A Brief Overview of the Rest of Last Year, and Also Apparently Some of This Year

Here it is the end of January again, and we haven’t opened our thermal-lined curtains in days.  Any energy-efficiency benefit we may have received from heating this oh-so-aesthetically-charming 1970s ranch with 8-foot dropped ceilings is completely lost through the 40-year-old floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall windows.

January is the month I start cleaning out the pantry, trying to scare out the mice who’ve been enjoying our Holiday Indulgences.  We’ve had so many mice this winter (we never see them, just the “evidence” of their presence) I’ve had to resort to sealing everything in plastic containers and tubs.  While inconvenient, it’s more practical than Jim’s suggestion which was we should put a cat in every cereal box. 

It seems I owe you a few months worth of updates. 

October/November 2013

Jim and I may be the only parents ever to have surprised their kids with a trip to Disney World. 

Let me clarify that statement: we are the only parents to have surprised their kids with a trip to Disney World, in spite of the fact we had to drive through numerous states, over multiple days, including last, but not least, Florida.  You’d think the flat terrain, palm trees, Spanish moss, sunshine and 75 degrees in October, and Florida license plates would be a dead giveaway, not to mention the ten-foot tall Disney World billboards spaced every half mile for the last hour.  Also that gas station we stopped at, bursting at the seams with Disney key chains, postcards, pens, ceramic Florida state thimbles, stuffed and mounted alligators, and oranges.  We all even took a bathroom break there.  You would also think that by now the kids would expect that if we are going on a road trip of any duration, there’s a 50 percent chance we’re going to end up in Orlando.

To be fair, we threw them off the scent since we traveled by way of Missouri, Indiana, Kentucky, West Virginia, and Virginia.  I had this misguided notion the kids would enjoy an educational trip to Williamsburg, Va., as much as I would.  Also, I wanted to go there before I die.

It certainly was educational.  I told Jim, as we were leaving the last day, “Well, I learned that there is a certain age you shouldn’t take children to Williamsburg.” Jim said, “And it’s whatever age Woody is.”  Not that the scenery wasn’t gorgeous, even in the two days of straight rain in which we drove there.  It was.  Not that we didn’t plan on one of the kids getting sick (pick one, any one) or Jack snoring all night, every night.  That happened. I just thought historical sites touted as being “family friendly” might actually be prepared for total unmitigated chaos.  Silly me.

Williamsburg, Va.

Woody and That Man Who Introduces General Washington

Williamsburg was picture-perfect, and all the employees were dressed in character and knew their stuff about colonial America, imparting their knowledge with onlookers when they (the employees) weren’t part of a re-enactment.  We walked for miles trying to tire out the kids, ate semi-authentic colonial food (not the squab, thank you; we like our baby pigeons which have heads and claws still attached to be alive, and not dinner) in very authentic buildings, visited blacksmiths, armories, the governor’s mansion, the original prison and jailer’s home, and participated in a colonial-era spy ring.  

And everywhere we went, Woody swung from the rafters, Betsy demanded, “are we were there yet?” and Lucy lamented that she was “hongry”!  Jack, who did seem to enjoy it, picked out a flint and steel at the general store, which he cleverly struck over and over inside the car in an attempt to set it on fire.

MMMM.  So glad we aren't eating here. 

Resting

Ye Olde Wiggery

Hard to tell if the kids are mesmerized or bored.  And maybe the blacksmith too.

How did anyone survive with this armor?!

Ah.  Jim must have been trying on the kids' armor.  Wait.  Why did Jamestown have armor for kids?

Meanwhile, at the church ...

The Armory.  Now THIS is more like it!

How Woody slept in Virginia.

On to Yorktown!

Betsy luring the ducks to certain death.

The highlight of the trip was the day we went to Yorktown where they had a “child-friendly” interactive reconstruction of a colonial farm complete with cabins, slave quarters, outbuildings, cotton crops (if you count three cotton plants as crops), livestock, and crusty old employees who detested most children, and especially mine.  

This became clear when Lucy and Betsy were running excitedly into a gaggle of geese and ducks, and the caretaker of that section called out to the girls not to chase the birds since if they (the girls) did, they (the birds) would become mean, and he would have to put them down (the birds … I think).  

Then a sour-looking woman in the gift shop requested that Woody not play with the wooden pop guns someone had temptingly left out on display (and not bolted down at all, or even locked behind glass), next to the stuffed animals, coonskin hats, and other toys.  I was mad enough to tell them what I thought of them on their visitor comment card, complete with my real name, address, e-mail address, and phone number.  I haven’t heard from them yet.

You don't say!

That's the door to the prison cell on the left.  Just the window on the door for ventilation.  No insulation, no heat source.  Yikes!

From there we cranked out the drive to Florida in one day -- the day that followed the night when neither Jim nor I got any sleep because Jack was so congested he couldn’t rest, but tossed and turned, moaned and groaned until 2 a.m., when Jim got up, packed the car, and I dosed Jack with one of everything I had in the medicine box (worth every square inch of space it takes up) before loading up the kids and heading out.  So for the rest of the day, the kids watched movies, played video games, and Jack passed out sitting up, head back, mouth open, for most of the drive. 

Fishing with Dad at Disney World

Lucy was too scared to watch Fantasmic from anywhere but inside Dad's shirt.

Nana made the girls' dresses for breakfast with the Disney Princesses.

Awwww!

Awwww!

Waiting to get on the new Ariel ride.

 

This was the next to the last night. Things are beginning to unravel.

We’ve got the Disney Routine down now, from knowing exactly what rides to tackle, and when, to knowing just what day the kids are going to put their heads down on the restaurant table and sigh, and ask, “When will be done?”  Usually that’s a couple of days after I start thinking it in my head.  Jim has never thought that.

Something we did differently this time was we brought along our bikes.  The girls rode in a tag-along trailer behind Jim.  I rode behind the boys to ensure they obeyed all the laws of the road on the campground.  Laws like: "Stay On the Right Side, Guys, For Crying Out Loud!"; "HAND SIGNALS!"; "Stop BEHIND the Stop Sign!"; "No Riding Side-by-Side!"; "What Did I Say About Stopping BEHIND the Stop Sign?"; and finally, but most important, "WOODY!  Brakes!"  

For being an athletic kid, Woody never could seem to figure out how to use both front and back brakes.  We ride all the time here at home, but not on well-traveled roads, and most of Woody's stops involve jumping from the moving bike.  "I can't remember which is the back brake!" He'd wail after flipping head first over the handlebars for the umpteenth time.  "Don't try to remember!" We'd holler in disbelief.  "Just pull BOTH brakes!"  By the time we left, Woody's crash helmet had proved it's mettle.  

2^nd Part of November 2013:

We got the call that my Uncle Joe was in the hospital at Tulsa on the drive back from Disney World.  Joe had struggled to shake illness over the summer, and received a diagnosis of cancer in the fall. We were able to stop in Tulsa, however bedraggled and stir-crazy we were, to kiss Uncle Joe goodbye.  He was sedated, and agitated, when I saw him.  He kept reaching up his arms, pulling his hand out of mine.  I thought he was irritated with me for trying to hold his hand, but one of my cousins later said she thought he was reaching for someone.  Grandma?  Grandpa?  Mom? That idea made me think.  Here I was imagining Joe was all but gone from us.  Maybe so, but not lost; not wandering hopelessly, but reaching steadily for the hand to lead him home.  Joe passed away a few days later. 

My older brother, who had planned to fly out for Thanksgiving, changed his tickets to fly in for the funeral in Crowder, Okla.  Afterwards, he survived the 5-hour drive back with all of us.

Not to brag, but I think visitors to our home are treated to a new perspective of their own lives.  Three days here makes most people glad they decided against ducks, chickens, dirt roads, and children.  The kids’ constant refrain was, “Uncle Sendo, watch this!” “Uncle Sendo, wanna play [a video game, football, Monopoly …]?", “Uncle Sendo, Knock Knock!”  Uncle Sendo good-naturedly did it all.  He even mentioned maybe visiting us again.

Torture.  I mean, Playing Monopoly.  Jack, Woody, Bets and Sendo.

Can't wait for Thanksgiving Dinner!

You might never suspect it was Jim who married into the family.   The similarities are frightening.

Martha, Sendo, Amanda

December 2013

This month was most notable because I came down with the flu twice, thereby disproving Jim’s often and loudly proclaimed theory that I sold my soul to the devil in exchange for not getting sick. 

The other exciting event was the chicken coop burned down after we headed into town one Wednesday night.  Our neighbor called us 10 minutes after we left and asked if we were having a bonfire on our property.  Visions of roasted chicken came to mind, followed by a giddy, guilty moment of hope.  But then I remembered the ducks also roosted with the chickens.

By the time we could get off the turnpike and turn around, the entire Benton Volunteer Fire Department was at our home.  It probably helped that our other neighbor was a volunteer fire fighter and they all thought it was his home on fire.  I was sure they’d be furious when they realized they’d been called out to extinguish the flames on a lousy chicken coop, but even though the coop was burnt to cinders, and the fire had spread to underneath Jim’s Kubota tractor and was heading toward the wood pile and propane tank, they got it out.  

By a stroke of luck (or maybe fate was leering at us), we had not closed up the chicken coop before we left.  A couple of chickens had crispy feathers, but they and the ducks were out huddled between the fire trucks and the legs of the fire fighters, clucking and quacking, as they glared furiously at their benefactors. 

The charred coop is still there.  We moved the birds out to a small barn Jim built several years ago and never used to its full potential.  We have one chicken now who refuses to go to that coop each night.  It's probably the one that insisted on laying her egg in the burnt out coop for days afterwards.  We have to go hunt her down by flashlight and carry her out to the safe one.  Lousy chicken.

The remains of the chicken coop and yard.  It actually doesn't look much worse than it did originally.

January 2014

I finally got the Halloween Jack O’ Lanterns off the front porch.  

I also had this conversation with six-year-old Betsy:

Betsy: “How did your mom die?”

Me: “She died of cancer.”

Betsy: “How did my Grandma die?”

Me: “Your Grandma is my mom.  So she died of cancer.”

Betsy: “Sooooo … your mom died of cancer, and my Grandma died of cancer …”

Me: “And that’s because my mom –“

Betsy: “Is you?!”

The conversation could have ended there, but three-year-old Lucy joined in:

Lucy: “What did my Grandma die of?”

Me (sighing and rolling my eyes): “Cancer.”

Betsy, shocked: “She has a Grandma?”

I think Mom and Joe would have enjoyed that conversation.

Happy (and hopefully warm) Valentines Day to you all!

Betsy, Joe, and Lucy, 2012