Country Life – Page 3 – Angel Wheeler

A Fine Mess

Looks like #15 got herself in a pickle.

J-Dub says she was probably scratching her chin on the tree bark and turned her head just enough to get it wedged in there. She doesn’t know how to lift her head and pull back to get out.

She messed her eye up pretty good trying to get loose.
J-Dub said she’d been there a couple of days probably by pee and poop around her feet and her skinny sides.

She fought him when he tried to help her, but he was able to use the hay forks on his truck to spread the branches just enough so she could back out.

I can only imagine what those other cows are saying. She’s probably the laughing stock of there herd.

Oh the shame of it.

Small Miracles

So why did the chicken cross the road?

To get back home from her Mexican vacation, that’s why.

Yes, it’s a small miracle, but I’ll take it. My missing yellow chicken that I wrote about in this post here, has returned safely.

I don’t know where she’s been, I only know that she’s home. She was lost, but now she’s found. The prodigal hen has come to her senses and returned to her chickie mama. And there was great rejoicing. And a small bit of befuddlement as to where this yellow bird has been the past couple of weeks.

I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s gone broody in a place I haven’t discovered yet. A broody chicken is a good mama chicken. More than anything, she desires to sit on a nest of eggs and hatch them, fertilized or not. A broody hen gets a little cranky if you try to get her eggs from the nest, she may growl (imagine that) or peck you. Sometimes a broody hen will not even leave the nest to eat or drink.

From past experience, we have found 8-10 eggs lain here or there. One time, we discovered a nest up on the stacked hay bales. Another time, some kids discovered a nest out by some big round bales of hay while out playing around the place. So, if I was a betting woman, I’d put some money down that the yellow hen has spent many days sitting on a nest of eggs somewhere around this Chicken Ranch, hoping beyond hope to hatch a few little chicks, knitting her pink and blue baby blankets……. all for naught.

Or she’s been vacationing in Mexico. Anything’s possible, right?

A Chicken is good for a laugh or two

When we drove to a nearby city on Friday, January 27th to check into the hospital to give birth, we thought we’d only be gone a couple of days, and so we prepared for being gone only a couple of days. But as fate would have it, it turned out to be seven.

J-Dub drove back to our home about 3 times during that week to check on things, get the mail, do a little work, overall, just tend to the things that needed to be tended to.

Of course in a situation like this, a lot of necessary tasks are overlooked for a short time, one of which being the chickens. We left the chickens out, as is our custom, to free-range the place. They had plenty of food and water and fresh air. The day after we returned, I quickly went out to do a head count. Thirteen is the magic number. But only twelve chickens did I find. A yellow one was gone.

Naturally, I assumed the worst. My mind returned to the coyote snatching that occurred a few months ago. I quickly did a half-way-walk-around-the-place for any signs of demise like a plethora of feathers scattered about. I checked the horse tanks, as we all know my chickens are fond of nearly drowning in a horse tank. There were no signs.

I counted my losses, allowed myself a moment or two to grieve, and returned to the house. Since then, J-Dub’s been penning them up for me at night. Their range is no longer free. They are jailbirds, for their own good.

Yesterday evening, a guest speaker was speaking at the church. J-Dub was asked to play the drums for the praise and worship time. He didn’t bother to unhook his horse trailer from his pick-up as he would be using it this morning to haul some horses to a nearby town for breeding. Shortly before the service was to begin, I received a text from my husband informing me that a yellow chicken was in the church parking lot. Evidently, she had hitched a ride to church in the horse trailer and then flew out once they were stopped.

Fortunately, some friends of ours recognized her and as the music was gearing up inside the church, I can only imagine our friends running around the parking lot chasing a stow-away chicken.

She was captured, trapped, and returned safely to her home later that evening.

I’m glad she’s home, and plus it gives me hope. If one chicken can hitch a ride to church, perhaps my lost chicken is not dead after all. Maybe , just maybe, she crossed the road and hopped a train. Perhaps right now she’s drinking a Pina Colada in Mexico. Living the life. I can see her. Beach chair, sunhat and shades, bikini, sipping on a long straw. Because, after all, the winter’s do suck here.

The Coyote Snatching

It’s getting on sundown here at the J &A Chicken Ranch and the girls are heading in to roost for the night. All thirteen of them. Yep, you read that right. No typo intended. Thirteen. As life would have it, murder, mayhem, and malice struck the Chicken Ranch early Sunday morning past when an unsuspecting fowl fell victim to the first coyote snatching on record. J-Dub had just stepped outdoors just shortly after dawn, when suddenly the door flew wide open, expletives filled the room, and the gun cabinet was heard opening and closing. Sitting in the lazy boy enjoying my morning cup of java, I hurriedly asked him what in the Boone’s Farm was going on as he dashed back through the living room on his way back outside. “A coyote just got one of your chickens!” I jumped up (as much as one can jump while 7 months pregnant) and stood in the door frame to witness a nasty, vulgar, repulsive coyote running across the pasture with a helpless, vulnerable, limp, yellow chicken hanging from his jaws. Shots were fired at the coyote. The chicken was dropped with a poof of feathers and dust, and the coyote ran off with shots kicking up dirt behind him. Another coyote who was off to the right watching the action and hoping to have a chicken for breakfast also ran off. We only had pistol handy that morning and unfortunately, a bullet never made contact with the coyote. But in a matter of minutes, the ne’er-d0-well was back to pick up it’s abandoned meal only to be scared off again with another round of shots. I told J-Dub I was going to get my chicken out of the pasture. I was not going to let that murdering cur have the satisfaction of tasting even a morsel of my golden girl. Sparing me the task, J-Dub walked out and carried the dead bird back to the house and disposed of her. Realizing the dogs would return, I quickly penned all my hens and secured them safe and sound in their coop where they have spent the last 5 days miserably. They were mad for a good while, and the other day I think I even caught a couple of them with a file and a saw tucked under their wings. A blueprint drawing of the coop with arrows and lines was discovered crumpled in the corner. It was obvious to any onlooker that plans for a Coop Break was underway, I got home early enough today to let them out for a couple of hours of exercise before dusk. You’ve never seen such elated birds. They ran, and pecked, and flew, and clucked. I sat outside with a rifle not 30 feet away when dusk settled and I dared those good for nothings to sneak up to the house again. In the famous words of Scarlett O’Hara….”I can shoot straight……if I don’t have to shoot too far.” In Memory of a Yellow Chicken:

In Memory of My Dad #33—Armadillo

No matter how many times I leave Tahlequah, I’m always ready to return to the old hometown—but first, I had a commitment to some friends in another town to take care of before my departure for home. I had already said goodbye to my two daughters, and after a rousing night in Donny Duree’s bar, I said adios to the Golden Spread and headed southward toward where my friends live.

3:00 a.m. is what the digital read out on the clock beside my bed said in bright bold numbers—the drinkers hour. Drinkers all over America were coming awake at this hour, staring at the shadows as they prepared to do one more dance with the demons. I was no different as I went into the bathroom, washed quietly, then went into the kitchen to prepare a huge pot of coffee prior to leaving.

The morning breeze was cool on my face on that morning drive south. The eastern sky was turning a pale salmon pink, when all the coffee that I’d drank teamed with the beer from the night before and told me it was time to stop and check the atmospheric pressure–I lifted my foot from the accelerator and let the pickup coast to a stop beside a wild plum thicket.

I was standing there admiring the sunrise when an uncommonly amount of noise came invisibly through the shinnery. Whatever it was I felt vulnerable standing there dressed in nothing but a pair of cutoff wranglers with a twosome of ratty flip-flops on my feet.

Squinting into the semi-darkness and trying to walk backward and keep the loose shower shows on my feet and fumbling with my zipper, I sat right down in a patch of sandburrs. Sandburrrs are God’s bane to the barefoot traveler. They pierce the skin so easily and once they’re in the flesh they curl into unforgiving hooks that bring grown men to tears when they’re being removed.

I was glad for the darkness as I removed my shorts and tried to get the miniature hooks from my hands, feet and posterior. I was working diligently on my hands and feet, when something that resembled a basketball tumbled down the embankment and started making its way toward my pickup.

“Hey Bob, that’s an armadillo.” I said. I had seen plenty of the little creatures dead alongside the highways, but in my short lifespan this was my first encounter with a live one. The creature moved like a live steel helmet snuffling and poking its small nose into every nook and cranny until at the last instant my scent must have wafted gently on the morning breeze and the little armored one veered off and unhurriedly made its way down the bar ditch.

I stopped at a roadside park and hour or so later and who should pull up but a member of the Fish and Wildlife Division. so I thought why not do a little impromptu research on the little critters.

I found out that the armadillo was named by the conquistadors as they made their way through Mexico and the Southwestern United States. But most Texans today simply refer to them as diggers because of their penchant for digging for larvae and grubs. My Dad used to call ’em ‘borers” and swore that they fed on the newly buried. I never knew he was talking about armadillos though. I’m certain that armadillos looked for grubs or what have you in freshly dug graves, but going down 6 feet and through a couple containers for your dinner seems a little far-fetched and the game ranger assured me that it was. There goes another old wives tale out the window.

The game ranger, while admitting that he was no expert on the subject of ‘dillas, said that it would be fitting if they did feast on the dead because poor whites cooked the ‘dillas with a mess of greens and cornbread where during the Depression they became known as “Hoover Hogs” or “Texas Turkeys’ and graced many holiday tables. Even today, some poor blacks still barbecue the soft meat of the ‘dilla and consider it a delicacy.

Ancient Mayans refused to eat the armadillo because they believed that common vulture did not die but metamorphosed itself into an armadillo. Smart people, the Mayans.

But the young ranger assured me things were going better for our Cenozoic cousins now. Texas law protects the hardy reptile from the exploitation of commercial hunters and that means it would be harder to find a lampshade or a purse made from the skin of one of the tiny varmints. The main concern of the armadillo today is to keep from getting its remains pressed into the asphalt by passing cars as they amble myopically down life’s highways.

It was coming onto noon by now and I just passed the outskirts of Quanah, Texas when I thought that I’d stop for a quick bite to eat. Quanah is named for the great Comanche war chief Quannah Parker, born of mixed parentage. Parker, a self-styled hellion, made things tough for the Texas Rangers just before the turn of the century. His name means “fragrant flower” in Comanche and was said to be the cause of many-a-fight with Quanah’s boyhood pals. But writing about him would take up a whole column, so we’ll let that slide for now.

The Dairy Queens and the drive-in parking lots were filled with cars and pickups and the few promising looking steakhouse lots were filled also, so I opted for one of those plastic, laminated looking places called the Brewbaus or Der Schnitzel Palace or something like that. I knew I was in trouble when the menu read “order by number please”. I ordered number whazzit and received a grey-colored wiener covered with sauerkraut and a mixture of slurry that was supposed to be German potato salad. The wiener squeaked like I was chewing on rubberbands and the potato salad had the consistency of and tasted like wallpaper paste.

I sat there chewing this untasteable mess and found myself wishing I had a hunk of that barbecued Hoover Hog and a good mess of turnip greens.

~ Written by Bob Briggs
1943-2011

Blessings

I have a hot drink, a quiet house, and a long to-do list, but I’m going to sit a minute and write. I miss blogging. If I had my ‘druthers, I’d stay home, write everyday, and make preserves; or some other similar lost art. It sounds idyllic, but I’m sure it would get old after a while.

J-Dub and Ash have gone on a bike ride to a nearby, near-dried-up lake, and I’m sitting in my comfy chair, in my comfy preggo pajamas, listening to the flock of birds that live outside my window in an evergreen tree causing quite a ruckus.

Today I feel so blessed. Most days I feel blessed, but sometimes it is an overwhelming feeling that I simply can’t describe. I believe it has something to do with Fall. It’s quickly becoming my favorite time of year. or it may have something to do with my little baby to be, Emma Kate. Oh I dreamed of her last night. It was the most precious thing. She was about 5 or 6 months old, and had the biggest eyes you have ever seen. She was eating a strawberry. It was the first strawberry she’d ever tried. When she got a taste of it, her big eyes grew even wider. It was like a taste of heaven in her mouth. I loved waking up with that sweet image in my mind. I must plant strawberries this spring!

For the past two years, I have attempted a pumpkin patch, and have failed both times. Ash used to have a flower-pot of strawberries and they would produce about 3 a year. I hope to have better luck with my green thumb. Emma needs strawberries.

I’ve also been dreaming of my lost loved ones lately. My dad and my grannie have both been present with me in my dreams. It’s nice to wake up after being visited by a loved one, passed on.

But mostly, my blessed feeling has a lot to do with God. Isn’t he awesome? He has given me so much, even the things I thought I didn’t need. He knows our every thought before we think them. He knows the number of hairs on our head. He knows us better than we could ever know ourselves, and the most amazing thing is, He loves us still. His love is bigger and wider and deeper than anything we can fathom.

I hope you know Him. Somedays I’m an ungrateful child of the King, and I think I’m too busy to spend much, if any, time with Him. But He doesn’t hold it against me. He welcomes me back as a loving Father. He’s with us all ways. Even before we ever knew Him, He knew us. Right now I’m reminded of a scripture, Psalms 139.

¹ You have searched me, LORD,
   and you know me.
² You know when I sit and when I rise;
   you perceive my thoughts from afar.
³ You discern my going out and my lying down;
   you are familiar with all my ways.
⁴ Before a word is on my tongue
   you, LORD, know it completely.
⁵ You hem me in behind and before,
   and you lay your hand upon me.
⁶ Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
   too lofty for me to attain.

⁷ Where can I go from your Spirit?
   Where can I flee from your presence?
⁸ If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
   if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
⁹ If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
   if I settle on the far side of the sea,
¹⁰ even there your hand will guide me,
   your right hand will hold me fast.
¹¹ If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
   and the light become night around me,”
¹² even the darkness will not be dark to you;
   the night will shine like the day,
   for darkness is as light to you.

¹³ For you created my inmost being;
   you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
¹⁴ I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
   your works are wonderful,
   I know that full well.
¹⁵ My frame was not hidden from you
   when I was made in the secret place,
   when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
¹⁶ Your eyes saw my unformed body;
   all the days ordained for me were written in your book
   before one of them came to be.
¹⁷ How precious to me are your thoughts,^[a] God!
   How vast is the sum of them!
¹⁸ Were I to count them,
   they would outnumber the grains of sand—
   when I awake, I am still with you.

¹⁹ If only you, God, would slay the wicked!
   Away from me, you who are bloodthirsty!
²⁰ They speak of you with evil intent;
   your adversaries misuse your name.
²¹ Do I not hate those who hate you, LORD,
   and abhor those who are in rebellion against you?
²² I have nothing but hatred for them;
   I count them my enemies.
²³ Search me, God, and know my heart;
   test me and know my anxious thoughts.
²⁴ See if there is any offensive way in me,
   and lead me in the way everlasting.

He’s always with us. Always there. May you have a blessed day.

Pinned Image

J-Dub’s Burfday

Today my sweet husband turns 38 years old.

Remember when you were a little kid and made homemade cards? I’m still doing that. Especially after I’ve already gotten home from town and forgotten the dang thing.

He’s not home yet, because he’s still working.

That’s what he does.

Works his butt off. The word lazy is not in his vocabulary. Unless he’s talking to me. Nah, I’m only kidding. He may think it, but he doesn’t say it. He knows when its best to hold the tongue.

He has so many wonderful qualities.

He’s a good drummer.

He’s a great cook.

A patient uncle.

Whose not afraid to get a little dirty.

A handsome devil.

A loving husband.

And my best friend.

Happy birthday, Jason!

50 Rules for Dads of Daughters

My friend Suzanne sent me a link.

Actually she sent it for me to share with J-Dub.

I shared it, and then I read it myself.

I loved it. I cried. But I’m a bit emotional these days with my little girl on the way. I couldn’t help but think of her and her daddy.

And then I can’t help but think of me and my own dad.

This was written by a fellow named Michael Mitchell who blogs at Lifetoheryears.com and stolen from a blog fromdatestodiapers.com

There some great stuff out there, folks. I hope you enjoy it.

1. Love her mom. Treat her mother with respect, honor, and a big heaping spoonful of public displays of affection. When she grows up, the odds are good she’ll fall in love with and marry someone who treats her much like you treated her mother. Good or bad, that’s just the way it is. I’d prefer good.

2. Always be there. Quality time doesn’t happen without quantity time. Hang out together for no other reason than just to be in each other’s presence. Be genuinely interested in the things that interest her. She needs her dad to be involved in her life at every stage. Don’t just sit idly by while she add years to her… add life to her years.

3. Save the day. She’ll grow up looking for a hero. It might as well be you. She’ll need you to come through for her over and over again throughout her life. Rise to the occasion. Red cape and blue tights optional.

4. Savor every moment you have together. Today she’s crawling around the house in diapers, tomorrow you’re handing her the keys to the car, and before you know it, you’re walking her down the aisle. Some day soon, hanging out with her old man won’t be the bees knees anymore. Life happens pretty fast. You better cherish it while you can.

5. Pray for her. Regularly. Passionately. Continually.

6. Buy her a glove and teach her to throw a baseball. Make her proud to throw like a girl… a girl with a wicked slider.

7. She will fight with her mother. Choose sides wisely.

8. Go ahead. Buy her those pearls.

9. Of course you look silly playing peek-a-boo. You should play anyway.

10. Enjoy the wonder of bath time.

11. There will come a day when she asks for a puppy. Don’t over think it. At least one time in her life, just say, “Yes.”

12. It’s never too early to start teaching her about money. She will still probably suck you dry as a teenager… and on her wedding day.

13. Make pancakes in the shape of her age for breakfast on her birthday. In a pinch, donuts with pink sprinkles and a candle will suffice.

14. Buy her a pair of Chucks as soon as she starts walking. She won’t always want to wear matching shoes with her old man.

15. Dance with her. Start when she’s a little girl or even when she’s a baby. Don’t wait ‘til her wedding day.

16. Take her fishing. She will probably squirm more than the worm on your hook. That’s OK.

17. Learn to say no. She may pitch a fit today, but someday you’ll both be glad you stuck to your guns.

18. Tell her she’s beautiful. Say it over and over again. Someday an animated movie or “beauty” magazine will try to convince her otherwise.

19. Teach her to change a flat. A tire without air need not be a major panic inducing event in her life. She’ll still call you crying the first time it happens.

20. Take her camping. Immerse her in the great outdoors. Watch her eyes fill with wonder the first time she sees the beauty of wide open spaces. Leave the iPod at home.

21. Let her hold the wheel. She will always remember when daddy let her drive.

22. She’s as smart as any boy. Make sure she knows that.

23. When she learns to give kisses, she will want to plant them all over your face. Encourage this practice.

24. Knowing how to eat sunflower seeds correctly will not help her get into a good college. Teach her anyway.

25. Letting her ride on your shoulders is pure magic. Do it now while you have a strong back and she’s still tiny.

26. It is in her nature to make music. It’s up to you to introduce her to the joy of socks on a wooden floor.

27. If there’s a splash park near your home, take her there often. She will be drawn to the water like a duck to a puddle.

28. She will eagerly await your return home from work in the evenings. Don’t be late.

29. If her mom enrolls her in swim lessons, make sure you get in the pool too. Don’t be intimidated if there are no other dads there. It’s their loss.

30. Never miss her birthday. In ten years she won’t remember the present you gave her. She will remember if you weren’t there.

31. Teach her to roller skate. Watch her confidence soar.

32. Let her roll around in the grass. It’s good for her soul. It’s not bad for yours either.

33. Take her swimsuit shopping. Don’t be afraid to veto some of her choices, but resist the urge to buy her full-body beach pajamas.

34. Somewhere between the time she turns three and her sixth birthday, the odds are good that she will ask you to marry her. Let her down gently.

35. She’ll probably want to crawl in bed with you after a nightmare. This is a good thing.

36. Few things in life are more comforting to a crying little girl than her father’s hand. Never forget this.

37. Introduce her to the swings at your local park. She’ll squeal for you to push her higher and faster. Her definition of “higher and faster” is probably not the same as yours. Keep that in mind.

38. When she’s a bit older, your definition of higher and faster will be a lot closer to hers. When that day comes, go ahead… give it all you’ve got.

39. Holding her upside down by the legs while she giggles and screams uncontrollably is great for your biceps. WARNING: She has no concept of muscle fatigue.

40. She might ask you to buy her a pony on her birthday. Unless you live on a farm, do not buy her a pony on her birthday. It’s OK to rent one though.

41. Take it easy on the presents for her birthday and Christmas. Instead, give her the gift of experiences you can share together.

42. Let her know she can always come home. No matter what.

43. Remember, just like a butterfly, she too will spread her wings and fly some day. Enjoy her caterpillar years.

44. Write her a handwritten letter every year on her birthday. Give them to her when she goes off to college, becomes a mother herself, or when you think she needs them most.

45. Learn to trust her. Gradually give her more freedom as she gets older. She will rise to the expectations you set for her.

46. When in doubt, trust your heart. She already does.

47. When your teenage daughter is upset, learning when to engage and when to back off will add years to YOUR life. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

48. Ice cream covers over a multitude of sins. Know her favorite flavor.

49. This day is coming soon. There’s nothing you can do to be ready for it. The sooner you accept this fact, the easier it will be.

50. Today she’s walking down the driveway to get on the school bus. Tomorrow she’s going off to college. Don’t blink.

My life. My thoughts. My faith. My family

Well today is Sunday, and those who may have been looking for it, might have missed my “in memory of my dad story” yesterday. I’ve been a little busy, which is no excuse.

I’ve been:

sleeping (today anyway)
trying to revive a dead front yard from a serious drought
cleaning out a junk room of boxes and inessentials to make room for a crib and diapers
scouring baby books and the internet for the perfect little girl name
guarding my red toenails from pecking chickens
gathering 5-6 fresh eggs a day
enjoying the beautiful fall days
teaching a class of 22 darling second graders
cleaning, washing, drying, sweeping, mopping
attempting to bring my husband back to reality from our recent visit to Colorado
Oh, and building a baby

I went to Lubbock, Texas this weekend to listen to one of my most beloved Bible teachers, Beth Moore. Some church friends and I spent the day knee deep in the book of Luke and Acts and reveling in the reminder of how awesome our God is, and I wasn’t able to get to a computer to post my dad’s story and did not have the wherewithall to post earlier. I’m sorry, but I’ll make it up shortly.

While my dad was living, he spent some time writing commentaries and sports for his hometown newspapers, The Tahlequah Times. My sister brought me a basketful of old newspaper clippings, so each Saturday I post one. I will post them until I run out of stories or until I run out of Saturdays, whichever comes first. I chose Saturday because that was the day he died. A Saturday afternoon. Just a normal, unsuspecting one. Much like this day 10 years ago when our country was attacked. Much like the day when Jesus will return. Normal. Unsuspecting.

I had spoken with him back and forth on his facebook wall that morning, and was planning a visit in July for a family reunion. That afternoon, I was home alone standing in my kitchen with a cardboard box and newspaper pages scattered on the kitchen counters, wrapping drinking glasses in preparation for a move to a new place when my phone rang. I almost didn’t answer it because the number was bizarre. I’m glad I did. It was my dad’s friend, Jane, on the other end tearfully explaining to me “we’ve lost your daddy.” I had to call my sister, my mom, and my brother. It was a difficult day, as is days that come and go still. My dad has been gone a little over six months and my goodness, so much has happened in that short time. I miss him, and I so wish he was here to share what is happening in my life now.

When I first shared with my family that Jason and I would be having a baby, both my mom and my sister remarked how they wished my dad was here. How he would have loved to know the baby. And it made me sad for a split second. But then I remembered something my friend had told me and I had an epiphany. We all come from different backgrounds and beliefs and sometimes we get stuck thinking ours is “right” and everyone else is wrong. I have a very dear friend who, when speaking about babies, she would often mention “spirit children” in heaven waiting for a body in order to come to earth. I had never heard of this from anyone before. Although it was her belief, it was one I didn’t share. I hadn’t been taught this idea, I hadn’t ever read about this idea, so I dismissed it, quite frankly, as cuckoo. Until the day I needed desperately to believe that.

I believe that our spirits live forever. When we die our spirits live on, either in heaven or in hell. And it came to me clearly, if our spirits live forever after our earthly body is gone, then how narrow-minded of me to think our spirits only begin when our human bodies form in the womb. Of course they exist before our earthly body and of course they exist after our earthly body. Of course there are “spirit children”. And of course my dad’s spirit, who lives in heaven, and my baby’s spirit who lived in heaven, have met one another. My dad is not missing out on knowing my baby. I believe they have met one another. In the heavenly realm of which we know very little about, they’ve become acquainted. They are well acquainted.

I let my imagination run wild with this idea. Not only have they met, and shook hands, and said hello, I’m your grandpa, but perhaps they’ve played together. Maybe he’s already given her horsey back rides and swung her around in his arms. Could it be possible that he’s sat her in his lap, hugged her close, kissed her cheek and stroked her hair. Have they’ve splashed in crystal seas digging for the perfect skipping rocks ? Have they held hands and played ring around the rosey on a golden street?
Is it unfathomable?
Not to me.
Is it cuckoo?
Not to me. Not anymore.

I enjoy Saturdays with my dad’s stories because I get to hear from him again. I’ve never read all his stories, there were only a select few that he mailed to me. I’m so glad I have them, and I’m honored to share them. Granted, some are better than others, as are all of mine as well. But we live on with our words. We can impact people years later with our writings. Last week his story told about a blue and white seersucker jacket he had that served him well for both weddings and funerals. My sister commented and said I should have posted this picture of him wearing that jacket.

That’s us in 1993. I’m the one with the big hair. Take your hands off your gaping mouths. Yes, that hair is real. Yes, I left the house with hair that big. Yes, that hair was sort-of in style. And that’s my handsome dad standing proudly beside me. He was always proud of me, and told me often.

I thank God he was my dad. I thank God for the time we had together. I thank God He prepared a place for him. And for me. We will see him again. And we will laugh. And hug. And he will give me his sloppy kisses as he always did.

He loved much, and is loved and sorely missed by many.

Pics from the Reveal Partay!

This past Friday, some friends and loved ones joined us for a gender reveal party.

Some wore pink, thinking it would be a girl. Some wore blue, thinking it would be a boy.

Some wore black, thinking it would be…….uh, nevermind, I guess they hadn’t had time to do their laundry.

J-Dub and I were both decked out in blue. No doubt in my mind it was a boy. No doubt.

There were more folks dressed in blue than pink.

The survey from my blog predicted boy over girl.

We began with a little game of “What do the Old Wives Say?” where different old wives questions were thrown at us, and the majority of our answers revealed boy.

Boy, Boy, Boy.

The contents of this box would reveal the truth. Would it be blue or would it be pink?

The moment of truth arrived with hearts all a’flutter. Anticipation hung heavy in the air.

The florist was the one who received the sealed envelope. He was the one who first saw the ultrasound picture. He was the one who packaged the box. We were the ones to open it with the ones we love.

Pink and white balloons drifted out, screams and cheers lifted up, and tears flowed down. Happy tears of course.

It was a day of love, happiness, celebration.

Hugs.

Congratulations.

And smiles.

Lots and lots of smiles.