Let the Week Begin

I'm just plain tuckered. This is my state of being till zero hour (marching band) comes to an end the first of November. I can't hardly stay awake till 10pm. Friday night I slipped on my pajama bottoms and laid down on the bed, I woke in the morning with the shirt I wore to work still on. I think I dozed around 930pm. The celebratory margarita I drank just intensified my inflated exhaustion.

What were King Ralph and I out celebrating? We were celebrating that my mother-in-law was released from the ICU step-down and moved to the acute rehab center at the hospital across the street from my house. I can now stop planning on owning the parking garage at St. Louis University Hospital and now plan on walking some fat off my rear. My mother-in-law has a long way to go still but in terms of running a marathon I say she is at mile 14. She shows a will to get up and move forward. Her jumbled thoughts have an element of not-intended-humor...it is good to laugh at the troubles of life, it some how makes it easier to deal with.

I am so tuckered out, and it is just Monday, that I don't think I drag my body for a walk across the street this evening...I am instead driving across the street to see my mother-in-law.

Yesterday I traded doing laundry for making gumbo. Today I trade making dinner for doing laundry. Besides left over gumbo is better than when it's fresh in the pot. So while I am in the business of trading I don't feel so bad trading exercise for a car ride.

And, so, I say, let the week begin!

mom should stick to being a spectator

With daily runs to the hospital I am learning a new rhythm of balancing work, school obligations and the hospital. (Which if you are wondering my mother-in-law is being moved as I type to an ICU step-down unit.) So tonight I must send King Ralph to be with his mom alone because I am taking to the field as a temporary member of the marching band's color guard--it's the first "Parents Take the Field" night.

I walk onto the field to hear several "Momma Avery"'s echoing. Oh to be popular amongst the band's teen crowd. And really, I should have stopped there! The reason I was always picked last in gym class came haunting back as I tried to stand properly at attention. To hold that darn flag just the right amount off the ground and pump it into the air on the third hissing sound coming from the drum major's direction of calling everyone to attention. The forward march of eight steps was easier than that dam backwards march of sixteen steps, which started with me trying to keep my balance as I bopped up and down, knees only not body to the counting of sixteen. Forget the "stick it" on the yard line on the last step, that was a lost cause with a large dose of humor in its execution. It doesn't take one daughter to teach me marching skills it also took two of M's parentless buddies--one trumpeter and clarinetist--to get this marching band reject to understand what looks so much better (not easier) from the stands. I never doubted for a second the level of difficulty marching band and color guard is...it's the student body that likes to rip on the band kids that should have been out there trying to perfect those fundamental skills in 20 minutes.



The question was posed "mom what if I played the bass drum?", to which I replied "I wouldn't have shown." Hehehe. I would have though because I am my children's cheerleader. I'm just thankful I only have to hold a flag pole.

It was fun. I might have enjoyed King Ralph in the role better. Maybe next year. Just maybe.

First Day Holiday

I always loathed "First Day Holiday" in elementary school; the Principal's belief that the first day of school should be viewed as the greatest holiday of the calendar year--celebrated as an intrusion of parents in the classrooms with snow cones and games on the playground when kids should be back to reading, writing and arithmetic.

Now, now that everyone is in high school (and college) I love first day holiday--dress them, feed them, and send them out the door (with a few extra kisses) with wishes for a great first day. When the high school girls get home exhausted from there non acclimated early rise, the realization hits that there is no honeymoon period in high school--the homework load begins. Back to reading, writing and arithmetic.

Now dressing was pretty easy for M as she had her first day of school outfit designated by her role, Link Crew member. She matched a hundred others in there first day of school outfit. In the end the thing that bummed her the most, not being able to wear some fashionesta garment turned out to be okay, because instead the thing to be bothered by was someone decided to steal her text books as she helped Freshman find there buses to go home. D looks the same tired as she looks every first day...however this first day she looks a little more grown-up-- my high school girl, my baby at the beginning of what is nearing the end of this phase in my journey of parenthood.

So...let the good times roll!

The Eve of Back-to-School

The house is silent except for the click-click-click of my fingers on the laptop keyboard. I have no actual desire to be sitting here listening to the abundance of silence that consumes the house, but King Ralph--a man of the white shirt always on call--got a call at 2am that woke us from sound slumber. (For some odd reason I am the only one still affected by the middle-of-the-night wake-up call.)

There is an extra measure of silence to the house knowing Princess A's bedroom is empty; empty of her belongings and being. Strange how the absence of one family member in the house can actually be felt. That's a feeling felt whether it is because one of the kids is off with friends for the night or away at college.

Even though I dread being awake right now I am pleased to report that for the first time in D's life she had a freak-out less eve before school. No melt downs of the past like over gummed reinforceers, necklaces that aren't being shared.... Just a regular, usual, calm evening the night before one of her biggest school eve's in her life-- the night before the first day of high school. I view it as the beginning of the end, the "best days of your life" era; or so they say. I don't know...does this mean my baby girl has really grown up? That she can handle big change in her life now, finally? What ever the reason for the calm nature of her being-- I like this eve of the new school year.

THEN HOW COME KING RALPH'S WORK HAD TO WAKE ME UP? THIS WAS GOING TO BE MY FIRST ALL NIGHT SLEEP ON THE EVE OF BACK-TO-SCHOOL. I WAS SO LOOKING FORWARD TO IT! I HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL IN THE MORNING TOO! AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

You know what I did on the eve of the first day of school? I cheated on my hair dresser. You would think I should feel guilty but I don't. I have been teetering back and forth whether to cut off my mop of hair and as I walked through the mall with the goal of buying M and D new sneakers (buy one get one half off, a twenty-percent off coupon and $100 dollars later we have sneakers for both) I eyed the Mastercut, breezed in and chop, chop my hair is all gone. Never having been in a Mastercut before I kind of felt like I was in "Missouri Ink". This young staff of coiffures were seriously inked. I wonder if they realize when they are getting their tat on the forearm that in 50 years that artwork will be harboring its lo-cal on the elbow? Or that tat on the breast will be on their hip? That gravity changes everything--including the location of the tattoo. Oh hell "inked up" gave me a feel-good back-to-school haircut. I love my hair! It in no way means I am breaking up with my long time hairdresser. It also means there is no guarentee I won't cheat again.

It's inching closer to 4am and I have to wake, no be alert and cheery in two hours. So I am going to try to fall asleep, again, so I can do the usual first-day-of-school rituals. Smile and say cheese--Mom's got the camera girlies.

Happy First Day--to us all!

This Day Is Being Temporarily Interupted

Boxes, boxes, boxes. That is all we do, move boxes up the stairs and to the car.

This Day is being temporarily interrupted to load, unload and deposit Princess A back to college.

Last year I was over the top excited for my big girl to explore this new chapter, new adventure of her life. This year I feel a bit verklempted. Why? I think because Princess A had a hard time coming home for summer break, readjusting to life with the family, the loss of that thought she had total independence...and recently she molded back into what makes us us--a complete family. I going to miss her more this year than last. I just feel it in my heart.

I have a pot roast on the stove to send her back to school with--her request. Which means...I must part here, tend to the meat and move more boxes.

My Husband Has a Mistress

Upon returning home from work yesterday I found a package placed on the front porch...mostly likely left by the UPS man. King Ralph has a quiet relationship with our UPS driver, and when I say quiet I mean quiet in the sense that hopefully he gets to packages before I do. These days we get an awful lot of packages. (None with my name on them.)

I brought the package in dumped it in the front foyer. When M came home she immediately caught eye of the package and says "what did dad buy for his girlfriend this time? Shoes, he got her some new shoes." Honestly I didn't look. I don't bother to look anymore. You see his girlfriend, Harley, gets more attention than all the really meaningful woman in his life. She gets better full body massages than I have ever gotten in our twenty-three years together. Not to mention her globes have been grouped to the point that I am starting to think she will need headlight augmentation. While I was gone in New Orleans King Ralph spent his birthday lottery of cash on a couple of leather purses for her to carry around. Upon seeing them M screeches out "look she got mo-murses." I begin wondering why King Ralph won't carry my purse around all day but this broad will carry not one but two purses for him all day. Now wonder he loves her so much. She is his captive slave. Sometimes I find him the garage, the location of the affair, just gazing into her well-polished silver body--probably catching the reflection of his ten-mile wide grin.

It's not just his love affair with Harley I have to worry about it's his still unnamed Wild Hogs group of mid-life crisis buddies...although they are short one hog and accepting applications. Last weekend for some insane reason King Ralph thought Nancy and I would hop on the back of the girlfriends and sweat our arses off in the 100* Sunday heat just so we could be a part of there sick obsessed world. FYI Hubby: We are no biker babes, nor do we wish to become ones! No leather chaps and no slinky lace trimmed tank tops with skulls silk screened on the front for us.

So while he may spend an awful lot of time courting Harley, pouring his undivided love and admiration into her, I am okay with it being-- "just the two of you." This is one relationship that will not become a threesome. On the flip side I have found the goodness in this love affair, she has been a refuge from his mother's continued stay in the ICU-- the open road soothes the soul. And, since she gets an awful lot of nice mistress gifts I am finding I get the things I want--like my new Blackberry.

Hmmmm, what to want next?
(this photo was taken pre mo-murses, when I think about I will take one with her fine black silver studded saddle bags. They're to die for. hehehehe)

A Slide Show: ELCA New Orleans Youth Gathering

My Heart Sang Last Night

We did last night as we have done every night this week--King Ralph and I went to the ICU to be with his mom.

Monday was a nothing-has-changed-day. Tuesday was significant progress. Wednesday was a step back day. Thursday I didn't go but King Ralph snuck down there during the day, it was a good day. Yesterday, last night, well my heart sang and I told my mother-in-law just that, that she was making my heart sing.

She is alert. Still disoriented. Not sure why she is in the hospital and needs to be reminded that she has had brain surgery. On Thursday she tore her feeding tube out. So, with doctor's orders they put that darn thing back in. She is unrestrained, as she has been tied down since the first night when her agitation was crazy out-of-control. Trade off to getting to stretch her arms (and to assure she doesn't rip that feeding tube out again) padded hand covers.

When we entered her room last night we made light of it to her, "mom check you out, you have on boxing gloves, you're a boxer." She raised her hands high in the air pulled her son close to her and bopped him on his head. Then she smiled. We smiled back. Then the game began. She would raise those padded hand covers up and shake her hands, first at me then to King Ralph...over and over. She finally got to the point where she said "Kevin (first time I heard her say his name since surgery, making me ever so happy) take these things off me." He told her he couldn't and I told her if he did they would stick him in time out. Her intermittent smiles turned to a grimace, a grimace of disappointment. As our nightly visit rolled on she spent quite a bit of time staring at those padded hands trying to figure out how she is going to get them off. I constantly said "mom quit trying to think of how you are going to pull off a Houdini" and the hands then rested. She also kept tapping her cheeks with her "boxing gloves" looking up at King Ralph. "Babe, she wants you to kiss her cheek." When he did, she smiled. Then looked at me tapped her cheek and I kissed her cheek. She smiled again. She also raises her boxing gloves to her head rubbing on that large incision.

Next was the HUGE moment...the moment that made my heart sing. She passed a swallow test that morning so they ordered her a liquid tray. When it came the nurse asked if I would feed her. So I did. I fed my mother-in-law like she once fed my children. She ate as much cream of chicken soup as her weakened body would allow, which wasn't a whole lot but good enough for a starting point.

Throughout the evening she would ask "where is George?" and I would answer in the same way, "he went to get some dinner and to take a nap." Time is something she doesn't have a grip on...night, day, all running together, but the love of her life is something she does not forget. The hospital staff says when George arrives in the morning she perks up. The evidence of his love for her has always been present and obvious throughout this whole difficult journey.

She asks for drinks of water-- which I gave to her on a soft sponge on a stick and she sucks the water from the sponge. She kept wanting to get out of bed, telling us she "needs to get up and move around." King Ralph explained to her if she got up and fell, hurting herself, she would only be in the hospital longer. She would then relax her body back down into the bed. She did this a number of times. She was on a mission impossible. I looked at her at one point and suggested maybe King Ralph was a spit fire in his childhood from her genes, she shrugged her shoulders and said "maybe so." The male nurse came in and turned on her bed alarm, just in case.

Oh here is the best part of the day...well that soup was best part so here's the second best part. Her sister came by to visit and before she fell asleep Aunt Janet held out two bottles of nail polish telling her to pick a color. My mother-in-law creeped her toes out from the sheets and twinkled toe nails of bright florescent pink. I had to text Princess A, M and D to tell them. They were so excited to know there grandma has her toe nails painted again. The painted toes were as much a surprise for my mother-in-law as they were to me. Aunt Janet painted those toes while my mother-in-law slept. She painted them because she had promised her that the morning of her surgery. Being allowed to have painted toe nails in the ICU is a sign, I am sure, that there must be a room waiting for her past those secured doors.

I told my mother-in-law she is running a marathon. She is around the twelfth mile and has fourteen more to go. She is running slow but picking up pace. As soon as she can eat more, gain an acceptable appetite, the feeding tube can come out. She has some optic nerve damage from the brain surgery which isn't an uncommon occurrence with brain stem aneurysm surgery. Hopefully it will correct itself in three months time and also her eye will open once all the swelling dissipates. If not the doctor says her can fix that. She can see out of the eye so that is really good news. She is weak in body but seems to have a spirit to move. That spirit is exactly what she needs to fully heal. While that spirit is fueled we must constantly remind her why she is in the hospital (since she can't seem to remember that).

The caged bird wants to sing. Amen!

Swine Lodge

While I was absorbed having fun in the Big Easy and then being thrown in the world of the ICU... I totally missed the news story that Trout Lodge had some swine flu outbreak. Wait. My kid is going to Trout Lodge for four days of marching band camp. Eeeeekkkk!

So in preparation I have been giving M daily soaks in Lysol disinfectant. I insisted she trade her Juicy perfume for squirts of blossom fragrant Lysol. I sent her with Lysol wipes, antibacterial hand soaps and... well, bubble wrap. Because one can never be to safe. She basically has a change of clothes and a billion spray cans of Lysol in her luggage.

Now while I am more concerned with did they scrub the camp down well enough when they closed to allow for occupants to invade-- to camp they go.

When I arrived to the school campus at the six A-M hour there where half dozen male band geeks standing at the entrance with large posters that read "FORMS". A weak imitation of a dozen hot babes in Coors Light and Budweiser bikinis with car wash signs. But it's band, and boys. M lifted her hand waving her form I printed off when I still in that one cock eyed state. After I parked and made a switch-- M for the Guard Instructor's dog... he asked did she have her form. Well hell ya I got the form, after three emails and a phone call about the form in less than 6 hours I better not show without the form.

What is the form you wonder? Seems Trout Lodge wanted proof that each band member was free of swine flu like symptoms. They required we take our child's temperature as we left the house, record it and sign off--on "the form". This is how I filled out the form: I handed it to M said fill it out. She forgot to record her temperature and with her guard instructor standing there I said to M write down "96.3*." He laughed at me. I said to him, "you didn't really think I pulled the thermometer out for this. I just laid my hand on her forehead and said feels like 96.3*. Then I raised the pen and told M to lift her tongue in the fashion of which a thermometer is placed. And so, the form which stood as a bus ticket to band camp was completed; in a not so legit manner. Oh well! No one ever said I was a perfect mom.

Reflection is Good!

Sometimes reflection makes you want to cry...a happy-this-world-is-good-after-all kind of cry. Which is exactly what this article did for me.

Open Heart. Helping hands. Memories.

Coming Out of the Dark

Yesterday as I counted the thirty-four staples and six sutures in my mother-in-law's head; I looked at her in her weakened state, she trying to focus her left eye on me and I told her, "mom tomorrow is my birthday when I come to visit you I want you to sing me Happy Birthday so snap out of this." She moaned and groaned some indistinguishable words.

If I would have had a cake, made a wish on my... lots of candles, it would have been for exactly what I saw when I got to the hospital for the evening shift. My mother-in-law made significant progress. Now I am sure if you walked in her room you would think maybe not so...but all of us, her family, oh ya! King Ralph said mom's ICU nurse told him her husband was so excited he stood in her room and cried. Gentle giant. Although we can't always make out what is saying to us she is talking. She is slowly coming out of the dark.

Sunday

1. Church
2. Hospital
3. Ballgame
4. Hospital

In that exact order

To Heavy to Title

I sit here in my home office thinking about how my morning began-- in routine meditation. I sit here in my home office thinking still mom snap out of this, come back to us because it would feel much better on the heart if I could talk to God for just thanks of a day sprinkled with bright sunshine.

Sadly, my morning meditation thoughts have been dictated with that daily wake-up update-- they are long coming to that minuscule type of talk with God--it seems. Instead I continue to pray intensely for Kev's mom, my mother-in-law.

Gladly, I tell that she is surrounded by all the people who truly love her and a medical community desiring to see her pop back to her whole self.

I hope soon I will be able to blog about goofy-silly-nonsense that makes our life the lives we live.

Simply Titled: Prayers for Mom

Yesterday was a long day. My mother-in-law had brain surgery. I could have cried, let tears stream down my cheeks...but I did not. I did not because I believed, believe that our purpose is to be pillars of strength for my mother-in-law and her husband. That show of human weakness would not serve my purpose at this time. I will tell this...when King Ralph and I walked into her ICU room I stood there for a good twenty seconds questioning if I was in the correct room...my mother-in-law looks nothing like herself. She is swollen beyond description. Her agitated cries for "help" and "my head hurts" and "get me out of here" thug at the heart. I just lifted her hand and gently kissed it and told her prayers abound.

As we left and my one sister-in-law cried hard I told her, God is good and now is time for mom to heal...and mom's husband, a gentle giant, looked at me with a small smile and shook his head yes.

So we will all gather again today. When not in our moments of quiet personal prayer we will laugh for her...because that is what see loves to make us do--laugh.

The Best Party With Teenagers I've Been Too

Do you ever sit and look around at the streets as you take a drive on Sunday morning? I do. What I think is boy-oh-boy there sure aren't a lot of cars out here, isn't anyone wanting to go to church? I begin to realize in these times God just doesn't seem to rate very important, he's second fiddle to the drive to attain materialism, extra sleep, a little league game, an extra dollar with a weekend job...then I stand in the middle of New Orleans and start to change my mind.

The streets here are more than littered with teenage Lutherans they are congested. The few who are in this city that aren't part of the Youth Gathering are amazed. I too am amazed. Not just at how many matching T-shirts can be produced for spectacle but that these young people, and although in a world of billions these 37,000 teenagers represent the hope that God is alive, that his message of hope isn't dying. And, that you can have a ton of fun showing the world.

I have heard the most incredible speakers. Viola Vaughn is one of them-- incredible, passionate woman of heart. When you listen, hear Becca Stevens you'll want to shop her products. Liz McCartney, a CNN Hero of the Year in 2008 makes you realize there is people of true heart and hand in this sometimes sad world-- in which we are all a part of. Nothing, no nothing tops last nights speakers--Spencer West and Michel Chikwanie; a child soldier who had the courage to flee his captures... to over come, to march on, to not be pulled down or back. Amazing stories.

While I sit here, as I am sure everyone is, awakening to the idea that our struggles and woes are sometimes, somewhat minuscule. Realizing hope and love can answer when you trust-- you will prevail.

Just when I was letting that notion settle in deep into my soul...Skillet! Who knew Jesus came with a side of heavy metal. But gee whiz am I glad I know they exist because I have a proper replacement for "Heavy Metal Maddi's" Slipknot. Music of all kinds is being played, from hip-hop to contemporary... and the crowd sings and dances. Not in an ideal rival fashion but in a regular teenage rock concert fashion-- 37,000 plus fill the Super Dome all up on feet rocking out. Fun.
The big reason we have all come is to serve the people of New Orleans was yesterday, we spent the day at Airline Park Elementary school working with kids who's struggles start at home and spill over into the classroom. My little guy nearly six-years old going into the first grade could not, can not count to ten, does not know his alphabet; which means he is far behind the norm. He could however dance like Michael Jackson. How do I know this? The little guy cute as a bug couldn't manage to stay put in a seat for more than two minutes...and that might be stretching it. Then we helped distribute textbooks, others scrubbed desks; all readying the school for a new and upcoming year of learning. It was at our Final 15, what we call the moments we gather together to reflect on the day in a spiritual nature...one of our boys said "I wonder how the guys who spent the day not with kids but instead hauling text books and scrubbing desks, did they get anything out of the day, did they find a "thanks" in the service?" To which I told the story of how I moved a classroom last year at work for a teacher who to this day is rather thankless for my hard work...I reminded [my] kids that those who worked on behalf of the kids and not with the kids did just that, worked on there behalf. It wasn't as much about helping the teacher but making the school readied for the kids, readied for a year of learning. The school we served although not one of the terribly devastated hurricane hit areas and known for being on target with state levels for learning has adopted a population no stranger to poverty and illiteracy. The teacher we worked with told us last school year was a year to hug and love, clothe and feed these new little peoples to the school...now that they have earned there trust they will focus on educating. The question was asked by our service hostess "did you see God in your service?" To which I say yes, in the face of each child longing for hope and a future. (this photo was taken with my camera by one of the students, which explains the off center)

When I think about service I reflect on the sea of orange T-shirts more than sprinkling the streets of NOLA...the visual mark that tens of thousands of people came to restore this beautiful city. What an awesome sight! We are told the work we did in three days would have taken the City of New Orleans three years. That of all the volunteers the city has seen "The Lutherans" have shined brightest-- based on the sheer number of volunteers. What a good feeling!

I cannot on this page dare to touch on all the stories of the New Orleans people we spoke with. I cannot begin to use enough adjective to describe the volume of orange T-shirts presented on the streets which we all wore on those service days. It was an incredible site of love and hope. That is exactly what each person we spoke with said...they may have lost everything but they carried on, they believe in "hope".

Partying Like A Lutheran

To exhausted to tell in words so how about one, two group photos to let you all know I am still around...in the Big Easy...in a sea of Lutheran teenagers.

Holy Chaos--Lutheran Style

I'm in the deep throws of packing. I have clothes, T-shirts of every color and style for a group of ten; I have boxes of breakfast foods, and boxes of books. I have coolers of beverages--lots and lots of bottled water. I even have a gazillion yo-yos for trade. I'm getting excited. Tomorrow morning before the rooster barely has time to drum up a cock-a-doodle-do I will be rolling down the highway on my way to New Orleans for the Youth Gathering. While I pack I start to think about the conversation D and I had two weeks ago...

Around my youngest daughter's neck hangs a silver gold trimmed circle pendant that has her first name engraved on the front and on the reverse side her confirmation verse: Jeremiah 29:11-- a gift from her daddy and I.

As we were driving to church to make copies and chatting about our service event assignment we had just received I looked at her and said "your confirmation verse kind of fits into our service experience". "Not for me" she said. "How about for the children we will be reading to and with, can't you see the message in: For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future? Isn't this what our hands and hearts are opened to here in New Orleans, to show to these young children, these people--hope and a future?" I guess IT IS fitting,” she said. Then we began talking about reading and how it is hard to imagine a time when we couldn't read. We seem to take for granted a skill we posses, that it is just an innate part of our being. Truth is it isn't. It is something we all must work hard to cultivate the skill must be nurtured. For every ten people in New Orleans only three is literate…a very sad but real statistic. I told the story of how in elementary school I was for a time in the lowest reading group, but with the loving attention of good caring teachers and self practice of those learned skills I came to love reading-- all because someone cared enough to offer me the hope with a future so that I should be fit to prosper.

Cultivate. Nurture. Practice. Share. All these words do more than describe our servant area and event at the Jefferson Parish Public Schools. They really attest to the Gathering in the whole. We come to New Orleans to share, practice, nurture and cultivate our faith, our relationship with Christ. And the cool thing is...we aren't doing it alone, we have 36,000 friends in Christ to grow with. While many of us may walk into our service areas viewing, thinking, and feeling--"chaos" all our hands and loving hearts together put a "peace" of "holy" on it. Holy chaos is uplifting, fulfilling.

I can think of nothing better than holy chaos! You?

I also imagine the question on many young people's minds will be-- can we make a difference here, in our short time? If we allow ourselves to step back and evaluate why we have come to New Orleans it truly is a good feeling to know, to hope that our presence and the work we have come to do on there behalf will open hearts to the knowledge; not only [for us] in the sense of education and vocation, but that God does have a PLAN for us all, a PLAN for us all to prosper and to give the HOPE for a future.

So I say...New Orleans or Bust!

A Different Kind of Band Camp

As I type teen aged girls giggle under the moonlight zipped inside a tent. The fire is out but the momentum of the night carries on. All I see is camera flashes and shadows through the tent fabric. And, more giggles. The intent: for a team to bond. I believe-- successful.

Did you ever camp out in the back yard when you were a kid? We never camped in the yard but instead camped out on our deck, right under the stars. Our second story deck had no stairs so it was pretty safe. We were just a roll away from the sliding glass door leading back into the town house if the weather chased us in. We slept in sleeping bags on the hard lumber without a complaint or care to the, what I would now consider, less than comfortable surface. It was also the era of UFO sightings. We would lie there watching every twinkle of a star summing it up as an alien's space ship. We all probably had one dose to many of Land of the Lost. When we woke in the morning it was by the warmth of the summer morning sun heating the silky nylon fabrics of our sleeping bags. Oh to be a kid again.

Instead I enjoy watching the Color Guard girls pitch tents in my backyard. Not a single girl references the instruction sheets for tents construction...no, instead one they study the picture on the box, while the other tent was constructed merely by trail and error. Who needs directions, men don't so why should teen girls? Team building. That is what the magic ingredient was. Success was achieved. Tents erected.

A true campfire fare was offered: weenies roasted on the open fire, marshmallows for desert. A trio of chips as the side dish. Wash it all down with soda pop and iPod tunes...what more could you want on a cool July evening. Sleep? Never. Slumber parties, no matter what there nature are never about clocking the z's they are about how long and how much you can talk and solve "girl problems." What are girl problems when you're a teen? Boys? Fashion? Crazy teachers? What bachelor Jillian The Bachelorette will pick?

All I know is I will be inside slumbering on my Posture Pedic mattress. For me this is all right!

Mr. 49 No More

Sure you will always be King Ralph but you are no longer Mr. 49.

You are Mr. Half-Century.

Happy Birthday old man, my old man.

Week Review

This week I can't seem to catch my breath. Or keep my balance.

Sunday- When I thought the dove had delivered the olive branch I ventured out to the grocery store only to realize that Noah was sill out in my side yard building an arc as the rains continued to pour down. While the rain kept on coming down I too went down...in the grocery store parking lot, in the cross walk, when my flip flops failed me and sent me dancing on the pavement in the fashion of a cartoon character, till my keister hit the black top so hard, and my shorts soaked to the skin. OUCH! Darn flip flops!!

Monday- I rose early and went for an invigorating walk on the long trail at Powder Valley. I love walking early in the morning when it is just me and nature. As the wind blew softly, rain drops perched upon leaves sprinkled my skin. I listened the birds sing. By the time I got home no one knew I ever left--teenage girls still slumbering soundly.

Alee and her Jewish boy (he still is a blog for another day) headed off for the Fan Fest in celebration of the All-Star Game.

Then it was doctor day. M and D needed physicals for high school. Since they are big girls now I am left in the waiting room alone to inhale the germs of small people. When I was invited in I got a new prescription for M's expired Epipen and forms to sign for D's dump truck full of inoculations, which guarantee her entrance into the high school, plus a prescription for a back x-ray. Scoliosis. I just looked at the doctor and said "I just don't have it in me to go down that road again"...a road I am still on, sadly. Turns out, thank the Lord, the curve is mild, to mild to have to bother with. Amen! Besides my baby girl is most likely fully grown. Yippee yahoo I am finally taller than one of my girls!

Here's my favorite part of the doctor day. While sitting in the waiting room of the imaging center this boy around ten or eleven walks out with his mom, he is walking fairly normal but with every step he moans out and ou, ooo, ou, ooo, each one louder than the one before. Then he walks back into the exam area. An older woman says I wonder what is wrong with him to which I comment probably nothing. With that the mom walks out gathers her other children in the waiting room when one asked what is wrong with him to which the mom replied nothing just bruised. Ha, I knew it. The mom in me can sense it. What I didn't know is that boys had it in them to produce such drama. I thought that was a role reserved to girls only.

Tuesday- Challenged the rain by heading to Six Flags on some $9.80 tickets from the radio station. By the time we walked in water park the rain stopped. We had a great time me, Princess A, D and King Ralph's niece. (M was busy with Color Guard and a Harry Potter party which preceded a midnight showing of the new Harry flick). While at Six Flags we rode every coaster. I love roller coasters! Except I got a taste of aging while on Mr. Freeze. As the coaster hung there at the end of the track before descending backwards I got so dizzy I saw blackness dancing around in my head. My brain was scrambled eggs. That was it I felt pukey for a long while after that ride; which I have ridden once before with no issues or cause for concern. We next rode Thunder River for a fully clothed baptism of theme park water. We rode with the four biggest women in the park who were the most obnoxious things ever. The one woman apparently lacked attention in her youth so she made herself a spectacle by screaming lots of "Oh Sh#*" and "my crack is wet, my bootie crack is wet", well hello you are on a water ride. While the girls got off nearly dry I was soaked--head to knee caps. They laughed at me instead of thanking me for taking on the heavy side of the ride. Next I made the girls ride the ever-so-exciting train so I could decompress and maybe catch a wind to dry my clothes. Once decompressed I rode a few more coaster before we departed for a dinner of Steak-n-Shake--in my still wet clothes.

Side note: I realized the reason I have not been to Six Flags in seven years. It is as gross now as it was then. I really truly am an amusement park snob. Give me Disney. Give me Busch Gardens. You can have Six Flags. (We did have fun though)

Wednesday- Since I started the week on a doctor day I figure we would see how many more hours devoted to good health we could fit in the week. To the dentist we went. Luckily the new dentist is across the street from my house so the girls were shuttled or shuffled home between appointments. I however took to the waiting from 1-3pm till it was my turn. Seven hundred dollars later and return visit for M to get a cavity filled tonight (which means the bill is going to inflate) we all have extra clean teeth. We all promise to floss--more.

Today- Between carpooling for Color Guard practice, doing a market research (I am tasting OJ for forty-five minutes for a payout of $40) and then back to Color Guard to pass out parade uniforms I just might need...a stiff drink? No a nap!

I didn't get the nap but I got a drink, a margarita, when we went out to dinner to celebrate King Ralph's birthday. I am shipping him off to the lake with Princess A for the weekend to celebrate.

Question of the Day...

...really it has been my question of the month.

The Hair. To cut or not to cut?

At Least We Didn't Name You Rumer, Apple or Moon

I had started to blog when the phone rang; it was Uncle Dan informing us that the space station was about to fly over our houses. Like the geeks we are we all rushed outside, continued talking on the phone till we all spotted the fast moving ball of light...once confirmed we said good-bye.

This is the kind of excitement we crave this summer...excitement of nothingness.

While we are talking space... Princess A came home from work and what prompted the conversation I will never know but we started talking about the spelling of her name. She said people always ask what her full name is; they can’t believe her real name is not just a nickname. Then she told us how her sorority sisters always tell her in so many words that her parents were on crack when they came up with the spelling. King Ralph defending himself, us, tells her the spelling is Romanian Transylvanian something or other, to which Princess A just laughs at him in her queer sort of way. I tell her we agreed on the unusual one-of-a-kind spelling in the instance she became some famous human being making her an authentic individual. Then she says her name spelling is odd she should just spell her name backwards and it would be just as weird. So instead of Princess Alee (pronounced: a like in apple - lee or alley) she would be Princess Eela. We told her it sounds very Star Wars. Very galactic. (George Lucas you can thank us later for your new character name)

Then we went to dinner where King Ralph told Princess Eela that she needs to tell her Jewish boy (boy is used in reference by Princess A since he skipped the bar mitzvah which is the marking of becoming a man) that he wants to go fishing down at the pond and share a beer so they can bond. I think it must have been the mariachi band and the monster beer talking at our chosen dining establishment. Actually I would love to see King Ralph actually bond with one of the Princess Eela's young male suitors instead of stretched out in the recliner in an intimidating position remedying fear in the young men who enter our home. The stars will really need to aligned just for this to occur.

Princess Eela says while King Ralph is out fishing with Jewish boy she is going over to his mother's house to play a few flute duets. The boy's mother actually suggested since they are both flutist that they hang out and play duets. I guess the fact that her son is dating a Christian girl is all forgotten by the fact she plays the flute.

So while they are out fishing and fluting I might just work on that matzoth ball soup recipe.

Reasons I May Not Be Blogging Much

It seems I just don't blog much these days and why, you are wondering why.

It could be I am busy...

begging for a car, between King Ralph and Princess A's employment wheels are hard to come by.

When I do have wheels...

I am running M to Color Guard practice and measuring a slue of girls for performance uniforms

then I run girls to doctor appointments

and to the Walmart to drop a couple of Ben Franklins on new spectacles for M

then pop over to the Grant's Trail for a bit of exercise as I work to eliminate my butt shelf

I go to the church office to make copies by the hundreds of papers to take to the Youth Gathering

escape to sister-in-law's pool for sun and water fun

When I don't have wheels...

I make spread sheets for Color Guard

make more spread sheets for the Youth Gathering

watch M and D play a childhood game with the globe--spin it, and where ever your finger lands is where you are going to live someday. Preferably with a car in the driveway.

walk the neighborhood streets trying to work away my butt shelf

sit in the home office ordering T-shirts for the Youth Gathering

send email orders to embroidery company for Color Guard accessories

call marching band uniform company to order more Color Guard accessories

there is the moments of required referee performed due to girl drama in the house (King Ralph says that M and D crave sister drama so much they would argue over dust on the ground)

I read

and watch movies on TCM and AMC

It's not that I don't want to blog it's just I am busy doing something that pretty much sums up to doing nothing...and loving it!

Three Cheers for the Red White and Blue

After a week of detox from my over indulgence of sweets, in an effort to lose some weight I have fallen off the wagon…the cause—the Fourth of July, weekend.

There was Thursday. Dinner at my sister-in-law’s where my mother-in-law joined us—God bless her. If I may digress…as good as it is see her it is hard. Preparing for and worrying about her upcoming delicate brain surgery she wears on her face like a coat. The stress, the worry, the draw of her face is something I have never seen draped across her being. For her children to be with her breaking bread seemed somehow comforting for her and them. So, while she worries she poisoned us with the most decadent homemade triple chocolate brownies I have ever eaten. That’s all it took to fall of the wagon. I tried to lose the calories by laughing at King Ralph’s practical joke he played on his little sister. Tried again by laughing at King Ralph’s uncharacteristic behavior each time his team won a point in the game of “Catch Phrase”. I think someone said, and it had a measure of truth, “you would think we were drunk”…but we weren’t. Just family having good ole’ fashion fun. If I may add the jealousy soothed at me for being the only adult not in need of reading glasses or a magnifying glass to read the game card.

Friday. Back at sister-in-law’s house to swim, sun and reminisce about the evening before practical joke. Where we sipped frozen mudslides while floating on rafts. The kids sipped Icees from the Quick Trip. While we floated and sipped we planned our next bit of holiday weekend fun—the drive-in.

We were the envy of the drive-in. Our dining table with its meal of lasagna, Zia’s salad, French bread and again those dammed delicious triple chocolate brownies; were hardly competition for others dinner of greasy popcorn from the concession stand. Then we played Catch Phrase while we waited for the movies to start—Ice Age 3 and Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian. By the time Ben Stiller bid me good night I had really fallen off the wagon. One punch in my stomach I could have shot out Mike & Ike’s and Milk Duds like a machine gun.


On Saturday we woke to Mother Nature’s evilness instead of Uncle Sam’s glory. It rained and rained to the point I feared we would float off before we had a chance to light a sparkler. Luckily the rain paused long enough for us to party with the cousins, watch King Ralph and cousin Rich perform their Independence Day boy ritual of blowing up plastic bottles with sparkler wicks while the family’s best out-laws (me and Nancy) watched with frozen beverages in hand—mine being the ever so patriotic margarita. It must be breed in their offspring because M and Kelli decided they wanted to try to blow a full soda can, or was it send it to the moon with a tail of twinkling colors...unsuccessful attempts each try. Of course no Fourth of July is complete without an All-American meal…let me just say we feasted well! While we waited for dinner to digest we went to see the firework display where Mother Nature was kind enough to give the rain a brief break so we could be umbrellaed under a canopy of colors. Who picked the spot with the tree blocking the view? Rich maybe? Probably King Ralph.Once back at cousins’ house it was time to add insult to injury when someone served a towering four-layer chocolate cake with thick fudgy chocolate icing. Yum-me! (I am beginning to feel like Fudgie the Whale)
failed attempt one

failed attempt two

Now the weekend indulgence of fun, celebration, explosives and sweet treats has come to an end… it is time for me to rejoin Sweet Eaters Anonymous. This weeks meeting: on the scale. Yikes!

Independance Day 2009

Aaaaaahhhh the Fourth of July. America's birthday. A celebration of freedom under an umbrella of sparkling colors in the sky.

coming to a screeching halt

Someone find Noah and his arc, send him to rescue us. We are dam near ready to float away here in the suburbs of Saint Louis. Our galoshes are filled to the rims. The run off of water on our umbrellas is like that of a clogged gutter. The odds of keeping a punk lit to flare a sparkler--slim. Blankets spread on lawns must be exchanged for air mattresses.

In other words friends, it's a wet one today. A soggy celebration.

Good 72* Summer Morning

I spent last week feeling like a drenched dish rag, the heat so oppressive that the minute I exited from the refuge of air conditioning sweat poured from my forehead down my back. Yuck! No one left the house unless forced by work and high school obligations. The family hibernated inside the humble abode, gladly.

Change. This morning the day is glorious. Amen!

I zipped on my short velour robe,grabbed a bowl of Life cereal topped with a banana and a hand full of blueberries and took to the deck. While I fueled myself with morning meal breathing in cool fresh air I listened...nearly a bird song to be heard, instead the faint chirp of crickets. Our dog, Uli, dances in circles around the yard in the joy that somehow this morning she doesn't feel like she has been forced to wear a fur coat in the Sahara Desert and drinking a bowl of boiling tap water. That she can sleep under a shade tree all day never panting to cool herself. The dog days of summer are gone-- at least for a while.

After a few loads of laundry, a pass of the vacuum I will join Uli under the shade tree. Me and my book.

It's days like this, summer weather like this that makes you want to say--God is good!

Move the Orange Cones

I have before me a row of orange traffic cones. They aren't really blocking cars more symbolic of my thoughts.

Some people are just really good at posting everyday. I am not. If I don't feel it, something moving to write about a story is not able to dance off my fingers onto the keypad. This is not to say funny stuff, emotional happenings haven't occurred...just nothing that I can sing out in a read worthy fashion. I have typed, deleted, typed, deleted only to realize I am at a block, a blogger's block.

With the weather ever so perfect this week (that heat wave needed a snap good-bye) I am off for a late morning walk where if luck will have it the orange cones in my head will get lost along the way.

The Box Speaks of the Past

Summer at the Avery humble abode is all about closet cleaning. Every week of this summer break from work and school we, well mostly me, pick a closet and purge. It feels so good!

This week it was M who tackled a closet--the second closet in her bedroom. Without boring you with stories of all the treasure finds, let me say the trash man's job secured by the number of bags M loaded up. Now second closest holds a mirage of fashion selections that have spread with plenty of room for the fabric fibers to breath. I believe closet one is devoted to pants and shirts while closet two is the keeper of the dresses and skirts.

When you clean a closet it has a tendency to domino. When King Ralph's grandmother passed away M inherited her sewing machine and her sewing box stool. The stool was pretty much a kin to Pandora's box. Filled with a mess of threads of many colors, bias tapes, measuring tapes, needles and pins galore to prick the fingers-- enough to keep Sleeping Beauty resting. Then deep down in the bottom of the stool was a small stack of receipts, the receipts to the sewing machine. It was sort of like finding a love letter. The first receipt was dated December 12, 1970 with a total of $504.95. King Ralph's grandfather it seems purchased the sewing machine as a Christmas gift. It shows he traded in a sewing machine which he received twenty bucks credit for, which he didn't turn over to the Singer Company till December 26...I suppose to keep his secret under wraps. He made a fifty-dollar deposit and promised to make fifteen dollar a month payments. The other receipt is dated December 28, 1970 and says simply, "parts", at a cost of ten dollars. GeeGee, as the great grandchildren affectionately called her, must have bought an accessory for her new machine? When you think about five hundred dollars in 1970 that would be about a thousand dollars today...not a bad Christmas gift I say.

King Ralph then told M all about how he remembered his grandmother and his mother sewing dresses for his sisters on the machine. "They would have that rice paper", "you mean patterns dad?" M said. "Whatever, the paper was just really thin and it would be spread out all over the floor and they would pin and cut." Funny how time replays itself. Although I am not a sewer, M spreads her "rice paper" all over the floor and pins and cuts and creates on the same machine that her GeeGee once lovingly created from.


M kept the receipts, tucked them back into the bottom of the sewing stool. I can only assume as a reminder of where the machine came from...chapter one of a sewer's love story.

it's a hot one!

I walked outside to the car and the only thing rolling around in my head were the words of the Wicked Witch of West I'mmmmm melllllting. Rolling on my head were sweat droplets the size of lemons.

Holy crap-a-roola it's an oven in the Saint Louis suburbs--feels like it is 102*. If I may use the words of the great artist Santana-- "man its a hot one like seven inches from the midday sun." It is so hot I cannot, even trapped inside my air conditioned house, motivate myself to accomplish much of anything. I managed one very necessary errand and came straight home suffering from heat exhaustion. I can't even begin to think about cooking dinner. The idea of being anywhere near flame turns me off. I think I will serve bananas and ice water for dinner--no cooking required.

You know it is so hot that a pool wouldn't even be refreshing...it would be bath water, so not refreshing!

When I think about cooler days all I end up thinking to myself is, oh brother, it's only June 22. It is even the dog days of summer yet.

Ugh!

You Are Going to Have to Do Better Than This

This weekend DirecTV has given dad's across the country a gift--all the premium movies channels for free.

Now I have one question...how do you entice father's to want to splurge by adding a movie channel,or two, to their existing satellite plan when-- the movies offered for preview where box office hits in the 1980s and the 1990s? Not to mention they play, commercial interrupted, on TNT and AMC. (Smart ones, like me, would TIVO the movie and fast forward past all those commercials making it a commercial free viewing on a package channel.)

I mean really people, come on, entice me with a mass of just released to DVD selections. National Lampoons Christmas Vacation is not going to get me...great hilarious movie but not a grabber. Neither is Pretty Woman. Bratz isn't going to grab dad's wallet either; it's more of a deal breaker.

Just my personal observation. However, if you're a dad stretched out in your Lazy Boy taking the day off tomorrow, good for you...enjoy a movie.

For us, we're turning off the TV and sticking the dad of our house on a raft in a pool, beer in hand, smelling the waft of BBQ being grilled by the ladies of his life--sisters, wife, daughters,niece...

Happy Father's Day all you dads.

The Dreaded Summer Chore

Is there anything wrong with cultivating a suburban clover farm? One that grows in the middle of a dog track? I don't think so. Uli doesn't think so either, she rather enjoys a flower garden in the center of her Kentucky Derby style homespun track. But, I am sure, a few of my neighbors would beg to differ and tell me there is. I just loath the idea of having to mow the backyard--today.

I actually enjoy mowing the grass, as crazy as that might sound. However, somewhere between Sunday and yesterday Saint Louis made a mad dash into summer--heat, humidity, steam rising off the cement sidewalks, air you can cut with a knife. Basically hell on earth. Knowing the only real relief would be submerged in a barrel of water or inside where cool air is pumped while the meter spins like an out-of-control top. So while I sit, no lay in my bed, peering out the window at my backyard heavily sprinkled with papilionaceous; those sweet little white flowers...probably all three hundred species of the trifolium family consuming my yard I am trying to sike myself out of the task.

I just cannot motivate myself to take to the outside air where the temperature at 7am is already 81* with a looming heat index of 105. Who in there right mind would willing take to outside chores on a day like this?

Then I glance to the right and notice the dreaded renter's yard I will not let myself fall into his pit of laziness. What I love about "renter" is that when he moved in he introduced himself to King Ralph through a half opened screened kitchen window; the first thing he said to ole' King was he once had a neighbor he had to get on mow the grass. Now it's a running joke between us and the neighbor who butts up to other side of the house--when will he mow his grass and should King Ralph remind him of that moving conversation? The thought crossed our minds to go in half-n-half on a goat, a little grazer to keep "renters" yard manicured. Then we decided we would have nothing to laugh about together, maybe it is more like roll our eyes.

Oh well, I braved the heat and mowed the backyard. Tomorrow I will feed my suburban clover farm a little snack of weed-be-gone. (Sorry Uli you will have to enjoy a more Irish view of a green meadow) Then I will perform a voo-doo ritual on the "renter".

Note to self: purchase voo-doo doll when in New Orleans.

Sometimes I wish I lived in a world of astro turf.

She Told Me She Wasn't Going to Work at McDonald's

I wish I could say "good morning", well it is a good morning it's just I am dragging tired. You see Uli, our cute but stupid pooch is terrified of storms. As luck has it a 3am summer storm rolled in and the fact I was being nice by not locking Uli in her cage meant she was spinning in 90mph circles at the foot of my bed and yapping with fear. It is a most comical sight...but not at 3am! This went on for an hour... even from her cage; where I decided she was best to be trapped.

However I have woke early today...one because King Ralph couldn't find his clean uniform pants (which I retrieved for my wardrobe challenged hubby) and two because Princess A started her new job in a most familiar place.

I have been threatening my little princess since the week she took hard to the pavement failing to find a summer job that I was driving her tail to McDonald's to get employment. I explained-- it was either flipping burgers or no sorority life when she returns to college. We pay tuition but not sorority dues so she needed a J-O-B in a bad way.

The week we left for vacation we had our regular visit to the eye doctor. We all love the eye doctor, you almost have to when let the guy constantly cut on your daughters' eyeballs and sew their muscles in different locations. Anyway we are always laughing in doctor's office, ribbing each other and teasing the doc about years of being in his holding tank watching episodes of Veggie Tales to entertain while in the holding pattern. We laughed that M has so many specialist that her middle name is "million dollar co-pay" but that eye doc is our favorite of all her specialist. He then said we are his favorites as well. How sweet is that? His whole staff is so warm and inviting, so truly caring. You aren't just a number-- at least we have never felt that way. He has made a generous donation to the school's marching band for the Rose Bowl Parade trip, he has called as soon as we get home from the hospital to make sure the girls are comfortable, his assistant has shed tears with and for my nervous girl. You learn to trust and they in return care. With two kids with unusual eye concerns we spend a great deal of time hanging around in that office.

Princess A went into her exam room solo for the first time where she had "grown-up" conversation with the doctor. In the conversation was discussion on if she was working this summer, to which she commented she was on the prowl with little success. While were gone on vacation the doctor's assistant called and left Princess A two messages, which included her cell number. Hmmmm what could she want? All I could think of was that they would want Princess A's permission to use her unusual and difficult eye condition/case for a teaching tool. That wasn't it at all. Nope. The doctor wanted to offer Princess A a summer job. Go Figure?!

So this morning Princess A rose before seven, put on a lose and home spun version of the office uniform, I slapped some lunch money in her palm (because that is what moms do), then I crossed my fingers that her first experience in rush hour traffic down Highway 270 would be successful...because the best way to learn rush hour driving technique is to dive head first into the ocean of bumper to bumper traffic.

Then I waited. Waited for her to call me to say she arrived safely. 8:21am she called and I rolled over to drift back to sleep.

Now I wait,wait to hear all about her first day on the job. How she is taking her relationship with the eye doctor's office to a whole new level and learning to perform in a "real" working world with important purpose. How she maneuvered the rush hour drives. What she spent her lunch money on. I'm just really excited that she has this opportunity to grow. I'm thriled she has a J-O-B!

There's No Place Like Home, Really Vacation

We'rrrrre hooooome. Of course coming home leads to moments of reflection.

Like these: When we walked down to the beach on Thursday morning our fine sand castle stood intact, which gave us fortuity to expand...until we decided a total makeover and reconstruction would allow our inner artists to dance. Passer-bys stopped to comment on her beauty, some even came to snap pictures, some came to ask how to build a castle of such proportion. Others said they watched from there balcony all day as we built her. A structure built of family fun and love. Is she not grander the second time around? Oh-yes-she-is!

Then we went to dinner at LuLu's. While we waited for our table we sipped "Marina Mama's" from plastic cups while peering around the marina at luscious boats and listening to the band play great tunes that coaxed a sing-along. Then we came back to the beach, hoping to see our spectacular castle glisten under the big bright moon light. Not this time. Either jealous marvelors or no-good teenage sand castle vandals came by and knocked her down. Her beautiful shell enhanced exterior, her perfectly sculpted cathedral staircases and her sea weed roofs were no more. How dare! But it is just sand which means our large pile, the building block, the base of many sand granules was there to offer pallet to a new group of artists to mold and form into a new sculpture of sand exquisiteness.

We are known for taking a day on the path to home and just stopping at an unplanned location...this time it was New Orleans-- a 3.5 hour jog over and across the Lake Pontchartrain bridge. It was actually fun being there, knowing M, D and I will be there again next month for the Youth Gathering...it gave us opportunity to find our hotel, it's correlation to the dome and map out a few dining choices. Of course New Orleans offered a few "oh brother" murmurs as we passed down Bourbon Street-- the whores all clad in there nightwear were hanging in the doorways peddling their stripper delights. Oh dear God! I needed a hurricane in a paper cup after that sight...come to think of it I had one in my hand already, I was in need of a second, as my mind drifted to the 36,000 Christian teenagers who would glance this sight next month. (And there will be no hurricane sipping for this role model on that trip--unfortunately).

The N'awlin's heat. The humidity. It was like Hell. I can only dare to allow myself to think about what it will be like next month. Water, water, water, we will all need to drink plenty. I mean gallons or I will be doling out Tylenol for the heat related head aches like a back door drug dealer. I have made a notation on the info sheet that the Gathering is not supplying water bottles like they have in the past. We need to bring our own, and not just small bottles but big a** bottles.

So while in NOLA we rode the Street Car (don't call it a trolley), ate a dozen yummy beignets at Cafe Du Monde, walked and gazed at architecture, ate a dinner of traditional Cajun and Creole goodness at The Market Cafe before heading back to our cool mod hotel sprinkled with fun art for a dip in the roof top pool.

The next day it was on the road to home. This is was another favorite restroom/gas stop:Jackson MS, Dixie Gas. Exiting the car we four girls bolt into the gas station where I let my eyes dart around looking for the restroom sign. I cannot locate so I ask the attendant, "where is the restroom?" She replies "we don't have any." "No restroom?" "No mam, no public ones." "What the hell kind of gas station is this?" "The old fashion kind" she responds. Then we hoofed it next door to the Shell station (and it's modern facilities) while King Ralph continued to pump that cheap $2.43 a gallon gas. As we all crammed in the single toilet restroom I looked at the girls and said "an old fashion gas station would have someone checking my oil, cleaning my windshield and motioning me to the restroom which requires a key on a large wood block style key chain followed by an ice cold Pepsi in a glass bottle from vending machine." What the hey, does this gal really get the pleasure of a restroom while at work or does she have to pee in the field behind the building? Then the girls tortured King Ralph with Patsy Cline's greatest hits by singing each word perfectly and in perfect harmony. A sign they can only take so many hours trapped down by a seat belt while feet are restrained by M's million over sized purses filled with sttttuff.

Eleven hours and a barrage of tunes and moans from Princess A that she can't handle a drive that long during her waking hours we pulled in the driveway to a happy pouch greeting, luggage to unload and reality that real life has to kick back into gear.

Goodbye Respite of Relaxation

I sit staring out at the sands and vast pool of water--Gulf of Mexico and begin to think all my goodbyes.

Goodbye beach, oh great respite of relaxation. Goodbye boy who never fails to show at 730am arranging the lounge chair cushions and umbrellas. Goodbye morning fishermen--though y ou may have not reeled in a single fish you can sense the tranquility the rod and reel give. Good bye seagulls and pelicans. Goodbye morning beach walkers and joggers--how I enjoyed joining you. Goodbye mojitos. Goodbye rafts and sand toys--you brought out our inner artists so strangers could marvel at our great builds. Goodbye sunshine, you danced down on us all and kissed our skin ever so right. Goodbye sand in which we twinkled our toes. Goodbye sneaky granules of sand that sprinkle into our beds and reminded us that a sandbox wait to greet us each day. Goodbye novel with your rippled pages that have the mark of love and beach stamped upon the edges.

Goodbye-Goodbye-Goodbye. Till we meet again.

The Last Act

I sit on the balcony, as I have for the last several days, listening the waves crash and eating cereal. I sit here watching the beach lounge chair rental boy arrange the blue cushions and the coordinating umbrellas just perfectly so to reflect the sun...every morning without fail he arrives at 730am to tend to his task (and then sits all day watching over the seldom purchased elevators from the sands and protectors of the sun.)

I gaze out and see our castle of the sand has remained intact. Happy. Happy I am. I watch morning walkers stop to marvel at her beauty and grandeur. So, we will expand today, turning her from castle to cathedral. We will soak the last droplets the Alabama beach sun offers as today marks--time to move on.

The Sand Is Our Clay

...from Alvar Aalto to Frank Lloyd Wright to the Avery Girls...a masterpiece that has captured the attention of all those who take to these sands.
And, a masterpiece of such greatness requires me guarding and gazing at its mammoth beauty. The queen of the sands, that is what she is--not me, the sand castle.

How I hope the evening vandals of the sand structures leave this masterpiece to stand tall and proud for another day.

Chillaxin...

...is exactly what I have been doing for the last several days. I know this by the color of my skin--a swirl of tan and red and by the pages of my novel--that have damp rippled edges from the waters of the Gulf and by the chilled beverage choice in the cooler--mojitos. Aaaaahhhh the sand and the sun...and people watching.

Of course boom box boy was back later in the day making his hit again-- leaving me to wonder if he thought I was a cougar or it was still the 1800's, with my Princess A requiring a suitable chaperon when in the company (or pursuit) of the opposite sex. There was the older woman who wore calve high white sport socks as she walked down the beach (boom box boy told us when his posse giggled at her as she passed she exposed her very sun burnt feet...then why go for a walk in your socks down the beach, strange sight?) There is the odd couple that emerge from 10am-noon, just stare at everyone and when they aren't looking you stare back; mostly at the man and his James Bond swimsuit. There is the little girl whose "nanny" brought she and her brother to the beach with no entertainment devices--no rafts, no sand toys...and so little girl wants ME to play with her...and feed her my crackers...and float on my rafts--to which I do with an emotion of empathy. King Ralph watches it all perched in a chair under the god of shade--the E-Zup canopy.

When I wake early in the morning I sit on the balcony watching people fish and pelicans swoop down for a breakfast that is surely surfacing as the poles lure their meal in...a game of cat and mouse between the bird and the fisherman.

When the clock strikes 8am I walk down the shore, sit in the quietness and serenity it offers at that hour of the morning waiting for the rest of the world to join me.

Coo-yôn on the Beach

Aaaahhhh the sand and the sun...and the entertainment-- of a group of college aged kids on a family beach acting like they are on spring break in Daytona. Yep, they were there acting like idiots for all to watch while I wondered if we would be scraping one of them off the bottom of Gulf by five o'clock. Entertainment. Girls not fit for teeinie-weenie bikinis but wearing them anyway. Girl in fabulous raft drinking a pitcher of spiked punch while floating on fabulous raft (first pitcher red juice, the second yellow juice). Boy walking in Gulf with mini boom box on shoulder; certainly having consumed some high octane beverage prior to the noon hour, feeling the vibe of an era gone by. Oh beach entertainment you have not failed us.

And then...as the clock struck the 3 o'clock hour and the gang of entertainment began to thin out boom box boy made a smooth move over towards myself, M and Princess A... "do you mind if I sit here and talk to you all for a while my buddy is on the phone with his girl friend and...?" What do you say, no? Of course bikini clad Princess A, the obvious target for his desire "to talk", nicely said (as I taught her to be) "ya that's fine." Then the slight pick up lines dropped trickled out right in front of mama. There was the usual small talk of where do you go to school and where are you all from...but when I walked back to our canopy to giggle with King Ralph, who keep his intimidating position from a distance did boom box boy dare to ask my princess if she had a boy friend...to which she replied "yes" and he replied back something in the manner of, cause I don't want your boyfriend coming up to me saying why are you talking to my girl. Princess A laughed when she later told me and said her guy would have beat him up with his spiked yamaka and his Torah. Oh the Jewish boy--still a story for another blog, soon I promise.

Boom box boy invited the three of us to the party with him and his drunk friends at The Hangout and dance the Stanky Leg. Of course without verbally expressing our no pass we all just nodded and smiled. Boom box boy even told me, yuck, that I would look hotter in an LSU hat. Excuse me I was looking all mom-40ish-swimsuit-cleavage-bearing-tractor-ass-hot in my STL Cardinals hat, thank you. Then he found interest in learning SLT slang words, so we obliged and he tossed a few Louisanna slang words our way. Although today I find his definition of coo-yôn meaning cool not in relation to the French Cajun dictionary's definition meaning, stupid. That is exactly how he and his friends behaved on the beach...they where being coo-yôn.

According to boom box boy he is here for yet one more day of sun. So the entertainment of coo-yôn fun and behavior continues-- for our entertainment pleasure.

This is only one reason why you gotta love the beach!

Good Morning Sweet Summer

Monday June 8

Okay so a girl can’t stay awake much past 930pm when she lacks proper sleep—both in quantity and comfort from the night before…I find myself awake at 545am sitting on the balcony, sipping morning beverage and listening to the crash of the waves on the sandy shore. Peace. Not the tranquility of the mountain peace I so love that our vacations usually deliver, but peace and beauty nonetheless. Good morning Gulf of Mexico. Oh bright and beautiful Alabama sun please kiss my alabaster skin and turn me a golden shade of brown. Let us laugh together, build sand castles, let there be cocktails in plastic cups sipped while our toes twinkle in the white sands and let us nap under the warmth of your healing and rejuvenating powers when not turning the pages of our many novels.

Let this be our repeated pattern for five glorious days of family loving vacation time.

I'm Constipated and That Is Really Okay

Sunday June 7

Good morning…wait I can hardly say that as I have nearly gone to bed, and I count the minutes till I wake King Ralph to a packed and snack stocked car to begin the drive for our very last minute vacation—so not the Avery style. I am a planner. I like to research, map, and calculate everything about a destination before we venture out. No, not this time…this time we waited and waited for word if King Ralph’s momma would be having a quite delicate surgery. Once we got word that her surgery was scheduled for July we went into vacation mode on Friday afternoon and booked a condo on the beach. (Our window of opportunity is so meek with all the girls’ high school activities. This week was our open window.) No camping, no mountain trekking trip this year—I know and we all seem to miss it, but we followed the sun and the sun was not shining anywhere else except where we are going.

At 3am away we rolled…towards Gulf Shores, Alabama-- the beach and the sun.

There is something about being together in the car that gets us all laughing—especially at rest stops. We stopped for gas and potty break; we stomped into the ladies rooms like a pack of sorority girls and stood waiting our turn. I went first (as the girls unaware that we taking the age before beauty line up for our much needed relief), testing the toilet seat for safety (the toilet seat was about 5 inches smaller than the toilet bowl)…finished with my turn I stood checking out the options from the vending machine (such delightful exotic options), then proceeding to the “Magic Scale” that would not only tell me a fortune for a quarter but also announce my weight—which by the read of the suggested height/weight ratio it would have read me as--tractor ass. Then I turned to tell D something when we hear an odd pained groan and moan coming from the other occupied stall, with intermittent courtesy flushes. I looked at D with a very queer and scared looked on my face, she looked back in the same fashion and then…my baby lacking all public restroom manners laughed, hard…and I bolted out of there. Thanking the good Lord above that travel makes me constipated.

So onto the next gas and restroom stop, where laughing before we got through the door…the sign on the front door read, “pants must be pulled up and a shirt must be worn for service.” Oh brother, I guess here in Chicora, Mississippi they like their ass hanging out of the pants. Never mind they had boys running around the joint with feet as black as coal [from ground dirt]…but their pants where pulled up and there were on well enough to get those icy beverages. We laughed all the way back to the car with M snapping a picture of the sign like the paparazzi.

We kept on driving...me trying to figure out how I could find comfort for my weary I-never-really-went-to-bed-left-the-house-at-3am-body anywhere in the car. I never managed much more than 20 minutes here and there. M on the other hand took her bad crocked back to the “way back” seat of the mini-van and stretched out like a queen while the rest of us cocooned in our micro space. After doling out our on-the-move breakfast and lunch of buttered slices of homemade banana bread, croissants, Mike-n-Ikes, DOTS, Fritos and mozzarella dip, sub sandwiches, carrots and dip, diet cokes, juices and coffee from the backseat kitchen—we arrived at our destination.

The beach!

Just a Little Chatter

Since Memorial Day weekend I have been trying to fight off a sinus aliment. I have gone days in a row with headaches that are lodged behind my eyes and pan up to my forehead while I wait for my head to explode. My nasal cavity so full of sinus gunk putting pressure on my eyes that I would swear my eyes resembled that of a basset hound's. When I went to pick my ring up at the jewelers on Tuesday I had Princess A drive me; as I reached my tolerance level. I walked in wearing part of my "summer uniform"--sunglasses and a STL Cardinal ball cap. It was suggested by my jeweler that I was incognito, when really I was attempting to keep the glare of some wonderful warm sunshine from crippling me further.

Yesterday I laid around all day-- unshowered and in bed, on the couch, anywhere I felt I could drop. Then I watched TV and ate...eating suddenly out of sheer boredom instead of hunger. I napped, unnecessarily-- a lot.

This morning I woke at 6am did my daily ritual of morning meditation, then realized a lazy day cannot be repeated and so I rose, dressed and went for a long walk. The Saint Louis suburban morning air was cool and fresh; like mountain air. I popped my ear buds in and started up my iPod...Supertramp Breakfast in America and I walked. I let my soul talk to me. I listened. Then Peter Frampton sang to me over the chirp of the birds . A morning walk, fresh air, owning the sidewalks...it's all so very cleansing.

Then I drug the trash cans to the curb, because Thursday is trash day and forgetting trash day...well one is pretty much screwed if trash day is forgotten.

Now I begin my other ritual, the summer break ritual--doctor visits. We will start with the eyes and work our way down the body. It is off to see Princess A and M's "BFFs Andy and Rose." This moniker Princess A has given to her eye doctor/surgeon and his assistant is a sure sign that the girls spend entirely too much time there. Of course for good reason and cause. One of these days I am going to walk in with a new eye examination tool for "BFF Andy". I have told him for years now that he needs a more adult [female] friendly tongue depressor thingy with a picture attached to it for eye tracking-- one with a hot shirtless dude flexing his six pack, not that ridiculous bird. The thing is if I did bring "BFF Andy" a present of such nature he would laugh at me and love it. A matter of fact I should ask ole' Andy, who happens to be Jewish, for his mother's matzah ball soup recipe. I forgot to mention to you all that Princess A has been dating a Jewish boy. That is a story for another day, blog.


*****

So we made it through our double doctor appointment without having to schedule a surgery. This is always a prize--for us. It is not to say we are not in the running for a fourth M surgery. I can always tell just by looking at her when her eye is not functioning in the manner and fashion an eye should. Even M could tell--a signal she is maturing and learning her own body rather well--and she mentioned it before I had a chance to express my motherly concerns. She realized during her exam that she should have asked for a discount when she went to see the movie Up and Away. Being she has no depth perception she got no benefit of the 3D effects the film offered up. We also realize why driving is such a challenge for her. (It is kinda a scary experience for me as the instructor passenger.) We are off to get new lenses in her frames and a refill of contacts. Which brings me to this question: why do we to have our same contact prescriptions renewed? Why do they expire? I mean it isn't like I am asking for a prescription of narcotic drugs, it isn't like M is going to overdose on contact lenses. We laughed about this all the way home. M was giggling in the car saying "man mom I'm on my fifth pair of contacts lenses today, send me to rehab." But it never fails that when I drag myself into the Walmart eye center to offer my blood, sweat and a kidney for a 12 month supply plastic pliable discs and solutions; I hear "Mrs. Avery that prescription is expired." Not this time, no this time I come armed with the wanted ammunition... and patience. For the love of God why do they ever only have one person working in the vision center? I aged ten years waiting to order. I was almost being to wonder if I should consider a seeing eye dog for M--that the child would go blind before we got our turn with the guy in the white coat.

Well now I have more exciting and pressing things to attend to. I will surely let you know soon what we are up to. It's gonna be fun, really fun.