The post, Heroes, is by my son, Quin. This post is a response to an essay question for a scholarship he is applying for.

I would have to agree with Quin. These women are definitely my heroes.

Heroes

When I was a boy, I lived for Saturday mornings.  I’d wait all week for that glorious morning where for hours I could sit uninterrupted.  Just me and a bowl full of highly condensed pieces of sugar drowning in cool milk.  I would sit enthralled as I watched the bravery of Batman.  I was stunned by the selflessness of Spiderman.  I watched the X-men work together to battle evil and help the world.  These were my heroes.  I dreamed of one day wielding a light saber in defense of truth and virtue, of having super powers that I used for the good of mankind, fighting the evil villains who I despised.  I wanted to fight the good fight and be on the front lines. But changes have occurred in my life.  I’d rather eat a healthful breakfast and catch a little football on Saturday mornings before running off to work or campus to study for an upcoming test.  Now instead of preparing to wear a cape and roam the streets at night, I’m preparing to be a father and to provide for my family. 

My fears and enemies are not dressed in creative costumes planning world domination.  Now the two things I fear are not being able to support my future family and physical illness.  Since my cartoons days until now, I have seen the reality and the destructive wake that cancer brings to individuals and families.  The story of James “Rhio” O’Connor is inspiring to me because I can relate to it.  In my mind he is a hero and an example of courage and bravery.  I love and respect James because he reminds me of my personal heroes.   All four of my grandparents have had cancer.  Both Grandfathers had skin cancer which was scary but the cancer was removed and they haven’t had any lasting effects.

During my teenage years, I watched my grandmother, Mary Staker, fight breast cancer.  I rejoiced with my family as she overcame this.  It was frightening and very hard for me to see her in so much pain.  Our joy was short lived as the cancer returned to her bones.  She took this cancer head on, continuing to fight even though doctors told her that this would take her life.  She decided not to go with chemotherapy because of how sick it made her.  She wanted to enjoy the time she had left with her loved ones.  She came to many of my basketball games, went on a church history tour, went to six flags and even though she was in a wheel chair she rode every ride.  She continued to show her miniature horse.  She was never happier in her life and never busier.  She decided to make the most of everyday and not let pain stop her from enjoying the time she had left.  She passed away just after I graduated from High School.  She never complained!  She taught me to endure and to do it happily. 

                  (Me and Grandma "S" at my high school graduation, about 7 weeks before she died)

A year later I found myself six months into a two year service mission for my church.  I was living in Virginia when I was informed over the phone that my other Grandma, Maxine Campbell, had ovarian cancer.  She was told she had less than a year to live.  I was crushed and feared I wouldn’t see her again in this life.  I’m happy to report that 3 years later she still continues to fight.   I am amazed at her attitude and astounded by the amount of research she has done to fight this deadly disease.  Along with chemotherapy and radiation, she does many things such as drinking certain kinds of water, eating different foods, exercising and combating cancer mentally as well. 

I went and visited her this summer.  Witnessing her fight against cancer first hand has changed my life.  It made me realize that it is not a matter of having problems in your life, you will have them.  What matters are your efforts in combating life’s problems.  I enjoyed every minute with her, except when I had a breakfast shake made from pure vegetables.   

            (Grandma "C" hiking at a family reunion in July 08, about a year after her diagnosis.)

The reality that one day I will have to fight cancer is very real to me and can be daunting.  Not smoking or drinking, eating healthful foods, and wearing sun screen are some of the things that I am doing to prevent cancer.

Upon my grandmother’s recommendation, I read two books this past summer, The Secret, by Rhonda Byrne and Anti-Cancer; a New Way of Life, by David Servan-Schreiber. I hope and pray I never have to battle cancer.  But if I do, I feel it an imperative duty to my dear Grandmothers to do nothing less than my best, to use all available resources and come up with a plan to combat my form of cancer.  I have learned from the examples of James, Mary, and Maxine, that the most important thing in our personal struggles is the will to live and the courage to fight.  Vince Lombardi said, “The difference between a successful person and others is not a lack of strength, not a lack of knowledge, but rather a lack of will.”  Because of the examples in my life, I to can be a hero as I face the challenges that life brings my way. 

Fish Food

I have this strange fascination/ horror with the ocean.  If I could be any animal, I would be a dolphin or a killer whale, yet on the other hand, my worst nightmare is to be lost at sea. My ancestors came over on a boat and very thankful I am to them.  All I’m saying is that if I weren’t born here, I wouldn’t be here.   Have you read all those Reader’s Digest stories about people bobbing up and down in the ocean holding onto a slivers of wood, sharks nibbling their toes, skin blistered and bleeding from the sun, or worse, dealing with the cold and sloshing around like ice cubes in a crazy carbonated glass of Coke watching boats pass by, dying from thirst while floating in a gazillion gallons of undrinkable water?  People, the ocean is scary!  Why would you go out in it unless you are a fish a BIG fish?

That is why, when I was sitting with my swine flu-infested daughter watching Animal Planet and a show came on about people who had survived shark attacks, I had to keep watching.  It’s all because of my sick, morbid, fascination. 

Only I learned some really great news, the attack didn’t hurt too badly, at the time that is.  Later might have been a different story.  A lady who was attacked while swimming heard a pop and thought her hip had come out of socket.  SHE WAS SO WRONG.  Her entire leg had been taken off in one bite.  And another man, who only lost half his leg, said that he felt a lot of pressure and was shaken around like a rag doll but had no real pain.  So remember that happy news if you are being attacked by a shark.

Sharks are one of the reasons I prefer lakes.  I figure I can take on a fish.  Once at Lake Powell a fish nibbled on my toes while I was treading water.  At least I think it was a fish.  And, who could blame him?  My toes are kind of long and wormish looking. 

In fact, just a couple months ago, my husband and I, and friends (and no kids) were recreating on a lake.  The recreating was very fun, especially the part where there were no kids and the part where I, my friend, and my husband were jetting across the lake on wave runners.  I felt like Charlie’s Angels only my husband is not a woman, just an angel and my thighs were very jiggley, a bit more jiggley than the angel’s I think.  And then in an e-mail I got picture of a fish a man caught in the lake we were par-tay-ing in and it put a gloomy cloud over my happy lake memories.

I think it’s a good thing we didn’t take any kids.  Can you say fish food?

Fall, Brain Damage and Flies

Some of the better things about fall are that it is no longer necessary to mow the lawn, unless you are my husband. He continues to mow even though no one can tell. I think it’s a man thing because all the men in our neighborhood continue to mow. I think you get some kind of man prize for being the last mower. 

Another perk about autumn is that flies fly slower and I can actually swat some of them. The ones that I keep missing die soon anyway. Recently I had a medical condition that has left me a little unbalanced, forgetful, screwed up my depth perception, and messed with my hand-eye coordination. In other words I have a bit of brain damage, which, actually serves as a handy excuse in most situations, although it has not served me well when I am trying to swat flies.

Thirty five years ago this would not have been a problem because I was an anti-fly swatting, pest loving, tree hugging kind of girl. In other words I was weird. Okay, I probably had brain damage back then too.

Once in the third grade when I went out for recess on a cold fall day, I noticed that the flies could not fly. They stuck to the walls, poor things. Lucky they had me around. I scooped them up with my bare hands, which I’m sure I didn’t wash afterwards and this was long before hand sanitizer came on the market, and put them in my pencil box, which I put inside my desk when recess was over. Once inside, the flies warmed up. Of course I cracked the lid of the pencil box open not wanting them to suffocate. One by one they began to fly out of the box. They swarmed around my teacher’s head, who yelled, “Where are all these flies coming from?” She then got the fly swatter and killed them all in cold blood.

Traumatized and devastated, I came home from school and told my mom the whole sad story. Turns out she had done the exact same thing in elementary school. What are the odds? Anybody else out there have a similar experience?

Unfortunately or fortunately, my fly loving days are over. I am now an avid killer of flies and most of the time spiders. Sometimes, however I trap spiders under a cup and take them outside to freeze to death. At least I don’t have their blood directly on my hands, right?

The Trouble With Boys

            When I was 4 months pregnant with our seventh child, my husband and I watched intently as I received the all telling which gender will the baby be, ultrasound. We left the kids home this time after our son last time, upon learning that he would have yet another sister, did the shouty-pouty routine accompanied with the stink-eye for the bad-news-bearer.  It was high drama I tell you. 

            As the technician slid the slimy probe across my belly, he asked about the brood we’d left at home.  “Five girls, one boy,” I told him.  “I’m pretty sure it’s a girl,” I said.   My mother-in-law, who has great intuition also thought “it” was a girl. 

            “Well, I have to tell you,” the technician said in long drawn out words, as we all ogled the monitor which looked like a bad Etch a Sketch drawing, “that you are definitely having another. . .boy.” My heart stopped.  The husband gasped.  We did a mental high five because with five daughters we had been experiencing a lot of horror-mones lately.

            This euphoric state lasted about 30 seconds, when it was quickly followed by a dark, troubling, horrific thought, PINEWOOD DERBY CAR!!!  How are two people who barely remember to have the oil changed in their car supposed to make a Pinewood Derby car?  How are two people that only carve turkey on Thanksgiving and pumpkins at Halloween, neither of which end up resembling a race car, supposed to take a block of wood and make it look like a vehicle???? 

            When we faced this terrifying dilemma with our first son, I had bachelor brothers who were easily amused and easily persuaded to participate in activities such as this.  These were the same brothers who just for fun choreographed a synchronized swimming routine in our above ground swimming pool to Carmina Burana, who ran naked through golf courses and who would spend entire days making marble runs out of old vhs cassette tape holders.  So you can imagine how thrilled they were at the time to have a Pinewood Derby project.

            My youngest brother actually participated in a pinewood derby as an adult.  Okay, as a young adult.  There is a difference.  This brother put a rocket engine on his car and rigged it so that it would ignite when the starting gate went down.  This would have worked great if the race track was outdoors.  After a few horrible seconds when everyone thought the church was going to blow up, the bishop turned to him as the smoke cleared and said, “I think that’s against the rules.” 

            Under the tutelage of these brothers, my son actually won first place one year.  Okay, it wasn’t tutelage it was more like complete and total take over and domination of an eight year old.  However, these selfish brothers don’t think about me as much anymore as they are occupied with things like law school, wives, children and jobs.  Too bad for me.

            So, we bought the Pinewood Derby car kit a month before the event and stared at it  on the desk.  We thought the kit would inspire us.  Instead, it gave us nightmares.  Finally, the week of the derby we took it out of the box.  My son drew the shape and my husband cut it out with some kind of hand saw that you power with your hand as opposed to a motor.  He managed to do this without swearing, cutting off his finger, or cutting into the kitchen chair that the block of wood was fastened too. 

            This was followed by a 9:55 p.m. run on a school night to Home Depot to get sandpaper.  The son sanded.  The mom (me) got on-line to see how much you could buy cars for.  Ninety-nine dollars!!  Can you believe that?  What a racket.  The mom (me) told the boy to keep sanding!  The mom (me) then Googles paint designs for Pinewood Derby Cars.  She finds a cool easy one with wild eyes and a fangy looking mouth.  But Son has his own ideas which are not nearly as cool as the mother’s. 

            Pinewood Derby night arrives.  The most important thing is “the speech.” “It’s not about winning or losing,” we tell him, “it’s about having fun.”  After the speech, the husband and I pray that the wheels won’t fall off the car and that he won’t come in last every heat. 

            The night was a success.  We, I mean he, got a second a few thirds and a fourth (out of four).  There were no raging horror-mones (as in the testosterone variety) or shouty-pouty tantrums by the son, the dad or the mom.  He had fun.  We held together.  Our wheels did not fall off and we stayed on the track.

            One year down, one to go.  Anybody want to buy a Pinewood Derby Car?  It’s a real steal at only $49.99.

My son, the one on the end with the "tire" shaped mouth--his car, the fourth from the left on the back row.  Notice the brilliant Hershey car front row third from the left.  Now that's my kind of car.  Okay, so you can't really see it, but it's a block of wood with a Hershey candy-bar label.  LOVE IT!

Okay, so I stopped being lazy and did a bigger picture of the Hershey car.  Wasn't that nice of me?  I hope it helps somebody out.

My Mind is Gone and So Am I

          I went to a writer's conference yesterday and got a great quote from Anita Stansfield: 
"As a writer you spend most of your time in the minds of people who don't exist which is the definition of schizophrenia."

--A gem.  This explains a lot.

Doggy Daze

    

             Three months ago I dreamed that my husband asked if we could get another dog.  In my dream I said, “In your dreams!”  My husband begged with puppy dog eyes, but I was resolute.

            What you should know is that my husband is not a dog lover.  At best he is a dog tolerator.  I am usually, no always, the beggar when it comes to pets.  I woke up thinking, wow, if Ric wants a dog, this must be really important.

            When I reminded him that he came to me in a dream begging for a puppy, he denied all recollection.  My question is, why would I dream that when he’s not a dog lover and I didn’t want another dog in the first place?  That is when I decided to give him the happy news that I had changed my mind because I am that kind of person.  You know the unselfish mother, always putting everybody else’s needs ahead of her own.  So I told him, since it is sooo important to you, we can get a dog.  He was speechless.

            Flash forward 2 weeks.  My son’s girlfriend’s sister’s dog who is the daughter of my son’s girlfriend’s dog had puppies.  (See pedigree chart of people and dogs at the end of this blog) and lucky me, I got to be there because I enjoy watching this kind of thing except I get a little gaggy when the mom eats the placenta.  But then again, I’ve never tried placenta, so who knows?  I wonder if I was not the fortunate beneficiary of modern medicine and had given birth crossing the plains or in the outback, would some natural animalistic instinct kicked in and would I have eaten placenta???  I doubt it.  How can you eat placenta when you are busy, screaming, throwing up, and yelling at the husband?

            In all honesty, newborn puppies are about as cute as naked mole rats.  Okay, I lied.  I just googled naked mole rats and puppies are a bit cuter, but not much.  (BTW – don’t you love Google?) 

            After I saw the puppies, then of course my children wanted to see the puppies.  Then we had to visit once a week, taking pictures to document their rapid growth.  All very scientific of course. 

            Then, that animal mind-speak thing started to happen.  Only, it wasn’t me speaking to the animals, it was the animals speaking to me.  The little white male of the litter started saying things like, “Look at me.  Aren’t I cute?  I will be your BFF.  I will make your children better children because having a pet makes them responsible and sensitive individuals.  I will lick up all the crumbs on your floor and you will never have to sweep again.  I will protect your family from harm and strangers, all four pounds of me.  I will wake you in the night if there’s a fire.  When your children have no friends, I will be that friend, forever.  I will only poop little tootsie-roll poops that are oh so cute and will just melt away. . .”

            Flash forward again, several weeks.  It is midnight.  Everybody is asleep except for me and McCoy, the mind-speaking, white, fur-ball.  He is not tired, so we are playing.  This is when I start thinking that his idea and my idea of a BFF are not the same.         

            It is now two weeks later than it was two weeks ago.  I have not gotten anything done.  I am tired from chasing him every waking moment.  My old BFF asks how my “baby” is and if she needs to bring me dinner.  I laugh and say no, but that is not what I’m thinking. 

            Finally, McCoy is asleep.  He is cute, especially when he is sleeping.  Most of what he mind-spoke to me was true, but he left a few things out, like:  “I will totally dominate your life.  I might pee on your leather couch.  My favorite pass time is digging holes in the carpet, I will be too little to go up and down stairs for awhile, so you will have to carry me, a lot.  (BTW – if there’s a fire, will you get me out of the house?)  I will probably find gum when we go outside and get it stuck all over me right after you’ve given me a bath.  I will wake you up early every morning, but I will look adorable.

            Next time the husband asks for a dog, I might not be so nice.

Family/Girlfriend/Dog Pedigree Chart illustrated by a lame genealogist

 

The Naked Truth

I just had a thought.  Maybe that bread recipe doesn't work for anybody.  Maybe everybody is too afraid to tell the Deals to Meals Lady that it is a flop.  Maybe this whole incident is like the emperor's new clothes but with bread. . .

What are the chances?

What are the chances that I would see the Deals to Meals lady in the parking lot at Costco the day after posting my horrific, bread making experience?  100%.  I know she recognized me because when I went to the "Save Money, Eat Better, Build Your Food Storage rah, rah, rah class," I sat next to her and said, "I don't recognize you.  Are you new to the group?"  She replied, "No I am the teacher."  I thought, how can you be so young and so smart?  Only she is (young) and she was (smart) except for she doesn't know much about bread or fools. 

Just for the record, I did not send her a loaf of spit-on-bread.  Thank heavens.  I did not spit on her or anything else in the parking lot.  I did not chew her out about her recipe.  I did not say hi.  What I did do was concentrate really hard on my feet.  That will show her.

Bread, Freezer Jam and Spit

            I just finished making four lovely, tan bricks.  I’m not sure what I’ll do with them, but I’ve got a few ideas.  I could tie them to my cookbook and throw them in a lake;  I’ve got this door that won’t stay open, or I could get a couple of colorful sharpies, add some highlights, and pass them off as fruitcakes in a couple months.

            I got this recipe from the Deals to Meals Lady.  Apparently she has given it to hundreds of people in 5 different states and it is foolproof.  Until now.  I happen to be very good at ruining foolproof recipes.

            My friend taught a class on how to make strawberry freezer jam.  She said, “This recipe is foolproof.  I’ve only ruined it once when I was making it with Jill. . .”  I thought my jam was okay.  So what if I had to drink it instead of spread it. 

            My sister-in-law makes strawberry freezer jam to die for.  My children all request their own bottle for their birthdays.  On the way home with the coveted freezer jam from my domestic sister-in-law goddess, I had one child eat the whole thing with her tongue and bare hands.  This way, she would not have to share.  Not that I would stoop to anything so low.  Not that this sister-in-law and I have ever locked ourselves in a room and downed a whole container of Ben and Jerry’s so we wouldn’t have to share. 
     The sticky, (then 14-year-old) in the back seat of the car is not the only one who has a difficult time sharing.  I have seen the aunt’s freezer jam in our fridge bearing a sign that says, DO NOT EAT.  I HAVE SPIT IN THIS.

            Spitting in food dates back to when our children were quite small.  One night while sitting at the counter prolonging bedtime by slowly eating dishes of ice cream, my husband said, “Five more minutes, then the ice cream is mine.”  Without conversing, they simultaneously spit in their bowls.  That is pure, natural, raw animalistic instinct.   What else could it be?  We didn’t teach them that.

            Anyway, I am sure my bread will not need a sign that says, “Do not eat.  I spit on it.”  In fact, my children are doing a small victory dance and chanting, “Store-bought, white bread! Store-bought, white bread!”  The husband is silently gleeful. 

            I think I will spit on the loaf and send it to the Deals to Meals lady.