The ABCs of Me by Carolyn

I loved Andrea's post so much that I am shamelessly copying it! In fact, both of us can thank our co-writer Susan, for showing us the very cool book, Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, by one of my favorite authors, Amy Krouse Rosenthal. It's one of those books that you look at and think, "Why didn't I think of writing a book like this?" The author has simply written a snippet about her life for each letter of the alphabet, but the result is quite entertaining. What a deal!

So here is a beginning for my personal encyclopedia:

A is for Angry Resting Face.

From the Urban Dictionary: Angry Resting Face (ARF) - Term used to describe the angry-looking facial expression that one instinctively makes when s/he is resting, zoned out, or not actively engaged in a conversation. Someone with an angry resting face may be unfairly perceived as cold or aloof. An effective remedy for an ARF is to learn to "smile with your eyes." 

A colleague taught us about this a few years ago. I was extremely relieved to hear that it was a real thing, because I have been accused all my life of being angry, or grouchy, or sad, or worse, when I am not. That is just the way my face is. I have tried to develop an HRF (Happy Resting Face), but it just does not work. We who suffer with ARF deserve your pity, not your scorn.  :)

B is for baby. Maybe I should have saved this for "G", as in grandbaby, but I wanted to get it in here as soon as possible. People always tell you that there is nothing like being a grandparent. This is true. The joy of snuggling with your own little hunk of love, knowing you do not have to get up in the middle of the night with the little bugger is complete and utter bliss.

C is for CeCe. One of the most important decisions of your life is what you want to be called by your grandchildren. It is of supreme importance. You should start worrying about it as soon as possible. I have been weighing my options for quite some time, hoping I would eventually need to have something ready. I'm happy to report I now have the need for a grandmother name (see entry under "B is for baby" or "J is for Jude"). I have contemplated Grammy C and CeCe and various other options, but ultimately I know it will be up to my first-born grandchild to choose my name. I just hope he doesn't decide to call me MeMaw or MooMoo or something equally horrid!




D is for dogs. If you are a faithful reader of our blog, you may know that I have dogs. Three of them, in fact. What was I thinking? But that is a different story (see Life Lesson #7 from July 15, 2014). Here is what I like about having dogs: they love me, they do not talk back, they (typically) do not generate dirty laundry or dirty dishes, they love to cuddle, they let me pick what to watch on TV, and they are occasionally very entertaining. What I do not like about having dogs: they chew up EVERYTHING within reach, they track mud and various other unidentified debris into the house, they like to dig in trash cans and pull out all the contents thereof, they jump up on me in a frenzy of overwhelming affection, and they do not understand the concept of sleeping late on weekends. As with everything else in life, you take the bad with the good. They are part of my life.


E is for elementary school. I am a teacher. I briefly dabbled in middle school and high school earlier in my career, but my heart belongs in elementary school. I remember having a conversation about that a few years ago with my long-time friend who taught middle school. I said one of the reasons I much preferred working in an elementary school was that I got hugs from the kids there. Totally shocked and disgusted, she said, "And you LIKE that?" Yes, I do. Research tells us that hugs make you happier, healthier, and more relaxed. Who wouldn't like that? I work with wonderful, giving colleagues and have the privilege of touching young lives. It just doesn't get any better than that.

F is for food. I really, really like food. That is all.

G is for grandmother. Yes, I am one now, but that is not what I want to talk about here. My father's mother was called Mawgaw, which is my sister's fault (see entry under "C is for CeCe"), My sister was the first-born grandchild and apparently couldn't say "Grandma" correctly. I feel sure I would have done a better job of it if I had been the one in charge of naming the family matriarch. Be that as it may, Mawgaw was an incredible woman. She was love personified. She hugged and kissed and generally loved on us every possible moment. She didn't cook fancy dishes, but the food she made was absolutely wonderful! Hot yeast rolls, juicy and tender pot roast, sweet, flaky blackberry cobbler . . . every bite was full of love. She was tough as nails - she worked every day alongside my grandfather on their cattle ranch, planted and tended and harvested a  huge truck garden every year, canned and preserved the produce, managed the roadside fruit/pecan stand, cooked three meals a day, and ran the house as well. But she was also tender-hearted and felt the pain of everyone around her. I remember one time when I had hurt myself as a child (which happened regularly), she was pouring out sympathy on me, hugging and kissing, and lamenting my wound as grandmothers are supposed to do. My mother said, "Sarah, quit being nice to her; it just makes her cry harder!" Mawgaw was also generous to a fault and always assumed the best of everyone. She was an amazing woman. I miss her every day. I hope I can be as good a grandmother to my grandchildren as she was to me.

G is also for geocaching. This is a pastime I discovered a while back. It consists of using GPS coordinates to search for and (hopefully) locate "caches" hidden by other geocachers. Very fun. Unfortunately, I don't get to do it very often - lately, my only involvement in geocaching has been talking other people into trying it! I hope to get back to it soon - the excitement of recording my geocaching name and date-of-find on the list inside a cache is calling to me.

H is for hospital. I was born in Lampasas, Texas, in the Rollins-Brook Hospital. At that time, the hospital had 13 rooms. It was, strangely enough, a source of pride to me for many years that I was born in such a teeny-tiny facility. Sadly, the hospital was enlarged greatly several years ago. I was, and still am, bummed about that.

I is for . . . you guessed it, Ireland. I am homesick for a place I have never lived. I'm not sure how that is possible, but 'tis true. The moment I set foot on Irish soil, I knew it would become a part of who I am.
                “There’s music in the Irish names—
                 Kilkenny . . . Tipperary . . .
                 There’s beauty in the countryside,
                 From Cork to Londonderry,
                 And whoever makes his earthly home
                 Close to the Irish sod
                 Has found a bit of Heaven
                 And walks hand in hand with God.”


J is for Jude. Yes, I managed to work my grandson in here again.
But really, how can I resist those toes?



J is also for Jessica, who married my older son, became my daughter-in-law and daughter-in-my-heart, and co-produced my grandchild. What a deal!







K is for Kenneth. K is for Kyle. Just want to say to expectant parents out there - don't give your children names that begin with the same letter. Didn't you hate it when your mother called you the wrong name, so you swore you would never do that to YOUR children? You probably will, and giving them names that begin with the same letter increases that probability approximately 68%! This will irritate your children greatly. Need I say that I love both of them with my whole heart? They have been, and continue to be, the joy of my life and my greatest accomplishment.

L is for libraries. You probably already know I am a book lover and voracious reader. Could there be anything more captivating and comforting than a whole room full of books? I could cheerfully pass hour after hour snuggled in a comfy chair with a good book or two or three. After all, there is "no furniture so charming as books" (Rev. Sydney Smith, 1808-1895).

M is for mother. I lost my mother when I was 26; she was only 50. She was my dear friend, my trustworthy confidant and wise advisor, a dependable haven of love and security and tenderness when I was sad or confused or troubled. She has been gone twenty-nine years now: I have been without her loving presence in my life for longer than I had it. I still feel the void.

N is for nose. A very prosaic entry, I know, but nonetheless important to me. I do not know where I got my nose. It is not my father's nose, my mother's nose, nor is it like any of their parents' or siblings' noses. It is a confounding mystery. It appears that God stuck it on willy-nilly, without regard for family resemblance. If I had been given the choice, it is not the nose I would have picked, but there it is anyway, smack-dab in the middle of my face.

O is for Oregon. About three summers ago, my sister and I went on a trip to the Pacific Northwest with our father. It is an area of the country we knew he would like to visit, as he greatly enjoys the beauties of nature. Oregon is, of course, jam-packed with evergreen trees. Tourists flock there in droves to see them. The trees are awe-inspiring, indeed, soaring up into the sky, towering over everything. However, too much of a good thing is apparently too much. After a couple of days of driving along the winding country roads surrounded by the sturdy trunks and lush, green branches of those lovely giants, Dad complained, "I wish these trees weren't here. They are blocking the view." Oh my.

P is for poetry. One of the joys of my life in recent years has been "teaching" poetry to kids. A few years ago Susan, my co-coach, and I decided to delve into teaching poetry in a way that would preserve its joy. We have had a lot of fun with it ever since. This past school year I had the pleasure of introducing Jennifer's second graders to poetry - they caught my enthusiasm for it so thoroughly that they begged me never to stop bringing them new poems!



Q is for Queen Bee. My sister and I have often observed to each other that we were apparently born as worker bees, rather than queen bees. You know, those women that sit on the couch and look glamorous while the rest of us skitter around cooking, cleaning, and generally taking care of all the grunt work. Sometimes I wish I had been born a queen bee instead of a worker bee, but I guess it's a little late for that.  Buzz, buzz.

R is for redheads. That's something else I wish I had been born as. (Poor grammar, but you get the idea.) My father and his mother were both redheads before they went gray. I have always wished for red hair. When that clearly was not going to happen for me, I wished that one of my children would have red hair. That didn't come true either. Maybe Jude's hair will turn red . . .

S is for sister. I only have one, but I am so glad she is the one I have! I would not always have been able to say that truthfully. Candace was not very nice to me when we were growing up, as is the way of older siblings. If you ever meet her, be sure to ask her about the time she closed me up in the attic!

S is also for shoes. All of us have a weakness - mine is shoes. After all, shoe love is true love!

T is for Texas. Born and raised. And don't you forget it.

U is for university.  Anyone who knows me probably also knows that I love Texas A&M University. Proud Aggie,  class of '79. 
I know, that was a long time ago.  

V is for vagabond. I think I would like to be one. At least for a little while. But I also know it is important to me to have a home to come back to.

W is for widow. I am one. Never wanted to be (at least not seriously). Never imagined I would be. I occasionally griped at my husband for not spending enough time with me. He would reply, "We have forever to spend together, precious." Forever was not long enough. Give your spouse a hug and kiss every day and treasure your time together.

X is for an "unknown quantity". Lots of people think they have me figured out. They don't. Can any of us really know anyone else? 

Y is for yen and yang. Balance is best. I'm still trying to find it.

Z is for zzzzzzs. I love sleep. I have always loved sleep. My mother used to joke that I was born just in time to take a nap before lunch! 

Change by Carolyn

My relationship with my mother was as close as close could be. We spent hours and hours in each other's company, never tiring. We thought alike, spoke alike, looked alike. I looked to her constantly for wisdom, understanding, and fellowship. Our worlds were on synchronous orbits.

My father, on the other hand, was unknown territory to me. He was on a path of his own, his orbit only occasionally intersecting with mine. Although bound by one of the deepest connections possible, we were not truly connected by inclination, proximity, or habit. We rarely saw each other. When we did, the time spent together was awkward, rife with those silences that occur when people are not quite sure what to talk about next.

My relationship with my mother is frozen in time. I will never know how it would have played out, how it might have ebbed and flowed with time, or deepened as we both aged.

My relationship with my father, however, has changed dramatically over the past few years. We now cross paths much more frequently than in the past - sometimes of necessity, sometimes by desire. We have a kind of symbiotic relationship: he depends on me for some things (like sewing), and I depend on him for other things (like fixing stuff). We take turns being the parent.

Although we are still a little wary of each other (he, afraid I will cry; me, afraid he will rant and rave), we talk together, laugh together. I have discovered he has a great sense of humor, something I never knew until the past few years. He still makes me crazy from time to time, but at least we are close enough now that he has the opportunity to make me crazy.

My father is a difficult man to completely like and admire, but I have now built a relationship with him based on affection (and, yes, duty). My relationship with my father will never be the same as the relationship I enjoyed with my mother. But my time with my mother is in the past, my time with my father is in the present - and the future.

-C

Fish Explosion by Carolyn

     Bam!  I sat straight up in my narrow twin bed, my heart pounding in my chest, as the explosion reverberated through the house. The booming noise had awoken my sister from a sound sleep, just as it had me. We exchanged puzzled glances, not understanding what had caused the sound.
     We jumped out of bed, hurrying toward the living room, which we assumed to be the source of the boom. In our small house it didn't take us long to reach our destination. At first, we weren't able to comprehend the scene of chaos and destruction that met our eyes.
      Slowly, it came into focus. Mom was standing at the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, a damp dishtowel in her hands and her mouth agape. Dad was sitting ont the edge of the couch, his shotgun in his hand and a sheepish look on his face.
     The living room floor was awash with dirty water, colorful gravel, and broken glass. Here and there, a small fish darted about nervously, quite probably shell-shocked. More than a few lifeless fish bodies floated amongst the debris. Occasionally, a piece of seaweed or a portion of a small fish body dropped from the ceiling into the mess below with a soft splash.
     In spite of all the evidence before us, we were still having trouble making sense of what had transpired.  Until, that is, our eyes were drawn to the gaping hole in the living room wall where the fish aquarium had stood until just a few minutes earlier, when Dad had decided to clean his shotgun in the living room.

-Carolyn

Affogato or Café Glace

The French chef on public TV is making an affogato, which apparently in Italian means “drowned”.  It is a tall glass filled with a scoop of vanilla ice cream dunked in espresso coffee.  At first I am fascinated by how he makes the vanilla ice cream right on the spot with liquid nitrogen but then I realize:  I know this drink!  It is no affogato; it is café glacé and it was my favorite treat when my father would take me to the movies as a child.  And a bittersweet sensation brings back a slew of memories.  Sweet, because they are reminders of a happy childhood, bitter because my Dad passed away eight years ago.

My father was a hard-working man.  As long as I can remember, he worked two, sometimes three jobs at a time.  He was the chief appraiser for the government’s mortgage lending bank in the country.  He did that job from 7:00 a.m. until 2:00 p.m.  Then in the afternoons, he free-lanced for two or three other banks, surveying and appraising.  He was an honest man and people knew that he would give them the fairest estimate possible, no matter who they were.  His client ranged from simple blue collar workers trying to get a loan to buy their first home in the capital, to the most powerful men in the country trying to buy and sell their properties and gain the highest profit.  He worked on weekends and late into the nights.  But somehow, he was always there to help with homework, stock the refrigerator with the best fruit in season, make up bed-time stories, prepare a bowl of pomegranate seeds on cool autumn night so our hands wouldn’t get stained, take us to the beach every summer and on short outings to watch daredevil motorcyclist jump off dirt hills outside of the crowded capital. 

Born and raised in the countryside of Khorasan, he had to get his country fix every weekend, so he would drive us on hikes and picnics on a regular basis.  In the winter, it was tubing on a snow-covered hill using the floor mats of our VW bug.  In the spring, a day on the banks of the Karaj river, sitting on Persian rugs and drinking tea.  A hard-core trip involved carrying pots, pans and a camping stove across a rickety rope bridge to make lunch on the other side of the river because it was less traveled and more idyllic. 

Another treat and a weekend ritual was chelo kabab for lunch.  To give my mother a break from cooking, my Dad would take one of our cooking pots and bring back food from this hole in the wall restaurant that catered to the working men but wasn’t a place you took your family to.  The kabob would sit on top of the basmati rice, which would sit on top of a layer of bread at the bottom of the pan.  By the time that pot would arrive at our house, the juice from the meat had seeped through the rice, carrying with it the flavor of saffron from the rice, and soaked that bread to an exquisite deliciousness.  My brother and I would fight over that bread, as my mother would set the table.

Every summer, we would go to the Caspian coast for a week.  Sometimes my father could not stay with us the whole week, so he would take us to Darya Kenar, drive four hours back to Tehran and return the following weekend to pick us up.  It was enough for him to dip into the grey waters of the sea a couple of times to let go of the stress of his drive and his work.  A creature of habit, you could set your clock by when he ate, when he took his obligatory afternoon nap and when he went to sleep at night.  But at the beach, he would take off his watch and just enjoy the few days of relaxation and time with his family and friends.

Anything I know about math, I owe it to him.  When I would get stuck with geometry, trigonometry, or algebra I would leave my unsolved problems on the dining room table at night before going to bed.  Sometime between getting home from work that night and the next morning, he would have solved the problems and given me the most clear explanation that no high school or college math teacher ever could.

And on those occasions when my mother had a volunteer committee meeting or a get together with her friends, my father would take me to Cinema Cinemond, a theatre dedicated to showing Disney movies dubbed into Persian. It was right next to Cinema Paramont and in between the two was a little café.  That is where we would sit while waiting for the movie to start and he would order me a tall café glacé.  More than the exoticness of the treat, it was the rarity of the opportunity to be alone with my father and have his full attention that makes this memory so precious. 

All that my father had built materially disappeared practically over night when the Islamic Revolution confiscated his belongings because of his Faith in the Baha’i religion.  By then we were living in the United States and there was no going back.  But the spiritual and moral inheritance that he left my brother and me are immortal and no earthly power will be able to diminish them.

The vanilla ice cream and the coffee in Café Glace, or Affogato, treat your taste buds to this contrast of the bitter and the sweet. And isn’t that what life is?  Aren’t we all a contradictory bundle of opposites?  But how wonderful that when all is said and done, what I remember are the sweet moments that my father spent loving me and showing me what really matters in this life.

-Susan