Burch Luck, or Shanks Luck, or As Luck Would Have it. One of those journals that starts out as one thing and turns out to be just random, ramblings. Yeah, a BLOG.
I realize that there is an embarrassing, overabundant amount of discussion flying around about Donald Trump, on the Twittersphere, the Book of Faces, the media, under my breath. But I think I would be remiss in not mentioning how very, very heartbreaking it is to see the success of such an openly hateful, xenophobic individual bring out the worst part of the American consciousness.
Allow me to share some words of a good friend of mine, Mr. Luke Klima, who very eloquently said what I wanted to and what many others would echo (except he did it without the use of swear words - because he is a gentleman, whereas I am close to being a disenfranchised American with the vocabulary of a truck driving sailor).
"Politicians appeal to us in different ways - Lincoln appealed to the better angels of our nature, but we've had our fair share of appeals to our fears as well. But I have never seen anyone appeal to the lowest and ugliest part of people's psyches in the way Mr. Trump does. He appeals to the worst angels of our nature - the hypothetical little devil that sits on one's shoulder whispering the most depraved and selfish of ideas. Let's keep those people out! Let's win against those people (i.e. make them lose)! Let's kill the children of those others! Let's react with fisticuffs against those who disagree!
He doesn't tell us of the tide that will lift all boats, but of his ability to sink the other boats, while ours remains afloat. This is an ugly appeal, a depraved appeal, and as it intends to depress much of humanity, an ultimately inhuman appeal.
I hope this experiment with anger soon sees the ignominious end it deserves. It's long past time already."
I would add to Mr. Klima's grandiloquent allegory that while our boat might remain afloat, it's quickly filling with water and it's only a matter of time before the inhabitants merely start flinging each other overboard in a selfish attempt to survive. The U.S.S. America, I fear, is doomed to sink regardless.
Most of my family and friends know that I'm a Harry Potter geek. My office at work is filled with HP memorabilia, the walls covered with framed movie posters. The list goes on. They also know that Severus Snape was my favorite and that it was a dream of mine to someday meet Alan Rickman.
Actor and director, Alan Rickman, passed away today from cancer. He was 69. He was surrounded by his family.
It’s appalling how many people use social media to try to
convert me to their political party.
News Flash: It’s SOCIAL MEDIA. I go there to be SOCIAL – as well
as get away from the everyday, hustle and bustle real world, which quite
frankly, is pretty damn scary and depressing.
Social Media (Facebook, Twitter, Snap Chap, Peach, Google,
Instagram, MySpace [who is still using this?]) – all of that is purely for
entertainment purposes. Or, for keeping up with family members – which for
some, is also entertainment.
The differing views (religious, political, nutritional,
etc.) are in the thousands and sparking debate, controversy and hatred is not
the avenue to promote peace. In fact, it has the opposite effect. Nobody cares
about your opinions, especially if they don’t align with theirs.
Also, if you ARE getting your political information ([sic] Facts) from Facebook or Twitter, then you really have no basis to spout your claims. Everything on the internet is false. (It's True - I read it on the internet)
Keep Social Media Social! For Pete’s sake – it’s supposed to
be all about what folks had for dinner, photos of their amazing vacations that
we didn’t take, what Greek God or Goddess most aligns with your personal
information so that you can be on several advertising venues, and cat videos.
(A "re-post" from a few years ago) The truth about beaches - they smell like wet dog and fish poop. I have nothing against people who like vacationing on a beach, the surf, the sun, et. al. But to tout beaches as a "vacationer's paradise" - it's just a scam to get people to come to their beach and spend their hard earned money on crap that they can pick up in the sand for free. My most expensive purchase on our recently ended beach vacation was a $65 bathing suit and $10 sunscreen with SPF 50 that was both sweat and water proof. Had it been sun proof as well, we'd be 3 for 3 in it's offered benefits. The numbers in SPF ratings are actually the total number of times you need to apply that particular sunscreen to avoid sun burn. I wasted my money on two tubes. I also had to buy my son a new bathing suit, as his was swept away in the surf while he was trying out his new "boogie boarding" skills. First, I had to wade out waste deep in the ocean to bring him a towel. That was bad enough because I had previously had no itentions of even getting my new bathing suit wet, let alone filled with sand and sea weed. Face it, anything that forces someone of my size to wear a bathing suit is NOT going to be pleasant or filled with fun. The price of bathing suits at any store on a beach - not fun! There's no Wal-mart on the islands. All the stores are named "Ocean View" and "Pirates Landing" and they sell over priced sea shells, cheap beach towels and little figurines of dudes smoking joints on surf boards. They also sell $65.00 bathing suits and $10 sunscreen. But I digress, because I had to. Back to the beach. It was hot and I was sweaty and I would have loved to have just stayed in the hotel room, in the air conditioning, reading a book, but I needed to be at the beach, with my kids, because let's face it: if a shark were to attack them or they were to be swept out to sea, I am the ONLY person who would be able to save them. At least, that was all I could think about. So, while my kids and husband body surfed and boogie boarded in the waves, I was their lookout for great white sharks, jelly fish or unfriendly surf. It's a hard job. You can just ask the church camp counselors who were there with 6 - 7 kids each in their charge. I overheard one of them tell another that this was the worst time he had ever had at a beach. Now you know how your mom feels pal! Let's forget for a moment that most talented authors who write scenes on a beach describe it as "serene and peaceful" and filled with "fresh, salty air" and the hypnotic sounds of the waves crashing on the beach. Yeah, well if by serene and peaceful they mean screeching seagulls and people, maybe. Fresh, salty air - that means sea creature poop ya'll, and if you have the added affect of heated up sea creature poop, in the middle of the hot, summer days - that's what a beach smells like. God probably added the salt to cover that up, though I'm just guessing. Waves crashing on the beach sounds remarkably like static on a stereo with the volume turned really high and the left speaker blown. This is not to say that I don't like a good vacation with my husband and kids. It's just that my recent vacation on the beach was eerily similar to reading a book in a port-a-potty. Hot, stinky and not a lot of joy in stretching the legs to find a good reading position.
What a lovely Christmas we had with my side of the family in Kansas! No snow this time, though they did receive almost an inch on the day we left. Ain't that some "Burch Luck?" This year, it was a different Christmas for us - much quieter. Not just because it was the first Christmas without Grandma Burch or Uncle Joe, though their absence was sadly felt. Our 2015 Christmas will be known as the one where Uncle Zane couldn't speak. Not that he didn't want to, he is a lawyer, for by, and his voice is usually the loudest in the room; the one heard above all others. In October, my brother-in-lawyer, Zane L. Todd, Jr. was diagnosed with Squamous Cell Carcinoma. The tumor was removed, as were his tonsils, which is where the cancer began, and the fight was on. He began aggressive treatments with both radiation and chemotherapy. The radiation he handled well, but the chemotherapy robbed him of most of his energy. He was unable to keep down food and fight off the nausea, so he typically spent the first 2-3 days after the chemo treatment either bent over a bucket or in the hospital on I.V. fluids. He lost a lot of weight, lost the ability to salivate, and the sores on the back of his throat were so painful that it hurt him to swallow or speak. After a month of not being able to eat foods, a feeding tube was inserted in Zane's abdomen so that he could receive nourishment, but even that food did not stay with him long - so great was his nausea. Two days before Christmas, Zane's doctors decided not to give him his final chemo treatment - but only stick with the radiation. It was really good news for him and the family, as they felt the treatments were all working fine and it would probably hurt him more to go through the treatment than to actually administer. So yeah, in all - cancer sucks and is bad and all that hoopla. We believe Zane is now on the way to a complete recovery. What this meant for the Burch family, was a very quiet Christmas. That's not necessarily a bad thing, except that Zane brings a lot of light to the chaotic action of Christmas morning, or any party where we are all together. Again, his voice is the one that is heard above all others. So a room in which Zane is sitting but not speaking is almost eerily quiet, if you don't count the kids (who range in age now from 6 to 23 - big shout out to my daughter Austyn, who turned 21 on Christmas day - WHOOP). There was still excitement, and ripping paper, and pouting kids, and whispers about whether or not Santa was real, and was the turkey in the oven yet, and how about some more coffee... It wasn't a bad silence. Just different. A time to reflect on what it means to be a family, how much we have grown, how big the kids are getting; how accomplished. But mostly, this Christmas, it was a time to be thankful. For health, for prosperity, and for God, who gave us the Savior, the one to be heard above all others.
Rocky Mosler stopped by on Christmas eve to speak with Zane about what
having the same cancer had done for him and to show Zane that there really
My new novel, Vita Bellum, now has 54,000+ words. I'm well on my way to becoming a published author.
Thank you.
This, for me, is only my third greatest accomplishment - following the births of my two children. But to write over 50K words in one month is quite a feat!
Of course, the words are mostly crap and National Novel Writing Month (November) should be followed up by National Editing Month (December). Whew! Total drivel - but I will add that some of the scenes I wrote are not only graphic and detailed, they are an example of fantastic story telling. I'm not just patting myself on the back here, folks! It's just good writing.
Not all of it. I feel like I should keep adding that. But enough good writing that I don't totally hate what I wrote and I have yet to delete it because of thinking "Oh Lord, what was I thinking, this is crap?" as I have done in the past.
So far, I have three people reading it for me just for S and G's and two of them have said that it's good stuff. The third person hasn't spoken to me since I sent it to him, but it's my nephew and it's likely he hasn't even read it yet, so I'll just pretend he's so in awe of his aunt's literary writing skills that he remains speechless.
Look for it on the shelves some day. Vita Bellum (that's Latin for "Life at War") by Angela Degelman.
I really
need to get Alan onto that "Extreme Cheapskates" reality show! He has
got to be the only husband around who, when I say "I have errands to
run" actually hears "I have plans to spend all of our hard-earned money
on things that we don't need and leave us destitute and living in a van down by
the river."
I mean, I work too. Sometimes, I am even working two jobs (though I secretly love working concessions, I don't tell him that because it would rob me of the times I get to say "For crying out loud, I slave away, working TWO JOBS, so that I can buy things we don't need..."). So what if I have such a great membership with Overstock.com that all my shipping is free? I mean, it's free of a monetary charge - but unless my packages come when the hubby is NOT at home, I have to pay the price of hearing him gripe.
What can I say? I like to shop. I like to give gifts, I like my kids to have high thread-count sheets, and what the heck - I needed MORE shoe BOXES - to store stuff in.
I called my dad today to wish him a happy father's day.
He replied "You're Welcome."
Sure, he's 72 and by all accounts, that could be a statement to make children of elderly parents be wary (God help me if my mother ever finds out I referred to her and my daddy as 'elderly').
But with my dad - I knew he was just trying to be funny.
His words are typically slurred, whether from the stroke he had a few years ago or the beers he undoubtedly had been drinking all day, it doesn't matter. Whatever he is saying, it's in jest and if you don't know him, you might very well think he was a crabbit old man or a marble or two short of a set.
Dad Burch - he's a hoot and a half and he taught me to be the same. I never knew there was any other way to deal with any given situation than with sarcasm. I doubt I was much of a conversationalist when I was a toddler, but my mother tells me stories all the time of my dad having heated conversations with me in my high chair. I was babbling, he was telling jokes. If I didn't laugh, he would make fun of me drooling or not being able to walk.
The thing is, when you grow up with the kind of sarcastic and acerbic wit that I was raised with, you have an incredible mechanism for coping with stress of many calibers. You also have a tendency to get into trouble; yes, even as an adult I find it hard to not use my sense of humor in any given situation.
My dad and his buddies, right out of high school, started their own fraternity. None of them were in college at the time, but it seemed like the thing to do. They called themselves "Signa Fi Nothin" and probably threw more parties than the Greek clubs combined.
Then my dad joined the air force and became an airplane mechanic and used his humor and wit to entertain other servicemen during the Vietnam war. My dad was never deployed; but he worked on numerous aircraft that were damaged from the war and it was enough for him to know that the airmen getting shipped overseas on his planes would be in need of a laugh or two before they boarded the plane for take-off. So he entertained the masses. Many of those blessed servicemen never came back, may God rest their souls. Surely dad was no Bob Hope, but he still made people laugh.
I owe you for my sense of humor dad. Now, if I can just get me a pick-up truck so that I can have a mobile garden, I'll be set! If you can read the article below, my dad was recognized in our hometown of Columbus, KS, for his innovative "mobile garden". He planted tomatoes and cucumbers in containers that he keeps in the back of his truck. When it rains, he drives around town to water his garden. If it's too cold or hot, he pulls the truck into the garage.
It is decidedly difficult to blog about individual experiences and/or events and not portray every little thing as an inside joke, so please bear with me as I attempt to hash out this years Warped Tour and make it understandable for anyone who was not able to attend. Okay, back up - let me rephrase. How can I make something that was a sheer blast for myself carry over so that it's as much fun for someone to read about? I think the only answer is: I can't. But I'm dumb enough to try. Vans Warped Tour 2012 - Dallas version was hot, dry and almost boring. Not that the trip itself wasn't fun. I mean, who doesn't enjoy a crazy roadtrip? I missed my bestie Ginger, who was busy taking her nursing boards so that meant that I was left by myself to escort three teenage girls to the Emo State Fair and Rodeo. My daughter, her bff K and her friend A who came all the way from Chicago to spend the week with my A and attend VWT2012. Pretty sure they had fun. Let's start with people watching. The people watching at these events is where the fun is for me. I could have easily titled this Blog - OMFG You Ruined Your Ear Lobes - but it's easier to just over share. Before it was even noon, I saw a lady who brought her two-year old (why?) and a girl in a VERY revealing Wonder Woman costume. Couldn't be topped by young Miss "I have autographs from every band I've ever loved and just to prove my loyalty I had them tattooed ALL OVER my body." I bet she'll NEVER regret that.
I attempted to think of a catchier
title for this particular blog post, but as I am sitting here listening to 80's
music on Spotify, I fear I'm losing all sensibility and creativity to Air
Supply, Journey and Flock of Seagulls.
What is this madness, and is it only temporary?
The internet is a hindrance to the subsets of my mind because
every time I try to look something up or research a topic, Google makes me 'run
a rabbit' with my thoughts and I somehow, ALWAYS end up just Googling images or
articles about Scott Caan.
For an under-tall actor, the man has
a body that won’t quit, a face that melts my soul and the best part about him;
he’s a writer! A damn good one at that!
[His latest play, No Way Around But Through, is currently
running at the Falcon Theatre in Burbank, CA http://www.falcontheatre.com/ through
July 8; and no – I’m not getting paid to print this]
Enough about Mr. Caan, because this post
was not originally intended to be about him – that’s just the way he pops in
and out of my head most days.
I just worry sometimes that my brain
doesn’t have the ability to run through the colorful plethora of thoughts and
emotions that pop up when I’m writing (and oh Lord, Beastie Boys just came on
my play list; I’ll never get through this Blog post…)
What I mean by that (the statement
not pertaining to the Boys) is that I don’t always type as fast as the thoughts
swirl around in my brain and by the time I finish one thought, another has
started and before I can even rationalize that thought, three more are bull
dozing it out of the way, flailing about and screaming “PICK ME! PICK ME!”
Is it like this for every writer? Do
I have to find a way to separate these thoughts, divide them into subcategories
and file them away for later use? Or should I just keep doing what I usually do
and muddle through?
Corey Hart? Really? I had this
cassette my junior year of high school…’You
can never SURRENDERRR’
Okay, perhaps I should write without
the music turned up…in case you haven’t guessed it by now, this is called
muddling through. Not just my thoughts
but the visual and audio stimulants that surround me on a daily basis that my
brain is not able to tune out, yet no doctor seems to think I have attention
deficit disorder.
SQUIRREL!
But I digress, because that’s a good
segue to my final thought which is this: my ability to deviate from a topic but
jump right back to it after I express a more current thought is decidedly tainted.
With technology dramatically changing the interface and interactions of friendship, the internet has become a realm of possibilities. I'm not writing here about the perverts, possible kidnappers, or other facets of the DARK side of the Internet. I'm talking about REAL friends. Real people, that while you may never have met them in person, still have made such an impact on your life that you consider them a friend.
I first met many of of my "Internet Friends" on a discussion group for Days of Our Lives (yes, the Soap Opera). We started out talking about the soap, but we quickly progressed to learning more about each other, so much so that the creator of the discussion group created a "Personal Topics" (http://mediadomain.com/cgi-bin/netforum/dool_fan/a.cgi/1) page so that the people who were really getting miffed at things other than soap talk would stop having nuclear melt downs on the site. As such, the DOOLies were born.
So, about 1/3 of the original DOOLies remain at Media Domain (I find that I don't even visit that much anymore), while many of us have progressed to the age of Facebook and have become online friends in this capacity.
What always struck me as odd was how easily we transferred online acquaintances into actual 3-D friendships. Many of us have met each other in person, share commonalities such as same aged kids, divorce, re-marriage, and a lot of the difficulties of every day life. These we have been able to share, whether pseudo-anonymously or in person.
My husband still finds it odd that I could be "friends" with somebody I've never met, but with my fellow DOOLies, I don't even give it a second thought. It's like we always 'were.'
In actuality, I started this particular blog in July of 2010. In that time, we have lost some DOOLies to the Angels, and while that makes me very sad, it's a comfort to know that we have always been there for each other and likely always will be.
I can't discount the number of arguments and board fights we have witnessed and taken part of over the years (I'm thinking it's been since 1996 - but I can't remember exact dates). We were either in the thick of it, or we had our lawn chairs and margarita machines out and we lurked on the sidelines.
Through it all, I think some of these DOOL friends, though I have never met them in person, are some of the best friends I have ever had.
Now, I'm off to lurk over at 'the board.' Maybe I'll see you there.
Just going to start posting chapters for the novel I've been working on for sometime. Keep in mind, I write Young Adult and/or children's books, so I try to keep it at that level. I either write too high for that age group or too low - so this is all just practice. So, here is a chapter from "Liberty":
PowerPoint Presentation
James River Tobacco Plantation, 1838
The sharp cry of a newborn followed by hushed whispers and scurrying feet was all that Thomas James could remember of the exact moment that his daughter Sarah was born. He had been holding back tears when Imari placed the tiny infant in his arms, the baby seemed so fragile and so much smaller than any of her brothers. She was merely whimpering now but he focused on looking into her beautiful face, so much like her mothers, that he tuned out the sharp voices coming from just the other side of the bedroom door.
It wasn’t until he felt the slaves hand on his arm, then the look on Imari’s face that he realized that something was terribly wrong. Clara had not yet called for him like she usually did after each baby, both to chastise him for his role in putting her through the childbirth, and to coo over the babies. The slave’s eyes told him everything, her voice barely audible.
“It was complications. She just lost too much blood. We tried Mastuh.” Imari had said. To Thomas, it was the end of life as he knew it. Clara had been his voice of reason, his friend, his beautiful wife and childhood sweetheart. His confidant. He couldn’t imagine life without her. He numbly placed the child into Imari’s arms and left the house to get away from the noise. He calmly began to smoke his pipe and shed the tears that now flowed freely down his face.
He didn’t know how he was going to make it without her; and yet, he had to go on. He had seven children now and a plantation to run and business to see to. His sons needed their education and discipline, as well as training with the horses and livestock, and he would soon have to teach Thomas William, his oldest son and namesake, all the business of running the plantation. Thomas was only twelve, but it was never too early to learn how to run the business.
Luckily, Imari had seen to the needs of the baby without him having to worry, having recently given birth to her own daughter, so he immediately buried himself with these worries and pushed his pain aside.
That was a month ago. The funeral was short; it was so cold and the ground was too hard to even dig the grave. Clara had been placed just off of the wood shed in a coffin of wet pine, covered in the snow until the ground thawed enough for digging a proper burial plot in the spring. It pained Thomas to think about it; so he didn’t. He immersed himself back into the business of running the plantation and seeing to the needs and castigations of his slaves, as well as the upbringing of his sons.
He barely noticed his new daughter at all at first. Until one day, Imari interrupted his daily Bible reading to his sons and placed Sarah in his arms.
“Mastah, I’m sorruh, but your daughter, she be needin her pa right now.” and she had walked away, leaving the bright eyed Sarah to look curiously into her papa’s eyes. That was all it took; the eyes, so much like her mothers, forming the connection he needed to drag him from his stupor. Sarah became his whole world after that moment.
When she wasn’t with Imari and Liberty, she was in a basket at her father’s feet, or playing with bobbles and toys under his desk. She was immediately wrapped around her father’s finger, as well as her brothers, and stationed in their hearts. There was almost nothing she could do that would upset anyone, particularly her father. Almost.
Sarah was only four years old the first time her father had to discipline her. She had been playing with Liberty on the floor of the busy kitchen and the two were playing a game of catch with a ball of rags.
The throws were becoming increasingly sporadic and out of control and the girls giggles, while entertaining, were irritating the kitchen slaves.
Caroline, a big robust slave with no patience for children, was just pulling a hot bread pudding from the oven when a missed toss sent the ball sailing across the kitchen, into the pudding, splattering the big round woman with burning liquid and startling her so that the pudding was then dropped, splashing the poor slave, the walls, the floors and sizzling into the belly of the oven.
When Sarah's father learned of the ruined pudding, his favorite, he had to forbid her from being in the kitchen, as well as discipline her for her defiance. Because he could not bear to spank his own daughter, she had been sent to bed without any supper; a punishment that turned out all the better for her as each of her brothers, feeling sorry for her, had each snuck food into the bedrooms that night. She was full of cold ham, biscuits with honey, a handful of fried potatoes, and molasses cookies by the time her father came to her that evening with a glass of warm milk and a piece of bread. He finished explaining to her the necessities of rules and why she was being punished when he offered her the food as a token of his pleasure at her obedience when she proclaimed
"Oh but papa, I can’t eat that!" He beamed briefly at her presumed adherence to her punishment, but quickly frowned as she went on
"I'm so full already with what Will and Libby and the boys brought me from their suppers. You go 'head an eat that papa; yous be needin sumpin for yoself’."
Though he knew he could not keep her from the clutches of Imari, her only known mother, whom she adored and had taken all of his children under her careful watch and he certainly could not part her from the company of Liberty, with whom she would have shared a bed if he had allowed.No, he couldn’t help their current circumstances, but the law being the law and slaves being slaves, he would have to do something about his daughters unlikely ‘kinship’ with his slaves and the mannerisms that she was picking up on.
His first thought was boarding school, but the thought of sending Sarah away nearly broke his heart and he just couldn’t dream of it.But it was in that moment that Thomas decided what his daughter needed was a proper tutor and "white" teacher and the sooner the better.If he couldn’t send her to boarding school, he would bring one to her. (end chapter)
Okay, so that is the introduction. Hopefully it gives enough background without having to back too far, and just so much that you know the setting and hopefully some of the characters. The rest of the story will be about Sarah adjusting to her 'prim and proper' tutor, her friendship with Libby and some of the trouble that that cause, her relationship with her father. At some point, Sarah will realize what slavery actually means and that she does not adhere to that way of life. Her quest at that point will be to help Libby seek freedom via the underground railroad (after her mother, Imari's untimely and suspicious death) and together the two young girls (probably at around the age 13 mark) run away to go North, to Canada. While traveling the U G railroad with the help of abolitionists and allies I was thinking that it would be neat for them to meet the actual Harriet Tubman and other real people who are often associated with the "Freedom Train." May even change the name of the novel to Freedom Train, though the rough title is Liberty.
You can let me know what you think if you want. Good and bad, all feedback is welcome.
I'm not just made up of the Burch family genes. I have Beattie in me too. I think the luck on that side is not as bad, or maybe just not talked about. Either way, our family has some good memories of Beattie Christmases, family reunions and get togethers.
Nothing, however, is as successful at bringing a family together quite like a funeral. It's sad to think that this is sometimes what it takes, but at the same time, celebrating the life of a loved one with other loved ones is time well spent.
My Uncle Speed would have loved his own funeral. So much laughter, all the cousins together for the first time in thirty + years. Cards were played, stories were told, tears were shed, and hugs were shared all around.
The world lost a great man when Speedy left this earth. He was a great artist, a practical jokester, an architectural engineer, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a brother, an uncle, a friend.
At his funeral, the pastor of the church asked those who wanted to, to come forward and share a story about Speed. A memory or two. I was taken off guard to say the least. First of all, I didn't have anything prepared and as I am NOT a public speaker, this was a detriment to anything I would or could have shared anyway. Secondly, there are so many Speed stories that I can think of, that I froze. I needed to hear what others were sharing, but at the same time, I was picking through my brain for Speed memories I could possibly share with others without breaking up in front of people.
I could have talked about me spending the first few months of my life with Uncle Speed and Aunt Jo because my mom got sick with Hepatitis and couldn't care for me. How Uncle Speed wouldn't let me go to the baby sitter if Jo couldn't watch me, so he would stay home from work to be with me. But I don't really remember that, as I was only a baby.
Maybe the first time I ever caught a fish. It was in his pond, at the foot of the "mountain" that was left over after he dug it. Or, one of the many summers I spent at his farm, getting up with the roosters, gathering eggs because he told me I couldn't eat breakfast or lunch until I did "my chores."
The ole "mongoose" trap he had rigged. Feeding his pet squirrels with a baby bottle. I finally thought of one that would have fit, so I decided I would just blog it instead (what since the funeral is already over and all).
At one time, Uncle Speed raised Lhasa Opsa's. His main breeder pup was named, Angie. I remember the first time I saw her, I fell in love. She was so pretty. White, long hair. We had gone to Oolagah to spend the weekend at Speed's and the minute I walked in the door I was all over that fluffy dog. And then Speed said something like "This is Angie, and since we named her after you, you will have to pick up her dog poop if she poops in the house, so keep an eye on her."
Never have I watched a dog so closely in my life! When she did happen to poo, I must have had my back turned or left the room. Uncle Speed called me into the living room, handed me the tissue and said "Clean it up!"
I had tears in my eyes as I bent down and picked up that darn pooh and so did Speed. His, though, were from holding back his laughter and he kindly opened the lid of the trash can for me to toss Angie's pooh. He didn't make me clean it up again though. I think, in spite of the ornery side in him, he did have enough compassion that he wasn't going to put a 9 yr old through that again. To this day, I still have a problem picking up dog poop during a dogs training stages. I typically would put a napkin over it and wait for Alan to get home.
But - I will never forget my first time picking up the pooh. Thank goodness they didn't name any other dogs after me.
I'll miss you Uncle Speed. And I'll never forget you.
Yeah, okay. So the magic that we all felt on that first Christmas in our memory (the one with the surprises under the Christmas tree on Christmas morning, family, the smell of turkey roasting and the thought that life was so incredibly wonderful to have all these presents...and...and.....yeah - that memory) is hard to find as an adult.
There is no real joy in wrapping Christmas gifts. Buying them is fun, but I find that even dropping something in the gift bags is tedius. I'm such a lazy wrapper that I put four of my son's small, cheap gadget gifts into one box and wrapped it all together.
I used to think that there was something wrong with my mother. She did not like Christmas. She grumbled about it all the time. I thought she either had a problem with Santa, or she didn't like the baby Jesus, but either way - to NOT like Christmas just seemed - sinful.
And yet, here I am years later making the same grumbles that used to make me gasp when I'd hear her complain. "I hate this time of year." The traffic in the mall parking lot is enough to make me want to scream, not to mention the traffic in the aisles at Wal-Mart! Oy!
Who to buy for, what to buy them, how much to spend. Whose house will we visit? Will they come here? Do I have to cook? Does that mean I have to clean off the dining room table (which we haven't used in at least a year and a half)?
We recently realized that, for the FIRST time in our 18 years of marriage, we won't be getting up Christmas morning, rushing our kids through their santa/stocking gifts while the green bean casserole heats up in the oven and then rushing over to hubby's parents to spend Christmas with that side of the family. Nor, will we be making the long drive to Kansas on Christmas Eve-Eve early morning after I've spent an entire night doing laundry (because I haven't for so long) and packing.
Nope - for the first time, we will be having Christmas at OUR house, with just US. I don't have to make turkey OR green bean casserole. I don't even have to get dressed if I don't wanna! I dont' even have to clear the table; we could eat at the coffee table in front of the t.v. like we usually do. We could.
But, I don't want my kids to have to search for that joy or fun or excitement that Christmas brings. I know it's about the birth of Christ, and all that yada yada yada. I want them to smell the turkey baking as they open their gifts. I want them to feel the grace when we hold hands and say grace at the dining room table and thank the one who made it all happen. Visa.
Okay. I could really stop there, but I can't. My baby girl was born on Christmas day, and whether she thinks it or not, I think it's WONDERFUL that she shares her birthday with the ONE. The ONE for which we celebrate the day in the first place. I thank him daily for my kids, my hubby, and this year, I'll be thanking him for the patience I know he's going to give me to get through the day without extended family.
My first day on my NANOWRIMO account is listed as a failure because I didn't make it to 2,000 words. Day two is listed as a failure as well because I haven't written anything yet. Lovely feeling.
Couldn't they change that feature to read "Not there yet" or "Mostly There"? It seems self defeating to list me as a failure already on day one. Of course, the other times that I participated in Nanowrimo I didn't finish (or "win" as it's called).
I'm also having trouble keeping myself from "self-editing" as I go, which defeats the purpose.
That said - I probably won't blog about much this November, and if I do - I'm using it in my word count.
When am I ever going to have time to write again? It was pulling teeth to make myself write this blog today.
At work, it's the busiest time of my fall semester, in addition to blowing out some much needed work on my student data base, I've got apps to the program, scanning all our old files to .tiff documents, and the normal program advising stuff.
At home, when I am there (and that certainly isn't often) I either drop into bed from exaustion or scurry about trying to catch up on laundry, house cleaning, etc.
Yeah....none of that is currently getting done, as I could have safely written this entire blog entry with my finger in the dust on the television, piano and entertainment center. Dirty clothes have become my new floor covering; I have even been known to adjust the piles so that none are taller than the other and the colors of whatever items happen to be on top don't clash. The waste basket in the master bath is almost over flowing (I say almost because I occasionally skim off the top and put that into a trash bag...right next to the can). Oh well - at least it hasn't reached a mountainous peak and teetered over into the sink like my son's did once. Hey - I don't hardly ever go upstairs, and anyway, this is not your child!
So, housework can wait. It's the band chaperone thing that is filling my time and my weekends right now. The Viking Band has done SO remarkably well, I really do think they have a chance at going to State. What "being in the band" involves for me is riding the bus with the kids to all the away games and to all the marching competitions (oh and the occasional 'Please do not share a blanket if you are sharing a seat and you are of the opposite sex'). I'm not sure if it's just me, or the fact that I'm older and larger, but didn't buses used to have a lot more room? I think they added more seats to buses without adding any length. Long bus rides when you are Triple Oh's (Old, Overweight, Out-of-Shape) are extremely taxing on this old body. It takes me a good minute just to get down the steps after a long trip and that's not just because it's usually 1:30 a.m. or so.
Last Saturday, accompanied the band to the Waco Regional marching competition. I got up basically four hours after I got home from the Friday night high school football game in Copperas Cove (2:00 a.m.) and even though we made it home at the ripe ole hour of 11:30 p.m. Saturday night, I could not get out of bed until noon Sunday, and even then was only because I had to pee. I could barely lift a finger all day and still have not replenished the groceries in our house.
This week, the band is being instructed and drilled by the 'legendary', Brad Kerr Green, so practice is every evening from 4:30 - 6:30, in which the front ensemble is usually finished putting away their instruments close to 7:00 p.m. and I'm lucky to get home by 7:30 p.m.
What I'm trying to elude to is that I'm just tired. This Saturday, we leave at 5:30 a.m. ish to go to Regionals in San Antonio and likely won't return until 2:00 ish in the morning (Sunday).
How the 'legendary' Janice Clark, head band chaperone for (ever?), does it - the world may never know. I think it's because she doesn't suffer from the Triple Oh's.
I know, I know - I signed up for this. I don't regret it at all. I have a ball at the football games, dancing to the different pieces the band plays, being Pit Mom with my fellow Pit Mommas, Maryann and Susan, playing bus captain for the senior bus, and totally embarassing my daughter. It's a blast, and far more rewarding than any other volunteer work I have ever done.
I just wanted to take this time to explain why my house is a mess....should anybody happen to visit during marching season....
Yeah, so not everyone in the world is "lucky" enough to experience Burch Luck. I always thought that if you were a friend of a Burch, you would experience Burch Luck, By Association - a new phenomenon.
However, as luck would have it, I was able to experience luck of a different kind recently. It took place during our third Tom Petty concert in The Woodlands, September 24, 2010. I guess we can call it "Littleton/Hiney" luck because this isn't the kind of luck that I normally have, though it could have gone either way.
Burch luck is where we forget the number of our hotel room so I just check the entry card on every door until the card finally works. . . . on the last door that you try.
So our hotel was a block and a half from a Shell station - a good place in which to buy bottled beverages for before the concert. Cathy Littleton and I trapsed over to the Shell station, purchased some beer (they even had limes! In a GAS STATION!?) and walked back to the hotel. By the time we got there, we were hot and ready for that first beer.
As I'm quickly trying to cut a lime with a partially dull pocket knife we realize that we have nothing with which to open a beer bottle.
Burch luck is where my friends would have actually let me use the sprinkler head to open the bottle. I'm sure it would have worked!
Littleton luck is where you open the door of the hotel room and ask the couple who just happens to be walking by if they have a bottle opener, to which they immediately reply "Yes" and hold one up. WTH?! So they opened our beers for us, told us to stop by anytime and invited us to imbibe with them before the concert (seems like everyone in the hotel was there to see ZZ Top and Tom Petty).
It turns out, that when you mix Littleton Luck with Hiney Luck, you have something close to Burch luck, but not as bad.
While looking for the parking lot, Littleton Luck told Hiney Luck to look for the "GREEN" parking lot, as she was sure that it was the "GREEN" lot that was closest to the pavillion. We spotted a parking lot attendant in a green shirt and whipped a U-turn and made our way in. Turns out, all the Cynthia Woods Pavillion employees wear green. It was actually the "ORANGE" lot we pulled into, but it got us to the concert none-the-less.
Once inside the venue, we decided to buy ice cold beer but were dismayed to find out that they don't serve adult beverages to minors and they CARD EVERYBODY. Only the Hiney brought her ID - and she was the designated driver. Now that IS Burch Luck.
But, it was either Hiney Luck or Littleton Luck that gave us Tom Petty in concert on the night before a throat infection caused him to have to cancel his next two concerts. It definitely wasn't Burch Luck, or we wouldn't have seen him at all. Maybe a combonation of the three that got us only (or should I say AT LEAST) two songs for a standing ovation (rather than the normal four). At least we got American Girl!!
Now, it was MOST DEFINITELY BURCH luck that had us at the back of a long bathroom line when a GREEN shirted Pavilllion attendant told us that the other bathroom had no line at all but when we got there, the line was longer than the first one.
In all - a good weekend. But woe to Gubenatorial candidate Bill White and the guy who was drunkenly campaigning for him; pulling a dachshund and a beer cooler in a wagon yelling at the top of his drunken lungs to "VOTE FOR BILL WHITE FOR GOVERNOR"
He'll need some kind of luck to pull up in this campaign.
We all know that the 'battle of the bulge' (I hate that term but it fits, so suck it) is ONLY won if you cut down your caloric intake and/or counter it with exercise. That means "Eat Right and Exercise." It's the new CRAZE!
And most, if not all Burch's HATE it. It isn't even that we hate exercise so much. Okay, that's wrong too. We don't like exercise. We can tolerate it though if it's necessary.
It's the food part that catches a Burch. We like to eat and we like to eat a lot. That's not to say that we don't like healthy stuff. One of my favorite little veggie dishes is my Grandma Burch's cucumber/onion/vinegar stuff. Yummy! Goes good with her chili or goo-lash! And her homemade piecrust cinnamon rolls - nothing better. We fight over them. Yeah, about those veggie dishes....
So I stumbled on this blog that inspired me more than most if only because it included a Youtube video that was set to some nice, heart tugging music.
Now, I wanted to start this off by saying that it's a lot easier to lose weight if you're a guy. It's physics man. But 120 lbs for anybody is no small feat and I would have to wonder if Ben would agree that it was ANYTHING but easy. Bloody nipples folks - watch the video!
So, I'm a little worried about the nipples thing, but maybe a sports bra will help with that. If I keep coming up with excuses, I'm going to keep coming up with more weight to lose. As it is, I set ONE SMALL goal for myself and though it's really not that small, it's still a goal. I will have to lose 37 lbs - only 37 - to reach this goal. When I make it, I will set more.
For now, I'm planning my first marathon to be a year from now. That means my first half-marathon will have to be in 5-6 months. Let's see what happens.
Burch Luck would dictate anything but success. So lets see if I can't turn that luck around.
"Luck affects everything; let your hook always be cast. In the stream where you least expect it, there will be fish." Ovid
This is NOT, I repeat, NOT going to turn into a weight loss blog! That really would be Burch Luck, because I'd likely not be very successful. I don't want to jinx myself just 5 days into my Weight Watchers Online journey!
However, I would like to chronicle, at least now and then, my "current" attempt to make the "healthy lifestyle change" (which is really just a fancy way of saying diet and not running away).
One would think, that through my many years of yo-yo dieting, I would have finally learned the error of my weighs.
The biggest problem I have always had with any diet is not sticking to it. It's not that they don't work; they do. I just don't have the desire to eat cabbage soup for the rest of my life, or never eat another carb. It's those fad diets that get us fatties everytime. Weight Watchers, in my opinion, is really the best. I just don't want to go to the meetings. I have joined WW, I want to say, 9 times in the past. It always worked, but I made the excuse that I couldn't do it without going to the meetings and if I didn't go to the meetings, it just didn't work. In fact, I actually believed that.
The real problem, however, was that I either didn't want to go to the meetings, or I just didn't have time. I'm a busy, working mom (all mom's are busy - don't get me wrong...). I volunteer, I stay active (at least in my kids lives - much to their chagrin) and I read and write. Rarely, if ever do I have an 'extra' day on my calendar in any given month, let alone every week, so I just always let the Weight Watchers goal pitter out.
I decided to try the Online approach this time. Not only do I not have to attend any meetings, but it costs less $$ - which is music to the ears of my hubby, "Alan The cheap." So far, I glean more inspiration and information just reading the online success stories of people, just like me, who spend years and years on fad diets and wasted day dreams wishing we could contract a good case of Anorexia, even if just for one month.
What prompted this new found desire to lose weight, you might ask? (hey - even if you weren't asking - do it now...so that in the next sentence, you have a good answer.)
Recently, someone told me that I was looking good; like I had lost weight - a lot of it. I felt so good, I thought "Maybe that anorexia day dream finally came true and I didn't even realize it." (no offense to true eating disorder sufferers) So I went home that night, eagerly stepped on the scale, and realized that not only had I NOT lost any unknown weight, but I was at the heaviest weight I have ever been.
Disappointedly, I stepped from the scale and took a good long look in the mirror and realized that, yeah, I do look thinner...but it's because all that "heavy" stuff is just hanging lower and hiding within my clothes. Nice. I'm not thinner. I'm just hanging low. My, how attractive that sounds. Hey - be thankful I'm not posting a picture so you can get a visual! Just use your imagination.
So, what to do now? I've "tried' every diet...just like most people. They don't work because I don't like them so I just stop trying. There's an excuse for everything. But WW really does seem to be the key, because I've been successful with it many times and it's very easy to stick to it if you use the tools.
I have the i-Phone app, which is WONDERFUL! No points calculator, no food journal, etc. to carry around. It's all kept on the i-phone; even the tracking charts.
So, what will make this attempt different than all the rest? Well, it's only day five. I don't know the answer to that yet, or even if it will be different. But I will keep you posted.
