Save a place on the Olympic podium for Grandma!

I’m blessed to live in a part of the country where a high school kid can still play three sports a year.  My big-city friends practically have to declare their kids’ sport-of-choice during the ultrasound, and then spend the next fourteen years buying a spot on the club team until high school try-outs roll around; but even then, it’s a crap shoot.  In fact, the Olympic trials might hold more hope for Junior.

The guy I’m married to played eight-man football in Condon, Oregon.    Which, I think, also means his basketball team had only three men and the baseball team he pitched for would, logically-speaking, have had about six in the dug-out.  To this day, our kids get a kick out of listening to his three-sport Badge of Honor, otherwise known as his rotator cuff, as it clicks and grinds into action every morning.  And, although I’m a died-in-the-wool mama bear who wishes our hard-working athletes could get a vacation between seasons, I’m proud of their dedication and ability to switch gears mid-stride; a new coach, the long drive to town for fresh gear, a skeletal tune-up with Dr. Slater, a new mouth guard, collect some more cans and bottles, new tires for Mom’s car, a nod to the Les Schwab pit crew and THEY’RE OFF!

And that’s just the season opener!  Ask any elite athlete and they’ll tell you it’s the behind-the-scenes effort that makes them a champion.  Take the grandparents for instance.  By now, they too have been trained to write down all dates, locations and times in pencil, because they’ve learned the hard way that Athletic Directors have a game schedule roulette wheel in their office; and that sucker never stops spinning.  But if it does, the Pony Express is dispatched to the coaches and players.  Then a telegraph is sent to parent one and parent two, stepparent three and four and so on.  Throw travel time into the mix and it’s a wonder Grandma and Grandpa make it at all.  But, make it, they will!

Case in point: The phenomenon also known as, Grandma Hulick.   If you’ve been to a Crook County football game in the last couple of years you’ve likely experienced Grandma Hulick.  You might not have known it at the time.  In fact, you might have thought you’d wandered into a NASCAR stadium by mistake.  Her whoops, hollers and ear-piercing whistles might make the newbies nervous but, those of us who’ve seen her love in action know that this is just her warm up act, folks.  I’ve seen that woman jump the fence around the Summit High School track to help an injured player on the sidelines.  And, being that it was Summit, there were probably three fences and an armed guard!  No Mother in her right mind would venture toward the bench if she ever wanted her kid to speak to her again but, in a pinch, we all know that we can get important information to (and about) our precious babies via Grandma H.  And when the final whistle blows there she is again with twenty dozen cookies as our players board the bus or head to the locker room. They get a cookie in each hand and one in the mouth, along with a high five and an “Atta-boy!”

Although I’m tempted to petition the I.O.C. for a grandparent gold medal on her behalf, I’m fairly certain that her practice of never letting anyone leave her presence without feeling loved in turn fills her with a happiness that is all the present she will ever need.  Now, if I could just figure out a way to sneak her into my son’s golf tournaments.

Setting my feet on the life path in 2010.

Don’t know about the rest of you, but I took great pleasure in kicking 2009 to the curb a few weeks ago!  It was a hard year no matter how you slice it, and 2010 has been a welcome relief on many levels.  For starters, The Ladies at the Powell Butte Christian Church are back from their Christmas hiatus, and that fact alone makes everything right in my world again because those ladies can pray like nobody’s business!  And I’m here to testify that if you should find yourself in the cross hares of their mountain-moving prayer chain, you might want to get yourself saved, and be quick about it.

These, God-expectant, God-ready women are just like you and me, except for their halos.  You know them too because there’s at least one on every street.  And like the kindly ones in your neighborhood, these saints decided some years ago to do away with the man-made shackles of religiosity and approach the Throne of Grace with transparency and tenacity.  And, while they were at it, why not do it together; discovering somewhere along the way that God-hungry lives are everywhere just waiting to be invited in.  And, lo and behold, what splendid friends those searching souls become!

I’m not the only Mama who relaxes the moment I arrive, and even on the days when life is throwing up every road block to keep me away, I’m never sorry I knocked and entered in to huddle under the umbrella of warmth these truth-seeking women throw open to the weak and weary, the numb and angry, the hopeful and the hopeless.  Others come with babies in tow and dark circles under their eyes, barely able to stifle a yawn during the hymn and announcements.   But, true to their reputation, everyone leaves just a little more whole than when we walked in - a little prayer and Word-study, a song or two, lots of laughter and general whooping-it-up with the grannies.  Well, not all The Ladies are grannies, but enough of them are to make me want to sit up straight and not use cuss words when I request prayer for my sub-par mothering skills or my terrible fear of all things medical.  Not that they would care, but they make me want to grow up to be a steadfast mentor instead of a whiner and a grouch.

When those ladies prayed my Sister-in-Law through her cancer ordeal, all I could think to say was, “Hot d@*%, she’s cancer free!”  I mean, “Hot diggity!”   See?  I just want to be like them!  Help me to be like them Lord, all strong and suffused with grace.  I bet they never yelled hysterically at their kids while driving a car and scowling into the rearview mirror…or maybe they did...

And maybe, if I hang around The Ladies long enough, their hard-earned tenderness will rub off on me, too.  Because, let’s face it, none of us are getting off this life path without some difficulty and suffering, and it will absolutely change us all.  We’ll either become bitter or better.

So, I’ll never stop running, like a woman with her hair on fire, to be with The Ladies at the church!  In hopes that I, too, can one day be available to a living heart that simply longs to be touched by the better angels of our nature.  And if that young Mother shares her deepest, most humiliating parenting faux pas, I’ll just smile and let her think that I, too, probably never ever acted like a complete idiot in all my mothering days either.  And then, I’ll casually adjust my crooked halo when she’s not looking.

The local shops are killing me with kindness.

It’s embarrassing to admit that, although my husband has shopped there for years, I’ve just recently discovered the Prineville Men’s Wear store.  I KNOW unforgiveable, right?  To make matters worse, I brought the kids-who-can’t-stop-talking and they went on and on about how “Mom usually shops at the BIG store for our ranch-wear but hates the prices and hard-to-find sales associates!”  The part they left out was that there’s just something about trying to shop with rambunctious kids that screams WAL-MART!  After we’d browsed every corner of our new favorite local store, we drove home talking about how nice it was to shop there.  The kids are still amazed at how calm Mommy is when her fingers aren’t pressed against her temples.  That, my dear children, is what you call “customer service!”  And when you find it, hold on for dear life because it’s a dying art.

Speaking of dying; I made a vow then and there to try and keep my Christmas shopping local, even if it kills me!  One could argue that the big-box stores are just so doggone tempting; what with their moist towelettes at the entrance and aisle upon aisle of lead-laden off-shore trinkets.  But these blue light specials just don’t compare to the free gift wrapping I’ve found at the local haunts and when Prineville Men’s Wear offered to have my boy’s jeans hemmed overnight (at no charge) I almost keeled over on the spot from the kindness of it all.

Which reminds me; some of the kindest people on the planet live right in my own backyard at Lark Gardens in Powell Butte.  I’m running low on their world-famous Peking Blend Vinegar and Lord knows Christmas won’t be complete without some of this:

Peking Ice Cream Sundaes

3 ripe pears

2 tsp. fresh ginger

2 oz butter

2 oz Peking Blend Vinegar

Vanilla Ice Cream

Brown the sliced pears in a skillet with the butter, ginger and vinegar then serve over the ice cream and you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven!  Just ask my kids who are quiet as angels when they eat this stuff.

Speaking of heaven, the Life Song Christian Book Store in Prineville has a warm cup of cider waiting for you.  And if they don’t have the book you’re looking for it’ll be ordered before you finish your drink.

My mail carrier is getting a gift certificate for a smoothie at Friends Espresso (but don’t tell her, it’s a surprise).  Do people still do that?  Tip the mail carrier and the garbage hauler?  After all, one would hate for the two to get confused about their job descriptions, lest you find junk in your mailbox and Aunt Ethel’s fruit cake and aspic ends up in the landfill! Wait. What!? Sorry Aunt Ethel, I’ll find out who’s been skimping on the tips!

Sure, it might seem like I’m doing a lot of driving from store to store.  But let’s be honest here people, most of the towns in our county aren’t all that much bigger than the Costco parking lot anyhow.  Just in case I pull a hamstring though, I will absolutely be dropping by Nature’s Bounty for some of T’s Tonics Sore Muscle Soother.  That stuff is the BEST!  Then it’s on to Checkers for some biscotti to stuff in the stockings and probably a visit to a feed store or two because who says you can’t find treasures at a feed store?!

On the off chance that I don’t survive all my crazy patronizing, please tell my kids that I really was planning to make it to The Dollar Tree to replace that amazing peppermint bark.  And tell my husband that when the Giddy-Up Boutique appears on the credit card statement I had to buy hay...for the horses.

Determined to be thankful.

I watch her cross the finish line a full two hours after most runners have gone home; her body working hard for every step because her brain scrambles instructions to her uncooperative limbs. She used to run 26.2 miles in as much time as it is now taking her to walk three! With one leg straight as a board and one hand curled uselessly near her shoulder, she walks three miles, holding tight to her granddaughter; the same three miles that barely warm-up the able-bodied volunteers working the time clock and refreshments at the finish line. The same three miles that required four years of intense therapy for this Broken One after her mobility-robbing stroke.

Runners take off and come back, some burning up five miles or more like it was nothing. They pass The Broken One as they leave and again as they return, giving her a thumbs-up or an encouraging word; completely unaware that, months earlier, she ripped that advertisement for the Lord’s Acre Run from the newspaper and made her children find Powell Butte on a map. The finishers ask about her once they’ve cooled off, had a snack and are ready to head for home. They scan the horizon for her silhouette, marveling again as her story unfolds through whispers and raised eyebrows. Are they wondering like me if, faced with the cross she bears, they would have the same determination, the same strength and courage?

Do some of them feel on the inside the way she looks on the outside, I wonder? Broken, twisted, barely able to function? Do some wish they could pull the covers back over their head each morning for a myriad of despairing reasons? Are there others whose paychecks come in discouraging fits and starts or whose livelihood has been interrupted all-together?

As I serve cool water to another thirsty runner, I look up and my eyes follow another friend by the name of Rachel as she jogs by; savoring the cool morning air with her kids. Her body: waging an invisible war against some chump-of-a-breast-tumor and reeling from the chemo cocktail being dumped into her veins. But you’d never know it by the thankful radiance all over her face.

And then I remember that, in my own life, thankfulness often requires a healthy dose of determination. It’s hard to count blessings when my mind is pressed and under the impression that it’s all about ME. I need to look up and take notice of those nearby who are rising from the ashes of frustration and battle so I can follow their footprints toward hope! And once I do that, the fog clears and the determined fighters I long to emulate come into focus; high school volleyball players who defy the odds of youthful inexperience to win another state title, football players who hang up their battered helmets and head for the mat or center court with renewed vigor, the military families whose only medals are worn inside their chest, and whose very survival here at home demonstrates to the rest of the world what an invisible monument looks like when its made of strength and quiet perseverance; all these things go unseen unless I make the effort to look through a different lens.

I wish my word-lens could show you in living color what the finish line of that Lord’s Acre Run looked and felt like when The Broken One finally crossed it. Hundreds of people turned their attention from the infamous Lord’s Acre feast that was coming out of the BBQ pits; their buzz of conversation at once went eerily quiet. And when the stop watch stopped counting and our arms shot up in the air, signaling that she had crossed over, the crowd went wild; hearts exploding with joy and voices celebrating her victorious demonstration that whether broken in body or broken in spirit, we can always choose to lean into thankfulness.

Learning to run a different kind of race.

Just a few short years ago I’d lie awake and listen to the sounds of laughter pass by my window as those crazy runners lit up the pre-dawn hours with their headlamps; Mothers mostly, fellowshipping before the children wake; dragging along the occasional husband as pack leader trying to eavesdrop into the world of the woman. Those Chatty-Cathys would tease and taunt me every morning; as if knowing I wanted to come out and play hide-and-seek in the dark, but refusing to accept my lame excuse of “not being a runner.”

Perhaps it was no coincidence that my wedding ring was becoming harder and harder to remove. Heaven knows that my ever-stiffening joints certainly weren’t winning any prizes. And neither were my arteries, which I was certain were clogging by the second, as I approached the day of forty candles on my cake. Trust me, the race I was running had little to do with shoes and trails and gentle morning breezes. And a whole lot more to do with frenzied to-do lists and sprinting around a track of repetitive tasks in search of some unattainable finish line; never really sure of that which I was seeking.

But now, I’m the one who’s laughing, because grace had a different plan and it all began with an invitation. A gentle coaxing to “come and see” that meant laying down my skepticism and trying something new. So under the cover of a lonely country road in broad daylight I placed my trust in a blossoming friendship and began learning, foot fall by foot fall, to run a different kind of race. At first, I was only able to run a few paces before my head felt ready to explode. Then, another day and another; each with a little less bending over, hands to knees. Then one mile led to five followed by ten until the self-talk of the impossible was forced to flee.

And the forty candles came and went and brought with it a new understanding of what it means to step off the hamster-wheel of constantly glancing at the clock and the list and leaning toward a tape that’s not really there anyway. The new race really isn’t a race at all, but a time to reflect on what my life seeks; a tough thing to ponder if I’m always in a rush.

Running the country roads with my pasture pounding friends has helped me establish a new cadence that has changed my day-in-day-out rhythm of house and work and kids and marriage and faith. The route remains the same but, where my gaze was once downward in a fast-paced rat race of drudgery, my eyes now focus upward in slow appreciation of the narrow path that my feet no longer have to run frantically about to find. I’m becoming familiar with the slow and steady tempo of this new race as I retrace each memorized step by heart.

And wouldn’t you know it? Those same crazy running people who bless my life every day also like to break out into the song-of-the-race darn near any chance they get. Which is why you’ll see them all, the fast ones right along side the slow ones like me, at the Lord’s Acre Celebration on Saturday November 7th in Powell Butte.

Please accept my sincere invitation to come early for the 9:00 a.m. Walk/Run and join me in slowing down and knowing why you race. Then, perhaps you will find what it is you seek. And that would be an important thing to know.

Oh Yeah! Well My Mom Can Kill A Horse!

Most days I think I'm fairly well equipped to parent my children. I've only had a few instances in my fifteen-plus years of motherhood where doubt crept in and I was ready to call Child Services on myself. But, I swear, I always went straight to the Customer Service counter when I heard my name over the store intercom and couldn't find Junior under the clothing racks. And eating half-a-bottle of fluoride only gave my other kid really bad gas. So, all in all, I should be able to steer clear of a visit from Super Nanny as long as she doesn’t visit the local park where the sweet sound of children’s voices is only occasionally interrupted by one of my own yelling “Oh Yeah!? Well, MY MOM can kill a horse!”

So, maybe my attempt at raising kids on a farm hasn’t been all apple orchards and sweet tea, okay? They keep sneaking out the door and running barefoot through rattle snake country! And no amount of Dr. Oz episodes will keep them from kissing the farm dogs on the lips. Seriously, have you ever SEEN what farm dogs eat in an average day? Blek, ptooey, yuck, cough!

So, yeah, I’ll admit it. There was this one time that I came dangerously close to losing the best hundred-bucks I ever spent. Her name is Joanie-The-Big-Fat-Pony. She's got the cutest thighs and belly you've ever seen, but if she so much as sniffs a blade of grass or alfalfa hay? It's over, people. She's down for the count; moaning and bloated and full of more gas than Uncle Festus.

Joanie-The-Big-Fat-Pony came to us one Easter morning a couple years ago by way of the Easter Bunny. And I have a very faint memory of some mention by the previous owners of something along the lines of something like, "don't feed the pony EVER or she'll blow up like a balloon and die!" or something like that.

So it wasn't long after we got Her Royal Fatness home before those final instructions came crashing back into the forefront of my brain; the same brain that must have Italian roots somewhere in its lineage, because I like to feed my children and my man, and every animal we own, lots of treats and good food. After all, we Italian Mamas know that food makes people happy! Oh, and we yell sometimes. But I already confessed my quota of bad-parenting habits today, so let's move on.

And anyway, I'm better now. About the food, that is. I love that pony like she’s one of my own kids and it pains me to see her lame and groaning. So when the day finally came that she presented signs of having done snuck into her boyfriend's stash of clover, it was the last straw. I rounded up the cow-pokes that live under my roof and eat my food and made them build me a fence.

So Joanie-The-Big-Fat-Pony is behind bars now. The tabloids will be dishing that she's in rehab and pregnant; or taping an episode of Nip Tuck. But don't you believe a word of it. She serves her time patiently, gets a pedicure and is then released early for good behavior. So she can get back to the joy of doing what God created her to do.

If you’d like to learn more about how NOT to kill your pony, come to the Central Oregon Ranch Supply’s Round-Up & Trade Show this weekend in Powell Butte. It’ll take place Friday night and all day Saturday. There’ll be live entertainment, really good food and screaming deals on farm stuff. Super Nanny is busy taping new episodes, but you can visit with plenty of other experts about your four-legged animals, to be sure.

Grateful for the things money can't buy.

DANG, you people work hard!  Having grown up a-little-bit-city, a-little-bit-country (and a-little-bit-rock-n-roll), I thought I knew a thing or two about working hard.  It appears, however, that my Crook County compadres are part Energizer Bunny or something, because the amount of blood, sweat and tears being shed on behalf of our communities has me thinking that I don’t know bupkis about hard work.

To re-cap the last few weeks in my corner of the county; there was this little thing called The County Fair where some 4-H and FFA kids pretty much knocked-one-out-of-the-park.  Some donated their livestock auction proceeds to their school or to friends in need. Then there were about 52 car washes up and down the Prine-Vegas strip.  Some football players delivered a few (thousand) sticks of firewood.  And countless cans and bottles have been sorted, hauled and recycled.  This is all in addition to the hay-hauling, horse-breaking, lawn-mowing and cattle-driving most of these tykes do from sun-up ‘til coach blows the whistle for daily-doubles to start.  Just writing about it makes me thirsty for some electrolytes!

To be perfectly honest, the whole business of this slogging economy puts me in a quandary most days. I went to high school in the 80’s; when hair was big, my Daddy’s business was growing gang-busters and the Folks made sure I had everything they never got.  Well, my hair is still big, my parents are comfortably retired and I long to bring, buy and take my kids everywhere!  I want to give them cable TV, a new car for their 16^th birthday and a fully-funded college education, complete with spending allowance.  But the only way to accomplish all that is to also pass on to them a home that’s mortgaged to the hilt when I die.  Some gift that would be, huh?

If left to my own devices I’d spoil my children into sweet oblivion because I’m a Mother and it’s what I do.  I could also protect them right into becoming 30-year-olds who live in my basement, but that’s another topic for another time.  Instead, it is entirely possible that the state of my checking account just might save me from myself and teach me to be grateful for the things that money CAN’T buy.

‘Tis the season when Moms like me are worried that their kid will get nothing more than a swirly in the locker room from the varsity players.  Instead, the coaches, parents, and upperclassmen are mentoring him with a heavy dose of the knowledge that the helping hand he needs is at the end of his own arm.  They send him home dirty, sweaty and unafraid to work hard again the next day.  The side effects of this work-before-play regiment are camaraderie, teamwork and a trickle-down to the younger siblings back at home (the work-ethic that is, not the swirly).

Ask almost any parent and they’ll tell you they wish they could cut a check for the whole enchilada.  Ask any of the hard-working kids and they’ll tell you about the impromptu motivational speaker they just delivered that last load of firewood to.  You know the guy no one would think to invite to speak in an auditorium, but who can describe the winning season of ’84 play-by-play, then, tell your kid how much he believes his Alma Mater can do it again!  No amount of money can buy that kind of mojo my friends.  Because the only place that success ever comes before work is in the dictionary.