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Rootin’ Tootin’ Valentine
The best most memorable Valentine I ever got was from Billy Sucow in the second grade. It looked something like this:
And said “Cowgirl, you’re terrific!”
Being the daughter of a “real cowboy”, I remember feeling so impressed. After all, how was Billy to know I was half-cowgirl?
What Valentines do you remember?
A Whirlwind Romance, Part 7: Free Love
Catch up on the rest of the story here.
The next week was busy. I awoke early each morning and got myself down to the local college campus by 6:00 am. We had a tent set up there from which we would be preparing and serving the food for all 3500 conference attendees. My first job of the day was to turn on all of the ovens. From there I wiped down the tables, restocked the utensils and napkins, and began brewing coffee. Lots of coffee.
The conference was for distributors of a super-blue green algae nutritional supplement. And might I say, they were a tiny bit delusional strange different? Apparently, the local lake was the only place in the United States where this particular brand of algae was found, which drew these people in like some sort of hippie mecca. They frolicked in the nasty green scum at the edge of the lake and celebrated by having t-shirts made: “I swam naked in the algae today!” They smeared the goo on their faces and arms. They wore macrame halter-tops. (At least some of them did.)
Now this was back in 1995. Organic food was still a fringe idea. Most people hadn’t heard of free-range chickens or fair-trade chocolate. But these people had. Some of their dietary requests were new ideas to those of us serving them, but we adapted. The group was about 25% vegan, hence the large quantities of coffee. I’m not sure they ate anything that week other than coffee with soy milk and turbinado sugar, and super-blue green algae straight from the lake.
Now that I am older, wiser and more familiar with alternative food choices I have to say these people weren’t just vegans, they were super-vegans. Super blue-green vegans!
But you don’t care about that, you’re here for romance, right? It’s coming…
Breakfast began at 7:00 am. We finished serving dinner at 8:30 pm. I worked open to close with a two hour break in the middle of the afternoon. I wisely used this time to call W, write him love letters that I had no intention of delivering, and to plan our future.
Let’s see…it’s August now. We’ll say “I love you” in about a month. He’ll propose at Christmas and we’ll get married in the spring. I know that’s rushing things a bit, but when it’s right, it’s right.
The last day of the conference we set up a buffet picnic in the park. It was a beautiful day, hot but not too hot, with clear blue skies. Once the meal was prepared and people were serving themselves I found myself with a bit of free time. I sat down on a blanket to relax and soak up some vitamin D.
That’s when W drove up. I had decided to sell my car to my sister and he drove the 250 miles to pick me up. And pick me up he did! When he saw me, he raced up and grabbed me into a feet-off-the-ground hug and a kiss that causes several blue-greeners to burst into spontaneous applause.
It was good to be together again.
He hung out for the rest of the picnic, helping where he could, and then we headed back to my sister’s for the night. Julie spent part of the evening getting to know him before slipping off to bed early. Thanks, Jules!
We rented an unromantic movie, “Guarding Tess” with Nicolas Cage and Shirley MacLaine. Perfect for not really watching…
There we were, together on the couch with me leaning back into his chest and his arms wrapped around me. His lips softly brushed the top of my head and he whispered, “Heidi, I love you.” I turned to look at him and was touched to see tears in his eyes. His voice cracked a bit as he continued, “I’ve never said that to a girl before, but I do. I love you.”
Somehow, I was able to speak past the lump in my throat and reply, “I love you, too.”
H + W = Love
We not-watched the rest of the movie and then said goodnight. My brother-in-law was out out of town, so I quietly slipped into bed beside my sister. I tried not to wake her, but she stirred and groggily asked, “How was the movie?”
“Julie, he said he loved me.”
“Oh, that’s nice…” and she drifted back to sleep, unaware of what I had really said. But I lay awake for awhile, thinking.
He loves me.
To be continued…
A Whirlwind Romance, Part 6: A Gift
The story starts here:
Parts One and Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
My stomach was doing flip-flops, and not because of dinner.
W brought a little hibachi grill to the beach and had used it to prepare a delicious meal; Teriyaki Chicken, in case you were wondering. I hadn’t been nervous while we were occupied with eating. Between bites, we talked about our families, movies we liked, and what we hated about our jobs.
Now full, we both leaned back on our blanket and watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. Fluffy pink clouds drifted lazily in in the golden sky, but I could not relax. A cool breeze blew off the water, but I was sure that it was not the cause of my goosebumps. The surf pounded on the shore, but I could scarcely hear it over the pounding of my heart.
I was sitting on a deserted beach at sunset with my boyfriend. It was incredibly romantic. Hence my nerves. This was a prime setting for our first kiss. I knew it was coming. He probably knew that I knew it was coming, and yet it didn’t come. The conversation died down as the sky darkened and the stars began to wink on.
My mind raced.
Maybe he doesn’t want to kiss me yet. He might want to take it slow. But he already asked me to be his girlfriend, that’s not very slow. Maybe I have bad breath. But we both ate the same thing. Oh no, what if I have BO?! That’s it! I probably have BO and he’s grossed out and he regrets asking me to be his girlfriend and he only asked because I was stupid enough to bring up my little niece and nephew’s dumb little argument and he only wanted to be friends in the first place but now we’ve gone and ruined it and he’s trying to think about what to do abou-
“Heidi, what are you thinking about?”
“Me? Nothing. I was just noticing the first few stars coming out. Aren’t they beautiful?”
“Yeah, they are.” But he wasn’t looking at the stars, he was looking at me. “You should make a wish.”
“I wish you would kiss me.” Dang it! Did I say that out loud? This was becoming a bad habit.
But then I couldn’t think anymore because he was leaning toward me, his gorgeous green eyes on mine. I could feel his warm breath on my face and I leaned in a bit and closed my eyes. Then his lips were on mine, soft and hesitant…
Much later in the evening, we packed up the blanket and he drove me home. After kissing goodnight one last time on my doorstep, I crept in the house. I quietly tiptoed past the sleeping forms of my nieces and nephew camping out on the living room floor.
Such little angels.
W saw each other every night over the next week. I was going to need to stock up on chapstick. When I was with him, everything seemed right, like I had found a part of myself I didn’t even know was missing. But each night, when I came home, I was a mess of confusion. I had had a couple of boyfriends before, even once believing that I was in love.
But I had never felt anything as powerful as I was now feeling for W. Except, it was too soon. We had only known each other for two months, only dating for one week. I couldn’t be in love, not now. Not yet. Even so, I couldn’t deny what was happening.
It was wonderful, exhilarating, and frightening.
So each night I poured my heart out in prayer asking for guidance, wisdom, and courage. And asking to understand just what in the world was happening to me. The only answer I received was a feeling of peace which carried me through until the end of the next night’s date.
At the end of that first week, W and I had to say goodbye, but only for about a week. My sister worked for a bed and breakfast that was going to be catering a large convention. They would be feeding 3500 people three meals a day for five days. I agreed to drive down and do some waitressing.
My sister lived about 250 miles from me, a good four hour drive. I planned to leave right after work; W came in to say goodbye shortly before my shift ended. When I walked out to my car I noticed that he had placed a dozen roses on the windshield with a note that simply read “I’ll miss you.”
Before I even reached the interstate, I was sobbing. There was simply too much emotion in my heart. I cried for over an hour as I drove along. Finally, I pulled to the shoulder and prayed.
“Dear Father in Heaven, what is wrong with me? Why am I crying? And what is this thing with W?”
The answer came to my heart. “It is a gift.”
At that moment, all of the turmoil I was experiencing ceased. I got back on the interstate with a light heart and practically flew the rest of the way to my sister’s house. When I arrived, I was so excited that I jumped out of the car and ran up her sidewalk. My heart raced as I pounded on the door and when she opened it I screamed, “Julie, I’m getting married!”
She grabbed me into a hug and screamed back, “To W? What?! When did he ask you?”
“He hasn’t yet. But he will.”
To be continued next week…
My Whirlwind Romance, Part 5: Naughty, Naughty
Don’t miss a single moment:
Parts One and Two
Part Three
Part Four
Remember how I told you that my social calendar was practically bursting with dates? Well, oddly enough, after the big double-date, my schedule completely freed up.
The surfer at work? New schedules came out and we didn’t have a day off together for the next month.
The cute fireman? His dad called to cancel our second date. The poor guy had to have an emergency appendectomy but didn’t want to stand me up.
Suddenly, I had nothing but time. And I knew who I wanted to spend it with.
A few days later, W came over to hang out.
At this point I knew I liked him.
And I knew he liked me.
But I didn’t know what that meant.
It was time to show him my fancy panties.
At least that’s what my visiting little nieces and nephew must have thought because they smuggled a pair out of my dresser drawer and…
Cut back to me and W in the front yard, washing my car. (What? I didn’t want him to get bored and my car was dirty.)
We hear the front door opening, giggling, and… wild, frenzied barking?
Suddenly, out runs Dudley, my family’s crazy terrier, and he’s acting even crazier than ever. He’s running, rolling in the grass and snapping at his tail. Only he couldn’t get to his tail because it was covered by, yup you guessed it, my fancy panties!
Indecent Incident reenacted by Shasta
I was mortified, mor-ti-fied! I squealed, dropped my soapy wash mitt, and started chasing that dog. The problem was he didn’t appear to want to be caught.
I went left; he went right.
I zigged; he zagged.
I ran; he ran faster.
Finally, I cornered him by the rose buses. And then I grabbed my his those panties and started to pull them off. Only, they weren’t exactly empty.
Ewww!
No, it’s not that.
It’s much weirder.
I started to pull them off and out jumped a bullfrog!
A huge, bulgy-eyed, very relieved bullfrog. In my fancy panties. On the dog.
(Confidential aside: Welcome to my blog google pervs. Please consider getting some therapy. Thank you.)
I screamed. W laughed. Really hard.
But I was in a pickle – should I laugh too? Or follow my instincts and go beat the living tar out of those children.
I decided to laugh, not only because it was funny, but more importantly, because I really liked him and I wanted him to think I’d make a good mother someday.
Oh yes, I had it that bad.
But don’t think for a moment that those terrible, rotten, nasty, and oh-so-creative kids were off the hook. I just held back my wrath until W went home.
[insert evil laugh here]
The next day W and I went on our first official date. When he came to the door to pick me up, who should greet him but two of the tricksters from the day before. This should be good.
Niece, right in front of W: “Aunt Hei-di! Your boyfriend is he-ere!”
Nephew: “He is not her boyfriend!” (My nephew was five, adorable, and hopelessly in love with me. He was planning on buying me a “white dress with diamonds” and marrying me when he grew up. The idea of me having a boyfriend was highly offensive to him.)
Niece: Yes he is!
Nephew: “NO HE IS NOT HER BOYFRIEND, STUPID-HEAD!”
Me: [highly embarrassed blush as I slink out the door]
Between the two incidents, the one with the dog was actually less horrifying. I mean, W wasn’t my boyfriend. I might want him to be… maybe. But did he want me to be his girlfriend? Just a few days ago we were H + W = BFF. Were we ready for just H + W ?
I got in the car and we set out on another long drive, this time to the beach. We listened to the radio and made small talk as he drove, but all the while I was silently praying “please don’t bring up my bratty little relatives…please don’t bring up my bratty little relatives…”
And then I opened my mouth to say something, I don’t know what, but not this, “So, did you hear my little niece and nephew arguing about if you were my boyfriend or not?”
Wha-? Did I just say that out loud?
He was kind of quiet for a moment.
Why did I say that?!
He wasn’t looking at me.
Was I insane?!
Finally, he spoke. Keeping his eyes on the road, W quietly asked me, “Who was right?”
Oh. My. I think that even my toes might have been blushing as I replied, “I don’t know.”
And then he reached over, took my hand and said, “Heidi, will you be my girlfriend?”
I answered with a brilliantly phrased, “Okay.”
But my smile? It was speaking volumes.
To be continued tomorrow (spoiler: first kiss coming up)…
**No frogs or dogs were injured in the events described. The children, however? They got an earful. And my thanks.**
My Whirlwind Romance – Part Four: Stolen Away
Need to catch up on the story?
Parts One and Two
Part Three
Meanwhile, W was having his own problems with the opposite sex. As these things usually do, it all started with a simple question.
“So, having spent the last two years without dating, I’ll bet you’re looking for a girlfriend, aren’t you?”
Isn’t that an obnoxious question? It was asked by an equally obnoxious girl; we’ll just call her K, shall we?
Concerned that she might be applying for the job, W answered, “Me? No, not looking for a girlfriend. I’m only looking to hang out and have fun. I’m planning on just dating. A lot.”
That seems like a good answer right? Well this girl was crafty.
“Who do you want to date?”
“No one in particular. Anyone, really.”
Can you see the corner the poor guy had painted himself into? Well, he didn’t, until…
“So W, how about me?”
That is how we both came to be stuck with dates we didn’t want.
Oh wait, I didn’t know about my big night yet, did I?
When I left you yesterday, J had told W about his intentions, but I was in the dark.
Until W, like a good BFF (to me), spilled the beans.
“What?! You’re kidding! He wants to plan a big special evening and ask me to be his girlfriend? What are we, fourth graders?
“I’m not going. I can’t go! But what will I tell him? I heard about your plan and I’m not really interested? I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
In hindsight, that actually would have been the kindest thing to do, but remember, I was only 19 and pretty inexperienced with this kind of thing. Instead, I begged W to double with us, figuring I’d let J down easy on a different day. A day when he wasn’t scheming to spring a huge relationship question on me.
Somehow W was able to convince an unhappy J that we should double. After all, he didn’t want to be alone with K either.
I had to work the afternoon of the big date but had plans to go shoe shopping with my BFF after work.
As a sidenote: the shoes were for him, not me. And they were tasseled loafers. I had never spent time with a loafer-guy before. I was more of a boot-guy kind of girl. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
Anyway, the shoe shopping took longer than expected and I was in danger of being late for J.
W to the rescue again. He simply called J and arranged for us to pick him up. He wasn’t too happy to hear that we were hanging out together again, but what could we do?
W drove to pick up J first, then K. When he walked to her door, leaving me and J in the car, J told me that we were going ice skating before dinner.
“Oh, um… that sound like fun.”
But it didn’t. It sounded like torture. I am not exactly what one would call graceful. I had tried ice skating a couple of times and let’s just say, if we happened to run into Tanya Harding, I wouldn’t be in any danger.
Just then I noticed W helping K to the car. Helping her, because she was on crutches! She had sprained her ankle the day before, but didn’t say anything because she didn’t want W to have a reason to cancel. Oops! I guess that means no ice skating.
But when she heard the ice skating plan, she was all for it.
“That sounds like fun! I might not be able to skate, but I’d love to go anyway. I don’t mind just watching.”
If she was hoping that W would sit on the bench beside her, she would have to get used to disappointment. He thought skating sounded great. Oh joy.
On the hour-long ride into the city, J and I experienced our typical awkward silence. No matter, W and I had lots to talk about. BFFs! We weren’t trying to be rude to our dates, it just felt natural for us to connect with each other. We never ran out of things to say.
And then I realized, I was sparking.
Not for J, but for W.
My tasseled-shoe wearing BFF.
I liked him.
I like liked him!
And it looked like he liked me too.
Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones who noticed. By the time we got to the rink, J had decided to sit on the bench and keep K (and her crutches) company while I laced up my skates and took to the ice with W.
Miracle of miracles! I could skate. With W at my side, I gracefully glided across the ice like I was born to it…
…for about three seconds, and then that stupid toe kick got in my way and I fell. No matter. Now that that was out of the way, things were sure to go better. Minding my toe-kick, I tried again. This time I actually got some speed going before a spectacular wipe out in a patch of melted ice. So much for trying to stay dry.
W was so sweet, helping me up and not even laughing much at me.
The next seventh time I fell, I had had enough. I complained to W that I had done nothing all night but fall and that it was ungentlemanly of him to stay on his skates. My pride demanded that he fall too.
“So won’t you please fall? For me?”
“Fall for you? Maybe I already did.” And then he skated away.
When he circled back, I whispered, “Hey, who’s on the date here, anyway?”
He glanced over at poor J and K who were glumly sitting on opposite sides of a bench, not talking to each other, and replied, “You and me.”
He was right…we consider that our first date.
Please don’t be hard on us for our treatment of J and K. We really didn’t mean to be rude. And contrary to the way it may appear, W never intended to try and steal me away (as if I belonged to J in the first place). He just enjoyed spending time with me. He liked the easy way we got along, that’s why he kept coming back to have lunch with me (or take me shoe shopping). And though we occasionally engaged in some innocent flirting, neither one of realized that we had feelings beyond friendship for each other until that night. Poor timing, maybe, but it all works out in the end.
Stay tuned.
More tomorrow…
My Whirlwind Romance Part Three: Engaged Before Our First Date
Read Parts One and Two of My Whirlwind Romance here.
Just like that, the cloud I had been living over seemed to dissolve. School and work were going well. I was making new friends. And suddenly, guys started to notice me.
Perhaps it was because I was no longer silently screaming “Are you talking to me, freak?”
Suddenly, I had gone from no plans to a full calendar.
A co-worker set me up on a blind date with a cute fireman.
A guy in the car stereo installation shop was planning to teach me to surf on our next day off together.
And J and I had gone out on a handful of dates.
He was cute. He had a real job – a police officer. He was sweet and nice and he really liked me. That’s why I couldn’t figure out why I felt nothing when we spent time together. Maybe I just hadn’t given him enough of a chance…
In addition to all the flirting dating, I was steadily developing another relationship.
A great friendship.
That guy from the dance, (let’s just call him W, shall we?) started coming in to buy CDs and look at car stereo equipment, just about everyday – right before my break. We got to know each other over daily lunches.
I didn’t have to try to come up with things to talk about. We just talked…or we didn’t and that was okay, too. When there was silence, it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. I found myself telling him things I’d never told anyone before, things that you would only tell your best friend.
W + Heidi = BFF
Everyday at lunch, I would ask him when he was going to let me drive his car. It was a running joke with us. He had just bought a new blah-blah-blah, whatever and he was quite proud of it. So of course, I started asking him to let me drive it. I didn’t really care, I just liked watching him squirm.
The first few times, he uncomfortably mumbled something about his insurance. But one day, he came up with an answer that silenced my questioning. That day, W told me that the only person he’d let drive this car would be a family member. His mom, dad, brother…a wife.
We both cracked up, joking about a girl who would marry a guy just to drive his car.
That must be some kind of girl!
That must be some kind of car!
It was even funnier when the kitchen sent out a little congratulatory dessert.
For our impending marriage.
I had an acquaintance that worked at the restaurant. An acquaintance that apparently misunderstood what he had overheard.
Red faced, I laughingly explained that we were just friends.
And then he asked me out.
I was becoming entirely too popular.
All of these other dates couldn’t fail to come to the attention of J. We were obviously not exclusive. And our time together was not physical; we never went beyond hand holding. In fact, the only difference between a date with him and lunch with W was the awkwardness that happened on a date.
Shortly after my and W’s ‘engagement lunch” J asked me to go into the city with him. His exact words were, “Heidi, I have to go to Portland later this week. Want to go?” I assumed I was accompanying him on an errand, and agreed. I thought I’d hang out with him one last time, to see if there was a spark. Or even a spark of a spark.
I might have thought this was just an ordinary date, just like the others, but J had other plans. He told W that he felt it was time to move things along with me. He was going to plan an entire evening of special events. At the end of the night, he was going to ask me to stop seeing other guys and be his girlfriend.
To be continued tomorrow…
Romantic Recap
It’s Valentine’s week and love is in the air, causing flushed cheeks, sweaty palms, shortness of breath, and incoherent thinking.
On second thought, maybe it’s a virus.
GW has a fever and is having to miss her co-op’s Valentine’s Party today. And I will be nursing her back to heath with Gatorade and Harry Potter. (We only have about 100 pages left until the end of book number four.)
But as promised, this week will be the week that I finish sharing all the sordid details of the beginnings of my love affair with Mr. Frantic.
However, today is like one of those recap shows where you don’t learn anything new, but you hope watch anyway. It’s been so long since I posted part one and two of my story, that I decided to repost them today. New dirt details tomorrow.
A Whirlwind Romance: Part 1
I was nineteen. The past few years had been spent in the painful chrysalis of trying to figure out who I was. I made mistakes. And I suffered.
It had taken some time and a badly broken heart, but I learned that I was a daughter of God and He loves me. That knowledge was everything. I started behaving more like it.
One warm May evening in 1995 I decided to go to a church dance. I don’t know why I wanted to go. Because even though I had decided to make Christ a part of my life, I still had some misgivings about the other people my age at church. The girls seemed cliquish and the guys were weird. Really weird. And nerdy. And weird.
I did not like them.
So no one was more surprised than I was when I started getting ready to go to this dance. I carefully picked out my outfit. One that said, “I’m cute, friendly, and not interested in any of you weirdos.”
In case you are wondering an outfit like that looks like, I lay it out for you:
Black Doc Martins, faded Gap jeans, and a sheer short-sleeved sweater with a modest black tank underneath.
Oh yeah, and a scowl.
So the Princess left for the Ball.
And it was bad.
Bad dancing. (Think Elaine from Seinfeld)
Bad music. (YMCA again?)
Bad food. (Store bought cookies still in their plastic cases)
Bad. Bad. Bad.
Here is where some well-meaning older adult would tell me that “Fun is an attitude, not an event” and I would punch them in the throat.
Or at least sigh and roll my eyes.
Did I mention that even though I had learned who I was, I was still dealing with some issues?
I felt like the girl that gets invited to a party because the birthday-girl’s mother made her. Everyone acts like they want the girl there, but she knows the truth.
Honestly, the people at my church were probably quite nice, but I was really insecure. I was trying to reject them before they had a chance to reject me.
And it was working out quite well. Thankyouverymuch.
I was standing by the table of chocolate chip cookies and red punch when someone introduced me to Mr. Frantic. He was newly returned from serving a two-year mission.
A mission where he did not date or even flirt with girls. Where he did not watch tv. Or listen to the radio. Or read anything other than scripture and scripture commentary.
He devoted every waking minute to God’s work for two years.
The poor guy had been home for less than a week and he was feeling really awkward at his “reentry” into real life.
I could have been gracious. I could have helped him to feel welcome and comfortable. But before I could say a word, the thought went through my mind, “I wonder if this is the guy I’ll end up marrying?”
I have to tell you, I was not in the habit of thinking about marriage.
I was nineteen for heaven sake!
I had plans. Plans that included moving away from my parent’s home. Travel. Finishing up at the local community college and moving on the university. Preferably one far away.
And not BYU.
My plans did not include getting married anytime soon. Nope. Not me.
And so that little matrimonial thought poisoned me against my new acquaintance. I barely spoke to him. We each came away from that first encounter with a less than favorable impression of the other.
I thought he was annoying. He thought I was obnoxious.
Can’t you see how the seeds of love were planted?
Me either.
Part 2
At this time in my life I was busy pursuing both a fine education (general studies at the local community college) and a career (customer service rep at Circuit City). On Sundays I attended a college ward (LDS terminology alert: ward = congregation) for young singles. It was not really going well. Remember how I mentioned that I had a bit of an attitude? To my intense surprise, my prickly personality had not won me any friends. I was considering whether I should continue going there or go back to my parents’ ward (snore).
Politically incorrect sidenote: Growing up, it was the standard joke that all of the people in my parents’ ward were either short, fat or mentally impaired. Thankfully, I’m only 5′1″.
One afternoon at work I received my schedule and noticed that I was supposed to work the following Sunday afternoon. That meant that I would be unable to attend either ward. But I really did want to go to church. By a series of odd coincidences I ended up in a ward way across town. I had never been there and didn’t know anyone that attended there, but it met in the morning and I could go and still get to work on time. So I went.
I sat in the back, feeling slightly awkward. A few people smiled at me but I didn’t know what to say so I buried my head in the program. Hmmm…I noticed a familiar name. That one guy from the dance, my future husb- shut up! would be speaking that day – reporting back on his mission.
A I listened to him speak I realized that he was really a nice guy. And he seemed so confident, so sure of himself, which was exactly the opposite of what I felt. I felt bad for being so snotty to him when we met.
After the service, he saw me leaving the chapel. He caught up to me a grabbed me by the hand.
“Heidi, what are you doing here? Do you go to this ward?”
“Um, no I have to work this afternoon and- actually it’s really a long, boring story. I liked your talk. Welcome home.”
I guess he was excited to see a young familiar face. He dragged me over to meet his family: his parents and older brother. I really didn’t mind, they seemed nice. I felt strange. What was this feeling? The opposite of awkward, comfortable…
The next Sunday I went back to my college ward.
I walked in and no one said hello.
I sat in the back, alone.
What was I doing there?
I said a quick, sort of demanding silent prayer.
Hey, Heavenly Father?
I’m here because I thought this might be where you wanted me to be. And yes, I admit I haven’t tried quite as hard as I should, but still…I’ve been coming for months and I’m not even sure the bishop knows my name, let alone any of the people my age. I’ve committed to follow you, and I will. I know it won’t always be easy, but I can’t take much more of this. If you want me here you’ve got to throw me a bone. Here’s what I need: a friend. Just one would be enough. Oh, and I’d like to feel like I belong here please. Today. Or I’m never coming back. I guess I’ll join all the short/fat/impaired people and my parents…
Before I could finish the bishop came up and said, “Heidi, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Could you meet me in my office after church for a few minutes? I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Um, okay.”
And then that guy from the dance walked in and said, “Why are you sitting here all alone? Come sit with me and my friends.” So I did.
That day I met his friend, J. J was nice and cute. So of course I said yes when he asked me out. Could be fun, right?
Stay tuned…
View from the Bottom Bunk
I remember sharing bunk beds with my older brother. Our beds were able to covert from two separate beds to a single bunk bed by means of holes drilled in the head and foot boards. When stacked, one on top of the other, wooden dowels were placed in the holes to hold the two beds together. Those half-inch pegs were the only things keeping the top bunk from toppling off and crushing the life from anyone unfortunate enough to be in its path. Miraculously they held, though we did our best to break them.
The top bunk belonged to my brother, by rights of seniority. I jealously coveted both his ability to touch the ceiling with his toes and the satisfying boom his leap from bed made when he hit the floor each morning.
Our radio sat firmly on the window ledge were we both could reach it, though he was the self-designated only one allowed to change the station. A job he took upon himself and performed with reckless abandon – turning the dial from Magic107 to Z100. And back.
We had no ladder. The slats on the bottom head board provided enough of a boost to enable small bodies to haul themselves up top. There was no safety railing either. My brother kept rolling out of his bed onto the floor, but didn’t so much as get a bruise. However, my mom – as all moms will, worried about him someday injuring himself with this nocturnal free-falling. She decided to put a stop to it by placing a chair next to the bed. Looking back she is unable to explain why she thought this to be a good idea. The next time he fell out of bed, he hit the chair and broke his clavicle. He never rolled out again, so perhaps we could count the chair-plan as a success.
My spot on the bottom was not totally without perks, and not without its own perils. I could tuck a sheet into the top mattress, letting it hang down and turn my bed into a private island. Or a tent in the jungle. Or a curtain on a stage.
And, at night, when my jealousy over my brother’s lofty perch hit a peak, I could brace my feet on his mattress and heave, bumping him several feet, or miles, or even a few inches into the air. Lucky for me the lone brave two-by-four that braced up his mattress was strong enough to withstand all that my eight year old legs could dish out.
Take that, top-bunk!
Girl Wonder had been asking for bunk beds, but in this current economy, we just couldn’t justify buying one for our only child. Then last week, a friend from church offered us a bunk bed her children have outgrown and we jumped at the chance.
It is red, which does not go with her room at all – but I plan to spray paint it in the backyard this spring. A friend and I set it up on Thursday while Mr. Frantic was at work and GW has been on the top bunk ever since. We even did our history lesson up there on Friday.
I hope she remembers her bunk bed as fondly as I remember mine.
Even without the obnoxious older brother.
Rerun
With all the winter weather going on around here, I thought this might be a good time to repost my very first ever Frantically Simple post, from way back in January.
Enjoy!
Better is Not Always Better
One evening last week, my husband and I picked up our seven year old daughter from a friend’s house. She had spent the afternoon playing and then stayed for dinner. (Why is it that someone else’s fish sticks always taste better than mine?)
Anyway, she came home later than usual. We pulled up to the driveway after eight o’clock.
Eight o’clock is a special time of night. Eight o’clock is bedtime for my girl and me time.
For me.
Mine.
Get it?
(Well, sometimes I do share it with my husband. I’m not entirely selfish you know.)
I was all ready to rush the little one up the stairs to bed so I could settle my self on the couch with Jane Austen, but then something happened. I looked out the car window.
The recent snow lay on our little hill glittering in the moonlight. I turned my head to the porch and there was the abandoned sled.
Just that morning we had spent twenty minutes stuffing ourselves into our snow gear. Her pinky had refused to go into its own slot in her gloves. It preferred to double up with her ring finger and I had to remove her glove and try again several times before it would be coaxed into being alone. Then her hat made her head itch. Her boots were hard to put on and her sock had a wrinkle. All the while a new snow was outside beckoning, and we were inside getting increasingly frustrated with the scarf stuck in the jacket zipper.
Once we finally (angrily) got outside there were only a few minutes left to play before having to go back in, un-gear and head off to the day’s must-dos. The sled was left on the porch. Mom and daughter were thoroughly unsatisfied.
When I was a little girl growing up in Oregon, snow was a magical rarity, maybe two or three times a winter. I did not own a stitch of snow clothes. In order to keep our feet dry in our hand-me-down tennis shoes, my mom gave my brothers and I saved bread bags to put on over our socks. When our jeans got too wet and we were freezing we came into the house for some mothering.
Our home had no fireplace so we dragged the kitchen chairs to the oven. My mom would crank it up to about 300 degrees and put folded towels on the open door. There we would prop our frozen toes to thaw while we sipped hot cocoa. Once we were warm and dry, we’d slip those bread bags back on and head out for more cold, wet fun.
We made snow angels without snow pants. We made snowmen and had icicle sword fights without gloves. Sure it was cold. I remember my hands stinging when I came in the house. But I did not die; I didn’t even catch a cold. And I still had fun. My daughter has every cold weather comfort item out there, but somehow they seem to detract from rather than add to the experience.
And so this brings us back to the car and me looking out the window at that moonlight hill. The little girl in me woke up and said “C’mon woman, Jane Austen has been around for 200 hundred years, but this moment will be over in a second. Let’s play!”
I got my confused child out of the car in her capris and mary-janes and we grabbed the sled. It was amazing. The darkness seemed to add to the thrill of the ride. Sledding our tiny front yard hill was no longer ordinary; it was a mysterious, exotic adventure. We came in the house half an hour later, wet, cold, and laughing.
As she got ready for bed, my daughter kept asking me, “Mom, why did you let me do that?”
I guess I just remembered for a minute what it feels like to be a kid. And in this overstressed and over scheduled world, I want to make sure she knows too.
P.S. I’m happy to report that since the original publication both my writing and GW’s clothing issues have improved. She is now quite content to gear up for cold weather fun. And I am just as content to let her get cold on those occasions that she just doesn’t want to.
Mama’s Kitchen
My mom is not a good cook.
Growing up, a typical family meal (or should I say the typical family meal, since it was served at least twice a week?) consisted of a shriveled baked potato, burned-to-a-crisp hamburger patty, canned green beans and white bread with margarine.
Oh yes, and milk gravy for the potato.
Never heard of it? Lucky you. Here’s the recipe. Basically, you add milk and flour to your hamburger grease and boil until thick.
To drink, we had Kool-Aid, usually cherry, in plastic tupperware glasses that always felt a little slick from years of washing in the same sink as the milk-gravy pan.
Good times.
Also included in my mom’s recipe repertoire were such favorites as:
Hamburger Casserole – all the basic ingredients of the typical dinner but with added cream of mushroom soup and cheddar cheese
Hamburger Tomato Soup – home canned tomato soup with hamburger and elbow macaroni
Mock Fried Rice – white Minute Rice with crumbled hamburger, onion and tomato.
Raise your hand if you are sensing a theme.
She also made what she called Tuna Fish Rarebit – creamed tuna on toast. Gag.
(On the other hand, her cinnamon rolls were excellent and I’ve never been able to duplicate her yummy pie crust.)
She did not have The Joy of Cooking. I’m talking about both the cookbook and the emotion. My mom had just had too many years of what-am-I-going-to-make-for-dinner-tonight-with-hardly-any-money-too-many-kids-and-a-meat-and-potatoes-man-to-feed. Cleaning the bathroom was less drudgery to her. But, thanks to her efforts we never went hungry.
Unless we chose to.
Twelve years ago, on my first Thanksgiving as a bonafide grown-up married lady I offered to cook the entire meal. Because I wanted to enjoy eating it.
I hadn’t really learned how to cook at home, but I wasn’t worried. I knew I could follow a recipe and had some natural aptitude.
And everyone’s standards were really low.
The meal turned out pretty well and a new tradition was born. For the next three years, I prepared the feast in our tiny apartment kitchen and transported to either my parent’s or my in-law’s, whichever set of parents we were spending the holiday with. When we bought our first house, we began inviting both sets of parents to eat with us.
My mom was always the most unintentional entertaining guest. One year she wore a blonde wig she had found at a garage sale. She declared that it made her feel bea-u-ti-ful! It might have looked fine if it wasn’t on sideways…
And so our holiday went for the first nine years of our married life. I loved bustling around the kitchen, listening to the parade on tv, and bossing Mr. Frantic around. I love preparing a big meal and sharing it with my family.
But then we moved 3000 miles away. And I felt like Thanksgiving was a bit depressing without extra people to cook for. So for the next three years, I didn’t cook.
One year we went to a hotel restaurant and felt like losers. Most of the people there were with large extended families. They sat at large tables in the center of the dining room. Scattered about the edge of the room were medium sized tables with families of five or six people. Then, wedged in by the kitchen doors or way over by the bathrooms were a few small tables for our family of three and one or two old people dining alone. I was tempted to ask those lone diners to join us and pretend to be our family, but then we’d have to move to a bigger table. And they were all full of happy shiny people.
The other two years we went on vacation. And we ate at restaurants, but we were surrounded by other vacationers, several of whom were probably escaping their extended family gatherings, so our little family didn’t seem so pathetic, pitiable, unloved, unusual. It was actually fun.
This year, we are back home in Oregon and I am really looking forward to cooking the big meal. GW is excited to help; she wants to learn to be a really good “cooker”.
I’m trying to pass on what I know, but she’ll need to ask grandma for help with pie crust.
And milk gravy.
Once upon a time there was a Heidi…
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