I have this recurring dream from back in my Roanoke Times days. I used to work in the Features department, putting together the Friday calendar of events for the Extra section. I felt proud of my job, back in the day. Thrilled to play a part of the weekend planning of my fellow Roanoke-ians. Truth be told, I liked to think I was higher than my "editorial assistant" title. I was high on the hog of pride, back then. I was on top of the world when I saw my byline. It didn't matter if it was in the NewsFun section, the Neighbors section, or the coveted Extra section. Heck, I'd have been over-the-moon to have appeared in the classifieds.

To this day, however, I have this dream that I am late for work at the Times, or that I do not show up at all. In my dream I know that I did the calendar, but then I just got bored. I quit doing it. And I didn't bother to show up after I did it. Which means that at least one Friday calendar wasn't done. At least one Roanoke Times & World-News Extra section wasn't complete. And I left it to my co-workers to figure out because, apparently, I didn't bother to report to work that week. In my dream, I am thinking that I have DONE everything, but I still have all these hours to fill up. How will I ever pass the time when the calendar is already DONE??? Whatever is left to DO?

Oh, this is a horrible nightmare for me. It's a lot like the dream I have when I'm late for a final exam and I get there only to realize that I showed up for only the first class. How in the world will I ever pass this exam?! The professor always looks at me and says, "How could you have let this happen, Wendi? We expected so much more of you." And I always feel that horrible bomb-in-your-gut feeling. "I don't know! I just showed up this very minute!"

When I finally wake from the Roanoke Times dream, the first person I think of is Beth Macy. She was my idol. Oh, how I wanted to be like Beth Macy. I wanted to name my first born Macy, but, alas, he was a boy. And I couldn't do that to him. So I called him Camden. But Beth Macy was my Mentor Of All Mentors. She was an actual REPORTER for the Roanoke Times. And she was good. G.O.O.D. I read every single thing she wrote. Even when Ed Shamy had a sure-fire headliner, I read Beth Macy before Ed Shamy. Shamy had nothin' on Macy. Shamy, quite frankly, scared the daylights out of me.

But Macy was my friend. She called me Cal-Gal and made me feel like I was a part of her reporterly world. Macy taught me how to make a brisket. She loaned me her wedding dress. She made me feel like I belonged in the Features Department and that I could do a tad bit more than answer the phone. At the time, she lived in Salem. I will never forget passing Butt Hollow Road on the way to her house, thinking that only Beth Macy could pull that off. Yeah, she was that cool.

As I type this little blog of mine, I am perusing Macy's own blog (which I just discovered via the Roanoke Times) and I just read the line where she remembers her own plot of land on Texas Hollow Road. Holy crow, but I just was thinking of Texas Hollow Road and her rented ranch house that stretched across FOREVER and the divided Pepsi~Cola crate I purchased at her yard sale!!!

OK, so, yeah.

As I was saying. I have this recurring nightmare. And in it, I'm late. Very late. I am always a mess when I awake from this dream. But I'm always relieved when I realize that it's not real. I'm only dreaming. The calendar is fine in the hands of somebody else.

And I always pause to thank Beth Macy for being my mentor and my friend back when I didn't even have a clue who I was. Thank you, Beth Macy. I miss you.

I learned a new lesson today. No matter how bad you think you have it when you shop in Wal-Mart, it is most definitely worse when you decide to shop in Wal-Mart in Connecticut. I have no idea how it feels when you visit Wal-Mart in China, so I won't address that issue in this particular blog post.

We took a chance on Wally World in Manchester today, figuring that the cool red enamel-ware dishes for camping were a great deal. And we also figured we'd pick up some meds for Camden who is coughing in the Eagle Scout fashion. And plus also too we wanted to price Mr. Coffee makers. Just because. So we ventured down the road to Wal-Mart.


I did not see this person one single time in my visit to Wal-Mart today. In fact, everyone I did see did most certainly NOT have this face.


Long story short: WalMart up here in the Yankee lands makes me madder than the ones I've frequented in the south. What's missing? Good southernly charm, manners, smiley-faced people, and Southern Living at the check-out counter. (I'm not addressing aisle width, cleanliness, or restroom facilities in this post.)

If you are a primary teacher of reading, you probably know this book. It was the first one I read that triggered that longed-for ah-ha moment: So that's how you teach kids to read!

I first heard of Kathy Collins through proteacher, a message board for, you guessed it, teachers. I have not one, but two copies of this book. Long story short, I left my first one in Pennsylvania, not knowing when I would teach again. Then, when I got this gig teaching 2nd grade, I bought myself another because I can't teach without it, I tell you. On account of it's like the bible of how young children learn to read.


This is Kathy herself. She's the author of this amazing book that reads like you're hanging out in the classroom of your favorite teacher listening to her talk about what she did on that day with her kids. I love teachers like that. And plus also, she lives in New Hampshire. That's close to me, you know. So, I go to West Hartford yesterday to see her speak and she did not disappoint. I was inspired. I giggled.

I love that she liked books I like. (Ever read Duck Rabbit?)

She LIKES it, just like ME!)

And she is a humongous fan of David Sedaris. Well, I, too, like David Sedaris. He's a stitch, I tell you.

She had me hanging on the edge of my seat till my butt couldn't sit any longer. Then I was hanging by the balls of my feet as I stood in the back with Francie listening to who I want to be when I grow up. (Well, a little bit Kathy, a little bit Debbie Miller.)



So, she finishes her spiel, and it's time to leave. I stalk her, as fast as I can, to ask her to autograph my books. I'm cool. I'm confident. I'm every bit the subdued second grade teacher I think I am.

HI!
IJUSTLOVEYOU.
WOULDYOUPLEASESIGNMYBOOKS?
IJUSTLOVEYOU!!!!
IHAVETOTELLYOUTHAT.
I'MNOTWEIRD.

And, guess what, she signed them! In spite of myself!

Dear Michelle,

You are missed.
More than you will ever know.

Love you,
Sissy

PS. I forgive you for always being cute. For always knowing what to say to people to make them feel happy. For being a force of joy. I forgive you for making me pick my nose in this picture.

Draped across the rocker in my bedroom is a prayer shawl that gives me comfort and peace whenever I curl up inside its weave. It's the color of the sky on a perfectly clear summer day. It's soft and comfortable like a loved quilt, hand-knitted, prayed over, and blessed to be a blessing to me.

The story of how it came to be mine is an example of how God uses us to bless each other.

Back in December when Grandmomma passed away, we asked our neighbors, Mike and Pam, if they'd keep an eye on the mail while we were in Norton for the funeral. Curt mentioned to them that we'd been to our share of funerals in my hometown lately; my father had died on October 4, and then sweet Michelle had passed back in April 2008. That's a lot of grief in a short time, though I don't begin to think I corner the market on life and loss.

And so Pam shared this bereavement story with her prayer group at her Windsor church. The ladies in her knitting ministry commissioned this beautiful shawl, passed it around the group, prayed over it, and boxed it up for me. Me.

I remember unfolding this shawl as I removed it from the box, and I was moved to tears. How can people I don't even know in a town I'd just moved into care so much? And more significant than that - how does God want me to be a blessing to others near me?

God used this group of women to give me peace, comfort, and grace. He used them to bless me in a time of suffering, to lift me beyond grief to a higher calling. He is so amazing. A week later, I got a call from the boys' school about an application to substitute teach. Within the span of a week, I was a full-time teacher again, in the same building with my own boys, blessed to call a class of eleven other children my own till June. Blessed to be a blessing to children. Thank you, Lord. Your plans are mighty, mysterious, and always just right.

I'm sure you all know my amazing talents. I can trill my Rs. I can find teacher stuff on the internet. I can grow cilantro, chop it up, and add it to Newman's Own salsa to make it taste almost homemade. But I bet you're not aware of my Non Gifting. I am not an athlete. I know, that's shocking news.

God had plans for me. Yes, big plans. But they did not involve anything that uses a ball or keeps score or involves catching anything with your hands. I learned this early on in Coach Mainous' and Mrs. Riggs' gym class. As soon as team captains were chosen - and, ahem, was I ever a team captain???? Um, no. -- I endured the loneliest moments of my life on the bleachers waiting to be called. To be a member of a team. I'd wait. And wait. And wait. Even the kids who were clearly worse athletes than I were picked. And I waited still. And I was finally chosen. Dead. Last. That was me. "Oh man, do we have to have Weeeendiiiiiiiiiiiiii?" they'd whine.


For the record, their dismay at having me on their team was warranted. Volleyball was my worst sport. I would do anything, ANYTHING, to keep from serving that ball. I'd even endure the mandatory shower in the locker room 423 times a day to avoid this unbearable torment. Volleying the ball back and forth was bad enough. I was horrible at that. But serving it, well, that was a punishment, a torture. All eyes would be on me. All that dread, all that hopelessness, rested on me. They knew I'd send the ball flying cock-eyed backwards. Or leave it untouched even after taking my swing. Yes, they knew. I sucked. And I knew it, too. I lived for the day when gym wasn't a required credit.

Joining the band, on the other hand, was natural. Like waking up in the morning or watching the weather before you get dressed. I started playing the clarinet in 4th grade for a Mr. Anderson who had fuzzy hair. That's really all I remember about him. Then Mr. Tipton came. Mr. Tipton had even been my mom's band director at Pennington Gap when she was in high school. Boy, did I feel the connection. Mr. Tipton could make a room full of the worst players sound like musicians. He inspired me to grow, to play. He gave me a home on the football field at half-time. That's the closest I ever got to a sports arena.

Once I got to 8th grade, which was in high school for me in my tiny town of Norton, I tried out for the flag corps and made it. I spent the rest of my football seasons twirling that flag. I went to football games for the glory of the halftime show. I wasn't kidding myself. I knew that only the band geeks and their families showed up for halftime. But that was MY time. My time to sparkle and shine and razzle dazzle. I don't think I was a show-off, but I was serious about my work. Sometimes too serious, I suspect. But I loved it and never doubted that God put me on earth to twirl that flag to the tunes of Rocky Top and El Nimo, and El Cumbenchero and Sing, Sing, Sing. I can still twirl in my sleep. I grew up happy, innocent, and regimented by the season of the band.

Spring found me sitting on the stage for concert band playing the alto clarinet because I was better on that than the regular clarinet. It was nice, making music. But there were no football lights, no smells of hotdogs and popcorn, sticky Coke-covered bleachers, no promises to meet up at Pizza Hut after the game.

Football season was my season. I didn't have to hurl a football or catch it or make a touchdown or two-point conversion pass (thanks, Dad, for teaching me that one) to love it. I just had to show up in my freshly pressed uniform and do my work. I lived for those fall days.

I really do miss writing when I take these blog hiatuses. Is that a word? Seems like "hiati" would be a better plural, but they don't ask me these things. Anywho, writing is in my blood, thanks to my dad. It's in my veins, all mixed in with some coal dust and kudzu and a smattering of baton twirling stardust that Mom passed down. It's important to know your heritage, I always say.

Let's see if we can catch up. I've been teaching 2nd grade at the boys' school, Trinity Christian. I now eat, breathe, and pray Teacher Stuff. I've fallen off the wagon and started spending money on books I already own. Sad, isn't it? But I left my books and all my teacherly belongings in my old school for the class I used to call mine to finish out the year. And let's just face it, there are some books a teacher should never be without. Well, there are many, many books. And now I own two of a slew of them. I'm trying to get myself under control. I'll be glad when my Pennsylvania books and I reunite this summer. I will touch my books, smell them, and read them and weep happy tears of profound joy. Then I will make my family sit down and listen to me read every single one of them aloud from sun-up to sun-down.


Not that you can tell from this picture, but our 10-year-old boy is a happy child. His latest fascination is all things Wimpy Kid. I saw the movie with him and was surprised by how funny it was. I guess it's because I have a wimpy kid myself. Even the booger on the letter passed under the bathroom door cracked me up. Perhaps I should put one in Camden's lunch box this week.


Of course I have the obligatory picture of Benjy marrying Emma. He marries her every day. Since he saw Camden's teacher get married last summer, he thinks the big kiss is a sign of marriage. He even wants to marry me. I asked him what Daddy'd do and Benjy said, "He can just get a new girlfriend." Hmmmm. Camden announced that he was never getting married. "I'm staying single forever," he exclaimed. Benjy was stunned: "You will never get married? You're going to stay a boy forever???"

I think he knows he's cute.


Meet Viv! She's our new old camper. She's a travel trailer from the era of the late-90s. She came really cheap, but she's in awesome condition. See those curtains? Those aren't original to the camper. I jimmyrigged those from a hodgepodge of fabric I had around. I absolutely HAD to use the pointy fabric which had been in the kitchen of our home we bought last fall. It wasn't quite wide enough for the space that separates the living room from the pop-out bed "room". But they're my curtains and I don't mind. I also made the slipcovers for all the cushions, then got started on throw pillows. Because. And I could. not. stop.

See, this camper came with an "interior decor palette" in frightening shades of blues and mauves. You remember all the early losers on HGTV's Design Star? They go to work for camper manufacturers dreaming up these designs. And they are ding dang proud of them, people! See that panel of hideous fabric below the slip-covered cushion? That's what every single cushion looked like. Big. Bold. Butt Ugly. Viv just couldn't abide by that. "I shall make you lovely, my dear," I told her.


OK, so I can handle the blue panels, just rip those off and staple-gun my green quilted fabric to it, than somehow reattach them. But the blue countertops and table, I don't know. In my wildest dreams, I'd love to put a vintage enamel topped table in the dinette. One like we used to have in the '90s back when we were poor as church mice and happy to go out shopping after midnight at the 24-hour Wal-Mart. And I'd love to see some butcher block for the kitchen counter, small as it is. Also on the notepad - paint the walls a warm honey yellow. We'll have to figure out how to prime these vinyl-clad pressed board walls. Oh well, there's time for that. Viv's far more patient than I am.

Check out the water closet. That's really important at 3 a.m. Really. Important.

Here's a shot from where the boys' bed is. It's also a pop-out. Note the distance from one end to the other. Let's pray for sunshine when we inaugurate Viv.


Yes. I staged this. But I really did read every page of that Southern Living. I'm a misplaced Southerner, y'all know that.

It almost looks like home. And for the time that it's parked in my driveway, it's the perfect spot for a little time out. For me.

It's hard to believe that Christmas was just a single week ago. So much has happened since then, and my decorations are still hanging around. That's a record for me. We got a call from Mom on Sunday telling us that my grandmother, her mom, had passed away. She was 86 wonderful years old.

Grandmomma smiled all the time, but hardly ever for pictures. Hardly. Ever. But she was almost always happy. Did you ever know someone who NEVER EVER NEVER EVER said a single bad thing about anybody? Well, I did. Grandmomma. Nope, never an ugly word came out of her mouth. Sure, she could show disappointment with us or life, but not once did I ever hear her gossip or carry on about anybody.

She was such a beauty. Skin as smooth as a baby's. A heart of filled with a song she just had to share. A deep love for God and all things heavenly. Praise God that's where she is now. We all sang When the Saints Go Marching In at her memorial service. She'd have clapped her hands and whooped it up with us, no doubt.

So, now that I'm home and it's January 1, 2010, I've got to start thinking of a new year and such. I've been reading about how some people pick a single word to serve as a guide for their year. After spending the better part of 58 minutes on it (two Clone Wars episodes) , I've chosen my word for Twenty Ten. It's

Legacy.

In the past 20 months, I've lost my sister, my father, and now my grandmother. I could pick a word like Hope, but I know already that God has that taken care of. Or I could go rogue and pick Sleep and plan to hibernate in the coming year because, hey, it might just be easier.

But,

Staring at the gravesites of my loved ones on Wednesday, I came face to face with their legacies. They are legacies I'm proud to remember, to have been a part of. Legacies that have shaped who I am.

I spent a lot of time with Mom exploring the legacy of Grandmomma as I dug through her trunk of memories, finding pictures of her and Grandaddy when they first dated, vintage birthday cards from when Mom was born, and even a bar of soap from the old Hartford Hotel from when my grandparents lived here while Grandaddy was in the service. I also dug through Dad's file cabinet drawers and unearthed some real gems - his resume applying for the job as town manager of Coeburn back in 1976, gorgeous photos he took when he worked for the Coalfield Progress, a recipe for his famous chili he had typed and printed for me.

True, the stuff I found doesn't make the legacies of my loved ones,
but the memories those things revive do.

I aim to use Twenty-Ten to make some memories with my family.
I want my boys to smile one day when I'm old and nuts and remember my legacy and be proud of it.
I want my husband to take my old arthritic hand one day and flash a nice gummy smile at me and tell me he's proud of the legacy we've built together.

I want God to look at me when I step into heaven and say,
"Well done, my good and faithful daughter.
Well done."

My legacy-building will continue tomorrow with the removal of all visible traces of Christmas Stuff.

Pistachio has a boyfriend.
A manly hunky boyfriend.
She calls him Baby.
Meet Baby The Snow Blower.

Baby is parked in our garage, nestled snuggly between the van and the truck. Like a little motorized gas-guzling family. So sweet.

Eaglescout the greatest snow blower driver of them all, is a tad disappointed with me that I didn't take a picture of him as he bid good riddance to our whopping 5 inches of snow this morning. Guess he'll have to live with the memory. Sometimes that happens. So, we thought Snow Storm Albert would drop more than a foot of snow on us, but he swerved a bit east and slammed the coast instead. I count my blessings like a good girl, though. I'll take what we got and be happy about it. But a foot would have been a nice surprise.

Church was canceled this morning. Not just our church but all the area churches. So we all rested and played and cooked and carried on. The kids watched a Home Alone marathon, seeing all four movies today. We, being the sane parents we are, let them watch with nary a thought.


I finally made those buckeyes I spotted on Beneath My Heart. I carefully loaded the peanut butter, powdered sugar, and margarine in Pistachio's stainless steel bowl. Then I prepared to mix it up a bit. But, of course I had to find the directions to figure out how to take the whisk thingie off and put the flat beater thing on. I had three choices - English, French, or Spanish. I chose Latin.


My favorite part was the chocolate dipping station.

Ahhhh.

I jimmyrigged a double boiler - a pot within a pot - and melted me some chocolate chips and some paraffin wax. It took forever for the wax to melt, but the recipe said it was important to add, so I wasn't about to cheat and take it out. I think the buckeyes turned out worth it. Although I'm more a Hokie than a Buckeye, myself.

Then, I had to make snow cream because we had SNOW! Benjy did the honors with Eaglescout monitoring. You have to have clean snow, ya know.

He presented the big purple bowl we use every year and I got to mixing. No Pistachio for this job. I mix this up myself - a can of evaporated milk, a cup of sugar, some vanilla to taste, and a purple bowl full of snow. Lore tells me never to use the first snow. Apparently it brings down all kinds of ick we don't want to ingest. Since this is our second snowfall, I think we're safe. Of course, who knows how legitimate this tale is, but since my dad followed it, I'm not about to jinx myself by eating toxic snow.

And now, for a new picture of Mom and Dad. I believe this was shot at a Virginia Press Association conference in Charlottesville. This was possibly before I was born, so I'm not sure what they're smiling about. Dad was a writer and columnist for The Coalfield Progress at the time. I have a bunch of his columns and I treasure reading them now. And plus also, he called his column At Random. How'd he ever know to steal that from me?????

We have a new tradition here at Cleveland Street. I mean Somerset Drive. I heard about this on the news. Yes, I still watch the news because apparently it still happens even in Connecticut. You wrap up a bunch of Christmas books and open one a day in the nights before Christmas. I started this a few nights ago after wrapping more than a dozen books in craft paper and using a roll of tape to make the dang stuff stick.

Each night the boys choose one package to open and we read it together. Some books are oldies we have treasured for years - The Polar Express, The Grinch, The Shining. (Um, kidding about that last one. I'd never read that to myself, much less to my offspring.) Some reads are new, like the Phineas and Ferb Christmas book I found at my heaven-on-earth superstore, Barnes and Noble. Junie B. Jones First Grader - Jingle Bells, Batman Smells, P.S. So Does May
is my FAVORITE so far. And plus also I feel like I'm teaching again reading it aloud. The other night Camden made noises and I had to give him the Mean Teacher Look. I didn't even have to send him to Principal's. Cause he completely got it, I tell you! We'll finish it tomorrow night, so I'm likely to be in mourning for a bit. Till I find a new Junie B. to subject my children to.

So this little countdown to Christmas has gone swimmingly, I must say. Don't you love that word? Swimmingly? It means nothing about floating in a pool of water in this context. But it sounds just swimmingly in a sentence.

Which brings us to my next topic.

Check out these veggies. They are fixing to swim with some other stuff in a casserole of Pioneer Woman proportions. The M&Ms did not make the Olympic team and, therefore, didn't swim with us.

They went swimming with this.

It's a whole chicken.

It was whole when I dumped it in a pot of boiling water and let it cook and cook and cook and smell up my kitchen with its chickenness. Might have been that bag of innards that I forgot to remove that smelled the most....

But, it turned out worth the trouble. Even if I had to pick it apart with my bare hands which clearly weren't meant for such labor.
Still, I persevered. And I must say that after my little bits of chicken went swimming with the veggies and the spaghetti 3 cups of sharp cheddar cheese and this and that and the other, it turned out pretty daggone tasty.

I was so shocked that I survived the rawness of the chicken that I forgot to take a picture of the finished casserole, but trust me. It was gooooooooood. I served it with a delightful salad and fresh-baked bread which used to be fresh frozen.

Now, for your viewing pleasure, I present you with Pistachio. Thanks, Mom. I can't wait to learn how to use this baby!

Also for your viewing pleasure, one of my favorite pictures of Mom and Dad, snapped at Mom's surprise birthday party a few years ago.

This is the consequence of listening to this:

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Hmmmmmm, what could this be?

Mr. Parker: Fra-gee-lay. That must be Italian.
Mrs. Parker: Uh, I think that says FRAGILE, dear.
Mr. Parker: Oh, yeah.

Mr. Parker: [unveiling his major award] Would you look at that?
Would you look at THAT?
Mother: What is it?
Mr. Parker: It's a leg!
Mother: But what is it?
Mr. Parker: Well, it's... A leg, you know, like a statue.
Mother: Statue?
Mr. Parker: Yeah, statue.
Ralphie: Yeah, statue.
Mother: Ralphie!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] My mother was trying to insinuate herself between us and the statue.

Mr. Parker: Holy smokes. Do... Do you know what this is? This is... A lamp!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] It was indeed a lamp.
Mr. Parker: Isn't that great? What a great lamp.
Mother: I don't know...
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] The old man's eyes boggled...
Mr. Parker: Oh WOW!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] ... Overcome by art.

Mr. Parker: It's a Major Award!
Swede: Shucks, I wouldn't know that. It looks like a lamp.
Mr. Parker: What is a lamp, you nincompoop? It's a Major Award. I won it!
Swede: Damn, hell, you say won it?
Mr. Parker: Yeah, mind power, Swede; mind power.

Mr. Parker: Get the glue.
Mother: We're out of glue.
Mr. Parker: You used up all the glue on purpose!

Mr. Parker: [after Mother "accidentally" breaks the Old Man's leg lamp] Don't you touch that! You were always jealous of this lamp.
Mother: Jealous of a plastic...
Mr. Parker: Jealous! Jealous because I WON.
Mother: That's ridiculous. Jealous. Jealous of WHAT? That is... the ugliest lamp I have ever seen in my entire LIFE!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] Now it was out.

The snap of a few sparks, a quick whiff of ozone,
and the lamp blazed forth in unparalleled glory.

Only one thing in the world
could've dragged me away from the soft glow
of electric sex gleaming in the window.

Oh, look at that!
Will you look at that?
Isn't that glorious?
It's... it's... it's indescribably beautiful!
It reminds me of the Fourth of July!

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