Heavy Dog

Most dogs I know make themselves heavy when they don't want to do something.

Putting Pawley in the bathtub = heavy dog

Carrying Raggs to the house from the yard = heavy dog

Pulling Mille from under a bed, carrying her downstairs, taking her outside to go the bathroom after a thunderstorm = really heavy dog

Toting Snoop (our dog from childhood) upstairs = heavy dog

Carrying Snoop downstairs (with a hand over his eyes so he wouldn't be nervous) = heavy dog

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You know, it's not a bad idea!

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Woman not wanting to leave knitting = heavy woman

Woman binge watching Netflix = heavy woman

Woman puttering in yard = heavy woman

Woman reading in the hammock = heavy woman

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Bill could drag me, but I don't think he could carry me without acquiring a hernia.

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When there are things we don't want to do, but we know we have to do them, I think we all kind of become heavy dogs (or as I say, heavy woman).  I have been trying to identify "those" facets of my life and power through them.  I can't say I'm always successful, but I've had my share of successes in the past week.   I'm walking more.  Drinking more water.  Eating more vegetables.  Eating less sweets.  Reading more.  Asking deeper questions.  Listening more.  Playing more bridge.

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It's Friday night, this "heavy dog" is going to knit and think.  (Oooooooo, and I am going to watch the last four episodes of "Breaking Bad."

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So, pop me with a rolled up newspaper!  Heavy dog!

My Deer Stand of Life

When I'm traveling down the back roads of Georgia, spotting a deer stand always, I said, always makes me smile.  I think about the thoughtful planning that goes into deciding where to set up a stand.  Those stands become home away from homes for hunters who are waiting for the right shot.

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My deer stand of life tends to be the hammock.  I'm not a hunter of deer, I'm a hunter of hope.  I want to make the world a better place.  I want people to talk to each other.  I want all of us to work together for the good of our county.

I'm an observer of those folks who are so dogmatic about their beliefs are the right beliefs.  Their actions are the right actions.  Their way is the only way.

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I don't think so.

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Compromise is the key to moving forward.  Bill could eat Mexican food every night of the week.  I could not.  I like Mexican food, but I can't eat it every night.  I would get surly if I was made to eat Mexican food every night.  (Sidebar:  I would also be the size of Rhode Island.)

Balance seems to be the key.

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Ecclesiastes 3

King James Version (KJV)

3 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
7 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
8 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

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So, from the hammock I wonder about those who know that their way is the only way.  My life isn't one extreme or the other.....I float in that middle area.....trying to give more than I get....trying to love more than I hate....trying to listen more than I say.....trying to make the world a better place one day at a time.  

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Last week it was the ice storm.  This week it's 75 degrees and I'm in the hammock.  Life can change in the blink of an eye-- enjoy your "deer stand" wherever it may be.

Snow Place Like Home

I enjoyed the two and a half snow days from this past week.  I might have entered the teaching profession because of my love of two things:  1.  Snow days 2.  Thanksgiving school lunches. (No, I entered because I get a kick out of kids.  They do say the darnedest things.)

I liken the first summer I was in Georgia to how most folks around here react to snow.  They don't get it.

1982

It was 90 degrees for about the 100th day in a row that first summer we were in Georgia.  "Mama, I can't stand it.  The heat is everywhere.  You can't get away from it.  It is oppressive," I wailed this on a regular basis to my mother via the phone.  We were in a second floor apartment.  I was pregnant with Mike and Molly was a busy 2 year old.

You see, I didn't get it.  I didn't know that swimming could be comfortable.  I didn't understand that sitting under a ceiling fan and drinking iced tea while reading a book, knitting, or watching the children play was a great way to pass the time.  Summer was as foreign to me then as the snow is to my friends.

"Mama, it is as hot as hell outside and it's 8:00 a.m."

"Mama, it is 11:00 at night and it is as hot as it was at noon."

"You will not believe it.  We get up and it is like an oven outside."

The heat was my enemy….until it became my friend.

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Swimming--

I never knew that swimming could be….comfortable.  I remember going to the YMCA lessons at Riverside pool in Marshalltown, Iowa.  They always posted the temperature of the water (sadists!).
It was warm if it was above 70 degrees….that's right, folks, the water temperature was 70!

Bill, Molly and I were invited to Lake Sinclair for an outing…picnic, boating, beach….and the water was….like a bathtub.  It was wonderful.  That's when summer became, well, enjoyable.  It was a time to be outside, cool off, relax, go to the park, run through a sprinkler, go to a pool, go to the lake, go to the beach, go to the mountains, go tubing….I got it.  Summer was different in Georgia.  It was hot.  Air conditioning was wonderful.

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SNOW is different in Iowa.  They all have heavy coats, boots, mittens, gloves, chapstick (by the gross), chains for their tires, jumper cables, snowmobiles……and snow plows.  They have lots of snow plows.
I can't do snow as well as I used to do snow.

I don't have a down jacket.  I don't have heavy snow boots.  Gone are the days when I had noon duty from November until March because my principal didn't want the other older teachers to have duty…."You won't break your hip if you fall," he told me that autumn.  "If one of the others go down, they'll be out for weeks.  You're 28 and tough."  I swear I took those hundred kids out if it was above zero.  They had to get their wiggles gone for an afternoon of work.  We sometimes stood like cattle with our backs to the wind….we got our fresh air and had a good experience.  That was in another life, in another time, in another state.

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2014


I am a Georgia girl….I'll layer up and stick near the fire.  And watch the snow fall gently in the woods.

It's the Straw that Broke the Camel's Back

Sometimes life is just too complicated.  It's like everyone else has the rules to the game and I don't know if we're playing Red Rover or Kickball.  Obama care, the government shut down, poverty, work, common core curriculum....it seems like everyone has an idea about what is RIGHT!

I'll tell you what is wrong....yep, these are all my value judgements.  No, I'm not taking on the big woes like world hunger, sex trafficking, or cancer.  Those are complete blogs onto themselves.  I'm talking about things in my little corner of the world.  Things that get under my skin.... 

1.  Coca-Cola in a baby's bottle

2.  Healthy food which is too expensive to buy

3.  ER being used as a family doctor

4.  Ingrown toenails

5.  Wasps, hornets, yellow jackets, and scorpions

6.  Motorcycles that drive on the middle of the white dashed line  passing cars on the Interstate

7.  Knee pain

8.  Not talking or reading to your children in a positive tone

9.  Paper cuts

10.  Tailgating (and I'm not talking an event before a sports activity)

11.  Black and white tv shows that have had color added

12.   A bad hair dye job

13.  Ties that are tied too short

14. 1/8 of an inch of milk in the bottom of the milk carton

15.  Cars pulling out in front of me and turning in a block…and not using turn signals.


None of these are in the category of nuclear war or cancer.   AND I accept it.

My Nativity Scene

Joseph got misplaced.  He dipped.  No, really.  I bought a holy family, and, in the sealed box....the unopened box, there was a Mary, a crib, a baby Jesus, and a........beggar.  No Joseph.  No lie.

So, what do I do?  I try and find a new Joseph.  One that matches this family. But, you see, the family is usually sold as a set.  It's not as easy as it sounds.

BUT, my "set" really wasn't a set....it was just like life.  Sometimes the family just doesn't come in the regular set.

I did find a Joseph on E-bay.  Ordered him.....and I believe he's happy he's got a new home-- I can tell.  Mary's happy, too.

What makes a family? Sometimes it's those people who are "blood-related."  Sometimes family is heart- related.  And sometimes our family is life-related.

It's time to celebrate our own family....however it looks.  Why?  Because, we are family!

Thanks for All the Giving

Bill wrote the best column of his entire life the Thanksgiving of 2003.  He put into words how all of us felt after Mike's death.

Sometimes the four of us weep.  Sometimes we laugh.  But we never forget Mike and all of the kindness you have shown our family.  God's love shines through the pain and His steady love has kept us moving forward.

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A wise person told me "you can look back, just don't stare."  I try to heed those words on a daily basis.  

I wish I could stop talking and writing about Mike, but I just can't.  We miss him, and love him, and cherish those memories.  Mike's physical life stopped on August 16, 2003....but I can't stop thinking about him.  I watch his friends get married, have kids, go on adventures, and I enjoy each and every one vicariously.

Life is good!  Thank you!

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Thanks for All the Giving

From The Macon Telegraph

By Bill Weaver, The Macon Telegraph

WARNER ROBINS (Nov. 26, 2003) – Twenty years ago, as we prepared to sit down to Thanksgiving dinner, we did so with a 10-month-old baby asleep in his crib. His name was William Michael, but we called him Mike.

He was the second of our three children. After missing that first feast because he was too little, he had never missed another one. Until this year. Mike, a college student also working two part-time jobs, won’t be with us. He was shot and killed in August.

The three months since his death have been the worst of our lives. They’ve been filled by sorrow and anger, emptiness, and longings for the way things were. How suddenly we went from a wonderfully happy family to the depths of despair.

The climb from that hole has been a slow one. Negligible at first, but steady. Now three months later, the wound has begun to heal. We don’t cry as often, nor sleep quite so little. We can smile again, and go to work again. We can see Mike’s friends again, and now we can actually find the words to speak to them.

Every year around the Thanksgiving table we pause before we eat and ask everyone to say a little something about what they’re thankful for. For a few moments last week, it occurred to me that given what we’ve been through lately, this might be a bad year for speeches.

But it won’t be. Without the support of family and friends, we’d still be deep in that hole. All the cards. All the calls. All the visits. All the hugs. All the flowers. All the tears. All the offers of “if there’s anything I can do.” And, of course, all the prayers.

We’ve written many thank yous, with many more left to write. But try as we might to find just the right words to express just the right sentiments, we often fail. Some things just defy an adequate expression of appreciation.

Like the letter from a former boss, now 88 years old, typed with trembling hands. “My Parkinson disease is exacting an increasing toll,” he wrote after expressing his condolences. “Except for the computer I wouldn’t be able to have written communication. My long hand is non-existent. My signature on this letter, for example, is a rubber stamp of several years standing.” But despite his troubles, he finished that letter.

Like the ladies who hijacked our house when they heard the news. They cleaned, they straightened, they catered. They took care of us, and all who came to visit. My sister drove in quickly from Charlotte, anticipating that since she was the first relative on the scene she’d be expected to organize the confusion. Too late. “Who’s in charge?” she asked the ladies. “Nobody, really,” one of them said. They just did what needed doing. How do you adequately thank friends for that kind of concern?

Like the high school classmates who sent cards, even though we haven’t seen them in 35 years. Like the fraternity brother who called just last week, explaining he hadn’t called earlier because he didn’t think he could speak — he and his wife nearly lost their own son to drug addiction. Like the lady who brought Flintstones vitamins, explaining that when her daughter was sick — before she died — the vitamins were prescribed by a doctor because they helped the daughter keep her strength, so the mother had prescribed them for us.

How do you adequately thank a few school janitors for scraping together a few of their precious dollars for a memorial to a boy they hardly knew? Or the electrical workers who removed their hard hats when our funeral procession passed by? Or Mike’s baseball buddies who made car stickers in the color and shape of his old baseball cap? How do you adequately tell those hundreds of other people who said something nice, did something simple, or just gave us a kind thought, that no handshake went unfelt, no hug unappreciated, no word unheard.

We can’t reach them all, but we hope they know that by giving us those gentle tugs of encouragement, giving us a few moments of their time, they helped pull us through. They are proof that even in times of great sorrow, it is easy to be thankful.

So, despite the tears we’ll shed for the son or brother we’ll miss at this year’s table, we’ll be ready for our little speech. It’ll be about our thanks for all the giving.

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Our Mille-- Granddog Extraordinaire!

Mille is a beagle.  She's son, Dan's, dog.  But, she's really not a dog.  She's more of a diva.

I worry when we keep her that she's going to get the scent of a forest creature and be gone with the wind.  I've read too many stories of beagles getting a whiff of something and persuing the smell with joyful abbandon.  I don't want this girl to run away.  But I love to see her run.
Mille will play ball until the ball thrower is done.  She's a joyful dog who is so loyal to her man.

Notice the chewy bone that she's guarding from Raggs and Pawley.  Her head is on a down pillow.....resting in the family room on the sofa.....breaking all of the family rules.  

Mille listens to Dan.  She's the best behaved dog in the family.  We love her.  

Granddogs are lots like grandkids.  If we can't spoil her a little, who can?