(E) Easter Eggs and Other Contrivances

Other than celebrating the obvious religious aspects of Easter, I have always tried to make the holiday a fun and exciting time for my children.

At first it was easy.

When they were young, a plastic basket with fake grass and a hollow bunny was enough to satisfy them. But as they grew older they wanted to dye their own eggs, decorate them, hide them, hunt them- and then proceed to eat those mangled symbols of some invisible bunny.


They were lucky that I was a mother who worshiped Martha Stewart. She was the goddess of ultimate hospitality, creativity, innovation and presentation. And if I couldn't be Audrey Hepburn, then I wanted to be Martha- a busy bee that whipped up decorative beauty at the blink of an eye and caused the entire neighborhood to gossip about my talent. And I wanted my children to constantly be in pure awe and adoration of my creative genius.


I'm glad Martha went to jail.

If she had been sentenced for the very fact that she bamboozled the entire female population into believing that these projects of hers were easy and fun- then justice would have been well served. She ought to be ashamed that she falsely portrayed a smiling, calm, and perfectly organized woman at the helm of these hair-brained ideas.


Yes, she could weave a set of drapes with dental floss, tile her patio with broken coconut shells, and whip up an omelet that looked like Abraham Lincoln. But, she never had three kids at her feet while she dyed Easter eggs.


Do you realize the impending disaster that six open bowls of dye, magic crayons, and glitter can cause? Do you know what catastrophe can be induced by fighting children with weapons of hard boiled eggs and jelly beans? Do you grasp the fact that sweet-looking pastel eggs will eventually turn black after being dunked in dye seventeen times? Do you comprehend the square footage of paper towels, napkins and newspaper required for decorating a mere dozen eggs? Do you even fathom the mess that is left after one of these so-called Martha activities?
I tell you now- It's not a good thing.

As my children grew up, I finally grew out from beneath Martha's shadow. I went back to making frozen pizzas instead of grinding flour for my own crusts and milking the neighbors goat for fresh cheese. I bought my kitchen curtains at KMart instead of making my own from left-over bread ties and dryer sheets. I no longer cared if the dinner table was set with real napkins, crystal water glasses, and the appropriate utensils. I went back to paper plates, Big Gulp cups from the local gas station, and to letting them wipe their messy mouths on their sleeves. 
And Easter egg dying was totally banned from my household. 

I truly believe with all my heart that God made plastic eggs for a reason...


******************
All my regular followers know that I have tried to make the middle of the week a Goodwill Wednesday here on my blog. I had been having trouble uploading pictures because my internet is totally screwy- but I managed to get a few before and afters of my latest project.
So, here's my Goodwill Wednesday:


I saw this table at a yard sale.

I asked the guy what he wanted for it- he looked at me strangely- and said, "How about a dollar?"
I really believe if I had argued with him, he would have given me a dollar to haul it off.
Later, I realized that the sides were bolted up and wouldn't fold down, but I just removed them.

Anyway...thanks to my sister Tina for storing this on her front porch till I had time to rescue it. I know her neighbors were pretty sure that a porch couch would be coming next and then the whole neighborhood would go to Hell...
...but most people didn't look at that old rusty table and see what I saw:

Perfect for my back bathroom... 

(D) Diet Dreams

If anyone ever tells you that diet's are easy...well- they're big fat little skinny liars. 
Or simply ignorant about the entire torturous process of shedding unwanted weight.
Sure, diets can be easy if you just need to lose a few pounds. The smart solution would be to cut out sodas for a week, skip dessert on Sunday, and Zumba with your friends a few times after work. In a matter of days, you ought to be back in your tiny tops and skinny jeans, looking like that anorexic movie star that you aspire to be.

How nice for you.

But there are those of us whose greatest wish in life is to be thin. Are we wanting mansions? Sports cars? Exotic vacations to faraway places? 
No. 
We are simply wanting to look good in our own skin...
...to look in the mirror and not see that layer of fat pouring out like fleshy syrup from beneath a too-tight bra strap...
...to sit down and not have to hide the multiple belly rolls that suddenly appear like the coils of a Amazonian python....
...to walk to one end of the mall to the next without having to call 9-1-1 and beg the paramedics to bring oxygen. 

And a donut.

For me, a diet is a continuous obstacle. It must be confronted every single moment of every single day. Just like dirty dishes, soiled laundry, and the green grass in summer- it needs constant attention or it simply gets out of control.
I've come to believe that control is the very thing that I lack. I love vegetables, fresh fruit, broiled fish and baked chicken. But control is thrown right out the window and run over by a convoy of 18-wheelers the minute that something sweet crosses my path or dilates my nostrils.
Most sophisticated and classy women can nibble a slice of cheesecake the size and thickness of a credit card and complain of "being stuffed". That is control. 
(Not to mention total delusional nonsense...)
But gals like me prefer their cheesecake the size of encyclopedias, their pastries as wide as a queen size bed and their M&M's poured into their mouths like buckets of candy-wine.

I have diet dreams.


Every Sunday night I dream of Monday's diet...
...of waking up as fresh and sweet as Cindy Crawford...of floating around the house in spandex shorts, eating petite organic carrots sticks and sipping honeyed green tea...of purposefully bending and stooping and squatting as I dust and sweep and go about my daily chores...of pushing away that tuna sandwich at lunch before it's even half eaten...of jogging down the road a half mile and back- and still having the energy to mop the kitchen floor and prepare dinner...

Yes, I have dreams...
I have dreams that my arms will no longer have wings- that instead, I will have firm, tan biceps that can kick the crap out of any sugar cookie that calls my name...

I have a dream that my stomach will be so flat that my boobs will cast a voluptuous shadow upon it - and so tight the grand kids can play racket ball against it...

I have dreams that my closet will be full of single digit sizes, strapless dresses, sweater dresses, smart looking outfits and sexy swim suits... and tiny underwear the size of a Hobbits slingshot... and not the size of a mini-trampoline.

I have dream that I can slide into a pair of faded jeans, pull on a white blouse, stick my hair up in a messy bun and look like a million bucks...that I can sit with my legs curled under me on the couch ans think of nothing but good music, fun times, and my next shopping trip...to not be overburdened and obsessed with counting calories, measuring portions or weighing ounces...

I dream of being both anatomically and politically correct.


I don't even want to have to think about control. I just want it to be there. To exist. To do its thing without being told. To exercise it's omnipotent power and envelope me into a perfect world where food is not the enemy and a plate of pasta doesn't add six pounds overnight.

I want to be me. Just me. And not some circus freak in a fat suit whose thighs rub together while running the vacuum -or someone who has more chins than the Chinese phone book.

I have dreams. 

Beautiful, gentle dreams... and I am in control. 

*****************

(C) The Cabin

My husband spent some of his young adult vacations in the hills of Missouri. Although  he says he didn't appreciate it as a rebellious seventeen year old, he now realizes that this is where he wants to put down the final roots of his lifetime.
That's why back in the late '90's we bought a little cabin down in Missouri, nestled in the middle of the woods. It was small, and rough, and over three hours from home.
Our kids were teens then- and not at all thrilled about drawing water from the well, stacking firewood, or using a crude outhouse. And most weekends when we planned a cabin visit, the kids had dates, or ballgames, or dances that gave them legitimate excuses to stay with friends while we traipsed off to our hidden hideaway.
The only improvements we made were running water and a little bathroom with a shower. That made a great difference in the comfort level, though.
But, in 2000, we made the choice to sell the cabin. My husband had operated his own business for eighteen years and had decided to finally close up.  In order to meet all our financial obligations, we knew that selling the cabin was the only way to come up with the money we needed.
It was difficult, but we had no other options at the time. In my journal, I wrote about that decision:

July 25th, 2000
Friday evening we went to the cabin to gather up our belongings and say goodbye to three years of wilderness life. It was nice being alone for awhile- away from the stress and the kids- and we had fun eating out and talking about our future.
I shed a few tears and it was harder than I thought to close up that part of our lives. We have so many good memories there. Camp outs, the river, (the night we stayed there without electricity and made shadow puppets on the wall), the outhouse, the swing, the rock bridge, the old pond...the autumn smells...and pieces of our hearts.
When we left, the cabin just got smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror. I suddenly realized that we had truly sold our souls- sold that peace and nature and tranquility and piece of Heaven- for money! For dirty old money!!
Yet, life is a series of lessons. Perhaps one of these days we can put that kind of peace back into our lives. My goal now is to buy back our souls one day. 
I love the cabin and always will. But I know God has another waiting for us somewhere. Where bluebirds sing and clear water flows, and deer dance in the meadow...

A few years later we got back on our feet and my husband decided to buy some property down the road from where we live now. Every month when I wrote out the check to the bank, I wondered why we were pouring our money into a place we had no use for. But every single time I was reminded it was an investment and would pay off someday. However, I was always doubtful.
After I did a bit of nagging and complaining- my husband decided it was time to sell that property- and within six months, we found a buyer and made a good bit of money.
Now- it was time to look for another place like the cabin!
We had come across our old cabin on a real estate website a few years earlier and it was being sold for over twice what we had given for it. We were sad that it would never be an option for us.
But- I was wrong.
A new search showed that the cabin was available again at a reduced price! So, we immediately called the broker.
"Sorry folks", he said, "but it's been sold, The paperwork is being processed right now."
On a whim, I left my name and number and asked him to look for something in the area similar to the old cabin.
A week later I came home and found a message on my answering machine: "If you're still interested in the old cabin, it's available. The loan fell through last minute."
I was ecstatic! My husband and I made a trip that very weekend to see the place.
It had been ten years. The place looked rough. Nothing had been done to it in all that time, but we were still in love with it.
After several offers and counter offers, we finally agreed on a price and the bank began paperwork. Because of forest easements and other legal jargon- it was taking weeks for anything to get done. The seller had set a firm closing deadline and we were sweating bullets. Finally, with a week left, the Realtor suggested that we try another bank. So, with only a week left to get the abstract and bank work and appraisal done- we switched financial institutions and prayed a lot.
Miracles do happen. With all the obstacles and odds against us- and after ten years had passed- the cabin was ours again!
We spent last summer there- painting, remodeling, mowing, cleaning....and talking about our future.

It isn't just a cabin in the woods- it's our future home. It's a place where our thoughts linger after a hard day. It's a place where we see ourselves rocking on the porch and peeling sweet, ripe peaches... where we imagine chickens in the yard... and warm fires in the winter... and gardens full of plump vegetables. We see long walks holding hands...of our hair turning gray on feather pillows...of our children coming for Thanksgiving meals and Christmas snows... and the chatter of grand kids making shadow puppets...and the echo of laughter long after it is gone...
The cabin. This is where we will dig our final roots and spread them out beneath the huge oaks- until God has other plans for us.

(B) The Beauty Shop

My mother was never one to spend money on herself. With nine kids and a two bedroom house, there was never any extras to use for trivial indulgence. She wore little makeup, never yearned for fancy jewelry, and rarely bought new clothes. But, every so often, Mom would splurge on herself and go to the beauty shop.

Beauty shops were always dark little rooms with faded fashion posters, outdated magazines, and the heady smell of permanent solution. The floor was always linoleum tiles and the walls were cheap paneling. Somewhere there was a bouquet of artificial flowers or a plastic plant- and bits of hair always clung to the corners even after a good sweeping.

Sweet smelling shampoo, cream conditioner, and a can of hairspray later- a woman could be transformed for a few dollars. Back then it was a real treat to have someone else wash your hair, style you pretty, and make you walk out feeling like Miss America.

A lady from the church always did Mom's hair. Mrs.Tucker had a shop in her basement and we would  play outside while Mom got "the works". She had a brick house so we thought she was rich- and a swing, which we thought was cool. And even though Mom emerged from that basement not really looking like "Mom", we admired Mrs. Tucker's ability to wield scissors and a comb.

The first thing Mom did when she got back from the beauty shop was to comb down her "doo" a bit and complain that it was too stiff, poofy short, long, curly or too straight. But she always went back again the next time and told Mrs. Tucker how much she loved it.

I'm not sure that they really call them "beauty shops" anymore. Even "hair dresser" sounds old-fashioned and a bit torturous. Maybe "stylist" might be the most appropriate modern word.

But I'll never forget the basement beauty shop- it's array of plastic capes and pink rollers and giant dome hair dyers in a minty shade of green.
I'll never forget how Mom always took a dollar out of her pocket book and tipped Mrs. Tucker with a smile -and we acted as though Mom had just left her a hundred bucks.
That would have bought ten snow cones!!

My Mom was beautiful even when the poof, the spray, and the shine had all gone out of her hairdo.

And that's the way I fondly remember her the most...

(A) April

April arrives.

While the whole world is sleeping,
she pulls into the station on the Railroad of Seasons.


She floats off the train
and stands in strands of new sunlight-
her gown woven of blue fog,
crystal raindrops,
and violets so purple
that they sting your eyes
with joy.

April isn't one for hugs.
She's fragile
and aloof
and so transparent at first
that you're never really certain 
she is real.

She softly lifts her veil-
and her hair is braid of butterfly wings...
Her lips- pink, like azalea petals-
Her eyes, a gray-blue
like the ocean before a storm.

She seems kind enough.

Her voice carries on the breeze 
like a wisp of delicate perfume
and she takes my hand
with tiny fingers of gossamer peach.


But, I know that in her bag
she brings many things
that are neither soft or sweet-
or even kind.


Folded tightly in her suitcase
are sheets of torrential rain-
pillows of flannel funnel clouds-
and ribbons of raw anger.

She will bend the clouds
and play with lightning.
She'll rip the cherry blossoms from the trees
and toss them like salmon-colored confetti
on rainy sidewalks.

Then she'll laugh.

Yet, who could not adore her
for the gifts that she brings?
She offers me a bouquet of
lemon flowers-
a field of unbelievable greenness-
and a perfect peace that my soul has not felt
since the harvest.


April is like a bird.
All blue and shimmering
like a iridescent rainbow
that hovers ever so lightly in our hearts.
We want to touch her,
but we're afraid that she'll spread her velvet wings
and fly away forever-
like a colorful kite
whose strings cannot be tethered. 

I carefully take her hand and lead her into the garden.
We walk beside the pond
and talk of better days...
her gown blowing like dragonfly wings
that sing with the tinkle of wind chimes...

But even as we speak, 
I know her visit is brief-
her beauty fleeting,
her gifts only temporary.


Thirty days from now,
April will board that train again
and travel down that track of time...

Then May will arrive-
and step out in all 
her 
infinite 
glory.