your little one tucked in beside you.

That was pretty much my whole week.  Bell was sick for four days before Jacked got sick Tuesday.  I have just felt achy, throat and head hurting . . . blah.  I went to school anyway.  I so did not want to draw out the Revolution and The Age of Enlightenment over a two week break so we plowed ahead and finished up today.  Every day, though, I just came home and existed.  It was the bare minimum of housework.  Food was comforting soup.  Clothes were soft.  Homework happened in a basic sort of way.

Part of the blah was not feeling great, part of it was continuing frustration over my bad class.  Every day has just seemed to take huge effort.

 Today, though, was gray, with damp air eating its way into my bones.  The chill never went away.  It was a somber day.  I just couldn't bear to listen to the news so I avoided the work room.  The kids at least are banned their phones and it is a closed campus so most hadn't heard the news and therefore didn't talk about it.  We had class.  I prepped for next week.  I looked at lesson plans and all that good stuff.  I went through the motions.

It was the sort of day that demanded leggings and Jack's big Henley shirt, pieces of fresh bread and butter, and a lap full of Bella tucked in under a blanket.  We will hibernate for a day or two and then maybe face the world again.  We will make Christmas goodies to share tomorrow.  We will regenerate. For this night, we are just going gel, tucked in with each other watching cartoons.

The Quiet

I am really unused to quiet and solitude.   Last night Jack took her to a Girl Scout lock in and he didn't get in until after I was in bed, and now he has gone back for crafts morning.  It is so strange here.

I spent my evening in a slow bath and watching Sherlock.  I spent some of it beng weepy . . . I have been really emotional lately, some depressed, some stressed.  In such a tiny house I try not to give in to those moments because I am afraid it would be contagious.  This morning was a slow, sweet, quiet morning with Jack Dear.  We don't get many of those since we are too far away for Bell to easily stay over at my mom's.  She used to do that every now and then so we could have an "us" night.

It is chilly and damp, I've had my coffee and a smoothie.  I am curled up in leggings and one of Jack's big shirts.  Pioneer Woman is on, not Disney channel.  I am going to let myself have a bit more slow time, but I need to do some  clearing in Bell's room.  She is a hoarder and still has toys she has long out grown.  I am going to put them in a trunk and put them in the barn for now until I can finally talk her into letting go completely.  This has to happen while she is gone this morning.

I have promised to go with Jack's mama and her garden club friends to lunch and on a home tour.  I have to say this.  My mother-in-law is wonderful.  I would do anything for her . . . including  cheerfully spending this day on a home tour.  Not my thing.  I don't typically like trendy homes.  I really am not up to lots of little old ladies I don't know.  It is all far too much politeness.  Oohing and awing.  But it is for Rubilee and it is far better than lots of Girl Scout moms I might have to chit chat with.

So just a little more couch time and then I have to turn into a person with make up and everything.

Story Time Tonight is brought to you by . . .

One of the highlights of my day is bed time stories with Bell. During the day, we encourage her to read to us, but at night, I crawl in her bed.  She snuggles in next to me with a glass of warm milk, her blanket, and book of choice.  We read everything from non fiction books about snakes to classics like Charlotte's Webb.

She has been on a comic book kick for awhile.  I am not big on them.  Their story lines don't appeal to me very often, but worse, their font is hard for me to read.  I literally have trouble seeing the words.  The letters run together.  However, bed time stories are for pleasure only, so she gets to choose.

Every few nights, she picks a book.  Right now her book is usually a Skippyjon Jones.  I love these books that have  the right amount of silly with good vocabulary thrown in.  Lots of poetic devices make them appealing to the ear. Good artwork.  Funny stories.  But the best part is when Skippy and his friends, a pack  of  imaginary chihuahuas, speak in a sort of Spanish/English mash up.   Suddenly, I am channeling Cheech Moran.  I just can't help it.  By the end of the book, my si amigo sounds like a slightly stoned student from Stewie's Spanish class.  I am lost in letting my holy frijoles roll off my tongue just right.

Bell never let's me do voices.  I sneak in inflections some, but am banned from voices and accents.  If she is tired, she might not notice if I am C3PO in the Star Wars Book, but being British for Beatrix Potter is forbidden.  Cheech is the exception.  I think there is something very wrong with a child's book sounding as if  it is read by Cheech, but it is a compulsion and she likes it.

Whatever we read, it is a satisfying part of the day.  The day's woes at school and our battle of wills over homework are forgotten.  She is getting better at reading to herself. ( I think the glasses are helping because she isn't turning as many letters around. ). I am just not ready to give up this rich moment of the day yet.

Alter Ego

I really hope hope that if there other dimensions and universes and such, that my other self is graceful, her culinary endeavors smooth, and her joints not so arthritic.

I have been on a roll lately.  The kind where Jack rolls his eyes a lot.  Not the kind that gets admiring whistles.  I am not sure when this spree of goofiness started . . .

Last week, I was really looking forward to making some salsa.  I wanted the tang of lime and cilantro and the edge of salt and tomato.  I was geared up for it.  I had it all assembled and took the first taste test only to find it a little odd.  There was smokiness to it that wasn't right.  I went and got the cumin back out and added a little more.  It was permanently odd and no doctoring helped.  The next day when moving things in the cabinet, I discovered that the curry had been in the cumin spot.  I knew for sure that the second dose of cumin had been right because I had opened a new jar for that, but the first bit of curry meant the whole batch was just off.

There is a string of chipped and broken dishes.  I would love to blame carpal tunnel, but my family would assure you  that this is normal.  There are rummy sweaters.  I lost the bag of chicken last week and thought we were out.  Turns out it was in the wrong freezer.  There have been more drips, spills, and general mess than anyone should be capable of.

Tonight, though, was the worst.  I was frying ranch chicken and managed to knock a bowl full of raw chicken, yogurt, eggs, and milk off the counter.  It flew up, hit the floor and bounced. My leg dripped.  The counter.  The stove.  All of it was purely disgusting.  I should have just let the animals come in and enjoy the mess.  Instead,  I found a new roll of paper towels.  Ultimately, dinner was readied and consumed.  The dishes done, the floor mopped, the cook bathed.  All the mess has been erased.

Somewhere out there, there must be a me that has it together.  It is certain that this me is just a mess.  Jack did point out that I should move the red pepper away from where it sat next to the cinnamon on the counter, lest my smoothie in the morning have a little kick.

Ol' Dead Eye

Today is a one for the annals of Wilson-Rucker History.  A grandchild was introduced to guns.

I remember being a wee bitty girl, smaller than Bell is now, and having my grandpa set up a hay bale for the rifle to rest on.  My little arms just weren't big enough to hold it.  I learned about sighting it and learned to hit the tin cans lined on a board.  Later, I learned about loading and pistols and all that goes with guns.  Always, always it was taught that guns were revered in both their importance and danger.  They were not taken lightly or handled without care.  Children certainly didn't handle them without Grandpa right there behind us to make sure we didn't hurt ourselves or anyone else. 

I know I have city friends who would never think of owning a gun, but to some of us, they are vital. They were revered because knowing to use a gun in the country meant knowing how to put down an animal that was suffering.  It meant killing a rabid skunk.  It meant protecting livestock from predators. It meant supper sometimes.  I have  needed one a very few times, but was glad I had the necessary skills when those few times came.

Bella's grandma is a great shot.  Her aunt is really good.  I am adequate.  Bell might be great someday.  Today, Bell just sat with her dad and got a glimpse of what it is about.   She sat on the ground between her dad's legs.  He showed her how to sight and helped her hold it.  She decided it was too loud for her tastes.  That was how I felt at that age too.  It is an acquired taste perhaps.   Today, I stayed longer to do a little target practice.  You know, just in case the zombies come.

The World People

   My favorite time of day is when the sun is coming up over the lake and the valley behind us glows.  After that, dusk is sweet and gathers us into the house for the day.  But right now one of  my favorite times is now when the lights are low and tree is still lit.

    It reminds me of going to my grandparents for Christmas.  We would always arrive late at night, but the tree would still be lit so we kids could see it.  My sleepy eyes always found the world people first.  I have no idea how old these ornaments are for sure, but I know my grandma got them early on in her life with grandpa.  There are 5 of them, but I think there were a few more when I was tiny.  They are glass painted with metallic paints.  Some have bits of fabric too and some have doll like hair. There is a girl, perhaps Chinese, with a flower in her hair.  A little man who might be Eastern European or Russian looks as if he will suddenly begin to sing "Tradition. Tradition!" and then do the leaping, leg kicking dance.  One man seems to be Latin and another is wearing a very proper uniform like the guards outside of Buckingham.

When I was little bitty I would admire them daily as long as the tree was up.  I remember finally being allowed to touch them.  I was over the moon.  I remember helping take the tree down and under careful supervision, wrapping the pieces in layers of tissue paper.  When I was in college, I lived with Grandma for a year and got to put the tree up.  It was up to me to choose where the world people went.  Grandma thought it was funny that I still loved them.

When I was small, I would ask for them and Grandma would always smile and say "when you have your own family."  The first Christmas we were married, Jack and I spent Christmas with my Grandparents, and Grandma sent the world people home with me. I didn't ask; she just remembered.   They are pretty rough looking now.  Their hair has frizzed.  Their paint is dulled and flaked.  Truly, they are a bit scary, but I still love them, though the reasons have changed.   Foolishly sentimental, sappy old me.  I actually get teary every year when I open their box.

Bell can admire them, she has handled them sitting, but I hang them.  They can be hers someday.  For now, they glow gently in the lights of our tree.