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.

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.

Behemoth and Leviathan

       I've always been fascinated about the personal and long conversation that Job has with God in the bible book of Job.  In Job chapters 38 and 39, they have quite a conversation about animals. God speaks to Job about the lion, the raven, the wild goat and donkey, the ostrich, the horse, and the hawk.  

      But it's the other animals in Chapter 40 that got my attention. During this part of their conversation, God reminds Job of his power over a creature he calls Behemoth.  God describes it this way.  In verse 15 God says that it is a plant eater. In verse 21 God says it lives near water. In verses 16-18 God says its very strong and muscular. Verse 19 states, It ranks first among the works of God. Verse 19 says, only it's creator can master it, and that it's massive tail sways like a cedar.  

     I was so fascinated by this, that I dug a little deeper.  After reading several commentaries on the subject of this creature, I was more confused. Some Bible scholars say that God was referring to what we now know as a hippo or elephant. However, God’s description above does not fit either of those animals.  Hippos have short stubby tails, and Elephants tails are thin and whip like. Hence the mystery began. 

     Then, in Chapter 41 of Job, God speaks of a great creature he calls “Leviathan,” and God goes into very great details in describing this creature to Job. And in Psalm 104, this mysterious creature is spoken of again.  A whale?  A giant crocodile?  Some Bible scholars say, "Yes." 

     However, I want you to be the judge.  Here are the passages of God’s words to Job describing the Leviathan in a few different versions.

     Job 41:18-22 KJV   By his neesings a light doth shine, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the morning.  Out of his mouth go burning lamps, and sparks of fire leap out.  Out of his nostrils goeth smoke, as out of a seething pot or caldron.  His breath kindleth coals, and a flame goeth out of his mouth.  

     NIV    “Its snorting throws out flashes of light; its eyes are like the rays of dawn.  Flames stream from its mouth; sparks of fire shoot out.  Smoke pours from its nostrils as from a boiling pot over burning reeds.  Its breath sets coals ablaze, and flames dart from its mouth.”

     ESV   “His sneezings flash forth light, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the dawn.  Out of his mouth go flaming torches; sparks of fire leap forth.  Out of his nostrils comes forth smoke, as from a boiling pot and burning rushes.  His breath kindles coals, and a flame comes forth from his mouth.”

     Job 41:31-32 KJV  “He maketh the deep to boil like a pot: he maketh the sea like a pot of ointment.  He maketh a path to shine after him; one would think the deep to be hoary.”

     NIV   “He makes the depths churn like a boiling caldron and stirs up the sea like a pot of  ointment.

 Behind him he leaves a glistening wake; one would think the deep had white hair.  

     ESV     “He makes the deep boil like a pot; he makes the sea like a pot of ointment.  Behind him he leaves a shining wake; one would think the deep to be white-haired.”

     I think God’s description of Behemoth sound more like a dinosaur than a hippo, and the Leviathan?  Come on! The wat God speaks about flames and smoke pouring from it's mouth?  I'd say it sounds more like a the stuff of legends. A powerful, glistening, fire breathing, dawn-eyed dragon. perhaps?  

     And lastly, God spoke to Job about 12 animals that walk the earth today. So it is certainly a mystery why God went into such detail describing the Behemoth and Leviathan. Maybe he's reminding Job that there are things in this world, creatures, even,  that are beyond human understanding, things only He can control. I believe these creatures are exactly what God says they are?

    Thinking about these creatures makes me realize how vast and mysterious God's creation really is. so as for me, I’ll be looking for the glowing white wakes of the Leviathan in the oceans of Heaven, because I really, really, wanna see this guy!  Do you think I might get to ride on him?  

Grandpa John and his Ham radio

  

    In the garage of Grandpa Harding's house was something I'd never seen before. Looking back, I know that he did not live in that house very long, because I only remember going there with Mom a few times. Both of these times though, he made a big impact on my childhood. I think that he had moved back to Enid because he was trying to get Grandma to take him back, but she never did. My grandfather was an alcoholic for most of his adult life. This season though, however short lived,  was a sober phase, and during this season he showed me something I'll never forget, and I got to know my Grandpa. 

     During this visit, Grandpa took me out to the garage where he had set up his Ham Radio.  I had never seen one before. In the corner was a big desk and chair with several box shaped things stacked on top of each other. There were switches, toggles, and lights on these boxes. And in front of it all,  was a big microphone. The garage smelled oily and dusty, and it was dim, so Grandpa had to turn on some lights. Then he pulled a chair over for me, and we he sat down in front of all his stuff. I watched as he toggled some levers, and tapped some buttons. Lights came on and static rattled through the speaker, then Grandpa spoke into the microphone and signed on saying something, this is  "W5BGX. Anybody out there? Then a voice responded. This is KA5DEF. Then there was more static and  rumbling, then Grandpa said again, "This is W5GBX. You got me good buddy."

     I did some research on the Ham radio call signs and found out that the number in the middle of the call sign, in this case, a 5, was their territory location. This covered all of Oklahoma and Texas as well as New Mexico, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Mississippi. A big territory. I listened, as Grandpa then asked where the trucker was that day. What highway and State, and where they were going. They'd talk about weather and traffic and accidents along the road. Tornado's and severe thunderstorms were always a big deal in the summertime. They sometimes told Grandpa about their rig trouble, or someone else's rig trouble, or about hitchhiker they picked up, and so on.

     Grandpa's friend group were mostly truckers and other Ham radio operators. After the conversations Granpa had with truckers on the road, he'd reach out to friends group and let them know about traffic, storms, and accidents. "10 4 Good Buddy" was said often between them. Grandpa had cards printed with his call sign on it and he gave me one that day. I still have it.

     As a young girl, I was completely fascinated. This was way before computers or smart phones. The only communication we had back then were telephones that hung on the wall with long curly cords,  so this thing that Grandpa communicated on was like magic to me. I was out there with him long enough that Mom checked on me twice. She found me both times in a chair next to him with a smile on my face so she let me stay. 

     Dying to talk myself, I finally asked Grandpa if I could talk on the microphone to somebody. He explained to me then, that Ham radio operators took their jobs quite seriously. The radio was not a toy. But after a minute or so, Grandpa smiled and told the next man he talked too that his Granddaughter was sitting in with him today and asked him if she could say, "Hi."

      The man on the radio then said, "10 4 Good Buddy. A Okay." Grandpa nudged me like, "Go ahead." I honestly don't remember what I said to him, or what he said to me. I didn't talk very long, but at the end I remember signing off the way I heard Grandpa do it. "This is W5BGX over and out."

    This visit with Grandpa, and the next one I had were special to me because we got to know each other. He shared something he loved with me on the first one, and he told me a great and fabulous story on the second. I had his undivided attention on these days, and every little girl wants days like that with her grandpa.  

     And so... that day in his garage learning about the Ham Radio and listening to him talk to truckers is probably my favorite day with a Grandparent.

     "And this is Little P at W5BXG over and out."

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 makeup cases 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 lay the tiniest treasures, little white tubes of lipsticks and tiny vials of shiny 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 mesmerized. 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. 

     Then she would hand Mom the new colors of nail polish. The shiny color 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 tiny boy named James, a baby stuffed with Animal Crackers, and a miracle at the dump.

          A family trip to Ecuador changed everything. And now nothing looks the same as it did before.
          A couple from our home church in California quit their jobs, sold their home, and moved with their 2 children to Ecuador to start an orphanage and save babies. We joined the church after they were already gone, but we heard all about them and their home for children in Ecuador,  called "Fathers heart."  Their very first baby died in Melinda's arms, but now the orphanage flourishes and a new home is being built on the property for special needs children. 
      A couple years later, and after things too many to share for the sake of this story, Paul took our family of five on a mission trip with our church to Father's Heart orphanage in Quito Ecuador.
     During our 10 day trip, my oldest daughter worked with a team of young adults. The men and boys made concrete and did construction on a therapy pool for their handicapped children. My youngest daughter and I worked in the Orphanage.  The babies precious care givers loved it when extra hearts and hands showed up to help. Their jobs were long and often hard, and most of these women had families and little ones at home, so they loved when church teams came to assist them. 

     And so, we loved on the babies. We fed them, changed them, rocked them, and took them in front packs whenever we went into town to shop. The baby I bonded with was named James. He was four months old and had trouble keeping formula down. He had to be fed slow or he would throw it all up. He was finally growing though, he was thriving, and waiting for his forever family. He was beautiful. His smile made me melt, and within a few days, I loved him. 

     One day, my daughter and two of her friends from our church asked if we could all take our babies to an outing at the mall. The next day we did. 

     The Mom of one of the other girls from our church loaded the four of us into a van with 2 strollers and 2 front packs and off we went. 

     After arriving at the mall, we settled the babies into the packs and strollers, and waved goodbye. "I'll pick you back up in about an hour or so," Heidi told us, "There's a place where you can sit not to far from these doors. I'll look for you there." So with smiles and diaper bags and babies, we headed inside.  

      After walking around and window shopping, the girls all got treats. Then two of the girls babies needed changing, and another needed to be fed. Then one began to cry. It was about this time that the 11 and 12 year old Mommies realized this thing they were doing was harder than it looked. When all the babies settled down again, the girls asked if they could pop into a store we saw and try on some clothes. "Please?" They begged with folded hands and the sweetest smiles. "We'll hurry. We promise." 

     "You can't leave me here with four babies." I told them. "I'll take Marinella, Mom," my daughter told me, patting her baby girl through the pack on her chest. "And Heidi will be here soon. We'll hurry, Okay." Then they blew kisses, waved as they hurried off. 

     Things were fine for awhile, then two of the three babies in my care began crying. One wailed so loud, that I had to take her from the stroller and hold her. I bounced her snuggled up beside James in my front pack, while I pushed the stroller back and forth with my foot hoping to sooth the baby girl inside that. 

     When Heidi arrived and spied me with all the babies she picked up her pace, and I couldn't help but laugh by the time she reached me. She took the crying babe from my arms. "The girls just went to try on some clothes,"  I told her. "They changed them and fed one. The babies were happy as clams when they left."

     Heidi was laughing now too. "Of course they were." 

     When the girls returned with packages, and one baby fussy in my daughters pack, the other babies had stopped crying. I told them about the state I'd been in when Heidi found me. "I probably looked like a cartoon," I said, and the girls apologized through their giggles. 

     The girls learned a lot that day about living real life while also caring for an infant. It was quite an adventure. 

     As the week went on, Paul could tell that something was happening in my heart concerning James. "Can we take him home?" I asked Paul one night after tucking James in for the night. "You mean adopt him?" Paul asked. "Yes." I replied. "Could we?"  So we both prayed about it and the next day Paul said he was willing to ask some questions concerning the possibility, but it was all very overwhelming, and I was pretty emotional about it.  

     A few days later, we all piled into Vans to go to the dump and feed the people who lived there.  The babies did not go with us this day.  I knew that we were doing this thing, this feeding the people who lived at the dump thing. People from our church had done it before, and we had been talking about it since before we even left the states. What I did not know, however, was what it would be, what I would see, and what God would do.  

     Everybody had been assigned jobs. We had several drawstring bags of soccer balls for the kids to give away and play with. The kids who didn't want to play soccer, were given large bags of animals cookies to pass out. Another group, mostly adults and young adults, were equipped with jugs of water and shampoo to wash hair. 

     I had not been assigned a job that day. I said I didn't want one. I was overwhelmed with feelings and possibilities and wasn't even sure I would go. I really just wanted to stay with James. But my husband and children wanted me to join them, and so I went. 

     We had been prepared or so I thought. The people at the dump knew we were coming. We had been told that when they saw the vans pull in, the people would appear and line up with cups or jugs or whatever they had to put soup in, and we would feed them.  

     Then right before we left, the biggest pot I'd ever seen was loaded in to the back of a Van filled with chicken soup, and beside it, a very large box of bakery buns. My oldest daughter was part of the crew that would serve them, and she road in the back holding onto the hot soup pot. 

     When we arrived, everyone climbed out of the Vans carrying things ready for their duties, but when the people of the dump began climbing out of cardboard boxes, and broken lean-tos, and walking toward us, I couldn't move.

      I thought my heart, already swollen tight with love for a baby I'd met just days before, might break. I definitely was not prepared for what stood in front of me. 

     There was no running water at the dump so these people couldn't bath. There clothes were filthy. Their hair matted. Their teeth rotting. Their hands and fingernails... 

    I felt in a dream state watching the movement around me. Our kids were playing soccer with the children who lived in the dump. I watched our group mingle with people in the line waiting for food. There were so many people. They just kept coming. We couldn't feed them all.  I saw our kids passing out animal cookies. But I...I couldn't move. I was so overwhelmed with all my feelings, and a little scared how everything in my life seem to have changed so quickly, and now... what was I supposed to do with all of this?  Oh Lord," I cried, "This is too much for me. I can't handle it."

      A friend saw me standing there, and took the time to come give me a hug. "I can't do this." I told her. "This is so horrible. No one should have to live like this."  "I know, " she said sweetly. "But there getting hot soup and bread. Some are getting there hair washed. Their children are laughing and playing." She paused. "There are parents that need help carrying soup back to their children. You can help do that?"

      I took a deep breath. I knew she was right. I could help do that. So I took a step toward the line of people. I said hello to a few and pasted on a smile. "Ask that lady if you can hold her baby." I realized soon enough that it had been God that placed those words on my heart, because then, I saw her.  A mother in line had three children. Two little ones, one wrapped around each leg, and a baby in a pink onesie was in her arms. She was doing her best to juggle a dirty chopped off milk carton, and another container to hold the soup in.  I walked toward her. I don't speak Spanish, but I knew she understood me when I stretched out my arms and said, "Can I hold your baby for you?"

      As I took the baby in my arms, and held her to my chest, there was a odd sound. There was something inside the onesie. Something crunchy.  The baby was content and happy as I unzipped her onesie and looked inside. Animal cookies. The baby was stuffed with animal cookies. I couldn't help but smile. And then I found myself laughing with joy. I walked around and showed her to people as the Mother moved through the line. "This baby is stuffed with animal cookies," I said, as I showed her around. God knew exactly what I needed. He knew that baby stuffed with cookies would bring me joy. I pictured the Mom unzipping it as the kids brought the cookies around because she had no where else to put them. 

     I managed fine after that. I waited until my daughter and her team had filled the woman's dirty containers with soup, and watched them give her little one bread to carry. Then I joined her and followed her back to their home. Their cardboard box at the dump. I handed her back her baby. I knew she was grateful. I could see it in her eyes. And her children were hungry. 

     I went back and helped a few more families carry things. I heard talk in the Van about the soup and bread. "It's going so fast." "So many people still in line."  "Still more coming." 

     It wasn't until many hours later that we all talked about the miracle. Each person in the Van serving food shared that night. Each one of them believed they were going to run out before everyone got fed. But they just kept serving. They started breaking the bread in half. But the soup pot always had one more ladle of soup in it. And the box of bread had five pieces left, then four. Then they gave some away, but there were still four pieces in the box. 

     We found out later that not only was everyone fed, but some people had come back for seconds.  It was like the miracle of the fish and loaves with Jesus on the mountainside, but instead it was a miracle of soup and bread at the dump in Ecuador. 

     We found out the next day that we couldn't adopt James because of our age. Ecuador wont let people over 40 adopt, and we were that. 

     I cried myself to sleep that night while Paul comforted me. The day before we left, he took me shopping so I could buy something special for James. I bought him a sheepskin blanket for his crib. And I wrote him a letter. I told James how much he had been loved and how I'd wanted to take him home, but couldn't. I taped the letter right on the wall right by his crib.  

     Years later, I got a letter from Melinda, the woman from our church who started the orphanage. In the letter was a picture of James. He was about 3 I think. She wanted me to know that he had found his forever family. She wanted me to know that the sheepskin blanket I bought him went with him, and so did the letter I wrote him the day before I left. 

    My tears that day were tears of joy. I had thought about James so many times, but the gift I got that day from Melinda healed something inside me.   

     My youngest daughter went back with our friends the next year and got to be with the babies again. I can't think too much about the people who live at the dump because it hurts too much. But remembering the miracle God preformed that day we fed them, makes me feel better. Maybe he's done it again. I know that He sees them. I know that He loves them. And for now, that has to be enough.       

           

     

 

     

     

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." 

Tornadoes

 Boy did we have Thunderstorms! There are so many things that Dad gave us, things that he Imparted in me, but how he took the scary out of the Oklahoma Tornadoes of my childhood might be the mightiest.

Late Spring and early summer in OKC, we heard tornado sirens regularly. Mom always had Gary England on the TV while we waited for Dad to get home from the office. On the afternoons we sat under a tornado watch, I could tell that Mom was anxious. I could see it on her face. Being the oldest girl, I watched Mom a lot. But as soon as Dad walked through the door, Mom took a deep breath and I knew that everything was okay.

"Who wants to go watch the Thunderstorm?" Dad would say as he walked in the house. And then, after he changed out of his suit, us kids would follow him out to the garage. Dad would then open up both garage doors and he'd line up lawn chairs across the openings.

The sky was always dark on these days, and the clouds were roiling. Lighting flashed and thunder boomed. Lori and Kay would scream. But Dad always had a smile on his face and kept us calm.

"Next time you see the lightning, start counting until you hear the thunder boom," he'd say, "Count how many seconds come before you hear it. We'll count each time. If the time between the lightening and the thunder grow closer, then we know the storm is moving toward us. If they get farther apart, we know the storm is moving away. " So that's what we did.

My Dad always made it fun. My brother, the only boy, the oldest, and my Irish twin, would often run out of the garage into the hail storm to show his Macho. I remember yelling at him to comeback in a few times when the lightning flashed. here was only once, after a siren, when Dad got up, closed the garage doors and took us quickly into the house. He called for Mom and led us all to the bathroom. After putting all four of us in the tub with Mom sitting on the floor, he left and came back with a mattress from one of the beds and tilted it over us in the tub. The tornado siren was still going off. It happened so fast, but I remember that Mom began to sing. Kay reached over and grabbed my hand. Mom's song was beautiful, and then it was over.

I was never really scared of tornadoes because of Dad. But Mom was scared of them. I always knew that. I stood in the hall once and listened to her call Dad at work. "You need to come home now Elmer. The storm is bad." That made me scared, so I played with my sisters and checked on Mom until Dad walked through the door. After that, everything was Okay.

One time, after a tornado touched down near our house,

A whole new kind of love...

     There is nothing that compares to the love parents have for their children, but when my grandsons were born, I experienced a whole new kind of love. And I had a lot more time on my hands. I described it to friends as an explosion inside my heart that pumped a love through me I'd never felt before.

     Paul and I were blessed to spend more time with our grandsons than most grandparents get to do. Our daughter and son-in-law lived close, and we had recently purchased a beautiful home in the country. It was a perfect place to rock babies on my porch, sing songs about swinging, dig up dinosaur eggs, have living room diving Olympics. Our little boys got to fill their tummies with fruit from the garden and trees. 

     One year, Paul made shields for the boys and I painted the spirit animal of their choice on the front. They became little warriors. And we had lots of sleepovers. And lots of baths. Little boys get very dirty.

     One year, I made, "Mamo money," and began placing it in cards for my daughter and her family. Mothers day, birthdays, Easter, Christmas. The recipient could cash in these $100 bills when they wanted some time with us. Ice cream dates, play dates, sleepovers, etc. Sometimes one of the boys would need a break from their brothers, and the oldest one asked me one day how much Mamo money it would cost for a 2 night sleep over by himself. I still smile at that memory. It became fun when the boys Mom and Dad wondered how much more Mamo money they might need for an Anniversary get-a way. I made sure they always had enough. And I have about 1,000 of this valuable currency left, so each of the boys will get some to remember. And if I'm lucky enough to experience another generation of little ones, I'll make some more.

     Each of these 3 darling boys wore the same cowboy chaps and stood by the same window in different seasons. And each of them got wrapped in the same lion towel at about the same age. They walked with me dressed as Ninja's, and hiked in a line behind their Papa. And then there were the Rhino rides. Traveling on back country roads with our best little buddies in the sunshine and fresh air, mountain vistas on every side, was simply the best.  

     These three little boys who live in my heart are all young men now. They are strong mountain bike riders and Nordic skiers. Amazing, smart, charming and handsome. One does the craziest coolest yoyo tricks you've ever seen, another one has the most intelligent conversations of anyone I know, and one of them is full of charm and has started playing the guitar. And their smiles...

Man, their smiles.

    Their parents are the most self-less, generous, and best kind of amazing people, and I will forever be thankful that we got to share in their precious lives from the moment they were born and watch them grow. I love you boys so much!

     And lastly, I can't stop here and finish this without remembering the precious years with our own three children. They were the most amazing, most adorable and most darling. They are who taught me what love was all about. We didn't have smart phones back then. Our pictures were developed from rolls of film, and you never really knew what you were going to get. I often wish I could lay my Mama moments alongside these Mamo ones, but I can't. So you'll just have to trust me when I say that these three... Man oh man! They stole my heart.

 

A forever remembered, "Homemade Christmas."

     

     It's the last thing I do before going to bed and the first thing I check on when my feet hit the floor. My projects. My Christmas. It came out of a need to save money, so I'd been treasure hunting since September. I decided to make all my Christmas gifts this year, so I've been collecting things that have a past. I am going to make them new and they will become the next chapter of stories for my family.

      Today, as I began to sand through wood trying to erase scars and scratches I suddenly picture the hands and feet of Jesus. His scars changed everything, so I stop sanding. The nicks and notches in the old wood have suddenly become beautiful.

     I can't explain exactly how I feel doing this. but it's a joy I've never felt before. I  have come out of a really hard season, but I feel God's presence all over me. As I worked and planned in the quiet of my greenhouse, the space became a place for memories to surface. I began to remember the places in my life where I'd planted memorial stones. God began to remind me of the praise in the mountain tops. And He stayed right beside me as we went back together and skirted the darker valleys, and I knew it was He that got me through them. 

     God reminded me that my story was written by Him and that he wanted me to leave behind a part of Him in it, and so...  I sand and stain and glaze and paint and wait and check on...

     Weeks go by and I sit here still, in this place of remembering. A place where God's truth, power, and promise rush around and through me so fast that I spin. Mostly with joy and love...and yet...most of my Christmas still sits in piles unfinished. 

    This room...a mess. But beautiful chaos I think. In the corners lay lovely things that wait. On a table, ruined by glue and paint, sits three cut out's of little boys hands and a box. I remember the day I sat the boys down on the back porch and painted the bottoms of their feet green. They giggled. Said it tickled.  Then I stood them on a poster board, and their footprints became ornaments for our tree last year. Just a few weeks ago, we did their hands because they need to be on the tree too.  The box is for Stella Grace. I glazed it shiny then painted it with green ivy. Inside it holds a letter just to her.

     And then Fall came...

     And with God's very breath over our country mountain home, fresh inspiration came over me in the season I love the most. So I started to collect the pieces of our home that I can give away to remember. Our leaves. 

      I preserve, and paint. I make things new, and I  remember.  I now have faith for my pile of unfinished...  Because there will be birthdays....weddings...babies... graduations. 

     And so...on Christmas I will give away forever remembered moments of a season in my life. A season in my story written by God where a greatly loved daughter had a heart full of praise.

     And so...I sand, and paint, and wait, and trust because our story...God's and mine...is not finished yet.

A grafted Peach tree

      One year for our anniversary our three children bought us a precious gift. It was a grafted peach tree with three different kinds of peaches. Three different varieties, just like my children. I was so excited the first year it budded and bloomed. I loved that tree so much. 

     But we had to leave it in the ground when we left California, but before we did, I had one last precious moment with that tree. I stood in front of it and said goodbye. It was summer, and all the branches had baby peaches on them. I told the tree that it was beautiful. I told the tree I loved it.

    From the moment we put it in the ground, it became so much more than just a sapling. It was our family taking root. Our years of life there still continue through that tree, and I often wonder how big it's  become.

     I pictures it's branches laden with three kinds of fruit. Our strong-willed, first born, Mama teacher peaches, growing soft, beautiful, and bold upon her branches. I think the fruit of her peaches might have a bit of sassy tang. And her fruit is most definitely the queen of the tree. They are the ones in charge. 

     Next to them, I imagine our son's. His peaches, ever so charming and mischievous. I see them dangling upside down to tease the picker. The fruit of his peaches has a sweetness that lingers. And the juice that dribbles down your chin makes you laugh.  

     And on the last set of branches sit our fiery haired baby's peaches. And they, are one with the tree. In total communion with the roots and the trunk, shining in the sun as her fruit refracts the light differently. Her peaches are stunningly unique. They taste like nothing else. 

     And then,  I imagine the pickers. When they come to harvest this beautiful fruit, they pause. There is a tangible hesitation as they consider what they see. It's as if magic stands between their hands and the peaches they want to pick and they know it. 

     And then, pulled by the strength and sureness of the first set of beautiful fruit, they touch one and truly know what it is they are holding. 

     Then, I see them turn as the charm of the next branch entices them with a force they cant deny. They want whatever that is.  

     Finally, the sun hits the third set of peaches and the light is so bright and the fruit so pretty, they are mesmerized for a moment. 

    And so...  

     They take one of each because they know that having all three different peaches gives them the absolute best that peaches have to give to anyone. 

     A warmth spreads through me as I picture this. And I chuckle imagining what each of my children's peaches will taste like to the picker. 

     I wish I could watch this, because I know I would smile. 

Boxes of treasure...

 

     One year when our Grandsons were little, instead of giving them Easter baskets, we made them treasure boxes. I found three raw wood boxes while I was thrift store shopping one day and knew they would come in handy for something. Three boys, three boxes, right?

     Then, when Easter was on the horizon, I came up with a plan. I painted each box with a resurrection scene and found Scriptures that spoke about treasure. I painted one on the front of each boys box, and placed a couple more on index cards inside.  And then, the hunt for treasure box content began.     

     Boys love stuff. My son Michael used to stuff his pockets full of things. Rocks, feathers, marbles, money. He always wanted shorts with lots of pockets so he could fill them. I always emptied them before washing.

     So Paul found stuff. He had a box of really old coins and divided them up in baggies. He had watches that he'd bought in China. Old tie clips, bolos from the 90's and belt buckles as big as my hands. And all of these things were placed inside the boxes.  You name it, anything their Papa found in his closet and gave the boys was like gold. I still remember the squeals of delight and excited smiles when they opened them and saw what lay inside.   

     But these boxes became so much more than I can even find words for. And for me that's saying a lot. The boys loved them so much.

      After that, we barely got a hug or a hello when they arrived for playdates. It was always, "Can we have our treasure boxes, Mamo?" 

     Over the years, Paul and I would find things on trips that would fit inside them, and each time we presented them with something new, it was like we had hung the moon. Little glass vials filled with colored ocean sand, little wooden turtles, cheesy painted surfboards on a string. Wooden mountain coins from our local Jazz Jubilee. 

     And so, when the boys came over the treasure boxes came out. They'd sit on the living room floor and dump out the contents. They would talk about their stuff, sometimes trying to trade, and then rearrange everything before putting it all back in. Over time though, as the boys got older, squabbles began as all the stuff on the floor got mixed together. "That's mine!", one would say. "No it isn't. It's mine!"  "Give it back!" "Mamo! He took my..."  whatever it was that he had been accused of taking. So I would have to intervene. These boxes then became lessons in sharing and consequence when they had to be put away. Sometimes there were tears. But like stepping over stones, the boys were learning. Bumps happen along the road of brotherhood and life, and they were learning how to maneuver through them. 

     Over the last few years as I have thought about those boxes, I remember the love the boys had for all the bits and bobs inside. And when I do, my hearts swells with joy from the memories.

     Last week, when I was editing this story for the book, I thought again about the boxes, trying to picture what might still be in them. I was pretty sure we had given them back to the boys before our move across the country, but I asked Paul if he remembered. 

     "I'm pretty sure there upstairs in one of the guestroom closets." He told me. Really? I thought. How sweet.

     So a few days later, I opened the boxes and spread the contents across my bed. Flooded with memories I picked things up as sweet tears filled my eyes. One of the boys still had the baby dinosaur that came from the eggs I buried in our yard. One evening, after digging them up, we excavated three baby dinosaurs around our kitchen table. The next time the boys came over, we made nests for them from twigs and feathers we found on a walk. One of the boys boxes still had the nest inside his box. And there was money. Eight dollars in cash, and 100 dollars of Mamo money. But the sweetest thing, were the glass beads. I had no idea the boys had saved so many of them. 

     We had a creek that ran through our yard, so one day I decided to spread shiny glass beads in the creek for the boys to hunt. They went crazy filling their pockets with the shiny things. And when the sun hit them just right in the water they sparkled like crazy. 

     And so, it became a thing. Anytime we had a party or a celebration at our house, and we had quite a few, I'd fill the creek with shiny treasures and pass out little drawstring pouches for the children to collect them in. I hadn't thought about this for years, but to see so many of these little beads inside the boys boxes almost made me cry. 

     We get to see these three grown up little boys soon, and I can't wait to see their faces when the boxes of treasure get back into their hands. I expect tears to form in their eyes as memories appear. I expect deep long hugs. And I know it will end with stories and laughter. 

      Life and Love, Papa's old junk, three little boys, and three boxes of treasure. Doesn't get much better than that. 

Mother sewed

 My Memories of Mom are many. I was the oldest girl and paid close attention to everything Mom did. She read to us every day and I fell in love with stories because of it. She also loved Music and she and I would play record albums over and over for hours a day. We would sing and I would dance while Mother sewed. She sewed all of our clothes until I was in middle school. Church dresses. Summer shifts. Costumes. She made all her own clothes too. Beautiful things modeled after the style of Jackie Kennedy. Colorful bell bottom pantsuits. Tailored dresses. She even made Ron a suit. I loved going to the fabric store with her to pick out my patterns. I can still remember the excitement of sitting at the tables in the fabric stores and looking through the pattern books of McCalls, Butterick, and Simplicity.

Most of my childhood Mom was on the floor cutting out patterns, or at the sewing machine putting them together. She wore a pin cushion around her wrist, and always held pins between her lips as she pulled them out or put them in. I remembered being lulled to sleep by the sound of her sewing machine and waking up to the joy of an almost finished dress. We tried everything on before the finishing touches were applied. Buttons, rickrack, pleats. And of course the hems. We had a full length mirror in the living room which was Mom's sewing room for most of the year. I remember standing in front of it watching Mom pin my hems. I remember I always wanted them a little bit shorter. And I remember when my hair got longer, she made me matching headbands.

And I have vivid memories of Mom sitting at the table with me when I brought home papers to learn cursive. She would do the first few letters and I would them copy them to the bottom of the page. Her handwriting was beautiful. Still is. I remember once finding some letters from my Grandma Ruthie. Mom's mom. I had never until then, realized how much Grandmas handwriting looked like Moms. How much like mine. People don't really sew like Mom did anymore, at least no know I've ever known, or do they learn cursive. And no one writes letters anymore either. I think that's sad. But I can hold tight to the memories of those things being a part of my childhood and my story. They formed me. And I will always be thankful for that.