Throwback Thursday: Jack-O-Lanterns

The end of the month is rapidly approaching and we have yet to visit the pumpkin patch for our annual sacrifice to the Jack-O-Lantern gods. This cannot stand.

The Shady Rest (That's what I'm calling my house now, in keeping with the Petticoat Junction theme) has not been without Jack-O-Lanterns at Halloween since we moved here in 1999. The kids participated in the carving from the moment they were strong enough to hold a spoon; scraping the seeds out of the pumpkins became their job (They didn't get to hold knives until they were at least six; I'm not crazy).

As they got older (And held knives), we continued the tradition, creating some truly memorable pumpkins along the way, and, in all that time, the pumpkins were stolen from the yard and smashed only once. That's a pretty decent record.

I also did a pretty decent job of documenting our masterpieces each year, which, helped us avoid duplicating designs**, not that it matters; the classic Jack-O-Lantern face is just as impressive as a free-form design, in my opinion.

Anyway, my point here is that this cannot be the year that we fail to carve pumpkins. Clearly, some plans need to be made, sooner rather than later.

2005, The Year of the Smashed Pumpkins

Hugh hunted down every splinter of those pumpkins and re-assembled them, using toothpicks.

True story.

2006

 

 

 

 

2007

 

 

2008

 

 

2009

2010

2011

2012

 

2013

 

2014

 

**We didn't duplicate designs, but, looking back, it has become clear that someone has a thing for bats (Man-Cub, I'm looking at you).

It's All About the Shirt

I just finished hosting the monthly meeting of the Booster Club. This evening, we were joined by four new recruits! That's like, almost DOUBLE our previous membership. What prompted this influx of new volunteers? The shirt! It really is all about the shirt.

By making it exclusive to Booster Club members (we are working on a DAD shirt, lest you think us sexist), we created a demand, and, we aren't too proud to exploit it.

Also, we are fun, so, while the shirt may have been the lure, the party was the hook that reeled them in; it's not for nothing that I have a good sized wine collection, after all.

It really is a shame that we didn't figure out this formula earlier; just think of all the funds we could have raised by selling commemorative wine glasses or something....wait...that is brilliant!

I better write that down before I forget it.

A Fitting Monument

Saturday afternoon, the Man-Cub and I packed up the car and made the drive to Mayberry to spend the anniversary of Dad's death with my mom.

The drive was as beautiful as always for this time of year, and; in stark contrast to the day that I made the drive last year, I really tried to take the time to look at the scenery.

While we were in Mayberry, we visited the cemetery; Mom recently had Dad's headstone placed and I was anxious to see it.

Mom designed the headstone with Dad's love of lilies in mind, and, it turned out beautifully.

I'm really hoping that the grass eventually grows in, but, in the meantime, the grave is bare, save for a few dandelions and, ironically, what looks like a bulb of some sort; the blades of greenery would indicate either daffodil or-yes- a lily of some type.

The best that Mom and I could figure is that a rogue bulb got transplanted along with the dirt that the cemetery staff used to level off the gravesite.

Or, you know...angels.

Could go either way. We will keep our eye on the plant and see what comes of it next year, after it has a chance to winter over. In the meantime, we can make wishes on dandelion spores before they take flight.

Though the Waters May be Choppy

One year ago, today, we lost my Dad.

Losing someone you love is an inexplicable experience; no two people experience the loss in the same way, nor do they navigate the aftermath on a set schedule. Grief is a tricky bastard and there is no "right" way to go about it; you simply ride it like a wave on the ocean, hoping that, eventually, it deposits you safely on the shore.

Last year, that shore was so distant, it seemed unreachable, yet, I knew that it existed. I knew because my father told me so. Not in words, but in a message so crystal clear, I knew that it was meant for me.

Longtime readers of this blog (Hi! I hope you are still out there!) will recall the story of The Teenager's friend, Brandon. You may remember the comfort that we found-and continue to find-in the simple dragonfly. Since Brandon's death, the dragonfly has come to signify our faith in Heaven and in the continued presence of loved ones who have gone before us.

In the years since Brandon's death, we have encountered dragonflies in unusual places and at odd times, and, each time; we have smiled and thanked God for the visit. The comfort that these visits have given to The Teenager, in particular, has been so very appreciated.

That said: my Dad was the most ardent supporter of this blog; it was for him and my Mom that I actually started it in the first place. Dad read the stories about dragonflies visiting The Teenager after Brandon died and there was never any doubt that he recognized the significance of the dragonfly in our lives.

The day after Dad passed, I volunteered to retrieve his dog from the kennel where he had been boarded (Mom and Dad had been out of town the week prior to his death); my nephew asked if he could go along to help, so, together we got in my Tahoe for the drive.

It was a chilly morning; there was a light frost on the ground, and I decided to let the Tahoe warm up for a minute before we pulled out. While we were waiting, I fiddled with the radio and heater knobs before glancing up at the windshield, which, is when I saw this...

...it's a terrible picture, I know. But, that's not what's important.

What's important is that, I never once, in my entire lifetime of growing up in Mayberry, remember ever seeing a dragonfly; they just weren't exactly plentiful in this climate. Also, it was the end of October. In an alpine valley. Even if they were plentiful here, they would not be at this time of year.

Those were the facts that ran through my head in the hours and days after I saw the dragonfly; in that moment, however, the only thought I had was "Hello, Daddy."

Because, I knew. I knew that he was ok. The internal monologue that had been running through my head since the moment I got the phone call: Did he feel pain? Was he aware that he was leaving? Where was he? Did he know how much I love him? Would I ever see him again? How was I going to live without his presence in my life? All of that faded away in that instant, because I knew.

I felt a peace wash over me that hasn't left me to this day. I know he is ok. I know he knows how much I love him. He feels no pain and he is still very present in my life.

Dad chose the form that he knew I most needed to see, and, while I knew, even then, that it was going to be hard, that life would never be the same for us, and that it was going to hurt; I also knew that he was there to guide me across that ocean of pain, safely to the shore.

And, I will get there, eventually.

The Demise of Cursive and Further Proof That I Should Have Taught English

A while back, the Man-Cub asked me to help him with an American History assignment that he was having some trouble with. Because the history class is a college-level course, I assumed that his struggles were with memorizing dates of battles or something of that nature. Yeah. Not so much.

The assignment was to analyze an historical document and to write a detailed paper about the document, the author-or authors-of the document, the period in history during which the document was created, and, the Cub needed to include details from the document in the paper.

Obviously, the first step in  analyzing the document would be actually reading the damn thing, and, herein lie the Cub's dilemma; his document, a letter written during the westward migration otherwise known as The Oregon Trail, was written in cursive.

Guess what the kids aren't learning in public schools these days?

That's right, cursive.

To the Cub, the document might as well be written in French.

So, it was up to me to read the letter to the Cub, which, I did...pretty much.

Hey! In my defense, the letter was a photocopy of a letter that had clearly seen a lot of handling. There were fold marks through several lines, rendering them impossible to read, and, well, to put it nicely, the man did not have the best handwriting.

Ahem.

Anyway, I was able to suss out the gist of the letter;  a quick Google search of some of the specifics in the which led us to the conclusion that it was written by a Boston resident who had helped to guide numerous settlers along the trail to the gold mines of California. Once we had that established, I set the Cub loose on his paper, editing and making suggestions as he completed each section.

Yesterday, while making the drive to Mayberry (more on that in another post), the Cub informed me that we he had gotten a 98% on the paper.

This news came only days after The Teenager texted to inform me that the English paper I helped her with earned a B+.

I've still got it.

And I can write it in cursive.

On that note: I fear for this generation. Like, seriously.

Picking at the Pea

I spent this morning in the company of two fabulous ladies: my co-worker, Kortni and her cousin, Jorie. Together, we hit an antique sale/flea market that takes place about three times a year in an old general store in Pea Green, which is a small community located in the farmlands outside of Petticoat Junction.

I have only been to the show one other time, and, that was several years ago, so, I was a little worried about getting lost in the cornfields on the way; the advertisements, however, had promised Can't Miss signage leading to the store, and, damn, they were not kidding.

We had no difficulty whatsoever navigating the country roads. As an aside, at what point, exactly, do you think that I will be totally familiar with the community that I live in? I mean, it has only been seventeen years....and, I digress.

The show/sale was AWESOME and we all three came away with some really great finds. I also ate the best donut that I have had since I was a child, when my Grandma Molly used to make homemade donuts as a treat on Sundays. Today's pastries came courtesy of the women from the local Mennonite community and they were truly To. Die. For.

In addition to the dazzling of my taste buds, the sale provided a feast for the eyes, in way of clever displays set amid the glory of autumn's colors. The scent of carmel apples and kettle corn, popping away in an old- timey popper, completed the experience.

It was a phenomenal way to spend a fall day. And, as I mentioned, I got to do it in great company.

As for the great finds that I mentioned earlier?

I lucked out by finding exactly what I was looking for; an old window frame to refurbish to mount in the wall in my new scrapbooking room and antique glass knobs for the new cabinets in that room. The old machinist's tool box was a bonus find, and I intend to clean it up and use it for storing small scrapbooking embellishments.

I can hardly wait to get started on the room (cabinets and countertop have been ordered and should arrive within the next few weeks!). I also can hardly wait for the next Pea Green show, but, since that is six months away, I guess I better chill out.

Friday Night Lights: The Last Home Game of Junior Year

The final score, 41-14, Pirates.

Between them, The Fearsome Foursome had one interception, one sack, a touchdown, several important blocks, and, they ran the ball for almost a hundred combined yards. To say it was a good game would be a vast understatement.

The best part? All four eagerly posed for their annual Last Home Game of the Season photo; I didn't even have to ask, they saw me and the hams went to work.

I never would have imagined that it would be possible to adore four smelly boys as much as I adore these kids, and, I actually have a pretty damn good imagination.