A Child LIves (lived) There (here)

Yesterday I waited on a customer who asked me if I knew any people in the next town over with the same last name as mine. I answered that I was local. I live in the hamlet of West Berry.

He smiled and said that he grew up in West Berry.

He didn't seem much older than me. I didn't know him but I recognized his last name. I asked if he was related to the Humphrey family who had lived across and down the street just a bit. That house, a beautiful, historic Victorian home, had burned to the ground a few years ago.

There's still a horse tie out front to date the property. Farther back, it had been the home of a prominent family, The Bodines.

Indeed. He'd grown up there. HIs father passed away a week after the house burned from other underlying conditions. His younger brothers, now his guardians, now live in a group home.

She was a heavy smoker and drinker. The younger boys were mentally handicapped. I remembered them from the bus and Sunday School - handsome, sweet children. As young adults they found their mother "asleep" and it was only when they showed up at a public event without her did anyone happen to discover that she had died.

Why didn't I know of this older brother? He asked who in my family had a snowmobile. He used to watch it whizz by from his window.

There were never any toys or people outside of the Humphrey home. Bushes grew up over the windows.

Not unlike the home of a neighbor across and down the street now.

This morning I drove by as a child ran out to board the bus. A child lives there? Why don't we know one another? Why don't our children play together? Why don't I hear giggling or squeals from that direction?

I felt a sweet sadness yesterday after meeting and "catching up" with my former neighbor.

The property where the old foundation sits has finally been sold. There will be a new family in West Berry, this one from California.

Report Cards

Yesterday was report card day. It came as quite a surprise to me that N, now 13, sent me a pict message with a photo of his grades. Quite a few of his grades had improved since the last marking period.

W, who is 6, showed improvement in basic writing and reading. J, 15, was angry over one grade in the 70's, while the rest of his grades were at or near 100.

Ironically it was "report card day" for me at work too. As soon as I arrived the store manager pulled me into his office and gave me a lecture about my poor performance. I failed in the categories of smart phones and accessories. I came in dead last in the region with the accessory take rate.

There was no "sandwiching" the ugly between my accomplishments (for example, I also sold more phones last month than anyone else in my store. I never show up drunk or spend the day smoking outside. I've completed every required training. I go out of my way to help customers).

Nope. No sugar coating. Just a stern, "Come on. You've been here four months. You should be doing better."

He handed me my "letter of referral" to sign. It's the first of three steps that ends in termination.

It's been tough for me to work through my anger and indignation over my manager's approach and what I perceive as a flawed numbers system. I struggle to accept a failing grade because I've always tried to get high grades, in everything.

Over the years I've had to learn to be patient with a less than perfect, aging body, a historic home constantly in need of repair, and never enough time for housework.

I told the boys this morning that I'm very proud of them. And I reminded myself, and them, that as people (and God's children) we are so much more than a list of grades.

(It's going to take some repeating..."I am more than my sales numbers. I am more than the balanced score card...")

They Won't/Will Grow Up

PETER PAN:
Are you ready for today's lesson?

ALL:
Yes, Peter!

PETER PAN:
Listen to your teacher. Repeat after me:
I won't grow up,
(I won't grow up)
I don't want to go to school.
(I don't want to go to school)
Just to learn to be a parrot,
(Just to learn to be a parrot)
And recite a silly rule.
(And recite a silly rule)
If growing up means
It would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree,
I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up
Not me!
Not I,
Not me!
Not me!

Our oldest (15) just performed in the musical "Peter Pan." The show was FABULOUS, may I brag?

The musical brilliantly highlights boyhood, childhood fantasy, childhood fears and even common parental fears (like losing our children and finding them lonely and hungry).

It amuses me to no end that my four boys have been running around the house singing, "I won't grow up!" It's one of my favorite songs from the show. I cried from my front-row seat Saturday night and the son sitting next to me commented, "Embarassing...Mom!"

I'm reminded not to be so grumpy about the little pieces of paper all over the living room floor ( J and W have been cutting swords out of cardboard) or their unmade beds. Grumbling over homework and chores. Dangerous tree climbing and rope swinging.

It's all a part of that wonderful phase called boyhood. So quickly I see it passing. My older two already have "real" girlfriends (gasp!)

Here is a snippet from our show.

Reality Check

In my opinion, there's nothing quite like a visit to the county nursing home to give me a swift "reality check" kick in the butt.

I've been feeling frumpy, grumpy and dumpy over the fact that I am surrounded by 20-somethings who swear and whine incessantly. The hot topics of conversation are "Jersey Girls," binge drinking and pregnancy tests. I hate how they dress. I find them lazy and lacking in moral fiber.

I text my husband from the store, "It's a circus here." and "I wish I worked with people my own age."

I have no one at work to talk to. At least about anything interesting (to me).

On Tuesday I visited my grandmother at the county nursing home. Reading her journal, which we keep to help her memory, I learn that she has just been moved to a double room without a view from a private room with a lovely view. She has very little space for her personal belongings. Quite frankly, she has very little personal space at all.

She wheels herself out into the hallway where she sits in the common area by the nurses' station. Another resident sits behind her in the hall, babbling on and on in nonsensical phrases.

My grandmother says, "At first I thought a radio was on somewhere and I was hoping it would be turned down." In case I missed the reference, she smiles and tilts her head toward the babbler.

During my visit we see another resident pacing. Down the hallway. Turn around. Repeat. She doesn't know why he does that.

Some of the residents don't speak at all. For some that do, she's not really sure if they recognize her. But then, she thinks, maybe they do because it seems as if they've saved up questions overnight to ask her the next day.

My great uncle, Grandma's brother-in-law, is in the same nursing home. He spends the day walking laps around the entire building. This time, I've sat in his favorite hallway chair and I try to time my move to another seat by the minutes it might take him to make the return lap.

I don't time it quite right. He sees me in the chair and I call him over, offering to move. He shakes his head and moves on. He suffers from Parkinson's. Every day my great aunt visits her husband and her sister here.

"Do you know," Grandma says," that some people don't get any visitors at all? It's very sad."

Proud Mamas

I took the picture on the left last Thursday at 5:00 a.m. Prior, around 3:30 a.m., Mr. WestBerryMom had discovered a lamb born out in the pasture. It was a cold, wet morning so we carefully scooped up baby and herded mama across our property to the barn and birthing stall.

We raise a rare breed of sheep, Tunis, sometimes called "The Red Heads." I adore them.

I had to sit with mama and baby for a few hours because the ewe pawed at the lamb in an effort to coerce her to nurse. I was afraid she would injure the baby (sheep aren't very smart, I imagine you've heard).

It was a very sweet time. I cuddled with the lamb and put my hand into the deep pile of mama ewe's wool (perhaps it's strange but I love the smell and feel of lanolin).

We exchanged stories about our children.

I have many reasons to be proud of my own "flock" of boys -their relationship with the Lord, their musicianship, their kind hearts and their drive.

I'm grateful that they are strong and healthy, both in body and mind.

Today (and every day) I'm counting my many blessings (look what God has done!)

Feverish (Cabin Fever/Spring Fever)

For 10 out of 12 months last year I was an independent contractor. Now it's tax time and I have extra work to do to find receipts that might provide expenses to offset some of my income. The "dump everything in a drawer" method of accounting that I employed has not proven very effective.

I'm doing the taxes myself, using TurboTax. In addition to the screen time I'm putting in for the taxes, I have a mountain of grading to complete, all on-line. There are study guide questions, drafts of oral presentations, discussion board postings, e-mails, graduate school recommendations for students and more.

Enter little boys. It's still quite cold outside and it's very muddy. The perfect recipe for the 10 minute "go outside clean and dry and return quickly cold and wet" scenario. Mud all over the back room floor, kitchen floor and the TV stand. The TV stand?

Of course, because there is a direct line from outside to the TV (forget passing by the bathroom to wash up). It seems that I have no idea what to do with these boys except drive them outside or let them watch TV. Too much TV.

Enter big boys. We're arguing about cell phone usage after 9:30 p.m. The oldest is playing in the pit band for the Spring musical and this week they will practice until 8 p.m. every night. Extra trips to town. Food to provide for the band. Performances this weekend (if I can fly from work to the Sat. night performance I might catch one).

I'm desperate to finish the taxes and grading.

It seem that I'm too tired to think of craft projects, reading stories or fun outings. Their room is a disaster. This morning I slept right through waking up to get the older boys on the bus. In fact, it would seem that I'm too tired to even plan meals.

It's a fever. A sickness.

I wish for the cure of a kind neighbor with children who would invite the boys over to play. Or an aunt or uncle, or grandparent who would have them over for lunch or an overnight. Quite frankly, I'd probably even leave them with a stranger at this point if he/she could provide an alternative to my "too much screen time mother guilt."

God give me strength.