A Quirky and Service Rich Weekend

This weekend I chaired a board of 7 women who served a luncheon of soup, salad, and bread to over 300 women followed by a dessert served to that same number. It was a sweet experience that enabled me to see those sweet women with whom I served in a kind light - the light of service. Their dedication to helping, their ability to laugh in tense moments, and their sweet service touched my heart. I will never forget this past weekend and the ten+ hours in the church kitchen with them - add to that the hours and hours of planning and shopping - and their service and capacity for kindness and graciousness takes my breath away.

What I would like to forget is the other end of the spectrum - the things that made me laugh and contemplate the quirkiness of human nature. What do I mean? Let me see if I can show you a few snapshots of 'quirkiness' to see if you can get an inkling as to what I mean.

The first and probably most 'quirky' example would have to be the Chocolate Purse Sweeper. She is so named because of her ability to sweep dozens of Ghiradelli Chocolate Squares into her purse with a smooth swoop of her arm. Her modus operandi was to survey the tables either before the luncheon started or immediately thereafter and make a sweep with her arm to load her purse with what she possibly viewed as "extra" Ghiradelli Chocolate Squares. Now, I'm not sure what her motives were. Perhaps she just really LIKED chocolate and couldn't fathom there being any other woman who would need that chocolate NEARLY as BAD as she did so she decided to obtain said chocolate for the most deserving. OR perhaps she saw that several women didn't need the extra calories (I am NOT saying there was anyone there slightly overweight - I am merely posing supposed mind slants held by this 'quirky' character) and so decided to rid them of the temptation. OR perhaps she had a sister or two she Visit Teaches and she thought she'd take some (loosely termed as such - because there were quite the number of chocolates swept into her purse - so some would be a loosely used term) to the people whom she visit teaches. I just don't know WHY she decided to sweep chocolate in her purse - but it is obvious that sweeping chocolate is a 'quirky' behavior so I lay it out there for your perusal.

The second 'quirky' incident would have to be the woman who in her most Imperial Highness Command Voice ordered that a particular crock of soup be removed from the table as it was not fit for human consumption. (A note on that soup - I later tried it and it tasted perfectly fine. Plus, I know the sweet girl who made that soup and she is an excellent cook and there is NO POSSIBLE WAY there was anything wrong with the soup. I attribute the woman and her excellent ability to play Her Royal Quirky Highness as the culprits.) I'm telling you - there was NOTHING wrong with the soup. It had to be Her Highness and her inability to deign to try green soup or something as ludicrous as that. Highly comical. Highly quixotic. Highly 'quirky'.

The third and final 'quirky' moment is characterized by the "Non Awareness of My Trash" women. This final 'quirky' example is not embodied by a mere person or two, but rather by the entire number of the masses. These women could not make the connection between the fact that they were eating off of paper and perhaps that paper would and should be their responsibility until they had properly disposed of it in the proper trash receptacle. Odd, for so many women who do dishes and laundry and work at home to not connect to the fact that their trash should be removed by themselves (otherwise known as "Yours Truly" when one is referring to oneself). VERY QUIRKY behavior - and oddly exhibited by Almost ALL of the partaking luncheoners. I'm not sure as to the motive, hence my ability and propensity to place this particular mass event in the 'quirky' category.

So there you have it. A good weekend. But filled with quirky moments.

Did the quirky moments make it so I could not enjoy the weekend and the sweet service and sisterhood that was in abundance this weekend? No.

What I experienced this weekend was extraordinary. I fell in love with the sweet sisters who shared the kitchen with me and who worked their little hearts out. I now love them deeply and I am deeply grateful for their friendship.

A tremendous weekend. One for the records. Thank you, Stacy, Annette, Michelle, Cicily, Kiran and Dee Dee. You are representative of the elite in our society.

If thy right eye(brow) offend thee...

Well, this morning I finally did it...I got rid of the thing that hath been offending me for like, you know like, fahevah(in my best and vapid style of California girl).

I plucked the *$@X thing out.

I have pondered and pondered on this issue. I have examined and reexamined. I have contemplated and ruminated. And now I have finally done it - I have gone and done the bad deed.

That darn eyebrow hair has been sticking out at a 90 degree angle forEVER! It has been taunting me and daring me to rip it out of my face. It has laughed as day after day I choose to let it live another day - all the while telling myself that the reason it is sticking out at such an odd angle is NOT because it is a misfit belonging to the Island of the Misfit Toys, but is rather an eyebrow that has had a night of it what with all my tossing and turning, and now look at it - stuck out there for all to see and poke fun at and all because of my dirty deeds in the night (too much pillow action for my face, eyebrows, and skin apparently - with my face buried in the pillow as opposed to letting my skin breathe as I rest peacefully with my hands crossed over my chest in a restful manner as suggested by Martha Stewart on her show oh so many years ago (I don't remember the episode - but I DO remember that it was well before her "I am a deadbeat felon" act). So I choose to show that eyebrow kindness, and I let it stay for yet another day.

But today I declared aloud "NO MORE!" and I went at it with a vengeance. I didn't allow myself any further contemplation - I merely ruthlessly grasped for the eyebrow tweezers, yanked at the offending hair (if thy right eye(brow) offend thee poke(pluck) it out - see, it's Biblical) and disposed of it into the wind of the bathroom (now if you don't have wind in your bathroom don't complain or point it out to me because I guess I am the only lucky one on the planet).

Now what? I asked myself.

Heavy sigh. There's a HUGE bald spot where the hair stood. I'm pretty sure everyone will notice that bald spot. Why, oh WHY did I pluck that thing out? It wasn't hurting anyone...it probably had another year or so to live.

I don't know why I never get anything accomplished. Everything is so black and white to me.

Ice Skates and Love for Christmas

Have you ever noticed that some Christmases are better than others? Somehow the magic of Christmas is captured some years while others come and go - somehow sliding by without a noteworthy moment to hang onto or a memorable moment to have the day "saved" (pun intended).

I am a deeply religious person, and as such I believe that Christmas should first and foremost be about the honoring of that great and sacred day - the birth of the Savior of the world - Jesus Christ. I can't help but think that the two are related, that the years "saved" are somehow done so because of a certain sacredness that attends that year. Let me try to explain by sharing a Christmas I remember.

All my childhood my parents were poor, but they did their best to provide for my two brothers, my sister, and myself. What that meant, many times, is that we would get underwear for Christmas from my parents and the "Fun" stuff would come from Santa and my Nonie and Popie (who didn't have to hide behind the red cloak of a Saint who got to claim all the wonderfulness of life at Christmastime). I knew that things were tight (who could miss that fact when beans were a major staple for dinner and milk - obtained from our family cow - was halved with powdered milk to make it last longer) so I rarely dared ask for anything more than love and a fifty cent item.

Well, one year I spent a major portion of the year dreaming of becoming an Olympic ice skater - the Olympics were on and I was CERTAIN I had it in me to become as beautiful and graceful as one of those leotard clad women; so I dared ask for a pair of ice skates from Santa (best not to ask from my parents - no hope for a desperate girl there). My whole season was spent along the same lines as Ralphie in The Christmas Story, complete with day dreaming about gliding on ice and having the fans applaud for me whilst throwing HUGE bunches of roses onto the ice for me to elegantly swoop up and wave at my adoring fans. I just knew those skates were the ticket for my entire future...and all I need do is wait for that magic moment Christmas morning and my dreams and hopes would be answered.

Christmas Eve was torture. It lasted twenty-four years instead of twenty-four hours. And I'm not exaggerating either (didn't my mother tell me a million times never to exaggerate?).

Finally Christmas morning arrived (does it count as Christmas morning if it is 3 am but there is a HINT of pink on the horizon? Apparently not because I was sent back to bed with explicit instructions to not arrive demanding Santa Stocking Unveiling before 7 am on threat of life.). I swear my Dad took his time getting dressed and shaved Christmas morning (something he ALWAYS did EVERY Christmas morning - much to our impatience and chagrin) so he could enjoy our loud outcries even more. We were finally allowed into the living room to discover the wondrous things Santa left us...but there were no ice skates. I was crushed. A lump swelled up in my throat the size of a Texas grapefruit and I felt as if I could never more breathe or live happily again. It was a quiet desperation carried out in silence while I slowly and despairingly removed item after stupid item from my Christmas stocking. Santa was stupid anyway. What did he know about answering childhood dreams and helping a girl obtain her every wish anyway? And how stupid was I to believe that all my life's dreams would be answered in this one morning? I knew better. I knew life was hard and that milk and meat were hard fought for and that life's needs were something to be earned and that if every once in awhile a luxury came along you enjoyed and savored it because who knew when it would ever come again?

I got over the moment. I put a grin on my face when my brothers showed me their new Tonka trucks. I was happy for my sister when she showed off her new Bonnie Bell lipstick. Heavy sigh.

It came time to open presents and I admit I was dragging my feet. What could possibly be in those boxes that could possibly make up for a life's dream being crushed by the fat man in the red suit? My parents and grandparents were insistent and so I sat down with the family and watched as my brothers and sister and parents and grandparents opened present after stupid present. Really, who cared anyway about that new pen my Popie happily tucked into his breast pocket? What was so important to that picture frame holding our family picture taken out front of our house that year and given to my Nonie? I could care less. This was a stupid day and this was a stupid tradition and I was done with the whole thing - really I was!

Finally there was only one box per person left. These boxes had been placed at the back of the tree and were all pulled out by my Popie with a huge grin on his face. Now, I loved my Popie, and I would have moved the world for him if he asked, and I could tell this was important to him so I was sticking it out for him and only him. If it had been anyone else I would have long ago stomped up to my room and slammed the door (for which I would have been given the penance of quietly closing the door 50 times) and thrown myself onto my bed with typical early teenage drama declaring there would never be a happy moment ever, ever, ever again. But since it was my Popie I pasted a happy look on my face and accepted my box and awaited opening instructions because apparently it was important that we all open these boxes together. So the word was out and we were all instructed to open our presents together and I started sadly peeling the paper off of mine because I just knew it was underwear or something akin to it when I looked around and noticed no one else was opening their box - that they were all watching expectantly as I opened mine. When I asked they all chimed that they were waiting for me and why was I taking an eternity anyway - Honestly! A new hope swelled in my breast as a realization dawned on me that there might be some milk of human kindness in this world - and I started ripping and tearing in earnest.

I opened the box.

There they were - the most beautiful pair of white ice skates you have ever seen in your life (fresh from the Penneys catalog - ordered by my Nonie who was a Penneys shopper extraordinare and who had spent her years solely keeping JCPenney afloat all on her own according to her telling of it) and guess who else got ice skates that year? My entire family! Complete with gloves and scarves to match for each person personally hand knit by my sweet Nonie. I gasped with joy and tears and instantly started peeling off my shoes and trying to get those skates on my feet.

That afternoon as a family we walked down that sweet snowy country road of my childhood which has now forever changed into a rural city complete with million dollar homes and yards where cows and alfalfa fields used to dwell in the summer and snowdrifts as tall as your head in the winter. We walked to the canal at the end of the street and used brooms and shovels one and all to clear a part of the canal big enough for us all to skate and swerve around and fall as a family. My Nonie brought hot cocoa in a thermos and we laughed and fell and skated and swigged cocoa and all I remember is watching my family cavort on the ice and having a deeply happy and satisfied feeling deep in my chest and stomach and somewhere in the ache behind my eyes that said all was right in the world and that there was something out there for a girl who had big hopes and dreams for the future - something more than hard fought for beans and milk.

I didn't become a famous Olympic ice skater. I, as a matter of fact, never even mastered the art of skating backwards or even doing a spin with my arms tucked to my side and slowly working their way upwards in an elegant spiral which would then be opened to a beautiful open arm and a slow swooping out of the spin.

What I did become is a college professor of English with some very sweet memories of family and childhood saved for her like snapshots of happiness and joy (and sometimes even deeper pain).

Why is this memory "saved" for me? I know it is not because I got ice skates for Christmas. This memory is "saved" because it is surrounded by family and love. I love my family. I miss my Nonie and Popie. My Popie has been dead 15 years now this Christmas. I miss him. I love him. I know I will see him again and when I do I will hug him around the neck and whisper in his ear "thank you for the ice skates" and hopefully he will know that what I am really whispering is "thank you for loving me".

Citrus in December

For years and years my parents stuffed the same item in the bottom of my sister, brothers, and my stocking - the biggest red apple they could find, the biggest orange they could find, and peanuts. I LOVED that fruit in the bottom of the stocking, and somehow that love morphed into a tradition with me and my family. Now, I am aware as an adult that part of the reason behind stuffing fruit in the bottom of the stocking was to take up space with things that were healthy and less expensive, but regardless of that fact I still have the need to purchase fruit at Christmastime and place one of each in the stockings of my loved ones. I'm excited this year to go to the grocery store and search for just that particular piece of fruit that will proclaim from the depths of a very long and deep stocking just exactly how deep my love and caring extends for each and every recipient of fruit in my family.

On that same note, however, it does strike me as amusing that citrus ripens in December. What an odd thing to have such delectable fruit ripen when the year has turned its head and heart toward cold and crisp air. I find it ironic that it is during a season which symbolizes death that the citrus trees finally produce their year long effort.

I live in the Southwest, and I have a citrus tree in my backyard. Did you know that citrus trees start putting on flowers for the next season even before the fruit of their tree fully ripens? Citrus trees are such valiant givers - even now as I type my tree in the backyard is blooming its fool head off while at the same time heavily laden with this years fruit. It is a thing to behold. Actually, the vigor and gumption that the citrus tree greets its life burden is a heartening thing in my mind - it is no small thing to greet life's next major burden whilst still bearing the previous burden. I wonder how many of us realize that we are as valiant as a citrus tree? That we are bearing fruit and burdens all in the same moment? Just a thought to ponder.

On a lighter note, this is also one of my favorite times of year BECAUSE the citrus are ripe for the picking. One thing that happens in my neighborhood every year that gives me a grin are the mischievous pranks that the school children embark on using that very citrus that has taken a year to produce. Around this time of year the children use that fruit as interesting decoration to fences, selves, and streets. Oh the fun they contrive! I admit I grin when I see the children cavorting on the side of the road with their citrus ammunition. They pelt each other with sweet smelling ammunition and laugh while their prey run the other way. They line the street with a straight line of fruit and give each other high 5's when a car runs over more than one of the proffered sacrificial fruit. They peel the fruit with wild abandonment and stuff the rinds down one another's shirts. All the above is in good fun and lends an atmosphere to the entire season of the sweetness and freshness of youth.

Now, I know some who are distraught with the "mess" in which such fruit frolicking results, but how I wish those distraught souls could come to the happier side of the observing table! It is a great thing to be young and a fruit flinger!

And that is what I have to say about citrus in December.

Little Red Wagon

How I am now wishing for a little red wagon! I received this story in my email box today and it made me laugh out loud. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did:

It was the day after Christmas at a church in San Francisco. The pastor of the church was looking over the lawn when he noticed that the baby Jesus was missing from among the figures. He hurried outside and saw a little boy with a red wagon, and in the wagon was the figure of the little infant Jesus.

So he walked up to the boy and said, "Well, where did you get your passenger, my fine friend?"

The little boy replied, "I got Him at church."

"And why did you take Him?"

The boy explained, "Well, about a week before Christmas I prayed to the little Lord Jesus and I told Him if He would bring me a red wagon for Christmas I would give Him a ride around the block in it."

Grading is FINALLY finished :0)

Today is a good day I am finally finished grading for my classes at CGCC and I have a sense that three hundred pounds have been lifted
off of my shoulders. Here is... a list of things that make me feel the
same "amount" of happiness:

- Flowers in the springtime
- Successful visits to the dentist (successful being defined as "no cavities" and no
drilling)
- Puppy kisses
- Innocent friends between the ages of 2 and 4 who fling themselves into my arms with
abandonment when they see me
- The last page of a VERY good book