Spittle, Popsicle Sticks and Mardi Gras Beads

Never tell people how to do things. Tell them what to do and they will surprise you with their ingenuity.
-- General George S. Patton (1885 - 1945)

I think of General Patton's instruction when I think of the numerous ways my children demonstrated ingenuity over the years, and I learned from my son A.J. that it's a risky notion to doubt the ingenuity of a child.

Both of my boys loved to fish when they were young. Salt water fishing, fresh water fishing, fishing in mountain streams or large rivers, creeks, ponds...the setting didn't matter as long as the event involved a pole, a hook and a worm.

We also spent a lot of time camping and hiking -- just being in a natural, simple environment, and those camping trips nearly always lent themselves to a fishing expedition.

On one particular trip, we'd managed to get away without any bait, but A.J., age ten, with his sun-bleached hair and vivid, blue eyes had been fascinated by some magical lure he'd seen advertised on television at the time. Its properties were so astounding, that once dropped in the water and jiggled about, fish arrived in scores to attack it.

A.J. firmly believed he could create such a device to subsitute for the bait. So, he dug through a box of miscellaneous items kept in the camper for creative impulses, and pulled out a popsicle stick, a paper clip and some little purple Mardi Gras beads. I watched him methodically trim the popsickle stick into three oval-ended pieces, and then pierced the ends with an outstretched paperclip. He fastened the popscicle sticks into jiggling, hinged parts by looping the paper clips through holes and clipping them off. On one end, he attached a string of about six little purple mardi gras beads and a hook. He assured me that having no worms would not interfere with a successfull fishing expedition.

We packed up the essential gear (cookies, Koolaid and chips) and set down the path to the fishing pond. For some reason he wanted me to go along with him, and I was proud to be with this happy, gentle little boy, because I knew we were getting close to the time when he would prefer not to have Mom at his side. As I was considering this, I saw him smile at me, fishing pole slung up on his shoulder, whistling a little as we moved down an embankment to the pond.

All of a sudden I heard something entirely unfamiliar, so foreign to me that I couldn't for a moment conceive what had just happened. My little charmer, my baby boy had ... just churned up the most gutteral, spittle-producing throaty exercise I'd hoped never to witness. It landed on the ground, about a foot off the path, exactly where he intended it to go. I stood there in complete shock, temporarily forgetting the focus of our excursion. He was so darned practiced at it! Didn't it take some time to develop that skill? Didn't somebody have to demonstrate it? Hadn't I already explained to the primary SUSPECT (his brother, Nick) that spitting is unhealthy and inconsiderate?

To A.J., though, it was one of those cool, confident masculine mannerisms that announced he could handle the the fish, by gawd, so he was smiling and whistling well past the spot where I had stopped dead in my tracks.

He stopped at the edge of the water, tossed the line into the pond, and jiggled the pole a little bit, creating a little play on the hinged popsickle sticks and dangling mardi gras beads. I remember still being speechless at his confident transition from little boy to grown little boy, and watched with amazement when he reeled three bluegill from the pond that morning.

We fried the fish over an open fire for lunch, he and I, giggling, chatting, playing until the cooking had finished. He, pleased with the success of his invention and his well-spat spittle; and I, mystified and grateful that this pleasant child was one of the gifts in my life.

I Wish I Had Ninety-Six Car Seats

I never would have imagined receiving ninety-six entries for this item, particularly since it was buried somewhere after the eight hundred mark in the Bloggy Giveaway list.

I am truly grateful to each of you for the time spent in sharing your ideas and very well-thought out comments for improving this blog. They've been compiled into a list, and I can't wait to begin applying them. Many of you have excellent blogs of your own. I enjoyed visiting and becoming acquainted.

I wish I had ninety-six car seats. But, there is only one. Grandmas, aunts, moms and moms-to-be ... how in the world to select one winner from so many who need a car seat for a little person. And, did I mention that I have a Ph.D. in guilt? So, if I were to select one entry based on the substance of the comment, I'd feel guilty ninety-five times (yes, count them -- ninety five) for the entrants who weren't selected.

Finally, after agonizing over this conflict for a while, I decided to leave the decision to science and algorithms, even though the process will do little to soothe the desire to have ninety-six of these things to give away. So, after removing two comments from the list (i.e., one belonging to my daugther-in-law, Erin, and my response to her), I went to Research Randomizer to select a winner from ninety-six entries.

Now, without further fanfare, the winner of the car seat is comment number twenty-eight (28), "team chilton."

Congrats, I'll be sending you an email so that we can coordinate contact information!

I can't wait until the next giveaway . . .

Bloggy Giveaway!

Contest is now closed.

I'm late getting started, but decided on a whim to participate in the Bloggy Giveaways Carnival.

As a new blogger, I'd be delighted if you'd peek through my posts and leave a comment or suggestion for improvement!

The giveaway (for residents of the continental U.S. only) from this site is ...*drum roll*...

A brand name car seat for children 22-80 pounds and 34" to 52" in height. Purchased on July 4, 2008, the item will be shipped in its original wrapper ... was used about four times during a grandchild's visit.

Looking forward to your comments and suggestions!

Note: Deadline for giveaway entries will be midnight (12:00 a.m.) ET on Friday, August 1, 2008.

OOM

There is a condition of life that is particularly poignant following marriage and childbirth. I call it OOM, also known as "out of money." This condition does not occur in varying degrees. It is never mild or moderate. It is the bottom of the pit. It is always severe. I was reminded of this as a result of my daughter-in-law's most recent blog on the topic.

I recall experiencing a similar episode of OOM when my three children were small. Spring had arrived and Easter was the following day, but the symptoms of OOM had settled in several days earlier. The mortgage on the farm was paid, the pantry was sufficiently stocked. BUT . . . there would be no chocolate bunnies, no cute coloring books, no bottles of bubbles, yo-yo's or jacks, no sugar-coated Peeps, not even a jelly bean. Pitiful. Just pitiful. I even managed to delude myself into thinking that if no one talked about Easter, maybe it would just pass by, and the kids would never know what they'd missed.

Easter morning came that year, trumpeting a sunny sky and warm air. Yet, that dull ache that accompanies OOM prevailed. There had to be a way to take the sting out of the day, but I was at a loss for a solution, until I decided it was time to focus on the good stuff.

We lived on fifty acres in the mountains. In fact, we had our own little mountain. Surely an adventure awaited somewhere up there. With that thought in mind, the kid's Dad packed a hatchet (for what, I could not imagine), I took a basket full of PB&J sandwiches and Kool Aid, somebody dragged along an old quilt, and we set out for the top of the hill.

The farther up the hill we hiked, the more I could feel layers of care peeling away. Paths worn into the hillside by white-tailed deer led us to a small flat just below the peak. Sunlight trickled through the canopy of tall maple and oak trees as they swayed in the breeze. The scent of wood and leaves sweetened the air. It was the perfect spot for a picnic. We spread out the quilt, munched on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and talked and giggled about nothing in particular.

Afterward, the kids' Dad began to meander around with that hatchet, sort of trimming the underbrush, and all three of the children trailed around behind him. Somebody noticed a thick vine stretched from the top of a tree and fastened to the earth. A few whacks of the hatchet freed the vine at the bottom, and suddenly all three of the kids were hanging on it, squealing with glee and swooping out over an embankment (a parent stationed above and below). For hours -- until they couldn't hang on any longer -- they took turns swinging like trapeze artists among the trees.

The sun settled to the top of the next ridge as we walked back to the house. I remember smiling, satisfied that there would be no grief that day for the absence of jelly beans.

Even now, the memory of that afternoon with my children brings me great comfort. And, when the bank account is drained and OOM looms near, it occurs to me there is another meaning for this intimidating acronym.

Once, On a Mountain . . . .

Filed Under "X"

My spouse and I were really excited about the premier of the movie The X-Files: I Want to Believe. As true X-Files junkies, we spent an entire week attending to household chores and fanagling work schedules in order to go out, guilt-free, on a movie date. While we were happy to have one another's company, my disappointment in the movie was mirrored by his.

First Problem: The thing was filmed in British Columbia, and the film makers tried to pass off much of the setting as rural West Virginia. Early in the movie, a time stamp appeared on the bottom of the screen identifying a location in West Virginia at a particular hour of the day. My brain, as that of a former resident of the state, could not compute the movie's sharply peaked mountains rising beside enormous expanses of snow-covered meadows, gouged by long, straight country roads -- features of topography that are entirely inconsistent with what one typically would find in the Mountain State.

Second Problem: The film attempts to weave current events into the plot, but the threads completely fray. Surely there is a better avenue for portraying unexplained psychic phenomena than to route it through the character of an anguished, pedophilic Catholic priest. As a matter of fact, the movie seemed to employ character stereotyping as rule of thumb, and it became tedious.

Third problem: One of the intriguing characteristics of both the series and the last movie was that the viewer was left wondering about the resolution ... not frustrated by unanswered questions ... but wondering, and wanting more. Sadly, I Want to Believe laboriously answered questions posed by its weak plot, and at about mid-point I found myself thinking, "I want to believe this is about to be over."

This film should be filed under "X" for xceedingly dull, xtraordinary waste of money, and xpelled from memory.

The Preservation of Peas and Carrots

I am laughing. Really, really laughing. It's not a nice thing, either. I'm laughing at my son's most recent blog.

My son, Nick, reports that his son, who is seven years old, believes his father is EVIL. *laughing, laughing, laughing* Apparently, they had conflicting ideas recently about clothing, ice cream and finishing a meal, all in one afternoon. I was not there to observe this series of events, but I can imagine it quite vividly.

Now, I hope that I wouldn't revel in the slightest unpleasantry for someone else, let alone any of my children. *bwa ha, ha, ha* But, I read Nick's description of how Damon skillfully eliminated food from his plate by recruiting the family dog's assistance, and launched into an uncontrollable, guttural laughing fit. I found this scenario to be quite amusing.

Anyone who reads Nick's blog knows that he lived on a farm when he was little. When we first moved there, furniture was a pretty scarce concept. Most of what we used had been donated by family members. Eventually, we inherited a table for the dining room that had been owned by Nick's great-grandmother. It was a heavy, sturdy object that seated up to twelve, and collapsed into itself so that extra leaves were smartly concealed underneath -- a veritable marvel of old-fashioned workmanship.

Although the table was expanded and re-collapsed several times for gatherings of family and friends during that first year at the farm house, it never occurred to me to crawl underneath the darn thing. So, in that slow space of time between the winter holidays and good, old-fashioned spring cleaning, the table remained in its usual small configuration for seating a family of four. Unknown to me, the concealed leaves formed a perfectly hidden shelf on the underside of the table.

Some traditions hang on hard in the mountains where we lived, and one of them is a ritual spring cleaning. Every wall, every baseboard -- every picture frame, heating vent, door knob -- is disassembled, scrubbed to a sparkle, and reassembled. It was during such a ritual that I, unable to budge this monstrosity of a table, decided to climb underneath and scrub it down. Much to my horror, on the concealed shelf at the end where Nick was seated, perfectly aligned rows of individual little vegetables were displayed. It was an exact study on the preservation of peas and carrots! Row after row of hardened little orange cubes, dehydrated peas, lima beans and corn were illuminated by a shaft of sunlight that crept through the windows. Simultaneously, I was illuminated. I now understood why it seemed Nick had been cheerily eating his meals for some months . . . why those nightly vegetable wars had subsided.

So, Nick, do not dismay. Like you, your son is a clever, clever little boy. Some traits, like peas and carrots, are worth preserving. He will be OK, and you will not always be evil. (But, it may take some time.)

*laughing, laughing, laughing*

Try, Try Again

So.

This is my third attempt at blogging. I had hoped to do this a couple of years ago -- even set up the site. But, I managed to stymie myself right off the bat. The blog was intended to tell my children the stories of their heritage. However, I set such rules for myself it was impossible to live up to them. Every post was going to have a picture. Every post would utilize a quotation from a famous author, somehow linked to the story. Every storyline would be tightly woven and very well written. Hah! I managed one or two posts that met the standard and decided I couldn't live up to it again.

Lesson learned. I need to relax. So, I'm taking a different approach, one from a peripheral point of view. I'll wait for inspiration from blogs and conversations my children have about their current lives, and tell whatever story pops into mind.

What the heck. At my age, it's time to be REALLY daring. Sometimes, I might just write about nothing in particular!