My mother's sister, Aunt Bert, sent me a letter in this card ten years ago.  She loved dogs more than anyone I ever knew growing up, the names of whom I can still recall.  Loving dogs was something that came easily to her, so much so that we felt her dogs were a part of the family.  She always mentioned them in her letters from Seattle or Bainbridge Island or Port Townsend.  Since the late 1990s, I have learned why it was so natural for her to do that.



                                just weeks old, Meek before she accepted our invitation



    Meek's parents were the schnauzers of my good friends Bobby and LaNita, who lived in Gail twelve years ago. Their dogs had several litters. Ripken, Meek's older brother, was born in December of 1999. I brought him home to help heal a broken heart at the time, and it worked.

    But Ripken needed someone for company, too, as I had to travel and be gone a lot for school activities. My girls were involved in their lives and soon to be leaving for college. So, six months later in another litter from the same parents was born the little lady that would be just for Ripken....his full blood baby sister. My daughters named her Meek, which was short for the three "meeks" who played for the University of Tennessee Lady Vols: Chamique Holdsclaw, Tamika Catchings, and Semeka Randall. If Ripken were going to be named after an athlete, so was Meek.

                                           in recent days, Ripken continuing to watch over his sister

    

       Bonding began immediately as Ripken seemed to sense his role as protector while Meek knew she was there to provide support, company, and someone to chase. I told you she was a lady.

       They played together, figured out how to use the doggie door together, and learned to eat out of a self-feeding bowl without fighting. I could leave them overnight and rest assured that they had each other. And, on those occasions when I did have to be gone, they even learned to pout together....the suitcase would come out, and the two of them, in defiant solidarity, would turn their heads away from me when I tried to tell them good-bye.

     Meek could be her own girl though. She was much more possessive of my time, making sure that when attention was given to Ripken, it had darn sure be given to her as well. My arm was pawed many a time as she insisted I scratch her ears, too.

     Meek barked more. She ate more. But now that she's gone, I realize that the biggest difference came in where they each liked to settle with me. Unlike her brother, who still chooses to sit on the arm of the recliner beside me every night and watch television (must be a man thing), Meek would follow me to the office--the newly renovated space for quiet time, writing, and listening to music. And always under the table desk, at my feet......she would lie down and stay until the writing or schoolwork had ended.

     I wish winter were not approaching.  Until tonight, I had not noticed how warm and reassuring that little heartbeat at my feet had been.

                                          with my daughter Emily this past Sunday

                          



   

Roll with the Tide

      Hurricane Irene was over a thousand miles from me, and for that I am most thankful.  We need rain, true, but I can do without the damaging wind, loss of power, and messy clean-up that flooding leaves behind.  Water is such a powerful source, for good and bad, and its presence (or lack of) affects people maybe moreso than any other thing God created. 

      Randomly, I tried to remember when that powerful creation took place:  was it Day One, Day Two, Day Three?  I get all of those mixed up. More than likely I was distracted by trying to figure out how God did all that in six short days. 

      So, I got out the ol' red King James Bible my parents gave me in 1964.  It's still good, you know.  And  there in Genesis One, verse two, was something I had never noticed.  "The Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters." 

      This came before earth's form, before light, before darkness, before Oreo cookies, before anything.      

      Water.  And God "moved" upon it.  Earth's first surfer.

      So from the very, very beginning the Creator had a comfort with H-2-O.  And if He/She did, that explains a whole lot:

       1.  Watering the earth for forty days and forty nights

       2.  Parting of the water to get to the other side

       3.  Punishing Moses the Smiter (instead of Moses the Rock Whisperer) for providing water incorrectly to the impatient Israelites

       4.  Tossing Jonah into the water

       5.  Throwing water balloons at Goliath (made that one up.....but David did get the five smooth stones out of the water)

       6.   Lying down beside the still waters

       7.   Casting nets into the water

       8.   Turning the water into wine

       9.   Baptizing with water

             And my personal favorite.....

      10.  Gideon's men lapping the water

 

       Probably more examples exist, but those are just the ones that come to mind quickly.  And they are not in chronological order, all you straight A+ Sunday School people.  Get a life.

        Water is obviously a constant presence.   Poets have often written about it, too, so I get the idea that we are supposed to make a connection here:  life has swells,  life tosses us around, and sometimes it seems as if life can swallow up and drown us. 

         Maybe your circle of news has been a bit like mine of late, a series of waves crashing about:   yet another diagnosis of cancer, the talk of a five-year-old needing a heart transplant, revelations of child abuse, heartache from the sad reality that a mother's voice will no longer be heard, a beloved pet's final breath, and the inevitability of ALS's fatal theft. 

          Sometimes I imagine myself preferring a hermit's existence.  Alone, isolated, and untouched by a flood of grief.

         Then, I pull out my favorite poetry book and let these beautiful words wash over the ugly status quo.

         And learn, O Voyager to walk

         The roll of earth, the pitch and fall....to sleep in spite of sea, in spite

         Of sound the rushing planet makes.--

                                                                                            "Seafarer" by Archibald MacLeish

         To rest in spite of?

         How many times have we lost sleep due to events on this rushing planet?

         During those moments, O Voyager, try to remember the comforting presence of Someone who walked........on water.

                

Rubble

      Consider the paradox of a construction site.  In one setting, workers are scurrying about like ants pouring foundation, doing the brick and mortar thing, or framing the new structure that is taking shape.

      And then there is the rubble--the evidence of what once was.  In this case, a school building built almost a hundred years ago. 

      On this eve of the first day of school,  I walked home from my classroom past this mound of tangled beams and two by fours and cement and thought about all the footsteps that had made their scuff marks on those wooden floors.

          Built when William Howard Taft was President, this old two-story structure educated children without computers or televisions.  Teachers in this building worried more about a snake or a lizard in a kid's pocket rather than a cell phone.    And recess might have included schoolyard fights instead of fighting over who got to climb on the colorful playground equipment.

           The sun was setting, so I snapped a few photos and made my way home, only a couple of hundred yards from the site. The imagery lingered.  One gets a bit wistful after all these years teaching in the same school district.
           Gone is a historic part of our school's legacy.  Arriving soon is the opportunity to see a new one begin.  Destruction and creation often go hand in hand.

            **************

            Interestingly, what takes place on the inside of any school building--new or old--is a principle quite the opposite.  The act of tearing down to build up is not the method a classroom teacher uses. If it is, he or she needs to find a construction job or any other career........and quickly.  

             Every year when school starts, a teacher walks into a room  facing new "ingredients"--young lives for whom we are responsible.   Some come to us with  strong foundations.     A few arrive in disrepair, with cracks in their foundation from abuse, neglect, poverty, or learning challenges.  

              Even in the best of schools, rubble exists.  We have to dig through it sometimes to find the treasure, that lone item that allows us to recognize potential and then take it one step further:  to help the child see his or her own worth and then inspire them to use that self-worth to make the world better.  An educator is  not just the construction foreman; he or she has to get hands dirty and do the hard labor each and every day in order for the job to get done.

             Our new school will be completed in less than a year; however, the students I greet tomorrow won't be ready anytime soon for all that life is going to throw at them.  Before their education is complete, they will have left behind little mounds of rubble, results of growing pains and teenage adolescent disappointments.       

              Helping them to build on those experiences should be the ultimate mission of all who call themselves "teacher."  

 

Sullivan Family Archives: Tapioca Tales

       I am well aware that food seems to be a constant theme in my writing.  Who cares?  I like food, and it likes me.  Today, my sweet tooth was satisfied with a blast from the past:  tapioca.

        The Sixties was the decade of family meals at the table  followed by dessert.  Mother made this particular dessert many times for us at 3601 Hill Avenue, Snyder America. With five kids, she knew how to make us behave.  Threaten us with no dessert, and we were angels.   

        So, when I got that red and white box out of the fridge today, measured the contents, and brought them to a rolling boil, my mouth watered waiting for the twenty minutes to let it set.  The only way I like to eat tapioca is warm. 

        When the timer went off, I went in for the pudding that launched a thousand smiles at our dinner table many years ago. (I say that, but actually I am speaking only for myself as I really do not know if Scotty, Sara, Shane, or Sabrina even liked tapioca).  Scoops of the pearly white goo went into a real dessert dish.  I do not have many dishes in my house because I do not cook, but I do keep two little glass bowls just for these occasions. 

         Tapioca on my tongue took me back 45 years. 

         The Sullivans ate supper at the table.  All seven of us.  We talked.  We ate a lot.  We probably turned up our noses  sometimes as Mother liked to try new recipes.  She was a cookbook's best friend.  Have Recipe, Will Try was her motto. 

          King Ranch Chicken was a specialty as were numerous casseroles.  About the only thing Mother never perfected was the birthday cake which is ironic considering she had plenty of opportunities to practice with five stinking kids.  Pies--super; birthday cakes--not so much. 

          And then there was tapioca. 

         Association is a funny thing.  With this dessert, I just sensed we were elevating our tastes.  Maybe it's because we ate it in a real crystal dish, not some cereal bowl as we did everything else.  When Mom made tapioca, I just felt, well, sophisticated.

          Until  late 1965 or early 1966.  Tapioca was on the dessert menu one evening, and this soon-to-be 10-year-old was pumped. 

           The dinner plates were cleared from the table as dessert was an event.   On this night, it became THE event.  Just as I was about to dig in to my tapioca, Mom and Dad decided to break the big news:  baby number five was on the way.  Oh good gosh........

           I looked across the table at baby number four!  He was not even a year old!  What were they thinking?  What were they doing?  Never mind, I sort of knew the answer and tried to block that out as fast as I could.

           Saddest of all, tapioca became a symbol of something else and not the sweet classy tasty dessert it was always intended to be.  All I could think of was more cloth diapers being washed out in the commode. 

           Just in recent years have I overcome the unfortunate blame I placed on tapioca.  It wasn't tapioca's fault that the fertility announcement disrupted my after-dinner dessert date.  And, it didn't hurt that baby number five turned out to be a girl.  Sara and I wanted Sabrina so we could outnumber the smelly boys, and this beautiful dark-haired addition turned out to be much sweeter than even tapioca. 

           Mom and Dad stopped having babies after number five.  In honor of that, I ate five bowls of tapioca today--enough sophistication to get me through until Thanksgiving.

The Sweet Stuff

         My affection for food is well known in my entourage.  (Yes, I have one:  two dogs and the folks at the Coyote Country  Store have my back).

         So, it  is only natural that I would view the status quo of my life as the "icing."  The sweet stuff.

         The evidence is overwhelming.  A quick glimpse at my first eighteen years would be enough to prove how blessed my life has been--growing up loved, with two parents, two brothers, two sisters in a small town.  Healthy, happy, safe. Opportunities to go to  great schools with  even greater teachers.  A church family who laid a strong foundation for an important core matter:  loving as Jesus loved.    

         There was just enough passion and love in my marriage  to bring more sweet moments:  healthy pregnancies with healthy baby girls.   I have lived long enough to see my daughters grow up and to be blessed to have a larger family who  remains deeply embedded in their lives.    Both have relationships with all four grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins that extend beyond just Christmas cards or once-a-year gatherings. 

          More proof?   For a brief, magical time, soulful love rejuvenated my broken spirit.  Yes, it was a relationship  destined to break my heart, but the experience had a way of healing it, too. 

          From day one of having my first real job, the joy of teaching has never gotten old; I get tired,  but tired is so way better than unfulfilled.  

          The joy of sharing travel and sports and writing and music and food with friends and family--hard to beat.

          And each day for the past fifty-five years, my mornings have begun by waking up and knowing--not guessing or worrying or hoping--that someone needs me.  Mine has been a life of purpose.

          So that brings me back to the icing. 

          I have had an entire life of "cake."  Now I just gratefully gorge myself on the good stuff on top:   good health, daughters with a sense of humor, the voice of parents (now in their 80s) on the other end of the phone, Hi-Def TV, eating ice cream cones, visits with old friends and emails from former students, sitting in the back yard by myself,  a faith that grows closer to fine, driving the El Camino with the windows rolled down, and the list goes on and on and on........

            My purpose now is to live a life of gratitude because I get to live in the sweet stuff.  

            My purpose now is also to live a life of humility because so many people in our world die without even a taste.

      

Stuck Between A Wheel Bearing and a Famine

     What makes for a frustrating day?

     On a frustration scale of one to ten, I had originally decided to give today a seven.

     Around 11 a.m., I was heading to Midland to have lunch with my daughter. 

     Around 11:30 a.m, my car made the decision for me that I might ought to go to Lubbock instead and see the repair shop that had worked on the vehicle two months ago after I hit a deer.  Frustration--and disappointment--set in but only mildly.  Surely this was going to be something easily remedied, and perhaps I could head over to Midland for an early evening dinner.

      The visit at the auto shop, however, did not produce results that I wanted.  Most businesses in Lubbock take it for granted that everyone who comes into their store on a Friday lives in Lubbock and can wait until Monday to take care of matters.  It seemed the gasoline for the unexpected trip to Lubbock was all but wasted, so I thought I would try to salvage what I could of the day and at least get a few groceries. 

       As it turns out, the market was right next door to another car care business.  I went in, talked to Bill, and he took care of matters immediately. 
       The problem, he said, was not related to hitting the deer. He also said he would call the dealership for me in Lubbock and see what they could do.  That was a big mistake.  That dealership was, in Bill's word, "squirrel-ly"  and would not be helpful unless I forked over more money for a diagnostic test that Bill said it didn't need.

        That's when Bill and I both decided the best route to take would be to go to Abilene where I bought the car and let them take care of it, hopefully under warranty. 

         By now, I had made several calls to my insurance adjuster and the Abilene dealership trying to sort out exactly what to do, and by 3 p.m. the decision was made. 

         After four hours of what I THOUGHT was frustrating, I headed home in my air-conditioned albeit injured car with a diet soda, groceries, tunes on the radio, and still money in my account.

          *********

          The scale score for a frustrating day changed.   That revelation came to me while sitting in the market, waiting on Bill's vehicle inspection, and eating my hearty lunch of chicken, bread, and fresh vegetables.

          Frustration is not a four-hour Friday episode of trying to figure out what to do with a 2010 vehicle.

          Frustration is walking days with your five children to a place where you can only hope aid workers can provide some sustenance.
          Frustration is not being able to bury the three children who died en route.
          Frustration is taking your children to a hospital in that same country, a facility without running water or electricity or toilets.

         Frustration is knowing that a cholera outbreak is rampant in that area, even in the hospital.

         And frustration is knowing that help in the form of food and medicine are being sent and are available but that a group of militant soldiers--all in the name of their radical "faith"--are preventing those supplies from saving men, women, and children.

         Frustration is famine and hate and war and all the rotten stuff that goes along with it. 

         I am stuck alright.......stuck in a world where people sometimes complain about having to do lunch duty at school, a world where a copy machine malfunction leads to impatient and hateful words at the office, and a world where people often neglect to say a prayer of thanks before a meal.  A real meal.

         Frustration is staying stuck when you know better.

       

         

                   

Branching Out

       This past weekend my cousin Diana Beth came up with a great activity at our biennial family reunion/Sportsfest.  Our McCleskey family does not  get together just to eat; we compete.

       Diana's instructions for the game were simple enough:  take a tomato, a lemon, a piece of bread, a toothpick, a Starburst candy, and a lifesaver and create something that tells a story.  

        Oddly enough, no one even considered asking me to represent our group (Team Clifton so named for my mother's brother).  I understood why and was certainly not offended and most certainly relieved.  The other team members were all over 50, so we opted to choose Chloe, the youngest McCleskey in attendance.  However, she wanted Turk, my cousin and fellow team member, to assist.   

         Turk and Chloe, who have maybe been in the same room  twice or three times in their lifetimes, made the most of the 10-minutes allotted.   The Virginia Military Institute history professor listened intently to this eight-year-old from Seattle.  Chloe knew what she wanted to do with that menagerie of food items, but she wanted Turk by her side providing narration for the creation. 

          The end result was a delightful story that had some family members meeting for gin and tonics (Turk's input) under a lemon parasol (Chloe's food sculpture).  

          As it turned out, my cousin Pierce won the competition for Team Eula (my mom's sister).  It was a fair decision:  Pierce is a chef/caterer.  The guy could take sawdust, squid, and mayonnaise and prepare something that would look edible even if it weren't.

           ****************************************************************************

       

          This Friday night event made me appreciate the imagery that is used to represent  ancestry and lineage:  the family tree. 

           It is mistaken to think that family trees only "grow" when a new child is born.  Branches are added whenever precious moments occur, and Turk and Chloe's partnership was one such moment.  These third cousins who hardly know each other were out on a limb together.  All they have in common is the trunk of that tree, but what a rooted and solid foundation it is.

            Like any family, we have endured the elements that have the ability to nourish and those that can destroy. 

            As the seasons go, our family tree has been verdant and lush, experiencing the joys that come with the celebrations of marriages, births, graduations, and job successes. 

            But no family is immune to the bitter blasts of cold.  Trials and struggles, whether self-inflicted or life-inflicted, have not only stripped the limbs from time to time but have sadly broken them on occasion.  Trees do not always produce and provide shade; sometimes the branches' silhouette is hauntingly bare.           

             Watching Turk and Chloe at Sportsfest VIII was pure nourishment.  The McCleskey Family tree trunk is holding steady, and it never hurts to have a drink of family. 

             Yes, the tree symbol is clearly appropriate:  one trunk  but many branches going off in all  directions make for a spectacular sight.  When winter comes, the gnarled but  still connected limbs are exposed.  When spring arrives, the blossoms and eventual leaves shape the tree as one.  

             No matter a family's size, its  members  can always make room to grow.   One of the best ways to do that is to follow Turk and Chloe's lead:  overlook the differences in years or in geography or even in ideology; sometimes even try embracing those differences.
              Doing so might just help our roots grow deeper.





      

Ten Days

          Some perspective reminders before reading this post:  the writer lives in a county with only one town, one school, and no gas station.  The writer does have access to food but only if purchased before 6 p.m. at which time the one local cafe/store closes (and we are grateful to have it).  The writer lives in a teacher compound where most of her neighbors spend their summers in their second homes or are away traveling or visiting family during the summer months.  Wrapping up this prologue is the helpful background information that two miniature schnauzers sometimes provide the only source of contact at 607 Stadium Drive.  Obviously, it is a quiet life.

           The writer appreciates this simplicity.  Keys can be left in cars, and back doors are often unlocked.  Most all of the citizens in this small town have a little Gladys Kravitz in them, sort of a built-in watchdog group.  (If you don't get that allusion, you are way too young and should go catch some "Bewitched" reruns on cable channels.)  The writer walks to work, to football games, and next year to baseball games at the new stadium--add outdoor evening entertainment to our simple lives.  No sirens blasting, no traffic lights at which to grow impatient, and no traffic jams other than those after Friday night football games.

             So, why would the writer leave this idyllic setting for ten straight days?  (Why is she writing this blog in third person???) What could possibly draw her away from this home, this life, and those two devoted dogs?   The obvious answer would just be to acknowledge that everyone needs a vacation.  Everyone needs to get out of his or her routine and see America the Beautiful.  Take a trip.  Hit the road.  Pack a bag.  Throw caution to the wind.  Live a little.

              In years past, the writer has done just that.  From the Great Northwest  to the scenic coast on Cape Cod to some true Southern jaunts in Alabama, Georgia, and Mississippi.  Travels to the Rocky Mountains, to New York, the Midwest......this land is her land and she has rolled down the windows and has sung that song from Interstate 5 to the Blue Grass Parkway.

               Summer of 2011:  ten days in Coppell, Texas.

               This summer the writer spent two hundred and forty hours in a metroplex suburb.

               She even dared stay with her daughter and son-in-law that entire time.  All  fourteen thousand and four hundred minutes.

                The mutual decision--their invitation and the writer's acceptance--could be classified as risky behavior.  After eight hundred sixty-four thousand seconds, however, the writer and her hosts still love each other.  It could be they even like each other, which is sometimes harder to achieve.

                 In ten days, the writer experienced all of the following moments that reminded her she was not in Gail America anymore:

  1.  She was able to go to a market and have sliced bread options, jalapeno with cheddar being her favorite.

  2.  She was able to go to this same grocery store after 6 p.m.

  3.  She filled up with gas without having to drive 30 miles to do so.

  4.  She played 36 holes of golf, with her son-in-law and shot consistently below her age (on nine holes).

  5. She got a pedicure from a professional, not the coach's seven-year-old daughter who just wants to practice with nail polish.

  6.  She got to use her car's navigational system.
  7.  She still missed exits and got off on the wrong roads.

  8.  She rented all the Harry Potter movies at a local store and then got to go to the big theater to see the final episode.

  9.  She visited the city's library and rented a documentary film.

10.  She got to use a Sonic gift card given to her by a student five months ago.

11.  She read a major daily newspaper every day.

12.  She had a special chef as her son-in-law is the Grill King (not to be confused with George Foreman).

13.  She herself got inspired (from all of the Harry Potter movies) and magically appeared in the kitchen to make lasagna and homemade cupcakes for her daughter and son-in-law who were working during the day.  For clarification, she used a spatula instead of a wand.  For further clarification, she NEVER cooks/bakes in Gail America. 

14.  She attended a  church with a praise and worship band and was not struck dead for having done so.

15.  She went to a professional baseball game with friends who love baseball as much as she does. 

16.  She purchased greeting cards and mailed them at the same place.

17.  She slept without dogs on her legs or beside her back or under her pillow. 

18.  She actually stood and watched planes land and take off which was a sure sign to the locals that she was from the country.

19.  She visited old high school friends, college roommates, and  former students who live in the metroplex.

20.  She wore a fedora style hat and didn't worry about what people thought.

                      Ten days of city living was a real treat.  The only miscues at the house hotel were opening a sliding utility room door and getting it off its hinges, turning off a light switch that needed to remain on in order for the garage door opener to work (thus locking out her daughter and son-in-law while the writer was at the ballpark), and using too many paper towels.  Despite this, she thinks she may get invited back. 

                       Probably best not to call and ask for reservations just yet.


    

Thomas's Prayer

      Check out this math.

      Fifty-five years of church going, give or take the times I have missed due to illness, travel, sleeping in (college confession), or just choosing to stay home  = hearing nearly 3,000 public prayers.  That's multiplying 52 (weeks in the year) x 55 (my age). 

      Consider the fact that some weeks a Southern Protestant churchgoer will hear multiple public prayers because those doors are open Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night in some churches.   At some services we pray not once but three times.  The 3,000 figure is now a low estimate. 

       For me, prayer is the staple of faith in both our worship services and in our personal lives.  Contrast prayer to church attendance.   I like to compare sitting in a pew to sitting in a doctor's office waiting room.  We know this wait is the protocol for getting in to see the doctor.  Likewise, we go to church and sit because we know at some point in that service there is a good chance--if we are fully engaged--that we will see, hear, and feel the holy presence of The Great Physician.    But the act of attending church in and of itself does not necessarily represent faith.  Church attendance is often a social thing:   we can attend to set an example for our children or we can go to be seen.   Even a  nonbeliever could walk into a synagogue, a mosque, or a church and blend right in, attending for the music or the ceremony or for a funeral or wedding. 

         Ah, but prayer.....prayer, unlike church attendance, is purely an act of faith.

        We are talking to someone who does not talk back in a conventional manner.  There is no physical voice response to our prayers. Is there really somebody on the other end?  I do doubt sometimes, but that is precisely what makes prayer so meaningful.  When we pray, we are in essence acknowledging God's existence and God's power.
          This past Sunday at the Gail Church of Christ, the small number gathered once again for our routine of announcements, prayer, song, song, prayer, song, communion, song, sermon, and invitation song.  The average attendance is 10-15, a mostly older crowd (including myself), and reflective of a small conservative rural community:  teachers, farmers, ranchers, and retirees.

          Thomas prayed the second prayer, words spoken with his halting Arkansas drawl.  A portion of his brief petition was this:

           "I don't know Your plan......but....if You would.....please send us a good rain."

           When it comes to public prayer, we often appreciate the eloquence of words. 

           God is more concerned with the eloquence of the spirit.

           With those fifteen words, Thomas did three things:   humbled himself, recognized God's will, and then implied that the Creator can do anything, even quench a thirsty land.  And Thomas said please.  That never hurts.

            God listened intently to that prayer.
            Since Sunday, Gail America has received over three inches of rain.  

            We have been publicly and privately praying a long time for moisture.  What makes me think Thomas's prayer did the trick? 

            I have no idea.  I just believe it.
            Faith.                 

                   

                    

           

         

I'm On a Roll

    In 1956, two amazing things took place. I was born and so was the game of Yahtzee.  My little seven-pound body had a built-in patent, but only one month after I made my first appearance a guy named Mr. Edwin Lowe filed this popular dice game as a trademark and the rest is history. Interestingly enough, the game had been one that a wealthy couple played with friends aboard their yacht. The couple sold the rights to Lowe in 1956, and he soon changed the "yacht game" to Yahtzee.

        This little history lesson is only to preface my theory that Yahtzee and I belong together, providentially connected.   Because I live alone, though, I play solitaire Yahtzee--same game, same five little dice, same scorecards. It's just that I play against......me.   

         And tonight, I set a new world record for Borden County America with a score of 529. That total included three yahtzees. No joke.

         The weird part is that the new world record broke the previous world record set just minutes earlier when I rolled a 457 (also three yahtzees in one game).

         This is news, people.

         I can almost guarantee that no one in this county among the 700 residents who live here has ever rolled that high in a single game. I'll even go so far as to say no one else even plays solitaire Yahtzee within a 25,000-mile radius. Wait, I stand corrected. I did read in Al Jazeera that Bin Laden was playing to pass the time while on vacation in Pakistan. Thank Allah I don't have to worry about that loser breaking my record anymore.

         Some of you skeptics out there in blog-land may see this blog post as evidence of drought-fatigue. You are correct. Sometimes I hallucinate, seeing those dust devils in my house. Sometimes I over-react and get my leaf blower to dust the furniture instead of using the dust rag. Just this afternoon, I caught Ripken and Meek trying to hide their bones in the carpet. Dust, heat, no rain......it is taking its toll. Yahtzee provides a brief respite.

         So does homemade ice cream. Back to it......

A Little Iambic Pentameter Never Hurt Anybody

Give it a chance. 
Proven fact that the sound and rhythm of poetry uniquely affect the brain.

--OLD IRONSIDES by Oliver Wendell Holmes (In 1830, a young Holmes read about the government's plan to scrap the Constitution.  The ship had been instrumental in defending the young United States.  Holmes penned these lines, using reverse psychology to make his point:   the Constitution should be preserved.    Today, the oldest commissioned ship in our country's history is one of Boston's most popular tourist spots:  a big vessel saved by a little poem.  By the way, this is not written in iambic pentameter, just iambic meter).

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

       Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

       That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout.

        And burst the cannon's roar;--

The meteor of the ocean air

        Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood
        Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood
         And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
         Or know the conquered knee;--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
         The eagle of the sea!

O better that her shattered hulk
         Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
         And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
         Set every thread-bare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,--
         The lightning and the gale!

Red, White, and Blue

For the record.....
I do cheer for the USA in the Olympics, the World Cup, Davis Cup, Ryder Cup, U.S. Opens in all sports, and Indy 500. 
Apple pie (with ice cream) and hot dogs (with chili/cheese) are good eatin'.

Baseball really is my favorite sport.

And Chevrolet is the only way to go when it comes to trucks.

I am proud to be an American.  Just like Lee Greenwood.

     In the past decade, however, some Americans have had their loyalties  questioned because of what was perceived to be a dictionary-only definition of the word "patriotism."  Being true to this country for some people means that religion, flag-waving, and choice of political party are the only characteristics of a bonafide red, white, and blue American.

     The talking heads in the media debate this issue all day long, and along with their advertisers, cash in on what is and what is not patriotic.  It just seems that many of their attempts to influence the public are often politically, not educationally, motivated. 

     Consider these underrated characteristics of patriotism:

1.   voting--the voice we have to participate in our republic

2.   being thankful--the  spirit of gratitude for the incredible volume of blessings we have in this country

3.   tending to one's business--working, staying productive, focusing on matters that matter

4.   dreaming--calling on an embedded  pioneer legacy, realizing that anything is possible in this country

5.  learning--opening our minds to the basics and then building on that foundation in order to better understand ourselves and the world we live in

6.   listening-- paying attention not to just what we want to hear but to all sides in order to train our minds to discern good from evil, farce from fact, and folly from wisdom

7.   being honest--having the integrity to live and speak truthfully

8.  taking care of each other--reading a non-American's biography this summer has had an impact:  Mother Teresa had the right idea 

9.   abiding by the law and following the rules--honoring the simplest ones to the "big" ones

10. celebrating faith--holding on to the Creator's spirit, not religion, is key to true enlightenment   

         Last and most important, exercising courage  honors the patriotism of the Second Continental Congress.  What a gutsy move those men made in 1776 after enduring a hot, hot summer coming to grips with the magnitude of their decisions.
         Even though the United States's history is checkered with plenty of regrettable moments, courage  overcame discord when 56 men argued and fought (with each other) all the while embracing the patriotic characteristics listed above.
           Doing so brought them to the "truths that are self-evident."
           Patriotism's debut in a newborn country.        

In the Dark

        Because of the extreme temperatures of late in this part of West Texas, driver ed. sessions are being held either early in the morning or late in the evening.  Those highways are burning up; add to that the fact that we have construction traffic and oil field traffic in our county like never before.  Those roads during the midday are no place for a fifteen-year-old novice driver. 

        Tonight as we neared home from our nightly drive, my students and I caught sight of a small explosion off in the distance.  As we rounded Gail Mountain, we were able to put two and two together:  no lights, no electricity = blown transformer.  True, Gail doesn't have that many lights, but the few we have are pretty vital.  It was pitch black except for our headlights, the only ones in town at that very moment. 

         After dropping off the kids, I came home and used the light from my cellphone to make my way into the house.  Losing electricity happens frequently around here, so candles and flashlights are handy.  I got the house smoking with candles--a blend of  Beach Walk,  Cinnamon Vanilla, Eggnog Delight along with Rustic Leather (one of my  little Sixth Grade cowboys  gave that to me for Christmas).  I should better coordinate my candle scents, I suppose, but at 10 p.m. who really cares other than Martha Stewart and my daughter Julie.

          I tried to play the piano by candlelight, but that didn't go too well.  Thought about reading a la Abe Lincoln, but the dogs always insist on sitting in my lap when I read.  Juggling a candle and the dogs and the book just wasn't safe.  I'd hate to have a song written about me for being responsible for burning down the entire community of Gail America. 

           After thirty minutes of being in the dark, I grabbed the flashlight to take the dogs out back.  The yard was free of snakes and skunks, so I sat down and decided to just wait out this loss of electricity under a clear night sky.  One of the best moves I have ever made.

           One glance upward and immediately came to mind how the heavens do indeed declare the glory of God. More than just a song lyric, stars really do twinkle, especially on a moonless evening in West Texas.
           I could make out a few airplanes crossing the night sky and wondered if the passengers in those planes were looking down as I was looking up, just as amazed at the specks of light they were viewing from 35,000 feet.  I did not envy them--my light show, not man made, was far better. 

           Here I was, in the dark, and happy to be so.

          This summer of 2011 seems to be on a mission.  The drought's fury rages on, with cracks now 15 inches deep in my yard and stretching for several feet across the baked land.  Water is to be consumed only as needed--no quenching our yards and minimal water usage in our homes.  Conserving is critical.  The heat wave continues with record-setting consecutive days of temperatures over 100 degrees (topped at 112 just this past Sunday).  And then tonight, a couple of hours without electricity.  

           While the earth's surface is naked and void of vegetation, the heavens blanket us with stars.

           While the clouds withhold their moisture, the clear night sky floods us with beauty.

           While in the dark, I see the light.
           Our Creator is maintaining the balance.

                      

           

             

Coming Someday (Maybe) to a Bookstore Near You

     Anyone who knows my creative side knows that this part of me is--as I recently shared with a friend-- either dormant or volcanic.   It is always present.  I just don't ever know when it is going to erupt.
     So what I try to do is write down the ideas for literary projects:  outlines, titles, prologues, even epilogues (because my mind sometimes considers the ending of a story first).  I even dabble with dedications and eulogies. 

     Without further ado, here is a glimpse of some of the projects in the works.

      "Just Bury Me"

      genre:  short story

      summary:    This tale, set in West Texas during a spring drought,  poses my  theoretical demise (snake bite), describes the funeral planning with characteristic twisted Sullivan family humor  (my sister Sara has me dressed like Barbie's little sister Skipper as a way of revenge for my playing sandlot baseball with my older brother--instead of playing dolls with her), and takes readers from the processional of outwardly mourning students (inwardly thrilled that they won't have to turn in homework) to the closing graveside remarks by fellow Coyote Country Store patrons who knew me best. 

         Teach Your Own Damn Kids to Drive

         genre:  memoir

        summary:   Fifteen years of behind-the-wheel near death experiences (failing to yield to an 18-wheeler) and embarrassing moments (reversing the wrong way in a Sonic drive through) provide ample bathroom reading material.  Described in detail, these harrowing moments will make you mess in your pants.  I know I did.

        Dysfunctional Family Reunions:  How to Turn the Most Dreaded Summer Event Into Memories for All

        genre:  how-to book

        summary:  Using the McCleskey Family model for Sportsfest I, II, III, IV, V, VI,  and VII, I share with readers how this annual gathering can actually be healthy, fun, and even anticipated.  Chapters 1-5 give specifics on choosing a site, settling on a schedule of events, and giving tips on how to make everyone--even in-laws--feel special.  Chapters 6-10 offer practical troubleshooting advice for the unexpected fiascoes (hurt feelings over invitations sent to an undeliverable address, inadequate supply of liquor, erroneously signed Putt-Putt cards during competition, and heated discussions about past presidential elections).  A real bargain buy for the serious family reunion planner.

        "Another Dime in the Jukebox"
        genre:  CD cover/CD with 15 songs

        summary:  Music, unlike people, has been a faithful and loyal companion.  I will choose several songs that span my childhood to my middle age.  The inside CD jacket will chronicle the story behind the song's meaning in my life.  Really narcissistic stuff, but hey, it's my project.  If you have Johnny Cash's last album, "American IV:  The Man Comes Around", this CD's format is akin to that one.  The Man in Black and I don't have much in common, but we both have soulful tastes in music.

         Raise Up Our Children:  Parenting Tips from the Classroom

         genre:  book with study guide

         summary:   Because it saddens me when children and parents get frustrated with school, I want to write a simple and practical book to serve as a guide for making the school-age years less confrontational (either between parent/child, parent/teacher/, teacher/student).  After 33 years, one does accumulate some wisdom from watching (and from having been a parent) how schoolwork affects a family's dynamics.  Preview of common sense lessons in the book :  establish routines, know when to be flexible, and for Pete's sake get the kids to bed on time.

           So there you are.  I better close--lots of writing still to do.

        

Roses in December

           A garden symbolizes labor of hand and heart.  The original one was created with God's loving touch in only six days; and, while something did die after Adam and Eve sinned, it was not The Garden.  Our Creator was and is a perpetual gardener and saw "that it was good" (Genesis) in spite of human folly.

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       Tend the ground,  plant the seed, nurture with water, weed, and de-bug.   These gardening basics worked almost to perfection last summer for my neighbor Kristen and me.  The rains were timely and abundant; the produce was exceptional.  As our garden grew, so did our friendship.  And fittingly enough, Kristen and husband Colt were fruitful and multiplied as son Caleb was born in early July.  We had plenty of squash, okra, tomatoes, and dirty diapers.  What a difference a year makes (although Caleb does still have dirty diapers).



God gave us memories so that we could have roses in December.
 --J.M. Barrie--

    Cracks have replaced vines; rusted tomato cans are exposed. The Drought of 2011 is upon us.      

     And sadly, nature mimics my heart as Kristen and Colt and Caleb prepare to leave for opportunities over 1,500 miles away.   Such long distances  hinder frequent tending and nurturing; relationships, like the soil, often succumb to "droughts," too.

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          Growing a vegetable garden last summer produced more than just food for the table. The care of that small plot of land cultivated a friendship.   

          And unlike the soil that is at the mercy of a much-needed rainfall, we can ward off a drought with postcards from D.C., e-mails, new photos of Caleb, and perhaps a train trip or two to the Mid-Atlantic area. 

           To my friends, the McCooks--safe travels, fruitful studies, and welcoming arms back home when visits are possible. Texas, and I, will miss you.

           Help us to be ever faithful gardeners of the spirit, who know that without darkness nothing comes to birth, and without light nothing flowers. --May Sarton--

3 North Maple Avenue

          A vacant house in Gail America is rare.  For one thing, there aren't too many dwelling places in this hamlet.   Usually when people do leave, their house is occupied within the week as families scramble to get their children into the school system in Borden County.  This door opens to a place which  was vacated just today.   I secured the key to revisit  the only house that was a home for my daughters with their father and mother together.  

         This 2011 perspective  was bittersweet:  the structure had provided the setting for watching Julie play with her Happy Meal toys and her Barbies.  This house was our homecoming  for  a new baby when Emily arrived in 1987.   TV trays converted to desks when Julie  played "office" with her best friend Holly;  bunnies' nests with pillows and blankets and stuffed animals all nestled together with Emily.....images that are impossible for a Mother to forget.  I just know if I had looked closely enough,  fingerprint smudges could still be seen on doorways and windows and paneling where two little girls steadied themselves learning to walk--and, trying to run without getting caught.

          Painful echoes resonated, too.  As precious as children are, they cannot save a marriage.  The ghosts of lack of trust, respect, communication and ultimate failure at such an important task came haunting as I walked back toward the room I had shared with their father.  For years, while Julie and Emily played in the corner of their rooms, sometimes their mother sat  in the corner of her room--anguished and heart-broken, devastated and demoralized, ashamed and depressed--also playing a game of pretend to make the hurt go away.  Had it not been for those little hands and little feet crawling or walking down the hallway calling out to "Mother," I can only imagine where I would be today.  Angels could not have done a better job of rescuing me.
            Walking into 3 North Maple Avenue was a bit more of an emotional experience than I had bargained for.  I actually thought it would just be fun to see the old home place.  Instead, I left there quite moved by the thought that here the four of us should have been one.

             I closed the door, locked it, and walked off the porch to end my sentimental journey.  At that very moment, I turned to to see  the perfect irony of our old house number.   Three.  So many times it had just been me and Julie and Emily.  Three could not hold up four walls, and so they all came tumbling down. 

             Recovery from relationship failure is a lifetime sentence. And at 607 Stadium Drive--only 100 yards northwest of the old house--I do my best everyday to wake up and move forward in order to invest in those two young lives who are  not so little anymore. One plays office for a living while the other would love to let her Third Graders build bunnies' nests instead of worry about TAKS tests.  Both remain my angels.

              A house is one of many collateral losses when divorce takes place. It becomes a symbol of failure.   After I divorced, I tried buying new furniture and new carpet and decorating with new wall art.  Doing so was a band-aid and, granted,  band-aids do serve a purpose.  But sometimes they just cover up the gaping hole that is still present.  The old house is a shell of what it was 27 years ago when we first moved to Gail.  In some ways, so am I.  

              Still, the three of us  rebuilt our "home."   We did it with staying the course, keeping a routine, forgiveness, and a lot of help from a certain Carpenter. 

              His fingerprint smudges could still be seen, too--in every corner of every room. 

West Texas Reflections

My yard has varicose veins and doesn't seem to care.  I guess the upside is that the mower (that's me) gets a break, but seeing as yard work is  my main form of exercise that's not a good thing.  The cracks are widening and spreading and any day now I wonder if I'll come home and find my dogs missing.                                             

The rains will come when they come, but for now we truly "weather" the lack of moisture with prayer and hopeful viewings of the nightly weather forecast.

The cracks in our lives are just as painful to behold.  We all have those dry spells--biologically, emotionally, financially.  The difference, though, is that the well never runs dry for us.   Elisha's miracle in II Kings testifies to this:  the more empty vessels the woman brought, the more oil was  placed in them.  The Lord provides.

*******

Recently, I asked a friend who owns a gardening/landscaping operation  if business was slow; just the opposite, he said.  He's never been busier.  What a testimony to us!  Not having a lush green yard doesn't mean we cannot enjoy a beautiful flower bed or hanging plant. Cross applying that same mentality to a difficult moment--loss of a job or of a loved one--might help us survive the droughts that come with grief.  Not only survive it but even grow in the midst of it.

*******

Many times I have written about my grandmother's life on the farm in Fisher County.  My mother, in her own West Texas reflections, composed this poem years after my grandmother's passing:

          My mother planted flowers;

          I always wondered why.

          It seemed such work

          Too difficult to try.

          The land was so hard--

          Earth, baked dry--

          Brown baked earth

          Under a cloudless sky.

          We carried water for them--

          She and I.

 

          Now, no one carries water;

          No flowers can be found.

          Just a lonely little cedar bush

          With roots deep in the ground.

          The house is gone, and so is she,

          And I wish that I could say,

          "I understand now why you wanted to see

          something beautiful each day."

When cracks appear in the ground or in our hearts--from an absence of water or love or a presence of wildfires or hate--we have an advantage over the dry West Texas ground.  A soothing balm is ours for the asking.  God can replenish our vessels, too.