Almanzo and Jamie

Ahhh..Jamie Fraser...

Not since Almanzo Wilder have I had such a mad crush on a character from a book.

I was 11 years old, and I had just finished These Happy Golden Years by Laura Ingalls Wilder, the last big book in the Little House series, and I had fallen head over heels for Almanzo Wilder.  He was gallant and strong.  He came without being asked to pick Laura up from her hated time at the Brewster homestead where she boarded while teaching school on the prairie.  He braved the blizzards so she didn't have to spend miserable weekends away from home.  He dug his horse out of snow drifts and made sure Laura had heated bricks to keep her feet warm along the way.

The first time he showed up, she didn't know why he had come to get her.  She was just thankful for the chance to go home.  Then after a couple of trips in his sleigh, she began to look forward to seeing him, not just her family.  He was so non-challant about it around her that her students figured out he was courting her before she did.  I was disappointed with her when the weather was too bad for him to come get her.  I was excited when she heard the sleigh bells jingling in the distance.  And then when he came to call one Sunday afternoon to take her for a spin around town in the sleigh...I swooned as much as any 11 year old could.

What I liked so much about Almanzo was that he treated Laura like his equal.  I fancied that had I been born in 1867 like Laura, I would have been her, and I would have wanted a boyfriend who allowed me to be smart and assertive and brave in my own right.  I especially loved when they were discussing their wedding.

Laura says, "Almanzo, I must ask you something.  Do you want me to promise to obey you?" 

Soberly he answered, "Of course not.  I know it is in the wedding ceremony, but it is only something that women say.  I never knew one that did it, nor any decent man that wanted her to."

I remember thinking, "That is my kind of husband!"

The night I finished These Happy Golden Years, I cried myself to sleep.  My mom came in my room to kiss me good night and found me sobbing into my pillow.  I wouldn't tell her what was wrong at first because I knew it was silly to cry over a man dead many years by then, who would have been old even if he had been alive when I was born.  But I couldn't help it.  My mom sat on the side of my bed trying to figure out what was going on, if someone was hurting my feelings at school, if my sisters had been mean...Finally, I couldn't hold it in any longer.  I blurted out, "Almanzo's dead!"

I can imagine my mom flipping through the card catalogue in her head, "Almanzo...Almanzo...Who the hell is Almanzo?" as I'm crying into her shoulder.

"What do you mean?" she asked cautiously.

"Almanzo!" I sobbed, "from Little House on the Prairie.  He's dead, and I'll never get to meet him!" and I started wailing even harder.

My poor mother.  I'm sure she had no clue what was going on.  Puberty?  Probably.  Drama? Most definitely.  But to her credit, she didn't say anything to make me embarrassed or try to help me realize the silliness of my tears.  Crying over a character in a book who had already been dead for 30 years by this time?  She didn't say anything.  She just let me cry until I was exhausted, hiccuping, and broken-hearted.

And until this summer when I discovered Jamie Fraser, I have never fallen for a character in the way I fell for Almanzo.  Oh, I've liked many of the leading men I've read about.  I've found them charming and attractive and considered what the real man would be like.  I may have even swooned a bit at some of their lines or a romantic scene or two.  But none have have "melted my brain," as one commentator said, like Jamie.

He is gallant and strong.  He lets Claire be smart and assertive and brave.  He is there for her when she needs him but he lets her be her own woman.  He does what needs to be done, even when it is hard or painful or dangerous, and he puts her and others' well-being ahead of his own.  He is protective but not in a smothering way, and never shames Claire when she does something foolish.  He is funny and sweet and gentle, despite the roughness of the times.  He is kind and selfless and aims to please.  And on top of it all, he's gorgeous and has a crooked smile and mischievous eyes.  He's perfect!  What's not to love?

When I read the books in the Outlander series, I feel once again like that 11 year old girl, who thinks life will be just as she imagined.  That marriage is easy.  That men are perfect.  That she can have it all.  I am not jaded by the reality that life is hard.  Marriage is work.  Men are fallible.

I'm not delusional.  I know the men in these books are not really like this.  They too would have their issues in day to day life.  The benefit of having them in books is that their irritating faults get left out, and all we know is what makes them so good.  It's too bad that we can't do that in reality.  I'd love to leave out all of the things that irritate me about Kirk, all of the little things that after 23 years of living with him drive me absolutely crazy.  I'd love to condense all of his goodness into a 800 page novel and read that. It would be awesome!

I've put the Outlander books up for now.  There are 8 in the series, but I've only read the first 3.  Part of me wants to continue, but part of me wants to save the stories for another time.  When I finished the Little House books, there was no more Almanzo, and I also grieved over that.  If I don't finish reading the Outlander books, Jamie is still alive and young and perfect, and I am still 11, and life is full of infinite possibilities.

Grandma's Angels

Nine years ago this week, my mom was preparing to leave this earth, and my sisters, Dad, and I sat vigil with her so that she would not be alone when time came for her to pass.

Emily and Ethan were little, just 3, and to make things easier with child care, they stayed out at my parents' house with Colleen and me instead of us trying to find babysitters for them.  Emily and I slept on a pallet on the living room floor, and she and Ethan entertained each other during the days of that long week.

On the Thursday before Mom died on Saturday, it was my turn to sit with her.  I got up quietly so as not to wake Emily and was sitting in Mom's room sewing when I saw the door slowly open and Emily poke her head in and smile at me.

"Can I come in?" she whispered.

I patted my lap, and she crawled up onto it, and we sat with her back to my front and her head nestled up under my chin. We were quiet for several minutes, just sitting there snuggling.  Then she turned her face up to me and whispered,

"Did you know that there are angels in this room?"

Goosebumps on my skin, I replied, "There are?  What do they look like?"

I expected her to give me the typical description of an angel to a 3-year-old...white with wings and a halo...but instead she said,

"They're gold!  And they have light!"

Barely able to breathe, I asked, "What are they doing?"

She looked over at my mom, sleeping in the hospital bed, and replied, "They're waiting to take Grandma to see Jesus!" and she smiled as bright as the sun and snuggled back down into my lap.

For the life of me, I could not see anything in the room that would make her say that.  It was not for trying, because I looked all around, but all I saw was the dresser and the windows and the closet door...I wished I could see what she saw.

One of my friends had the presence of mind to suggest that I have Emily draw what she saw that night, so a few days after Mom died, I gave Emily a piece of paper and some markers and asked her to draw the angels she saw in Grandma's room.  She got down to work and this is what she drew:

My mom is red with brown curls, lying in a bed with green covers.  The angels are the yellow faces.  Two have wings and two don't.  I don't know who the green person is.  Whenever I get down, especially this time of year, I get out this picture and remember the faith of children and what they can see with their untarnished eyes, and it gives me hope.

Keys to Nowhere

When I was at Lowe's the other day, I finally remembered to have keys to the front door made for the kids.  We've only lived here for 12 years.  I thought it was time!

I was working the front door key off the keyring and joking with the Lowe's guy that I didn't have any idea what half the keys unlocked anymore.  He was an older, Indian gentleman and raised his eyes at me and said quietly, "Why do you carry them around, adding weight to your life?"

"I don't know.  I never really thought of it.  Laziness, I guess," was my reply.

"Well," he suggested, "when you get home, why don't you take off the keys you don't know and put them in a dish?  Don't throw them away, in case you remember where they go, but just simplify your life a little."

I said that I thought that was a great idea, and mentioned that I have a lot of things I don't really know why I keep, and he said, "This is just a suggestion, but maybe if you take 10 minutes each day and rid yourself of what you don't need, soon you will find your life much improved.  I don't mean to tell you what to do, but just to suggest."

I replied that I thought that was a great idea and promptly came home and forgot.

But then today I got inspired.  I took a little more than 10 minutes to clean out our utility closet in the kitchen.  I bagged up years worth of end-of-the-year school supplies like blunt scissors, partially used crayons, colored pencils, and eraser tips.  I threw away things I no longer had any use for like old lunch boxes and torn Kroger bags and a tablecloth I was going to tear into rags 6 months ago and never did.  I organized our emergency bag full of batteries and flashlights and candles.  I cleaned out our kitchen cabinet that, now that Kyle is gone and they are not gathering in his backseat, is overflowing with mugs.

And in one cabinet, I found a dish of keys that I have no idea what they go to.  I remembered my conversation with the guy at Lowe's and went to my keyring, took off the other keys that I don't know and added them to the dish.

I only kept two keys on my key ring that no longer unlock anything anymore:  The key to my childhood home and the key to my grandma's house.  When my mom sold Granny's house, she kept the key to the front door.  It had been attached to a UofL Cardinal bird, and I can vividly remember her opening the door, and that bird swinging back and forth on the ring.  Mom finally gave it to Kyle when he was a little boy and loved keys.  I snagged it about 15 years ago and put it on my keyring.

Then when we sold the house on Northridge, I kept my key to the back door.  I could not for the life of me give it up.  I remember getting that very key when I was a freshman in high school 33 years ago.  My mom handed it over with gravitas saying, "Be VERY careful and don't lose this key.  If somebody finds it, they can get into our house!"  I have never taken it off the ring that I put it on way back when.

Today, my keyring contains one of Kirk's dog tags that he gave me the last time I saw him before he went to the Gulf War in 1990 and a St. X heart charm that I got when I joined the MOMS club when Kyle was a freshman.  There are keys to my house (both doors), 3 cars, a P.O. box, and those two keys that unlock only memories now.

My keyring is lighter now, but somehow today my heart is a little more heavy.

Homesick

When I was nine years old and Colleen was seven, we were going to spend a few days with our cousin, Tammy, in Lexington.  It was August, and I had just celebrated my birthday.  We were excited at the fun we planned to have.

Tammy's life was so different than ours, and we really didn't know her very well, but we liked her a lot and got along.  She was right in the middle of us, and at eight, was taking ballet and learning to play an instrument, which was really exotic to us.  We were riding bikes and swimming in our little pool in the back yard and playing whiffle ball in the court, and anyone in a tutu was something special. She lived in an old Victorian house that was 3 stories tall and had a servant's wing, a claw foot tub, stained glass windows, and a fireplace in every bedroom.  The back stairs had once been used by servants, and my uncle's sense of humor enticed him to put a plaster hand on the newel post instead of the usual ball, and it freaked us out every time we used those stairs.  The house was massive, unlike our 3 bedroom ranch, but it had no yard, so we played in the park nearby, building fairy houses among the roots of the massive oak trees that grew there.

Tammy's room was at the top of the stairs, and her dad had hung what I remember as a big rubber band from her door frame that let us swing in the house.  We were able to get it going so high that we could almost swing out over the staircase.  We had great fun on that swing.  Later that first night, we all 3 crowded into the big tub in our bathing suits and splashed around like it was a pool.  Tammy and Colleen shared her bed, and I slept on an old army cot that they used when they camped.  It was exciting in idea but not in reality.  The cot smelled musty, and it was narrow and uncomfortable.  Long after my sister and cousin had fallen asleep, I laid awake in that very tall room, unable to see into the corners of the ceiling and looking at the fireplace and the strange closet wondering what might be lurking in those dark spaces.

The next morning, we headed to Tammy's swim lessons with the promise of a dip in the local pool afterwards.  We got to get in and be very quiet while Tammy took lessons, and then we got to swim for awhile, but not as long as we had hoped.  My aunt had fixed us a picnic lunch.  My favorite sandwich was cheese with mayonnaise (NOT Miracle Whip), but she didn't have any mayo or Miracle Whip, so she used butter instead.  I couldn't eat it.  We got a can of Coke to split between us (there were five of us counting my two older cousins), so we each got just a swallow.

The democratic convention was on TV, so we didn't get to watch "Little House on the Prairie" that Monday night, and there was no TV during the day, and we had to go to bed while it was still light outside.

Bit by bit, I realized that I missed my mom and the freedom I had at my house.  I missed the small room that I shared with Colleen and my bed and mayonnaise on my sandwich.  I missed Coke in a glass with ice and watching Gilligan's Island on a hot afternoon.  I missed my yard and my swing set and the knee-high pool that was in our back yard with the bucket of water to wash the grass off of our feet.  I missed riding my bike and my dad when he came home from work.  I got homesick, and I began to cry.

I couldn't stop crying.  I didn't know what hit me, but all of a sudden, I just wanted my mom.  My poor aunt didn't know what to do.  Calling Louisville was long distance, but she asked if I wanted to talk to my mom, and I nodded yes, tears running down my cheeks.  I heard her tell my mom that I was fine and that I just needed to hear her voice and I'd be okay.  She put me on the phone, and as soon as I heard Mom say, "Hi Sharron," I burst into tears.  I couldn't speak.  I remember standing there in the hallway sobbing, no words would come out of my mouth.  I could hardly even breathe.  My mom said, "Calm down, honey.  It's okay.  Do you want to come home?"  It was all I could do to moan, "Umm hmm!" My aunt got back on the phone, and they made arrangements for our dad to come pick Colleen and me up the next day.  My mom told me later that she couldn't stand the thought of leaving us there when we were so homesick.

I cried myself to sleep that night on that narrow cot.  By this time, Colleen had taken my lead and she was crying too.  Poor Tammy was left wondering what happened.

I don't remember a thing that we did the next day except that it was an excruciatingly long day waiting for my dad to get off work and drive to Lexington to get us, but I knew he would come, and it made the day bearable.  I remember being a little ashamed that I had wanted to go home so badly, but not so ashamed that I was willing to stay.

The ride home in my dad's car was heaven.  I don't remember much except the great feeling of relief and of never wanting to leave home again.

Well, as we all do, I finally left home, moving to Texas, then Arizona, and then Hawaii.  I built my own life as a wife and mother, and then the pull from Louisville was so strong that Kirk and I ended up back here, surrounded by family.  We bought a nice house in a neighborhood similar to the one in which I grew up, and I have a great life.

But today, I want to go home.  I ache inside like I did almost 40 years ago.  I would like nothing more than to pick up the phone and hear my mom's voice saying, "Hi Sharron, do you want to come home?"

History Comes Full Circle

When Kyle was about 4, he became enamored of all things related to the Revolutionary War.  He found an infomercial on Colonial Williamsburg one Saturday morning and watched it over and over. He wanted breeches and a vest and a tricorn hat.  He begged for a musket and could we please go to Williamsburg???   He wore his dress up clothes much of the time and pretended to fight the British nearly every day.  We went to a reenactment at Locust Grove, and he was hooked.

At Locust Grove, April 2000

My mom remembered a song by Johnny Horton that started out,

"In 1814 we took a little trip
Along with General Jackson
Down the mighty Mississip.
We took a little bacon
And we took a little beans
And we fought the bloody British
At the town of New Orleans."

Mom went to a record store (yes there were still record stores then!) and while she couldn't remember the name of the song, she remembered the lyrics and sang it to the clerk.  It was "The Battle of New Orleans."  He found the CD, and Mom bought it and brought it to Kyle, excited to watch his reaction.

Never mind that it was the wrong war, Kyle loved the music and the fighting the British, and he listened to that song over and over, marching in a circle around our first floor.  Claire even got into the act, and the two of them made quite a pair.

I made Kyle an outfit and we made plans to go to Williamsburg.  It was a week to remember!  Kyle made friends with the militia and rose in rank from "Private Kyle" to "Corporal Kyle" by the end of our stay.  The militia actually put him to work and had him giving orders and teaching the "new recruits" how to wheel to the left and stand at attention.

Corporal Kyle.  Notice the sergeant is holding Kyle's musket!

Shouting, "Huzzah!" as the fife and drum corps marched by.

 He got to "fire" a cannon and even had Claire swabbing out the gun tube.

He got to meet George Washington and Patrick Henry.  I'll never forget Patrick Henry's response when Kyle said, "I know what you said:  Give me liberty or give me death!"  The Williamsburg "date" that day was before the time Henry actually said this, but the actor replied, "I haven't said that yet, but I like it!  I might want to quote you one day!"

We drove over to Yorktown, and Kyle walked on the battlefield and hid behind trees and charged the enemy.

It was a wonderful, magical week.  We suspended disbelief and immersed ourselves in the past, and had a ball.

We had no idea it would be the beginning of such a long and interesting ride.

Kyle continued his love of history and reenacting.  We visited Boonesborough and Ft. Harrod.  We went to the Civil War fort Ft. Duffield and to Perryville for the reenactment.  We went to Clark's Point and hung out with the Corps of Discovery and got involved with Locust Grove portraying members of the Clark and Croghan families.  We went to Vincennes for the reenactment of the battle of Ft. Sackville. We went back to Williamsburg and to old forts in Minnesota, Alabama, New York, and Florida.  We toured Gettysburg.

Kyle continued reenacting until it wasn't "cool" anymore at about age 13.  He still loved it, but didn't want anyone to see him doing it.   Around 16, Kyle decided to start reenacting again, quietly, but with a good group of guys.  Actually, some of the very same guys he had met as a little 4-year-old boy at Locust Grove and Ft. Harrod were still in the company.  His first reeactment as a a participant was at Vincennes, where we had been spectators just a few years before.  He's reenacted at events at Locust Grove, talking to little kids just like he was so many years ago.  He bought himself a real musket and even has one of the tents like he's sitting in in the picture at Yorktown above.

This past fall, Kyle was lucky enough to participate in the Battle of the Hook, an important part of the Battle of Yorktown.  He "fought" on the actual battle ground

Battle of the Hook.  Kyle is in there somewhere.

and rowed a period-style boat across the river ferrying soldiers to the battle.

Kyle in the front in the green hunting coat.

One night, he and some of the guys from the company ventured into Williamsburg in costume and had dinner in a tavern and sang sea chanties to the guests.

In January, Kyle will travel down to New Orleans to reenact the Battle of New Orleans, the very same battle that he "fought" in my living room, while Johnny Horton sang about it all those years ago.  I wish my mom were here to share this!

But the coolest of all is that Kyle's 4th great-grandfather (my 3rd), Bennett Mattingly, was actually IN the Battle of New Orleans 200 years ago this year.  And, they are just about the same age; Kyle almost 19 and Bennett around 20.  The reenactment will take place just about a mile from the site of the actual battle.

I don't understand this connection to the past, but I love how it's come full-circle!

Kyle at the wreath-laying ceremony honoring the national guard.  Jan. 9, 2015

Reenactment of the Battle of New Orleans.  Kyle is in there somewhere.  Jan. 10, 2015

I Just Don't Go to the Cemetery

With last week being Memorial Day and all, I thought about going to the cemetery to visit my parents' graves.  Once again, I didn't end up going.  I don't know when the last time I've been to their graves was.  Probably over a year ago at least.  I think, "It's Christmas.  I need to go visit Mom and Dad," or "Mother's Day is next week.  I should go plant some flowers." But I don't go.  I know I should feel ashamed, and I do a little, mostly because my sister who lives out of town visits more often than I do.  I remember my mom saying to me once,

"You'll never come visit my grave when I'm dead."

I replied with all sincerity, "Yes I will!" and I meant it.  I did!  But when reality was here, she was right.

And as much as I love poking around old cemeteries with other people's family members long buried, I don't like going to visit my parents' graves.

I'm not sure why I don't go except what is there to do really?  The cemetery takes care of the plot.  They mow and trim.  We've planted day lilies, and my other sister puts in annuals.  I feel stupid just going there and sitting on the ground by their stone.  I'm always trying to decided if I'm standing on their heads or what.  They are on a slope, so they actually have a footstone not a headstone.  I can't get my brain around that idea.  They are dead, so why does it matter what way they are laid in the ground? Isn't the hole level anyway?

Then there is the whole reality thing.  If I go and see their names and dates in the granite, it is just another slap in the face that they are dead.  I already know that.  No need to remind me.  I talk to them all the time, so I don't need to go their graves to do that.  I visit them in my mind where they are much more real and present.  I don't need to go to their final resting place to be with them.

I feel my dad when I'm tending my tomatoes, snapping off the suckers growing up between the stems.  He's with me when I open a jar of okra or olives or eat pistachios.  I read the paper and come across some political story and wonder what Dad would think of this new twist.  When I'm photographing grade school football games, I see him in the stands watching Kyle play.  Every time I see a little gold truck cruising down the street, he is driving it.  He is never far from my mind.

And Mom.  She is in all I do.  I take a recipe out of my recipe box and see her handwriting on lasagna or apple pie or summer salad.  She is in a trip to Huber's or strawberry jam or a slice of zucchini bread.  Every year when I hang my Christmas ornaments, I see her face in them, especially in the little gold balls that she was convinced made the tree perfect.  She's in the coffee that I drink and the cheese toast I eat and the lilies of the valley that I transplanted from her house to mine.  She is at every single party I host, and every time I hear, "Wanda would be proud," I know she lives within me.

So, she was right.  I don't go to the cemetery.  Maybe I should feel guilty, but I really don't.  My parents' headstone is there.  Their bodies rest there.  But their spirit lives in me and around me every single day of my life.  They will never be forgotten, and I don't need to see a marker to remind me how very much they are loved.

The Blessings in Laundry

Laundry is the bane of my existence.  I hate it.  It is a never-ending and thankless job, and no matter what I do, I am never, ever caught up.

If I don't put in a load at least every other day, the mound grows exponentially, and if, God forbid, a week goes by without doing any, the pool is full and overflowing.  But worst of all is when the kids clean their rooms.  Then I'm really in for some work.

Let me take a minute to explain our system.  We have a laundry chute on the second floor that goes all the way to the basement.  At the bottom of the chute is a baby pool that corrals all of the dirty clothes into a controlled pile, otherwise, they would spill out onto the floor and get mixed up with the sorted piles of darks and towels.  This way, at least it's somewhat organized.

I had gotten the laundry mostly caught up at the beginning of last week.  I had one more load to wash, and for that short day or two, I knew the laundry would be under control.  Then the end of the school year happened.  Short exam days for Claire.  Parties and awards for Emily.  Soccer games and recital rehearsal and then recital...By the time I knew it, almost a week had passed, and I hadn't put in a single load.  AND the kids cleaned their rooms.

So when I went downstairs today to start the miserable, never-ending cycle again, I was confronted by a pile of clothes about 3 feet high, spilling out of the pool and onto the floor of the laundry room.  As I set to sorting for the bazillionth time, I decided to make a gratitude check of my laundry situation and started listing all of the good things that my laundry tells me about how lucky I am.  Here goes:

1.  We must be very wealthy to have this many clothes.  Lots of people around the world would be amazed by how much we have.  Heck, we could probably clothe a small village with what is in the pool!  So, that must mean we are rich.

2.  I have healthy children and a working husband who need clothes washed.

3.  I don't have to wash these clothes by hand.

4.  I don't have to tote them to the laundry mat.

5.  I have a nice, big, front loader washer that can do super-sized loads right in the comfort of my own home!

6.  I am physically able to do laundry.  I can walk up and down my basement steps.  I can carry large laundry baskets of clean clothes to the family room to fold.  I can see to sort and fold them.

7.  I have children who can and do help me.

8.  I have a nice house in which to store my clothes.  I am not living out of a suitcase.

9.  I can afford to buy detergent so my clothes smell good.

10.  I have bedding to go on a bed that I don't have to share with anyone but my husband.  My kids have beds of their own in rooms of their own.

So, when you look at it, my laundry tells me just how very, very lucky I am.

Still, doesn't mean I have to like it.