Hatteras Island, Day 4

Ten pictures from our week - so far...

Benjy buried Camden in the sand.
He stayed there for 10 minutes before breaking free.

Sparring in the ocean.
They should have put their gear on first. 

Look dead center: that's the Cape Hatteras lighthouse, 10 miles away.
The air is so clear you can see it from here.

There are no NO DIVING signs around here.

Benjy takes a quick break from searching for shells under the waves.

This is our view as we top the dunes.

My favorite plant - sea oats

Outdoor showers, ahhhhhhhh.

We met the Baskins 5 years ago here at Hatteras.
We get to hang with them every summer right here on the island. 

Camden really does love us.
Benjy really does look normal most of the time.
This is apparently the best I can hope for from a family pic this summer.

When God Pulls You In

“God never pulls you in to bless you 

without sending you out.” 

~ Tim Keller

Last Thursday, God pulled me in. 

Not that I wasn't asking for it. I'd been askin' for a year, ever since we sold our house and moved into the rental half the size. Oh, I'd been asking, indeed begging. In retrospect, I think God needed to pull me in a little closer. 

Here's what happened:

It was a Wednesday in mid-July when I threw myself across the bed, crying and begging God for a sign, some morsel of hope that we would one day be home in Roanoke, Va., again. I was such a mess that Curt took us all to Chili's for dinner, even though we'd already blown the eating out budget for the month. 

The next day I reread Harry Potter 7 all day long. I didn't check emails. I didn't even text. I did make the bed, feed my family, and go to karate, but that about covers my usefulness for the day. I thumbed my iPhone that evening, checking my emails, waiting on karate class to start. 

"Wendy, (sic)

     Good morning.  Dr. W forwarded your email to me about moving back to the area.  I have a grade 5 position open and will be interviewing for the position next week.   Are you still looking for a position?  If so, what is a good contact number for you.  Thanks."

Eyes. Wide. Open.

It was sent by a principal in the school district where I had taught when we moved away 10 years ago. I had, indeed, emailed the superintendent there back in late June after we'd come home from visiting, well, home. I had explained to her that Curt and I wanted to move back to Roanoke, and although there were no openings in the county, if anything turned up, please keep me in mind. She emailed me back the same day to let me know she'd forwarded my email to the director of personnel. And she wished me luck. I honestly didn't think it would go past that. Everybody wants to teach in the county. Naturally all the jobs had been gobbled up by Easter.

But this one wasn't. I read the principal's email aloud to Curt, and we both just grinned. We knew. We knew. This was God talking. He was pulling me in.

I emailed her back that night, ecstatic for the opportunity. She emailed me back again Friday and asked if I was under contract. They are not allowed to interview anybody under contract, she said. 

Gulp.

Of course I'd signed a contract at the end of the school year. My life in Connecticut was rolling along as usual, with no sign that God was sending us anywhere when I signed it on June 19. No inkling that on July 18 I'd get that email about a 5th grade teacher job. I fretted for just a moment. Then I knew what to do. Breathe. 

Pray.

I prayed. Then Curt and I prayed together. I cried a little bit. But I knew what I had to do. It was painful to quit a job that I had loved, one that I walked into without even knowing it back in January 2010. (I thought I was going to talk about being on the sub list!) I slept on it and then fired off an email to my boss the next morning. It should have been impossible to do. But God had spoken. I just did it.

And I remembered how I was being pulled in. I prayed and I asked my friends to pray for me. 

By Tuesday, I was interviewing by phone and sending letters of recommendation and summer phone numbers for references. By Wednesday, the first principal had sent my name to another principal who also had an opening, and now I had not one, but two interviews scheduled for the following week when we'd be in Roanoke on our way to the beach. All day Wednesday I was walking on puffy clouds of happiness and hope. Breathing and praying were happening simultaneously.

Then by Thursday, one of the positions, the first one I had interviewed for - had quit my job for - was gone. The principal called me and was apologetic. There was an in-county transfer of a teacher who was already employed there. I got it. That stuff happens. It stunk, but it happens. I still had the other interview. And I was a bundle of nerves over it. My chances had been cut in half, I said. No, Curt assured me, my chances were still 100% greater than they had been a week ago. He was right, of course. And then it hit me: God knew this job would be gone before it even became a glimmer in my eye. And He knew it would lead to the other interview with principal number 2. Breathe. Pray. Breathe. Pray.

And He gave me a week to stew over the whole thing. Patience. I knew what He was up to. I was supposed to grow tendrils of patience out of this. I suppose I grew something because I did survive the week of waiting. 

Last Thursday we arrived in Roanoke around noon. Curt's mom had Chick Fil A waiting, but I was so nervous I could barely eat. I had about an hour before I had to meet principal #2, so I went to lie down for a few minutes. Camden came in to hug me. Benjy popped in to tell me, "God is going to be right beside you, telling you it's going to be all right." 

Then I got up, changed into my summer sweater, Lily Pulitzer skirt (a Savers thrift store steal!) and strappy kitten heels. I grabbed my portfolio and set off. 

Breathe. Pray. Breathe. Pray. Breathe. Pray.

At 2:00 I interviewed. And at 3:00 I was done. By 4:00 I had the job. 

I had the job!!! We were coming home! God pulled me in. And now He was sending me - and my family - out!

To be continued...

Prime Real Estate

Remember that '70s ketchup commercial? 

An-ti-ci-pa-a-tion. 

It'sssssss making me wait.

 

And when we finally crossed the dunes, we spied a turtle nesting area. The eggs (or hatchlings maybe even) are behind that black barrier. The Park Service man came to check their progress today, making little marks on his clipboard before driving off again. I was puzzled by his summer uniform. He wore long pants and a helmet as he drove his ATV. Must've been awfully hot for that. I was a little surprised that he had to wear a helmet when he only drove about 15 mph. Rules, I guess. Rules.) 

We don't know if there are any turtle babies ready to crawl to their ocean home yet or not. So we walk around the roped off area to find a spot of beach real estate. It's not hard to find a happy place to land around here. 

 

Those crazy seagulls freaked Benjy out! I think it wasn't so much him they were after. It was probably the piece of shrimp we tossed over the deck tonight before dinner. 

On the big screen

Here in the teeny tiny rental house, we're not allowed to put up the redneck pool. (no fence, liability, bla bla bla) And so summer is not quite the hot splash it's been for the past forever years. Quite frankly, there's not a lot to do that's not hooked to an electric cord or internet connection when you're 10, 13, and 44. (Seriously, we do read. We're marching through the entire Harry Potter series. Curt's read almost all the Jack Reacher books. I'm mixing up some teaching reading books with books that I actually read to enjoy.)

Today we went to the movies. 

To watch somebody else's plug-in. 

It hit me while we were watching Monsters University that around ten years ago, Monsters Inc. was Camden's first movie in a theater. 

Oh, he already knew movies in a big way by that time. 

We'd watched Babe at least 99 times on VHS.

Camden was two and some, and I was knocked up with Benjy and still in the throes of morning, afternoon, and worse-at-night sickness. The Tanglewood cinema wasn't yet a Barnes & Noble. Edie, our neighbor friend who adored Baby Camden went with us. Camden was the perfect movie viewer. No extraneous noise. No bathroom breaks. Happy without the large popcorn. (Those were the days.)

Monsters Inc. was special. Like Babe, Mike and Sully make me puddly, to a degree. To this day though, when I hear its theme song, I almost feel that prenatal nausea. But it's all worth it to see Sully and Mike scare because they care.

Fast forward 10 years to today. And then 6 hours from the time we started Monsters University at the Enfield theater. We gathered in the living room of the teeny tiny house and watched Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire not on HD because it's cheaper that way. Camden had seen it, read it, and opted for an evening on his own playing Star Trek. (geesh) 




Benjy, who was kicking in utero during Monsters Inc, was shushing me whenever I got anxious about Harry and Cedric, et al. We had traded brightly colored and happy monsters for the dark and spooky He Who Shall Not Be Named. We'd grown up a bit, I suppose. 

Camden eventually joined us to present his eye tooth he'd finally, finally, lost. The very eye tooth he'd recently sprouted when he first met Mike and Sully. 

A light in the attic

Growing up, attics were pretty much the stuff of books. We had a shallow attic space you could peer into after you pulled down the ladder steps, climbed them, and then balanced your hunchbacked self on the rafters. I figured if you couldn't walk in the attic space, it must be a fake. But it was all I had.

Grandmomma Stapleton lived in an apartment. No attic there. 

Grandmomma and Grandaddy Gibson lived in a trailer. No attic. (But the day the shed came was almost as good!)

So pretty much everything I knew about attics came from V.C. Andrews.

Probably not the best source of all-things-attic-y. 

My sons, on the other hand, know attics. They have Mammaw's attic. When we go home, they beg her to take them up there to dig through the boxes of old toys she's stored from Curt and his sister's childhood. Even in the dead of summer when the temperature must hover at 150 degrees. 

And she agrees. 
Every single time. 

Bless her heart.

Curt's sister and Benjy strung this contraption a couple of years ago. I had no idea till I came snooping with my iPhone camera. 

Check out the wallpaper. Attics were wallpaper-worthy. 

Curt's mom can tell you the history of every square inch of their house, including the attic.  Curt will simply tell you that the attic fan is the way to go. It's the poor man's air conditioner. 

This room was once a dance studio with a mirror across one wall and a piano propped to the side. Little girls twirled to its tunes during the depression. It also once served as the maid's room. There's even a little sink in the corner. 

In the roaring '80s, Curt slept here and hosted some mean Dungeons and Dragons games. He brought the first ever real air conditioner home to this room and his parents found themselves hanging out in their son's room much more than was necessary, according to Curt.

This is the room that hides the boxes that fascinate my boys. (And, if I were totally honest, me, too.) 

There's an old English broad sword of Curt's that Benjy dreams of hanging in his room. This is also home to various Air Force pieces of Papaw's that Benjy simply MUST HAVE.  I'm rather attracted to the vintage Little People doll house. 

I think of all the things hiding up here, though, the windows have to be my favorite.

From what I recall of my childhood vision of attics, they all had dormer windows. 

Just like this.

There's something secret-y about the space that leads to the window, the light that shines a good 10 feet away from where you stand. That light in the attic beckons. I'm glad Mammaw lovingly keeps it burning. 

From 5 till 10, what a way to make a living

I've held this folder close since Dad died. It's filled with pictures, letters, postcards, even Dad's resume from when he applied for the town manager job with Coeburn in the late '70s and his letter to the town council 30 years later announcing his retirement. His obituary from the Coalfield Progress is even here. It's a folder I turn to again and again when I need a dose of Dad.

Let me just say that there's a year's worth of blogs here, my friends. 

Tonight I am loving this.

Dad. At 10:00 a.m.

Dad. At 5:00 p.m.

Dad, shirtless, cigarette dangling from his mouth, working at the typewriter in the office of the Coalfield Progress. I can only assume that air conditioning was not a luxury the newspaper could afford. 

My own recollections of Dad working at the town newspaper include visits to the back room where the giant presses churned out freshly inked papers. The smell is potent. To this day I am drawn to the scent of newspaper print.

 I don't now if this picture was a joke or seriously shot on a deadline. But for whatever reason, Dad was half-naked at 10:00 a.m. He's working at something. Many of the papers in the Dad Folder I have are typewritten. The capital C hangs up slightly above the line in many the documents I read. 

And then at 10:00 p.m., he's still there. Typing away. That C must be hanging up.  He's not stopped smoking. Where's the smoke? What's he typing? Is it really 10:00 p.m.? Were the Norton street lights really that bright in the '70s? 

I'll never know. What I do know is that Dad had a work ethic that could not be topped. Apparently, this wasn't lost on the photographer of these photos. 

No picture, though, could capture what Dad taught me. You could work from sun-up till sun-down and never get the job done if you didn't put your entire heart and soul into your work. 

You had to work with integrity. You had to know that when you took a job, you gave your word that you'd accomplish it. Frankly, it didn't matter if you loved it or not. If you promised to do it, then, by golly, you'd better do it right. 

Oh, how I have failed.

Like when I worked at Hardee's during college and quit the night before the Spring Formal. Or the time I quit being a bank teller after maybe a week because a better job in human resources with a competing bank came along. 

It's been some years since I quit a job willie-nillie like that. I like to think that the job I have now is the one God has called me to do. I teach. I teach with a sense of urgency. I think of it from the time I wake up till the time I go to bed. (Except, perhaps, during summer vacation.) I don't teach half-naked, and I don't smoke. But I do keep the work I do in mind every moment of every day. 

Thank you, Dad. Thank you for the work ethic you gave me. Thank you teaching me that my job requires my heart and my soul and that it all belongs to God. 

A Little Unplugged

Summer vacation is hard when you have a 13-year-old and a 10-year-old, and the owner of the house we rent says NO to putting up the redneck pool. It's hard to entertain this age without 4 feet of water.

Today was Day One of summer vacation. Technology time limits were in place. Even for me. I was content to sit in the back yard and read my latest freebie from the Take-It-Or-Leave-It shed at the town dump. (Dennis Lehane's thriller, Sacred). Benjy was happy to play with his 43.6 billion Legos. Camden couldn't close the 5th Harry Potter. All was well. 

Lunch was easy, pizza - freezer-to-oven. Then I dragged the boys to Aldi's with me just to get us all out of the house. Once home, technology times were burned. Then boredom set in. 

NO, I said, to computer time. 
NO, I said, to iPods. 
NO, I said, to X-Box. 
"You need a hobby," I offered. 
I could hear the eye rolls.

Nonetheless, Benjy started the first Lord of the Rings book, then went back to his Legos. Camden drifted back into Harry's Order of the Phoenix. I slipped out back to my thriller (oh no, nobody can be trusted in this book!).  Whew, the day was salvaged. We topped it off by watching one of the Lord of the Rings movies while I crocheted the blanket that I hope to finish by 2020. (Yes, a movie is technically plugged in, but we were all four together plus the cat. That counts for something.)

I think we'll take this summer thing one day at a time. With any luck, we'll actually be able to talk about a few novels when school starts again. I'll settle for anything but Mine Craft.

One thing I'm sure of, at least we won't drop a book in the pool.

I Will Not

     Tomorrow morning
I will not
crawl out of bed at 6.
I will not
iron a skirt.
I will not
prop open the door to Room 3.
I will not
hold it till 11:15.
I will not
count children.
I will not
give homework.
I will not
nurse boo-boos.
I will not
say "I love you" at the door 
when it's time to go.
I will 
miss that.

"The Top Ten Reasons We Like Working With Wendi" - by Em and Jodie, analyzed by Me

I found this the other day when I was going through some old folders and flash-backed to Fallon Park Elementary School.   I was in the 2nd grade trailer, the room in the middle between Em and Jodie. The trailer with  a sweeping view of the parking lot where we had recess. My desk with a Macintosh SE and a flower pot full of markers was shoved against the wall to make more room for the Story Tower Curt built. Posters and bulletin boards and words lined the walls and the carpet was littered with pencil shavings but NOT head lice. The kids were gone, and we three were hanging out laughing about something Em heard on the radio that morning. The memory was palpable. I could practically taste the Snack Pack pudding I kept stocked in the tiny fridge. 

I read through the list and almost remembered everything. 

10: Yes, I did have perfect hair. I worked hard on my Big Boy sweep permed up-do. God help us if it rained.

9: I don't recall what this dirty work was, but I'm sure I found a way to get out of it. I probably went to the restroom or the mailbox in the main building.(I would have picked up their mail, too, just so you know.) I might even have gone to make a copy if I could rummage up some paper. 

8: I always, without fail, volunteered to stay inside with the kids whose behavior was so lousy they managed to lose recess. But only if it was too cold or too hot outside. I love this about me. I'm perfectly medium.

7: Pudding Time. Ah, yes. Snack Pack chocolate. 

6: Spinners? Jodie? Em? Huh? Did we play probability games after school???

5: Bus stations - ugh! Kids messing up my room! Kids who didn't belong in here moving my things to places where they don't go while waiting on their bus number to be called? Ridiculous. 

4: OK, I can easily see this happening, but I don't remember it. Switching with a reason just seems so predictable. Not switching for no apparent reason sounds downright intoxicating. We should all do it.

3: My aversion to field trips began here in this trailer. Leading a group of 7-year-olds on a tour without losing one is a weary task. Riding on the bus with them on the way to and from the tour is sanguinary. You just want to poke your eyes out and call it a day. But you can't because you have to count children when you get back and verify that everybody is safe and sound because of your diligence. To this day, I would gladly stay back with the kids who were too naughty to go on the field trip. I'd even combine them with the no-recess kids. That's how I feel about field trips. 

2: I might be a tiny bit OCD about my room. I might bite you if you don't put a book in the right bin. 

1: "Where's George's book? I can't find George's book!" 

This one is vivid. I'm storming around the room, doped up on the hormones of pregnancy. George wrote a book at home all by himself and I cannot find it. I simply must find it! David Duchovny is in that book - a beautiful picture of FBI agent Mulder gracing the cover of TV Guide is on page 7! Then, out of Jodie's room comes the strains of Bono: I stiiiiiiiiiill haven't foooooound, what I'm looking foooooooor." We laugh and laugh and laugh. My manic melts. I eventually find the book and get my Mulder fix. I go home to Curt a happy wife and a happy teacher, thankful for friends who truly get me. 

Plowing Way Back When

This message was shared on Facebook today. It was a timely reminder that there are real people driving the snow plows that are still digging us out of last weekend's blizzard. 

I live on a main road here in Windsor. Our road saw plows up and down it all day Friday and Saturday. But from the pictures friends posted, I know many roads were still impassable even as late as today. I get it. And I believe that if I lived on one of these snowed-in roads, I'd still get it. 

There's a lot of snow out there. 

Growing up on Poplar Street taught me to handle it. We lived on two steep hills. Walking home from school was torturous. Riding a bike downhill wasn't worth the trip back home. These were big hills. Snow was common in our mountain town, and eventually, the plows would make their way to my house. As any school-age kid understands, I moaned and hit my pillow when I finally heard the arrival of their chugging and scraping. 

What I remember most about those long winters in Southwest Virginia is my dad's abhorrence of snow. He hated it. He lived in dread of snowy forecasts. How could someone who could make the best bowl of snowcream in the land despise something I loved? Easy: He wasn't thinking of himself getting out of school. He was thinking of his men down the four-lane who had to be out on the crooked slippery roads of Coeburn in the very snow I loved. 

Dad was the town manager in Coeburn forever. My whole growing up years, save the very beginning when he wrote his column At Random for the Coalfield Progress.(He even had to put the paper to bed before he could make my own birth!) During those winters as the town manager, Dad spent most snowy nights with his men. He'd tell Mom, Shell, and me goodbye before pulling on a jacket, or two. Then he'd whistle for Candi, our Shepherd/Elkhound mix, and the two of them would disappear slowly down the driveway and off our double hill. I think we always knew he'd be OK as long as Candi was with him.

I don't know how many plows Coeburn had back in the '70s and '80s. But I do know that Dad and Candi operated one of them, taking turns with the other men so that nobody'd get too tired. I doubt that it made the job get done any faster, but I imagine the comradery may have boosted a few spirits. I recall that Dad wouldn't dream of staying put in a warm cozy home while his men were not. 

Decades later, standing before Dad's casket down at the Hagy-Fawbush Funeral Home, one of these men reminded me of Dad's snow plow trips. He remembered Candi, "the Snow Plow Dog", and he was teary-eyed as he recounted the number of cold nights they'd endured together. This didn't surprise me, but it did touch me on a deep level. Dad had a passion for people's needs - not one he just talked about, but one he acted on. 

His snowcream may have been the best, but his sense of duty and genuine concern for others topped even that.