Grandmas Rule

One nice thing about living in a place with constant sun is that kids can play in the back yard all winter long.  This makes it handy when babysitting grandchildren.  Our seventeen-month-old toddler ran back and forth across the lawn chasing his older siblings.  He never caught up to them, but there was joy in his journey.  He ran and laughed and pranced about, falling occasionally and getting right back up.  Fluffs of air ruffled the feather-soft hair on his head as he ran. 

The little man abruptly stopped when his foot plopped into an unexpected indention in the grass.  He quickly climbed out of the hole and curiously bent over to examine the obstacle in his path.  He was fascinated by the hole.  He tore off tufts of nearby grass and stuffed them into the earthen bowl.  Then he ceremoniously stepped into the hole and out of the hole numerous times to gauge its depth.  Finally he wiggled his diapered derriere into the ditch and snuggled into a comfortable fit. 

Grandma Katie and Grandma Mara holding me. 1959

As I watch my grandchildren, I think about my own grandmothers and the legacy of love they left me.  I hope I can measure up to the standard they set for me.  I think particularly of my Grandma Katie whose daddy died when she was just two-years old.  That winter a 25-year-old widow, Ana, returned to Croatia with her four baby daughters, bundled up against the elements and traveling home on a cold boat in a crowd of strangers.  The ship tossed to and fro on billowing waves that attempted to swallow them up in their grief.  But, they held fast and headed home to the warmth and support of family and friends on another continent.  What bravery in the face of hardship and affliction! 

From that day on my Grandma Katie and her sisters were raised in a small village by their grandma, assisted by aunts and uncles.   I realize that is when she learned all about a grandmother’s love.  Her life of selfless sacrifice arose from the exemplary service of her own grandmother.   When I close my eyes, I can see my grandma and her sisters running through the fields of wildflowers and chasing butterflies.  I see them doing household chores, helping in the kitchen, feeding chickens, and growing into beautiful young women who had families of their own.

I wish I could have met their grandma, my great-great grandmother.  I want to know all about her and get her advice on a few things.  But, then again, I feel as though I already know her.  I know her when I wipe a dirty face.  I know her when I hug away a tear.  I know her when I put a stinker in time out and teach him right from wrong.  I know her when I watch a little guy sitting in a ditch in my backyard, nestled in for the night.   

Dust Bunnies

Spring comes early to the Sonora Desert.  It arrives mid-February with the celebration of Presidents’ Day weekend.  Some people say we don’t have the change of seasons here, but we do.  The fresh air and bright sun alert us to the fact that summer is right around the corner, and that now is the time to enjoy the weather.  Something else emerges as spring pronounces its arrival.  I begin to notice dust--dust on shelves, dust on pictures frames, and dust on the fake floral arrangements!  Spring cleaning is inevitable. 

After a quick trip to Walgreens for cleaning supplies, I return home and pick up the dust pan and broom, determined to get a handle on this.  Dropping to my knees I cautiously peek beneath the bed only to find a horrific sight!  Legions of dust bunnies stare at me, poised to launch a full-on allergy attack!  Startled, I cannot decide if I should accept the challenge or retreat.  At a time like this, there is only one alternative.

I don my expensive polarized shades and hat for protection.  I grab my husband, a water bottle and my new camera.  We head for the hills!  I chuckle to myself as I step out of the vehicle and my feet hit the soft desert dust.  As we hike, dust kicks up around us, and I don’t give a second thought about allergies.  In fact, particles of dust glisten in the sunlight as joggers, dog-walkers, and families scamper along the trail.  Children and leashed dogs of all varieties scurry up to the ridgeline while we older folks take a little longer to get there. 

The view of the city is spectacular, and an American flag at the summit snaps with the breeze, reminding us that Monday is a national holiday.   We don’t spend long at the top, but as we descend something else catches my eye on the northern horizon.  A dozen brightly colored hot air balloons begin their ascent, one at a time, in the distance.  Their elegance lifts my spirit, and I soar to them with the zoom on my camera.  My sight is fixed on them all the way back to the car where we shake the dust off our feet and head home.

At nightfall I cleanse my body from the dust of the day, pop an allergy pill, and snuggle in for the night.  Tea lights flicker in the darkness, and mellow tones of Native American flute music transport me to another time.  I hear my mother’s voice and her all too famous words, “God made dirt, and a little bit of dirt don’t hurt.”  I drift into sleep knowing that I will be safe through the night, protected by God and an army of dust bunnies under my bed.

Go take a hike!

http://www.nps.gov/index.htm

http://azstateparks.com/find/f_act_hiking.html

http://www.maricopa.gov/parks/

http://phoenix.gov/recreation/rec/parks/preserves/index.html

http://www.glendaleaz.com/ParksandRecreation/ThunderbirdPark.cfm

Ditch the Journal and Bring on the Blog

Over the years I have found happiness and contentment in journal writing by notating each and every special event, dates of my children’s immunizations, and the details of everyday doldrums.  I led myself to believe I was effectively leaving the story of my life to unfold before countless numbers of generations yet unborn.  Large books dwindled to little stylish photo-filled journals that could fit in my purse, computerized journals, and journal phone apps.  Trips to Barnes and Noble and Borders Books led me to intuitively purchase attractive journals that might come in handy sometime for somebody.  Consequently I bought journals for myself and gave them as gifts to the unassuming.  This was very fun, and I still believe in the power of the journal!

But seriously, who’s going to read those dusty volumes about my life after I am dead and they are buried in a heap?  Better yet, who will actively dig through my digital databanks that are secretly filed away and floating on some cyber cloud?  Which descendent with any amount of decency will take on the chore of copying the contents and distributing my words of wisdom at some future and far away family reunion?    In an attempt to spare my posterity of this unpleasant responsibility, I have decided to close the books of my life and stow them away in a pretty little box with a heart embellished lid.  My journals have served their purpose well; however, it is time to move on to something more practical…

I’m throwing a Popcorn Party!  And YOU are invited!!!  Come and nibble one kernel at a time or choke down a handful with a gulp of your favorite beverage.  Read my words and relish them.  Challenge them. Ignore them.  Hate them.  It really doesn’t matter to me what you do with my words.  They are mine, and I choose to share them now, not later.   So, accept the invitation to join me in deliberations about Life and Living!  Stop by for the popcorn, and enjoy the party!