A Country Home to remember

     The years of life and love there. Oh the memories. Oh the messes. Oh... the laughter and the love! 

     It's where the seasons of quiet and beautiful chaos were imprinted deep inside us. Here, we slowed down, breathed deep, praised God, and really began to see. In the slowing and in the quiet it's where I also began to listen and hear. Not just God's voice, but the gentle sound of the creek, the frogs, the bats, and the breeze.

    It's where my husband got his first two English lab puppy brothers and where they met their sister Onyx, and their cousin Gus.

    It's the season where my daughter became a mother, and then a mother again, and again once more. Three boys, two years apart. 

     It's where I got to watch her motherhood form and grow, and where she got to watch me fall in love with her boys. The time she and I got to spend together in that home with those babies....  It was simply the most precious of things. 

    It was here, where my son brought me baby turkey's for a house warming gift and where he'd jump and hang from the rafters in the den. It's where he made a creek new with his father as they turned it into a babbling brook. It's where he swam with dogs on his back in the pool, and where he climbed to the top of the windmill to fix it. 

    It's where our youngest redhead daughter read books on the back porch, let baby lizards trek up her arms and took black and white photos on a walk to the creek. Its where she pulled wagons full of apples from the orchard to the porch. It's where she became an aunt, and cut all her nephews hair. 

    It's where I had my first real long Christmas and went a little crazy. I love Christmas and decorating for Christmas, and I now had a home that begged me to do it. So... I had a tree in almost every room. Candles in every window. 

    It's where every Spring's new life bloomed with flowers that held the promises of fruit. And it's where I learned to garden. I picked sour cherries from our tree and by year 3, I learned the perfect way to pit them. I used my finger and became a pro. I am not a baker, but once a year I became one. And those Father's day ready, Cherry pies, were not only beautiful, they were delicious.  And if you came to our house when the cherry's were ripe, we'd put you on a ladder and give you a bowl.

     It's where sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews, aunt's and uncles and cousins loved and laughed and made special memories. 

     It's was where the Mother daughter Christmas parties began. And the baby showers, and the Easter feasts, and the Super bowl parties, and the Weddings. Oh... the Weddings. 

     It's where I became Mamo and rocked three sweet baby boys. I can still smell them and feel them cuddle into me if I close my eyes. "Lullaby and goodnight, with pink roses delight, with lillies overhead is my baby's wee bed. Close your eyes now and rest, let your slumber be blessed." I miss singing that song at naptime.

     Later It's where we raced these same three boys around the outside of the house to tire them out, and where I supervised three brother baths that had me laughing until I cried. "Oh I wish I was a fishy in the sea."

      Its where Papa would take three clean pajamaed boys and settle them in for snuggles and a movie so I could take a break. And it's also where Papa raked up huge piles of golden leaves so we could jump in them. 

     It's where we played in the dirt box and sandbox and garden. 

     It's where brother number one named me. I had him for a long time before his brother number two came along, so he was my best buddy. It's embarrassing how many pictures I have of this child. 

      It's also here that brother number two ran and got all the ripe strawberries from the garden before he even came into the house. And it's where I followed him to the pond every time he went that direction because I knew he would fall in. One day he did. He was the only one. It's also where he climbed so high up a tree that it scared me, and Papa wasn't home. And he always picked flowers for his mother, and told me once that I looked beautiful.

     It's where the third baby boy brought tears of redemption to his Papa's eyes and healed something in his heart when we heard he was coming. And It's where I was so in love with chubby hands and feet that I couldn't stop snuggling him and thought I might die from it.

     It's where three boys became warriors. The Lion, The Wolf, and The Bear. 

     It's where Paul and I took long walks. It's where we had our forever favorite dates. Long afternoons climbing back roads with a picnic in the Rhino. 

     It's where little hands dripping with creek water were held up with eyes of wonder, as little boys showed me the shiny treasures inside.

      It's were my baby cows were born twice a year along, "My Road home." And where they came over to say Hi when I stopped and parked. 

     It's where I saw more stars than I ever knew existed, and when I found out was dark really was. 

     It's where Mount Tom lived right outside my front door and became mine.

     And it was here, that I became the hostess  to nests of baby birds every Spring. I remember the first time I saw nest with eggs. I was so excited. And then, when they hatched, I could stand on my kitchen stool and see the babies. The motion of my moving close made them open their mouths thinking they were being fed. And Mama squawked at me sometimes, but I think she knew I loved them. We worked it out too, because she had more babies in the same planter box the next year. Watching all of that, was precious to me. Paul and I used to sit on the porch and watch Mama feed them. Dad sometimes flew in too. And one night we sat as both parents squawked at the babies to fly to them in a near by tree. Two babies were brave enough and did. The third was never made it out of the nest that night, but in morning he was gone.

     It's where the sunrises and sunsets took my breath away and where winters always came, at least once, and turned everything stunningly Hallmark card beautiful. It's where there were Mountains and the promise in the orange light of morning.  Its the place where I planted memorial stones deep in my heart.

    I know. I will never forget. I will always remember.

The Avon lady

     Being a young girl in 1964 was a moment in time. I knew it, even as I lived it, but the reminders of it as an adult, watching the series, "Mad Men," brought the memories flooding back. My family did not live in the ritzy world of,  "Mad Men," but the Ads, commercials, jingles, and clothes of that time resonate deeply in me.

     We had so many magazine subscriptions. I remember McCall's, Redbook, Ladies home Journal and Time. They all arrived about the same time each month and I'd run to the mailbox eagerly anticipating them. Mom would always hand over the McCall's to me first, because inside, was Betsy. She was  a monthly paper doll who could be punched out of the pages along with her new clothes. I kept all the Betsy's and their wardrobes in a shoe box under my bed.     

     I  was the oldest of three girls, my two sisters, 3 and 5 years younger, were usually napping when the Avon lady knocked at the door every other Wed. afternoon, so it was I who followed she and Mother into the living room.

      I thought she was so sophisticated and beautiful. She always wore a fancy skirt suit, gloves and hat, and I remember watching her pull her gloves off, one finger at a time, and lay them gently down with feminine hands of polished shiny fingernails.  She would then remove her hat, and say, "Hi Mary, "How are you?", as she sat it down upon the sofa table. It was when she adjusted her fabulous big make at her feet, that I knelt beside it.  

      The case was full of everything a woman needed to be beautiful. Eye shadows, rouge, powders, tubes of lipstick. And in the bottom pull out tray were the tiny samples. Little white tubes of lipsticks and nail polish. I sat starry eyed as she opened them and showed us all the newest colors. The ones most people hadn't even seen yet 

     Then, she'd hand Mother a mirror, and I'd watch Mom slide the tiny tubes across her lips. She would pout them out a little, blot them with tissue, and then turn her head to the right and left while looking in the mirror.  "What do you think?" she would sometimes ask. 

     Then the Avon lady would give Mom a tissue with some cream on it and Mom would wipe that color off and try another one. Sometimes the Avon lady would make up Mom's whole face as I sat memorized. I don't remember her name for the life of me, but I remember the way she'd smile at me and wink as I watched her. 

     She had little fingernail polish samples too. Tiny bottles of shiny color that would glide across Mothers nails. Sometimes, Mom would put two colors on each hand to compare. I'd watch as she lowered her hand, looking deeply at the pops of color. Sometimes she'd asked me which ones I liked the best. Sometimes she placed an order, sometimes she didn't. But after the visits, the samples she used became mine.

And so, before she closed her case and put back on her hat and gloves, the Avon lady dropped the samples into my open hands. My treasures. Tiny lipsticks and polishes for a little girls special drawer. And on these special days in the summers of 1964 and 1965, I learned how to look pretty like the ladies in the magazines. Like my Mom.

A first place trophy

      I was 10 when I took Baton lessons. My teacher's name was Linda. She was the niece of someone Mom knew, and she was the first person I'd ever met, or seen for that matter, that had a hair lip. During the car ride with Mom to my first lesson, she told me about it so I wouldn't be surprised. She explained that is was a type of birth defect. 

     Soon after. Mom pulled into a driveway where my teacher Linda was waiting . Her garage doors were open, and the garage was all set up for my lesson. Mom and I both got out of the car. Linda came up and introduced herself and we all said, "Hello."  "How about I do a routine for you?" she said, "So you can see what I do. Then we can get started."

     Linda was amazing. There were ribbons and trophy's and photos of her in costumes, all over the shelves and walls of the garage. I don't know how old she was, but I was mesmerized watching her twirl.  Shortly after that, Mom said goodbye to us both and left.

     I'd received my baton for Christmas the year before and had taught myself a few things already, so I showed her. "I think you're going to be good at this," she said, and I smiled.

     I took lessons that whole Summer, and into the following school year. A few months in, I was with Linda and a few other students, and she was teaching us a core marching routine for a local parade. 

     After Mom pulled in the driveway to pick me up, Linda told Mom that she wanted to talk to her, and could she wait a few minutes. Mom said she could. After the others girls left,  I heard Linda tell Mom about an upcoming competition. She said she wanted to teach me a routine for a solo. A solo. I thought? For competition?

     In the car on the way home, I asked Mom about it. She looked at me and smiled. "Not sure about that honey," she said, "We'll have to see. I need to talk to Dad first."

     Over the next week, I overheard Mom and Dad talk more than once about my possible participation in the competition. There was an entrance fee, and I would need a new costume for the solo and more lessons, and all that costs money. "Linda says Pam has talent," Mom told Dad, "And girls Pam's age rarely do Solo's. Linda thinks she could win."

     When I went to my next lesson, I was learning my Solo routine. It was exciting and like nothing I'd ever experienced before. My routine was choreographed to the song, "Stars and stripes forever," and suddenly my baton was flying into the air while spinning, and I was catching it. Then it spun around my neck and around my knees where, with a flip of my thumb it went back into the air in one swift amazing movement.

     "I think you're ready for a double," Linda announced as we planned the routine's ending. She had showed me her triple after practice a few times. It had won her a first place trophy years before. So we practiced the double. I had to flip the baton off my thumb then spin around twice before catching it. Done right, the baton fell right back into my hand like magic and the routine went on. But if my throw was crooked, I had to look for the baton at the end of my spin which usually found it's way to the floor. I practiced and practiced until I caught it much more often than it fell.

     During this time, Mom was working on my costume. It was light pink and the front had a pattern of shiny pink and white sequins in a scroll. She spent hours and hours every evening sewing them on by hand. 

     Finally the day of my competition arrived. My siblings all stayed home with Dad and wished me luck as Mom and I headed out by ourselves.

     When we got there, Mom signed me in and we sat and watched many performances take place before the solos began. Then, it was almost time. The girls who went first were older than me. They were teenagers and they were so good. 

     Finally my name was called, and I stood up. I looked at Mom for one last reassuring smile, and she squeezed my hand.

     I marched up to the judging table with my knees high and smiled. Then I took a deep breath and nodded. That meant I was ready for my music. My routine was almost perfect.     

    Near the end when I did my double, my throw wasn't completely straight and I fumbled to catch the baton which hit the ground. Linda had told me over and over what to do if that happened. She said, "Just pick it up, smile and finish strong." So that's what I did.

     Afterward, Mom said we should stay for awards but I couldnt imagine why. I had dropped my baton after all. But Mom and I sat on the floor on Gym mats while names were called. Solo winners were always called last.

     One of the girls that I watched earlier won  a second place ribbon with big medallion on it. They hung it around her neck. And then I heard them say, "And in our last solo category today we have a first place winner. She was our youngest solo competitor. Pamela Gales, we have a trophy for you." 

     I looked at Mom. Her eyes lit up and she nudged me. "Well, go get it." she said smiling, and so I did.

     As it turned out, "I was the only girl to compete for solo in the 10 and under category. I understand now, after thinking about all of this again as I write this story, that Linda and Mom had this figured out all along. Linda did see something in me and Mom and Dad wanted me to succeed. 

     I had to quit my lessons after that because they were too expensive to continue them any more. But I knew I had been given a special gift  and I loved every minute of the journey.

     And to this day, every time I hear the song, "Stars and Stripes Forever," I can close my eyes and remember my routine. Muscle memory is an extraordinary thing. So who knows, maybe I'll take it up again.

     Post script note...

     Two summers ago, while camping with my family my grandson found a piece of wood and began carving points on the tips. It was the perfect size and shape of a baton. "Let me see that",  I said. And when he gave it to me, it began to float through my fingers. I couldn't believe how it came back so easily. 

    I had told my kids and grandsons that I used to be a baton twirler, and they had seen a grainy home movie of me in my living room at age ten, but this was different. 

     My son saw me twirling the stick though the window of his camper. "Wow Mom! Look at you." 

    I twirled that stck quite a bit on that camping trip, but Reed had carved the ends very sharp. My grandsons were worried I was going to hurt myself every time I dropped it, but I knew that I had made an impression. 

     So, last summer, when we were all getting together to camp again, I brought a real baton and had it shipped to my sisters house. I spent a week in Auburn before the trip to Lake Tahoe, and practiced every day. I surprised my Mom one night with a performance to the same tune as my Solo, "Stars and Stripes forever." I will never forget her smile or her laughter as she watched me. 

     And as for the rest of the family at the camp... 

     More smiles, more laughter, much clapping, and so much love!

     Muscle  memory is an amazing thing.

The best Grandparent story ever told...

 I am 1/16 Cherokee.

     In a previous story I told you about the time I spent a day with Grandpa John and his Ham radio. It was in this same space that he told me a story. It was a wild and fantastical account and I will tell it to you now.

     As the story goes, my great-great Grandmother was a baby when she traveled in the back of a covered wagon to Oklahoma. During this wild rush for land in Oklahoma,  settlers faced tough conditions with plenty of Chaos.

    Somewhere along the way, her parents, my Great-Great Great Grandparents died. My Great Great Grandmother, a baby at the time, was taken in and raised by a Cherokee tribe. She married a Cherokee, and had a child, my Great Grandmother. That person would be 1/2 Cherokee. That made my Grandpa John 1/4 Cherokee, my Mother 1/8 Cherokee, and me 1/16.

     My Grandfather looked Native American. No question about it. I wish I had a picture of his parents. My Aunt Kay and my Mother were both told over they years that they looked like they had Native American blood. My Aunt Nancy did too.

     And now...

     I have told this story many times over the years, and I really do recall Grandpa telling me that the Indians scalped and killed the parents of the baby in the wagon, but as I did some research, I realized their desths were more likely a tradgic accident. 

     I have also been known to exaggerate for the sake of good story, so I often told people in the telling that my GG Grandmother was taken into the tribe and married a great and handsome Indian Chief.  (This could be true.)

     But now, as I write this story down for the first time, I have thought long and hard about the story Grandpa told me that day. The truth of it. And I have done a bit of research into the Cherokee Indian tribe.'

     I found that they were mostly peaceful people. I also learned that the deaths during the Oklahoma land run were mostly from accidents, sickness and fights over the Cherokee land.

     And so now I'm now rethinking that moment in Grandpa's story. And this time,  I'm picturing a young, handsome, (soon to be Chief) riding by on his horse when he hears a tiny cry. And as he searches the wagon crash, he finds a tiny girl who appears to have survived. It appears to him also, that her parents had not. 

     I'm thinking that this young strong warrior climbed off his horse, picked up the little child, and took her home. Maybe he waited for her as she grew beautiful. Maybe he loved her.

     And,  as I pieced together this story again, I

saw how my past ties me to something bigger. More mysteries that I'm still unraveling.

I am 1/16 Cherokee.

*Apparently there are some ancestral Cherokee's that have red hair and blue eyes because of visits from Vikings. People believe they were landing on the southern coast of America before Columbus and traveled North. And... I'm pretty sure I have one of those.

Tomato worms

      One summer Mom and Dad planted tomato's in our backyard. It was the first tome wed ever grown food, and I loved watching the tomato's form and grow from the vines. I checked on them regularly, and reported back to everyone about how they were doing.                 One day I told Dad that it looked like leaves were missing from several plants and that I found chew bites on one.                                         That weekend, I was rolling skating in the drive way and Dad came through the garage and called my name. "Come with me, Pam," he said, "I want you to see something." I followed Dad to the backyard and then to the tomato garden. "Come look at this," Dad said. Then he squat down and pointed. I squat beside him and looked. "Oh my Gosh!" I said excited. I was looking at the biggest, fattest, greenest worm I'd ever seen. And it had a long curved stinger on it's butt. "We've got tomato worms," Dad said. "That's what's eating the plants." "They're so big," I told him, "and that stinger!"         We have to remove these guys from the plants, he told me. "I'll be right back." Dad returned a few minutes later with a miracle whip jar, and proceeded to show me how to remove the worms from the stalks. He explained that if you found one tomato worm, you had more than one. Then I watched him slide the stick under its front feet which were sticky. Then, once the worm attached itself, Dad just pulled it from the plant. As he did,  the worm immediately bent it's stinger forward over it's back. "Do you see that?" Dad said. "You have to be careful so it doesn't sting you."                                                                   It was Summer, so Dad asked if I was game for finding and jarring more worms while he was at work. Our first one now sat in the bottom of the jar which Dad handed me. "If you find more, put them in here. You'll know where to look for them by finding the eaten or missing leaves. You're in charge."             Dad left me by the garden and I sat there staring into the jar. I was mesmerized by the worm. I broke of a piece of a tomato plant with a leaf attached and put it in the jar with the worm then took the lid off so it wouldn't die. I wanted to watch it climb with those sticky feet and eat with that mouth. I was fascinated.                                                                  I can't tell you how many hours I sat with the tomatoes that Summer, but it was a lot. Within a week or so I had 4 worms inside that jar, and sometimes I missed the call to dinner.                                                                         "Pam's in the garden again." My sisters would say, "she's always looking for those nasty worms."                                                              So now, let's flash forward to our Round Valley garden in California when I planted my first bed of tomatoes. As I planted and watered and staked them, I couldnt stop thinking about the facinating worms of my childhood. I realized that I badly them wanted to return to my life.                                                        I checked regularly for missing leaves and chew marks on the plants, but never found any. I remember being sad that they didn't come visit me. Crazy, huh?

call me Mamo...

    I had my first grandson for almost two years before his brother was born. I will tell you about the second brother's story in this book. It is profound. And the third one's story... I have already written about. He... was Paul's redemption. But this story... it's about my first. It's about the one who named me. 

    This precious boy was my world. My first grandchild...and he was everything. He was a

pensive child. Quiet. Always listening.  I read to him a lot and sang to him, and I knew I had his attention. 

     We had a little kitchen stool.  I knew he wanted to climb it, but I also knew he didn't want me to watch him figure it out. So I put it in the living room and walked away. Then I watched him through the open area from my kitchen where he practiced. He went up, stumbled, and tried it again. He did this over and over until he finally had it down. I saw that he had done it. My heart so full knowing that he wanted to show me. I walked toward him. "Did you climb that ladder?" I asked him. And he showed me that he did. 

     I gave him the biggest hug. He so was proud and so was I. I was pretty sure that he said, "Gamma" in the video I took as I filmed him doing it again.

    Not long after that, I was talking to my daughter on the phone. "Jude keeps saying something," she told me. "I don't know what it means. He says it over and over every day."  And she repeated the word. "Have you heard him say it?"

     "No." I told her, "I have not."

     The next time they came over, my darling boy ran into the house. "Mamo!" His arms were wide open as I scooped him up. 

     "Oh my gosh!" my daughter said, "It's you. He's been asking about you."

     My heart swelled. And it didn't take long for me to figure out where this name came from. It was a combination of two of his favorite things. His Mama and Elmo. I knew right away that he saw me as the perfect mix of both. 

     Part Mama, part Elmo. 

     One of my sisters made fun of this name and It hurt my feelings. Many grandma's choose their name before their grandbabies are even born. They then coach them on it as soon as their grandbabies talk. I get this. Truly I do, but I, I never even thought about it. 

     My truth is this... I knew one day that Jude would call me something. He'd find his name for me and say it.  And that's exactly what he did. My darling grandson named me from two of the things he loved the most. And what could possibly be more precious than that? 

     And so...just call me Mamo!

Thunderstorms, my Dad, and a vase of flowers on a kitchen table...

      I grew up in tornado country and Spring always announced itself with a great and stormy sky. 

     The horizon would grow dark as blue-black clouds rolled and tumbled and filled the sky.  I was well aware of their power as my heart beat faster.

      Anticipation, fear, and awe took turns inside my spirit playing follow the leader. 

    We were taught what to do. Mom would meet us at the door if the storms found us outside, and then we sat in the drn on the floor, watched, Gary England, and waited for Dad.
     We have meteorologists in Oklahoma, and he was ours. He told us what we needed to know about the impending storm and I still remember the comfort of his voice. I trusted him.
    If Mr. England changed the symbol from thunderstorm watch to tornado warning  before Dad arrived home, Mom would take us to the bathroom and I'd get scared. 

    But the moment Dad came through the door my fear went away.   He would change his clothes and we'd go to the garage where Dad would snap on the radio, open the garage doors, and line up the lawn chairs side by side.  

    As long as the storm lasted the five of us would sit like that. Dad and his kids. We watched clouds darken and shift.  I'd scoot to the very edge of my chair and gasp as flashes of lightning shot across the sky. I'd hold my ears as gigantic booms of thunder vibrated my bones. 
    At times the the sky grew so dark that I held my breath and just when I thought I couldn't stand it anymore, the sky would  break open and pour down buckets full of rain. 
    The hail made my sisters scream but my brother ran into it like a superhero proud to show us the red whelps he brought back inside with him.    
    I was transfixed watching our green grass turn into a glassy white blanket.  

     Dad put us inside the bathtub once and when I saw the look between my parents I knew the tornado was coming. Dad left for a minute and came back with a mattress. He told Mom to get in with us and then he held the mattress over our heads. 
     There were a few moments when the sound of the wind covered the sound of Mother singing. In the stillness I thought it was over. It wasn't. 
     The wind came back, and then, Dad put the mattress down. 
     He told Mom to keep us there until he came back. 
     When all was clear Dad said, "I thought I'd drive around and see what the tornado did. Anyone want to come with me?"
      I did.
     I don't know how far we drove, but when Dad parked we both got out. A family was wandering outside on a lawn down a street and their house had no roof.  "Look," Dad said as he pointed. "It's over there."
     It was balancing on top of a house down the street. 
     The family without the roof was letting people go inside to see. Dad told me they were in shock, but I had to ask him after what shock was. 
     Inside the house, the TV was on but it didn't have a picture. Dad was talking to people about couch cushions and books on a shelf.  
     I wandered into the kitchen. 
    On a table was a vase of red flowers. I stared while the people around me talked about them. 
    They just sat upright on the peoples kitchen table in the water in the pretty vase.   
     I looked up and saw the sky.
     On the drive home, Dad told me that tornadoes had strange power.  He told me when he was a boy he saw a rake pushed through a telephone pole once after storm and that a neighbor's cow had been found walking in a field over a mile away after another one. 

     Something changed in me that day.  I did not understand the things I saw and heard. But as I stared at the flowers in the kitchen with no roof  I knew God knew everything I did not and after that I saw God's glory in the lightning. 
     I smelled it in the rain and I heard it in the thunder.  
    I know it is present now even a midst the destruction of the current seasons storms so I pray for the people who lives were forever changed by them. But, as I remember the red flowers on the table in a kitchen with no roof I know that new life and redemption comes. 

    May they see your goodness, Lord, and may they know your great love. 
   

     I pray the words of this Third Day song for their lives...
  

     "Show them your glory. Send down the heavens, they want to see your face. Show them your glory. Majesty shines about you they can't go on without you Lord."