The People: On the Banks of the Rivers of America

I enjoy talking to people, but even more than that I enjoy being talked to.  If you leave me alone for twenty minutes in a public place I will know the life stories of at least two separate people.  Give me an hour I will know how their parents met, the names of their children, how they ended up here, and what they studied in school.  Give me an afternoon and I will know where they were born, how they met their spouse, what they wanted to do when they grew up, and every pet they ever had- complete with how they got them, what they named them, and how they lost them.  Give me a day I will know the name of their first love, a funny story about every sibling that they have, what they hate about their life now, and what they would like to do to change it.  Some people collect stamps while others collect cars.  I've even met a few that collected swords, shoes, records, scientific instruments, books, and even kids.  I collect stories.  It seems everyone has a story to tell.  Everyone has something they'd like someone to know but they feel as if no one is their to listen, or if they do have someone to talk to they feel as if that person doesn't understand.  I wouldn't be able to do what I do if people felt like they were always being heard. 

My favorite teacher in high school told me that there are a set number of things about people that just are.  Some of them everyone else can see but that you are blind to, while other things only you can see.  Some things everyone can see -including yourself- and some things only God can see.  I'd like to add that there are some things that only complete strangers can see. 

I met a very nice woman, sitting on the banks of America at Disneyland while we were saving seats, awaiting the eventual arrival of Fantasmic.  She told me that she was here for her one year anniversary with her husband, her daughter, and his daughter.  She seemed very down to earth and extremely conservative so I assumed that she was widowed.  

After a few hours of conversation (yes, the wait for Fantasmic is usually this long, but completely worth it) she mentioned her ex-husband.  I didn't say anything because although it surprised me, it was not unusual in this world.  Normally when women discuss their ex-husbands they are bitter, angry, longing, and frequently they speak with a tinge of regret.  She was unique in that she did not have any of these characteristics- instead she was just sad.  Still, I didn't ask.  Believe it or not, as nosy as I am, I don't actually like to pry.  I like to see what people want to tell me when I am meeting strangers.  

About two hours later when I was discussing that people tend to think I am older than I actually am (she had mistaken my at the time ten-year-old sister and twelve-year-old brother for my son and daughter) she brought up that she had that same experience once.  I chuckled because I was seventeen then and I was pretty sure that was one of the funnier instances of mistaken age I had had in a long time.  

She said that once she had been mistaken for her ex-husband's mother.  I thought that was odd because she was very pretty, fairly young, and didn't seem to act particularly old at all.  She mentioned that someone at a photo mart had lost her photos and she had gone a little crazy.  I don't pretend to understand people who go crazy at stores but I didn't comment.  She said that they had lost her pictures and they could not be replaced because they were the photos from her son's funeral.  The son she had lost with her first husband.  The child that made it so hard for her to smile when she thought of her first husband.  Suddenly it all made sense. 

Sometimes I hug complete strangers.  Sometimes they are surprised and sometimes they don't say anything. Sometimes we just need someone to remind us that we are loved- not because we did something to earn it or deserve it, but because we are.  Sometimes we show our scars on our faces, on our hands, on our bodies, where everyone can see them.  But the worst scars, that cut the deepest and are the hardest to see and to heal, are the ones on our hearts.  

A lost art

For much of their married life John and Abigail Adams were separated due to the politics of the era that they lived in.  He served as a circuit lawyer, a congressman in Colonial Congress, a congressman to the United States, an ambassador to Holland, France, and England, vice president, and eventually the 2nd president of the United States of America.  Abigail, one of a rare few educated women, stayed either in Braintree or in Boston, ran the family farm, and raised four children to adulthood, losing several more in infancy. Throughout their courtship, and marriage they wrote letters.  Not the short, overly saccharine, snippets that you might just as likely find in a hallmark card, but long, detailed, enamored letters that say something better than "I love you.  No, I love you more."  Their love was communicated through hundreds of tiny details and carried across borders, oceans, and decades.  

In Jane Austen's, Persuasion, Frederick Wentworth goes out of his way to write a letter to Anne, asking her to reconsider and see if she still has feelings for him.  (Plot spoiler: she does.)

When my grandmother found out her high school boyfriend's mother had passed away, she wrote him a letter of comfort and empathy.  She hadn't seen him since he got back from Vietnam and she missed him. They were married shortly after that.  

I love letter writing.  I think it is one of the great tragedies of our time that the youth of today don't know how to write a letter.  Sure, they can all text a mile a minute, but how often can they write something in the proper format of a letter, let alone with the proper punctuation and grammar?  Can they even write something with thought?  

My best friend and I became friends through letters.  She lived in Michigan when I lived in California.  Then she moved to Texas and I moved to Florida.  Finally I moved to Texas to be closer to her and two weeks later she moved to Virginia.  (Are we noticing a pattern?)  The one constant in our lives, through boyfriends, jobs, weddings, and babies, has been those letters.  Whenever I have a bad day I go back to those early letters and remember who we were back then.  It is a joy to see how far we have come, and it is only possible through those letters.  

We need to break away from the world of instant gratification- of texting and IMing, and not waiting for any answer.  Sometimes it's the wait that makes the letters so much sweeter- having known that someone took the time to sit down and complete a thought process and make it look nice, in a letter.

Blast from the Past: The Pants

Most of my High School stories involve four young men: my brother, BFG (Big Friendly Giant), Bigfoot (my blond brother from another mother and BFG's almost identical twin), Nicky boy (my favoritest cousin), and Major (my godbrother and one of my oldest friends).  Those four created a lot of great memories and even more great stories.  This is one of them.

In the days following every party we ever had from Junior High to present, Major swore he wasn't going to spend the night.  Usually, we ended up with BFG on the floor, Bigfoot on BFG's bed, Nicky Boy in a lounge chair, and Major on the couch crooning to his pillow.  Somehow whenever they got together they never could get around to leaving.

At the end of one such weekend it was decided by the parental units that we would have an early dinner, hit the sinner's mass (the very last chance to fulfill the Sunday obligation), and then take everybody home. Amazingly, Major had brought a change of clothes with him (which was amusing because he always planned to not spend the night) so he didn't smell the same way he did when he had arrived Friday night.

Dinner was hot dogs and juice and like usual we were in a hurry because the fast before Mass was swiftly approaching.  As we were sitting around eating dinner, Bobby (my second youngest brother) made his way around the table carrying a gallon size jug of apple juice.  To this day I am not certain if it was an accident or on purpose, but abruptly the apple juice fell and spilled all over Major.  Major being a sensible sort of young man with a cool collected head and generally quick on his feet, immediately jumped up and started sputtering something incomprehensible but that I distinctly remember being very, very high pitched and very, very loud. We, being the sympathetic and loving family and friends, failed to rush to his aid but did find the comedy in the situation and therefore started laughing.

Major wasn't amused.  Yet, he still managed to march inside, change into his only other pair of dry pants and then proceeded to finish dinner with the rest of us, which was a mistake.  Not five minutes had passed when Bobby spilled ketchup on Major.  And the squawking continued.  

After we all managed to pick ourselves off the floor (it was very funny) Major took my Mother aside and informed her that he was now lacking in pants and we were due to go to Mass in less than an hour.  Mother, secretly being a superhero, reassured the poor lad, disappeared upstairs, and returned moments later with a pair of denim shorts.  This was appropriate attire for Mass in Southern California.  

Major left to try them on and returned in amazement that she had found his size.  Then he was curious.  BFG was too wide to fit into those pants and the next smallest brother was far too short to fit into those pants. Who could they possibly belong to?  Of course Major would have to voice this aloud in front of the entire group.  I saw Mother disappear.  I saw the her return.  I saw the shorts on Major.  And still, I could not believe that Major and I, who had a foot and half height gap, wore the same size pants.  And yet, we did. And then Mother told everyone. 

I don't know who was more mortified- Major or myself.  Either which way, I was exceedingly glad when he took them home with him and didn't return them until after puberty.  Ah, thank God for little miracles.  

Genesis 3:14-15

Dear World,

Sometimes I come across things that even *I* don't want to deal with.  A week ago yesterday was one of those days.  I was minding my own business and walking to my car to get my sword (ironic, I know) and saw a funny stain on the ground in the driveway.  "Huh," I thought, "That's a weird place for a stain."  And then it moved.



And that, dear children, is a four-foot rattle snake.  For once I did what any normal, non-Texan, would do.  I shrieked, I ran, and I didn't look back.  I ran into the house where my second Mom saw me white as a ghost (well, whiter than I usually am).  I asked her, "Did you hear me scream?" And she said she hadn't and and then asked why I screamed.  I told her because there was a rattle snake in the driveway by my car.

She walked out with me and ascertained that I wasn't seeing things, and then ran for the neighbor.  I stayed there and made sure Mr. Rattles didn't do the Texas two step out of there.  He wasn't amused.  Neither was I.  Lauren my Lauren came out shortly thereafter and kept watch with me while I danced around on my own, thinking I had almost stepped on him.

A few minutes later Mom returned with a backhoe, a shovel, and a super neighbor.  And that, dear children is how the four-foot, living, breathing, RATTLING snake that I thought was a stain, became, this.

My apologies for not updating the world, but it has taken me a week to not shudder when I think of Mr. Rattles.  *shudder*

Anyways, as you were.

A talk with the Captain.

I work in a Church office.  A Catholic Church office.  Most of the time I find it very exciting and some times I realize how very fragile a person is.  The worst part of my job is I can't really publish what goes on there which is really unfair because the most interesting things happen.  This is one of those stories that I can tell, largely because it didn't take place at work.

So the Captain is working on one of his religious awards for Webelos (at least I think it's Webelos) and one of the requirements is talking to someone who works at or volunteers at a Church a lot.  He voiced this aloud and I had an "aha" moment.  Guess who fits the bill?  *preens*

His brother, the General, already spoke with the Altar Server director which is great, but that meant that I got to talk to the Captain and be important.  So he sat me down (okay I was standing) and after a minute I asked him what were the questions.  He read it to me... all of it... and basically what it said was "talk to them and ask what it's like to do what they do."  So he asked me what the best and worst part of my job were.  I chuckled.  The short answer, for a very active boy who is absolutely adorable, but still only ten is the following.  

"The best part of my job is that I get to be the hands and feet of Christ here on earth.  The worst part of my job is that means that I sometimes get my hands slammed in doors and my toes stepped on."  

The Captain smiled and nodded somberly in that creepily understanding way.  He used to do that when he was two-years-old and a baby faced heart throb.  He helped me pick out my boots (I have pictures) and he used to run and grab my hand when we went ice skating, even though he didn't need the support but because he knew I did.  His gift has always been joy.

I thought about telling him more about my job, about the funerals and the Baptisms, the weddings and the the HDO, and a sense of panic overcame me as I thought of the coming week. 

And then the Captain smiled.  And all my bad days seemed to disappear.

I swear, if I could bottle that boy's smile, no one would ever have a bad day again.  

Close Encounters with God and Other Unbelieveable Things 1

Several months since the events that caused Austinites to turn out en masse for a non-music-related event, I think I can finally talk about it.

Several months ago the Texas Senate called an emergency session to finish discussion of the House Bill 2 that Senator Wendy Davis successfully filibustered.  The only item on the agenda was to pass the bill that would limit abortions in the State of Texas after twenty weeks (the point when they can reasonably feel pain), as well as raise the health standards of all clinics that offered abortions, while requiring that a doctor with local hospital privileges be on the premises during all abortions.

And the world turned it's eyes to Texas.  Living through the events I didn't realize how much people noticed.  In fact, I was surprised so many Texans noticed.  Along with a one friend, I went down to the Capital in my car, Bennie, to "protest" with my old purple rosary, the only clean blue shirt I could find, and greeting everyone I passed with a smile or a "good morning!"  There was no way anyone would have noticed me except for the fact that I was wearing an outlawed color on an outlawed day. 

Koishka, who drove down with me and aided me through the terror of finding a parking garage in Downtown Austin, laughed with me as we walked a few blocks to the Capital.  We passed one other person who was wearing blue and we waved a greeting.  She stopped us long enough to let us know that she had worn blue by mistake.  Koishka and I tried very hard not to laugh at the hilarity of her situation.  Imagine, how very embarrassing to show up in the enemy camp's color on a protest day!  Imagine if someone believed you.

Jovialities aside, I was really scared.  Koishka and I wandered around for probably half an hour before we found an older, retired couple, who were heading to the Cathedral to join a rosary walk to the Capital.  There we ran into more of our friends and at least in a group I felt a little more secure.  Once we got TO the Capital it was a different story.

Police and Texas Rangers carefully arranged for none of the opposing parties to interact.  Just the same I found out after the fact that the orange shirts (or those that opposed the Bill) were constantly being reprimanded for violence or threat of violence.  One news report stated that at least one had a jar of urine in her bag.

Blue shirts paraded quietly to the Capital while praying the rosary.  After that we joined together to sing Amazing Grace, the first verse, over and over and over again.  Then we calmly entered the Capital (and I was grateful I had left my purse) and then we continued singing in the big oval dome.  At several points I looked up to see video cameras inches from my face.  I tried my best not to change my expression but that was a bit unnerving.

Once we were in the dome I found another friend of mine who had brought her three small children, the oldest of whom was four and the youngest of whom was only a few months old.  Up until this point I hadn't been within twenty yards of the actual orange protest, but after we had been singing peacefully for several minutes, the orange shirts came up and began running around (and I do mean running and pushing and shoving) while screaming... something.  Someone pushed past and bumped into the four-year-old and Koishka and I positioned ourselves in front of the children, holding up signs with bluebonnets that someone had given us.  They kept pushing to the railing and Koishka and I traded off being in the front holding up the giant flower sign in order to keep anyone from running into the children.

Normally I would have been terrified, but not that morning.  For some strange reason, I had peace.  Around noon, Koishka and I departed from the rally and made our way back to Bennie.  Along the way, no one bothered us.  And all I thought was God is at work here.  

When I went into to work that day several people told me that they had seen me on the news and I cringed as I realized my Mother might find out.  So I went to the local news websites to see what they were reporting.  Several stations stated that the orange shirts outnumbered the blue shirts a hundred to one.  No one would believe that there were 2/3's orange and 1/3 blue shirts out there.  I was annoyed at the lack of accurate representation.  I was annoyed by the Bill itself because really, the Bill could have enveloped one or two of the points instead of all of them, and that would have been better than this endless circus.  I was annoyed that the orange shirts were being bused in but that the blue shirts were just coming on their spare mornings.  I was annoyed.

So my point today (and I swear it's coming shortly) is that it's voting day.  Get out and vote.  I'm not telling you who to vote for but pick a side and vote for it.  You can't backseat drive your life and then blame everyone else when you're going in circles.

The Gabbie Lady is the Apple Lady

One of the best parts of living in Texas is Apple Season.  Sure, apples are available almost all year but in the real part of Fall, in the deep part of Apple Season, we make Apple Sauce.

I know what you're thinking, apple sauce?  Really?  You can buy it at the store; it's not that expensive.  And you'd be right, but it's not our apple sauce.

At Sprouts, our local mostly organic, ultra crunchy grocery store, most of the employees know me and once fall rolls around they start asking when is apple week going to be.  This fall I discovered that they call me the apple lady because of all the times I've bought fifty pounds of apples and promised they'd be gone by Monday.  I don't think they believed me... the first time.

Then apple week happened this year and all was wonderful.  I bought fifty pounds of apples to make apples sauce and I bought twenty pounds of apples to distract all the small people away from the apple sauce.  It was a great plan, and for the most part it worked (there were probably forty pounds of apples after all was said and done).

And then it was slice em, dice, em, peel em- and then we discovered that Tia's new mixer will pull out all the parts that don't go well in apple sauce (seeds, stems, leaves, etc.) and there was much rejoicing.

And now that it's all done except for canning, I don't think I ever want to eat apple sauce again.