View From The Top

I had a birthday recently. They seem to be coming more quickly the older I get. I’m not over the hill. However, I’m afraid I can see the top of that hill from here. I don’t feel older, and don’t think like someone who is older. Except for all the kids are starting to annoy me more. And those kids? That’s anyone under 25 or so.

Babies that were born after I graduated from high school are having babies. People born in the nineties are becoming legal adults. You know, I changed my mind. I do feel old, after all.
When I was a teenager and in my twenties, I didn’t think anyone over 35 was capable of making wise decisions. They were out of touch with reality. Now I don’t think anyone under 25 is capable of making wise decisions. They haven’t experienced enough reality.

When I was in school, my parents didn’t get it because they were too old. Now my son doesn’t get it because he is too young. It’s funny how our perception of others changes as we change.
Logan wants to be an adult so he can have total and absolute freedom to do anything he wants. I laugh at that, and wonder where all my total and absolute freedom is. We tell him being an adult just means you have more people to boss you around. You have to pay bills and go to work and pay taxes and be responsible to all kinds of people for all kinds of things.

I’m not sure there is a perfect age, where it all comes together in harmony. Where you are old enough but not too old, independent enough but not burdened with too many responsibilities.
I do know that with age comes appreciation. I took a lot of things for granted when I was younger. I didn’t realize the food that magically appeared every week on the shelves took time and effort to get there, the house that was always in order didn’t happen because the good housekeeping fairy sprinkled her magic dust on it. Laundry didn’t wash and fold itself, bills didn’t get paid from money that invented itself.

The work that goes into having a family and raising children and holding down a job and having it all come together and making a success of it never crossed my mind. It just...was. How it happened and the worry over it all was never thought about.

Logan is taking a class this semester. In my day, it would have been called Home Economics. Now it has a longer name, something like Family and Consumer Science. I like that better. Successfully raising a family and running a home and sticking to a budget and surviving as an adult is a science, and needs to be taught. It doesn’t just happen, at least not if you want to do it well.

I’ve never minded getting older. My life has progressively gotten better with age. I made some whoppers of wrong decisions when I was young, paid for them in my twenties, got over them in my thirties, and now in my second decade of being in my thirties, I am the happiest I have ever been.

In another decade or two, I will cross over that crest and be over the hill. But that’s okay, because I bet the view is fantastic from the top.

New Year, New Fear

The new year is here, bringing new fear to my heart. Not about the incoming president or the economy or any other of those things everyone keeps telling us we should be watching.
No, my fear is of a much more personal and frightening kind. My son will start driving this year. If that doesn’t give you the same chill bumps and shudders it gives me, you must not know my son.

What were the lawmakers thinking, letting 14 year-old’s drive? Particularly 14 year-old boys? Fourteen. Think about it. And if it has been a while since you have known a 14 year-old boy; trust me, they shouldn’t be driving.

Logan is 13 now, but counting the minutes until August, when that blessed moment comes and the clock ticks down until he can finally, legally, drive. Of course, he can only get a learner’s permit, but that is just fine with him.

He doesn’t care about all the fine print. He just sees the big picture, in bold, large swipes. He can drive. Nothing else matters. Except, it does.

He may be tall enough to drive. Lord knows at the rate he is growing, he may be over six feet by the time August gets here. He is pushing 5'8 now. He may look old enough and big enough and every other "enough" there is.

But there should be some exception in the law. It could be called the "Mom exception." It would go something like this. Fourteen year old boys can drive, if and only if the mom of the 14-year-old boy is ready for him to drive.

Learner’s permits and driving privileges will be awarded based on an in-depth interview with Mom, including a psychological profile determining the damage that may be done to Mom by knowing her child is out on the road somewhere.

This would have to be a "mom exception" because Dads don’t count. That sounds kind of harsh. What I mean is Dads don’t understand. Okay, that sounds bad, too. Dads just, well, don’t think like Moms do. That’s it.

Dad not only is excited about Logan driving, Dad is helping. Dad is coaching. Dad is encouraging. Daddy is giving Mom a headache. He is supposed to be on my side. That’s what couples do. They unite in front of the kids. They are a team. One voice.

However, in this particular instance, being of the male species, Dad thinks 14 year-old boys are perfectly capable of driving. Dad thinks Logan needs to start learning now, so he will be prepared when that fateful day comes in August.

Mom thinks Dad is nuts. Logan thinks Dad is great. Dad thinks Mom is over-reacting just the teeniest tiniest bit. Maybe the law will change between now and August. I think allowing a learner’s permit at about the same time they graduate from high school would be good. There’s always hope.

Lights Of The Delta

If you’ve not been out to Lights of the Delta this year, you are missing a treat. We were one of about a dozen hardy souls who went the night after the sleet and snow, when the roads were the worst. We weren’t sure they would be open, but they were.

There are enough new displays, and familiar displays with new features added, to make it worth a trip even if you have been before. I think it is better this year than ever.
The route has been changed a little, and though the expression is overused, the display "pops" this year.

Seeing it with a blanket of ice on the ground, encased in a foggy night, was fun. We were the only ones on the route when we went through, so it truly was like we were in a winter wonderland.
It’s worth supporting just because it is here, and it is ours. Even if it were the same, it would still be a fun tradition. Take a drive out to the lights. You won’t regret it.

Holiday Heroes

Wow. I keep trying to come up with a better word, but that one word is the best I can do. I’ve thought of bigger ones, more descriptive ones, fancier ones. But every time, I just keep coming back to Wow.

I guess that is because "wow" is the word I have been thinking of over and over again these past few months during the Boxes of Love campaign.
We did it last year, and it was a success. We were pleased and proud at the community’s support. But this year. Donations. Toys. Food. Volunteers. Wow.

Last year, we were new and unknown. This year, we were a little more organized, and had more time to get the word out. But make no mistake, Ignite didn’t do this. Blytheville as a whole did this. The churches did this. The individual volunteers did this. The civic groups did this; the factories and the workplaces and the schools did this. Above all, God did this. He gave us the vision and the means to see it through.

Due to an unscheduled trip up to the Mayo Clinic, I didn’t get to participate in that last, frantic week. I didn’t get to take part in the distribution of the Boxes; which makes the madness beforehand worth it.

I stayed in touch, because my dad would call me with frequent updates. We got in another load, unexpectedly, of toys. Wow. A delivery truck just pulled up to the back door with more food, a truck we weren’t counting on. Wow. We got in more money, money we didn’t know we were going to get. Wow. Another truck, with more food. Wow. More toys, great toys. Wow. More people came to volunteer. Wow.

How amazing. How awesome. Just look what we can do when we do it together. To each individual, each group, each and every person that thought about the Boxes of Love program and contributed, we thank you so much. We quite literally could not have done it without you. We are awed and humbled and so very grateful for the trust and the respect that you have shown us by allowing us to help serve this community.

When it comes right down to it, wow is still the best word. It is the word that we have thought time and again through this project as our needs and expectations were not only met, but exceeded. Thank you, Blytheville, for making us able to say "Wow."

Of Trails, Trailers, and Traditions

My Mom and Dad just got back. My husband went a few weeks ago. My son can’t wait to go. I, on the other hand, am not so anxious. I am talking about that almost holy and oh so glorious place, the deer woods.

The "deer woods" is a different location for different folks. For my husband, it is several locations. One main place and a few backup places. But for my parents, it has been one spot for more than three decades.

When we were growing up, my parents were adamant about two things. We never missed church, and we never missed school. The exception was one time a year, when we went to the deer woods.

They would get all of our assignments from school, and we would take a whole week off. We had to do our school work, but we got to do it in the woods. We still went to church on the Wednesday night we were away, but we went to the small church in the nearest town.

That one week is etched into my and my sister’s memory. Any other vacation we took through the year was from Sunday night after church to Wednesday morning or Wednesday night after church to Saturday morning. Missing church was never an option, never even considered. The pastor doesn’t skip a Sunday, or even a Wednesday.

We grew up with three day vacations, and even then they were never guaranteed. If someone was sick or in trouble, the vacation got cancelled or cut short.

The week of deer camp was set in stone, though. The only exception was the death of a church member. Teresa and I knew that if we could get away before someone called, we could stay away. In an age before cell phones, deer camp was too far for someone to be able to find us.

The four of us were squeezed into a twelve foot camper that only had electricity when a generator was running. It started at 4 a.m. when the men in the camp got up. As the smallest, I slept on the world’s tiniest bunk above my parents. Before technology proved deer have super power like abilities to smell, every morning Dad got up and brewed coffee and cooked bacon or sausage for breakfast.

In that little camper, on that little bunk, the fumes just about choked me every single day. There was no way for him to be quiet, or to keep the lights off so the three girls in the camper could get their sleep. He probably wouldn’t have even if he could have.

We had an outhouse that the whole camp shared. I won’t go into details, but I can tell you that my sister and I also share memories, and not good ones, of that experience. Nothing wakes you up faster than a walk through the woods at 4 a.m. in 20 degree weather.

The men would go off to hunt and gather, or sleep and shiver in their stands, and the women and kids would work, visit, and play around the camp fire. We explored in the area immediately around the camp, although we didn’t go too far for obvious reasons. Our parents didn’t want us to be mistaken for deer and get shot.

We ran and rode our bikes in the fields, and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows stuck on cane poles we had stripped of their leaves at night. Most of the people in our camp were other ministers, family, or church members, so the fellowship was always good, clean fun appropriate for all ages.

The ladies cooked for their families, but almost always cooked extra to bring to the fire. We sampled all kinds of food, and ate until we were stuffed.

Things are different now. That 12 foot Scotty camper has been replaced by a much bigger, much nicer trailer. It doesn’t make sense to me. When there were four of us, they had 12 feet. Now that there are two of them, they have 35 feet, with hardwood floors, a microwave, television, stereo, and a Jacuzzi tub. And indoor...facilities. No more 4 a.m. walks through the woods. Doesn’t really seem fair, does it?

We, on the other hand, still very much rough it in a camper only fit for the deer woods. I’m not sure it is even fit for that. Gary stays in it, and so does Logan. However, the dog refuses to, and so do I.

Whenever we are at deer camp, the doggie and I sleep with mom and dad, even though Gary and Logan sleep in our camper. You could accuse me of being a bad mom by letting my child stay in our camper, except for some bizarre reason he enjoys it. He thinks it adds to the experience.

He probably would have liked walking to the outhouse, too.