Graduation Day

It's hard to explain what I'm feeling as I pack to take off for my youngest's graduation after five years in architecture school. Pride, certainly, for she has worked hard and done well. Sadness, in a way, because she's now certifiably an adult. Well, chronologically an adult, but to me, she'll always be my baby. My dad is thrilled because he finally has someone else with a degree from his beloved Virginia Tech. Plus, she's the first person on the family with a Bachelors degree in Architecture. We have a slew of B.S., B.A., M.S. M.A., M.Ed., M.LS, and J.D. degrees. It's nice to have an architect after all the engineers, teachers, librarians, and lawyers.

Education at the bachelors level is less of a ticket into a job than it was a million years ago when I got my bachelors degree. Graduate school is almost a necessity. I always told my children to take a year or two off before starting their post-grad careers. Give yourself a chance to decompress, enjoy life, and figure out what you REALLY want to do.

You never know what path you never saw coming that will rise up and grab you by the ankles. This is coming from the Art History major who went to law school.

Anyway, we're all very proud of her, as we are of all our offspring. They've done remarkably well and turned into lovely young women. We're the fortunate ones, to get to see them blossom and grow up close and personal.

Short Hair

No, not short hairS. Please!

I went through a phase last year where I was tired of my hair looking the same as that of every old lady. You know, short, practical, boring. Well, maybe not every old lady of my acquaintance, but most of the ones I don't know. In line on front of me at the grocery store. At the bank. Etc.

So, I decided to let it grow out. I figured I'd get it to the pony tail stage, and I could thread it through the back hoopy part of my race caps. I'd be cooler, I reasoned, with a tail swinging off the back of my head. So the hair grew, and it grew, and it grew. I was definitely feeling the late sixties, my hippie days with love bead headbands and unimpressive stringy brown tresses. Lots of tresses. I began to remember how hot hair is when it hit in the eighties one freaky day in March. Not groovy by a long shot.

So much for the sixties and pony tails. Found a cool and hip new hairdresser to wield her artistic razor through the minefield on my head, and behold, I'm back to short hair. Edgy, hip, cool short hair. I promise never to grow it out again.

For one thing, my Beloved didn't recognize me from the back. For another, it just wasn't flatterimg for this old broad. And for a third thing, it was too danged hot.

I'm a short hair kind of girl, and that's all there is to it.

What do we really know?

I've debated whether or not to write this post, and the dice landed on this side of the computer. A man died in my neighborhood on Mother's Day.

I didn't know him. I didn't even know he was there. I have wondered who owned the white Highlander in the driveway of a house where I know the owners quite well. At least, I thought I knew them. The Toyota wasn't their car, but I thought maybe one of the kids had returned for a Mother's Day visit. It was odd that the owners' car wasn't there, but maybe it was in the shop.

The couple who own the house are a bit more than acquaintances. I'd ask them for help, and have, and I hope they'd feel they could ask me for the same. Nice people. So when I saw, Sunday evening last, an ambulance, fire engine,and four police cars in front of the house, I was alarmed. Had someone fallen down the stairs? Had there been a heart attack? Who was injured? What could we do to help?

My Beloved called the neighbors between us, and they didn't know much more than we did, except for one crucial fact. There'd been a 911 call, and the responders found a man, deceased, in the house. My neighbor gave the police the owners' cell phone number, but there was no answer. My neighbor had no idea of the identity of the deceased. The homeowners weren't home, and still aren't today.

I feel awful that this unknown person didn't know he could have called on any of us in this subdivision for immediate help. We're a helping kind of folk. That he died alone, waiting for an ambulance that didn't arrive in time, or even with flashing lights, makes me feel infinitely sad. I know more about the characters in my stories than I do about the people who live around me.

Of course, I make up my characters, so they have no secrets. But still, I feel the need to get to know everyone on my street much better. Not just socially, to say Hi, and How are you? How are the kids? They need to know we're here for them, and for anyone else in the neighborhood.

If only. . . . I mourn this unknown man and feel a great sense of "I can and should do better."

Mother's Day

It's been a lovely time, shopping and eating, talking and laughing with the offspring. Clouds gave way to a perfect spring day, and we picnicked after church under the umbrella on Ahi tuna and asparagus cooked on the grill. Artisan sunflower seed bread, salad, strawberries and a chocolate cake to die for have me both sated and lethargic. I feel like a stuffed tick, as we say in the South. What a perfect day.

I hope all of you enjoyed your mothers and children, of the two-legged or four-legged variety. Children, of course. Not four-legged mothers. That would be a bit weird. More than a bit. . . .

Fickle! Fie!

So my elder offspring arrived for Mother's Day weekend. While I was, of course, thrilled to see her, meeting her in the driveway to help her with her luggage, my hugs were nothing considered to the dog's. On the other side of the back yard fence, the canine child tried her best to jump the gate, all the while moaning as if in extreme ecstasies. Upon opening the gate for the fickle critter, I was shoved aside as she leaped, twirled, and generally carried on like an abused child being rescued, licking and pawing her true love. My human child, of course, reciprocated in kind, and the two of them blurred together in this love fest.

Isn't that how it goes? Sigh. Those who feed, water, walk, pet, cuddle, and make adoring noises on a daily basis get ignored. Yes, from the moment she arrived home, my elder child has had a canine bed mate, foot warmer, and general factotum. What am I, chopped liver? Nothing that wonderful, it seems. Another big sigh from my lonely corner. Now I know MY place in the pecking order.

Wait until the four-footed princess wants an extra treat or a longer walk.

Frying pans

When my beloved and I were first married, we never had any real issues. Except for one. As every Southern woman knows, her cast iron frying pan is sacred, and never, I repeat, NEVER, to be immersed in hot water and scrubbed with a Brillo pad. You know what's coming, don't you?

Yes, my Yankee darling just didn't understand the years that had gone into seasoning that pan. Why, I could slide a pineapple upside down cake out with one gentle tap. Its finish had been ten years in the making. Aside from my sterling flatware and grandmother's Rosenthal china, and perhaps my Mikimoto pearls, nothing else I brought to my new marriage of a physical nature was more important to me.

The morning he attacked it with hot water and a scrubber was almost his last. For the first time ever, I threatened him with dire consequences, the least of which was divorce, if he ever touched my frying pan again. I can still see his shocked expression, and I am happy to say, I never had to threaten him again. He will stare at it, in all its glory, on the stove, glance at me as if checking to see if I noticed his hands itching to throw it in the sink, then he walks away. Slowly, to show me he's not scared. But I know he is. No one, I repeat, no one touches that pan but me.

I'm going to leave it to my daughters to fight over when I'm gone. Like all good Southern girls, they understand it is priceless.

Richmond!

Great racing last night! My driver was running well, but his, like many other cars, got caught up in a mess that ruined his night. Sigh. BTW, David Reutimann is a nice guy. Signed our race flag at the MWR trailer, and I teased him about the beard, lol. He pointed out my beloved's goatee and mustache, but as I said, I'm married to my Beloved and don't tell him what to do.

We were parked near nice people, enjoyed chatting with them, and the weather couldn't have been better. If you ever go to one NASCAR race, go to Richmond.

I heard Kyle Busch say you never have a perfect car. I was wondering, does that mean you can never have a perfect book? I can think of books I've read that qualify as almost perfect in my eyes. But I know I always feel that I could rewrite forever. That's why it's so hard to go back and reread my older stuff. My rewriting instincts kick in, and I would kill to be able to start over. I wonder if Dean Koontz ever feels that way, LOL?