There's this shovel in my office with a post-it note on it. I think it's probably an ash-shovel for a fireplace. Or something like that because it's just shy of two feet long. And no, I did not just dig in my desk drawer for a measuring tape so I could walk across the room and measure it because I'm gifted enough in measurement to guess that it was less than two feet long. Twenty inches, to be exact.
But really, it's a shit shovel.
Jill bought it for me. From Goodwill, I'm sure. It was her favorite store. Or maybe a yard sale. She loved those, too. As a matter of fact, on October 10, 1999 she and I went to eleventy-thousand-three-hundred-twenty-five-million yard sales during the day and that night, I went into labor with Zane. She was pretty proud of herself for inducing my labor ten days early and before the doctor's appointment to schedule and inducement.
Jill wrote the note to Phil because she knew if she wasn't here to keep me in line, someone would have to do it. I think she probably picked the right person for the job. There aren't too many people who can put up with me.
I can't wrap this head of mine around the fact that Jill's been gone two years already.
I mean, she still talks to me in my head. I still find little notes and gifts from her all over in my stuff. She was so good at being a friend. She knew every little thing about me and she constantly thought of me. I know this because one of the other things she was really good at was sending boxes of 'prises. (Surprises. 'prises. Prizes.) She'd fill a box with recipes cut out of magazines and newspapers, funny articles, comics, post-it notes, and little gifts that mean absolutely NOTHING to anyone but her and I. She paid attention to the details.
I said that this year I wanted to make more time for the people that are still here. I want to pay attention to the details. I want to bless someone by thinking of them. I can't be Jill, but I can emulate the way she loved. I can pay attention to my friends and give them my time and my heart and things with secret meanings.
It was very hard for me to hit "publish" on this one.
* * *
In October of 1999, Zane was born. Phil was driving our semi over the road and he was home one day out of every thirty. That year, Jill and I spent New Year's Eve together afraid for Y2K. We survived.
In 2000, we filed bankruptcy on that semi and moved back to Indiana and lived with my parents for a short time. Phil found a driving in job in Chicago and he was home two days out of every seven.
In 2001, 9/11 happened and I was scared for our lives. I'd never, ever heard it so quiet outside as when all planes were grounded. That month, we found a duplex to rent, Zane turned 2, potty-trained and I was still trying to decide if I was a good mom or not.
In 2002...Phil got a local job hauling fuel and was home EVERY night.
In 2003, Phil and I bought the Knox house. I started attending a church for the first time since I was let down by a different church back in 1992.
In 2004, doctors thought Phil had cancer. He didn't. He did, however, punch a wall and break his hand and have to have pins put in.
In 2005, I was reading my Bible daily, active in Women's ministry (and Phil in men's ministry) and I was really getting to know God. Jill told me she had breast cancer and had already been battling it for a year. She'd already had a mastectomy and chemo and radiation. She made me get a breast exam. And I think they thought I had cancer. I then had an ultra sound. Then a mammogram (and platypus poop.) Then I had to see a surgeon. He told me I didn't have breast cancer.
In 2006, I was called to write. "Write." (I noticed I posted that on 12/02/06. Wonder if that has anything to do with 12:26?) That year, I also lost my Uncle Ed. I'm not sure there's ever been a time when I felt as close to God. And that's also the year my church gave me a wake up call--lying about me, accusing me of ridiculous things, and leaving me alone during a time of huge, monumental need. Phil thought he was having a heart attack. Our fridge broke. Phil lost his job. Phil had double hernia surgery. We almost lost our house. 2006 was probably the hardest year of my life. I felt so alone that year. And God taught me more about His love than I could've ever expected.
In 2007, my thyroid completely shut down and I've been trying to get my brain (and my body and my life) back ever since. It's also the year I was asked to be on the editing team at The Midnight Diner.
In 2008, I lost my best friend, Jill in January. She might have survived Y2K, but she did not survive breast cancer. And then my grandma passed away in September. I was asked to be Editor-in-chief of The Midnight Diner.
In 2009, We were taken on a trip of a lifetime to Key West and Marco Island, Florida in March. Phil quit truck driving altogether! He started working as property manager for Inspiration Wood. We were blessed with a grandson in April. Around May, I finally started feeling like myself again with the help of some replacement thyroid hormone. We moved in June and I've been trying to figure out what life is now that Phil's home all day, every day and now that everything has changed.
* * *
I started this post with the intention of talking about how I feel separated from God right now. I mean, I know He's there, He just feels distant to me and I remember hearing people talk about feeling this way and I distinctly remember thinking, "I will NEVER feel that way. I will always feel as close to God as I do at this very moment."
I was going to talk about this new Bible I got, The Books of the Bible--with no verse references--and how I was going to start reading that for the New Year.
But I got caught up in looking at the way things got so ugly during the time I was closest to God. I remember what I went through and the lessons I learned after I did Beth Moore's Believing God study. Things I haven't found the courage to write about.
And though God says, "Do not be afraid."
I am afraid.
I'm afraid that if I get close to Him again, something worse will happen. And I don't know how to let go of that fear.
Phil received a Pottery Barn Daily System for his birthday and the wall is now wired and Phil installed this very cool, very useful calendar, corkboard, whiteboard, charging station, and digital frame. (No pics yet!)
As if I need more reason to love this thing? So.
Speaking of calendars...how many of you have made time to enjoy life?
Quit being so busy. Quit overbooking yourself and your family. Take control of your time and vow to spend time with those you love and enjoy. Don't you know how fast it all goes by?
I lost some veryimportantpeople in the past few years and it's now, Christmas season, when I tend to miss them most because they were so big a part of my Christmases. The void is unfillable. The grief is overwhelming at times. And I know how many times I've wished I would've spent a little more time with them. I don't remember what I did instead of visiting them and making memories, all I know is the memories aren't there because I chose to do other things instead. Unimportant things.
I want that to change for the people I still have here to love.
The purpose of Sincerely ‘Fro Me to You (every Thursday) is to link up a post about something from your past. You can reach back all the way to your childhood and bravely post pictures of your ‘fro (don’t act like you didn’t have a bad hair style. I know you did) or post something from last year and tell us about it.
* * *
And you wonder why I am who I've turned out to be? Seriously.
I'm about 2 in this photo. Topless. On a motorcycle. This isn't a one time occurrence. You'd think my parents didn't buy me clothes as a toddler. Guess I needed to be different. Some things never change.
Oh those were the days. I could run around topless and cute and people actually took photos instead of ran away! Though if I ran around topless today and Phil had a camera...nevermind. TMI
I suppose this is somewhere around the summer of 1974. That's our neighbor's house, I can't remember his name, but I remember he had two front doors (check it out! That was SO cool to me as a kid!) And he was on oxygen and he always, always, always gave me a butterscotch when I went over to visit. He was the good neighbor. The old lady on the other side used to keep my toys if they went over the fence. So I picked her flowers through the fence and gave them to my mom.
I showed you mine, now you show me yours! Sign up here.
They're pressed in many books I have no intention of ever discarding. Given to me on such a regular basis, I took for granted their rarity.
She'd tip-toe through my yard as if walking a tight-rope, even though the yard was nothing but weeds and rocks. She'd bend in half like a ballerina and go right to them, they must have been whispering her name.
She's been gone almost fifteen months now, but I still see her petite frame walking towards me, her small arm extended, her thin hand bent slightly, and between her long fingers--another four leaf clover for me, "Look! A 'prise!" she'd sing. Never a "suprise" always a 'prise. Always.
The odds of finding a 4-Leaf clover is estimated at 10,000 to 1.
And the odds of having such a best friend? There aren't enough stars in the sky. Love you Jill.
The only reason the pickled watermelon rind she sent Phil last year isn't in there any longer is because while we were out of town one weekend, our power went out for a few days and when we returned, we had to throw everything away. I held it in my hand, hesitating. I thought about emptying the contents and keeping the jar. Then I thought Jill'd think I was stupid, so I threw it away.
The only reason the video of her that was recorded on my phone just a few days before she died isn't there any longer is because my phone broke and the video couldn't be recovered. It's the same reason her phone number isn't programmed in there, too.
Jill's blog is still here. I pretty much have the few entries she posted memorized.
Her email address is still in my contacts. Sometimes, I want to email her and tell her things.
She's still so much a part of my life. Pink ribbons don't give me some feeling of achievement. They don't make me feel like I'm doing something or saying something or raising awareness for something. The make me hate breast cancer and death and they make me miss Jill. I hate those freaking pink ribbons. There. I said it.
I had a weird dream this morning, I know one part of it was her trying to make me laugh. We have a private little joke about black licorice.
When I first read Heather's prompt question for this month, "How have movies or a movie inspired you artistically or spiritually? " The first movie that came to my mind was Carrie.
Yes. Carrie. The movie adaptation of Stephen King's first published novel.
Here's what I remember:
I was young. The novel was released in 1974 (I was 2) and the film adaptation in 1976. I stayed the night with my grandma, as I often did because she lived behind the alley from us and spoiled me rotten with Cocoa Puffs, Chicken patties and Colby cheese.
So one night, I have no clue how old I was. Carrie came on television so that means it must have been a few years after the film release. This was not the made-for-TV movie that appeared in 2002. This was the Sissy Spacek movie, the real deal. I was probably somewhere around 8 or 9 if I had to guess. Not old enough to know what a period or tampons were, but old enough to be smitten with the thought of telekinetic powers. I honestly don't remember the tampon scene in the locker room. I remember an abused girl, a girl who was asked to the prom by a boy who seemed nice. They go to the dance, kiss and are crowned prom King and Queen and oh what a happy ending to Carrie's unhappy life.
But even then, I understood something bad would happen. Poor Carrie--humiliated by pig's blood dumped on her during the best moment of her life, after finally feeling like she was accepted.
And there...that moment...
That's where I remember the most. I was emotionally vested in Carrie. I felt sorry for her, I understood what she was going through. I wanted her to be alright. Joy lept out of my chest for her and her prom King. And then the blood. The viciousness of those girls and the fact that her mother wanted her to be humiliated like that and it was all coming true...that was too much, they'd gone too far. And it seemed Carrie was justified in her rage against them.
Then I remember her going home to wash all the blood off. The shame and embarrassment, the sadness. And her mother holding her, comforting her, then stabbing her in the back. And again, Carrie's power and rage were justified. The crucifixion of her mother seemed right.
Carrie's guilt overtook her and her powers were out of control. Again, the emotional effects of this scene on a small child were so powerful they shaped my life from that moment forward.
I've often talked of how Stephen King has been my mentor from afar. He's garnered so many followers that it seems cliche to say his work is what led me to where I am today. And maybe it's more a culmination of things including buying penny candy and art lessons at the funeral home and watching Carrie and Quincy with my grandma, but as worn as it seems, Stephen King was one of the biggest influences of my life.
So there you have it. The one movie I know for sure inspired me artistically.
Poetry isn't usually my cup of tea, but the poem I want to share today (and I'll be sharing one tomorrow about Phil) have nearly done me in. I've cried more tears over these two poems than I care to admit.
Grandma Schalk would have celebrated her 93rd year on this earth December 13th. God called her home on Phil's birthday.
There were seven Schalk children. Betty, Martin, Frank, Glinda, Lloyd, Denny, and Marilyn (Phil's mom.)
Born with Down's Syndrome and expected to die around age eleven, he's now in his sixties and ornery as ever.
Denny loves people and loves visitors. He's also a collector. Of everything. Pens especially but other things aren't out of consideration...McDonald's Happy Meal boxes, fries still at the bottom, Hotwheels cars, my hair clips, checkbooks, handkerchiefs, combs, and whatever else strikes his fancy. Coming to visit means Denny'll be bringing out the best of the best to show off. You can't look for too long, he thinks you're stealing back what rightfully belongs to you. He doesn't talk, just grunts, but believe you me, it is clear what Denny is saying.
Typically, Denny'll bring out something, show it to me and Grandma, who is blind mind you, will say, "What's that there. My check register? Denny! Give that back." She'll walk over and try to get it back, but Denny's adamant, it is his. After awhile, Grandma tires of trying to pry the check register out of Denny's hands and calls to Lloyd, who hops up and yanks it out of Denny's hand. Denny then pouts and sulks until he gets pie.
He makes faces at us all the time, probably because we play along and make them back. He loves hugs from everyone who visits and steals your cool stuff, takes it to his room, puts it on top of a piece of paper and sits to look at it. We usually bring Denny a stuffed animal or other kid's toy to avoid being robbed blind.
Denny couldn't come to the funeral home, he wouldn't have understood. As the pastor delivered the eulogy, it was mostly okay. Grandma lived a long, happy life. There's nothing wrong with dying in your sleep when you're almost 93. But then this poem was read and I can't shake the emotion.
Grandma wrote this for Denny when he was a baby. He's 62 now.
Special Darling by Lillian Schalk
They say I must let you go little darling, You can only bring heartache to me. You're not like the rest of the children, For you are retarded you see.
You don't speak or play like the others. And I know you will never be free To grow up and be someone special. My sweetheart, you're special to me.
Friends don't know how much they hurt me, When they say I must let you go. Send you to a home and forget you, And start living my life over anew.
This world is a cruel place, darling, When parents won't look after their own. You have a mother who loves you, And will always keep you at home.
I will always take care of you sweetheart, And do the very best I can. Our Father in Heaven is helping To care for my little man.
There was a luncheon at the house after Grandma's funeral. I took Denny a Daisy from the arrangement on Grandma's casket. He put it on the floor between the Pokemon cards Zane gave him and the picture I helped him draw the day before.
The Cotton Mom posted a comment here and I had to visit her blog. Who knew I'd be hooked from the minute I got there? I really wasn't sure if I should share her blog with you because I'm greedy and I don't want you to enter. But then I thought...which one of you actually likes the smell of dirt as much as me? Maybe Toni. I just don't know that anyone else does. I know Heather gardens, but I can't see her pulling up handfuls of dirt to her nose. Kay, maybe. I think I can see her liking the smell of dirt.
Anyhow. There's not that many of you. So here's what I said to her:
I can’t even begin to tell you how much I love the smell of good black dirt. Not sandy soil like up here near Lake Michigan–but when I lived in Missouri, oh WOW did I have the best earthy, deep, dark, black dirt there ever was. And I was barefoot and 8 months pregnant, belly dragging the ground on all fours digging in my garden.
And since it’s hunting season here, my husband has dug out the dirt scented dryer sheets. Don’t tell him that I stick my nose in the box to steal a sniff EVERY time I go to the laundry room.
My other favorite scents? Fresh cut grass, Lilacs, burning leaves, campfire, and leather.
Heather Goodman is starting a new festival (Thank you and bless you for not calling it a carnival!)
Artuality.
Artuality is a festival for artists and art lovers to share the place of art in their lives. Every month we'll focus on a different art form.
This month we're talking about paintings.
I wasn't brought up sophisticated. Yet, somehow art found its way into my heart. Or maybe it was always there and I had to let it out?
I was fascinated by a print of tree roots my mom had hung by our front door. It was a rather popular print back in the 70's and I was told it was something about upside down roots, but for the life of me, I can't find an image online. Out the window with that idea.
I watched him every weekend on PBS with my grandma. Him and his happy little leaf or happy little flower. The man was amazing! I learned so much watching and wanted NEEDED to paint.
My medium? Paint-by-numbers.
For hours and hours I'd paint. I wanted to be Bob Ross.
This was also during my Black Beauty phase. (That's one book in my history that was read til the cover fell off.) I'd save up the money my grandma paid me to clean her house on Saturdays and then ride my bike to Harvey's (The Dime Store) to buy the newest Paint-by-Numbers. I wish I had some of those in a box for nostalgia's sake.
That was about the time that I found out Frum's Funeral Home, at the end of my block--the place where we'd ride our bikes to get candy--was a happening art hub. Yes. We bought candy from a funeral home.
Mrs. Frum gave oil painting lessons in the garage, next to the hearse. (Oh believe me, that's a story! And you wonder why I'm warped?) So I'd save up change, get some candy and watch Mrs. Frum teach the lucky (read: rich) kid who got to take lessons. I never got to take lessons.
That didn't stop me. I might not be Van Gogh or Picasso--but I've got a bit of a Dali mind. I've just got to let it out one color at a time.
There's a story I need to tell, maybe more, but one for now. I left Uncle Ed's story unfinished, maybe because I couldn't bring myself to see it come to an end. Maybe because I wasn't ready. I don't know. Suicide is hard to cope with.
My grandma knew that all too well. Her brother killed himself and then she found her youngest son dead, hanging in his garage. February 20, 2006. Buried on the 22nd. Soon after, grandma slipped into some chronic health issues that forced us as a family to take her to a nursing home, one of which was dementia. She didn't know Uncle Ed was dead. In fact, in her mind, no one was dead. We'd visit her and she'd tell us she just came back from ice skating (even though she was in a wheelchair) and she'd relive all kinds of memories where everyone was alive and happy. She was well enough to know that she was in a nursing home though. But she didn't know it was the Alzheimer's/dementia ward. She'd say, "I'm not crazy now, but I will be by the time this is over..." and then she'd complain about another patient's antics, like the one who stole her stuff (but she forgot to tell us she was out stealing stuff too from the other patients.) I do laugh about a lot of the stuff she told us while she was there. I mean, it was funny.
My mom and sister once found three pair of dentures in her drawer! And my Uncle Mark found her eating a chocolate rose out of her roommate's dresser drawer. She told Zane she hated McDonald's because they locked her in there.
Grandma has suffered numerous "mini-strokes" in the past two years and within the last eight weeks, she had a major stroke, a minor stroke, more mini-strokes, a heart attack (or maybe it was congestive heart failure?), pneumonia, and was there more? I can't remember. It's been a long couple of months.
The story I want to tell starts the evening of September 13th. Phil and I went to bed rather early, it was around 10:30/11:00. Normally, I'm out the minute my head hits the pillow, but for some reason, I tossed and turned that night. Not only tossed and turned, but remembered.
I thought about playing Rummy with my grandma, my Baba. Listening to polkas on her radio in the kitchen on Saturday morning. Eating Cocoa Puffs and chicken patties (with lots of salt smooshed between two pieces of white Wonder bread.) Playing dress up in her clothes, staying the night with her. Going to the bowling alley with her, cheese sticks and Coke. Stealing her jar of Kennedy half dollars to run away from home. Getting $20 to clean her house every Saturday afternoon. Listening to her music box clink Nadia's Theme to put me to sleep.
This went on and on until I was fighting back tears, then struggling to keep my crying quiet so I wouldn't wake Phil. I said to myself, "You're just emotional because you started. Go take a Midol and be done with it." But I didn't get up just then because memories of my great-grandpa started in. Rye toast at his house, vodka in the freezer. Him moving in with grandma. Him forcing me to stop calling grandma Baba. (I didn't like him much for that) The two-dollar bills he'd always give me.
Then Jill came into my mind and I remember thinking, "What are all these dead people doing in my head tonight?"
Oh no. Grandma's not dead! And I got out of bed to get my cell phone, which was on the charger in in my office. I looked at the time.
12:26
I grabbed some tissue, then went back to bed. It wasn't ten minutes and my phone was ringing. I said out loud, "There it is." I think Phil said, "There what is?" It was my mom telling me grandma was being taken to the ER. My brother called me minutes later saying he heard on his police scanner she was unresponsive. He was working overtime because of the flooding in Hobart, IN, the worst the area's ever seen.
I didn't know what 12:26 meant, but I had a feeling because in 1987, the same thing happened when my great-grandpa died, I couldn't sleep at 11pm and the next morning at 11am, I got the call that he was dead.
So I packed an emergency bag and drove an hour to the hospital to sit with my mom, brother, and sister that early Sunday morning. Monday came and she was still hanging on, though barely. My Uncle Mark was on a plane home from a business trip in Belgium and wasn't expected in until late evening, possibly longer because as I said, the flooding was disaterous in The Region. (Yes, I will always be a Region Rat.)
The wonderful and loving staff at St. Mary's ICU did their best to keep grandma comfortable until Uncle Mark got home. At around 11pm Monday night, the family, respecting grandma's wishes, turned off all machines and medications save for a little oxygen tube and morphine for comfort. All of us who could be there gathered and said our goodbyes. And waited. I honestly believed she'd go at 12:26.
But she didn't. So at 12:30 I said goodbye one more time and went to the ICU waiting room and after 43.5 hours with no sleep, I passed out on a recliner.
I woke at 5am from my cell alarm buzzing in my pocket, not knowing who put a blanket on me or what day it was or why I could hear my brother snoring.
Later that day (it was Tuesday) grandma was moved back to the nursing home now with Hospice care. (What a blessing that is.) I drove home that day and slept in my own bed and woke Wednesday morning to No News is Good News.
Thursday morning, though, mom called to tell me grandma's vitals had dropped and Hospice said to gather the family. I got to the nursing home around 10am and fully expected grandma to go by 12:26.
We're a strange breed, my family. Mom, Johnny, Susie, Missy, Uncle Mark, Aunt Mary Ann, Michael, Mary, Ryan, and I sat around grandma's bed all day. We told funny memories and we cried. We counted her respirations and told more funny stories. We'd hear her breathing catch and we'd all be still and silent thinking it was her last breath and we were scared. I'd kiss her forehead and breathe in her scent. I wanted to touch her while she was still alive, I wanted to smell her hair while she still lived. Then she'd breathe and we'd cry more and soon tell more funny stories.
We ordered three extra large John's Pizzas (Do not cofuse this with Papa John's--NOT even close.) John's Pizza orignally in Calument City, IL closed, but the former Roma's Pizza in Hobart on Rt. 30 is now John's. The recipe is anyway, the name is Roma Pizza. This was grandma (and Uncle Ed's) favorite pizza. I think everyone in the family loves it.
So really, it was a party. A celebration. A few other family members came and went, but there were 9-10 of us there at all times. At 11:30 Thursday night, everyone (except me) decided they would go home in case grandma wanted to be alone. I couldn't leave and I told them all I was staying until 12:30. If she hadn't passed by then, I'd go to my mom's to sleep.
So for a half hour, I cleaned the room, threw away the pizza boxes, plates, the empty pop cans, the nurse came in and took away the drink tray and chips and sandwiches they'd provided us. At midnight, I sat on a rocking chair next to grandma. A few minutes later, I felt I needed to stand with her and I leaned down to kiss her forehead and her hair smelt like she just finished smoking a cigarette. She had quit (she told my sister, "Want to know how I quit smoking? I got put in here!") And she'd been there for around 9 months.
This is where I have to tell those of you who don't know that many family members have smelt cigarette smoke in their houses--it's my Uncle Ed.
One of her eyes opened, and her eyes had been shut (except twice) since she was taken to the ER. I talked to her and said some private last things to her and as I said before, my grandma didn't know Uncle Ed was gone so I thought I should tell her, "Grandma, Uncle Ed is waiting for you, don't be afraid. If you see him, it's okay to go to him."
Skeptic that I am (even though I've been through enough that I shouldn't be skeptical at this point) I waited and smelled her hair again after about 5 minutes and the smell was getting stronger instead of weaker.
I figured it was getting close.
Then, for some reason, and I can't really say why, I started singing softly to her. First, I sang what I could remember of "He Stopped Loving Her Today" by George Jones. (That's another story for another day)
Then I sang what I could remember of "Amazing Grace" because Aunt Mary Ann had reminded me earlier that grandma would have my cousins Jen, Christa, and I sing that to her and she'd say she wanted the three of us to sing it at her funeral. (Grandma talked about dying and her funeral for as long as I can remember.) So I sang it to her.
I noticed a tear in the eye that was closed. I stroked her forehead and hair, kissed her again, said (in all my rebellion) "I love you Baba" and then sang the song she told me she wanted at her funeral every time we sang it in church when I was growing up. "Let There Be Peace"
I didn't realize when I was a child that the song reminded grandma of her brother.
I understand now. Finally.
Her mouth had been open for days, her breathing labored and harsh, and as I was singing, she moved her jaw up and down and I think she was singing with me.
I sang, "Let me walk with my brother, in perfect harmony." And she never breathed again. I kept singing, waiting, crying. Finally. Peace for my Baba, the strongest woman I know.
When I looked at the clock it was 12:15. The nurse came in then, and started her job and I moved out of the room because I knew she was gone, I didn't need to take her pulse to know she was gone. She came out and I asked did I need to stay. She said I could go.
I called mom in the hallway on the way out to my car and only said, "She's gone." She told my sister who was there with her and I said, "I'll call Johnny." I called my brother and he said, "Do you see what time it is?"
I want to tell the whole story later, right now, I can't.
It was just her and I and I was singing Let There Be Peace to her. I sang, "Let me walk with my brother..." and she was gone.
Visitation will be at Rees Funeral Home, Brady Chapel in Lake Station, IN Sunday. I expect the website will be updated this afternoon with times after my mom and her siblings meet with the funeral director.
When I started praying, I had no clue it would end up to be a picture of a canoe camping trip, but subconsciously it must have been on my mind.I know that getting Phil to relax was weighing on me. I’d been trying not to nag him so I’d say, “I’m worried you’re not getting enough rest.”
“Got things to do.”
“They can wait, they’re not as important as your health and you need to rest.”
“When I’m done.”
“You’ll keep adding to your list.”
“What do you want me to do?Things got to get done around here.”
“I want you to at least take Sunday off.”
“How about Sunday afternoon?”
So I compromised for a few weeks.Phil works from seven in the morning until nine or ten at night five days a week.Then on the weekend, he’s out mowing the lawn, fixing the cars, and tending to all of the other mishaps that inevitably happen.We’re Murphy’s red-headed step children.Seriously.Ask people who have seen the chaos in action.
For the last few weeks, I haven’t had to beg Phil to relax, he’s taken to enjoying an entire Sunday off.Except cooking.But cooking is one of those activities that bond and solidify our relationship.I’m his perfect sous chef.
We took a two day float trip last summer on the Tippecanoe River.We camped at Tippecanoe State park.I don’t necessarily enjoy the work-out a canoe trip on a windy weekend gives me, but it melted my heart to see Phil truly relax, fish, and enjoy himself.
He doesn’t do well relaxing at home.I think all of the things to do dangle in front of him and taunt him.I know, they do that to me too, but mothers have the ability to tone out frequencies that are annoying.Sure dads tune out things, but typically if they’ve tuned one thing out they’ve tuned everything out.Moms can tune out the irritating stuff.Tell me I’m wrong!
So we go camping.
I love, love, love campfires.Cooking breakfast over a fire brings out the maternal in me.Who knows why.I don’t care why.I know I’m up at the crack of dawn wrapped up in a flannel shirt, throwing another log on the fire.I get the water boiling for the coffee and sip it while I add bacon to the cast iron skillet.Phil gets up, drinks my (by then) cold coffee and I make another steaming cup for myself.We take turns flipping the bacon and Zane yells from the tent, “I smell bacon!” and we sit by the fire waiting.
So I prayed for some extra money and for Phil’s boss to let him have a weekday off and I planned another float trip for our family.Next year, my goal is for more than one camping trip.
Jill wrote the note to Phil because she knew if she wasn't here to keep me in line, someone would have to do it. I think she probably picked the right person for the job. There aren't too many people who can put up with me.
