Counterproductive Pole Entangling

Honestly, I was the good child. I did not rebel, did not argue, did not want to get into trouble. However, after watching this video, you will see that I still had my ways of misbehaving under the radar. Ben and I did absolutely everything together as youngsters… and on this occasion, I had a lot more fun than he did.

It is a rather long clip, and I apologize for that, but I’m posting it here in its entirety anyway.

Moments to note:

• Ben gets in trouble before I do.
• I outright lie to my father (“I’m trying to!”)
• I give the same lie later.

I admit that I was naughty, but you have to agree that Ben was super fun to tease.

When we all get to heaven… we won’t have to sing this song anymore.

It is no exaggeration to say that we grew up in church. When I think of all the Sunday morning services, Sunday school classes, VBS weeks, Alternative to Halloween events, Wednesday night dinners and choir practices, Santa’s Workshops, and Christian Activity Programs for Summer (CAPS) that we attended, I almost feel as if church was the sixth member of our immediate family. I loved all of those events and formed many happy memories while in attendance.

There are, however, a few church memories that fill me at once with nostalgia and loathing, and those are the song choices of every single music minister we ever had, with the important exception of my now brother in-law (You were the best, David – you know whom I’m talking about here). Honestly, the problem was not just the choice of songs but the unending repetition of each one at every possible opportunity.

One particular music minister loved southern gospel music. For all of you out there who are fans, please understand that there is good southern gospel, and then there is the southern gospel we sang in my church.

Just about every Sunday night, we went to church and sang two songs over and over. The first, When We All Get To Heaven, was supposed to be sung with all of the gusto the congregation could muster. The music minister would get red-faced and sweaty up at the podium as he motioned to his wife, the pianist, to take us through the chorus again.

Another frequent chorus relied heavily on the repeating refrain, “I don’t know what you came to do, but I came to praise the Lord!” That’ll get the juices flowing on Sunday. The best part was when the leader would personalize the song for our church by changing the first line to, “Our church is a turn on church, and I came to praise the Lorrrrrrrrd!” Try singing that and only that for two weeks in a row, and then wonder why attendance steadily dropped at Sunday night services.

By far, the most memorable worship song for our family is The Center of God’s Will. You don’t recognize it? That is because the music minister at that time made it up, which is code for saying that it was his all-time favorite. The defining characteristic of this chorus was the motion it required. It went something like this:

So when you move to the left (congregation steps to the left, therefore stepping out of God’s will)

You’re not where you belong.

And when you move to the right (congregation takes two steps to the right, because just one step actually places us back in God’s will, and that does not fit with the song)

You know you’re going wrong.

You’ve got to GET BACK (congregation steps left again, back into God’s will)

To where you ought to be –

In the center of God’s will for you and me.

I may have gotten some of the non-directional content wrong, but you get the gist. Our family took up almost an entire row each week, and we were distinguished by our half-hearted, somewhat mocking participation in this song. We took the tiniest steps we could take while trying not to out to the rest of the congregation as great spoil sports. Trying and, I’m sure, not succeeding.

Truly, my expectations for music ministry are not incredibly high at this point. As far as I am concerned, anyone who doesn’t make me sing his or her own musical creations in the name of praise music can pretty much stay.

Go-to Gram

During their first year of marriage, when Gram and Grandpa were finishing their junior and starting their senior year at Asbury College, Grandpa was responsible for three churches every weekend. Saturday and Sunday would involve trips to each of these churches in turn to deliver the weekly sermon. Fortunately, Grandpa was able to preach the same sermon at each location, and suffice it to say, by the time he reached the third church the congregation received a real humdinger of a message. He practically had it memorized by that point.

However, as any public speaker knows, there are days when no matter how well you have practiced or how dear the material is to you, it simply does not flow. Grandpa experienced one such Sunday while preaching at church number two. He had conveyed the first point of his sermon nicely and was preparing to proceed to the second point, when he realized that he had no idea what that point was. He flipped through his Bible momentarily, then rummaged in his sermon notes, but that second sermon idea had completely slipped from him.

He then turned to the best source available, the one who accompanied him to every church, every visitation, every service. From the pulpit, he called out, “Virginia! What was my second point?”

From her seat in the congregation, Gram proudly shouted out to him the idea that had escaped him. Her attentiveness allowed him to recover and continue with his message. After all, the sermon must go on.

Trip Gifts

As John and I are joyfully anticipating a trip to King’s Island for my birthday and our anniversary this weekend, I am reminded of the many family trips we experienced growing up. The destinations my parents chose are for another post – I do not have the stamina to relive those memories right now. But regardless of where our trips took us, they always started in the same, wonderful way.

My mom instigated the tradition of trip gifts. After the car carrier was loaded and locked on top of the van and all family members were tucked into their corners of the van with pillows, snacks, and backpacks scattered around, we would bow our heads and pray for safety and quality time on the vacation. Then, Mom’s eyes would begin to gleam as she excitedly pulled out a gift for everyone in the car. We all got something special, just for being there.

Probably the best and most memorable trip gift Mom gave out was a Nintendo Game Boy for each of us kids. I cannot adequately express how much we treasured those things. Our Game Boy systems and battery packs were necessary companions on all future trips. Often, Ben and I would load the Super Mario Brothers game at the same time and race to see who could score the most points, get to the furthest level, or simply complete each level fastest.

At other times, Mom doled out gifts that were simply cool but completely unrelated to travel. I received a full manicure kit one year, and I think I still have some of the components in my makeup drawer. Often, we received books by our favorite authors or cute outfits to wear while sight-seeing. It really did not matter much what we got – we just loved the tradition!

Prior to family vacations, the three of us kids would sometimes whisper to one another, “Do you think Mom got us gifts this time?” She never once forgot.

Shannon and Ben – do you remember any other gifts that Mom gave us on trips?

Just call me Miss Kitty

As a Family Studies Master’s student with an emphasis on parenting and child development, I place enormous importance on socio-dramatic play, or as I referred to it as a young child, “pretend”. Make believe play is a way for children to practice life, to develop social skills, and to learn about the world and relationships. It requires a good deal of creativity and imagination, unlike television and even some books do. All right, enough of that – you get the point.

(But if you are my child reading this twelve years from now, you should know that reading this blog is a quality way to spend your time, and you should feel free to read all of the archives. Afterward, however, get your hind end outside and participate in some imaginative play.)

My parents placed tight restrictions on TV and computer time when we were young, and, thinking this was normal, we spent an extraordinary amount of time playing outside. Our games took on many manifestations. At times, we played the politically incorrect version of Cowboys and Indians. We had some inedible berries on our property that, when smashed, doubled as excellent face paint. We played a game we called Prairie Days, because we were overexposed to Little House on the Prairie during the home school years. Sometimes, we just played Pretend Sarah is a Princess and Ben has to Rescue Her. Regardless of the scenario we enacted, I donned flowing gowns that were much too long for me and shawls that bore the stains of overuse. Ben would strap as many plastic weapons on his body as possible, using belts and strings and holsters.

All of this is a mere backdrop, however, to the real issues we had to resolve before pretend play could even begin. The single most important task was to determine what our pretend names would be. If I remember correctly, Ben most often chose Derek for himself – Prince Derek had such a nice ring to it. I unintentionally went the slightly more skanky and ridiculous route, for my favorite pretend name of all was Kitty, short for Katherine. My reasoning was that a) Katherine is a beautiful-looking name, and b) Kitty is even better. I am almost certain I got this idea from the character Katherine “Kitty” Brydon in the 1994 release of The Jungle Book. She was gorgeous, and she got a savage who was raised by wolves to fall in love with her. If only something so wonderful could happen to me, I thought.

Fifteen years later, I am now able to laugh about my foolish, overly romanticized ideas. While I honestly do still like the name Katherine, I am fairly sure that John will not stand to name any of our children Katherine, since I am not sure we could separate that name from the mockery he makes of my former pretend name. I do have to admit, though – a very small part of me still likes that cliche, ridiculous version of The Jungle Book, though perhaps for different reasons now. Cary Elwes as a bad guy?

Meeyowwww…

Fireworks and Action Figure Martyrs

Now I call this patriotic

July 4th is always a fun time for our family, because it falls right in the midst of forty-eleven family birthdays, which means we are all in a celebratory mood already. Since our home state allows small-scale fireworks, Mom always buys one of those big Wal-Mart fireworks sets. I recall getting scared out of my wits on a couple of occasions when Dad managed to sneak up and pop some of those little snaps right at my feet. Snaps are definitely the most fun Dad has on Independence Day.

You may be surprised to read that the most important and memorable tradition for our family on July 4th is actually not the fireworks. As exciting as the green smoke bombs and unpredictable fountains of sparks truly are, they do not come close to the thrill of watching Ben set up and destroy a random action figure each year. He started out with G.I. Joes that he didn’t need any longer, but as the years progressed, he moved on to bigger and better targets. My personal favorite was the year of the Incredible Hulk destruction. If my memory is correct, we had to use a shovel to remove the green mess from our driveway.

Significant planning and concentration goes into each action figure kill. Ben selects the necessary fireworks early in the evening but waits until all of the other fireworks are gone before preparing his annual masterpiece. There is often some sort of harness involved to keep the action figure steady while sparkling rockets and sprays of fire melt him away. Ben is also the director of the most intricate step of the process, which consists of lighting all of the separate wicks simultaneously. Our store of lighters gets maxed out as three to four family members assume stations and begin lighting at the count of three.

Inevitably, however, one person’s fuse is quicker to light than anyone else’s, and the moment something catches a light and begins to burn, we all desert our posts and scatter faster than roaches at the switch of a light. In reality, this setback is a benefit, because it draws out the process and allows us to take stock of the damage after each blast.

Reader, if you are beginning to suspect that we are savages with rather sadistic tendencies, please give us the benefit of the doubt. I promise we are harmless. Mom, Shannon and I can’t even watch the torture scene in The Princess Bride, which means that somehow we are able to compartmentalize this tradition and keep it from influencing any other part of our lives or time of year.

At the risk of turning this post into a glorified photo album, I will post some photos from one of our more memorable Independence Day Debacles Celebrations. I really cannot help myself. Enjoy!

Action Figure Setup

It's going to be a bad day for this green beret.

The bike is in for it just as much as the army guy. Notice the thoughtful placement of all of the fireworks.

Bombs away! We really hoped this guy would fly up high, then land conveniently close by so that we could see the effects of his firy trip.

I am reasonably certain that there could not be any more fireworks attached to this guy.

The duct tape you see in this photo stretched all the way up to the rim of our basketball goal. This gives new meaning to the phrase, "My brain is fried."

The Carnage

Getting it from all sides

Motorcycle man is toast.

Another angle, for your viewing pleasure.

The Shower.

The combustion has turned the soldier a lovely shade of gray...

A Family of Patriots

If there were an award for Most Patriotic Family Member, Uncle Mike would get it. He brought his own CD player this year with a compilation of patriotic favorites.

Need proof, you say?

Note: If you have trouble viewing this video, try following this link directly to YouTube.

Mike and Tom, taking a brief break from discussing politics and religion.

Aaron and Mike, both with some of their best facial expressions. I know I never leave home without my copy of Cornerstones of American Democracy, which I believe contains reprints of some of our nation's foundational documents.

Pat, Colleen, and Tenille - I have no idea what was funny here, but I love to see my family laughing.

Misha will probably never experience another American holiday quite like this one. Love you, Mish!

Gram may be experiencing some disbelief at her grandchildren's antics.

Thug life...

Happy Independence Day!

Running Errands

In general, my mom tends to get her energy from her alone time. Not once can I remember her  complaining about being lonely or needing to get out and be with people. She loves having people into the house and has a big heart for her friends and family, but being alone certainly does not bother her.

Except when running errands.

If people could earn degrees for the amount of time they spent running errands, Mom would have her doctorate. She was and is almost always on her way somewhere to do something. When I was between the ages of about ten to eighteen, I pretty much got to be Mom’s errand-running partner. Mom would often come down to where we kids were hanging out and say, “Hey, I’m on my way out the door to run some errands…” Pause. “Does anyone want to come with me?” That was my cue.

Mom and I would ride along silently at times, and at other times we had very meaningful conversations. Occasionally, Mom would ask me what I was thinking about – a dangerous game. I know that I flat out lied at least once, and she could probably tell, but I certainly was not going to ruin my reputation as sweet, innocent Sarah by disclosing to what extent my mind was in the gutter. Another time, I distinctly remember giving Mom a detailed explanation of an unimportant scene from Lassie in response to that question. At least that was an honest answer.

Perhaps all that ingrained errand running is the reason I love riding in the car. Driving is just all right, but if I can jump in and go somewhere with someone I love, I am completely content.

Thanks, Mom, for the good memories!

$2000 Telephone

There is not a more conscientious bill-payer than Gram. As soon as those bills hit the mailbox, she is on it. No one can accuse Gram of being lax in her payments; in fact, I think such an accusation would be incredibly offensive to her.

Her attentiveness to bills could even be considered a bit extreme. After all, she has lived alone and taken care of herself for over 30 years now, so she had full responsibility for the gas, water, and electric bills. When Gram decided to move in to Mom and Dad’s house, her prompt bill payments came under a little more scrutiny than she had experienced before. Some of the time, she may have objected to this change, but there is one instance in which we are all uniformly grateful that Mom took action.

One day, as Gram sat at her table writing checks, Mom noticed an odd bill sitting on the table. It was an invoice from AT&T for $17.00. This would not have provoked much suspicion, had there not been a second AT&T bill on the table, waiting to be paid as well. Without a cell phone, Gram should only be getting one phone bill each month. When Mom asked Gram what it was for, Gram said she wasn’t sure – but she was not about to default on a bill! Looking more closely at the invoice, Mom noticed that it was for some sort of phone rental agreement.

Flexing her investigative muscles, Mom picked up a phone and called up the number displayed on the bill. After pressing a succession of 1′s and 0′s to reach a customer service representative, Mom finally reached someone who could explain this bill anomaly. What she heard is the kind of news that makes you cover your mouth and attempt quick multiplications in your head.

Apparently, Gram purchased the type of phone you see displayed here around the same time she and Grandpa bought their house, which was decades ago. It was chocolate brown and mounted to the wall in her kitchen. I remember this phone having a very distinctive ring, as if each time someone called, the phone underwent a major struggle just to belt out its tone.

At the time of purchase, it was customary for households to rent their phones from the phone company. They paid a monthly phone rental fee for the use of the phone. When companies switched to charging for service rather than for the telephone itself, they failed to inform Gram. Therefore, at least ten years, Gram had been paying $17.00 per month to rent the phone she was using from the company. Altogether, that trusty brown phone which was mounted to her kitchen wall ended up costing somewhere in the $2,000.00 range.

The phone company said that the only way to get out of this contract was for Gram to mail the phone to an AT&T headquarters or warehouse somewhere. Once they received it, the bills stopped.

If someone had asked me a long time ago what I thought a $2,000 phone would look like, I probably would have imagined a diamond-encrusted phone:

Or perhaps the original Agent Smart shoe phone:

But by the time we returned Gram’s luxurious phone, the off-white receiver did not even match the pasty brown body of the phone. It might have brought $0.25 at a yard sale.

So the next time you hear someone complain about the charges on their cell phone bills, you just think of my wonderful, sweet, unsuspecting grandma and be glad that you are at least paying for a legitimate service.

Love you, Gram!

Search Terms

I have good reason for not posting for a while. I am in the middle of converting some of our most treasured family home video memories to electronic files so that I can include them in future posts. However, that is taking a little while… I only recently figured out how to hook up our VCR to our TV, which is to say, I only recently messed up my attempt so badly that John stepped in and hooked up the VCR for me.

In the meantime, I thought you might find amusing some of the search terms that have led visitors to this site over the past few months. Apparently, there is not a whole lot of information on the web about Beavis and his friend…

rememory definition	7
vintage littlest pet shop	4
sketches of kittens and puppies	3
beavis and butthead sketches	3
you said wood beavis	2
the littlest pet shop nineties	2
beavis and buthead	2
shannon thomas horse riding results	2
definition of rememory	2
woman horseback riding	2
old fashioned littlest pet shop	2
vintage littlest pet shop zoo	2
communion bowl	1
beavis and butthead draw paper	1
communion wafers	1
old littlest pet shop lovebirds	1
creepy pastor	1
unique cash wrap counter	1
littlest pet shop beethoven	1
iblp	1
beavis and butt-head sitting in a couch	1
creepy cabin	1
clown van wreck creepy	1
beavis y buth head	1
lovebirds what kind of food they eat	1
horse riding woman	1
most watched movoe in theater now	1
waiter wagging his finger	1
paper playset	1
lauren heinz	1
littlest pet shop water garden kitties	1
littlest pet shop room decor	1
beavis and but head turn arounds	1
communion message new year	1
girl clown costumes pictures	1
communion wafer	1
does anyone remember what the littlest p	1
nomenclature petshop	1
babies and butthead	1
funny horse riding pictures	1
beavis e buth head	1
clown’s ear	1
definition rememory	1
the blue letter sesame street	1
beavies butter	1
ice erg	1
rememory + definition	1
ladies on horseback	1
riding lessons words	1
sackloth and ashes blog

What to do in an umergansy.

According to a note I found in my school file today, there was a point in the early nineties when I struggled to overcome two unfortunate weaknesses: a propensity to wake people up unnecessarily and incredibly poor spelling. See below:

Page 1

Page 2

I find that a phonetic spelling of this letter is almost just as fun to read:

“Dear Mom, I’m sorry for what I did. But now I will think abote it! I hope youwill forgive me. (over–>) Hers what dad told me. That I sood not wake pople up enless it is an oo-mer-gan-sy. Love, Sarah”

It is that last fragment that really disturbs me – that is where everything really fell apart.

A closer analysis of this letter leads me to believe that I may have been better off if I had not crossed out whatever I first wrote before that “aboat” nonsense. Also, my attempt to delineate the spacing between “you” and “will” was a valiant effort, but it does not excuse the incorrect conjoining of two otherwise easily spelled words.

Dad, good advice – that was an important lesson to learn. Mom, I hope you declared my spelling a state of umergansy after reading this note. I will now proofread this post twice before publishing it.

Compartmentalization

Putting things into categories often helps us get what we want. I generally consider this tendency to be more of an adult habit than a childhood habit. After all, it just makes sense to me that we would have to have superior mental capacities in order to compartmentalize skillfully.

On the contrary, in the past couple of days, I have been reminded of two great stories that contradict my previous belief, and I incorporate them here in order to demonstrate how early and how humorously we begin to categorize and compartmentalize our actions.

Ben

By the time Ben was three-ish, he had discovered the adrenaline rush of testing boundaries and was becoming more adept at it by the hour. While visiting Papa’s house one evening for Christmas, I believe, Ben decided to do some exploring. Unfortunately, Papa’s pristinely-perfect piano found itself in the path of his ventures. Holding a juice cup in one hand, Ben reached toward the clean ivory keys with his other greasy hand. Mom saw and gave him a clear, unequivocal instruction: “Ben, No! Do not touch the piano.” Ben clearly understood because he looked back at her, hesitated only slightly, and yes, played a fistful of discordant notes.

Mom grew more insistent, saying, “Ben, I told you not to touch the piano!” and started to move toward him to follow up on her instructions, when Ben rushed to explain how he could not possibly be disobeying at that moment. His rationale: “I’m not touching the it, Mommy. My hand is touching it.”

True, his hand may have committed the crime, but I am pretty sure that it was his behind that took the punishment.

John

Yummy yummy broccoli!

To this day,  John is not a super huge fan of vegetables, although he does make a valiant effort. A younger John tried to avoid eating veggies at all costs, and this sometimes meant that he did not finish his dinner completely. In his house, the rule was the same as in most others – No Dessert for Children Who Do Not Finish Their Dinner.

One evening, John just could not bring himself to finish off the rest of his vegetables and declared himself to be full. His parents were fine with that – they simply removed the plate and informed him that he would not get any dessert that evening.

This was a problem. While John had difficulty stomaching veggies, his capacity for dessert was quite high. He exclaimed, “No, no – I still want dessert.” Robin expressed shock and awe that he could possibly have room for dessert if he was full just three seconds ago.

John was happy to explain: “You see, my vegetable compartment is very full, but my dessert compartment is completely empty!”

Bad Sunday School

Sunday school is supposed to be a beautiful place, brimming with Bible stories and Christian lessons and, when the teacher has had a bad week, Veggie Tales. But that is not always the case. Ben and I both had some bad luck with Sunday schools at times.

There was the one Sunday that Ben’s teacher overheard some of the children in the class discussing their Christmas wishes for the fast-approaching holiday season. Whether she had been deprived of her own Christmas wishes in the past or she just had a grinch-sized portion of Christmas spirit in her is not certain. Either way, her she took the initiative to inform Ben and his classmates in no uncertain terms that there is no such thing as a Santa Claus. Ben objected, saying that his parents had told him about Santa, so he must exist. She then went further to explain that his parents must have lied to him, because Santa is definitely not real.

If she lacked Christmas spirit to begin with, I can assure you she didn’t have a whole lot of any kind of spirit left after all the parents of these kids found out about that day’s lesson.

On another occasion, several of us kids were being watched in the nursery by a girl we all knew, Nellie. I think Nellie must have been having a bad day, because she was not able to put up with our usual uproar and antics that day. Instead, she instructed all of us to sit down in a row on the floor of the nursery. Then she told us that we were not allowed to make any noise or even smile, and that if we did so much as chuckle, we would be sentenced to stand in the corner. We all tried to sit quietly, but we were super little – it just was not going to happen. I caught Nellie’s eye and laughed – that sealed my doom. She had me get up and go stand in the corner of the nursery, where I proceeded to cry miserably. I didn’t do well when I was punished for any offense, much less one that I did not understand.

Fortunately, I was still there in the corner when Mom arrived. Proof! I don’t recall Nellie ever watching us during church again, and thank goodness. If she had, I might have done something that actually merited punishment.

Crush (Volume 1)

What fools we were, according to Ben. Everyone can remember having a crush as a youngster, and while not everyone enjoys reliving those days, I have decided to dredge up some good crush stories from our family and to smear them on the Internet for all to see and know. Fortunately, my family is good-natured enough not to mind… at least, most of my family. Some members who will go unnamed refused to give their permission for me to blog up their childhood crushes, and to them I say, Hmph.

For those of you who are more willing to divulge some great crush stories, please notice that this post is entitled “Volume 1″ in the hope that you will be willing to share your own crush stories for a “Volume 2″. After reading, you should definitely click on the Share My Own Memories tab on the right and send me a tale of long lost (or found) puppy love. The stories that appear below can be your inspiration.

John

At the age of fifteen, John considered just a few things to be irresistible. One of them was basketball; one was Star Trek; and one was smart girls. While working at a pharmacy part time, he got to know a pretty cool chick who had just graduated from college. Yes, your math is correct – he was about six years younger than she, which is a lot when you are fifteen. This chick’s name was Robin, which I find interesting only because it is also the name of my amazing mother-in-law. No matter how good the name, if you can avoid ending up with someone who shares a name with one of your parents, that is a huge plus. Anyway, neither Robin’s age nor her name deterred John, because Robin had been an English major in college. That was all he needed to know. They spent time at the pharmacy filling prescriptions and discussing literature. I do not know if Robin ever knew of John’s fancy for her, but I will be always grateful to her for instilling in John a particular affinity for English majors.

Sarah

Lots of names come to mind when I think of my childhood crushes. There was Gabe, the cutest guy in my first grade class. His mom was also our librarian, so that was another selling point. Then there was Steve Green, whom I once beat in a foot race at church. Flirting was his specialty, and I found it came pretty naturally for me too. There was also Josh Harris, the renowned Christian relationship speaker and writer. I got so into him while reading I Kissed Dating Goodbye that I wrote in my journal about how I needed to stop looking at his photo on the back cover of his book. Ah, but none of these came close to my passion for Steve Baldwin. He was in high school when I was around the age of six, and I thought he was all that and a bag of chips. Every Sunday at church, he vowed to me that he would wait for me to grow up… I did not realize how creepy that sounded until much later… But when Steve up and married a gorgeous girl named Annette, I remember feeling a little betrayed. After all, he said he would wait.

Ben

Ben had lots of crushes to choose from as well. Tory is the one who stands out for me. They both went through a brief period of liking each other when they were about seven-ish. All of the adults thought this attraction was adorable, even long after Tory and Ben described themselves as “over” each other. It was during this post-crush phase that Ben starred in a church play as the character Small Fry, a Bible nerd with a bowtie and thick glasses. Tory’s grandmother insisted on taking photos of the not-so-happy couple after the play, plunging them into deep embarrassment.

The one girl who probably had the greatest influence on Ben’s crush life was Lauren Heinz. It was Lauren who caused Ben to experience a very rare introspective moment in his busy childhood. Sitting in Joyce Knight’s Sunday school class (the epitome of Ben’s social networking in fourth-fifth grade), and not paying attention to the lesson, Ben was struck with an epiphany. He clearly remembers thinking, “I am nine years old now. It is probably time for me to start liking girls.” Up to this point, his interactions with girls had consisted of teasing them, hitting them with Bibles, calling them fat, and so forth. “Time to make a change,” Ben thought. “So… who in this room is cute?” Shoot. The cutest girl in the room was Lauren, and she hated Ben’s guts for all the mean things he did to her on a regular basis.

That day, he approached Lauren and apologized (sincerely?) for all the things he had done, then asked if they could be friends. Lauren hesitantly shook his hand and agreed, wondering what this kid was up to now. And so began a three-year long crush, during which he secretly asked her out not just once, but three times, and was secretly turned down each time. Guess it is not such a big secret now. Ben, I have to say – you’ve come a long way.

Shannon

Out of all of us, I think it is safe to say that Shannon has the most unusual and fascinating crush stories. Of course, the common, sentimental fare is there, such as the time in second grade when she carved Alex Minick’s initials into her bedroom window. Now, over twenty years later, Alex’s mom is Shannon’s supervisor. Itty, bitty, tiny world, huh?

No, I am not talking about those cute little stories – I am talking about some of the most interesting men I have ever met or heard of seem to gravitate to Shannon like cat hair to my new furniture. Some of those narratives have been officially stricken from the list of bloggable topics, but there is one remaining that I think should never be removed from the annals of family memory. That is the story of Haider.

Haider wanted to marry Shannon. He had never met anyone as beautiful as she was; the problem was, he had also never met Shannon. Haider chose her for his life partner while shopping in a Half-Price Bookstore where Shannon and Mom also happened to be spending Shannon’s twenty-fourth birthday. He stared at her intently while she browsed the aisles but couldn’t work up the courage to speak to her until she was in the parking lot, about to leave. He ran out to the parking lot and asked them to wait before getting into the car. With Shannon and Mom there by the car, he poured out his heart, saying that Shannon was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and that he would like her to go out with him. Needless to say, Shannon was flattered but cautious. Mom was even more cautious and decided to take the offensive by asking him if he was a believer. He stuttered something like, “Uh, yes – yes, I believe.” Shannon agreed to take his number and meet him at Starbucks the next morning.

The Starbucks date gave a little more insight into who Haider was. He was Morrocan, I believe – Shannon might need to correct me. He had two houses (although I think one was in Daytona… if you’re going to spend money on two houses, put the second one someplace cooler than that). He knew seven languages. He was Buddhist. He was an entrepeneur. She never learned what he actually did for a living, and while the houses and languages were impressive, the difference in religion was the real kicker. Though they did not meet again after that semi-date, Haider continued to call Shannon for awhile after that when he was in town. I hope he has moved on by now – I am pretty sure Shannon has.

I love this family.

Rice Krispies & Razor Blades

Our family generally kept Halloween low key, as in, Mom would put me in the bathtub early on October 31st and then ask while she scrubbed, “Sarah Chelle, do you want to be a ballerina, a nurse, or a dog this year?” Those were the costumes we had, and therefore those are the only choices I remember having. By the time the hand-me-downs reached Ben, there were slim pickings.

Creepy McCreepers

Mom and Dad were always a little wary of celebrating this holiday at all, what with the Druids and goblins and Halloween mythologies that required much overlooking. One particular year really cinched it, though. We ended up trick-or-treating a house that I am sure would have given the creeps to the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

To make the situation more ironic, Shannon and I were both dressed as pilgrims. No one ever said that we kids fit in during those years… Adam went trick-or-treating with us that year too; he was a clown, complete with wig, white and red face paint, suspenders, and lots of jokes to tell. I’m having trouble remembering Ben’s costume… Was he a ninja?

We visited Gram’s house, of course, and she was ready with lots of candy. Since she lived on a quiet little dead end street, we figured there would be no harm in just making a circle around it and calling it a night. At the end of the street lived some serious die-hard (get it?) Halloween supporters. In order to catalog all that they had going for them, I will need a bulleted list:

• Intricate costumes – these people didn’t just slap on wigs and carry brooms. Their witch costumes included fake warts, green face pain, grossly long fingernails, and black, billowing witch dresses.
• Ghosts – there were ghosts sticking up out of the ground as well as ghosts hanging in the trees. Ghosts of all shapes and sizes.
• Music – eerie music played from a tape recorder that they had extended from the house and placed in the middle of the yard.
• Photography – Yes, they took photos of us. They told us we were adorable – how did they know we were so susceptible to flattery? I’m not sure they knew Shannon and I were pilgrims, and judging from the enormous, black, traditional pilgrim gowns we were wearing, I’m not sure I blame them. Then they asked to take photos with us, and we naively stood there while they put their hands on our shoulders and posed. Weirder than weird.

The one benefit to come from this visit, or so Adam thought, was that instead of cheapo candies for their guests, the Halloween junkies had gone all out and made us genuine rice krispies treats. After the photo-taking, Mom whisked us away as fast as she could and piled us into the van to go home.

And tonight we have a decadent rice krispies treat, garnished with razor blades. Enjoy.

As the reality of the experience sank in, she issued an order – no eating the rice krispies treats. At that point, Adam had the treat in his hand and was poised to chomp down, so of course he objected and asked why. Mom’s response could not have been more effective at meeting her objective. She told us that the treats could very well have razor blades in them. (!!)

Mission: Keep the kids from ingesting possibly poisonous, dangerous treats.

Status: Accomplished.

Ben’s suggestions

In response to my plea for suggestions, Ben came through with the following list, posted on my Facebook wall:

memories suggestions:
- i would say fishing, but maybe i should just call it “counterproductive pole entangling”
- GI joes/barbies
- did we try to talk with forks in our mouths at dinner sometime? also the food fight.
- that one stupid cat we had. oh wait, not a memory yet. yet.
- Legos
- the last time we went trick or treating
- shannon stalking shane the priest
- playing tennis or “war-ball” with adam p.
- our family’s educational vacation to gettysburg (the suck)
- also getting gifts on any family trip
- movies we watched, like scamper, scruffy, humania, disney movies (hahaha he’s got a knot in his tail), wilderness family
- imitating ice skaters in the living room, complete with roller skates, and of course the classic family line uttered by yourself
- any crush that any of us kids had. haha what fools we were.
- going to wesley and singing “when we all get to heaven” or “i don’t know what you came to do”

that’s all i got for now but i’ll let you know if i think of anything else.

These are excellent suggestions, every single one. I have therefore decided to work down through the list, excluding only those stories that might embarrass my sister unnecessarily. Thanks, bruh-THER!

Being Saved in the 90′s

Dad loves to preach. That statement is not just a leftover from some tumultuous teenage years (I really did not have any of those, except when I was first learning to drive… that was tumultuous for all involved.) Seriously, my dad really loves to speak from the pulpit, because at his heart, he is a teacher. His sermons are the results of hours of research, study, prayer, and thought. We all enjoyed listening to Dad’s sermons, mostly because of one in particular that we had the blessing of getting to hear multiple times.

That sermon was entitled, you guessed it, “Being Saved in the 90′s”. First of all, it bears the most fun title of any other sermon I have ever heard of (unless you count Josh Harris’ messages as sermons, I guess). Second of all, since the sermon ventured into things-that-are-wrong-with-our-generation territory, Dad had to tread a fine line between being specific about cultural problems and using words that were not allowed in our house.

While making the point that there are elements of our culture that you don’t participate in if you are truly saved in the nineties, Dad gave the example of a popular movie which had just hit theaters. In order to keep his sermon G rated, he referred to this popular movie as “Beavis and… his friend”.

And we will never, ever allow him to forget.

Beavis and His Friend

The Little Gentleman

Anyone who has met my husband John knows that he is nothing but kind and courteous to everyone. What you might not all know is that his mannerly tendencies stem from his earliest childhood. To illustrate, I will share with you one of the favorite John stories from his growing up years. My wonderful father-in-law, Tony, provided the details for this memory.

When John was two years old, Grandpa Kip invited the entire family to the now extinct Atrium at Hasenour’s restaurant in Louisville, KY to introduce to them his beloved fiance, Vesta Trawick. The importance of the occasion and elegance of the atmosphere was not lost on baby John, who was dressed in a little suit just like everyone else. It was indeed a momentous time.

Sitting in his little chair at the table, John engaged everyone in the family in conversation, used proper etiquette as he ate, and in short impressed everyone with manners that most young adults fail to grasp, not to mention most toddlers. Before long, the waiters who would stop by to fill water glasses and remove dinnerware would pause at John’s chair and ask, “And how is the little gentleman?” They even took bets with one another as to John’s age.

For along time after that day, John’s household nickname was “the little gentleman”. Can everyone say “proud parents”? Yes, I believe so.

Indeed.

Note: John no longer responds to either “the little gentleman” or “the big gentleman”, and all readers are advised not even to try.

Etymology of a bus

My mom was half homeschool mom, half errand runner during our formative years. We spent quite a lot of time in the car, so much so that we became absolute fiends at some of those great riding-in-the-car games. One of our favorites was counting woodies (that is, those cars with the faux wood strip across the side, most popular in old station wagons). Woody counting got to be a pretty competitive endeavor.

But I am losing my way here. Before we were old and mature enough to keep ourselves occupied with travel games, we entertained one another by waiting for someone to say something, then jumping at the opportunity to make a correction to that person’s statement. Ben was often a prime target for such corrections, since he was just learning how to talk in the first place. On this particular occasion, both Shannon and I got to censor him. Double whammy.

Gazing out the window of our burgundy van, Ben noticed a big, yellow, you-guessed-it-already bus. Thrilled, he exclaimed in his little kid voice, “Look, a bup!”

I was on it. With my adorable lisp, I corrected him, “Ben, it’s not a buuuup, it’s a buth!”

Fortunately, Shannon was old enough to know how to pronounce words and to have outgrown any lisps she may have had. She turned around in her seat, gave us a smart, knowing look, and said, “No, it’s a BUS.”

Now that the story is in writing, it doesn’t seem too exciting. Nonetheless, I still get a kick out of it every single time.

Thanks to Shanny for this suggestion!

Sackloth and Ashes

Anyone who has been home schooled has a number of stories to tell about their mother’s creativity for conveying concepts. Personally, I believe that my mom could win an award for her ingenuity. Could and should.

Our study of King David’s reign is difficult to forget. We started out by reading about his life and times, probably listening to lessons on tape or watching a video about him. I specifically remember learning about the most tragic parts of David’s life and the way he responded by weeping in sackloth and ashes. The three of us kids felt we had a decent grasp of the wise king’s reign, but apparently, Mom thought we needed to have a more personal experience of it.

Therefore, she whipped out some burlap sacks with holes for our heads and arms. It was a real “Aha” moment – now we really understood what it meant to weep in sackloth. Unfortunately, the Scripture we were studying specifically said that David wept outdoors, in the street, or perhaps in front of the temple. That part is a little hazy. Regardless, Mom marched us right into the bright outdoors and had us sit down at the side of the street of Jerusalem, aka our driveway.

Since our back yard was clearly out of sight of any potential passers by, we were content to sit there wearing our potato sacks and pretending to weep and mourn like David did. That is, until Mom added the final piece. We unsuspecting kids crouched in the yard while Mom walked off toward the house, then returned holding a huge gardening shovel and the ash bucket from the fireplace. She proceeded to dig out a heap of ashes and dump them directly onto Shannon’s head. Choosing Shannon first was strategic – if Shannon had seen what was coming, she never would have stuck around to experience it. Ben and I, on the other hand, were pretty mesmerized, and we sat there in surprise while Mom dumped ashes on our heads too. We even have photos that she took while we assumed our most agonized poses, perhaps even the same ones David did.

Shannon did not join us in our sackloth and ashes photo shoot, by the way. We lost her as soon as she was covered in soot. I can honestly still remember the tenor of her voice when she screamed out, “Mom?! I’m out of my conditioner!” Mom patiently reminded her that David went through this same thing, to which Shannon responded as she flew into the house, “Well, I’ll bet he had conditioner.”

Yes, yes, I know…

As you can see, it has been awhile since I last posted. It is not that keeping this catalog of memories running is unimportant to me – quite the contrary! However, I have concluded that posting here is going to be a matter of high points and low points. I’m currently ruminating over several topics to post.

This half-hearted apology is also a call out to The Fam to submit memory suggestions. You know who you are.

Here’s to ramping up for another round of posting!

The other cheek

My sister Shannon has always taken the Bible’s red-letter words very seriously, but the outcome has never been as funny as it was in this story.

Shannon and I took horseback riding lessons one summer from one of Dad’s patients, a very sweet and knowledgeable woman named Mary Anne. We would travel up to her farm once a week and learn how to saddle up the horses, ride English style, and wear thin all the muscles in our inner thighs in our attempts to post. Mary Anne would stand in the center of a training ring while Shannon and I would ride in circles, listening to her commands.

My favorite horse was General Lee, not only because he had the sweetest disposition, but also because Mary Anne told me she had given him that name because he was general-ly good. I thought that sounded quite clever.

One day Mary Anne was letting us rest a bit as the horses lazily plodded around the ring, and she took that time to widen our understanding of the world of competitive horse showing. She told us what shows were like and how the most experienced riders and horses performed. One of her comments made a big impression on both of us. She said, “Some horses are so sensitive to their riders’ movements that if the rider puts just a little more weight on one cheek than the other, the horse will turn that direction.”

We were duly impressed. Silence fell among us as both of us pondered the significance of that statement. I was recalled out of my reverie by hearing Mary Anne shriek with laughter as she called out, “Not that cheek!” I looked over at Shannon to see what had provoked this remark. With all her might, Shannon was doing her best to get her horse to turn by protruding her tongue as hard as she could into the side of her mouth.

If I am fully honest, I have to admit that I too was confused by Mary Anne’s remark. In our family, “cheek” was not the word we used for that piece of anatomy. If she had just said “rump”, “behind”, or “bottom”, we would have caught on right away. However, until Mary Anne clarified exactly which cheek she was referring to, Shannon was left to conclude that the horse she was riding was obviously not very well trained.

Rememory Friday 4

Courtesy of Jen at ConversionDiary…

Today turned out to be a day for movie theater memories. Enjoy!

~

Inspector Clouseau

Good memories can transform mundane or ridiculous things into beautiful nostalgia, reminders that we are loved. For example, the first time that John ever put his arm around me was in a movie theater during the Steve Martin’s version of The Pink Panther. What would have otherwise been an experience I would have been glad to forget was transformed into a favorite memory.

~

Want to know another movie theater first for John and me? No, nothing risque – minds out of the gutter, folks. Well before we dated, during my freshman/his senior year of college, he let me wear his coat during The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe (I had mine there, but wearing his was way more fun). The conversation went like this:

I get cold just looking at them,

John (noticing Sarah sitting with her arms wrapped around her): Are you cold?

Sarah: No, I’m fine

(John proceeds to reach for his coat and place it over Sarah.)

Little did he know that he would be handing me his coat to wear for many years to come.

~

Do they really? I will never know.

My parents taught us kids early that it is completely okay to walk out of a movie that is a total dud. We were party to these boycotting experiences many times. I mean, Mom even pulled us out of All Dogs Go to Heaven because she said it was just too weird, and I think there might have been a scene set in hell to boot. The details are a little fuzzy, probably because we only saw ten minutes of the movie.

~

An example of Redford in his best years.

Women in my family have a deep-seated appreciation for movies featuring Robert Redford in his prime. The mention of his name usually results in someone patting her chest and murmuring, “Be still, my beating heart.” Even Gram has been known to be susceptible to Redford’s charms. I know this because she took most of us grandkids to see The Horse Whisperer about four times – and he was way past his best years at that point.

~

It wasn't this one

On the night to which John and I attribute our first real meeting, we went with several friends to see a truly awful movie. I had agreed to go with the group before knowing what the movie was, or else I probably would have backed out. However, I accompanied them anyway. John was my saving grace. He talked to me through the whole thing, much to the frustration of some others who actually wanted to hear what the characters were saying. Did I mention that I love John? I’ll have to flesh this story out more another time…

~

Tom Hanks = good war movie

Dad has gone to see just about every war movie that has come out in the last fifteen years, I think. He loves their strategy, history and bravado. When Saving Private Ryan came out, there was great controversy over whether or not we kids could see it. So, always the sacrificial lamb, Dad took Uncle Mike to see it first, as a screening measure. They then agreed that we could come to see it, as long as we covered our eyes and ears when they told us to. And to this day, after seeing this movie multiple times, I still have not watched or listened to any of those forbidden parts.

~

Most embarrassing movie theater moment

What can I say? I was inspired.

The Nutcracker was made into a movie and came to our theater when I was young and apparently quite uninhibited. Mom took us kids to see it, but of course, no one else did – which meant that we had the movie theater completely to ourselves. Now, when you combine a wordless movie featuring ballet with an empty theater, the result is inevitable – an awkward young girl is going to dance up and down the aisle and across the front of the theater… until she realizes that other moviegoers have entered the theater unexpectedly late and are looking at her in confusion, while her family members are up in their seats and on the verge of keeling over from laughter.

I married him for his luck

If you are not convinced that John is lucky by knowing that he married me, this story is sure to remove all uncertainty. He is a lucky guy.

Tony and Robin, my wonderful in-laws, had a rule in their household about video games. That rule stated quite basically that video games were not allowed. This policy caused John and Ben great frustration, but the rule was clear and immovable.

One fateful evening, John’s family went to the movies together. The movie theater just happened to be holding a drawing at that time for an item much coveted by any young boy – a Super Nintendo. Of course, every kid in the theater except John and Ben was scribbling his or her name onto multiple pieces of paper and jamming them into the drawing box in a vote-early-and-vote-often fashion.

Inevitably, John asked his dad if he could enter, and wisely, Tony told him that he could enter once. So he did. And he won.

Out of all the double dipping kids who stuffed their names into that box, John was the one whose number came up. What a lucky, lucky duck.

As only we can say it…

I think every family has their own way of talking and expressing themselves. You spend so much time together that you are bound to begin sounding alike. As Shannon and I have grown older, we have begun to realize how much like our mom we talk. During conversations, it is inevitable that at some point two or more of us will say the same thing at the same time, without meaning to.

Some particular phrases, jokes and remarks are just inherently a part of my family’s way of communicating. Here are a few of them – they may make zero sense to anyone else, but for us, they have all kinds of cultural and nostalgic meaning.

Great googly-moogly

Do you know how the Deheckaya Indians got their name? Because they were always saying, “Wheredeheckaya.”

Say it a few times – it’ll start to make sense. We usually parlay this joke when we are searching for our car in a large parking lot. Not sure why…

I think I’ll have the fish tonight, just for the halibut.

This one always reminds me of Dad. Probably because he laughs the loudest when it is said.

Fruitcake!

Adam once screamed this out after a mistake during an indoor tennis match. That was a great moment for me.

Well, ding on your head.

I had (have?) a tendency to brag on myself. I believe I attempted to one-up Shannon about some feat I cannot even remember anymore. The usual response to this kind of behavior was for the other person to make a halo with her hands to signify how sarcastically angelic the speaker was. Shannon must have felt that the hand motion wasn’t worth the effort and tried to express her sarcasm with only words instead. The above comment was the result.

It is now a classic.

Feeling like an egg?

I will not attempt to explain this one fully. Suffice it to say that Mom and Dad were feeling a little frisky one morning while Mom was cooking breakfast, and all three of us kids were subjected to their idea of humor.

If any other family witticisms come to mind, be sure to let me know!

Rememory Friday 3

Courtesy of Jen at Conversion Diary…

~

One of the worst memories I have of Christmas preparation in years past was the tradition of wrapping the handrails in our stairwells with fake ivy. There are several reasons for my hatred of this holiday ritual. First, I was often in charge of doing the wrapping of the ivy around the railing. Second, the ivy was super scratchy and painful to the thin, sensitive skin of my young hands. Third, we had two stairwells. Last, with the handrails encased in plastic, scratchy, awful stuff, no one was able to use them. It was a security risk of serious proportions.

~

The best part of our home school day was when we would gather around Mom in the living room while she would read “literature” to us. The books ranged from Little House on the Prairie to Cheaper By The Dozen. We did try a few books which we ended up not finishing. One was The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew – Mom said it had too many adjectives. That was a-okay with us, since the book was pretty boring . We really wished Mom had felt the same way about The Illiad.

~

Most families hang their Christmas stockings on a mantle in hierarchical fashion. Well, we had that second part, but we totally disregarded the mantle. Our fireplace was made of uneven green-gray bricks with not even a hint of a nice wood mantle for stocking hanging. So we compromised – we hung our stockings on an unsuspecting wall. It seemed normal then, but now it just seems random.

~

My cousins Adam and Aaron had a tiny little bear when they were growing up. Adam referred to this diminutive family member as “bear” (pronounced BAY-er). He apparently had little opposable thumbs which could be made to grasp things. For each holiday, they dressed him up in corresponding little hats and coats. A green hat and shamrock jacket for St. Patrick’s Day; little Santa hats and red and white coat for Christmas. He would even carry little gifts around. Now that is what I call serious holiday decorating – I’ll bet they didn’t have any terrible ivy wrapped around their banisters.

~

Have I told this story already? I may have… well, if so, we will see how close I can make this second dose to the first.

When John was little, he was a complete gentleman to everyone. He was superbly polite to strangers and acted grown up most of the time. One of his parents’ favorite stories to tell about him is the time he spotted some neighbor children playing in the yard next to his. Wanting to make friends and establish new playmates, John used his sweetest, most grown up voice to get their attention. At the age of three, he called out, “Children! Children! Come play with me!”

My John didn’t need advancing years or impressive stature to call it like it was. They were, in fact, children – just probably older children than he was.

~

It has always been pretty important in my family to have plenty of food and drink around. To back up that claim, I will tell you that for as long as I can remember, we had a refrigerator which we referred to as the drink fridge. Since the fridge was constantly stocked with sundry tantalizing juice and soft drinks, our parents had to come up with some rules about how many cokes we were allowed to have each day (and by cokes, I mean anything carbonated, not just Coca-Cola Classic). If my memory serves, the rule was no more than one a day.

Now, before the rule was established, multiple cokes per day was common. Therefore, the rule was actually an improvement on the state of things. However, there are some who might think that this rule allowed for a bit too much extravagance where cool eats and frosty treats are concerned. I realized this one day when Ben and I happened to be chatting with a home school mom in the community and for whatever reason told her about this one-coke-a-day rule. It effectively ended the conversation – she stared us down in shock, then gave a little laugh, then walked away. And that is when I knew that we were total black sheep.

~

So, I guess you have noticed that Rememory Friday popped up a little late this time. But, it is still technically Friday, with two hours to spare. Suffice it to say, I have been a little slow getting back into the swing of things. Better luck next time!

New Year’s Eve Communion Gone Awry

Now that I have returned from the double whammy of finals week (had to deal with finals at my job and in my own educational pursuits), I am thrilled to be posting again. Please accept my sincerest apologies for the lapse in blogging. You may feel free to catch up now on all that sleep you lost while wondering what had happened to me.

Since I missed my opportunity to share some wonderful Christmas stories with you, such as the year we decided to do Christmas the “old-fashioned way”, or the time that Ben nearly lost a foot in his hurry to get to presents, I will skip on to New Year’s. One memory stands out far beyond the rest.

This particular year, we accepted an invitation from Mike and Becky to spend New Year’s with them at Shiloh, Aunt Colleen’s cabin on the lake. In addition to watching movies and playing Settlers of Cataan, some of us thought it would be spiritual of us to attend New Year’s Eve Communion at the nearest church – Piney Grove Baptist Church, or as we like to call it, Tiny Piney. Only the girls had the gumption to go, so Becky, Mom, Shannon and I piled into the van and headed down the road, agreeing that Grandpa would be very proud of us.

We piled into a pew and doubled the communion population. Soon, a small, bespectacled man with orange-brown hair and a black robe on took the center of the stage. He had one of the faintest voices I have ever heard. His New Year’s Eve monologue struck me as being particularly stale and boring. I recall his saying something about how we should resolve during the new year to be “better human beings.” I had been planning to try amphibian life for a while, but he convinced me to stick to improving as a member of the homo sapiens species for at least one more year.

Communion followed his not so stirring message. The little man gathered the bowl of wafers and a wine chalice and invited us to kneel at the front of the church to receive the elements. So we knelt – Mom, Shannon, me, then Becky. The minister served Mom first, for which I was grateful – communion can be served many different ways, and I appreciated having a couple of examples before my turn came. The procedure seemed to be to take a wafer from the bowl, dip it down into the juice, then ingest the elements and enter a state of prayer.

When my turn came, I dipped the wafer into the glass and noticed that there was something amuck with the juice but wasn’t quite sure what it was. Next it was Becky’s turn, and let me just say – of any of us girls at communion that night, Becky would have had the greatest aversion to dipping her wafer into a glass contaminated with everyone else’s wafers and fingers. I was therefore not surprised to see her very gingerly dip the wafer about a quarter of the way into the glass, then pull it out to make sure she had reached the juice. Nope – the first try was a negative, resulting in a juiceless wafer. So, not one to do communion wrong, Becky dipped her wafer a second time, a little deeper. She pulled it out and let out a nearly audible sigh – still no juice! A third time, Becky inserted the wafer so deep that she could feel the juice on her fingers, then pulled it out…

There must have been a real rush on grape juice at the Wal Mart that night, because the pastor of Tiny Piney had opted for white grape juice for this communion service. Becky’s communion wafer was nearly soggy at this point, but she took it like a trooper. The rest of us had great difficulty maintaining the meditative atmosphere, as the temptation to burst out laughing was a constant throughout the rest of the service. I do think that Grandpa would have been proud of our efforts, despite the way we trashed the Tiny Piney method of communion all the way home.

Communion Cocktail

In preparation for a fresh year, keep in mind that each new day presents opportunities to make wonderful, lasting memories. And if you attend a New Year’s Eve communion service, do me a favor and let me know how it goes.

Happy New Year!

Editor’s note: It has been brought to my attention by more than one reliable source that I got the location completely wrong. I have to say, I am glad I got to tell you about Tiny Piney, even if it wasn’t the right place. We were actually somewhere in Myrtle Beach, FL. Many apologies for not getting my facts straight.

Rememory Friday 2

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One Sunday morning during church, we were sitting single file in our church row and singing Amazing Grace along with the rest of the congregation. Mom must have been in a funny mood, because when we reached the line, “That saved a wretch like me,” she began a tradition that has held true to this day. She caught our eye, and changed the lyrics to “That saved a wretch like yoooooouuuuuu” while pointing down the aisle at us. We about cracked up, and now we cannot sing that hymn together without pointing discreetly at the person next to us during that line.

I tried it with a friend once, and it didn’t go over so well.

~

Speaking of hymns, another tradition of which I am not so fond is for Ben and my cousin Adam, during the hymn The Solid Rock, to sing nothing but the phrase “sinking sand” during the chorus. So for them, the chorus goes silence silence silence silence SINKING SAND! silence silence SINKING SAND!

~

Being homeschoolers, we of course took field trips to colonial villages more than once during our schooling. Another obvious element of homeschooling involves reading all of the Little House on the Prairie books as a family. Combine these two activities, and what do you get? A group of children a) who are not the least bit disturbed by actually watching a pig be butchered before their eyes at the colonial village and b) who have the presence of mind to request that the butcher give them the pig’s bladder so they can test Laura Ingalls Wilder’s story about blowing that piece of anatomy into a balloon and using it as a toy.

It did not take us long to realize that it is very hard to test this theory on a pig bladder that has been kept in a brown paper bag all day while we learned how candles were made and wool was carded back in the olden days.

~

My cousins, Aaron and Adam, are separated by six years, have some great stories about growing up together. Probably my favorite is to hear Aaron tell of how he used to give Adam one of those padded whiffle ball bats and just let Adam go to town beating him with it. Being much bigger, Aaron hardly felt Adam’s blows. Aaron would then snatch the bat from Adam unexpectedly and sweep Adam’s legs straight out from under him. And now we do not have to wonder why Adam is the most competitive person any of us knows.

~

I absolutely love hearing my inlaws tell stories of John’s growing up years. He and his brother Ben have incredibly distinct personalities, and the stories are inevitably great. However, even great stories are made better by photos, right? This one is a classic

Trick or treat!

Ben is in the blue clown costume, and John is in the red one. I suspect that Ben had been sampling the candy prior to having this picture taken. For someone who really cannot stand clowns, I adore this photo.

~

One of the movies we watched a lot of when we were young was Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey. It really was a fantastic movie, with three animals teaming up to accomplish a difficult task and incorporating humorous dialogue throughout. I do not think our mom realized how much of an effect the movie had on us until she took us with her to the vet’s office to give our cat a checkup. While the doctor examined Tina (yes, that was my cat’s name), Ben and I kept a running commentary going, speaking for Tina in first person. “Oh no, not a needle! I hate needles. Get away, you big mean doctor man!” I am pretty sure that Dr. Gough had never been exposed to this kind of behavior before; he was rather at a loss. Embarrassed, Mom mumbled something about “too much Homeward Bound” and ushered us out of there as quickly as possible.

We were a little confused, to say the least – didn’t everyone speak for their animals?

~

When watching Woody Woodpecker or Sesame Street, the practice in our household was not to cuddle up on the couch or stretch out on the floor with a pillow. No, nothing but sitting underneath a TV tray for us. On the nights that our parents allowed us to eat dinner using a TV tray, it was especially convenient. After finishing the meal, all that was necessary was for us to slip down underneath the tray for the rest of the program. Don’t ask me why we did this – it made sense at the time.

Inspired by Jennifer.

Littlest Pet Shop

Paw Print Central

Remember your favorite toy growing up? It probably had lots of different pieces or sets so that every time your mom took you shopping anywhere, you begged her to stop off at a toy store and buy the newest must-have addition to your set. Well, for me, that toy was the Littlest Pet Shop.

Littlest Pet Shop, or LPS as we aficionados referred to it, started out with a pet shop designed like a tackle box of sorts and containing all sorts of little animals. We owned probably over a hundred of these creatures and meticulously named each one. Many of them were magnetized, allowing them to appear to kiss each other or follow a chew toy. They gave the appearance of being very smart and adorable, as this commercial will demonstrate:

If you Google Littlest Pet Shop now, you will find yourself beset by the new version of Littlest Pet Shop characters. They have creepy, googly eyes and lame accessories, and I want to distance myself as much as possible from any assumptions that these are the pets to which I refer. Our pets were way, way cooler. Since the 1996 collection, Hasbro Toys has really taken this toy series downhill.

Since the original LPS characters have been discontinued, there are now forums where people can post photos of their sets and place want ads for the characters that are missing from their collections. This forum in particular is worth visiting just to read their overly particular terms of service agreement. Just a few minutes of Internet searching will show you that this site is the agreed upon authority for all vintage LPS information. Although our fascination with LPS never reached the extreme of some others, we did name each pet and bestow upon each one a personality which remained consistent throughout our hours of play. I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that even now, when I see our LPS pets, I can still remember most of their names. Don’t believe me? I’ll prove it.

Welcome to the tour of Sarah and Ben’s Littlest Pet Shop Nomenclature and Temperament Review

1) First, the Littlest Shop Playset. Please forgive the poor quality of the photos – despite the extensive fan base which I have established for you, the number of quality photos is fairly limited. This was the start of it all. It contained a cash register, a counter for the cash register to sit upon, and lots of room for the pets and their accessories. Despite its spacious interior, a very complex arrangement was required to fit our 100+ pets, food dishes, leashes, beds, fences, and other accouterments into it. We of course referred to this play set as the Pet Store (they only sold food and such items at this one – not pets.) A bunny named Bunny was in charge of the cash register. No joke.

Note the interior as well, complete with that old-fashioned cash register and display shelf in the store window.

2) My personal favorite were the Shetland ponies, a mother and a daughter. They came with their own corral and a cardboard cutout of a pasture. The cutout even featured a salt lick, which I think is special. The best part, though, would be the names I conjured up for these, my all-time favorite LPS pets: The mama pony was named Faith, and the baby was named… Baby.

Faith and Baby

3) These friendly kitties were sisters. The yellow was named Peanut Butter, and the gray was Cherry. As I recall, Peanut Butter played the part of cool aunt for all the kittens and puppies in the community. Cherry was an extremely one-dimensional character. Her one distinguishing characteristic was that when the animals gathered on Sundays for church services, Cherry was the pianist. As it turned out, the motion that her creators gave her to simulate scratching on a post also looked a lot like plunking out a tune on the keyboard that came with the Beethoven’s 2nd LPS set. The moment we discovered this special ability, Cherry was hired.

We also enjoyed making use of the litterbox that accompanied this set. Kids those days…

4) There is not a whole lot to say about the lovebirds. They perched on the edge of town, bickered with the baby pets that trespassed, and periodically fulfilled their lovebird calling by turning to one another in a somewhat dispassionate kiss. Their names? Bob and Quagmire.

5) Puppet the poodle, Brownie the preaching golden retriever, and Buddy the friendly mutt also saw a good bit of playing time. Puppet owned the hair salon, and all the boy dogs fawned over her all the time. She lived happily in this little house with her two friends. Buddy was everyone’s friend, and his magnetic head could fetch the magnetic newspaper. By wagging Brownie’s tail, you could cause his hand to move up and down in a shake… but we made better use of this feature than that. We made Brownie the community’s preacher, and no sermon was complete without forcing Brownie’s hand into a very forceful shake while he urged the churchgoers, “Repent! Repent!” I should note that we spent an inordinate amount of our childhood listening to Wesleyan holiness preachers during revival meetings.

I will spare you the rest. I could continue on about Ginger and Fee Fee, the canine pair that adopted the orphan puppies; Echo the mother cat and her many kittens (Pinky, Cookie, Ivy, Tuna, and Snowflake); the bunny family, whose babies we were constantly losing then finding again; Simba and Zazoo who made us laugh over and over, even though we were the ones making up the story; and so on. But, like I said, this is probably enough Littlest Pet Shop information for one day.

Ah, good memories.

Rememory Friday

I intend to follow the example of Jennifer at ConversionDiary and institute a special recurring Friday post dedicated to rememories. If you are not familiar with that term, I have composed a definition below.

Rememory: a past event which is not detailed enough to warrant a full post but which is sufficiently memorable to be featured in quicktake-style.

Each Friday will bring with it a rememories post for your reading enjoyment. Now put your hands together and let me hear you cheer for the first installment of rememories ever!

1

The header on this page is a small portion of a painting that hangs in my parents’ house. The artist is my grandmother, Dodie, who passed away in 2007. I have lots of good Grandma Dodie stories for later. She is my favorite artist!

(Note to my parents: Someday, I would like to have that painting, please.)

2

I do not recall a single instance during the preschool years when either Ben or I rode in the car without a sippy cup of juice or water. Mom made it a ritual – get your coat on, get your sippy cup, and (if you were Ben) get your 9-foot bumper pad of a blankie, and we were out the door. On the occasions when we did make it into the car without a sippy cup, we were sure to remind Mom. It didn’t happen very often.

3

All of the aunts on Mom’s side of the family compete often for the title of Favorite Aunt. Family gatherings at which everyone is present are their favorite time to wrap their arms around a niece or nephew and proclaim that they, in fact, are the favorite aunt. Of course, this action merely provokes some other aunt to find another niece or nephew and counter that claim. The uncles stay out of the competition entirely, which is probably wise.

4

Before Ben cared about whether his hair was buzzed, bowl cut or flat topped, Mom used to do his hair cuts. Using an electric trimmer was cheaper and easier – just put him on a stool on the outdoor deck and trim away. The only problem was that Mom did not keep close track of which trimmer head she normally used. The day that she buzzed Ben bald was the last day she tried to trim his hair. A quick call to her sister-in-law, Colleen, was damage control, but once you have buzzed hair down to 1/16th of an inch straight down the center of the scalp, the amount of damage that can be controlled is very limited.

5

At the age of fourteen, my sister Shannon taught a semester-long Latin class to me and several other peers at a home education coop. At the time, both learning Latin at all and having to learn it from my older sister especially seemed like a necessary evil. Now I have to wonder… was it even legal? She did a good job, though – I still remember Ora et Labora, at least.

6

Writing about family memories is interesting. i have thought of several great moments that I would love to catalog here, but I am a little bit nervous about exposing a family member’s hilarious but perhaps embarrassing stories to public scrutiny. I may have to institute an approval process for such memories, and that is fine. My biggest fear is writing about something that I do not think is shameful at all, only to get in trouble for it later. I’ve never liked getting in trouble.

7

For the most part, our childhood playtime was governed very much by gender-specific toys. Ben played with G.I. Joes, and I played with Barbies. By the term “played with”, I mean that we devoted a hugely significant portion of our formative years to these pursuits. The only problem with the strict gender differentiation of our toys was that Ben could not very well play by himself, at least not with any enjoyment. He would therefore beg me to play with him, which I was only willing to do if Barbies could somehow be incorporated. The resulting scenario required a great deal of imagination to pull off: 2.5″ G.I. Joes with subconscious inferiority complexes gallantly defending 10″ Barbies who were more concerned with what to wear to the party than with their own physical safety.

A Preacher’s Proverbs

Grandpa Lloyd was a preacher, through and through. He had started off in life as a business man, but when he felt God’s call on him to preach, he left that field and went straight to Asbury College where he studied to be a minister. Coincidentally, that is where he met the love of his life, whom we call Gram. They served as class chaplains together, which must be code for falling in love, because there has never been anyone else for either of them ever since.

Hughes Auditorium, Asbury College

Most of us grandkids did not get to know Grandpa that well, because he passed away from a heart attack in 1981. However, since all his daughters and Gram quote him frequently, we feel as if we really do know him after all.

Below is an incomplete list of some of Grandpa’s frequent sayings and proverbs. If anyone can think of more of Grandpa’s sayings which I am leaving out, please post a comment here or send an e-mail to memoriesblogger at gmail dot com, and I will add those to the list. A big shout out goes to Mom and Gram who helped me compile this list so far.

A Preacher’s Proverbs

Two can live as cheaply as one, if one of them doesn’t eat.

I don’t care how high you jump or how loud you yell, as long as you walk straight when you hit the ground.

If you don’t want to go to hell, don’t smell like you’ve already been there.

Keep smiling by praying. (that was typed on all his communications – personal and church both)

Blessings on you! (his typical good bye)

Ain’t got no use for the do-das (ladies). (not sure why he always said that, except he had a house full of women and he thought it was funny.)

If you can’t be true to one or two, you’re much better off with three.

Cast your bread on the water and it will come back with butter and jelly on it.

If you walk in the light as He’s in the light, you’ll come out all right.

Don’t be so heavenly minded that you’re no earthly good.

Pumpkin Thief

The rumors are true. I am a thief. Well, was a thief – I have now left my thieving days behind me. But when I was five years old, you had better believe that I was full of thievery.

We spent many autumn days as a family at Huber’s Orchard & Winery (emphasis on the orchard part), feeding animals at the petting zoo, playing on the big playground, and eating in the family restaurant. After one such fun afternoon, we headed to the car. It must have been prime pumpkin season, because the way to the parking lot was lined with wagons of pumpkins – pumpkins of all sizes. I was particularly intrigued by the itty bitty ones, which looked like this:

The pumpkin that drew me into crime

The pumpkin was little enough and cute enough to persuade me to reach out while no one was looking and nab it. I stuffed it right into the pocket of my purple corduroys. Turns out, I was pretty good at this thief business.

Everything was great until I got home and realized that there really is no place to display a stolen pumpkin. So, I did the sensible thing and hid the pumpkin in a drawer. To the victor go the spoils!

My plan worked beautifully until one day Mom came into my room looking for a hair band and delved right into the back of the pumpkin drawer. I will never forget the look she cast me when she pulled the cute little pumpkin out of the drawer and asked me, “Sarah, where did you get this?”

At this point, I had drawn my knees up into a cowering position at the farthest corner of my bed, knowing I was doomed. I confessed everything, of course – if Mom had given you that look, you’d confess too. My punishment? I had to go back to the orchard with Mom a couple of days later to return the pumpkin and ask for forgiveness.

Little did I know, Mom had called ahead to the owner of Huber’s Orchard to inform her of the situation and to let her know that I would be coming to apologize. Oh, and that the owner should be sure not to go too easy on me. Thanks, Mom.

Suffice it to say, the restaurant where we found the owner and where I asked her forgiveness soon became a dramatic stage. Between my tearful confession and the owner’s sermon-like response about God’s forgiveness, we had a room full of a bunch of ladies crying over their deep fried dinner rolls and garden salads. Everyone was crying. And it worked, too, because I haven’t stolen since. Again I say, thanks, Mom.

Wisdom Search

Character Sketches

When I was in early grade school, Mom and Dad decided to enroll the family in the Institute in Basic Life Principles, an organization dedicated to strengthening families and spreading the gospel. One of the requirements of being an IBLP family was to have a daily family devotional time, called Wisdom Search.

Now that I think back on it, the name strikes me as very cheesy, but at the time, it was simply a normative part of life. We would generally read a chapter of Scripture, often Proverbs, and then a chapter from the Character Sketches books or Dad’s latest favorite treatise on Wesleyan holiness. At the end of our devotional time, we would all kneel down at Mom’s big white couch in the living room and pray.

The problem with Wisdom Search was that it had to take place before Dad left for work, and he left for work around 7:00 AM! On top of this, Mom and Dad were very committed to keeping us all healthy and wanted to start the day off by going to the downtown YMCA as often as possible. Many weekday mornings, our parents would rouse us before 5:00 a.m., crowd us into our seven-passenger van, and force us to work bleary-eyed through a workout at the Y. Then it was back home to get dressed and meet for Wisdom Search in ten minutes.

By the time we sat down to search for wisdom together, Shannon was usually mad as hops, and Ben was perfecting his ability to sleep without looking like he was asleep. That left me, the pleaser, to try to jump in and answer all Dad’s many, many questions throughout Wisdom Search until I became resentful of my siblings’ cop-outs. Then we would all get quiet. Fortunately, that was about the time to finish off with prayer anyway. We all secretly hoped for Dad to volunteer to do all the praying at the end.

After we grew up and our schedules changed, we began to refer to that white couch as the family altar. Several confessions, encouraging words, and heartfelt petitions emerged while we knelt there. Even though we now say “Wisdom Search” with a bit of a tone, we are grateful to have the memory of it (unless you ask Aaron, who joined us for many of them but, to my knowledge, does not consider that to be a happy memory!)

I do not know whether IBLP still requires family Wisdom Searches or not, and I do not know whether my family will participate in them some day, but I did want to jot this part of my family development. At least we know that if any of us kids do institute Wisdom Searches for our families in the future, Mom and Dad still have the Character Sketches for us to use.

1 Favorite Thing + 1 Favorite Thing = A New Blog

I love stories. When I was little, I used to beg my mom and dad to tell me stories from their childhood. I remember the thrill of hearing Mom say she had remembered a new story to tell us, and I never tired of hearing repeats of old ones. She cultivated a real love of memory-telling in me.

Now that I am grown up, that love of stories has grown right along with me. I realized I had a problem when I saw I could study straight through fifteen minutes of football but got completely distracted by commercials. Never mind that I have no real interest in seeing a woman dance giddily with a Swiffer duster – I had to see how it would turn out anyway.

When I started dating my now husband, John, he pointed out to me another passion I did not know I had. He got the impression right away that I love to relive memories. Maybe it was my incessant chatter about my childhood… He was a wonderful listening ear for me and still is. However, it is time for me to combine two of my favorite things – storytelling and remembering – into an online outlet.

First, a few rules of the blog are in order and are as follows:

1. I will use only first names of family members. Can’t have the public Googling us all the time, can we?
2. I will only tell stories of events that are at least a year old. This is not a diary, and this is my foolproof method to keep it that way.
3. Any family members who stumble across a post they don’t appreciate are welcome to let me know, at which point I will remove the offending information immediately. I want to avoid becoming the family black sheep at all costs.
4. This isn’t much of a rule – more like an invitation. Guest posts and story suggestions from family are always welcome. Any personal stories are welcomed as comments or e-mails (the address is memoriesblogger at Gmail).

I’m super excited to get started. Let the memory fun begin!