Wailin’ Jennys

Heard the Wailin’ Jennys for the first time on a Garrison Keillor 4th of July show. I’ve been listening to them a lot lately. . .

1. GORGEOUS HARMONIES. . .and the acoustics in the first video were PERFECT. Seriously. . .I don’t know WHERE they were, but it’s AMAZING. It’s worth 3:36 seconds of your time.

2. Again. . .you can’t BUY harmony like this. and that alto is just indescribable.

BTW: I had originally entitled this “Good Music”, but the auto posts at the bottom that “matched” had a not nice word in it. SERIOUSLY!!! and also EGADS!!!

Mary Linda and Stephanie

November/December, 1985–My fave photo of the three of us. On the balcony of the gym “having class” on a game day–we won state in football that year. Our makeup ALONE is a study in the ’80’s. PEEP all of that blue mascara. We won’t even address the hair. And you can’t tell, but we all have neon green Extra gum (it had JUST COME OUT) in our mouths.

As I have stated a time (or thousand), I have known Sarah for nigh unto forever. . .really. A long, long time. Just 5 years shy of the amount of time I’ve known Sarah, however, is the amount of time I’ve know Mary Linda and Stephanie. A whopping 28 years. That is no amount of chronology at which to sneeze.

I thank my lucky stars for the unfortunate rezoning of their neighborhood to a school where neither they nor their parents wanted them to attend. It landed them squarely at O.C.S. my 7th grade year, and boy did I ever need them.

I went to a teeny, tiny private Christian school. I’m talkin’ little–like just over 30 other kids were in my graduating class–and I had known most of them since at least 4th or 5th grade–or 1st. I was not the most popular girl in 7th grade for many, MANY reasons. . .being extremely loud and very bossy not the least of those reasons–others were more superficial and ones over which I had less control. That being said, Stephanie and Mary Linda (and Kim who left in 8th grade I think) came into our little school and, though objects of curiosity, were not immediately accepted into the cliques that naturally form. And neither was I. And did I mention that I was loud?

Well, the three of them found me HILARIOUS. . .they would just laugh and laugh and laugh at me–and I loved that. I’ve never particularly asked them WHY they laughed at me (I’m pretty sure I KNOW why)–but it doesn’t matter, because in October of this past year when I went home for the chorus reunion, they were STILL laughing at me (loudly enough that I could hear them through a plate glass window) when I had barely gotten myself out of Sarah’s car. I had my ankle brace on, and they are both WELL acquainted with my lack of grace and dexterity having seen me trip, fall, stumble, and skin my knee (and crawl out of the trunk of a car or a CLOSET) on more than one occasion.

Those two girls were the friends I had never had. They really, truly DID love me–in all of my loud, unfashionable, bossiness. They threw a surprise party for me on my 13th birthday–and we STILL tell the story–poor Bea (Mary Linda’s maid) didn’t know what hit her. They taught me how to put on makeup. They listened to me drone ON AND ON AND ON about my jr. high/high school crush. They wrote me notes, and signed their letters “LYLAS.” Stephanie read my really, really BAD poetry and was kind to me anyway. They shared their secrets and held mine in confidence. (Well, MARY-”he’s-wearing-a-pink-shirt”- LINDA–most of them.) I spent more nights than I can count in their homes–normally Mary Linda’s–she lived about two houses away from Stephanie–and M.L. was an only child, so there was more room at her house (for me to destroy things and generally drive her father insane). There are many, many, MANY other stories that don’t need to be published on the world wide web.

I was in both of their weddings. They were both in mine. They were in each others. We have the photos (and dresses) to tell the tale.

June, 1991. I had been SPECIFICALLY told to NOT get strap marks. Oops.

December, 1991 Mary Linda's big day. I won't tell the story of how she had to go to the bathroom AFTER she got into her chapel length trained dress. Guess which two bride's maids helped her do that.

June, 1993 Obviously NOT the formal photo of my bride's maids, but my favorite one because Daddy is in it. He'd known M.L., Steph, and Sarah FOREVER--I love that he is the only male among a sea of pink.

Stephanie now lives in Texas–not too incredibly far from where we grew up. Mary Linda is still in the same town in Louisiana. About a week ago, I had a REALLY bad dream about the three of us AND Sarah. It was just not a pleasant dream AT ALL. And, so, after I woke up from it, I thought about them. As with most friends–we don’t talk as often as we “should.” We just know the others are there.

On my way in to work, I called Mary Linda–7:23 a.m. I was pretty sure she was up, but knew she wouldn’t kill me even if she weren’t. She answered on speaker phone, so I got to speak to her hubby too. (Hi, J.J.) I told her about the dream. We chatted for awhile–she assured me all was well, and that was that. When I got to school, I e-mailed Stephanie the same info and cc:d Mary Linda. Over the course of the next few hours, we e-mailed back and forth–chatting–making jokes–asking some serious questions and divulging some information too.

These girls–these women–these are my friends. They have loved me a long, long time. They are precious to me. At the reunion, Stephanie was the only one who brought her husband with her. Mary Linda–strictly speaking–was not in chorus (though she DID make sure I arrived back in time for chorus each day after our drive-thru lunch of McDonald’s fries and Wendy’s chicken sandwiches and Frosties), but we made her (under EXTREME duress and peer pressure on our part. . .and much whining on her part) come with us. We laughed the WHOLE STINKIN’ TIME. We made snarky comments and told inside jokes and generally yucked it up. Stephanie’s husband said, “I need to get her away from y’all. She doesn’t ACT this way at home.” He was kidding. I think.

How did I get so blessed? Seriously. What a treasure. . .

The three of us with Sarah and Michele.

Still holds true. . .

Repost time: And an update. . .I have now talked to Sandy and Linda on the phone, Melanie and I have exchanged real, hand-written letters, AND I finally met Becky and her five beautiful children in December. Stephanie (gal whose husband I had a crush on in college) and I got to see each other in September, 2007 and are planning another visit this summer–WITH Becky who has moved much closer to us. I saw my friend Carolyn (knew her son in college) in November, and I got to see Sarah at Christmas–and her Dad.

I am blessed beyond measure. That is for sure.

The Race that Knows Joseph
July 2, 2007 (link to original should you care to read the comments)

“Now a new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph.” Exodus 1:8
One of my favorite series of books is Anne of Green Gables. I know. I know. It’s old fashioned and sappy sweet–but so am I. . .and there are great truths in those books. One of the best books in the series (as far as I’m concerned) is Anne’s House of Dreams. It’s in this book that Anne grows up and gets married and makes a home and friends away from Avonlea. It’s also in this book that I found a great explanation of instant friendship.

“You’re young and I’m old, but our souls are about the same age, I reckon. We both belong to the race that knows Joseph, as Cornelia Bryant would say,” said Captain Jim.

“The race that knows Joseph?” puzzled Anne.

“Yes. Cornelia divides all the folks in the world into two kinds– the race that knows Joseph and the race that don’t. If a person sorter sees eye to eye with you, and has pretty much the same ideas about things, and the same taste in jokes–why, then he belongs to the race that knows Joseph.”

“Oh, I understand,” exclaimed Anne, light breaking in upon her. “It’s what I used to call–and still call in quotation marks `kindred spirits.’”

“Jest so–jest so,” agreed Captain Jim. “We’re it, whatever it is. When you come in tonight, Mistress Blythe, I says to myself, says I, `Yes, she’s of the race that knows Joseph.’ And mighty glad I was, for if it wasn’t so we couldn’t have had any real satisfaction in each other’s company. The race that knows Joseph is the salt of the earth, I reckon.”

As it turns out later in the book, Cornelia Bryant is of the race that knows Joseph as well.

I have been blessed over and over and over in my life with companions who are of the race that knows Joseph–some of them predicatable but many of them unlikely. I’ve had friends who were old enough to be my grandmother–I even have one who’s old enough to be my GREAT grandmother. She just turned 101 and still drives her own car. She got a speeding ticket shortly before her 100th birthday and told the officer, “Honey, I’m nearly 100. If I’m gonna get somewhere, I gotta go in a hurry.” He still gave her the ticket, and she laughed and laughed over it when she told us about it in ladies’ class.

I’ve had friends who were students. I remember being told that you shouldn’t have “favorite” students. . .and I know they meant “teachers pets.” But it is nigh unto impossible to NOT have favorite students. I have favorite adults, favorite teachers, favorite aunts, favorite friends, so it is highly likely that I will have a favorite student or two in my day. Some of my favorite students–the ones that know Joseph–have been highly unlikely. . .like Patrick who cut Molly’s hair and couldn’t sit still to save his life and Geoffrey who dressed like a Goth and could cuss a blue streak IN CLASS, but was so incredibly intuitive and intelligent that you couldn’t help but be drawn to him. Another was Molly who got her hair cut by Patrick, because when I IMMEDIATELY sent him to the office she said, “Mrs. Langley, I have a chunky cut anyway. You can’t even tell. Please don’t send him!!!!” I still did send him. I had to. And when I called later that night to check on Molly, she was more upset over Patrick getting into trouble than having him embellish her “chunky” cut.

I’ve had favorite teachers–some of whom I still keep up with. People who made an indellible mark on me as a person–the way I teach and parent and the way I live. I can go for years without talking to them, but when we get back in touch, it’s as if no time has passed–and they are now my friends–not my instructors.

Sarah and I were another unlikely pairing–I’ve told that story here before. She is a gift. Sarah’s grandparents were my friends. I would go and visit with them frequently because I yearned for their company. Another gift. I met one of my dearest friends because I was friends with her son my freshman year in college. Besides my own mother and grandmother, she is the woman who has made the biggest difference in how I function as a wife and mother and Christian. She knows this. I’ve told her. But I’ve made a difference in her life too. We have made each other better than we ever could have been had God not given us this gift of friendship. I have yet another friend that I hold dear. We met because I had a crush on her boyfriend. . .who is now her husband. I no longer have a crush on him–though he is a remarkable man–but she continually inspires me by her creativity and her singularly unique view of life.

That brings me to the REAL reason for this post. I have met friends in the blogosphere. It is odd. I’m still a little embarrassed to tell people how I met “my friend in California” or “my friend in Canada.” There are so many dangers in the world–the internet being one of the biggest dangers of our time. Personal information is so readily available and can be hijacked and used for all manner of things that can make us miserable. But this is also a place for us to meet others of the race that knows Joseph. Becky, Linda, Sandy, Melanie. . .these are girls I’d love to have some diet Coke and chocolate cake with. I’ve never laid eyes on any of them, but their souls shine through their words.

Evidently (I read this over at Melanie’s place) the Mommy Wars have been revived in the media. Old insecurities and opinions and habits and hypocrisies are being pulled out of storage and aired on the net and in the news. But here’s the deal. Extremists aren’t of the race that knows Joseph. The race that knows Joseph is a group of people who have those same insecurities and opinions and habits and hypocrisies, but we don’t bash each other with them, and we certainly don’t think one size fits all. It’s not “I’m okay. You’re okay.” thinking. It’s more like “None of us are okay, but it sure is easier to get through this world with a friend.” thinking.

If you’re reading this, if you keep coming back day after day to check in on me and read about Moon Pie Consumption and funny Thadisms, what Victoria has to say, and the current whereabouts of my husband, then you are of the race that knows Joseph. Thank you for making my world a nicer, homier place.

It’s Not May Just Yet–or March either.

I don’t know why I wrote this. . .especially in March. . .I found it in my computer files tonight, read it, and decided I’d post it. I was still at my “old school” at the time. . .I had been blogging for one month. . .here is a link to the entries from March, 2006. Still don’t know why I wrote it, but I stand by it–and have a lot more to learn.

Roxanne’s definition of Mom, March, 2006

My definition of mom is completely influenced by the women in my life: my Momma, my Granny, my friends and family. That being said, the media could have influenced them and thereby, influenced me, but I don’t feel I’m directly influenced.

So what is my definition of “mom.” Actually. . .I still call my own mom “Momma” and that’s a large part of my definition. A momma is someone with whom you are comfortable, someone with whom you feel safe.

I once saw a definition of “mom” from a child. It said, “A mom is a whole lot of nice with a little bit of mean.” Sounds like I winner of a definition to me.

A mom is someone who plays with your hair and scratches your back, buys your favorite cereal, knows what to give you or say to you even before you ask for it or know you need it yourself.

A mom is a smell–mine smelled like Gloria Vanderbilt perfume–my daughter tells me I have a smell. I know I do, because she will walk up to me, bury her face in whatever part of me she can reach, take a big, deep whiff and say, “Mommy, you smell.” Which sounds like an insult. . .but she means, “You smell like Mommy.”

A mom is someone who loses her temper when all of the pots and pans fall out of the cabinet. My son once walked into the kitchen during a metal avalanche and wisely exclaimed, “Yikes! I’m gettin’ outta here,” as he scurried away.

A mom will stay up way too late at night making a dress, or a skirt, or wrapping presents, or doing things that she knows will make you happy.

A mom is someone who will search through an entire bin of Hotwheels cars to find just the perfect one for her boy.

A mom is someone who sees the face of their baby in the face of their sleeping child, or teenaged child, or adult child.

A mom is someone who comes in to check on you in the middle of the night just to make sure you are covered up—to smell your hair—to hear you breathe—to pray over you.

A mom is someone who makes up silly songs with your name in them and remembers to sing them to you.

A mom is someone who is moved to tears by the thought of you.

A mom is someone who is not always perfect, doesn’t always keep the house clean, doesn’t always sign your school work on time, doesn’t always eat right or set the best example or answer your every beck and call. . .but tries the best she can.

A mom is someone who is loved and chosen by God to help the little ones He has entrusted to her care along their path to Him.

It was a little ironic that I found this tonight. Thad is a very smart, well-behaved student. . .HOWEVER, like most boys, he has his moments of being “off-task, not paying attention, day-dreaming. . .” When that happens, he gets a conduct mark and goes from green to yellow. We’ve only gone from yellow to orange ONCE this year, and our conduct chart is littered with mainly green. Being off-task is a #4 in the behavior chart, but TODAY he got a #1 which was “talking and disturbing others.” Well, that’s a new one, and evidently his Daddy (who signed the behavior chart right before I walked in the door from work) had already given him the what for (and as Thad says, the for what). And. . .he most certainly deserved it. As his school teaching parents know, that is no small matter in a classroom. I tried to get the story out of The Boy as soon as I saw his downcast face. He was very near tears and made me lean down so he could whisper in my ear, “I got a conduct mark.” When I asked him why, I saw that the burden was too much to bear at the time. So we tabled it and ate pizza instead.

After Tony and Victoria left for Girl Scouts, Thad had a long bath. And after that, while I was drying him off and getting him jammied up, we talked about what had happened. I told him I wasn’t angry, but I needed to know what he’d done. He was still very embarrased but told me that he and Nicholas were blowing pencils–as in, laying their pencils on their table, then blowing them to make them roll across the table. . .during math class. . .while the teacher was teaching. Not cool.

We talked about why that was not cool and about what he should do instead–about apologizing to his teacher and seeing if she could move him closer to where she is when she teaches. Then he said, “I can tell you, but Daddy asks the hard way.” I said, “What is the hard way?” Thad said, “He asks lots of questions and then tells me what I did. It makes me feel really hot.” I don’t think he meant “hot-under-the-collar” hot–I think he meant the heat of shame rising in his chest. And which one of us hasn’t experienced that feeling a time or two?

Anyway. He said I don’t make him feel hot. That’s not to say that there are times I don’t lose my cool. I most definitely do–normally with The Girl. I think her Daddy is the one that makes her feel “not hot.” Ironic. See. We do the best we can. . .and hug away the rest.

You’ve won. . .A NEW CAR!!!!!

Not me. I don’t need a new car. I LOVE my car. . .it’s GREAT.

No. . .this is in reference to The Boy. There are days I’m not quite sure what he is going to be when he grows up. But of this one thing, I AM sure. He is a card-carrying smart alec. At least when it comes to his sister. He has timing, sarcasm, humor. . .all of it. And he’s 8.

This morning, pre-dawn-ish–literally it was 5:50 a.m.–the children are seated at the bar eating waffles. I am using the kitchen sink, and the water is like ICE. It is ALWAYS like ice. As I’m waiting for it to warm up, in an effort to engender some morning smiles from my sleepy-heads, I begin to say, “This water is as cold as. . .”

This water is as cold as ice.
This water is as cold as an igloo.
This water is as cold as a polar bear’s nose.

I am interrupted at this point by The Girl. (Insert pre-teenagery I-caught-you-in-a-mistake-and-now-I-will-explain-slowly-so-you-can-understand voice). “Um, Mommy? Polar bears ACTUALLY have very WARM noses.”

“Victoria, you are absolutely right,” I say, and continue with my list.

This water is as cold as an Eskimo’s toes. (I know I should say Inuit, but it doesn’t rhyme with toes.)

At which point Thad, using his syrup covered fork for emphasis says, “It’s as cold as a DEAD polar bear’s nose.”

Victoria snorts and shoots back, “Well, THAT is kind of (searches for the right word). . .awkward.”

And without missing a beat. . .without waiting even part of a second and in the style of a barbershop quartet warming up for the big number, The Boys lifts his voice and sings–raising the tone one octave with each word–”Awkward, awkward, awkward. She thinks it’s awkWAAAAAAAAARD!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Before I even have time to BEGIN laughing, he throws in (now with a game show announcer’s inflection and “deep” voice), “It’s time to play THE AWKWARD GAME. . .”

At this point I had to leave the kitchen and go report to his Daddy–the King of Sister Bugging. His Majesty was so very, very proud of the Heir Apparent.

So whether he’s a professional sister bugger, or a philosopher, or a food critic, or a member of a barbershop quartet, or a game show announcer, we are already sure of at least ONE thing he has going for him.

Encore

And the very next night, there was an encore performance by The Sunset (producer: God). I missed tonight’s–don’t even know if it was spectacular or not (if it was, don’t tell me), but here are the ones from Sunday. . .straight out of the camera–not even a little fiddle.

Again with the race. . .

This is the sunset through a very large pine tree out the side window of the car while Tony was trying to get me to the clearing again. . .thought it was cool.

After that, all I did was press the button. No skill involved. Just a really good camera. . .and some spectacular sky.

The black dots (if you click to enlarge it) are birds. . .and that’s the real color.

Sunset and Evening Star. . .

Lovely poem from which I stole my title is here: Crossing the Bar
Thank you, Lord Tennyson.

Last night, I looked up and saw through the trees that the sunset was going to be magnificent. Not too far away from us is a clearing where you can actually see the sky, as the sky nearest us is blocked somewhat by equally beautiful–though not sunset colored–trees. We hustled everyone to the car and took off.

Racing to “catch” the sunset. . .

So worth the race.

Ooooooo. . .

. . .aaaahhhhhhhhh. . .

No words. . .

Not the sunset. . .but still interesting.

Is it just me, or does this thick cloud deck appear to be the curtain closing on the day. . .

Book Review: Callie Vee

I am trying to categorize my posts. . .working away slowly at them, and one of the categories is books. I love to read words as much as I love to write them and say them. . .especially when the person putting pen to paper has a way with them.

Back in the fall, I discovered a new juvenile fiction book, The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate. It’s wonderfully written. Funny. Sharp. The Author, Jacqueline Kelly, was born in New Zealand, reared in western Canada, and wrote a book (this one) about life on a cotton farm near the San Marcos River in Texas. Don’t ask me how, but she did a fine job of it too. The story begins in the summer time with Callie Vee trying to figure out ways to stay cool in the 1899 Texas summer heat–including swimming (without permission and ALONE) in the San Marcos river, and cutting off her hair one inch per week. It ends with her becoming a naturalist and developing a close bond with her somewhat distant grandfather.

Here is a blurb from the cover: “As Callie explores the natural world around her, she develops a close relationship with her grandfather, naivgates the dangers of living with six brothers, and learns just what it means to be a girl at the turn of the century.”

And, from the book, “My name is Calpurnia Virginia Tate, but back then everybody called me Callie Vee. That summer, I was eleven years old and the only girl out of seven children. Can you imagine a worse situation? I was spliced midway between three older brothers–Harry, Sam Houston, and Lamar–and three younger brothers–Travis, Sul Ross, and the baby, Jim Bowie, whom we called J.B. The little boys actually managed to sleep at midday, sometimes even piled atop one another like damp, steaming puppies.”

I don’t know if I’ve ever HEARD a better description of little, summertime boys. . .

Anyway. It’s a good read–won’t take long–well written–I HIGHLY recommend it.

Re-Post “Lover of Letters, Lover of Words”

Since my (blog worthy) words seem to have taken a vacation as of late< I'll repost from back (September, 2007) when I waxed poetic over my love of them . . .
———————————————————————-

My dear friend over at Bringing Up Daisy has just ruined my life.

I have loved letters since I was a VERY small child. I remember my mother getting onto me for putting a little tail on the end of my manuscript lower-case “a” when I was in kindergarten. “But it’s my CURSIVE ‘a,’” I remember saying plaintively. To no avail, she and my kindergarten teacher, our across-the-street-neighbor, Lucille, would have none of it.

I remember in 1st grade when my mother PAINSTAKINGLY printed the letters of my name

R O X A N N E

onto a little home-made, pink bag on which she had embroidered a yellow kitty sitting next to a red flower and looking at a blue butterfly. She then embroidered my name in black so it would stand out. It was my special bag to hold my flashcards. I was a struggling reader (IMAGINE THAT), and she was trying to encourage me to learn my sight words. She wasn’t happy with any of the iron-on embroidery letters she had, so she printed her own. I still have that bag.

I remember in 2nd grade when my school teacher mother finally threw up her hands and gave into my demands to learn to write in cursive. After years of “It’s too early.” “You’re doing it wrong.” “You’ll learn in 3rd grade.” She finally one day said, “If you’re going to do it, I might as well teach you the RIGHT way.”

I remember in 3rd grade when Mrs. Kennedy said, “Boys and girls, several of you are having trouble making a cursive capital B. I would like for one of our students to come and make one on the board so you can see how it should be done. Roxanne, would you please go and write a cursive capital B?” I was so excited and proud and nervous. . .I think it was the WORST capital B I ever made.

I cannot count the number of times I’ve written my alphabet for fun.

I have huge words on my wall at school in several fonts which I got from our library computers and blew up to larger sizes made out of several colors of scrapbook paper. It’s the Fruit of the Spirit in the guise of a word wall.

I’m so sneaky.

And when I just went in search of the name for someone like me–a lover of letters–a lover of words–I found this instead,

“From my youth upwards, I have been a lover of words, a chooser of words, in a slender and superficial manner, a student of words, and instead of acquiescing in such disparagement, reducing them almost to ‘ airy nothing,’ I proclaim myself ready to maintain against all comers that words are things; nay, and things of pith and moment, life and passion. Have we not the right word, the very word, the word of advice, the word in season, the word of comfort, the warning word, the cruel word, and the kind one? And what are these but things? How they fasten themselves on our memory, with a grasp never to be shaken off while life endures! How our associations cling and swarm, and cluster round them! How our hearts beat at the sound with recollected joy, grief, pity, hope, indignation, or gratitude! Things! Nay, I am more inclined to call them persons, in such vivid individuality of feature do they rise before ‘ the eye of mind.’ Have they not also—at least the more distinguished of their race—their pedigrees, their biographies, their private, sometimes their scandalous, histories and anecdotes? Are there not among them ranks and degrees, nobles and commoners, decent people and rabble, natives and aliens, legitimates and illegitimates, pure breeds and mongrels?”

From Memoirs, Miscellanies, and Letters of the Late Lucy Aikin

Isn’t that just wonderful? If I can’t take the credit for making those statements, at least I found them to enjoy.

And I swanee, this Flickr site is Satan’s candy.

You know you get up too stinkin’ early when. . .

. . .9:31 p.m. FEELS like midnight. Oh. My. Goodness. And you had the day off.