There is now more than one female in the household! Just before Thanksgiving, we drove to the Cowley County Humane Society and adopted ourselves a Beagle mix with floppy ears that we have named Tobey.
Tobey is white with liver colored spots and looks a little more like a miniature Pointer than a Beagle. She’s all heart, tons of energy and very, very smart.
We spent about two hours picking her out. We walked the cages and narrowed our choices to two dogs that we looked at a bit further. Tobey and a Rottweiler mix named Riley.
Riley was a beautiful sable color and perfectly behaved in her cage. When the employees brought her out to play with us, we quickly discovered that though Riley was really cool and could play catch really well, she was a little too much dog for our couch time loving family.
So we moved on to the other very well behaved selection – Tobey. Prior to arriving at the Humane Society, Tobey was a stray. She immediately stole our hearts by giving each of us, in turn, a hug. It was all downhill after that.
Tobey (which means Gift of God), is now a regular member of the household. We are nursing her through a few anxiety issues and had to take care of a slight flea and stomach problem right after we got her. But otherwise, she is a happy, healthy dog. She likes her chew toys, enjoys tug-of-war and already knows how to “Sit.”
She’s got tons of personality and can escape from a crate that has been fastened shut with a key ring. She chews nearly everything in sight and has already destroyed part of an end table, a corner of a rug, several pencils, and a wooden baby Jesus. She’s helping us keep the rooms of our house picked up.
In short, we love her very much. She’s a perfect fifth family member and we are glad that God brought her into our life.
December 18, 2008
Politics
The following story is as related by my husband who overheard the conversations while mom was out of town.
During the months of October and November, the grade schools were full of discussions on the Presidential candidates. On the way home from school one day, the boys were apparently discussing the pros and cons of both.
Sam: “McCain is going to have lower taxes so that we can have more money.”
Isaac: “You know what I heard? I heard that if Obama gets elected he is going to take away all of our toy guns.”
Sam: “Yeah, but he’s OK. Did you hear that he likes Harry Potter?”
A few days later, my husband was watching TV prior to going to bed. The boys were quietly and intensely working together near the toy closet. When the bedtime hour struck, my husband stood up and walked to where the boys were playing.
He observed Isaac holding a piece of scrap wood to which he was applying nails and electrical tape.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m making a gun,” our youngest said. “If Obama is elected, he’s not going to get any of my toy guns!”
President Elect Barack Obama is now elected. I am happy to report that, so far, all of our Nerf guns are still where they were before the election. Last I checked, it appeared that they were still on Walmart shelves as well.
During the months of October and November, the grade schools were full of discussions on the Presidential candidates. On the way home from school one day, the boys were apparently discussing the pros and cons of both.
Sam: “McCain is going to have lower taxes so that we can have more money.”
Isaac: “You know what I heard? I heard that if Obama gets elected he is going to take away all of our toy guns.”
Sam: “Yeah, but he’s OK. Did you hear that he likes Harry Potter?”
A few days later, my husband was watching TV prior to going to bed. The boys were quietly and intensely working together near the toy closet. When the bedtime hour struck, my husband stood up and walked to where the boys were playing.
He observed Isaac holding a piece of scrap wood to which he was applying nails and electrical tape.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m making a gun,” our youngest said. “If Obama is elected, he’s not going to get any of my toy guns!”
President Elect Barack Obama is now elected. I am happy to report that, so far, all of our Nerf guns are still where they were before the election. Last I checked, it appeared that they were still on Walmart shelves as well.
Following the Rules
There are times in life when a person would like to just pick up and move out to the country. On the other hand, life lessons learned when living “among humans” can be priceless.
Last Saturday, I was catching up on some work in the basement and the husband was upstairs napping to gain a little ground on an illness that has been running through the house. The boys were happily playing outside.
After a couple of hours, the youngest appeared at the top of the basement stairs. “Mom, you need to come outside.”
“Right now?” I asked.
“Um, yeah,” he replied.
So, deciding to take a little break from the report I was working on, I meandered up the stairs. I was thinking that the boys had built a fort, or possibly had a very intricate chalk drawing on the driveway that they wanted to show off.
I put on my shoes and headed out the garage door, the youngest son in front of me. At the top of the garage steps I peered out into the neighborhood and froze. There in the middle of the cul-de-sac was an emergency fire vehicle, a police car and what looked like six emergency service professionals standing with my oldest son, the neighbor boy and his parents.
It was about this time that the youngest decided to say, “Um, yeah, mom, you’re probably not going to be too happy with us.”
“What happened.” I heard myself say through clenched teeth.
“They want to talk to you,” he said.
So we walked out to the little group standing in the grass. The first person to acknowledge my presence was a policeman.
“Ma’am, your boys were apparently lighting fireworks, a neighbor saw the smoke and called the fire department.”
He proceeded to explain that fireworks were illegal within the city limits, normally this offense is a $100 fine (which he explained he would not be charging us this time), and did he need to confiscate any other fireworks that we might have in our house?
I politely said thank you, explained that we do not have fireworks in our home, asked the boys to apologize to the nice emergency service personnel and then asked both boys to turn around and return to the garage where we would have a little “family discussion.”
The public areas of the house are now free from toys, the boys room is cleaner than it’s ever been and the garage sparkles. After one month of good behavior, MAYBE we’ll allow them to see the blades of grass in the front yard.
After about a two hour discussion of the ins and outs of the events surrounding what is now going down in history as “the smoke bomb incident,” they have hopefully learned that it does not matter who brought the fireworks to the party, supplying and using carry the same punishment in the real world. It is our job to weigh the options and do what is right.
Last Saturday, I was catching up on some work in the basement and the husband was upstairs napping to gain a little ground on an illness that has been running through the house. The boys were happily playing outside.
After a couple of hours, the youngest appeared at the top of the basement stairs. “Mom, you need to come outside.”
“Right now?” I asked.
“Um, yeah,” he replied.
So, deciding to take a little break from the report I was working on, I meandered up the stairs. I was thinking that the boys had built a fort, or possibly had a very intricate chalk drawing on the driveway that they wanted to show off.
I put on my shoes and headed out the garage door, the youngest son in front of me. At the top of the garage steps I peered out into the neighborhood and froze. There in the middle of the cul-de-sac was an emergency fire vehicle, a police car and what looked like six emergency service professionals standing with my oldest son, the neighbor boy and his parents.
It was about this time that the youngest decided to say, “Um, yeah, mom, you’re probably not going to be too happy with us.”
“What happened.” I heard myself say through clenched teeth.
“They want to talk to you,” he said.
So we walked out to the little group standing in the grass. The first person to acknowledge my presence was a policeman.
“Ma’am, your boys were apparently lighting fireworks, a neighbor saw the smoke and called the fire department.”
He proceeded to explain that fireworks were illegal within the city limits, normally this offense is a $100 fine (which he explained he would not be charging us this time), and did he need to confiscate any other fireworks that we might have in our house?
I politely said thank you, explained that we do not have fireworks in our home, asked the boys to apologize to the nice emergency service personnel and then asked both boys to turn around and return to the garage where we would have a little “family discussion.”
The public areas of the house are now free from toys, the boys room is cleaner than it’s ever been and the garage sparkles. After one month of good behavior, MAYBE we’ll allow them to see the blades of grass in the front yard.
After about a two hour discussion of the ins and outs of the events surrounding what is now going down in history as “the smoke bomb incident,” they have hopefully learned that it does not matter who brought the fireworks to the party, supplying and using carry the same punishment in the real world. It is our job to weigh the options and do what is right.
October 31, 2008
Grandpa Cress
(Eulogy delivered this Thursday at Grandpa's funeral -- October 21, 1912 - October 25, 2008)
I am speaking today because I think that Grandpa would want me to. I was also pretty sure that if I didn’t, Grandpa would be annoyed with me if I didn't. What Grandpa kept forgetting is that I am a creative writer – which means that I write what I feel and not necessarily what I see. But upon further reflection, maybe that’s exactly why he’s always wanted me tell his story.
I am speaking today as my Grandpa’s favorite granddaughter, as he used to call me. I had to share that title and place of honor in later years with my neice Kolbyn, but there it was, just the same. For my entire childhood I was Grandpa’s buddy, and he was my pal.
My fondest memories of Grandpa are of spending summers and after school sitting with him and Uncle Paul in the door of Grandpa’s backyard woodshop and garage. We would sit there, Uncle Paul and Grandpa on lawn chairs and me on a white, upside-down 5-gallon bucket, and we would play 4-point pitch. Our card table was usually some small table that Grandpa had made out of scrap wood and old cabinet doors. We were there for hours, dealing, bidding, shooting the moon, laughing and taking turns impressing each other with our mutual skill, wit, and turns of phrase.
Now, here is the funny thing about memories. I’m pretty sure that I made up the part about the bucket. I’m also pretty sure that they graciously let me win several times. And realistically, we probably only played for an actual 30 minutes or so. But what I am positive about is how much I loved hanging out with my Grandpa on those afternoons and how much I loved soaking in his laughter, his spirit and his energy whenever I was around him.
Grandpa laughed with his eyes and his shoulders. His spirit was too big for indoors. It belonged outdoors – fishing, playing cards, working horses, camping and trading. And I was lucky enough to be allowed inside – lucky enough to share with that sparkle in his eyes. And it was the sparkle that told you more about who he was and what he was about than his mouth ever did.
Not that he kept his mouth idle by any means. He was a man who loved a good discussion. There is a saying that when two or more people agree on something, one of them is not necessary. Well, Grandpa was definitely necessary. He loved taking the other side of things. In fact, sometimes I think that he said he was a Democrat because the majority of Kansans are Republicans.
Discussing is what Grandpa and I did the most. He had plenty of opinions and often shared them. But, for me, the good thing about Grandpa was that he allowed me to have my opinions too – without judgment. I knew somehow that we were sharing opinions as equals. I also knew that he respected and listened to mine just as much as I respected and listened to his. He was my sounding board. He was my example.
Grandpa valued hard work, strength of character, and intelligence tempered with common sense. He admired those qualities when he saw them in others. He loved strong, capable women who are maybe just a little saucy. Take a look at who he married! When we were talking to Pastor Debbie, I told Grandma that Grandpa thought the world of her. Without blinking an eye, she leaned over to Pastor Debbie and said, “Well, he should have!”
My family likes to tell me that I take after Grandpa. I think when they tell me that, they are trying to tell me in a nice way that I’m just a little bit stubborn. And, the fact that I’m standing here talking right now sort of proves that. But the thing about being stubborn is learning when to give and when to stick. My Grandpa never gave about the place that God had in his life. My Grandpa never gave when it came to the importance of family. My Grandpa never gave when it came to the worth and dignity of people.
Some call it stubborn – I call it conviction. Grandpa didn’t do anything because that’s the way everyone was doing it. He preferred a handshake and a promise to lawyers and paper. He made up his own mind about what was right or wrong to do and then he did it. He wasn’t one to wait around for consensus. He was self-made and fiercely independent to the last.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to Grandpa face to face. But, you know, I’m not too bothered by that. Because with Grandpa and I, it wasn’t about “Hello” and “Goodbye.” With Grandpa, it was about “I Love You”, continuing a conversation, and “See You Later.”
I am speaking today because I think that Grandpa would want me to. I was also pretty sure that if I didn’t, Grandpa would be annoyed with me if I didn't. What Grandpa kept forgetting is that I am a creative writer – which means that I write what I feel and not necessarily what I see. But upon further reflection, maybe that’s exactly why he’s always wanted me tell his story.
I am speaking today as my Grandpa’s favorite granddaughter, as he used to call me. I had to share that title and place of honor in later years with my neice Kolbyn, but there it was, just the same. For my entire childhood I was Grandpa’s buddy, and he was my pal.
My fondest memories of Grandpa are of spending summers and after school sitting with him and Uncle Paul in the door of Grandpa’s backyard woodshop and garage. We would sit there, Uncle Paul and Grandpa on lawn chairs and me on a white, upside-down 5-gallon bucket, and we would play 4-point pitch. Our card table was usually some small table that Grandpa had made out of scrap wood and old cabinet doors. We were there for hours, dealing, bidding, shooting the moon, laughing and taking turns impressing each other with our mutual skill, wit, and turns of phrase.
Now, here is the funny thing about memories. I’m pretty sure that I made up the part about the bucket. I’m also pretty sure that they graciously let me win several times. And realistically, we probably only played for an actual 30 minutes or so. But what I am positive about is how much I loved hanging out with my Grandpa on those afternoons and how much I loved soaking in his laughter, his spirit and his energy whenever I was around him.
Grandpa laughed with his eyes and his shoulders. His spirit was too big for indoors. It belonged outdoors – fishing, playing cards, working horses, camping and trading. And I was lucky enough to be allowed inside – lucky enough to share with that sparkle in his eyes. And it was the sparkle that told you more about who he was and what he was about than his mouth ever did.
Not that he kept his mouth idle by any means. He was a man who loved a good discussion. There is a saying that when two or more people agree on something, one of them is not necessary. Well, Grandpa was definitely necessary. He loved taking the other side of things. In fact, sometimes I think that he said he was a Democrat because the majority of Kansans are Republicans.
Discussing is what Grandpa and I did the most. He had plenty of opinions and often shared them. But, for me, the good thing about Grandpa was that he allowed me to have my opinions too – without judgment. I knew somehow that we were sharing opinions as equals. I also knew that he respected and listened to mine just as much as I respected and listened to his. He was my sounding board. He was my example.
Grandpa valued hard work, strength of character, and intelligence tempered with common sense. He admired those qualities when he saw them in others. He loved strong, capable women who are maybe just a little saucy. Take a look at who he married! When we were talking to Pastor Debbie, I told Grandma that Grandpa thought the world of her. Without blinking an eye, she leaned over to Pastor Debbie and said, “Well, he should have!”
My family likes to tell me that I take after Grandpa. I think when they tell me that, they are trying to tell me in a nice way that I’m just a little bit stubborn. And, the fact that I’m standing here talking right now sort of proves that. But the thing about being stubborn is learning when to give and when to stick. My Grandpa never gave about the place that God had in his life. My Grandpa never gave when it came to the importance of family. My Grandpa never gave when it came to the worth and dignity of people.
Some call it stubborn – I call it conviction. Grandpa didn’t do anything because that’s the way everyone was doing it. He preferred a handshake and a promise to lawyers and paper. He made up his own mind about what was right or wrong to do and then he did it. He wasn’t one to wait around for consensus. He was self-made and fiercely independent to the last.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to Grandpa face to face. But, you know, I’m not too bothered by that. Because with Grandpa and I, it wasn’t about “Hello” and “Goodbye.” With Grandpa, it was about “I Love You”, continuing a conversation, and “See You Later.”
October 13, 2008
It’s All In the Genes
Fall. More than the changing of the leaves, Fall is the season of the changing of the clothes. This weekend, I dug into my sons’ closet and drawers to see what I could see.
I have found that poking around in your son’s anything is an adventure similar in size and scope of an archeological dig the size of say – Machu Pichu. But this weekend I was struck by something even more fascinating. What I discovered was just how different two boys in the very same family can be from one another.
My discovery is not new. Parents everywhere have pondered this particular curiosity since, well, since the beginning of time.
I started with my youngest son. I began by weeding out his shirts into color piles and from there sorting out the shirts that he never wore. “Why don’t you ever wear this?” I asked him holding up a perfectly nice, red, striped hand-me-down from the Gap. I already knew part of the answer as the red shirt pile was third to the last in his ranking of favorite to least favorite color. “It has stripes,” he said as if everyone but me knew this and I should have figured it out way before now.
OK. So the young son is anti-stripe. This poses a serious problem because the oldest just happens to be pro-stripe. Problem noted – must infuse more stripeless shirts into youngest son’s future wardrobe. And, why didn’t I figure this out before? My youngest is the one who on picture day this year wanted to wear a bright yellow Hawaiian button-down. He also goes to get his hair-cut saying, “I don’t know how I want it cut. I think I’ll look in the book first.” Situation noted.
This job didn’t take long. My youngest keeps his drawers and section of the closet neatly organized. Everything is in its proper place. I don’t have to step over anything or shove anything out of the way to get there. My oldest, on the other hand…..
After I kicked enough stuff aside so that I could actually see both of his drawers, I opened them. Inside was a jumbled mass of blue, orange, brown and green. I’ve given up long ago trying to keep the insides of these drawers neat. I fix them twice a year when it is time to change out his clothes and get ready for a new season. Other than that, I avoid this area of the room entirely.
After pulling everything out – including a few Legos, a football and several bouncy balls – I peered into the bottom of the drawers to make sure that every corner had been emptied. I looked closer. And then I pulled both drawers completely out and turned them upside down on the floor. “How did the hamster food get into your drawers?” I asked, knowing the answer. “I don’t know,” he said – eyes riveted to his DS. I rolled mine. I can only pray that he marries an organized woman.
I have found that poking around in your son’s anything is an adventure similar in size and scope of an archeological dig the size of say – Machu Pichu. But this weekend I was struck by something even more fascinating. What I discovered was just how different two boys in the very same family can be from one another.
My discovery is not new. Parents everywhere have pondered this particular curiosity since, well, since the beginning of time.
I started with my youngest son. I began by weeding out his shirts into color piles and from there sorting out the shirts that he never wore. “Why don’t you ever wear this?” I asked him holding up a perfectly nice, red, striped hand-me-down from the Gap. I already knew part of the answer as the red shirt pile was third to the last in his ranking of favorite to least favorite color. “It has stripes,” he said as if everyone but me knew this and I should have figured it out way before now.
OK. So the young son is anti-stripe. This poses a serious problem because the oldest just happens to be pro-stripe. Problem noted – must infuse more stripeless shirts into youngest son’s future wardrobe. And, why didn’t I figure this out before? My youngest is the one who on picture day this year wanted to wear a bright yellow Hawaiian button-down. He also goes to get his hair-cut saying, “I don’t know how I want it cut. I think I’ll look in the book first.” Situation noted.
This job didn’t take long. My youngest keeps his drawers and section of the closet neatly organized. Everything is in its proper place. I don’t have to step over anything or shove anything out of the way to get there. My oldest, on the other hand…..
After I kicked enough stuff aside so that I could actually see both of his drawers, I opened them. Inside was a jumbled mass of blue, orange, brown and green. I’ve given up long ago trying to keep the insides of these drawers neat. I fix them twice a year when it is time to change out his clothes and get ready for a new season. Other than that, I avoid this area of the room entirely.
After pulling everything out – including a few Legos, a football and several bouncy balls – I peered into the bottom of the drawers to make sure that every corner had been emptied. I looked closer. And then I pulled both drawers completely out and turned them upside down on the floor. “How did the hamster food get into your drawers?” I asked, knowing the answer. “I don’t know,” he said – eyes riveted to his DS. I rolled mine. I can only pray that he marries an organized woman.
October 5, 2008
The Healing Power of a Child
On Friday morning I was awakened by a buzzing cell phone on the bedside table of the hotel that I was sleeping in. I was attending a conference in Junction City and had spent the previous evening enjoying the event’s final evening entertainment. All that was left was a Federal update and the drive home.
And so, when I heard the phone buzz, I simply thought it was my alarm waking me to the coming day. But it was so much better.
Sitting up, I patted the table beside me searching for the thin, rectangular object that had awakened me. Finding it, I picked it up and peered at the small square window on the front of the phone. I glanced at the time – it was 10 minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off. I looked closer, there was a name showing on display. Immediately, it dawned on me – this was a phone call!
Instantly I was wide awake. There was only one phone call that I was expecting – and there was her name on my phone! I flipped it open and had one of the best mornings of recent experience.
A baby girl. I listened to my co-worker as she related the particulars – sex, length, weight, time, details about the delivery. I asked questions, and listened more with a huge grin on my face. For behind the words was an effusion of joy that could not help but escape into the electronic phone in my ear.
I hung up the phone and cried. I cried and I thanked God. I cried because this was my co-worker’s second child. The first was born more than two years ago and is now buried in a small graveyard near my home. He had lived for a brief, and very brave three months.
As I wrote the announcement for the rest of the campus, tears were still streaming down my face. God is truly good, I wrote. God is truly, truly good.
“Joyful, joyful we adore thee, God of glory, Lord of love; hearts unfold like flowers before thee, opening to the sun above. Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; drive the dark of doubt away. Giver of immortal gladness, fill us with the light of day!” Henry Van Dyke
And so, when I heard the phone buzz, I simply thought it was my alarm waking me to the coming day. But it was so much better.
Sitting up, I patted the table beside me searching for the thin, rectangular object that had awakened me. Finding it, I picked it up and peered at the small square window on the front of the phone. I glanced at the time – it was 10 minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off. I looked closer, there was a name showing on display. Immediately, it dawned on me – this was a phone call!
Instantly I was wide awake. There was only one phone call that I was expecting – and there was her name on my phone! I flipped it open and had one of the best mornings of recent experience.
A baby girl. I listened to my co-worker as she related the particulars – sex, length, weight, time, details about the delivery. I asked questions, and listened more with a huge grin on my face. For behind the words was an effusion of joy that could not help but escape into the electronic phone in my ear.
I hung up the phone and cried. I cried and I thanked God. I cried because this was my co-worker’s second child. The first was born more than two years ago and is now buried in a small graveyard near my home. He had lived for a brief, and very brave three months.
As I wrote the announcement for the rest of the campus, tears were still streaming down my face. God is truly good, I wrote. God is truly, truly good.
“Joyful, joyful we adore thee, God of glory, Lord of love; hearts unfold like flowers before thee, opening to the sun above. Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; drive the dark of doubt away. Giver of immortal gladness, fill us with the light of day!” Henry Van Dyke
The Great Experiment Results
Many of you have been curious about how The Great Experiment turned out. The long and short of it is that it ended on Thursday. My husband got up from bed Thursday morning, turned on the light in the bathroom and announced that the experiment was over. He received no argument from any other faction.
We did learn a couple of things. On the good side, when there are no electronic items to play with/occupy your time, people tend to gather together a lot more which causes conversation, music and quiet, side-by-side reading. On the bad side, no overhead lights mean that you can’t really see things that are located around and about the house. This can be OK, especially if you haven’t cleaned in a while and you don’t want a messy home stressing you out. But, if you are looking for something that you swear you had yesterday and now you can’t find it – having no lights to shed on the situation can be a debilitating problem.
All in all, it was a good experience. We all acknowledged that the boys were far more affected by the Experiment than the rest of us as they spent the most time in the house during the day. Has it affected our lives moving forward? I’d like to think that it has. Only time will tell for sure.
We did learn a couple of things. On the good side, when there are no electronic items to play with/occupy your time, people tend to gather together a lot more which causes conversation, music and quiet, side-by-side reading. On the bad side, no overhead lights mean that you can’t really see things that are located around and about the house. This can be OK, especially if you haven’t cleaned in a while and you don’t want a messy home stressing you out. But, if you are looking for something that you swear you had yesterday and now you can’t find it – having no lights to shed on the situation can be a debilitating problem.
All in all, it was a good experience. We all acknowledged that the boys were far more affected by the Experiment than the rest of us as they spent the most time in the house during the day. Has it affected our lives moving forward? I’d like to think that it has. Only time will tell for sure.
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