Sticks and stones

I met a little girl today with my name. She was probably around eight, which adds up. It was approximately ten years ago that the country singer Shania Twain became popular. Suddenly, I wasn't the only one who had ever heard my name. And I didn't have to spell it every time I said it.

Her popularity was both a blessing and a curse. As she got more popular and the name became more familiar, it was a relief not to be looked at askance whenever I introduced myself. Instead, I would get an "oh, like the singer?" More than once, I'd get an accusatory "that's not your real name, you changed it to be like her!" Which, no I didn't, but even if I had, how is it your business?

Living with an unusual name, you can understand my sympathy for children who have the same burden to bear. My compassion was kicked into overdrive at tennis roll call.

Argyle? Here.

Stetson? Here.

Paisley? Here.

Wrangler? Here.

Those poor kids.

I don't think I'm going to make it

Not through the whole summer anyway. I just can't do it.

One of my goals this summer was to see if I really needed the depression medication, or if I am using them to hide from real emotions. My intention was to go from April until September medication free and see if I could regulate my moods on my own. I've been paying attention to how I feel, what makes me anxious, what angers me, and how I react to each stressor. Not well, my friends, not well. My reactions are all over the chart, from "eh, ok" to "OMFG, THIS IS THE END OF EVERYTHING!!!!!".

And they're very rarely appropriate to the situation. My nephew had the temerity to ask me where to put the net after he finished skimming the pool. This resulted in a ten minute lecture on responsibility, complete with yelling.

At a ten year old.

Who did nothing wrong.

I'm short tempered with Silas. He's getting ready to go to kindergarten next month, which is going to be a big enough adjustment for him without adding a snarky, bitchy mother to the mix.

Yesterday was the clincher. I walk out of the laundry room carrying a basket. SweetieDarling is standing in front of the stairs. That I need to walk up. This affront to my person is simply not acceptable and I break down into a mushy, melty pile of sobs. So I'm standing there crying on my nineteen year old daughter's shoulder. I start to tell her I'm sorry, that I just don't know what's wrong, when I catch a glimpse of her expression.

Then I flash back to my own nineteen year old self. Who is standing there holding her mother while she cries for no reason. And I remember thinking, 'for the love of god why doesn't she just get her shit together and get some help'. (apparently I was not a compassionate child) But my nineteen year old self was right, and even though my daughter didn't say it (she's nicer than I was) she was thinking it. And she's right.

I haven't been doing anything I used to enjoy. I've let the house decline into something that will warrant a visit from Kim and Aggie. I haven't been taking pictures, taking the dogs to the lake, swimming, gardening, blogging, nothing. I've been sitting around staring into space feeling sorry for myself and I'm done.

I start taking proper care of myself today. And I start getting myself back today.

Well, good grief

I've missed my own blogversary! It was a year on Feb 23. So have a glass of something on me.



I've been having a little R&R here:






A bit of soul searching, if you will. No place better for that than my feet in the sand. But alas, it's now back to the grind.

I will be asking for opinions on the decisions I've made and the changes I'm contemplating. If everyone could put on their best 'wise one' expressions and prepare to counsel me, that'd be just peachy.

Peachy keen, even.

A wounded heart

I may or may not have mentioned before that we had a little Jack Russell terrier show up on our porch about four months ago. We let him sleep in the garage while looking for his owner. He had a collar but no tags and he wasn't microchipped. (CHIP YOUR DOGS!!!) I put up posters and contacted all of the shelters within a three state radius with no luck. Soooo....guess who moved into the house with us? Just let me state that had I known I was going to keep him, I would've come up with a more original name than 'Jack'.


All went swimmingly with Jack, even though he regularly tormented poor Gus, who is too big and dumb to defend himself. (Actually, he's just a really sweet dog who didn't want to hurt the little one, but it's more fun to call him big and dumb). He even slept at the foot of the bed with Betty Boop. Until last night. Last night, completely unprovoked, he did this:

Silas was sitting on the floor putting his shoes on when Jack attacked him. We are so lucky that there wasn't more damage. The thought of those disproportionately long teeth that close to my baby's eyes makes me cringe. Silas did the right thing by covering his head and rolling over as soon as the attack started. It breaks my heart that my little boy, who loves everyone and everything, had to use inherent survival skills in his own home. That I knowingly exposed him to harm. How could I have known, you ask? I dreamed it the night before. And my dreams always come true in some form. So I knew he was going to bite him, but I thought I had time to place him in a rescue. I gambled and Silas lost.

Jack has been taken by animal control. He has to be quarantined for ten days and then he'll be euthanized. There is no other way, the law will not bend on this. I just wish he didn't have to die. Even though I could've killed with my hands if I hadn't been tending Silas. But since we have no history on him and don't know if he's had his rabies shots or not, he must go.

This is the wound this morning:

It's the wounds to his heart that worry me most. He feels so betrayed and hurt. This is the first time he's ever been hurt by something he loved. I wish it would be the last.

I took the picture before we left for the ER because I knew animal control would need it. NOT because I'm an awful mother exploiting her kids injury. but since I had it anyway.....

Again

First Maximus, then Katharine Hepburn. Now Athena.

Athena was the oldest of my herd. At 11, she's been through it all with me. She helped me raise Maximus, Katharine Hepburn, Betty Boop, and these two goofy labs. Not to mention Silas.

She woke me this morning to tell me good bye. I was able to help her with her transition by holding and comforting her while she took her last breath and until she left her body.

And I'm not sad.

Not really.

Eleven years is a pretty good run. She was getting to the point where she was in pain more than she was comfortable. I could tell she was sad that she couldn't keep up with the pups when they run in the yard.

So now she's not hurting anymore and it's hard to be sad about that.




Beena, you were a good dog and we'll miss you.

I can't make this stuff up

this picture has nothing to do with the post, I just liked it.

It's starting to get chilly here, finally. Before it gets too cold, I wanted to take my black Lab, Gus, to the lake. He absolutely loves to swim. So I gather the needed accoutrement's; treat sack, tennis ball, training buoy, and mace. And of course, my camera, which I never leave home without.


Silas and I leave the house and head toward the lake. Gus is off leash walking beside us. We live in a very rural area. Rural as in dirt roads, few neighbors, and lots of wildlife, hence the mace. I also live in an area in which it is actually possible to leave the house and have to walk uphill BOTH ways to get back home. Oh, the joys of living on a mountain and near a river.

The lake is approximately a mile from my house. Through the woods and down a series of dirt roads. When we get there, Gus immediately goes for the water, of course.

After about a half hour of swimming after tennis balls and buoys, he starts acting peculiar. He starts circling Silas and I, trying to herd us toward the water. Apparently, he thinks we're his sheep. He paces around the shore line and whines a bit. I try another throw to see if he'll be distracted from whatever has him upset. He doesn't even glance toward the splash. At this point my genius IQ kicks in and I think "hey, maybe we should leave. There's something here he doesn't like". I'm brilliant, poppets, I tell ya.

I gather our things and try to convince Silas we should leave. He's used to spending at least two hours at the lake so he was a bit peeved. He has this whole complicated routine that involves the gathering of sticks, digging of channels and building of dams that occurs at a precise place by the same stand of reeds each time we go. He was not pleased to have to shut down his jobsite early. I believe OSHA may have been called. By this point Gus was whining loudly and staring across the lake. He was in the point position (straight line nose to tail with one paw raised) toward this stand of reeds across the lake: (the road I have to take back home runs right behind this)

The dog's distress is becoming more visible by the second. His hackles are standing up and he's baring his teeth. I'm beginning to feel the first tendrils of fear. I'm out here alone save for this dog and my child, with no means to protect any of us. Sure I have the mace, but that's mainly for if a dog would charge Silas. Do you know how close you have to be to mace something? Too close for comfort.

I grab Silas' hand and haul him up. We take off like our hair was on fire and our asses was catchin'. * Gus keeps close behind all the while growling that deep rumble that lets everyone know he's serious. When I get around the bend I hear rustling and movement in the trees. We are now behind the spot that Gus was pointing toward. This is what he was trying to alert me to:

In case you can't tell, that's a BEAR! I know it's a crappy picture, but you try taking a picture while you're running backwards up a hill. I know you can't tell, but there were actually two bears. If you look toward the left of the one you can see, there's a reflection from the other one's eye.

Now this bear didn't really frighten me. He was a little guy and he's just trying to fatten up for winter. What frightened me is that I didn't know where momma bear was. And I know she wasn't far. All I could do was hope that she was in the woods and that we wouldn't run into her on the road. If we were to run into her on the road, I could hope that Gus would hold her off until I could get Silas away. Neither option was preferable.

We proceeded in an orderly manner away from the bear towards home. I tried not to upset Silas anymore than necessary to make him understand to HURRY! But don't run! I don't want him to be afraid of the woods or to be outside. At the same time, I don't want him to think it's ok to approach a bear in the wild like it's Yogi.

We made it home fine, a little shaken but not stirred. And I have bought an air horn for our next jaunt into the woods. And a big stick. And a tranquilizer gun.

*10 points for whoever can name the song that line came from

I'm fairly sure there's a felony in here somewhere

This is what I discovered when I opened the trunk of SweetieDarling's car this morning. Twenty stolen campaign signs. And a traffic cone. And some caution tape. (I'm keeping my eyes peeled for the coppers. They'll surely be here any minute.) I shudder to contemplate what this stash means to the fate of humankind as we know it.

Upon being queried as to exactly why she was in possession of these items, I was told that she and her minions went on a scavenger hunt of sorts. They've all decided that they are fresh, shiny democrats and took it upon themselves to rid the world of the scourge of the republicans. To the extent of stealing campaign signs until they tired of it and found something better to do, the details of which I'm certain I'm better off not knowing. I promptly gathered the offending parties, and, in true law school style, delivered a mind numbingly boring scintillating lecture on the perils and ramifications of impeding a campaign, the majority of which I made up on the spot. The ramifications of being caught impeding a campaign by SweetieDarling's mother include:

a) having to replace all of the stolen signs, with an apology;

b) having to join me at the democratic headquarters of our county to learn how to support a campaign and candidate appropriately (and legally).

While I'm not Ms. Popularity at the moment, I hope at least one thing will remain with them. No matter who you support, you don't build your candidate up by tearing the other one (or their signs) down.

But really, how long can you stay mad at someone who has this sticker on their dash?

My summah in N'awlins

With Gustav bearing down anytime, with Katrina still fresh in our memories, with worry for everyone in the area in our minds, let's take a trip in the wayback machine to a happier time.

Waay back when I graduated from college (1995 to be exact) I treated myself to a summer in the Big Easy. Alone. No children, no friends, just me and the French Quarter. It was a match made in heaven. Of course, had I known of the oppressive humidity of a Louisiana summer, I probably would have chosen a winter trip. Unless you've experienced it, it simply cannot be explained, so I won't try. But night! Now nighttime was a different story. After the daily afternoon thunderstorm would end, I would hit the streets (not like that, you freaks) and explore. I would usually have four or five hours of daylight, arrive at Bourbon Street at around midnight, get "home" between 3 and 4 a.m. Frankly, I'm lucky I survived. I assure you I couldn't keep that kind of schedule now. I'm in bed by 11, not starting the night at 11.

I started out the summer at the Fair-something (mont, field, view?) Inn. But at over $200 a night, I decided I should find less pricey digs if I wanted to stay the whole summer. I moved to a quaint victorian on Prytania Avenue, right on the trolley line. (a dollah gets you anywhere!) It was a student hostel run by some group I probably should have checked out more thoroughly than I did, but I had my own room, bathroom and a/c. I was good.

I spent the afternoons touring the mansions and gardens and zoo. I wandered the french quarter. I befriended taxi drivers ( a font of information for wherever you are) and found out the best place to eat on the cheap (Port O' Call) and what parts of the city to stay out of ("now here on this corner two tourists got robbed and killed last weekend"), and how to use the trolley and bus systems to save on the ginormous taxi fares.

I spent evenings in the Old Absinthe House bar listening to jazz. I discovered a cajun band headed by Waylon Thibodeaux and his fantastic fiddle. I met Harry Connick Jr. (swoon) in a sunglass shop. He gave me free tickets to his show later that week. (I took a guy from the hostel named Skillet, true story) I went to a water park in Baton Rouge that had the biggest waterslides I had ever seen. If someone had told me that these slides relieved the slidees of their bathing suits before I went down, that would have been nice.

When August rolled around, I was both reluctant and anxious to leave. I had had a wonderful summer immersed in the culture that only New Orleans has. I didn't want to leave it, but I couldn't stay. So I returned home, taking memories that will be with me all of my life.

When Katrina devastated New Orleans and the Gulf Coast, I watched and cried. When I saw those people confined to that stadium, dome, whatever it was, I remembered attending the JazzFest there. When I heard of the atrocities committed by our own government against it's own citizens in the form inaction, I was incensed. But I did nothing. I contributed nothing. I ranted and railed against the injustice and the inaction. I was appropriately offended when our own countrymen were labeled refugees. I would have put Ray Nagin in the White House given the chance, such were my emotions, my anger, my helplessness. Why didn't someone DO something? But not me. I did nothing. And I will always regret it.

Now I have a chance to diminish that regret. When Gustav reaches land, if the destruction is anything near the results of Katrina, and if we are needed, my company will be contacted by FEMA. I will mobilize whatever equipment they request and head south. I will leave Silas with my mother and I will put whatever meager resources I can toward helping those who I so grievously ignored at this time three years ago. It may not be much, but a few pieces of heavy equipment to clear debris and help clean up is more than I offered before.

Updates on Very Important Situations

Important to me, at any rate.

My legal woes have come to an end for now. (It's the 'for now' part that scares me) We dutifully went to court where I insisted that the charges against Sam be dropped, expessed my dismay that the wrong person could be arrested and charged when the evidence so clearly exonerated him, threatened to bring the entire justice system to a screeching standstill with my myriad of lawsuits, and generally made an ass out of myself. The charges were dismissed. The prosecutor, after seeing my stunning display of verbal prowess, declined to re-charge me, and let me pay restitution. So that's over. Like I said, for now. Because I am seriously contemplating a suit for recompense. I think Sam deserves compensation for missing work and having to spend a night in jail. I'm debating the pros and cons ie: more drama vs. a probable pittance in awards.

Silas' injuries have healed nicely. A small red line for a scar, and an aversion to trash cans are all he has to show for his tumble.

I have shown no further proclivity to burny hands and feets.

I would give you a growing out the grey update, but it's just too depressing. My hair looks awful. Just nasty. I'm getting it cut tomorrow, so there is still hope. Just not very much.

With that, I leave you until more things of import happen.

I wonder

I found this image on Post Secrets this morning. And I wondered. How would I be different? What other choices would I have made and how would they have affected my life?
What if as a child I had felt safe in my own home. if I could have fallen asleep at night not terrified that I'd be woken up in the dark by roaming hands. if everything I did, said, thought didn't revolve around no one knowing. and fearing that everyone knew, and worse, yet, didn't care. What if the one person who was supposed to protect me actually did. Instead of turning away and pretending not to see, not to know when it would be impossible impossible not to. How different would I be?
Would my self worth have been a little higher? Would I still have thought that the only thing I was good for was sex? That I didn't deserve to be treated nice, that the people who actually tried to treat me nicely were shat on. Would I have been such an easy target for the 29 year old married friend of the family who lured me out and raped me at 14? And said that I had it coming because I "exuded sexuality". When the only thing you've been taught from your earliest memory is that your purpose is sex, I guess "exuding" it can't be helped. Would anyone have believed me if I had told or would I have been blamed because I was easy? Would his wife have still accused me of seducing her husband?
Would my search for love have involved so many men? Strange men ever eager to validate my self worth by having sex with me. Surely they must at least like me if they fuck me, right?
When finally finding the one man who does actually love me, and value me, and is good to me, would I continue to push him away because I don't deserve him and the love and the hope and the future he has given me? I don't think I'll ever know. But I will always wonder.

Gloom! Despair! and Agony! on me

Oh poppets, where to begin? It's been one thing after another. I'm usually one to roll with the punches, but I believe I may be down for the count. I have been thrown for a loop, or is it through a loop? I've been looped either way. I don't consider myself to be better than anyone else, or above anyone else. At least I don't think I do. But if I don't consider myself better than anyone, why do I feel the need to caveat the following story by telling you that we are upper middle class, hard working, law abiding, contributing members of society? That none of us has ever spent time in jail or has ever been charged with a crime? Because I do feel the need to point that out.

And I need to point that out because last week the state police rolled up in my driveway and took my husband to jail. Because of me. And I am so ashamed. And horrified, mortified, embarrassed, and any other adjective of that ilk that you can conjure. The look on his face when they cuffed him, cuffed him..my husband who has never raised his hand in anger to anyone, in handcuffs. I have never felt so helpless in my life. All those years of law school, trial law, striding confidently into the courtroom, fearing nothing. All for zip when it's someone you love getting pushed down into the backseat of a police car.

Two years ago I wrote a check as a deposit on a new insurance policy for our company. Let me emphasize that I printed, I signed, and I delivered this check. I also signed for the policy. I also own 100% of the company that owns the checking account that the check was drawn off of. I am the one who didn't verify that all checks had cleared before I changed banks. When the insurance company called me, I didn't follow up. When they turned it over to the police, I spoke with the officer handling the case. I asked him how to pay it without having to come in to the station. He said he would find out and get back to me. I didn't follow up. The result of my failure to follow up is my husband facing a felony charge of uttering. The result of my failure to follow up is my husband spending a night and half of a day in jail, jail, waiting to be arraigned for something he knows absolutely nothing about. He doesn't know what to plead, he doesn't know what he's being charged with. He knows absolutely nothing about a check for insurance because HE DIDN'T WRITE IT!

I begged those officers to double check the warrant. I explained that they had the wrong person. I pleaded with them to take me. I showed them my copy of the check with MY signature. I used all of my wiles and charms (there was cleavage involved) to no avail. They had their warrant and that was that. One thing I'm very grateful for is that Silas was not at home. That would have wrecked me. As it was, I spent the night in abject terror. How angry will he be? Will he leave me? Will he make me leave? Should I just pack now? Not very rational thoughts, but in the middle of the night, when your husband is in jail for something you did, reason tends to be scarce. And I do know that if the tables were turned, I would be one pissed off puppy. I would probably be petty enough to use it to my advantage, i.e.: What do you mean "What's for dinner??" I went to jail for you!

I got him bonded out at around 11am. I was waiting in the truck when he came out and I was so ashamed I couldn't look him in the eye. He got in and I braced myself for the well deserved smackdown I was sure was coming. He cracked a grin, gave me a wink, and said he wanted some breakfast. I was gobsmacked! You're not mad? I said. "No, they told me how hard you tried to get them to take you. I know it wasn't on purpose." Sigh. Now I feel worse. It would've been easier if he'd been livid. Round one is over.

Round two begins almost immediately. He bonded out on Friday morning. The paperwork said he'd have a preliminary hearing within twenty days. Monday evening the bondsman calls and says he missed his court date that morning. The magistrate put a capias out when he didn't show up. A capias is a warrant that sends you straight to jail with no bond to wait for your hearing, which can take up to, wait for it...twenty days! The bondsman was amazed that they got a hearing scheduled that quickly. I'm wondering about a little technicality called notice, otherwise known as letting someone know they have a court date. So off to the courthouse we go. Thankfully, the magistrate realized the error, rescinded the capias, and we went on our merry way. Poor Sam was so hyped up, the adrenaline had him shaking for an hour after we left. I didn't get quite so upset, but I wasn't the one looking at going back to jail either. There's a sentence I never thought I'd be typing! Round two and I'm still standing.

Round three has me on the mat, literally. When we left the courthouse, I noticed that my feet were burning, kind of an itchy burning. That afternoon while at the bank doing a wire transfer, my left palm was itching so bad I thought I'd dig right through it. Unfortunately the old "itchy palm means someones giving you some money" saying is a lie. By Tuesday night, my hands were so swollen and red that I couldn't close them. My feet looked like I dipped them in fire. These alarming symptoms were quickly moving up my legs and arms. The itching!! There are no words. I went to urgent care, where they asked me what chemical caused the burns! When I explained that I hadn't been in any chemicals and gave the sequence of symptoms, she determined it was an allergic reaction. To what, who knows? Maybe if I posted more than once a blue moon, I'd have a better recollection of my travels. My course of treatment was to be a shot of adrenaline to "break the reaction". Alrighty then, if you say so.
She proceeded to inject a liquid taken from the fiery depths of hell into my arm. Twenty minutes later, with my heart racing, my blood pressure up, and dizzy, she decides that it's helped a bit, but not enough. More adrenaline, stat! The other arm gets the liquid lava. Then the fun starts. Heart rate is irregular, blood pressure spikes, an ambulance is summoned. Apparently, I'm allergic to adrenaline! After much deliberation, it was decided that my allergic reaction was caused by my body being in such a state of "fight or flight" for the past five days. The adrenaline used to break the reaction exacerbated it. So I am, for now, down for the count. Don't count me out yet though.

And ten points for whoever can place the song reference in the title.

I could only hope to be this brave

This man right here? Now, there's a hero. We all have people we look up to, who we want to emulate. This man is now one of mine. I cannot imagine a more heroic way to die. Holding your child above your head to avoid the weight of the car crushing you against the fence. To see the car coming toward you and instinctively raising your daughter to safety above while you bear the brunt of the impact. To die knowing that at least you saved her.

Of course his children won't care how heroic he was, they will only want their daddy. I'm sure his family would prefer he hadn't had to die a hero, or die at all. I'm fairly confident that they wish the driver of the car hadn't chosen to get behind the wheel. But the pride they'll have! The stories that will be told. I can't imagine it will be any comfort.

If I didn't have Piglet...

Most people say "I just don't know what I'd do without him/her/them", meaning their child/ren.
Or "I just can't imagine life without..." While I love my son with all of my heart, I can, and often do, imagine my life without him. I'm glad I had him, and I enjoy his being here, but poppets? I was done! Kids grown and gone, no more t-ball, first day of school, trick or treat, temper trantrums, playdates, park politics, all the fun that comes with a small child.

If I didn't have Piglet, I would:

*leave this shiteous marriage

*sell my company

*move to England

*disappear into my inner world with my books, and gardening and internet and not have to be so present all the time.

*be gloriously alone

*be miserably alone

Why can't I do these things with Piglet, you ask? Well, a myriad of reasons, really. He needs his father and his mother to be together like he's always known. He needs some type of legacy. If I sell the company, what will I leave him?

I could go on, but I wonder if perhaps having Piglet isn't my excuse for not taking responsibility for my own life?

Why I asked for a divorce on my honeymoon

When my husband proposed to me, he did absolutely everything right. He took me to the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, NC. He rented the most luxurious suite at the Biltmore Inn for the weekend. He arranged a picnic lunch by the bass pond with the most wonderful view of the conservatory and gardens. And he was so nervous I thought he'd pass out.
He proposed on my birthday, a Saturday. We decided to marry one year later, again on my birthday, but a Sunday. It took every day of that entire year to plan our wedding and honeymoon. We had a gorgeous wedding at a local historical mansion, complete with horse drawn carriage and a flutist and harpist playing Pachebel's Canon.
Our honeymoon was to be the trip of a lifetime. We were to fly out of Dulles Airport into Heathrow. The plan was to spend one week in England, one week in Scotland, and one week as a cushion in case we wanted to stay longer or go to France. I was looking more forward to the trip than the wedding. The wedding was really more for our families. Don't misunderstand, it was beautiful and flawless, but the trip, that was for us, and only us.
Two weeks in Europe! A dream come true. I had been before, but I was fresh out of high school and didn't make it out of London because that's where the parties were. My shiny new husband had never been farther than Florida. He chickened out on me two days before the wedding. Not the getting married part, the flying to Europe part. To say I was disappointed would be the understatement of the century. To say I handled my disappointment with grace and humor would be an outright lie. I ranted. I raved. I said horrible things that I was later sorry for. Frankly, after the way I went on, I'm surprised he didn't back out of the wedding, too. But I still, ten years later, feel that I was justified. I put a lot of time and effort into planning the trip. I was very much looking forward to going. And he took it away from me because of his fear to fly. I was angry and resentful, but in the interest of our wedding, I put it aside for later inspection.
Our honeymoon actually turned out to be quite wonderful. It wasn't the trip I had planned but there was something freeing about not having an itinerary or a schedule. We hopped into a rental car on Monday afternoon and headed north. We ended up in Niagara Falls, of all places. How trite, but thoroughly enjoyable. From there, we went through Canada to Bar Harbor, Maine. Then we took the catamaran to Nova Scotia, and eventually made our way home. We had no plans, no reservations, no destination. And we had a great time.
Upon our return home, still feeling a bit stung that I didn't get my way, and feeling just a wee bit entitled, I took the money we had left over and bought myself a little bling.





I've worn this ring on my right hand everyday since our honeymoon. It reminds me that it doesn't always have to be about me, that if I give other ideas a chance, they just might be as good as, or (gasp!) better, than mine. It also reminds me that it's ok to be nice to myself. I think that a lot of us put ourselves last most of the time. And I'm glad I put myself first long enough to buy a beautiful reminder of a lovely time.

My first whupping

Yvonne, at joyunexpected wrote a post about the last time she got a whipping from her dad. I had a cute little linky all ready to go, but the post is gone! I haven't quite figured out why because I thought it was well written and interesting AND I was inspired to share the story of my first and only experience with corporal punishment.
My family all lived on the same road within one mile of each other. I had paternal grandparents down the hill to the east, our house in the middle, and maternal grandparents three houses to the west. I had the type of childhood where we were set out of the house in the morning and told to be home by dinner. Where we were and what we did in between only came into question if criminal acts were witnessed or blood was shed.
My aunt is only eighteen months older than I am, so we grew up more like sisters. We spent a good deal of time exploring the woods around our houses, hanging out in the store where sometimes your bottle of chocolate pop had a dime in the cap! and generally just being kids. Now my father had a very precise version of how children were to be raised. I don't think he did this consciously, but its just the way it turned out. He has never raised his hand or even his voice to either of his children and he didn't expect anyone else to either.
My aunt and I, being around 6 and 8, couldn't find anything to get into one hot summer day. We had run through the sprinkler, had a squirt bottle fight, and watched the Flintstone's. We were at a loss. While aimlessly roaming through the house, we happened upon my grandfather's shaving cream. Two cans! One for each of us. At least we went outside to the front yard before having our shaving cream fight (we seemed to have a lot of fights, real and pretend). To this day, I still don't know what it was about that simple act of childhood that angered my grandfather so. We were scampering around the yard, covered in shaving cream and quite delighted with ourselves when he came home. He came thundering across the yard and snatched us up by the arms. He drug us into the house and put us on the sofa. Then he took off his belt. He hadn't spoken yet.
He whipped my aunt first, then me. With a belt. Two inches wide, black leather, well worn, silver buckle. I will never forget that belt. I can honestly say that I have forgotten the pain. I'm sure it hurt because we sobbed for hours, huddled on the sofa, legs and hineys stinging. But I think perhaps our hearts were in more pain than our asses. We still didn't know what we had done wrong.
My grandmother came home from work and found us like that. She gathered herself up to her full height of 4'8" and she took her 90 lb. self into the kitchen where she proceeded to administer said belt to the back of her husband. She got in two good licks before he took it, all the while laughing at her (which just made her madder) and telling her that a good whupping never hurt no children. Now, my grandfather was a gentle man who never raised a hand to his wife during their entire 40 year marriage. Her fury amused him. He just didn't see what the big deal was. We did something wrong (in his opinion) and he punished us.
Needless to say, my father did see what the big deal was. As kids are wont to do, we got over it and moved on to other activities for the rest of the afternoon. Then it was time to go home. I wandered home for dinner. When I climbed into my chair at the table, my father saw me wince. He asked what was wrong. I told him that Popo had whipped us with his belt because we used up all of his shaving cream. He checked my backside and legs and the welts he saw there put clouds in his eyes that I had never seen before. He very quietly told Mother that he would be back shortly. I wasn't witness to the rest of this story, but it has been told many times.
My father is not a large man. 5'9", 180. My grandfather was a very large man, topping out at 6'4", 280. My father did not hesitate nor waver. Someone had harmed his child and that simply could not be tolerated. To my grandfathers' credit, he didn't try to defend himself. He took his punch like a man and then apologized for whipping me. He apologized to my father, but not to me, or his daughter. But he never physically punished either of us again.
It wasn't the end of the world, getting whipped. I'm sure I would have a different opinion if it had happened frequently. As it was, it happened, and I didn't die from it. But I still don't like the smell of certain shaving creams.

Things I learned from my father

This should probably be titled "things my father tried to teach me". Some took, some didn't.

Measure twice, cut once. Trust me, this applies to a WHOLE lot more than lumber.

There is nothing you can't learn. Proved this by teaching me to break down and rebuild an engine.

Someone is always watching you. Paranoid much? Actually, his way of telling me to comport myself in such a way as to be respected. This one didn't take until my 20's.

You have to work hard to have nice things. This one I got when the National Bank of Daddy closed its wallet.

Don't be afraid to tell people how good you are. Got this one a little TOO good.

The less you say, the more people want you to talk. Epic fail.

There is nothing you can't do alone. Gotta disagree with this one.

Let your kids make their mistakes. Yeah, about that? Wish I had had more guidance.

If you can't see the mirrors, he can't see you. Check.

People will judge you by who you are with. Yeah, buddy.

Always keep $20 hidden somewhere in your car. Still do, to this day. Never know when I might need ONE GALLON of gas!

If you're going to illegally run electric to your garage, have someone stand by with a wooden board to break the current if you get shocked. Haven't had use for this one.

And my all time favorite.

When you fall off the roof, you can make yourself pass out before you hit the ground. WTF???