for the Carport Queen

For my entire life, I remember having what my mom referred to as a "carport sale."  It is now referred to as a garage sale, I assume because here in suburbia we all have garages that close up over our cars and back in Mississippi, we had a carport that was open to wave at the neighbors.  This is certainly better in my opinion as much of my young life involved time spent under a carport - eating watermelon, shelling peas (watching other people shell peas), swinging (because good carports have swings), talking, and listening to it rain in a fold out lawn chair, something my daddy considers as sacred as a national holiday.   I learned very early to appreciate this activity. 

But, at my house, the carport was used several times a year for a sale.  And, people I'm going to tell you that my mama knew how to do it.  My parents even built a carport onto the house that I grew up in because it didn't come with one.  It had an attic above it and she would climb those pull down stairs 2 or 3 times a year and drag out whatever in the world she had down to that carport to sell.  My daddy would tie twine along the sides of the posts of the carport for a clothing rack and there she'd go.  She had plywood boards over boxes for tables, a sharpie, and a roll of masking tape and we'd go to town pricing stuff.  She'd send daddy to McDonalds because cooking was out of the question and she couldn't leave "the sale."  Sometimes my little 10 year old self would be left to watch "the sale" while she went inside for a minute and I'd get worried that I would have to start naming prices, especially when it was stuff my daddy had pulled out like vehicles, riding mowers, or old tires.  We'd have random people trying on clothes in our house, stuffing their feet into shoes that were way too small, and the whole time my mama was telling them how great they looked in so-and-so, and how they really needed to buy the navy blue one too.  And they did.  If they asked how much something was, she said, "oh, a dollar," or "I'll take a dollar," or "how 'bout a dollar."  And, at the end of the day, the woman would have several hundred dollars and what was left, she'd send my brother back up those pull down stairs to save for the next "sale."  

Today I had my own sale in my garage with a couple of friends and ironically it happened to coincide with Carport Sale Queen's birthday.   I pulled stuff down from the attic, stickered it, hauled it, displayed it, moved it, priced it, and moved it some more.  I found myself arguing about $3 for candlesticks with some old man in a Mercedes.  Guess that's how he got it.  At the end of the day, I still don't hold a candle to her but I did make a little money and other people had to haul off my junk.  The city kept taking our sign so we had to alternate people sitting down at the end of the street holding up the sign - we figured it was harder to move people.  Dang codes.  We got lots of compliments on creativity and some people stopped just because of our sign models, one which was my husband.  The difference in me and my mama is that at the end of the day I had Stephen haul it all to Goodwill because I'm not taking it back up to save for another "sale." Carport Queen, you can have that one.  I'm one and done.

The kids an I celebrated the rest of mom's birthday with our balloon send off.  I started this tradition a few years ago as a way to help hang onto memories and talk about things she liked.  Kate was really into birthdays, and parties, so perfect.  Birthdays are happy, birthdays have balloons, birthdays have parties.  I like to keep it simple.  We've really enjoyed this and it's something the kids are starting to look forward to.  The first year was the beach, because we happened to be there and because she LOVED the beach.  Last year, I let Bailey pick and he picked the baseball field where he played Coach Pitch because we all know she would have been at all the games she could.  Perfect.  And, well this year, we had a plan but it got a bit derailed after the "sale" but I think it turned out perfectly.  They picked their Uncle Ed's who has a fantastic yard full of treasures and a pool.  It was 97 degrees.  These kids are brilliant.  

They picked red balloons this year in honor of Nana's favorite color.  It never fails that every year the ladies at Kroger ask if we're having a party and I tell them, "well, yes we are."  We actually managed to make it to the said destination without popping or losing one this year.  We were looking for the perfect spot when I spotted the big ole chicken.  No doubt that was it.  My mama loved a chicken.  She decorated her farmhouse with rooster lamps, canisters, and other Southern farm apparel.  They were tasteful chickens, and really who doesn't love a good old egg laying bird.  She even had a Vera Bradley bag in a chicken pattern that she kept important papers, medicine, catalogs, that she needed to carry with her.  Reference was made to "my chicken bag" whenever I asked where some so-and-so was.  With that big chicken as our backdrop, they sent off those birthday balloons.  Well, sort of.  One kind of got stuck in the tree and a hummingbird tried to eat it.  Nobody freaked out so I figured we'd all come a long way.  I'm sure a big gust of wind will eventually send it on its way.  

After all, somebody's always late to the party.   

Mom's 60th birthday 2008.
Notice that she's nowhere near or interested in the cake, yet completely delighted in
holding Kate and watching her grandsons blow out her candles. Also, note the rooster lamp
directly behind her head.
She was never late to the party. 

Since I'm late to the blogging party, I included our last 2 years of videos too.  This is where I realize how big my kids are.  Look at their itty bitty legs barely sticking out of those shorts on the first one!  

Bless the nest

Earlier this week I spent four hours in the dark.  Life was going along just great.  Disney channel blaring, clothes in the washer, dishwasher running, leftover chicken in the oven, 2 out of 4 using the wi-fi, lights ablaze all over the house.  The wind blows and the lights go out.  Shoot. 
My people freak out.  The dog vibrates, the kids look at the radar on my iPhone.  The questions start. “What will we do if it doesn’t come back on?”  “We can’t even watch TV!”  “What will we eat?” “There’s nothing to do!”  This was in the first 30 seconds.  
I see the wind start blowing, Stephen and I lower the umbrella and then watch the wind blow our 20 trees.  I stand at the door fielding the questions but my mind goes to the mama bird and her nest in my fern in my backyard.  I remember that she flew out when we walked outside.  To occupy his mind I tell Bailey to keep an eye on the fern and our baby birds as it sways back and forth like a pendulum on the arbor.  I wonder if I should intervene and take it off the hanger or just leave it alone.  I imagine how silly I would look out there holding a fern steady in the middle of a storm and think of how my mom always said not to interfere with nature so I let it swing.  I wonder if the mama is in it and if she’s gripping her little bird feet tight to the nest she had built or if she is watching from the fence and hoping her nest would sustain the rocking so those egg babies don’t roll out.  I think about how I’m certain I’m the only one thinking about baby bird eggs right now.  
We all pack up in the car to go to a restaurant across town where they have lights and warm food.  We see friends and all talk about how they too had to go out because of no power.  Tragic.  We return home with our bellies full and our house dark.  Stephen gets on his iPhone with 3G.  I light candles, get a flashlight and sit down with my stack of magazines.  Glorious.  No laundry - can‘t do it, can’t even see it.  I read an article on Sheryl Crow surviving cancer and living with a brain tumor, 3 broken engagements, 2 adoptions, a bunch of Grammys, a ranch with hired people to call and check on her kids at school during a storm, and how she is thriving at 52.  I read about her lumpectomy and radiation and think, “wow, I had a lot of cancer, wonder what the article would say if I was her.”  I write that article in my head.  
I take my flashlight and give my girl a bath in the dark and think of how brilliant she is for asking for her headlamp because she “doesn’t like to carry stuff.”  I dig in the junk drawer for triple-A batteries because I’m that prepared.  This buys me another article because her brother who secretly thinks she’s ingenious is now borrowing her light and looking through his dark room for his so he can build legos.  
He resorts to playing a game on the iPad that’s still got a charge and she crawls in my lap and asks why I’m not scared.  I tell her, “It’s just a storm.”  I borrow the headlamp and pick up a decorating magazine, enjoying the flicker and scent of beach, lemon zest, and leftover Christmas cinnamon, and freshly shampooed hair.  It’s still dark, I’m still sitting, she’s asleep but jerks when it thunders so I keep holding.   
And, just like that, the lights come on.  It’s all like I left it 4 hours ago.  The TV flashes on, the toys are in the floor, the dishes are in the sink and the clothes aren’t dry.  I’m sad.  Truly sad.  I remember how it was 30 seconds ago when it was dark and I didn’t have to make excuses for sitting and reading a magazine with a borrowed headlamp. 
I check Facebook because that’s the best way to snap myself back into technology and see that people in the neighborhood are taking a poll to see if other people were in the dark and talking about whether their food in the fridge might spoil.  I hear sighs of relief from upstairs so thankful that the lights are on so they can go to bed for Pete’s sake.  I blow out the candles, turn on the dryer, clean up the kitchen, make coffee for the next day to come on the automatic timer. 
I think of how good we have it.  How God tries to show us by turning of the lights so we can only see His path, sometimes dimly lit and sometimes smelling like last Christmas.  How he makes our nest strong enough to withstand the rocking from the storm.  How He teaches us as mothers to grip our babies with our tiny bird fingers but when we don’t make it there in time, He teaches us to wait patiently and watch from the fence so we can watch Him work in the storm.  I think about my storms.  I think about how He’s held the nest steady and how the sides are built just perfectly high enough to protect my 3 eggs from the rocking and let me watch from the fence.  I thank Him.

I pray for another power outage.

   

Same God that moves mountains

I saw folders...

I had a moment this week in Target.  As I was walking through the isle looking for more citronella candles, I saw a beautiful thing - colored folders.  Oh, yes.  And markers, and paper, and a completely empty isle of shelving waiting for more.  Be still my heart.  The end is near.  By now, we’ve been through at least 12 boxes of popsicles, kept our kids up way too late, slapped at 458 mosquitos, and caught at least 138 lightening bugs to stuff into a jar to suffocate. Parts of it are wonderful and parts of it I find longing for a sweater.  I started off strong, plastering my rules on the fridge, checking out books from the library, but I’ve wavered.  I have found myself making the beds more than them, and the books got returned unread.  In the absence of structure, schedules, and routine, I am just putty.  God bless the homeschool moms. 

The summer is actually going pretty well. We turn on the sprinklers to simulate a pool and water the grass and there has been some talk of sleeping outdoors in a tent.  The tent got set up by Stephen in order to justify his nomination for Father-of-the-Year, but the actual sleeping part has yet to come to fruition.  I don’t camp.  I don’t like tents, or hard ground, random bug screeches, and when my bed is 10 feet away, it seems downright silly.  I did condone the dragging of the sleeping materials outside and then hung out in the tent for 20 minutes in the dark until it was decided that the lack of lighting and electronic devices weren’t really worth it.  Father-of-the-Year rested in his bed while I waited this thing out in the dark backyard.  I guess he was worn slap out from setting it up.  Kate was the disappointed one.  It’s not surprising since I’m certain that it’s only a matter of time before she’s hugging trees and running barefoot through the fields of clover.

There was the incident of the free popsicle campaign where my firstborn apparently advertised to the neighborhood that he was giving them away and the freezer and fridge got left open all day.  Full of food.  And popsicles.  In the heat.  There was a grape and food flavored drippy mess coming out of my freezer by 5:00.  After I peeled myself off of the ceiling and spent a couple of hours with a water hose, rain boots, and a garbage bag, I now have a very clean, but very empty freezer.  Bailey was standing there during my fit of rage so he got recruited to help with dumping.  I think he was scared.  This was day #2.  I started searching for more camps.  He revised the rules.  

Queen Elsa - points for the blue heels

I’ve gotten to spend a little extra time with my kids due to the impeccable timing of the ole NJ, but it’s not at all a bad thing.  I’ve gotten the opportunity to observe and reflect on lots of things - like how grown up they are compared to last year.  They dress themselves.  He wears some form of athletic gear - gym shorts and florescent graphic t-shirt that says something like, “EAT MY LUNCH” with colored socks to his knees that cost more than his shoes and a flat-bill baseball cap.  Looks like mismatch day is everyday.  She alternates between a cute dress, swimsuit, and orphan style depending on the mood.  And the shoes.  One day it was leopard print high-tops with a sweet little white dress.  Whatever.  I’m losing control.  He spends most of his time researching the sport of baseball on the internet, watching YouTube videos of replays and comparing prices for the best accessories.  She choreographs routines to prepare for her career as Queen Elsa of Arendelle.  Then, there's the food choices.  Boy wonder is done with the kids meals, out with the chicken nuggets.  He chose a turkey, bacon, avocado sandwich for lunch and makes requests like the Melting Pot and Macaroni Grill for lunch.  Yeah, right.  

Future motivational speakers

They sort of like each other, but sort of don’t want anyone to know.  I’ve caught them in bed watching a movie together, playing games on the iPad, playing in the pool together, and selling lemonade together. There’s an occasional moment of unforced sharing with no ulterior motive. I took them to the pet store for dog food and this happened: 

Note the victory fist

He bought it with his own money for her “birthday.”  Her name is Suzy.  I am definitely putty.  They can be harmonious but in 5 seconds start pinching and flailing their arms at each other.  I used to do this trick to my brother - where you move your arms real fast so he has a hard time finding way to hit you.  But mine both do it, at the same time, in a store until one does the old duck and pinch move and there is yelling or tears.  Or, they play the copycat game in the car, my favorite.  Good times.   

Sometime during the NJ, my husband sold our old but very reliable truck and bought this :

He really loves the past.  Like, high-school loves the past.  This is what goes down when I get put to sleep and doped up for a couple of days.  I have plastic surgery and he goes topless.  He installed him a new set of speakers and one of those radios that we all had in our cars back in the day because no factory radio was good enough - the kind where the face comes off so no one steals it.  This was in the first 20 minutes he owned it.  He washed it and waxed it and shined it.  We ride around town listening to tunes from the "Jeep play list" which consists of high-school music, with the top off, doors off, and our youngest in a booster seat.  I’ve caught her leaning her head out with her tongue hanging out like a dog.  And I can’t drive it.  I never learned how to drive a 5-speed.  I tried a couple of times but two kids in the back yelling, “give it gas!” and “off the clutch too fast!”  is not conducive to learning. So, I currently enjoy being driven around by others, listening to tunes, while the wind blows my hair into a ratty tangled mess that I will condition later.  

One day, we crossed over the border into the great state and picked blueberries.  As I pulled up into the farm, I realized once again that I have become my mother.  I remember her dragging us to pick blueberries in the blazing Mississippi heat, telling us how fun this would be and how great whatever blueberry creation she made would be.  I remember hours of picking and my bucket never filled up as I nearly melted in the heat.  Pure torture.  She talked about it my whole life.  I knew we were in trouble when the summer job teen dropped us off in the golf cart at the far end of the row and said, “Pick the whole bush and walk back up there when you’re done.”  I quickly realized I’m raising pansies.  They complained about the heat, asked for shade, then Bailey had a fake baseball game with the blueberries which then turned into practicing catching them in their mouths.  There was lots of eating and about a cup each in their bucket by the time I filled mine up.  At one point, Bailey asked me if we were slaves.  Seriously.  The kid is funny but lazy.  His sister finally punched him and said, “just pick or she won’t let us leave!”  In spite of all of this, I found it very peaceful - birds chirping, nature, sun-warmed berries that you pluck off the bush and let explode in your mouth, and a brother and sister that will hopefully drag their own kids to do the same when they are grown.  I got them ice cream as a consolation prize.  

I wonder what they will remember from the summer.  I have tried to think of my own memories and most of them involve time - with my grandmothers, family, cousins, friends.  For them, I seriously doubt it will be the baseball camp or inventors camp, hopefully VBS, but probably not pottery camp except for the ceramic bird to remind her one day when she’s 36 and dusting underneath it.  It certainly won’t be the hundreds of dollars we forked over for to various people and organizations in our city, but maybe they’ll call and thank us when they write their own checks.  I bet it will be their daddy driving them to get ice cream in a new really used Jeep, baseball with neighborhood kids, first sleepovers, crashing other people’s pools, berry picking, popsicles, lightening bugs, catching  frogs, watching baby birds grow, riding scooters in the streets even after the lights come on, and being generally carefree.  I’m sure it won’t be how their mommy made them make their beds, read books, and organize their legos by color because they don't remember that now.  

Oh the public schools are calling.  I can hear them.  They scream of schedules and routines, bedtimes, and brushed teeth.  I miss you, schools.  And teachers of the first and fourth grades, I know that you are not feeling me here, but I promise to have my two shiny and sparkly on the first day so that you will love them instantly and the tight grip you had to release on your summer break will be a tiny bit worth it.  And, when you ask them what they did this summer and they answer, “My mommy got a nose job and my daddy got a jeep,” you won’t judge.  This has been stated so I’m sure it will be again.  

For now, I will relish in the last couple of hours I have spent with my little sidekick in our pajamas watching Tinkerbell and the Great Fairy Rescue.  And, I will giggle at the text I just got and the memories I know my son is making with his cousin, Henry, as they are trying to train cats to walk on a leash at my brother’s house this very moment.  Cat camp is good camp.  I will certainly make the next 25 days worthwhile.  But, who’s counting?  

our pool