I received some news recently that hit me in a way that was unexpected and yet expected. We all expect that some day those that are close to us will have their phone call from a doctor that rocks their world. We all expect the devastation at the simple thought of that person leaving us to this world. We expect the depredation of sickness (in this case, cancer). But no matter how much we expect, we are thrust into the cliched realization that life is short, and it's never the right moment to stare at its starkness, that sucker punch. When it's a person dear to your life, it's hard to imagine living here on earth without them, and you want them to know what they have meant to you. In this specific case, I have spent a good bit of time reflecting on the life of my beautiful Aunt Cindy and her influence on my life. She is facing the monster of cancer, and this is my moment to express to her how great of an impact she has had on my life. If you know her, you know she is amazing. If you don't, let me tell you about her.
There are people in this life we are blessed to call family. Some members of our families influence us by their strictness, or their quirkiness, or their simplicity, or any other number of ways. Aunt Cindy gently influences by just living and doing her best to live well. She leads a creative life; searching for meaning, adventuring, and loving those around her. Everything I know about my creative life came from her, seeing beauty in the small, aesthetic things... flowers and floral arrangements, flowing design for parties or weddings, that masterful meringue on her chocolate pie that no one in this world can even hope to duplicate, that small, elegant stitch of embroidery on a pillow, the preparation and presentation of delectable Chinese food, that teapot of Earl Grey with the accompanying conversation... her life is a work of art. I have in my pinky what that woman is capable of creating. I watch, marvel, and do my best to duplicate, but she is unmatched. All those floral arrangements, weddings, embroideries, and baking I have done are simply my attempt at reflecting what she has taught me. And dang it, if I could make a pot of Earl Grey the way she does, I would have reached heaven. She makes it with magic. She has to.
My Aunt Cindy loves well. She loves completely. She has taught me so much about love. I have learned that some people are so very easy to love and then there are those that are exceptionally difficult to love. For those that take effort to love, we tend to expect them to love us the way we love them; some kind of skewed version of "do unto others as you would have them do unto you." We want to love the way we choose to love. And in the grand scheme of life, that's just not going to happen. There is so much mercy and grace missing from our relationships these days; a lost idea that humanity is full of mistakes, bitterness, and unforgiven acts. Not everyone in our lives can love us the way we want and that can't always be remedied. It's learning to accept the love they are capable of giving and being content with it. Bitterness is a revolting emotion that creeps up when we feel that we are loving on a level that is not being reciprocated. That's not to say there are no boundaries, and boy, have I learned the importance of boundaries from that woman. Love carefully, accept what is given, don't fixate on the love you think is missing from some of your relationships. It may be all the love those relationships can spare as those people battle their own demons and muddle through their own lives.
Change is a "yea or nay" thing for most people. I know my Aunt Cindy's life. I know the changes she has gone through, whether by her choice or what was thrust upon her unwillingly. Either way, I've always seen a grace in how she chose to move through change. Life is carnage and bitter tears, but it's also of joy, hope, and the knowledge that we don't trudge our way through it by ourselves. I know this because I have seen it in my Aunt Cindy. She knows the ugly side of life. She reflects the simple joys of it in the face of heartache. Her hope is found in setting her sights on heaven. She and life run to adventure, which to me is the idea that we take advantage of what ever opportunities arise. I know change. I know what it's like to grapple with the unknown. Change, for all its scariness can bring about the greatest blessings. It's living a life that doesn't follow the parameters or expectations of society, our friends, or sometimes even our family. It's a daring life... infinitely difficult for my and my Aunt Cindy's people pleasing ways. If I can get to the end of my life and know that I have encouraged others to refuse mundanity and embrace the adventure we've been given, I will have lived well.
No matter what the next few weeks, months, or years bring to the life of my Aunt Cindy, she will continue her graceful, gentle way of living and loving. She continues to impress me with her spirit and her faith. She cultivates positivity... even though life has been unpleasant. It's one of the greatest honors and pleasures of my life to know her and to learn from her. From a quick, stressed phone call begging for creative genius in making a floral arrangement to the long, midnight conversations over our Earl Grey, I relish every moment with my Aunt Cindy. My life would not be what it is without her inspiration, wisdom, knowledge, encouragement, and love. I'm not going to wait to let her know that.
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
Saturday, September 24, 2016
36
The obligatory after birthday reflection post is here. Another year. Thirty-six. 36. Last year, at 35, my only complaint was how unappealing the look of 35 had. This year, I've no complaints, 36 is such a round looking number much more aesthetically pleasing than 35. Needless to say, age rarely bothers me. The husband glibly reminded me that I'm closer to forty, but then 40 looks pretty, too. I must have a thing for even numbers, which will work out quite well in the long run.
The greatest upsets of my life happened at thirty-four and thirty-five; the changes were enormous, the stresses left me gasping for breath, and more tears have flowed from the events of those years than ever before. It's not a comforting existence spending months waiting for the other shoe to drop, that next bad thing to happen. I've a whole list of bad things that paced themselves every couple of weeks to every month for roughly sixteen months. These months had their joys, but the hard things were glaring and quick as a stab to the heart. For the first time in my life I became intimately acquainted with panic attacks, specifically with the fiasco of a frozen house and the dealings with an insurance company, the move to Arkansas, the vandalism to the PA house, the financial insecurity of two mortgages, and a buyer/renter who turned out to be the wicked step sister of Cruella DeVille. I'm fond of saying "I live a fabulous life" and that "It makes for a good story." This is the Reader's Digest Version, the unabridged version will appear someday in an autobiography of how life was calling the shots faster than I could comprehend and react. It's a strange sense of being drug along, helpless, somewhat like drowning, everything completely out of your hands and relentless.
Life has always been a simple matter of dealing with the next thing for me. It worked well for a good portion of those sixteen months, but the next thing started coming in multiples and very little was done to keep up with the emotions of all the chaos. I hit the wall too many times. It's taken a while to ease back into a sense of normalcy (for me, because you know I'm as unorthodox as they come). I feel the stress finally got to my overall health, which I hate using that card, but some trips to the doctor, a trip to the ER a few months ago, and a surgery later, I can't ignore it. I donated an organ to stress (or multiple pregnancies-- they could be related). My uterus turned on me, the ingrate... so it's been chucked and despite the long healing process, I have felt more myself in the last few weeks than I have for the better part of two years (or more-- apparently Paxton was a big reason, the organ took up hating me). All other details aside (because 1: you don't want to know and 2: specific details freak me out), I have found my emotional range is a nice plateau, the roller coaster disappeared. I have not had one migraine since the surgery in June (which is gargantuan in my books because I've had them since I was seventeen), and I feel more like me.
Thirty-six is promising. It's a bit more settled. It's adventurous. It's creative. It's motivated. It's snarky. It's not dreading the days. It's welcoming. It's laughter, uncontrolled. It's the smug reality that I'm skipping course, gray hair for smooth, white strands. It's twisting the realities of negativity back to the positive where I've always been more comfortable. It's remembering that I have this blog with the cute subtitle I gave it years ago of "accentuating the positive and eliminating the negative." Which also means I'm back to blogging about this life, one moment at a time (because you really didn't want my blog posts a year ago). Yep, I think thirty-six and I will get along just fine. Cheers.
The greatest upsets of my life happened at thirty-four and thirty-five; the changes were enormous, the stresses left me gasping for breath, and more tears have flowed from the events of those years than ever before. It's not a comforting existence spending months waiting for the other shoe to drop, that next bad thing to happen. I've a whole list of bad things that paced themselves every couple of weeks to every month for roughly sixteen months. These months had their joys, but the hard things were glaring and quick as a stab to the heart. For the first time in my life I became intimately acquainted with panic attacks, specifically with the fiasco of a frozen house and the dealings with an insurance company, the move to Arkansas, the vandalism to the PA house, the financial insecurity of two mortgages, and a buyer/renter who turned out to be the wicked step sister of Cruella DeVille. I'm fond of saying "I live a fabulous life" and that "It makes for a good story." This is the Reader's Digest Version, the unabridged version will appear someday in an autobiography of how life was calling the shots faster than I could comprehend and react. It's a strange sense of being drug along, helpless, somewhat like drowning, everything completely out of your hands and relentless.
Life has always been a simple matter of dealing with the next thing for me. It worked well for a good portion of those sixteen months, but the next thing started coming in multiples and very little was done to keep up with the emotions of all the chaos. I hit the wall too many times. It's taken a while to ease back into a sense of normalcy (for me, because you know I'm as unorthodox as they come). I feel the stress finally got to my overall health, which I hate using that card, but some trips to the doctor, a trip to the ER a few months ago, and a surgery later, I can't ignore it. I donated an organ to stress (or multiple pregnancies-- they could be related). My uterus turned on me, the ingrate... so it's been chucked and despite the long healing process, I have felt more myself in the last few weeks than I have for the better part of two years (or more-- apparently Paxton was a big reason, the organ took up hating me). All other details aside (because 1: you don't want to know and 2: specific details freak me out), I have found my emotional range is a nice plateau, the roller coaster disappeared. I have not had one migraine since the surgery in June (which is gargantuan in my books because I've had them since I was seventeen), and I feel more like me.
Thirty-six is promising. It's a bit more settled. It's adventurous. It's creative. It's motivated. It's snarky. It's not dreading the days. It's welcoming. It's laughter, uncontrolled. It's the smug reality that I'm skipping course, gray hair for smooth, white strands. It's twisting the realities of negativity back to the positive where I've always been more comfortable. It's remembering that I have this blog with the cute subtitle I gave it years ago of "accentuating the positive and eliminating the negative." Which also means I'm back to blogging about this life, one moment at a time (because you really didn't want my blog posts a year ago). Yep, I think thirty-six and I will get along just fine. Cheers.
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Grape Juice
In the grand scheme of life that is parenting, I'd like to think that Brannon children are the zest of
life and do what they can to fill it beautifully with laughter, tears, knowledge and the occasional
splat into embarrassment. As the parent of such children, it can be a fabulous life (mostly) and
sometimes the blush rushes to my face over escapades I would have never considered as a
child. Several weeks ago I was in the middle of school with McKenna when the husband called
to tell me a story and to question the Brannon children on their roles in said story. Long story
quite short, the grape juice in the communion trays at church went missing from all
the little cups. My chest tightened some and my stomach dropped. I knew some Brannons were
involved. They had to be.
Sitting across the desk from me was McKenna, deep into her grammar work. I asked her if she knew anything about the AWOL grape juice. Her body slid down into her chair and her eyes were huge, peering up from the edge of the desk. "Yes," she whispered. Fantastic. "But Caelan did it, too." Of course, she did. I called her in. "Caelan, do you know anything about the missing grape juice from the communion cups at church. And think carefully before answering because I'm aware of the truth." She ducked her head "Yes, we drank it." Brilliant. Now in typical me behavior I stalled. Where to even begin. I watched my two daughters who refused to make eye contact with me. Somewhere in my mind I'm evilly rubbing my hands together with the "Gotcha" train of thought.
Evelynn had walked in about the time I confronted Caelan and she heard enough of the conversation. As I paused to consider my options, the drama that is Evelynn and her overwhelming need to set things straight took over. To put it kindly, she flipped out, wildly waving her hands, gesturing grandly and with many words. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! Do you have any idea how bad this is? That's for communion. It's SACRED. That is for people who have been baptized. And you are NOT baptized. And it was all gone for those who are baptized. You need to have a long conversation with God about this. Communion has a purpose. It's not for you to drink. You need to pray to God and make it right with him. I can't believe you did that. You need to go to your room and think about this. It's terrible. Pray about it, repent, and then move on with your life (she gestures widely with her arms). That's all you can do at this point. AND NEVER DO IT AGAIN."
Caelan was sobbing, tears pouring down her face, about halfway trough the tirade. She left for her room. And I was still sitting there. It was brilliant. It ranks up there with the greatest parenting moments, and it's also on the list of moments that I could hardly keep it together from laughing. So not the moment for giggles. Evelynn huffed from the room and about fifteen minutes later Caelan retuned with red eyes and puffy, wet cheeks. "I am so sorry, Mom. It was wrong. But now I've prayed about it, I'm good and now I just need to move on with my life." I told her "That's great, but there's a little more to it than that. You have inconvenienced those who prepared the trays and now you will tell them what you have done and apologize. " Caelan and McKenna stared at me. "But that's embarrassing!" they informed me. "Tell me about it. I'm the mother of two children who drank the grape juice out of the communion trays. Don't you think I'm aware of the embarrassment involved?" They've since apologized. I'm fairly certain there will be no repeat offenses. Such a great moment and I'm amused frequently by it.
Sitting across the desk from me was McKenna, deep into her grammar work. I asked her if she knew anything about the AWOL grape juice. Her body slid down into her chair and her eyes were huge, peering up from the edge of the desk. "Yes," she whispered. Fantastic. "But Caelan did it, too." Of course, she did. I called her in. "Caelan, do you know anything about the missing grape juice from the communion cups at church. And think carefully before answering because I'm aware of the truth." She ducked her head "Yes, we drank it." Brilliant. Now in typical me behavior I stalled. Where to even begin. I watched my two daughters who refused to make eye contact with me. Somewhere in my mind I'm evilly rubbing my hands together with the "Gotcha" train of thought.
Evelynn had walked in about the time I confronted Caelan and she heard enough of the conversation. As I paused to consider my options, the drama that is Evelynn and her overwhelming need to set things straight took over. To put it kindly, she flipped out, wildly waving her hands, gesturing grandly and with many words. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! Do you have any idea how bad this is? That's for communion. It's SACRED. That is for people who have been baptized. And you are NOT baptized. And it was all gone for those who are baptized. You need to have a long conversation with God about this. Communion has a purpose. It's not for you to drink. You need to pray to God and make it right with him. I can't believe you did that. You need to go to your room and think about this. It's terrible. Pray about it, repent, and then move on with your life (she gestures widely with her arms). That's all you can do at this point. AND NEVER DO IT AGAIN."
Caelan was sobbing, tears pouring down her face, about halfway trough the tirade. She left for her room. And I was still sitting there. It was brilliant. It ranks up there with the greatest parenting moments, and it's also on the list of moments that I could hardly keep it together from laughing. So not the moment for giggles. Evelynn huffed from the room and about fifteen minutes later Caelan retuned with red eyes and puffy, wet cheeks. "I am so sorry, Mom. It was wrong. But now I've prayed about it, I'm good and now I just need to move on with my life." I told her "That's great, but there's a little more to it than that. You have inconvenienced those who prepared the trays and now you will tell them what you have done and apologize. " Caelan and McKenna stared at me. "But that's embarrassing!" they informed me. "Tell me about it. I'm the mother of two children who drank the grape juice out of the communion trays. Don't you think I'm aware of the embarrassment involved?" They've since apologized. I'm fairly certain there will be no repeat offenses. Such a great moment and I'm amused frequently by it.
Thursday, March 3, 2016
Parenting with a McKenna
Parenting is a beast. Sometimes it seems to work, but most times you kind of skid through the moment and hope something sticks. It's a beautiful, treacherous business. It pushes you to the edge of insanity and then smiles at you, laughing at what you got yourself into. We got ourselves into four little beings for this parenting journey. The greatest struggles of my parenting life are convincing myself that it will all be okay in the long run and not flat out laughing at my children. It's incredibly difficult for me not to crack a smile and then laugh. It's why I have four children apparently.
Today's parenting moment involved Caelan and McKenna, that lovely mix of daughters, close in age, closer in size, and sharing a bedroom. Their space in this new house has been taxed by their explosions of things and attitudes. It's a back and forth of insanity. It works and then it doesn't. Today was a doesn't work day. Sparing you the details out of respect for children who may one day read this, I will tell you it began as that parenting moment filled with calmness and wisdom. I was hitting the points home. The come to Jesus meeting was real. The tears were fat and many upon their cheeks. It felt amazing. Yes! The hearts were pricked, reason was established, and the importance of respect and responsibility was accepted with the promise of change. I may have inwardly praised myself at how well this one was going, because I have enough insecurities as a parent. But gloating is short-lived because I have a McKenna, that precious bundle of strange weirdness.
The issue at hand was primarily the fault of Caelan, who received the brunt of the words directed at her heart over actions that were less than pleasing. I asked the questions that directed her to consider how her actions affected others and how she was ultimately responsible for her choices and who gets hurt or doesn't. Que McKenna getting caught up in the tears and the ridiculous amount of tears pouring out of her eye sockets, streaming down her nose, her cheeks, her neck, dripping onto her shirt and pants, and soaking her shirt sleeves as she rubbed her face with the back of her wrists. Mind you, this talk had very little to do with her. The conversation continued with Caelan. McKenna interrupted, sobbing, "Mom, I hated going to the hospital when I fell out of that tree last summer and had to get stitches in my chin." She steals fire, people. Uh, okay... and back to Caelan.
The talk continues. We are back on track. We've figured out where she went wrong and why it matters. A lull in the conversation and McKenna, eyes now bloodshot, said "I really miss Chaucer and our old house." Oh, sweetheart. Why? Why this now? "Because when I got in trouble at the old house, I had Chaucer to love me." I accepted that. She is six. She's a work in process. Back to Caelan, who was drying up and she had that determined look on her face when she's ready to do something. She apologized to McKenna for the wrong committed and cried a bit more. McKenna sobbed again, more tears because I swear she has a gallon of them stored up in her little body. She killed my vibe. "Mom, you know Caelan and Evelynn get me in trouble A LOT." Ah, yes, the someone is in trouble, let's add to the pot. I don't accept that. This was not a grand re-hash of any prior offenses. Caelan was ready to move on, and now that the spotlight was on McKenna, she was, too. A few more tears, some pats from Caelan and McKenna deflects this new direction in conversation with "You know, I really, really want a trampoline." And I can't handle it any more. I laugh and laugh. This kid. These kids. I hope it sticks. I pray it sticks.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Road Thoughts
For all manner of reasons, I have found myself in a vehicle, driving to and from Pennsylvania and other shorter trips at least twelve times in the last nine months. Quick calculations put me in the driver seat for about 250 hours. Let that sink in. I think four of those trips were without children. Details blur as quickly as my joints stiffen. I've listened to hundreds of hours of good music and audiobooks. I've listened to children sleeping, yelling, crying and laughing. Sleeping is good and the occasional laughter is encouraged. I've dodged road debris, been sucked into rumble strips alongside the highways, driven through pouring rain, hail, ice and snow. The question of "How do you do it?" from so many friends prompted me to keep road notes. First off, I don't think too much through. I start the day with the GPS destination plugged in and watch the miles and hours go by. I have one overnight bag for our one hotel stop. All other items are in the giant luggage. I have tons of snacks and plenty of water. I've mastered the art of over the shoulder throwing to children. They get loud, I throw food. They get tired of food, they throw it back. And we clean out the vehicle at every stop. All bathroom breaks are about three hours apart. I make no concessions. Everyone goes at the same time. We had a DVD player on all the trips except for the last one, so the three girls were equipped with iPod Nano and Shuffles that were loaded with good music, obnoxious music, The Hobbit, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, and Adventures in Oddyssey. It was crazy, but we managed.
~ Missouri, Illinois and Indiana will someday have beautiful highways. Of that I'm certain.The construction on the highway was frequent and had the propensity to be annoying, but no potholes!
~ Ohio doesn't care for road construction. They put all their money into this gigantic "Welcome to Ohio!" sign that stretches across four lanes of highway. And their potholes are thrilled to see you, too.
~ The strangest vehicle accident I've ever seen happened in Missouri. Two lanes of traffic completely shut down (with no exit in sight because people only get into car wrecks that shut down freeways when the nearest bathroom is twenty miles away) because a semi somehow caught fire and his load of lettuce was burning. Wait... what? Yeah, lettuce. Burning. The entire load was torched. That's some seriously hot fire to burn heads of lettuce.
~ Also, Missouri likes their flashy signs and they are quite creative:
~ Also, Missouri likes their flashy signs and they are quite creative:
- Leave the buzz for the bees, drive sober.
- Unbuckled? Seriously?
- Turn signals. The original instant message.
- Pass on left, drive on right. (This one was everywhere.)
~ About three hundred miles into a trip, the music selection begins to get a bit crazy. Weird Al saw me past the lettuce truck. Note to self: listen to more Weird Al.
~ Pandora has comedy radio. Jimmy Fallon, Tim Hawkins, Jim Gaffigan and Frank Caliendo are the best. Louis CK is filthy. He'd make sailors blush. For real. I could not skip him fast enough. I blushed for the two seconds it took me to "thumbs down" that selection and was glad I was the only one in the car.
~ I drove through Indianapolis several times. The first time through I couldn't figure out why there were blue horseshoes painted on everything. Sports apparently. It's the Colts. Football. Sports team. Sports pride. Sporting things. If it's not the Cowboys, Eagles or Steelers, I apparently have no clue.
~ Speaking of Indiana. Holy corn. I did not expect that much corn. Matter of fact, I feel I owe Indiana an apology for thinking that much corn only grew in Nebraska. Kudos to Indiana for corn.
~ Also about corn, you can stop in Brazil, Indiana, which is the home of the Popcorn Festival.
~ I like electronica, specifically electronic-swing. About the eighth hour on the road and the Pandora station is switched to Caravan Palace or Daft Punk with lots of Glitch Mob. I have a great respect for Kraftwerk and their innovations in creating electronic/avant-garde sound over the decades. However, their tracks are waaaaaay too long. Case en pointe, and more than likely purposeful, their track 'Autobahn' runs twenty-two minutes... 22 minutes. The road is long. Thanks for the audio reminder, but I draw the line at twelve minutes.
~ Pandora message: You've listened to over 1,000 hours of your Imagine Dragons radio since December. We added some new music to your station! ... I may or may not have a problem.
~ A highway in northwest Arkansas is named John Paul Hammerschmidt. I leave and return to the state of Arkansas on that highway. And I sing John Jacob Jingleheimerschmidt every time.
~ I'm so over fast food. Paxton is a litany of "I want McDonald's" from the back seat.
~ You know you've been on the road too long when McKenna (age 6) starts crying because her sister Caelan (age 7) is pretending to take her picture with a pretend camera and making the click noise with her mouth.
~ You also begin to question the sanity of your children when you hear the six year old tell the three year old "Here, let me teach you how to suck on your big toe. Then you can go to sleep because it's like a pacifier."
~ Or when Evelynn starts yelling "Expecto Patronum!!" at Caelan for drowning out her Harry Potter audiobook by singing "Funky Monkey" from the movie Rio. I like the idea of everyone having their choice of audio, iPod options, but three girls listening with ear buds and talking/singing along to whatever they have on is nuts. There will be a DVD player next trip.
~ I had a lady somewhere in Missouri tell me I was brave for bringing my four children into the gas station. I just stared at her. "Uh, thanks?" (Lady, if you only knew.)
~ McKenna likes to point out hotels along the road. "Look, there's one. That one looks nice. They have a bed, I bet. We could watch TV at that one. That hotel has a swimming pool....." And we had only been on the road for four hours.
~ Paxton closed the van door on his whole hand. That was fun. Only slight bruising but an hour's worth of crying and moaning.
~ Final thought: These trips take a lot of coffee, a whole lot of Jesus and really trying not to think too much about every detail of the journey, because reality kills expectation and that would definitely be insanity. So on a wing and prayer? I guess it works. Travel success.
~ Speaking of Indiana. Holy corn. I did not expect that much corn. Matter of fact, I feel I owe Indiana an apology for thinking that much corn only grew in Nebraska. Kudos to Indiana for corn.
~ Also about corn, you can stop in Brazil, Indiana, which is the home of the Popcorn Festival.
~ I like electronica, specifically electronic-swing. About the eighth hour on the road and the Pandora station is switched to Caravan Palace or Daft Punk with lots of Glitch Mob. I have a great respect for Kraftwerk and their innovations in creating electronic/avant-garde sound over the decades. However, their tracks are waaaaaay too long. Case en pointe, and more than likely purposeful, their track 'Autobahn' runs twenty-two minutes... 22 minutes. The road is long. Thanks for the audio reminder, but I draw the line at twelve minutes.
~ Pandora message: You've listened to over 1,000 hours of your Imagine Dragons radio since December. We added some new music to your station! ... I may or may not have a problem.
~ A highway in northwest Arkansas is named John Paul Hammerschmidt. I leave and return to the state of Arkansas on that highway. And I sing John Jacob Jingleheimerschmidt every time.
~ I'm so over fast food. Paxton is a litany of "I want McDonald's" from the back seat.
~ You know you've been on the road too long when McKenna (age 6) starts crying because her sister Caelan (age 7) is pretending to take her picture with a pretend camera and making the click noise with her mouth.
~ You also begin to question the sanity of your children when you hear the six year old tell the three year old "Here, let me teach you how to suck on your big toe. Then you can go to sleep because it's like a pacifier."
~ Or when Evelynn starts yelling "Expecto Patronum!!" at Caelan for drowning out her Harry Potter audiobook by singing "Funky Monkey" from the movie Rio. I like the idea of everyone having their choice of audio, iPod options, but three girls listening with ear buds and talking/singing along to whatever they have on is nuts. There will be a DVD player next trip.
~ I had a lady somewhere in Missouri tell me I was brave for bringing my four children into the gas station. I just stared at her. "Uh, thanks?" (Lady, if you only knew.)
~ McKenna likes to point out hotels along the road. "Look, there's one. That one looks nice. They have a bed, I bet. We could watch TV at that one. That hotel has a swimming pool....." And we had only been on the road for four hours.
~ Paxton closed the van door on his whole hand. That was fun. Only slight bruising but an hour's worth of crying and moaning.
~ Final thought: These trips take a lot of coffee, a whole lot of Jesus and really trying not to think too much about every detail of the journey, because reality kills expectation and that would definitely be insanity. So on a wing and prayer? I guess it works. Travel success.
Monday, June 22, 2015
The Part We Choose to Act On
Several years ago, I decided a blog was in order to leave a written legacy of the Brannon family type of crazy and I wittily named it Brannon Pandemonium, thinking this aptly described our young family and was a great homage to Bing Crosby. Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative. Don't mess with Mister In-Between. This blog has fulfilled a number of those kinds of moments and my need to put things in print. We have certainly experienced a good bit of crazy. And then six months ago, pandemonium levels shot through the roof (notice I don't mention a break in the crazy, just an acceleration). The acceptance of a new job, Christmas, planning the move, Chaucer (our dog) passing (and subject of my last post, Capturing Life)........ and then the house hunting trip to Arkansas in February and the return to Pennsylvania to find the temperature outside at 9 degrees and the temperature inside registering at 25 degrees, the home insurance calls that were less than friendly (because, yes, Mrs. Brannon, just because your house is cold does not mean you can't live there and if you just removed the blown up radiators in your house, your house will warm up), a ten day move to a hotel until the house could be thawed out and heated with space heaters, the assessment of damage to include flooring, plaster work and new radiators; then snipping away the ties of life that keep you to a place: dance, church, friends and family; the "move" to Arkansas without our household goods, Keith starting his job in one town, the kids two hours away in another town with their grandparents because no furniture because it was all still in PA; the return to PA four weeks later to finally meet the movers, the chaos of the move (which could hold its own space in a blog); the unloading of boxes on the other end in AR a week later..... And we have a new home! And we still have the other home!
Three years. Three realtors. Interest ebbs and flows, people show up to see the house but mostly they don't. People serious about it but falling just short of making an offer before walking away. The last listing of the PA house ended last week. We began the re-listing process on Friday with another real estate company. On Saturday, as I finished the last touches on my six year old's birthday cake, I received a call from our neighbor in PA. The key in the realtor lock box was missing and the front door to our house was open. She stepped in and went no further. A white substance covered the hundred year old wood floors and red spray paint graffiti littered the walls and columns on the banister in our living room and dining room (the two rooms visible from the front door). One hundred years ago, a prominent Jewish family built our lovely PA home. The house was blessed regularly by the local rabbi and bits of scripture from the Torah were placed on the door frames in the house; they are called mezuzah. Based on the passage in Deuteronomy 11;13-21 "....You shall therefore impress these words of mine on your heart and on your soul... You shall teach your sons, talking of them when you sit in your house and when you walk along the road and when you lie down and when you rise up. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates, so that your days and the days of your sons may be multiplied...", the mezuzah was the daily reminder of His commands and his faithfulness. The graffiti, in stark contrast to the present mezuzah and in some places mere inches away from the mezuzah, was Satanic in nature; upside down crosses, 666 and other variations. I'm struck by this juxtaposition, inherent good and evil.
The police were called. The graffiti damage is extensive and in most of the rooms in the house. The white substance covering the living room is fire extinguisher residue expended from the extinguisher we kept in the kitchen. The police left, our neighbors went to get new locks to replace the ones on the outside doors, and, I believe, the hoodlums returned while they were gone and locked the house. The spare key was with the company still making the radiator repairs (because, yes, even those repairs aren't completed after four months of delays) and couldn't be retrieved until Monday morning. So what can you do? Life doesn't stop for vandalism. We went to the pool for our girl's party and she had the best day. As the pool party broke up, our neighbor called. She could see people in our house from her kitchen window. The police had been called yet again. A local friend called also and said he was parked across the street to watch. The police caught two of the guys, teens from what we know. We don't know of any additional damage. The windows seem intact and hardware is still good; it seems they stuck to graffiti and the fire extinguisher.
There are many phone calls to be made today; police, insurance, realtor, radiator repair company. I don't sleep well when things of this nature happen (and the last six months have seen plenty of sleeplessness) because I always have to work things out in my mind. We have had the lion's share of stresses (I always thought it was a level of crazy dealt to our military family lifestyle but the last six months weren't all about that, you know... just the new job and the move), but ALL this is just a thing, just stuff. And really, it's just one big inconvenience after another, and yeah, it's really added up. I've stopped looking for the straw that breaks the camel's back. One thing I keep hearing somewhere in the depths of my thoughts is a conversation in which Frodo tells Gandalf "I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened." Gandalf replied "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil." I'm certainly not carrying a ring to Mordor to save Middle Earth and as an historian, I would be foolish to assume that these things, however immediately abhorrent, are a permanent affliction. For by comparison to millions of others, these things are merely aggravations, and my response should be fitting to the circumstance, not by what is perceived. Some things have proved to be the proverbial thorn in the flesh, but once the shock of the radiators blowing up, or the move, or this vandalism and all the little inconveniences wears off, what do I have left? I have people. Many tears have been cried from stress and frustration, but so many more tears have streamed from my eyes over kindness, encouragement, and support, a constant reminder that we are His and everything will be fine in the long-run. We have been lifted up, held close and carried so many times in the last few months, that I can say these things are simply inconveniences, however far reaching. We have been blessed.
Three years. Three realtors. Interest ebbs and flows, people show up to see the house but mostly they don't. People serious about it but falling just short of making an offer before walking away. The last listing of the PA house ended last week. We began the re-listing process on Friday with another real estate company. On Saturday, as I finished the last touches on my six year old's birthday cake, I received a call from our neighbor in PA. The key in the realtor lock box was missing and the front door to our house was open. She stepped in and went no further. A white substance covered the hundred year old wood floors and red spray paint graffiti littered the walls and columns on the banister in our living room and dining room (the two rooms visible from the front door). One hundred years ago, a prominent Jewish family built our lovely PA home. The house was blessed regularly by the local rabbi and bits of scripture from the Torah were placed on the door frames in the house; they are called mezuzah. Based on the passage in Deuteronomy 11;13-21 "....You shall therefore impress these words of mine on your heart and on your soul... You shall teach your sons, talking of them when you sit in your house and when you walk along the road and when you lie down and when you rise up. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates, so that your days and the days of your sons may be multiplied...", the mezuzah was the daily reminder of His commands and his faithfulness. The graffiti, in stark contrast to the present mezuzah and in some places mere inches away from the mezuzah, was Satanic in nature; upside down crosses, 666 and other variations. I'm struck by this juxtaposition, inherent good and evil.
The police were called. The graffiti damage is extensive and in most of the rooms in the house. The white substance covering the living room is fire extinguisher residue expended from the extinguisher we kept in the kitchen. The police left, our neighbors went to get new locks to replace the ones on the outside doors, and, I believe, the hoodlums returned while they were gone and locked the house. The spare key was with the company still making the radiator repairs (because, yes, even those repairs aren't completed after four months of delays) and couldn't be retrieved until Monday morning. So what can you do? Life doesn't stop for vandalism. We went to the pool for our girl's party and she had the best day. As the pool party broke up, our neighbor called. She could see people in our house from her kitchen window. The police had been called yet again. A local friend called also and said he was parked across the street to watch. The police caught two of the guys, teens from what we know. We don't know of any additional damage. The windows seem intact and hardware is still good; it seems they stuck to graffiti and the fire extinguisher.
There are many phone calls to be made today; police, insurance, realtor, radiator repair company. I don't sleep well when things of this nature happen (and the last six months have seen plenty of sleeplessness) because I always have to work things out in my mind. We have had the lion's share of stresses (I always thought it was a level of crazy dealt to our military family lifestyle but the last six months weren't all about that, you know... just the new job and the move), but ALL this is just a thing, just stuff. And really, it's just one big inconvenience after another, and yeah, it's really added up. I've stopped looking for the straw that breaks the camel's back. One thing I keep hearing somewhere in the depths of my thoughts is a conversation in which Frodo tells Gandalf "I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened." Gandalf replied "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil." I'm certainly not carrying a ring to Mordor to save Middle Earth and as an historian, I would be foolish to assume that these things, however immediately abhorrent, are a permanent affliction. For by comparison to millions of others, these things are merely aggravations, and my response should be fitting to the circumstance, not by what is perceived. Some things have proved to be the proverbial thorn in the flesh, but once the shock of the radiators blowing up, or the move, or this vandalism and all the little inconveniences wears off, what do I have left? I have people. Many tears have been cried from stress and frustration, but so many more tears have streamed from my eyes over kindness, encouragement, and support, a constant reminder that we are His and everything will be fine in the long-run. We have been lifted up, held close and carried so many times in the last few months, that I can say these things are simply inconveniences, however far reaching. We have been blessed.
"But you, O Lord, are a God
merciful and gracious,
Slow to anger and abundant in
kindness and truth."
Psalms 86:15
Friday, January 23, 2015
Capturing Life
There are moments in life we seek to capture, hold them close in memory. The life events and milestones, the relationships, conversations, laughter, smiles, an aroma, a touch, a look. We file them away, listing them under what is most precious to us and we go to them frequently to replay the warmth in our hearts.Then there are other moments in life we try to avoid, but they capture us and drag us to a place where time slows and memory files these events with precision and detail we hate, listing them under our nightmares. We rarely visit this shriveled file, shoving it as far from our precious memories as we can. It's full of hurt, anguish and tears.
One of the greatest tragedies of my adult life took place on Wednesday. I have my own grief, but the event took hold and dragged my family along with it in ways I would have never wanted. It's one thing to grieve, it's another to see your children and your spouse grieve. It's poignant devastation. We started out our week with its usual business, with the exception of my SUV needing work done and Chaucer, our dog, getting sick. Wednesday started with a trip to the dealership to figure out what was wrong with my vehicle (alternator; you know, the one we just replaced in June in Houston). So that happened and the dealership kindly shuttled me back home to find Chaucer had vomited on literally every rug and carpet in the house. He hadn't eaten in two days.
The vet was able to fit us in at 2:15. I didn't have a car, but we made the snowy walk up two blocks from our house. He perked up a little as we walked. He always loved the snow. We walked in and he was weighed just inside the door. Our always skinny dog had somehow lost ten pounds. It was about this time memory captured me; odd things stood out and were quickly filed in that sorting place of unsureness, either way to be remembered. I found myself in a small room with my two older girls (ages seven and eight) and Chaucer. On the surface things checked out all right. Then the request for blood work. Then the long wait for results. The girls oblivious to what this visit could mean, coloring princesses in their books. The vet returned, glanced at the girls and took me a few steps away to the examining table where she deftly handed me a box of tissues and laid the results on the table. The flash mob chorus of "I can't do this. My girls are here." was loud in my mind as I quickly dumped my unsorted memories into the nightmare file.
Kidney failure, he's exhausted, he's using less than 25% of his kidneys, we can prolong him maybe maybe a few weeks but then... it's been going on for months he just made up for it in other ways, he can't do it any more... tissue after tissue, silent sobs, the girls still coloring in their books behind me, the vet getting me a new box of tissues... stop... what do I want to do? Call Keith. I left the room to make the call "Come home. To the vet. Now." The ugly choke of sobs, tears and breath vying for their turn. Return to the room, face the girls, the hour long wait for Keith. The tears from the girls, quickly replaced by smiles as they innocently think he will get better. He has to get better. Dad will get here and we will all go home with Chaucer. Wait a bit longer. Chaucer hears Keith's car pull up outside, he slowly gets up, walks the few feet to the door, lays down next to the door in anticipation of seeing his man. He doesn't walk again. The pain, the hurt, the dawning realization for the girls that he won't be coming home. The final decision. The goodbyes. Caelan and Keith choose to stay with Chaucer. Evelynn and I walk out into the office. The song on their radio plays:
One of the greatest tragedies of my adult life took place on Wednesday. I have my own grief, but the event took hold and dragged my family along with it in ways I would have never wanted. It's one thing to grieve, it's another to see your children and your spouse grieve. It's poignant devastation. We started out our week with its usual business, with the exception of my SUV needing work done and Chaucer, our dog, getting sick. Wednesday started with a trip to the dealership to figure out what was wrong with my vehicle (alternator; you know, the one we just replaced in June in Houston). So that happened and the dealership kindly shuttled me back home to find Chaucer had vomited on literally every rug and carpet in the house. He hadn't eaten in two days.
The vet was able to fit us in at 2:15. I didn't have a car, but we made the snowy walk up two blocks from our house. He perked up a little as we walked. He always loved the snow. We walked in and he was weighed just inside the door. Our always skinny dog had somehow lost ten pounds. It was about this time memory captured me; odd things stood out and were quickly filed in that sorting place of unsureness, either way to be remembered. I found myself in a small room with my two older girls (ages seven and eight) and Chaucer. On the surface things checked out all right. Then the request for blood work. Then the long wait for results. The girls oblivious to what this visit could mean, coloring princesses in their books. The vet returned, glanced at the girls and took me a few steps away to the examining table where she deftly handed me a box of tissues and laid the results on the table. The flash mob chorus of "I can't do this. My girls are here." was loud in my mind as I quickly dumped my unsorted memories into the nightmare file.
Kidney failure, he's exhausted, he's using less than 25% of his kidneys, we can prolong him maybe maybe a few weeks but then... it's been going on for months he just made up for it in other ways, he can't do it any more... tissue after tissue, silent sobs, the girls still coloring in their books behind me, the vet getting me a new box of tissues... stop... what do I want to do? Call Keith. I left the room to make the call "Come home. To the vet. Now." The ugly choke of sobs, tears and breath vying for their turn. Return to the room, face the girls, the hour long wait for Keith. The tears from the girls, quickly replaced by smiles as they innocently think he will get better. He has to get better. Dad will get here and we will all go home with Chaucer. Wait a bit longer. Chaucer hears Keith's car pull up outside, he slowly gets up, walks the few feet to the door, lays down next to the door in anticipation of seeing his man. He doesn't walk again. The pain, the hurt, the dawning realization for the girls that he won't be coming home. The final decision. The goodbyes. Caelan and Keith choose to stay with Chaucer. Evelynn and I walk out into the office. The song on their radio plays:
Are you, are you
Coming to the tree,
Wear a necklace of hope
Side by side with me.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight
In the hanging tree.
Must leave. Outside. In the cold and the falling snow which has a strange affect on burning, swollen eyes. It refreshes. Return to the room. It is done. He's gone. More tears, a last look... Caelan walking away but turning back to throw herself on Chaucer and sob. We are led to a back door to leave. Keith gets in his car. The girls ask to walk home. The snow has covered our tracks from the walk to the vet.
I don't want these memories. I wasn't given the choice. They are filed away, black and stark, devoid of warmth. Return to the warm memories. I was five months pregnant with Evelynn when we got Chaucer in November of 2005. He was Keith's dog from the start. He picked him out and he rode home in Keith's lap. The were training/hunting buddies from the start. I took him to Shippensburg University and bundled him into a warm bed in my Beetle while I was in class. I couldn't leave that sweet puppy at hope to cry the moment I left. I graduated in December and we spent the next four months curled up in a recliner watching Celebrity Poker and Project Runway (pre-Netflix days were tough). We lost him in Arkansas that first Christmas, we found him, then went to Texas where he got into some rat poisoning. A rough start really. Then along came children. Evelynn and Caelan's first words were Chaucer. We sat McKenna's carseat in the floor when we brought her home from the hospital (we did that with all of them). He paced around her, glancing at her and then looking at us as if saying "Another one?" Then we brought Paxton home. Chaucer walked up, looked once and then walked back the way he came, seemingly shaking his head at having to deal with another Brannon kid. He was the perfect family dog. The many warm snuggles, the playfulness, the way he calmly took to being terrorized by all four of my kids. He would be covered in stickers or run around the house wearing a tutu. Bows added to his collar or covered in toys. He was well loved and loved well in return. We stored our warm memories of Chaucer's life for the day we were captured by his loss and they have spilled over to sooth the broken hearts.
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