Behind the Wheel

In a few short weeks, my daughter will hold a driver's license. The state of California will allow her to operate a moting vehicle without the direction of an adult. As her mother, I am torn. I am frightened by all the obstacles out there that have the potential of causing an accident...the driver that refuses to use his blinker, the guy with his windows down that insists on sharing his booming music with the world, or the elderly woman who can barely see over the steering wheel. Then again, I am almost as excited as my daughter is. It's like when she began first grade -- going to school all day and my mornings opened up again! When she has her license, my days of carpool could be over!

My days of carpool would be over. Gone would be vying for radio time or the talks we share during the ride. My daughter and I will will have to find new ways to connect.

Learning to drive can always be quite a challenge. My parents thought it would be good to learn how to drive a stick shift as well as an automatic which would prove to be a wise decision when I found myself as the only sober driver on a few occasions in college.

My best friend in high school had a father who owned an El Camino. I don’t know whether that car was designed to be a sedan or a pick-up truck for it had unique characteristics of both. The most memorable thing about that vehicle was it’s column shift. Like the stick shift Toyota I was learning on, the gear shaft was off the steering wheel axle so instead of the H shaped gear pattern being horizontal, the El Camino’s was vertical.

There we were one afternoon, trying to make a three point turn in that El Camino. First turn went alright as my friend struggled to put it in reverse for the second part of the turn. We chose an exceptionally arched street paved in such a way so that the rainwater would drain into the gutters effortlessly. For us, however, as my friend tried to put the El Camino in reverse, it might have well as been a precipice off a cliff. I was staring straight down into the gutter from my vantage point sitting shotgun. My friend succeeded with reverse and bolted the car backward. On the flip side of the street’s arc as she once again tried to maneuver the car back into first gear, I sat staring at the blue sky and clouds as the car’s back end gave way to gravity and settled in the rear gutter.

This all struck us as very funny and soon we were shedding happy tears of hysterical laughter at our inexperience, at the arched street, at the maddening ancient El Camino.

I wonder what my daughter will remember learning how to drive in her dad's Camry. How she hated to drive my "boat." (I am happy she doesn't want to drive my van!) A driver's license can spell freedom to teens that still have no real responsibility. They don't pay a mortgage or have dependents. When did she grow up so fast?

This is her moment. I hope she feels the wind in her hair.

With another week passing at mach speed again, is it any wonder that I have no trouble falling asleep at the end of the day? I am not complaining, for it is the chaos I always dreamed of having. My concern is that I will miss the forest for the trees. Thankfully there are tools such as "Old Friend From Far Away" (OFfFA) that causes me to pause and really ponder on the ordinary. Here is one of the entries . . .

"Rain. In movies it accompanies sadness and betrayal. It always seems to fall in scenes taking place in cemeteries. In dark lonely mansions. When the protagonist is at a cross-roads trying to decide what to dao, they take a walk or a drive in the rain. When the lover breaks up with their significant other, the rain helps shoulder the pain. Angrily it pelt on rooftops and cars unlike the mysterious, gentle snow. Responsible for floods, puddles and mud, the rain can come in spring showers or menacing winter tempests. It calls for the colorful golashes with matching slickers and umbrellas.

When it poured for 40 days and 40 nights, a righteous man named Noah and his family took refuge in a boat he was instructed to build by God. Aboard with him was two of every kind of animal and the discipline of God was spared on this family. A message of hope in rain?

Personally, I am not a fan of constant rain. It can soak you through and leave you feeling soggy. Chilled. Rain has two natures. Unleashed, it floods and erodes. If allowed to leak out of pipes, it can nourish mold and ruin the house value. Rain is also nuturing and causes growth. We can't live without water. How wonderful that God would provide it in due season.

And so, as the mantra goes, into every life a little rain must fall. When the sun returns (and it will,) it is only with both of these elements that one may witness a rainbow."

I am reminded that my busy-ness can be like the rain. Always falling to the point where I can drown out the sound and go about my schedule. But I would miss the rainbow. The arch stretched across the sky as if God was saying "I got all this covered with my promises." As winter approaches and the days shorten, I plan to bring an umbrella in the car . . . just in case. When you are looking for the rainbow, somehow the rain isn't so threatening. In fact, crazy as it sounds, with God . . . even the most challenging lessons of growth can be moments to cherish.

Old Friend From Far Away

Time flies. It's been a year since I last posted. Shameful for a writer, but for a busy mom with a chaotic schedule, totally understandable. Yet, life demands balance and time must be managed. Not dictated but directed. My heart's desire is to find nuggets of minutes that belong to me. Where I place aside my many hats . . . and I have a few . . . and wear the one that belongs to my soul. When did time grow wings? When I was a child, milestones like Christmas seem to come once every five years. The days had 108 hours in them, most of which I was tied to a desk at school. Now as an adult, Christmas comes around every 90 days (or so it seems) and no one has discovered the secret of multiplying the hours. Yes, instead of crawling, time now flies.

Writing is a passion. I've put words on a page since grade school and enjoy it almost as much as having my nose in a book. How then, did it fall so far on the priority scale? A whole year has gone by and my novels are still being written, but the blog? Well, it fell by the wayside for a season. Welcome back, my friend.

As a writing exercise with my writer's group, I came across a memoir book called "Old Friend from Far Away." (I will refer to it as "OFfFA") Memories help shape the character and like an old friend, they accompany you into the unwritten future. It was a good premise to begin my first novel, so I figure it is a good place to begin dusting off the keyboard for a blog. Each day, the book takes you on a writing exercise. To see if you can retrieve something interesting to say about the ordinary. To be able to take your reader by the hand and while you spin a story that belongs to you, it reminds them of a memory of their own. Relatability. Creating an emotional reaction. Ah, the writer's ultimate dream. The perfect wave to ride as a surfer. It's the reason I enjoy reading. The author takes me from my chaos and transports me to adventures unknown.

Day One. "Old Friend from Far Away" (OFfFA) describes the word 'memoir' as a French word on the study of memory. It starts with an fairly easy exercise. What do you remember? The goal is to 'wake up the mind in different angles.' Even if you can't remember details, we remember moments. Benchmarks in our life and how they made us feel. When I began to shake my long-term memory, kindergarten and grammar school popped into my head. Here's what came to focus.

"I remember kindergarten. The smell of paste. The mini kitchen set that stood in a dark corner that we were never allowed to play with. Mrs. Easter would come in with an accordian and we’d sing together. Her son David, and another boy named Seth were my only companions to the library. The three of us could read and were being monitored for a GATE program. I always wanted to be the 'wake-up fairy.' During nap time when the class retreated to our bath mats on the floor, the wake-up fairy was given a sceptor with a felt nob at the end. The wake-up fairy would gently tap her subjects on the back until the entire class was awake to resume the afternoon activities. There was a girl named Melissa who I thought was beautiful. She always wore pink. Another girl named Suzy Grant was my first Asian friend. I liked how her eyes disappeared when she smiled. The teacher would pin notes for our parents on our backs so we couldn’t lose them. I lived across the street from school. It was a short walk, but always seemed to be during the recess of the older kids. The note on my back was like a target for them to torment me during the gauntlet I ran to get home. One stormy afternoon, the wind was blowing my umbrella and I didn’t have the strength to move forward. Instinctively, I called out “help me!” That’s when my angel appeared. I can remember she had golden hair and a dress with saddle shoes. She said “I’ll help you get home” and taught me how to hold my umbrella down toward the wind to maneuver against it’s might."

The next exercise OFfFA gave me was a little more difficult. Red. One word to write about. Red. What does that mean? The color? Describing anger? A misspelling of one that has finished absorbing books on a page? My fingers began to type.

"The glass balls on the Christmas tree would reflect my image. The distortion was as entertaining as a mirror in a fun house. Like Rudolph’s nose, the holiday season shown through the mundane fog of everyday. The only thing missing was my father. His job always had him traveling south during the holidays like a bird fleeing for warmer weather. Red would grow to be my favorite color. It was vibrant. Commanding like a stop sign. It had people stand up and take notice. It is for all seasons. Christmas. Valentine’s Day. China. America. I can still smell the paste from all the Valentine assembly. Cutting apart the paper lace doilies and gluing them to construction paper with promises of eternal love for my mother or my dog. Opening my bagful of loot was even more fun. Extra points of friendship was given to those who gave out the conversation heart candy. It was the same candy as “Smarties” that my mom distributed at Halloween. But on that holiday, chocolate was preferred.

Red was energetic and is popular with fast food restaurants. I learned in college that it makes people hungry. Whether you are sitting in a McDonalds, In N’ Out or Carl’s Jr. the firey advertising coupled with yellow was a huge draw for the starving public. My other favorite color was purple. It was everything red wasn’t. Calm. Cold. Subdued. Sunsets are more interesting than a bunch of grapes. The painted face of a baboon catches attention more than an armadillo. The strip stands out more in a rainbow against a blue sky. It complements the stars on our flag. Red can be beaches with lawn chairs or snow chalets with fireplaces. Red can be welcoming, it can be dangerous."

Next was sound. I began to see a pattern. We were going to explore all five senses? Dutifully, I continued to type.

"The windows would shake and vibrate in their casing. I’d see my father, face first, prone on the floor like a swimmer perfecting a float. He wanted to physically immerse himself into his favorite song. It was loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I remember hoping that the songs were were cool. It made me fall in love with Abba, the Mamma’s & The Papas, and Elton John. Dad taught me how to listen to lyrics and mine their deeper meaning. Somehow, certain songs when played could conjure up specific memories at will. They would transport me to different times and places without leaving the comfort of my armchair.

I remember hearing thunderstorms. The windows would rattle in their panes much like they did with dad’s music. I would marvel at the force that was hiding in the clouds. It was delicious and frightening all at the same time. Rain was more satisfying to hear on the roof than silent snow. When it froze into hail, the excitement intensified. The mini pieces of ice would dance on the patio instead of disappearing into the puddles and gutters.

The school bell. Strumming of a guitar. The unharmonious blend of the orchestra when they are tuning up. The thunder of a thousand footsteps climbing a set of bleachers preparing for a football game. The slosh of a child trying out a new pair of galoshes. The squeak of wheels as that same child moved up the sidewalk on a red, shiny tricycle. The screech of tires right before the shattering of metal in a traffic accident. A scream of terror before the roar of a monster. Popcorn hitting the floor. Snoring. Hum of appliances. Bark of a dog desperately trying to get his master’s attention. The ring of a phone. Grating of my mailbox opening. Singing of a mockingbird. Whistling of a train going through town. The frustration of a cold when it plugs you ears and robs you of the everyday."

My brain and fingers were beginning to sync. I could envision these snippets of time and description finding themselves into a page in my novel. I could use these whisps of memory and weave them into a story of my own creation as an author. Luring an audience to ask me to tell them more was the goal. Alas, my busy life calls me away. But I will return . . . .

What's in a gift?

This time of year with graduations and celebrating the 4th had me thinking back to when I graduated from high school. I know -- strange jump, but that is how my mind operates sometimes. I think it is an occupational hazard of the writer in me; spontaneous mental transporting.

My parents each gave me unique gifts which at the time puzzled me. First, my mom gave me a set of luggage. Luggage! Complete with identification tags and leashes for easy rolling. Actually, once they were full they became top heavy and fell over, so I looked like I was dragging a dead dog through the airport. At the time, I remember thinking "I've just graduated, so now you want me to get out?" But the message I read in that luggage now is "Go and explore your world beyond the one we've provided for you here."

That luggage accompanied me on two more choir tours with my church after graduation, to a semester abroad in London, England where I met my husband, and ultimately to college and my own apartment. They have been joined by more modern pieces of luggage with better wheels like rolling backpacks, but I can't part with them. They collect dust in my garage as reminders of my travels; where I've been and from where I came.

My dad on the other hand, gave me a cedar hope chest for my graduation. I did go to the store and show him which one I had my eye on, but I really didn't think he would purchase it and at the time, I didn't have a place to put it. I was a vagabond with luggage. What would I do with a cedar hope chest? So, it sat in my room at home, ignored for a handful of years while I drug the luggage around the globe.

When the luggage and I finally parked in a house my husband and I purchased shortly after we were married, I claimed my cedar chest from my mother's house. When I opened its lid, the fragrant smell of cedar brought me back to the shopping day with dad. I had stashed all my teenage stuff in there; my mortar board, doll collection, Mickey Mouse ears. They all came to live with me in my new house. I have added the sweaters my grandmother knit my kids when they were infants, a quilt from my dad's mother and college pennants.

Luggage and a Cedar Hope Chest. They still speak to me today. "There is more to be explored but there is no place like home." Life consists of both. The daily meal of errands, housecleaning and being with family is seasoned by road trips and vacations.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, as the Byrds sang some forty years ago. "To everything there is a season. A time to be born, and a time to die. A time to tear down, and a time to build up. A time to search, and a time to give up. A time to keep and a time to throw away." The trick is discerning when. I wonder what I will choose to give my children when the time comes for them to leave the nest . . . .

Celebrating the 4th

Independence Day. The Fourth of July. Barbecues and fireworks. In my heart, it isn't just another holiday but one that stirs up a wonderful blend of memories, some of which are mine and some that were recorded by generations of proud Americans before me.

My father was born in July. He also passed away in July. He was a patriot at heart, collecting bald eagle figurines and American flags. He never missed the opportunity to vote and I can remember accompanying him into the mysterious voting booth on more than one occasion. Dad would tear up at the National Anthem and had a profound respect for those who served in the military. He passed the importance on to me. To be aware that I am living in a "wonderful Democratic Experiment." Men who were willing to leave prestige, wealth and privilege for the opportunity to worship their God and govern themselves.

I can recall bursting into a chorus of "Yankee Doodle" or "Grand Ole Flag" after my class at school had recited the Flag Salute. I practiced my cursive writing on the sayings of old and who said them. . . "A Penny Saved is a Penny Earned." (Benjamin Franklin) "Give me Liberty or give me Death." (Patrick Henry) "First in War, First in Peace and First in the hearts of his countrymen." (Henry Lee in honor of George Washington.) I recall the pomp and circumstance that followed the Bicentennial in 1976. The Quarter that was minted to commemorate the occasion.

Thomas Jefferson once warned that the same government who can promise you much, if given too much power will also be able to take it all away. The men who formed this country didn't depend on Government grants, programs or stomped their foot in defiance as they confused 'right' with 'privilege.' If our forefathers walked the streets of America today, would they recognize it? Was the Grand Experiment a success?

America sits on the globe as a beacon to those who live in poverty and oppression. The Nation Under God seeks to aid and support countries who groan under tyrants, not for the sake of taking them over and forcing them to become American, but because it was the belief of the writers of our Constitution that all men were created equal and are endowed by their Creator (a person) with certain unalienable rights. Among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Has the American spirit died? I would argue no. There are many monuments and moments which you can find it alive and well. Study the Statue of Liberty in New york harbor as she silently waits with her torch raised. Follow the path of a bald eagle as it soars high in the sky. Walk past the white tombstones of the hundreds of soldiers who bravely knew that freedom isn't free. Listen to the immigrants raise their hands and recite the Pledge.

We are the Melting Pot. The place where you can live out your heritage with the freedom of speech and religion. Where you can explore, dream, and obtain. God Bless America.

The End of an Era

This month marked a milestone in our household. Our daughters graduated . . .er . . . .the correct term is "promoted," to the next level in their academic career. My eldest is now officially in high school and my middle child is off to junior high . . . . I mean . . . "middle school."

First of all, I do not remember any fanfare from either 6th grade or 8th grade when I left to continue my pursuit of the high school diploma. Secondly, where exactly does this leave my youngest son who is also moving on to a new level, but sadly fifth grade demands no laurels.

Finally, along with this new vernacular and ceremony, it seems as though the bar has been raised for us parents.

I filed into the gym for my eldest's graduation, dodging flying balloon bouquets and vying for a seat in the bleachers. In the same fashion, We crammed into the multi-purpose room (which was called the "cafeteria" in my day), of the elementary school to witness our offspring proudly collect their promotion certificate.

In both ceremonies, there were inspiring speeches from both elite adult members of our community as well as hand-picked students. Some produced yawns, others produced tears. Slide shows are the trend, although they can't be shown without technical difficulties -- one program had a fuzzy image, the other had muffled music. But they gave me a glimpse into my child's world . . . experiences they had without me. I dread that more of those will be coming.

We encountered the impossible people who were irritated that I didn't get the memo that the world revolves around them. You know the type -- aggravated because I requested that they lower their balloon bouquet from my line of vision or rolling their eyes when I politely informed them that the front row was reserved for students (did they really think the rest of us hadn't thought to sit there?)

I am home alone, resting my tired feet which are not used to walking around in heels. My kids are off at "promotion parties" and festivities that do not include many adults. Part of me is relieved for the homework, the projects, field trips, lunch-packing and classroom volunteering is over. The other half of me wonders where the time has gone.

Like Trace Atkins crooning in my ear, I am reminded that I waited for these days to come . . . and then they do. "That's how it is." And he is right, I can't believe what I miss. I want to see my daughter's Kindergarten production of "Commotion in the Ocean" again. I want to witness my son hit his first archery bullseye at Cub Scout Twilight camp. I want to get out my glue-gun and homemade clay and shape California's typography with their hands.

Small promotion, perhaps. They are only half-way there. I have less time with them now than when they were first born. In another seven years, they could be off at college. But I would have to agree, it is quite an accomplishment to come this far, and I am all for any opportunity to let my children know how dearly I love them, how much my heart bursts with pride and how I thank God every day for placing him in our family. For they are irreplaceable masterpieces that are covered in His fingerprints.

Exactly What I Wanted

I was light headed and nauseous. Trying to focus. You'd think I was in the delivery room ready to give birth. Nope. Just a soccer mom, trying to plan the latest end-of-the-season party. When I signed up to volunteer, I thought 'How hard can it be?' I had completely forgotten the bake sale incident. It's like herding cats with flying money. Same scenario, different food.

I'm not complaining, not really. I had always wanted to be a mom. I had the maternal pulls in the grocery store when I'd pass moms with their babies perched on their shopping carts with yards of fabric and a tangle of security straps holding this person that was no bigger than a sack of flour in place. I would look longingly during my neighborhood jog at the kindergarten mid-day pick-up. The children holding construction paper works of art lathered in glitter and glue that would wave in the wind as parents dragged them to their SUVs. I had my own season of maternity wards, diapers, bottles and becoming a unique kind of detective that learned to master the art of distinguishing cries and locating toys.

So how did I get here? After spending the afternoon battling allergies on the soccer field while shouting cheers at the kids clad in cleats, I was now standing in line at the pizza parlor, picking up a tower of pizzas. The kids, whose volume had not reduced but actually increased, were peppering me with their orders.

"I'm allergic to peanuts." Fine, I don't think they make a peanut butter pizza.

"I don't like pineapple. Don't put any on mine." I don't actually make the pizza, so I suggest you choose another slice.

"I'm so hungry, can I have my own pizza?" That would be a 'no.'

"Pepperoni and olive is the only pizza that doesn't make me puke." I don't know what to do with that information.

With a headache beginning to threaten, I wrangle money from my purse as I accept the handful of cups a teenager from behind the counter gave me to distribute. I also get a handful of tokens for the game room that are actually minions of the energy gods to froth their adrenaline further.

Wearily, I make it to the table and try to stay inconspicuous as the coach launches into his thank-yous and season highlights. I listened as the coach called the kids up one by one to accept their participation trophy. When it was my son's turn, I snapped a photo and smiled as if he had just won an Olympic Gold medal. My weariness morphed into pride.

He ran straight to me with his trophy lifted high and demanded that I share his joy. Which I did, exuberantly. I held him tight in a bear hug, my heart bursting as I remembered the bundle of joy I brought home from the hospital nine years ago.

Without question, when the day is over, I know that I would do it all over again and love every minute of it. This was exactly the life I signed up for, dreamed for and the chaos that I will miss in the quiet retirement years. The trophy my son was clutching was mine as well. It represented loads of laundry, hundreds of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, permission slips, phone calls. Planning and executing nutritious dinners on-the-go, homework and play dates. Shopping and wrapping the perfect birthday gift, taxing the minivan to the next family outing.

The military has it wrong. It is not the toughest job you'll ever love, motherhood is. For all the times you think it is going to reduce you to a puddle on the floor, there is that dimension that you never knew you missed until it became a part of your world. To have someone call me mom, to be an integral part of their existence, the scrapbooks filled with pictures 'made just for me.' I was worth every minute of lot sleep and extra pound placed on my middle section.

I love my angels. They are truly a gift from God. Motherhood . . . ya' gotta try it.