Time Flies When You're Loading the Dishwasher

Holy smokes.  It's been eight months since I updated this blog.  Life right now is....a bit of a blur.  I feel like we're living on fast forward.  Every morning is this well-rehearsed dance of teeth-brushing, snack-packing, shoe-hunting, and rush, rush, rush out the door to get one kid to one school and the other to the other.  From the moment I arrive at school, it's game on.  I want things to be high energy, there...so my mornings start with some spotify music blaring, kids coming in asking a jillion different questions (Got a bandaid?  Can I keep my guitar in your room all day?  Where's the rubric to that project?  Yep, the one that was due yesterday!  Can I get a writing conference during lunch? -- I can't come to the three other tutorial times you're offering this week.)  Hang on, kids.  I gotta check my email.  Oh, look.  I have 27 emails that arrived between 9 o'clock last night and 9 o'clock this morning.  Can you hold that thought while I email your mom and tell her that I will, indeed, meet with you during my lunch?  And then teach, teach, teach...meet during lunch, meet during off periods, stay for tutoring, then glance at the clock and realize that I've got to leave soon.  My kids and husband are at home by now, and I am not.  So then it's back home, hug the kids, check the backpacks, finish the homework, (thank GOD Frank usually takes care of dinner), then sometimes I do the dishes and sometimes I ignore them and have twice as much to do in the morning, and bath time and lunch-making and laying out clothes for the next day and then collapse on the couch and then think about grading but not really do it and then....sleep.

Sidenote:  As I write this, Jameson is saying, "Mom.  Mom.  I found this ball, mom.  Under the chair.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom."  And I am sort of acknowledging him, and sort of not.

I long for the summer months.  I wish we were in Colorado again, standing all four in a row, fishing.  And quiet.  I wish all my family members longed to do what I want to do this weekend:  pile into one bed and snuggle and SLEEP.  But we will be going to a pumpkin patch (as promised) and finishing costumes and cleaning the house and hanging more spiders in our yard and making hot chocolate (as promised) and going to listen to Frank play music in a field, and folding laundry...ALWAYS folding laundry.  And I have to grade a box full of journals, 143 quizzes, and a homework assignment.  That's probably not happening.  I'll look forward to more emails on Monday morning.

And now I am going to play with a little dog hair-covered ball with Jameson.  And life is really grand.  I know it will not be long before these kids are grown and gone and I can sleep every weekend and then I will miss them like crazy.  And if, when they're older, they ask why I didn't update the blog about them more often, I will point them to this entry.  Know that you are very loved, kids.  And you do amazing things and say hilarious things all the time.  And sometimes you draw on the carpet and yell at each other.  And sometimes our house is a disaster area.  And sometimes we don't do all the things I promised you that we'd do.  And sometimes I lose my cool.  But I'm trying, kiddos.  I'm trying.

It starts

I was watching our neighbor, Jaxon, tonight, and ended up taking him over to Kate and Jason's house for popcorn and pizza and video games and all that hoopla. In a "team of friends" that features 3 big girls and 3 little boys, an older boy was a huge hit. Maybe too huge. Here was our conversation on the way home:

Sophie: Laney really, really liked Jaxon! She said she was going to marry him!

Jaxon: I'm not going to marry anyone!

Sophie: She was trying to kiss him!

Me: Really? Did Laney kiss Jaxon?

Jaxon: NO!

Sophie: She just kissed his jacket.

Jaxon: I think that Lucy liked me, too.

Me: Why do you think that? Did Lucy try to kiss you, too?

Jaxon: No, but she was acting like she liked me.

Sophie: How was she acting?

Jaxon: She was giggling. Giggling at everything I said. Like, I could have said "pudding" and she would have giggled.

Jameson: I say pudding and then somebody POOTS and then my eyeballs pop out.

In closing, 3-year-old boys are awesome. Nine-year-old boys are trouble. And our girls are getting boy crazy. Lord help us.

Sibling Discourse

Some of the most bizarre and hilarious moments of my life are spent driving my car, listening to the genius larvae in the backseat. Today's episode of "Sibling Discourse" has to do with our kids' very limited exposure to Harry Potter.

Don't get me wrong -- we really dig Harry. It's totally Christian to be fighting evil and all. I'm even the sponsor of the Harry Potter Club at Austin High! But it's just a little bit "sca-wy" for the wee one, and I refuse to let Sophie see the movie until we've had a chance to read the book together. This is all much to Sophie's chagrin -- other kids seem to know all about Harry Potter and friends, and she's falling behind on her pop culture allusions. Embarrassing.

So here's how the conversation went down today...

Jameson: In Harry Potter, the bad guys show up in a car, and it's weally FUNNY...
Sophie (annoyed and suspicious that maybe he has seen the movie): How do YOU know about
Harry Potter!?!
Jameson: A boy in my class told me...
Sophie: Oh. Well, (pause) Harry Potter is a lizard, you know.
Me: Um. Harry Potter is actually a WIZard.
Sophie: Oh.
Jameson: Yeah, he have a head.
Sophie (indignant, as usual, and a little screechy): We ALL have a head!!!!
Long pause.
Jameson (muttered below his breath): He don't have no lizard head.

And THAT's the stuff that keeps me laughing all day long, folks.

If Anything Ever Happens to Me...

Driving to a birthday party the other day, just me and the kiddos, I was faced with the possibility of a future without me. As you may suspect, the world will keep on spinning.

Sophie: Mom, I dropped that thingie! Can I take off my seat belt to get it?
Me: Nope. That's not safe.
Sophie: But you do it sometimes!

(She's right. I have, at times, been known to take off my seat belt in order to contort my body such that I can retrieve a sippy cup or remove a peanut from someone's nose with my tweezers. But ONLY on really long road trips when pulling over is seen as failure, and ONLY -- well, USUALLY -- when Frank is driving.)

Me: Yes. I have taken off my seat belt before, but only when I'm trying to help you guys. I'll sacrifice myself, but not you guys. (Jewish guilt? We're not even Jewish...)
Sophie: What's sacrifice?
Me: Well, it means that sometimes I might do dangerous stuff, but I'm a mom. I don't want you guys to do that dangerous stuff yet because you might get hurt. Really, really hurt.
Sophie: Like, we could die?
Me: (debating the seriousness of seat belt safety v. freaking out my kids...) Yes. Sometimes when people don't wear their seat belts and then they have an accident, they could die.

Five seconds of silence.

Sophie: And then, if you died, Dad would marry someone else, right?
Me: (Why didn't I take off MY seat belt and just hand her back that thingie?!?!) Um, I guess. Do you think Dad should get married to someone else if I die?
Sophie: That's what your dad did, right? When Nana Jane died?

(Another aside: my dad divorced my mom when I was two. Nana Jane died when I was 36. Many amazing women have mothered me in addition to my mom, but that branch of the family tree is complicated to explain to a six-year-old.)

Me: Sort of. (This is often my answer to complicated issues. That, or "I'm not sure how that works.")
Sophie: Well, I think Dad should get married to someone else if you die.
Me: Okay...why?
Sophie: Because then I could be the FLOWER GIRL!!!!!!!

One last aside: I hope she barfs all over the new bride. (See previous status updates about Sophie's flower girl performance at my brother's wedding.)

I'm With Frank Webster

As I'm sure you know, J. Frank Webster is a badass. So much so, that we (the Ditchdirt gang) have taken to teasing him just to make ourselves feel a little bit cool. As if.

Frank is sort of famous for getting in places (backstage, a sold-out concert, etc.). He's not a sweet-talker; he's genuinely a good guy. And people respond to that these days. (Have I told you about the time he called to tell me he'd be late, because he was taking a group of protest marchers to the Capitol? When he offered them a ride and then realized that none of them spoke English, he yelled, "Vamos a Capitol!" and then drove them, honking his horn as they waved their Mexican flag in the back of his truck. And the best part...he said, "I'll be a few minutes late. I'm going to go back and see if I can find more Mexicans who need a ride.") I can tell you dozens of stories like that. Frank is awesome. And everyone with a brain should want to be near him. (I'm super smart, and I married him.)

Last summer, Frank was regaling us all with a story about he had gotten into a concert the night before. I didn't go with him, because it started really late and we couldn't find a sitter. When he showed up at Antone's, the line was wrapped around the block. So Frank went back to the car, grabbed his guitar, and strolled into the alley and knocked on the musician's entrance. When someone opened the door, he just turned his shoulder, sidled in, and said, "Thanks, man." Then he caught a musician's eye across the room and yelled, "Hey! How's it going?" He had spoken to him before, because Frank talks to everyone, so the guy (Charlie Sexton) smiled and waved. Frank strolled over to talk to him, and the door guy thought Frank was in the band. (Had I been with him, we never would have made it in the door. I have "rule follower" stamped on my forehead.) So Frank chats it up with Charlie Sexton and Billy Gibbons and then someone approaches him and says, "Hey, do you have a VIP badge?" Again, this is when I would have hemmed and hawed and apologized, and we would have been escorted out. Frank's answer: Not yet. What are we gonna do about that? So the guy scurries off and gets him a VIP badge.

So that's the story. Frank not only got IN to the sold out concert, he got backstage and hung out with the band. It's like the time we went to ACL and he jumped up on stage to play with Robert Randolph. I'm telling you. He's a BADASS.

So our friend, Maggie, came up with this idea that we should just all brand ourselves as being "with Frank Webster," and we'd start getting in to shows, too. We would be welcome at song circles. We would be offered free food and beer at Kerrville! She even made a coozie that said "I'm with Frank Webster." A few months later, there was a little impromptu pickin' party at the Stephens house. Adam Stephens opened the door to a complete stranger, who said, "Yeah, um, I'm here to play music with Frank Webster." Adam said, "Of course you are."

And now that leads us up to our recent project: "I'm With Frank Webster" t-shirts. We made a bundle of them before Kerrville (without Frank's knowledge) and all wore them to the music fest. He first spotted them when some friends of Maggie were walking down the road towards him, wearing shirts with his name on them. A Kerrville staff person said, "Who the hell is Frank Webster?!" And he looked up and laughed and said, "That'd be me."

We think they should go viral. Go make yourself one right now. All the cool kids are wearing one. And all the cool kids are with Frank Webster.

Happy Mother's Day!

Sharks and Fish and Such

Just a little memory to tuck away...

At 2:30 p.m. today, we were at a birthday party in the park, making tie-dye t-shirts and eating ice cream cake. It was WARM...humid and sticky warm. The way it should be on a Mayday. The pool opened today, and I spent a fair amount of time talking to some of the other neighborhood parents, tallying up the number of Sophie's friends who will be on the swim team this summer, listening to the laughter at the nearby pool and wishing we'd brought suits.

Tomorrow is the trial: the day that 5 and 6-year-old's have to prove that they can swim across the length of the pool, unaided. I wasn't sure, earlier today, if Sophie could do it. I promised her that we would come to the pool after J's nap, to give it a try. (Why, oh why, did it not occur to me then that I have NEVER witnessed her swimming the length of the pool?)

So fast forward to 5:30 p.m., when we all wake up from a lovely nap. That's another memory I will document, because it doesn't happen all that often, but today, on May 1st, all of the Websters napped. Lovely. So we hem and haw about whether or not we should all go to the pool or not, and we finally split into two teams: the dinner gatherers and the swim-team-test pre-testers. I am on Team 2, so I don my suit. As soon as we opened up the front door, I realized that we had been snookered by the Texas weather. The temp had dropped at least 10 degrees, maybe 15, and a cool wind was blowing.

But a promise is a promise. Sophie and I braved the wind and drove down to the pool, where all the lifeguards had thrown on sweatshirts, and were busily stacking the pool furniture. "Are you closed?" I asked. "No," one of them responded, "it's just really, really cold." And then he looked at me with that what-kind-of-craptastic-parent-are-you look on his face. Oh, I'm a wily one, kid.

So we threw off our cover-ups, Sophie and I. And I triple, quadruple checked if she really wanted to go through with this. She did. I made her step into the water first, because, if she chickened out, I was NOT going in. She did not chicken out. She squealed when the water hit her belly button, but she did not chicken out. So I jumped in with her, because that is what a mom who makes a promise sometimes has to do.

And she sank. I mean, she TOTALLY sank. She spittered and spattered and swam vertically and clung onto my neck and shivered and giggled and SANK. She will not be trying out tomorrow. She will not be on the Sharks swim team this year. But we tried, baby. And then we raced home for hot showers and some pad thai take-out that the boys procured.


In other news: Jameson killed our fish. And Frank. (I mean, Frank helped kill the fish.) Only a month after putting my class pet in mortal danger by dumping in a whole jar of food (Snooki was saved, thanks be to God), and only two days after dumping in a whole jar of food into Laney's fish's tank, thus revealing to the Stephenses that George had been dead for a couple of days (there was some talk of decomposition levels, but it's possible he killed George, too), Jameson dumped a whole jar of food (what kind of IDIOTS are we, that we still had a jar of fish food within reach?) into Lillian's tank. We have had Lillian a long, long time, but Frank has never had to clean her tank. He dumped out the water and put Lillian into nice, fresh, shockingly-cold water (not unlike the pool today). And Lillian freaked out and died. Sophie handled it well.

We will get another fish. We will become a shark another day. Life goes on.

Happy Easter

SNOW DAY!!!

There are few things more precious than that phrase. Kids dream about it (Frank says he used to wear his pajamas inside out the night before a predicted storm...a little West Virginian folklore for bringing on the snow), and I have so many memories associated with a snow week that we had in San Antonio, Texas (no, really!) when I was in middle school. It only snows in SATX every seven years or so, but this one year we had 17 inches and the entire city shut down and we played for hours...days!.. in the snow, only going inside to drink cocoa and play Donkey Kong with my friend Becky from up the street. Even today, my thoughts of snow days have an electronic video soundtrack running in the background. Bloink. Bloink. Bloink.

As a teacher, I still love a snow day. There is the logical side of me that knows we will have to make up the day later in the year, and likely on a pretty day, like Good Friday or Memorial Day. And, really, late start or early release would be better because we would get the state attendance thing done and get credit for the day. But forget that logical side. There is NOTHING more wonderful than sitting up at 5:00 a.m. watching the scrolling text underneath my local newscasters who spend more time playing intros about their cutting edge snow disaster coverage than actually talking about the news.

And even though we have received our robo-call from the district, and even though Frank has double-checked the AISD website, I cannot go back to bed until I see the "Austin ISD -- classes canceled" message go by. Twice. Not because I don't believe it, but because I am SO EXCITED.

This particular snow day was awesome. We bundled up and went for a walk, throwing snowballs and making angels and contemplating a snowman (but it was the kind of snow that doesn't pack so well). Then Frank decided it was time for sledding in the slushy street. I know my Kansas City and D.C. relatives will get a laugh out of our ghetto craft-bin-as-sled, but it worked! (Until it didn't.)

Jameson in the street sled:


Sophie flying by:


Since we don't live on a hill, this was all Dad-powered!


After J tumbled out onto the street a few times, we
ventured out to a bigger hill, with summer pool toys!


Jameson LOVES sledding!


Hmmm. Blogger will not let me post another pic. Tune in to the next post for a great shot of Austin on a snow day.

Happy New Year!

Our friends Chris and Sally hosted a Polar Bear Swim at their pool on New Year's Day. Sophie was the only Webster brave enough to jump in the cold pool.


But she mostly wanted to put on her suit so she could hot-tub with some older boys. Sigh. What happens when she's a teenager?


Heart-breaker...

Snoozer-cuts

Forget super-cuts, cool-cuts, sport-cuts, scantily-clad-girls-cuts, too-cool-for-school cuts. Consider the benefits of NAPPING during your next haircut.

Jameson's hair was getting a leeeetle too long.


Okay. It was getting out of hand.


Luckily, Aunt Claudia brought her scissors when she came down for the Allen family Christmas. J had stayed up way past his nap, and his eyes started drooooping during the relaxing haircut.


And he got sleepier. And sleepiest. (And Claudia didn't have to say "sit still" or "look down" -- it was awesome!)


And then our favorite hair-dresser carried our favorite boy to bed.

Three Conversations from Tonight

1) First, a little who's-on-first scene with the boy

Jameson smacked me really hard with this dumb toy that an overconfident Santa brought (a pointer stick with a plastic hand on the end of it...wtf?). I avoided cussing, but I did yelp and then sent him to time out. When I went to talk to him during the "debrief," this was our discussion.

Me: Jameson, I put you in time-out because you hurt my body. That toy is going into time-out, too. I don't think you're ready to play with it.
J: Why?
Me: Because you hurt my body with it. Can you come take care of me?
(He runs over to kiss my hurt shoulder.)
J: Why?
Me: Because you hurt me. You need to say sorry and see if I'm okay.
J: Why?
Me: I don't know why. Why did you hurt me?
J: Because I hit you with that stick.

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2) Signs of Effective Teaching

Things started to look up when Sophie offered me a surprise treat after dinner. But I had to earn it.
Sophie: Were you a good teacher today?
Me: Sure.
Sophie: Did all your kids finish their work?
Me: (thinking... "not exactly, but I want that treat") Uh-huh. They did.
And then...right before she handed me the treat, she thought of one more requirement. She pointed her finger at me, raised her eyebrows, and asked, "Recess?"

Oh, if only I could send them all out to recess, Sophie-girl!
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3) Finally...the pangs of neglect

I ignored Jameson's crying for a few minutes while I goofed around on the computer. Finally, it had gone on too long, so I got him a little cup of milk and took it to him. Normally he smiles and takes it from me -- sometimes even says "tank oo" and settles down. Tonight he told me in the most pathetic, heartbreaking voice: "Dat made me weally weally saaaaad."

Christmas Card

Colorful Joy 2010 Christmas

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Retro-Post: Jameson's Birthday

So...I like to use this little blog as a substitute for creating actual photo albums, and I like to tell the "Adventures of Sophie and Jameson" in some semblance of order, so when I got behind this summer (around about Jameson's birthday), I just stopped blogging. Almost completely. I also blame Facebook. So, to break me out of this OCD reverie, I present to you: JUNE. Right around J's birthday, we traveled to Port A with the Ditchdirt Crew. Instead of trying to plan a party around the vacation, we decided to celebrate his 2nd birthday at the beach! The kids made peach ice cream, decorated beach buckets, and dug for buried treasure.

Click here to see more pics: BEACH_BIRTHDAY

Self Esteem

Sophie doesn't want to sing in the Christmas Choir Concert today -- she told me that she's feeling "a little shy." She hates going to her after school gymnastics program on Tuesday/Thursday, in part because her friend has a new friend, and three can be a difficult number (when it's not busy being magic). Anytime we arrive at a birthday party or evening event, she sticks right by my side for a while, observing everyone before she jumps into the fun. So I worry a bit about her confidence. About her assertiveness. But I think she has a pretty good self-identity.

Proof:
When I walked by the bathroom for the fourth time today and asked Sophie why she wasn't brushing her teeth, she told me: "Oh, I'm just looking in the mirror at how beautiful I am."

Too Smart For Her Own Good

Sophie has been really jazzed about buying her lunch in the cafeteria at school, but after her self-reports of only eating the "yogurt plate" and desserts, we've had lots of talks about how she needs to choose healthy food -- or maybe she's not ready to buy her own lunch yet. Apparently the cafeteria ladies don't automatically put veggies on a tray, and as soon as you touch a tray, that's your lunch. No backsies. So we practiced at home. She was supposed to ask for veggies if none were on her tray. Here's our conversation tonight:

Sophie: Mom, I asked for veggies today! I said, "I need some vegetables, please!"
Me: Good job!
Sophie: Then they gave me beans and they said, "Beans are your vegetable."
(Then she scrunched up her face.) Are beans a vegetable?!
Me: Yeah. Beans can be vegetables.
Sophie: That's weird. Because I thought beans were a protein.

And, on a totally different note, she barfed at school today. Thank goodness we had already read the Ramona book where Ramona upchucks in class and everything turns out fine. Maybe it was the beans...

R.I.P. Sally Menke

I'm not the blogger in my family; Stacy is. But tonight I feel compelled to share with the universe my admiration for Sally Menke. Sally was a movie editor, and one of the best. She earned her reputation and a couple of Oscar nominations for her collaborations with Quentin Tarantino.

I've been teaching a film course for over a decade now, and for nine years I've tried to guide youngsters in creating their own short films. What surprises my students the most about filmmaking is the power of the editor. It is the editor who controls the pace of a film, the editor who pieces together numerous takes to make an actor appear to do a better job than they could ever do in real life, the editor who crafts the order and duration of every shot in the film, and the editor who repairs the numerous mistakes the director commits in shooting. In short, it is the editor who makes the film.

The damnable thing about editing is that most people don't even notice it. Usually, that's the idea. Editing is often so seamless that our minds, absorbed in narrative, fail to recognize it all. And in the rules of classical editing and the Hollywood style, one should hide the edits as carefully as possible.

But then, there's Pulp Fiction. The structure of the movie is quite possibly its most compelling element, and that it makes any sense at all is due to the labors of Ms. Menke. The film calls attention to the fact that it is assembled, not just filmed, and that there's a genius behind the assemblage. Most people assumed that genius was Tarantino, but Tarantino has always been quick to credit Menke's role.

Film editing is grueling, lonely work. The editors miss out on all the glory (what little there really is) of filmmaking; no hobnobbing with the actors, no private trailer. You get a dim room, a computer, and a deadline.

If you've ever seen Tarantino in an interview or in person, you know that he can be delightfully intense. He seems almost maniacal in his enthusiasm for film shots and sequences. I wouldn't want to be the one to say, "Quentin, it's just too long. We need to cut this." But Sally Menke was a woman of unending patience and persuasion, and the perfect foil for Tarantino's glorious mania. She, more than any other person on the film crew, spends the most time one-on-one with the director. Tarantino considered her a close collaborator, and in many ways a co-writer.

What made Menke a great editor was not just the mind-bending piecing together of initially convoluted plots, but her clear understanding of how to get the most out of a scene without losing the big picture. Consider any scene from Pulp Fiction or Kill Bill and you'll see how it works both as a complete piece (often with a complete mini-plot) and how it fits into the larger whole.

What saddens me about Sally's death is not just that we've lost one of film's greatest editors, but that we've lost a beautiful relationship between two coworkers and dear friends. Sally and Tarantino seemed to have such admiration for each other and the other's craft, and I'm sure Tarantino's grief is profound.

So condolences to Ms. Menke's husband and two children, and to Quentin Tarantino.

If you'd like to learn more about film editing and hear both Menke and Tarantino discuss their crazy collaboration, check out the documentary The Cutting Edge: The Magic of Movie Editing. It will forever change the way you look at film.

And here's an interview with her: http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2009/dec/06/sally-menke-quentin-tarantino-editing

-Frank

The Kindergarten Kid

Sophie went to kindergarten today. Big school -- "real" school, where your mom drops you off and then you're in someone else's care and they don't meet your mom or dad on the playground at the end of the day to recount funny stories and talk about what you learned. It's all a mystery. That school.

She was fantastic at drop off. At one point, she leaned over to me and said, "I'm a little shy." Some of you who know her well might scoff and guffaw, because she can be quite the character. But I know what she means. She needs a few minutes to observe. To check things out. I told her not to worry, and to just start talking whenever she felt like it. "Look!" I said, "there's Riley from Abbey's birthday party. And there's Jack...he went to your Montessori school. And remember Katie? From meet-the-teacher day?"

And that's when Katie turned to look at me. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she almost shouted at me: "I am feeling SAD!" Oh. Oh, crap. My voice got high and I started talking really fast about how kindergarten was going to be so great but it's okay to be sad and please don't cry and you're going to have so much fun! She wanted her bear. I told her that he was probably waiting for her at home to hear all about how great kindergarten is.

And then we left in a hurry.
Because little Katie was going to push me over the edge.

Sophie, though, was stoic. And brave. And when she got home today, she announced: "Kindergarten was...was...it was AWESOME. Dat what it was!"

It's still all a mystery to me. She told us that she went to a man's house, and he's in a band. (Figured out that she met the music teacher...maybe he's in a portable?) And she wants to buy her lunch tomorrow, because all those kids got a "sweet fing" and I did not pack a sweet fing in her lunch box. Just an avocado. (That is not ALL I packed, friends! But she was not impressed.) And there's a lady named Pinky who helps you open your lunch box. And she met a friend. She does not know her name yet, but told me, "She's good at drawing monsters. And she thought my jokes were funny." What more could I want for her?

What We Did During Summer Vacation, Part 1

You would think that since Frank and I were both "off" this summer, there would have been a steady stream of witty, thought-provoking, zany blog tales of parenting the littles. Sorry...we were at the pool. Or on vacation. Or cruisin' in the new swagger wagon. Or cowering inside our house, right next to the air conditioning vents. But here's a recap of some of our summer fun.

In June, we went to the BEACH!



We shared a big beach house with great friends:


Sophie was a little fish, as usual. She would swim across the gulf, if we didn't stop her:


Jameson loved the beach, too. What a heartbreaker!


To see more pics from the beach (including really cute shots of Lucy, Milo, Laney, Solly, and Josie!), click on the link below:

BEACH TRIP PHOTO GALLERY

Or copy this into a new window: http://www.frankandstacy.net/photos/ditchbeach2010/index.html

Remembering Mom

Sophie and Jameson's great grandmother passed away on July 8th. She was 96 years old. It would take me about that long to tell you all that she meant to me and share all the stories of her life. I was honored to deliver the eulogy at her funeral, and share the memories of my cousins, as well. This is an incredibly long post to a blog, but I want to keep these words, and share them with family. So now it's out there in cyberspace (a word that my grandmother would not have known. In fact, when I said I was going to post the eulogy on a website, my father told me that Mom Allen would have thought that had something to do with a spider!) I love you, Mom.

My "Mom" and me:

She probably sewed those red bell-bottoms for me!

Eulogy for Ruth Murial Gryder Allen
Read on July 12, 2010

My name is Stacy, and I am Ruth’s sixth grandchild – the baby of the family for a long, long time. And then there were more kids and babies. More grandchildren and all their spouses, fourteen great grandchildren and even three great great grandkids. That’s what happens when you live 96 years with a gentle and loving heart – you get to do a lot of mothering. And that’s what we all called her: Mom.

My cousin Lisa set that trend for us, because that’s what she heard her mom, Joy, and Aunt Cloye and Uncle Jerry calling their parents. It might have been a little confusing to those outside the family, since we also had parents that we called Mom and Dad, but there was something in the intonation or maybe context – we always knew who we were talking about: Let’s drive out to Kerrville and go camping with Mom and Dad. See you Christmas Day at Mom and Dad’s! Mom made the red velvet cake. How’s Mom doing? Give my love to Mom.

She was an amazing mother figure to all of us. She was tiny, but she was huge to me – this little red-headed lady with a grin on her face and a twinkle in her eye. When I picture her in my mind, she is walking out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel, saying “Well, hello, Stacy” and opening up her arms to hug me. Her children will tell you, she sacrificed for them (and they have sacrificed for her), and she taught them by example. She needed a lot of patience to raise three children – two girls, Joy and Cloye, so close to each other in age, and then that Jerry Dean, who once burned down a field trying to cook the neighbor’s chicken in a pot. My grandmother didn’t smile in many photographs we have of her, but I have memories of her laughing out loud, cackling even, telling stories about my father, Jerry, when he was a little boy.

I pestered her to tell me stories about the past. Every single time that I visited her, we would pull out the photo albums and I would leaf through the pages, delighting in all of the pictures of our family: Lisa and Lori wearing matching Easter dresses that Mom had made, Scott and Jeff running around in spaceman helmets, Bradley wearing a little bow tie, family trips to Colorado, Lisa’s awesome jumpsuits from the late ‘70’s, and all the pictures of our family units – the Berry’s, the Largent’s, the Allen’s – in front of this one segment of fence. In all of the school pictures she has of me, I am wearing an outfit that she sewed for me – she was a wonderful seamstress – she made all of her daughters’ clothes until they were married. I wish I had learned more from her. I liked to rearrange the straight pins in her tomato-shaped pin cushion while she sewed, but now that I have a four-year-old, I wish I could sew jumpers with little schoolhouses on them. In one of those old albums, there are pink-tinted photos of my aunts wearing ballgowns and tiaras, for homecoming, I suppose. I used to stare at those photos and try to jump into them -- they looked like princesses to me. But my favorite photos are the black and white group photos from the late ‘20’s and ‘30’s. There are pictures of my grandfather’s first students when he was a teacher – all the children barefoot and wearing overalls. And the best picture of all, my grandmother’s basketball team. She’s wearing a uniform that goes all the way down to the ankles, and she has a short bob haircut and steely-eyed determination – they called her “Little Red,” because there was a taller redhead on the team. Mom loved basketball. Her team went on to play in a state championship one year. She loved watching basketball on t.v., even into her nineties, but she was diplomatic about it. She would cheer for the Mavericks when one side of the family was visiting, and root for the Spurs if my Dad was there watching the game with her. Football was not so nebulous – it was always the Dallas Cowboys.

There are many “always” moments when I think about Mom. She had the same hairstyle for the entire 39 years that I knew her – done each week at the beauty parlor and sealed into place with Aquanet, and we weren’t supposed to touch it. (I don’t know why – it would have just bounced back into place, I think.) Mom always made red hot salad when she knew kids were coming for a visit – for those of you who have never heard of this southern delicacy, it’s not a salad, and it’s not really hot. But it’s definitely red. And there were other dishes that she always served: creamed corn, homemade cakes and pies, green beans that had been frozen after they were freshly picked from her garden, hot cornbread, mustang grape jellies that she had put up…even her cream of wheat had the just the right amount of lumps. Always. And when Dad was alive, he always stopped at the Golden Chick after church for our Sunday dinner.

Everything changes in life, but not Mom. And not her little house in Belton. Mom and Dad believed in clean living, and their house reflected that. Everything was always just so – everything in its place. For my entire life, I have known that the plastic alligator lives in the small drawer of the dresser in the middle bedroom, right next to the matchbox filled with wooden checkers. Mr. Bim, the stuffed monkey that every grandchild and great grandchild dragged around, lived in the bottom of the closet. There is a rattlesnake tail in Mom’s jewelry box. And there is a drawer filled to the brim with bread ties. I don’t know what anyone could possibly do with all of those breadties, but my grandmother was not a waster. She had memories of the Depression, and we have all seen her rinse off tin foil and flatten it out to re-use. If there were three bites left of a casserole, it went back into the icebox and reappeared, alongside 14 other small dishes of leftovers, at the next meal. She rinsed out milk cartons so she could fill them with water and freeze them into blocks of ice. Appliances were taken to repair shops before they were replaced. And she was more likely to buy new buttons than a brand new dress. We can still learn so much from Mom.

I learned a lot from my grandmother on our drives together. After Dad passed away, I often had the job – the blessing – of driving Mom to family events like weddings or Thanksgiving at James and Sarah’s house in Stephenville. Again, I would pester her to tell me stories of the past. She would point down one road where her family’s farm had been, and down another to where C.D. Allen – she always called him “Doc” – had lived. She told me she had had a beau before him, but he won her heart. She told me about growing up with her brothers and sisters, Austin and Spivy, James, Lucille, and Doris, fishing with cane poles and hoeing cotton in the fields. She rode a horse to school each day and always wore a bonnet because she thought freckles were ugly. When she was a young girl, she wanted to grow up and be an English teacher. And while she did not become a classroom teacher, she and Dad led so many of us to that calling. I remember her telling me, “Get your education – once you have a degree, no one can take that away from you.”

Each one of the grandkids has memories like this – and they’ve been sending them to me this week:

My brother, Jeff, wrote to me about a summer when he spent a couple of weeks in Belton. He said, “I remember waking up very early every morning to the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen. I spent my time helping Mom and Dad in the garden, building a bird house with Dad (this is where I got my love of wood working), playing basketball in the driveway, and going fishing at the lake. I remember that Mom would change clothes before going in to town, even if she was just running to the grocery store. One day we were fishing at the Bell County Sportsman’s club and I was bored because the fish were not biting so I went outside and was throwing some rocks or something when I heard Mom start laughing. I went back in the fishing dock and Mom had both her rod and reel and mine with fish with two fish on each line. My favorite memories of Mom are the way I would feel when she would sit next to me and hold my hand and say “I love you Jerry”. It never upset me when she would get me mixed up with my Dad.”

Lisa spent a lot of time with our grandparents each summer, too. She wrote, “Mom woke up early every morning and put on a full face of makeup before breakfast. At night I liked to lie on her bed and watch her slather her face and neck in cold cream. She always smelled so good. She moved like a house afire from the time her feet hit the floor – three full meals every day with her garden produce; we only bought necessities at the store. Our social life was church – church every Sunday and Wednesday, church socials and picnics, reading the Bible daily. One special vacation was to where else --- Glorieta Baptist Encampment where we stayed in the college's cabin! More church! Every night ! Huge services. My most vivid memory is singing in the car: "When We All Get to Heaven" was memorized by the time I was 6 years old.” They took Lisa on several outings: to the department store to buy sewing notions, to the Picadilly in Austin – even to the caverns and the Capital, with Dad telling stories of Sam Bass and the outlaws, and to the Belton library, where Lisa loved the smell of the books. She remembers Mom working around the house and singing and said, “She, and my mother, were the two more important female influences in my life.”

Brad and Scott both remembered the holidays and meals at Mom’s house, and how she always made everyone feel special. Brad said, “Mom was ALWAYS happy to see us walk into the house. Whenever we arrived she really seemed to beam. She loved to cook for her family. She never wanted to “go and get” anything. She preferred that we all sit down to a home cooked meal and enjoyed her time in the kitchen cooking for us.” And both Brad and Scott spoke of her patience. Brad reminded me, that in all her years with all these kids underfoot, we never heard her raise her voice.

And Scott wrote: Words are hard to describe about a bond/love that you have for someone. I feel very fortunate to have had Mom as a grandmother. Her patience has always been exemplified with her grandkids. Nothing can describe love like patience can, and she loved us all. I truly appreciate the Christian example that she set for us. My best memories were the holidays, particularly Christmas and Easter. The smile that she had as she looked at us and the great many meals that she cooked will always be a part of my heart. I feel very blessed to have her as a grandmother. She was the perfect grandmother.

Mom fed our hearts, and our souls. And she definitely fed our bellies.

Lori said, “One of my favorite memories of Mom is the way she instilled a love of cooking and bringing the family together. She was an excellent cook and always put so much love into every dish. She also instilled a love of cooking in all her children which has been passed down to her grandchildren and great grand children. I’m sure the Red Velvet cake, which always made each Christmas celebration so special, will be passed down to all future generations and we will always think of Mom each time we make it. We watched her cook tirelessly each holiday and every time we visited and we always felt so special and loved. I have so many special memories of our family coming together and just enjoying each others company and spending time together.”

We felt special, because Mom knew us – she knew what we loved and encouraged our gifts.

Vanessa said, “Every time we would visit, she and I would talk about our favorite sport, basketball! I can still remember the photographs she shared with me of her playing. Talking about the same basketball position we both played. Not only did we share stories about basketball, but she showed how much she cared when she would call to the house to see how my games went. Most importantly, the one thing that meant the most to me was, she always accepted us in the family like we were one of her own. She was always kind and good hearted. She always was asking about our accomplishments with school, work, and life.

And this is what Taz wrote: Mom Allen was always the sweetest most kind lady. She always saw the best in everybody and was optimistic in every way. I love how she accepted me, a random little brown boy, into her family and treated me with the utmost hospitality. She treated me like a real grandson. She cooked the best meals in the world; like most grandma's she was famous for her dishes! She never failed to ask me how my life was and always wished me the best in everything. She genuinely cared about me and in return I loved her and will always love her.

We all have so many memories of Mom that we’ll treasure in our hearts. But what she most treasured in her heart was a love for God and the teachings of Jesus Christ. And by example, she taught us. The real meaning of family is holding hands in prayer before a meal. In our family, the greatest honor was being old enough to read, because the youngest literate child was asked to read the story of Christ’s birth each year at Christmas. Often, a grandchild or great grandchild would sing a song or play an instrument they were learning. We all filled her den at Christmas, even when the grandkids were grown and married. And before we dug into the goodies under the tree, we always sang Jingle Bells and Silent Night. We always sang about this heavenly peace she’s living now.

There was only one theological question that I think she got wrong. When I was four or five years old, we came to visit Mom and Dad at the end of October. October 31st fell on a Sunday that year, and she was absolutely sure that a good Christian town like Belton would not celebrate Halloween on a Sunday evening. So I was crammed into my Tinkerbell costume and went door-to-door on a Saturday evening, before anyone had done their candy shopping. One kind soul gave me some change, but another lady scolded me for being on her doorstep on the night before Halloween. We gave up and went home, where I’m sure I was fed with Mom’s cakes and pies until I could bust.

I don’t presume to know any more about theology than she did. I don’t know what Heaven is really like. I can imagine asking Mom, and her saying, “I don’t reckon I know. What do you think it’s like?” and grinning at me. For now, as we are all saying goodbye, I’d like to imagine her tying a scarf over her hair, then walking along a path and down some steps, across stones in a river and over a long wooden plank bridge, until she reaches a fishing dock where a cane pole is waiting. And right at the edge of the fishing hole, there is a group of people sitting in lawn chairs. There is Doc, and Joy, and all of her brothers and sisters and other family members. There is the fisher of men. And they all turn to look at her and say, “Here she comes. She’s finally here.”