Gardner Family Christmas

Sunday was the day of the annual Gardner Family Christmas. Justin's dad is one of six siblings, and each year the siblings rotate who hosts a family Christmas. The siblings and their children (and now grandchildren) are all invited to crowd into someones house and eat way more food than is good for them.

Justin and I have missed lots of these celebrations. When we lived away from middle Tennessee, we never made the celebration, always held the Sunday before Christmas. We only had limited time off, and always wanted to spend what little time we had off for Christmas itself.

This year the celebration was held at Uncle Larry's house. His wife has a small home daycare, and their house was ideally suited for hosting. For once there was room for everyone. Also, there were lots of toys for the kids to play with.

One of the highlights of the occasion, for me, was watching Ellie partake in the ritual Christmas cookies. Justin's aunt Trudie is known for her special Christmas cookies she makes every year for the "kids." They are frosted sugar cookie Christmas trees, frosted with green and decorated with M&Ms. I think there would be a riot if Aunt Trudie did not bring her cookies. Even my husband, who has prided himself on being an adult for years, will decide he is a child (who the cookies are designated for) and have one.

Ellie had her first Aunt Trudie this year. Of course, with her sweet tooth, she loved it. And watching her make a mess of herself was heartwarming. It gave me a sense of community to watch my girl join in this tradition. I love knowing she took part in something that has been going on for several decades now. I also loved watching her play with her second cousin Will. He is two, and lives in South Carolina, so we do not see him often. But it gave a sense of continuity to watch my kids play with him, knowing my husband played with their mother when they were kids.

This type of family celebration is the reason I am glad we moved closer to family. It is nice to gather with those relatives you only see once a year or so, even the ones you have to watch out to make sure they don't pants you (I'm looking at you Uncle Herschel). It is nice to sit back and pick out resemblances, to hear stories of your sweetheart when he was young, to watch the uncles try to get the newly turned adult to unthinkingly drink spiked eggnog. So today I am thankful for extended family and traditions.

Christmas Songs

Today my sweet grandmother would have turned 97 years old. Thinking of this anniversary of her birth and all my wonderful memories of her has led me to thinking of other happy, positive things. Due to the mysterious alchemy of brain chemistry, my memories turned to thoughts of my favorite childhood Christmas songs.

The absolute top favorite Christmas record (yes record, not cassette or 8 track, but real, live records) was the Chipmunk Christmas album. I was given this when I was five, and it was instant love. I played that thing incessantly on my parent's turntable. I firmly believe my love affair with Simon (so nerdy and such cute glasses!) and this album directly led to me receiving my own small turntable when I was six. Then I played that album almost daily through January, singing along. My parents hung on to that record for a long time. By the time I was in high school, my parents had overcome their aversion to the album (or they enjoyed watching my roll my eyes to the album I had once loved) and insisted it wasn't Christmas without playing it at least once. I miss our old turntable for that album (and my Sound of Music album) more than anything.

Another favorite Christmas record from this time was an Elvis Christmas album I believe I inherited from my parents. I would play "Blue Christmas" for seemingly hours on end, lost in the music. I think I put myself into some sort of zen, Elvisy trance, sitting on the floor, staring at the spinning turntable and becoming on with the album.

I was also a hug fan of Anne Murray as a kid. I am not quite sure how that happened. The first concert I ever saw was Anne Murray (how I wish I could say it was something cool like Vanilla Ice or Aerosmith). I had the Anne Murray Christmas cassette (I had graduated to a cassette player by then). I loved "Christmas in Killarney" and played that song repeatedly. I would play it, sing along, then rewind, spending 10 minutes trying to get to the exact beginning of the song, and then begin the process all over again. I still even know some of the words ("The holly green/the ivy green/the prettiest green you've ever seen/It's Christmas in Killarney and all of the folks at home...It's nice to know you can kiss you beau while standing beneath the mistletoe/I handing you no blarney...").

And so, as we enter this last week before Christmas, I am going to try to track these songs down so I can play them for my kids. There is nothing like singing at the top of your lungs to your favorite songs in front of your kids. The best part is that I will be adding new memories to my fond remembrances of these songs.

Cookies with Santa

Hardy's preschool has a lovely tradition for the last day of "school" before Christmas break. They have Santa come to school and sit in the parlor. Everyone brings one dozen cookies. We go line up in the gym, eat cookies, and meet and have a photo taken with Santa. It's a nice way to squeeze in a trip to visit Santa without the hassle of going to the mall to meet Santa. My children have yet to realize that Santa comes to malls, and I hope they never find out.

We valiantly tried to minimize Santa in our early parenting days. Not totally disregard Santa, just not have the big guy be the main focus of Christmas. We were fairly successful in this effort until Hardy started preschool. Kids talk, and he knew the lowdown on Santa within weeks (it seemed) of starting preschool. Hardy has since decided there must be more than one Santa since he visits so many children; he's also decided Santa must share his cookies with Mrs. Claus since he gets so many.

The first year Hardy met Santa, he gamely sat on his lap, but refused to talk to Santa. His picture that year shows him leaning as far away from Santa as he can. That is my budding little misanthrope.

Last year, Hardy was three and was ready for Santa. He sat on his lap, and managed to talk to him too. He wouldn't say what he wanted, but Santa did finally worm out of him that he wanted a leaf blower. Hardy did receive the leaf blower, which I think he has played with 3 times. I think he may have been disappointed that it was not a real leaf blower like his dad has.



This year was the first year I was going to let Ellie experience Santa. She's almost 18 months now, and is enthralled by the spectacle of Christmas. She loves the lights and decorations, and she particularly likes grooving to Christmas music. Also, Hardy has been telling her all about Santa for weeks now (he loves to "teach" or "profess" as he sometimes says).

When Santa arrived, we could see him in the other room. The first reactions were hopeful. Hardy was thrilled, and Ellie laughed and smiled at Santa. She seemed enthralled until we crossed the threshold of the parlor.

Once we arrived in Santa's lair, Ellie decided that Santa was no friend of hers. So like any good mom, I plopped her down on his lap, beside Hardy. Ellie was not happy, and made her displeasure known. I have great pics of her screaming on Santa's lap. I feel as if we have endured a rite of passage - the obligatory photo with Santa, complete with crying child. What else says Christmas cheer than a photo of your kid, crying, mad at the world, and wondering who the heck this big guy is and why is Mommy letting him hold her?




Luckily, the cookies made Ellie decide to forgive me, and she left Hardy's preschool full of good cheer once more. In addition to the cookies, the kids had the opportunity to run and screech like banshees in the gym after they had finished eating. I contemplated pretending they weren't my children as I visited with other parents, but I knew that would never work. People had seen me with the kids, there was no way I could pretend they belonged to someone else.



Between terrorizing my youngest today with Santa and the screaming banshee impression they indulged in, I am feeling like a finalist in the "Best Mommy" contest. Hopefully Santa didn't see this and put me on the naughty list.

Live Camels, Oh My!

Justin had a meeting to go to yesterday afternoon, so I thought it would be a great idea to take to the kids to Bethlehem Marketplace while he was gone. Bethlehem Marketplace is a reenactment of Bethlehem at the time of the birth of Jesus put on one weekend a year by a local Baptist church. They have live camels, sheep and donkeys. Best of all, it is less than a mile from my house, so it seemed like a great idea.

I started out on our trip with a bit of trepidation. Ellie had awakened early from her nap, and was in a dreadful mood. Looking at her made her cry, and she only wanted her dad, not me. It was the type of meltdown that would make a single person decide never to have children in their life. However, once we got there and I got her in the stroller, she cheered up a bit. Actually, by that point she was resigned, but I took that as a bit of cheer.

After a bit of a wait (this thing apparently draws in 6000 visitors), we enter the tented areas. It was a bit unreal. It was like being suddenly thrust into the middle of a theater camp exercise. There are people in costume, roaming around, yelling and trying to sell their wares. There are men dressed up as Roman soldiers, patrolling the "streets" and occasionally arresting someone. Hardy seemed to believe they were actually soldiers, and was a bit afraid that they would arrest us. I didn't want to destroy the illusion, so I allowed him to have this fantasy.

We came to the camels, and Hardy decided two things. He decided camels stink and that camels are scary. And he wants no part of the camels. He won't go near them, doesn't want to hear about them, doesn't even want to look at them. I end up having to stand between him and the camel. I decide at this juncture that we need to get through the rest of Bethlehem and get back home before the kids lose it.

We end up in the stable with the animals and baby Jesus. This tent has live sheep, goats and donkeys. They even allow you to pet the animals. We walk through the first time and again, Hardy decides that live animals are not his thing. He won't look at them. He does look at baby Jesus, which is a real sleeping baby, oblivious to the chaos around him. I wish my babies had had that type of sleeping ability!

At this point, Ellie wants out of the stroller and wants to touch the animals. I get her out, telling Hardy he can stand by the stroller while I walk 5 feet away so Ellie can get her animal fix. (Her feelings about animals are as opposite of Hardy's as one can get). This terrifies Hardy, who runs up to me. At this point he is in a tough spot. He is terrified of the animals, and terrified of me being near the animals.

At this point, Hardy utters the phrase that makes me pause. He says, "I'm sorry, Mommy. Sometimes I am not very brave." My heart turns over at this. He is apologizing to me for not meeting my expectations. I can't allow this to go unnoticed. So I bend down, give him a big hug, and tell him, "You don't have to be brave. You just have to be yourself." He smiled at me and we wrestled Ellie away from the sheep (she was baaing at it and probably plotting how to fit it in her stroller). We leave Bethlehem, and head back to the house.

His statement has had me thinking since then. I have always striven to show my son that bravery is important. He is brave for his shots, never crying and always remarking on his own bravery. But somewhere in the process I fear he has learned that bravery is the most important thing. While I do believe that bravery is important, I also need to show Hardy that being brave is hard sometimes. Even as adults we aren't always brave. There have been times when I have ducked conversations out of cowardice, not being brave enough to have the difficult discussion, no matter the consequence. What I think I need to teach Hardy about bravery is that we are not always brave, but that we should always be ourselves. If we are embrace who we are, we might find it a bit easier to be brave.

School Tour

Today was a big day in the Gardner household. Today I took Hardy for a school tour of a potential school. It's Discovery School, a pretty nice magnet school here in Murfreesboro.

To be honest, I have no way of knowing if Hardy is magnet school material. He's my baby, so of course I think he is brilliant. But I am self-aware and know that the world in general, particularly academic administrators, may not agree with me. But I see no harm in having him tested and seeing what becomes of it. If he does not meet the criteria I will not be curling up into the fetal position.

The school seemed marvelous, but I don't think you can ever know how great a school is until your child is attending the school. Some marvelous schools have lousy teachers, and some great teachers may not have the right chemistry with your child. I was impressed that there is an art studio there, and that all kids go and have art classes there. The school also boasts a science laboratory (that made a humanities loving person such as myself want to do experiments) and a band room (for the older kids). They offer theater classes and Chinese (how cool is that!) lessons. There are also enrichment classes every kid can take on Wednesday afternoons. Best yet, the tour was conducted by student ambassadors, so we had a chance to see the school from their perspective. It was a wonderful experience.



While walking through the school, I kept wondering where all the time had gone. I know it is cliche, but I really feel I just brought Hardy home from the hospital. I can't believe he is now 4 1/2 and we are planning for kindergarten (which would start in July if he gets into this school). Seeing him in this academic setting made me see my boy with fresh eyes. He's not my baby anymore - he's a child who's ready for kindergarten. He's even already planning which backpack he should take, and what he will pack.



Watching him begin to reach out for the experiences that will ultimately take him away from me fills me with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, I am proud that he is ready to go and start a new adventure. He thinks kindergarten (and being a big kid) is going to be great, filled with lots of fun things (of course, this is the attitude I am trying to foster with him). I feel maybe we are not doing too bad if he feels secure enough to separate himself, to start the process of being his own person. The other emotion I feel is pain. It hurts to know that the time is coming when I won't be the most important person in his life. That he is about to begin facing things that I cannot help him with. That he may be subject to, or see, bullying (which mercifully has not occurred yet). That he is going to encounter kids who do not like him and who will never like him. That he may encounter children who tease him or pick on him or in other ways try to make him miserable.

I want to be there like the mama lion, standing between him and those who would harm him. However, I know that in the long run this does Hardy no favors. If he is going to learn to be an adult in this life, he has to learn to deal with people, even difficult, icky people. He will have to learn to cope and to find inner strength. In short, he will begin to develop his character. I know that it won't be only the potentially bad experiences that help him develop character. But it seems to be the bad experiences that we label as character building. I don't recall anyone ever telling me that making good grades was good for my character.



So today I saw the beginning of a new era. I saw my son make tentative first steps to becoming a big kid. Part of me is in shock that he has managed to survive our parenting for so long, while the other part of me is proud of the little kid he has turned out to be. I think I saw in the tour the beginnings of the next chapter of his life, and I can't wait to see what this chapter brings.

Christmas Traditions

I have always loved Christmas and all the traditions surrounding the holiday. Even the year that my dad had open heart surgery a few days before Christmas was a meaningful one in that it was my first white Christmas. It was also spent with my mom's family, some of the most generous and loving people I have ever had the privilege of knowing.

Once I had kids, Christmas took on more meaning. I remember Hardy's first Christmas I would get teary-eyed at Christmas songs that mention the baby Jesus. Having a baby, I could more clearly visualize the sweet bundle of wonder and joy the baby Jesus was. As Hardy has gotten older and has been joined by a sister, I find myself creating traditions for our family that I hope will endure.

One tradition we have is the daily lighting of the advent candles and reading advent-related scriptures together as a family. I am not sure how much of the verses the kids are taking in, but there is a sweetness in those few minutes we spend in this activity. This year we have added to it by making an advent chain. Each link has one of the scriptures we read that day, and we add to the paper chain daily.

One tradition I am scaling back this year is Christmas baking. I love to bake cookies for Christmas - it is hard to explain the primal feeling of rightness I get standing over a hot oven. Nothing says God's love for us like a bundle of homemade cookies. I have been known to make eight kinds of cookies and two or three kinds of candies for Christmas. Most of this I box up and give away - to our neighbors, to teachers, Justin's co-workers. I used to start weeks before Christmas, baking and freezing right up to the big day. This year I decided to scale back massively. I would rather spend the time with my kids and husband, making new memories. Also, we do not need all the sugar in the house. We have decided to massively cut down (if not downright eliminate) most sugar in the house, as the kids nor us need it.

Another tradition I have started with Hardy is making presents. I've been working with him since he was two, trying to teach him that it is thoughtful to think of others. He also loves to make things, so every year we make some kind of ornaments for him to give to his family. The ornaments are decidedly homemade looking, but I also believe in letting him do the work himself. I enjoy the quiet time with my son and the conversations we have during our creative endeavors.

One final tradition has to do with my sweet husband. Every year I try to make something sweet to slip into his stocking. Something that costs no money but lets him know how I appreciate him. Last year I made a random list of things I loved about him. I noticed he has not thrown that list away. I can't say what I plan for him this year, in case he reads this, but I hope he knows that he is loved and special when he sees it.

For me, Christmas is the time of year when I try to be more conscious of letting my loved ones know that they are loved and special. It is the time to show the love of Christ to others. A time of great expectation, when things seem possible. The tradition I hope that my family takes part is loving others.

Down in the Valley

Life can have a way of walloping you with lots of hard stuff all at one time. The Gardner household has had a black cloud over it for the last few days, and so I am down in the valley, so to speak. Down so low that it can only go up from here.

The first thing to happen was that our car, my lovable station wagon, decided to stop working as I was getting in it to go to lunch with Mommy friends. The problem is probably an ignition lock problem (not sure, I am not fluent in car, and my car to wife translator is in bed sleeping). The problem has been intermittent, and to make matters worse, we have tried to fix it before. However, our mechanic "forgot" to take a look at that problem (which is why he is no longer our mechanic), and so we are at our current impasse. So I missed my lunch with my wonderful Mommy friends, who help keep me sane in an otherwise crazy world. Luckily my sweet husband rushed home for two reasons: (1) to verify I was not crazy and that the car would not start; and (2) to let me use his car. Luckily we have a second car and live close to campus so taking my sweetie to work is no hardship.

The second thing is the general, all to common to most women, malaise of the bad body day. I look back to myself in my mid-twenties, when I was my smallest and most fit. At the time I was filled with self-loathing, magnifying the flaws and focusing on the worst attributes. Today I would run down people to be in that shape again. Nothing seems to get me past the size I am stuck at. I feel surrounded by hundreds of thin, fit mommies and feel like a whale in the midst of a guppy parade. It's time to either woman up and push through, losing the damn weight, or to accept myself as I am, flaws and all. But no more of this self-hatred; it is wicked, vicious stuff.

The last thing is the worst. Our sweet dog, the newest addition to our family, my lovable, not so bright Otis, is going back to the pound tomorrow. A culmination of events has led to this painful decision. He has escaped from our fenced backyard multiple times, both going over and under the fence. Tonight he went under the fence, while chained (dragging the chain with him) and managed to get stuck in our neighbor's yard. I'm sure we are very popular with her right now. When he is chained when I leave, he manages to get his chain tangled around something, anything, no matter what. I come home to find a whimpering mass of dog in my backyard in the midst of absolute chaos. He nipped at Hardy today, in the guise of playing. Hardy had not antagonized the dog, and Otis, trying to play, nipped at him. I can no longer trust my kids to be safe if I have to go to the bathroom, or answer the phone. Hardy, although he tries to hide it, is scared of Otis, and won't play outside unless someone is there to hold his hand if Otis is out there as well.

So I faced up to the difficult fact tonight that Otis is not the right dog for us at this time. It was hard to realize that. I already, in the short time he has been here, have fallen in love with the mongrel. He brings back good memories of playing with my boxer, Higgins, growing up. Yet I can't keep a dog that I cannot keep safe. It is not fair to him or to us. I can only pray that Otis finds the right family to love him at the pound. Preferably one without small children.

And so, here I am, sitting in the valley, where life looks overwhelming, sad, heartbreaking, and thoroughly unfair. I want nothing more than to run away, to find some isolated nook in the mountains and hide myself forever. I know that the mountaintop experiences are that much greater because of these valleys. Yet that is cold comfort tonight as I contemplate life. In my perfect world, the valleys would be less cold and lonely, more moderate.

I am able to keep some perspective in the midst of my gloom. I know that I am incredibly blessed - I have a wonderful husband, great kids, family I still like (and those I don't, but I manage to ignore them successfully), friends, intellectual stimulation. I have a roof over my head. I am not going to bed hungry tonight. There is a wine budget (woohoo!) and a cheese budget (double woohoo!). There is a shelf full of books to read. So the valley won't last forever. And I know that the only way to survive the valley is to be gracious and hopeful. But tonight, just tonight, I am going to whine a bit, and wish for things to be a bit different.

Gender Roles

One of the things I love at Christmas is buying presents for my family. I love to set my budget and begin planning on how to make a truly great Christmas with that budget. It awakens the bargain hunter within, and I begin stalking ads, looking for the perfect gift to make someone happy.

Having kids has expanded the fun exponentially. I can now buy all those cool toys that didn't exist when I was a kid, or did exist and I did not have them. Having discovered Lego's through my boy, I am amazed I was not on the Lego bandwagon as a child. Play dough is something else that is even more fun now that I have a kiddo to play with.

The quandary I have found myself in this year regarding gifts is with Ellie. She is at the age where she cannot verbalize what she would want for Christmas, and she loves whatever someone gives her in a fancy present. One would think I would be under no pressure then, that I will score a win no matter what I give my girl.

The thing is, however, is what is the hidden message that the gifts may give my children. I am contemplating giving Ellie a toy vacuum (having seen her play with one and love it). Yet the vacuum as a present bothers me on many levels. First, it seems wrong to EVER give a vacuum to a woman, regardless of age. Secondly, am I sending the message to Ellie that girls are responsible for cleaning, that it is some feminine trait? I don't want her to think that her worth is based on how clean her house is, and that she is responsible for cleaning up her house.

Before I stayed home, it was not something I worried about. My sweet husband gladly shared all the chores with me, cleaning, cooking, shopping, or kid watching with equal aplomb. He never shied away from a leaky mess, a messy kitchen, or a truly terrible diaper. My son saw (no matter how much he took in) the 2 adults in his house working as equals - both responsible for making a home.

Once I started staying home, I started doing 90% of the cooking and cleaning. It made more sense - I was home, I could do it during the day and then our weekends and evenings could be spent doing family activities. It's not that my husband stopped helping - he still changes babies, washes them, takes out the garbage, cuts the grass, helps out around the house. It is now, however, mostly me my kids see doing the laundry, the chores, the errands. That is their norm - mom does the chores.

That is not the model I want for either of my children. I want them to both know how to cook, how to clean, how to do laundry, because life does not guarantee you a spouse who will do that. Life does not guarantee anyone a partner, so it is best to know how to life independently if necessary.

If I get into grad school next year, the kids will learn a new norm. They will see Mom and Dad both leaving home to work (or study). They will see both Mom and Dad taking care of the house and cleaning. I think in the end they will be better for it.

So back to my original thought. Should I get Ellie a vacuum? If so, am I scaring the poor girl for life? Am I teaching her that her lot in life is to clean up after those around her? That if she cannot conquer the dust bunnies she is a failure somehow? (Which if that were true I would be the world's biggest failure - I am currently cultivating a truly spectacular nest of dust bunnies beneath the couch in my great room.) Or can a vacuum just be a toy and have no larger, more sinister implications? If I'm lucky, she'll ignore the thing anyway in favor of her brother's hot wheels.

Thoughts on Racism

I am only a few weeks away from finishing up the African American history class I have been taking this semester. I signed up for the class because I wanted to see if I could juggle taking a class with being a stay home mommy and wife. Also, it was offered one a weeknight that Justin could watch the kids, which made it an easy decision to take the class.

Being a history major who was completely and irretrievably in love with my major, I have taken many history courses. I contemplated an English minor at one point in my college career, but gave up that goal when I could never decide which history course I did not want to take. I've taken European history courses, historiography courses, Southern History, and several specialized American history classes. So I have spent a fair amount of time in history classes. And they were all wonderful, fabulous classes (except for Early Medieval Europe, but that was my fault, not the fault of the inimitable Dr. Burger, who could not help but make class fun).

So with this being said, few courses have touched me as deeply as this course. The Soviet Russian history course came close, as did the Women in American History, in touching me and impacting my way of thinking, but nothing like this course has.

To begin with, despite taking so many classes, and reading history voraciously over the years, so much of the information is new. I often find myself shocked that I did not know of certain things. For example, there was an antiabolition riot in Nashville in 1835, as well as a race riot in Nashville in 1856 that led to the closure of African American schools for a decade. It speaks to the woeful nature of primary historical education in this country. Too many times we are stuck in a classroom with a football or baseball coach who is not enamoured with his subject. He does not engage the students; he is just trying to get through the day until football practice.

Since the class started in August, I have found myself thinking more deeply of things like race relations. I notice racism more than I ever did, a casual racism that shocks me. What is more shocking is that I never recognized it for what it is for. I have been thinking of how holidays like July 4th must be a mockery to African Americans; after all, slavery did not end on July 4, 1776. We celebrate Washington, Jefferson, and Jackson as great leaders, but we don't discuss the fact they were slaveholders. We don't discuss Lincoln's racism, or the racism of many of our presidents. On a side note, we do ourselves a great disservice when we fail to acknowledge that our national heroes are flawed humans as we are. One could argue that their flaws make them greater, as they were able to achieve greatness despite being deeply flawed.

The negative of my deep thinking is that I know of no answers to the questions being raised by increased awareness. I am researching the idea of slave reparations for my paper, and can see why they are deserved. Yet I have no idea how you could ever make reparations for the damage we have done over the past centuries. I can see the ingrained racism around me and I am not quite sure how to combat it, or how to raise my children so that they do not fall into the racist trap. I can hope that age and wisdom will bring answers, but to be honest, I am not sure if answers are available. Sometimes there are questions too big to be answered. At least by a somewhat harried mom of a preschooler and toddler.

Thanksgiving Memories

Hardy has wanted to decorate for Christmas for at least a month now. I understand why he wants to decorate – I too am a sucker for Christmas decorations, and usually decorate before Thanksgiving so that I can have longer to enjoy the decorations. This year however, I am waiting until the day after Thanksgiving. I am doing to teach a lesson to Hardy – we do not want to overlook Thanksgiving in our rush to celebrate Christmas. Thanksgiving is all about gratitude (at least once you get past grade school and stop talking about the Pilgrims), and that is definitely an attitude I want to inculcate in my children. So hence, we are waiting to put the decorations up or break out the Christmas CDs.

My family did not have many Thanksgiving traditions when I was growing up. I do not think it was a big holiday for our family, at least when I was younger. My parents ran a small grocery store from the time I was three until I was seven, and only had off the day of Thanksgiving itself. I do not recall us going anywhere or visiting any family that day – my parents were tired from working long hours and were thankful to rest at home. By the time the store went out of business (thanks to the construction of I-440 in Nashville, which destroyed the neighbor the store was located in, and passed about 10 feet from the back door of the store), I think our family was at a bit of a loss over what to do for the holiday.

I remember several years where we went out to lunch on Thanksgiving, which as a kid seemed like a huge treat. The only negative was that there were no leftovers, and I was a girl who relished leftovers, especially dressing. We spent a few years with my mom inviting over some neighbors and sharing a meal with them.

We finally started a tradition, now over, when I was in middle school. We started going to a small Mennonite church (yes we still had electricity and no I did not drive a horse and buggy or wear bonnets). Many of the people in the church were “Yankee” transplants to Nashville. Most of them were unable to get home for Thanksgiving, preferring to save any vacation time for longer trips over Christmas or Easter. Therefore, our church started having a church wide Thanksgiving dinner on Wednesday night. This went on for many years. It was potluck, but it was understood that my mother would cook the turkeys (three of them) and the dressing, as she did not, as she stated herself, “trust Yankee women to know how to make good dressing.” There was always the most amazing food available, and it was like being at a huge family reunion. The church was a small one, and I believe the crowd usually averaged between 30 and 40. I look fondly back at those church Thanksgiving dinners.

My most vivid memory of those dinners is of the turkey preparations in the days leading up to the dinner. We had a boxer who loved turkey more than life itself. My mother would sit up the night before the dinner, roasting the turkeys in the oven. My dog, Higgins, would sit up with her, sitting at attention in front of the stove all night. My dad would carve the turkey before the dinner, and he would always manage to slip a piece or two to Higgins. Then mom, not knowing the turkey dad had slipped to my dog, would fix him a large bowl of turkey. After devouring that, Higgins would retire to the couch for the day, snoring and at peace with the world.

One of the things I love about Thanksgiving is that it is a very easy holiday. I love to cook, so any cooking I do is enjoyable. There are no presents to buy, few decorations to put up, no Thanksgiving cards to send. It is a time to enjoy the fellowship of your friends and family, and to reflect on the past year.

This year, I am thankful for many things – for my family, for my husband, for my children, my dog, for friends, for intellectual stimulation, for the blessed mindlessness of reality television. I am thankful for my memories of past Thanksgivings. I am thankful for my life and for the beauty, I find around me every day.

Save the W!

I was fortunate to attend Mississippi University for Women when I went to college. Despite the name, men are admitted to the university (following a court decision in the 1980s); however, the student population remains predominantly female.

I am not a native of Mississippi, and knew nothing of the W (as it is known affectionately to its alums) until I was contacted about Scholars Day (a day they interview for scholarships) in December 1993. I was unable to attend the actual Scholars Day event, but my dad took me down there the day before to interview.

At the time, I did not want to go to Mississippi to school. To be truthful, Mississippi was the last place on earth I wanted to attend school. I had seen Mississippi Burning, I had seen the footage about the civil rights movement. I knew all I needed to know about Mississippi.



Then I stepped foot on campus, and fell in love immediately. While not an ancient citadel of learning (it was established in 1884), it does have its fair share of old buildings. More importantly, it has more than its fair share of zany traditions. There are ghost stories, esoteric club rituals, and one of my favorites, Old Maid's Gate. The legend is that you have to walk through this gate backwards or you will suffer the supposed curse of being an old maid. If you forget, you can counteract the curse and propitiate the marriage gods by kissing the Kissing Rock (I am not making this stuff up). There was also the Mag Chain, a ritual you take part in on graduation day. The seniors, in their caps and gowns and heels, march (outside in May Mississippi heat), singing the Mag Chain song. After a brief ceremony, the girls rush the magnolia chain, which has been laid on the ground. There are magnolia blossoms interspersed throughout the chain. The legend is that you will have a husband for every blossom you pick off the chain. So to say the W is a unique place is a bit of an understatement.

This week, the governor of Mississippi announced a plan to merge the W with Mississippi State, as well as merging 2 historically black colleges with another black college. The basis for this is that it would save the state money, although the campuses of the schools would still be used as college campuses. This has created an uproar amongst the alums and faculty of the W. Merger with Mississippi State will only destroy the W. Not every student wants to attend a state school with over 10,000 students. Some students want an affordable education in a smaller, more intimate environment. Some women want to attend school at a place where they are not the minority, and where the can be assured that their voices will be heard. The W provides a unique educational experience for women (and smart men!), and it would be devastating to have that experience lost for future generations.

Although I don't know how effective my efforts will be, this week I wrote letters to the Governor of Mississippi, as well the Institute of Higher Learning. I wrote a letter to the editor that will be published in Sunday's Jackson Clarion-Ledger. It may be a losing battle we are fighting. But one doesn't stop fighting because the odds are stacked against them. And I think that a fight where there is a good probability of losing is a great fight to find yourself in.

Partners in Crime

We added a new member to our family last week. After promising Hardy that we would get a dog if he learned to write his name, he finally came through and wrote his name! I then went to the pound to find us a friend.

I went with the intention of adopting a small beagle. I thought that would be a good starter dog for us. It would be small and non-threatening for the children, and I've always heard beagles are good with kids.

I left the pound, after walking several beagles and stalking the aisles of puppies, having adopted a 53 pound boxer mix. Who weighs 53 pounds. And who has not stopped growing. I had a boxer growing up, and I am a sucker for the breed. After seeing Otis, I could not leave until I made arrangements for adoption.



I picked Otis up Monday from the vet, as he had to be 'fixed' before he could come home. While we all fell in love with Otis, one family member in particular has bonded with him in a powerful way.

Ellie, my rambunctious almost 17 month old, has fallen in love with Otis, and he with her. She has absolutely no fear of this creature who weighs almost twice as much as she does. She stuffs food into his mouth, pats him a hundred times a day, throws balls for him, and is not afraid to tussle with him to get her blanket or stuffed dog back from him (they both have an affinity for pink blankets). He, in turn, follows her through the house (that could be due in part to her habit of feeding him goldfish), watches her while she plays outside, and is a gentle giant with her. He allows her to prod him, pull his tail, and in general take advantage of him.

It warms my heart to watch the two of them interact. When it is just the three of us at home in the mornings while my menfolk are at work or school, the two of them go everywhere together. By her naptime, Otis is more than ready for a nap himself.
It makes me think of the times I spent with my own boxer, a pampered pooch named Higgins (for Professor Henry Higgins - I was in a My Fair Lady phase). The bond between a girl and her dog is profound, and I enjoy watching such a bond develop in my house.

School Decisions

Much to my disbelief, my boy Hardy will be starting kindergarten next fall. Part of me is in shock that it is already time for him to be in school full time. I still my baby when I look at him, not a boy ready to enter school and deal with others on a full time basis.

I worry a bit about him because he is a bit reserved at first. It can take him months to warm up to kids. He is wary of new experiences, and I worry about him coming into contact with bullies. Part of that worry is because although he is very tall for his age, he has no clue that he is big for his age. An apt description of Hardy is that he is a gentle giant.

In Murfreesboro, there are options other than your zoned school. There are 2 magnet elementary schools, and a campus school that has a waiting list a mile long. There is also a NASA Explorer school (whatever that is). So there are a lot of public school options.

For my family, public school is the only option I am comfortable with. There is nothing wrong with private schools, but that is not the atmosphere I want my kid in. And while I am religious and am glad there are religious school options available, I don't want that for my kid either.

Part of what drives me is that I want my child to be exposed to as many different kinds of people as possible in his life. It is estimated that we "white" Americans will be in the minority by 2050, and this will be the reality of his adulthood. I need him to know that no matter the race or creed that all people are fundamentally the same. We all want and strive for the same things - fulfillment, love, achievement, acceptance, belonging. It is not that I don't believe there are cultural differences, but I think those differences are things we should learn about, not things to be feared.

Although I myself went to a magnet high school, I am a little uneasy about the magnets in this town. Part of the unease is due to the racial and socio-economic makeup of the schools - they are overwhelmingly white and not disadvantaged. I do not know if that is the atmosphere I want my kid to learn in. While I believe those schools do a fantastic job of educating children, I also think the other city schools have teachers that are doing a fabulous and selfless job of educating children.

Education is not only made up of the curriculum taught; it is also a matter of learning about people and how to get along in society. I don't want my child to have a faith that has been so sheltered that it fails him when he enters the adult world, full of people of differing or no faiths. I don't want him growing up only learning about his own history and background; I want him to learn about other cultures and see how the presence of so many different cultures only enhances life.

So this is my conundrum. Do I send Hardy to his zoned school? I hesitate there only because it is large (over 700 students) and worry about how he will cope with going to a big school. Do I send him to the NASA Explorer school, which is closer to campus and has a more diverse (and disadvantaged) student body? Do I have him tested for the magnet schools, not worrying if he can get in? I honestly do not know what is best for my son. I only know I don't want my issues (my desire for him to be in school with lots of different cultures) to make him miss out on better educational opportunities. I think it was easier for our parents -they just sent us where the school board told them to send us. I almost wish we could go back to that.

Autumn

One thing I like about autumn is that the quality of light is different. It is softer somehow, more mellow. Almost as if nature itself is in a more mellow mood. After the dreariness of late winter, the gentle beauty of spring, and the lushness of summer, it is as if nature itself has worn down to its essential essence.

It's a more reflective time of year, at least for me. I find myself stopping more to ponder. Pondering itself is not noteworthy - I am a ponderer by nature, content to wrap myself in thoughts both profound and mundane. The difference is that during autumn I find myself stopping what I am doing to ponder. I find myself arrested by the color of the leaves, and the play of light on them. I am amazed at the variety of colors, and how the colors are complementary. I find myself marveling at their downward trajectory. I love watching people rake them into big piles, and I fantasize about jumping in the pile, rolling with abandon as I did when I was eight at my grandparent's house. Only maturity and asthma keeps me acting somewhat properly for my age.

Oddly enough, for as much as I love autumn, I often find myself in danger of wishing myself through the season. I begin to get excited about Christmas and all the planning associated with the festivities. I start planning my Christmas baking. I used to bake 12 types of cookies for Christmas, as well as 3-4 types of candies and 2-3 breads before I started scaling back when I was pregnant with Ellie. Now that she is older, I find myself lured once again by the siren call of baking for the masses, of spending hours creating cookies. I start planning Christmas gifts, and how to decorate and internally debating when the tree should go up.

This is a quality that I wish to change about myself. I have no desire to plan away my autumn, focusing so closely on the future that I forget the moment. I hate looking up one morning and noticing all the leaves have fallen and are brown and muddy. The time of year I look forward to most having past while I was preoccupied with the trivia of my life.

This year I am trying to live more in the moment - to stop and watch the leaves. I try to point out to the kids whenever I see a particularly beautiful tree or pile of leaves. I don't want this to be the autumn that I planned away again.

Public Square

One of my favorite things about Murfreesboro is its Public Square. I try to drive around it at least once a week, carefully leaving home early enough to drop Hardy off at preschool (a mere block off of the Square) to accomplish this. I love to see the displays in the windows of the businesses, and I love to watch people making their way around the Square.

The centerpiece of the Square is the Courthouse, one of 6 antebellum courthouses left in the state. It towers above the Square, standing proud among the maple trees and various statuary memorials on its lawn. There are memorials for a General Rutherford (for whom our county is named), for veterans of various wars. Sitting on one of the benches in front of the Courthouse, one can imagine when this place was once the center of activity for the county. I like to sit there (on the rare occasions I sit still for a bit) and imagine its life. It was once surrounded by Union barricades during the Civil War. Prominent local citizens were housed inside during the Civil War, serving as hostages. It has seen its fair share of controversial trials, trials all but forgotten by today’s busy society. Today the Courthouse is often the antithesis of controversy, as it serves as county offices. It still serves as a rallying point at times. During the summer, the newspaper and Downtown Alliance sponsor monthly Friday night concerts on the lawn, bringing in crowds once again. Back in the spring conservatives gathered for a tea party. My family and I stopped by during their rally, reading the signs and listening to the rhetoric. While I do not agree with all their aims, it felt good to see people gathered together, protesting. It is the cornerstone of freedom, of free speech, and it made me feel more patriotic than any pledge or song has ever made me feel. Watching people with differing opinions than my opinion gather to voice them warmed me and made me proud to be an American.

Murfreesboro is fortunate in that the Square is still tenanted by active businesses, restaurants, and law offices. While most of the life of Murfreesboro does take part on the outskirts of town, in the new subdivisions and mall west of town, there are still vital businesses to be found downtown. There is a wonderful Italian restaurant. There are six barbershops (at least). We take my son to one that also has a pool hall in the back. I always feel deliciously edgy going there, taking my son to a place that has a pool hall in the back and where it is rumored Al Capone once had his haircut. There is an old hardware store on the Square, where I once stopped to buy WD-40 for Ellie’s stroller. The aisles were narrow, reminding me of a time when one did not shop with wide carts.

There is an atmosphere to the square, especially in the fall when the light is softer. My husband often tells me that I am imagining a Square that only exists in my imagination, but I disagree. You can sense the history of a place that has been there for years. There is an atmosphere present, one that is created by years of joy, triumphs, pain, evil, and banality. One cannot help but sense the past, the footsteps of those that came before us when you step into an old store. Sitting under the huge maples of the courthouse, one can sense the struggles that have taken place in and around that building. One can sense the crowds that lawn has hosted.



Almost a hundred years ago, in 1913, a tornado touched down on the or near the Square, devastating blocks of the stores and churches. Amazingly enough, the Courthouse was spared. The images taken of the aftermath, of seeing the Courthouse standing majestically amongst the ruins are haunting. It reminds one of the vitality of the Square, of what it has overcome. It has overcome natural disasters, wars. It has seen itself fade from being the most important spot in town, a gathering spot, to being an afterthought. I cannot tell you of the number of people I know in town that spend weeks or months never going near the Square. All I can say is that it is their loss.

Halloween Fun

I am a big fan of Halloween, mostly due to my sweetheart. I was somewhat indifferent to Halloween before I met him. His birthday is in October, and Halloween has always been a favorite of his. His enthusiasm has been contagious, and I now love the holiday too. What's not to love - a holiday where you buy no gifts, prepare no huge meal, have no familial travel expectations? All you do is dress up and eat massive amounts of candy - that is a notion I firmly endorse.

We started the holiday on Thursday with Hardy's preschool party. It was fun to watch the kids in their costumes, eating pizza and having fun. Ellie had a blast playing in his classroom.

This year I lost my mind - I volunteered to host our playgroup Halloween party. It seemed like a good idea, and you can't not have a party, right? And I somehow convinced myself that a lot of the mommies would not be able to make it. I ended up with 31 people (adults, children, and babies) in my 1,400 square foot house, celebrating the day with abandon.

It was a lot of fun, actually, and the weather cooperated fully. It was a gorgeous fall day. We decorated bags for a Halloween hunt (fancy term for candy hunt). We hunted candy, chased ghosts around (white balloons that the wind obligingly blew all over the back yard), played spider web and pin the smile on the pumpkin. We ate tons of yummy food (those mommies know how to potluck!) and enjoyed a little adult company for awhile. The kids were adorable in their costumes.



That afternoon, as if the day was not busy enough, we went trick or treating on the Square. That, for me, is the highlight of Halloween in Murfreesboro. Lots of kids, lots of cool costumes, and lots of costumes. This year was Ellie's first year of actual trick or treating, and she embraced it willingly. She walked around the Square like a trooper. She even kept her ears on.



The next day was actually Halloween, the third day of our ongoing celebration. After naps, we dressed the kids up and took them to Nashville to see my parents. They were given huge goody bags and cookies, because heaven knows there was not enough sugar in this house! After we returned home, Hardy and Justin ventured out for his first year of trick or treating in our neighborhood. He got a good haul, and had a lot of fun.

After 3 full days of Halloween, I am glad the fun is over. I've come down from the sugar high, and am ready for normal life again!

Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl

We've been reading Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl by Linda Brent (aka Harriet Jacobs) in class the last week or so. It is exactly as the title describes it - incidents in the life of a slave girl in North Carolina (I believe).

It makes for harrowing reading - Linda is almost obsessively stalked by her master once she enters puberty. He determines that he wants her. Luckily, he is afraid of losing status in town if anyone finds out, and is afraid of her grandmother, a godly woman (freed in the course of the book) that everyone in the town admires. At some point, Linda takes her sexuality into her own hands, and enters a relationship with the only type of person her master cannot control - another white man, of equal status with her master. She ends up having 2 children with this man, who become the property of her master (as the children of a slave follow the status of the mother). Linda flees when her master threatens to sell her; she spends seven years hiding in the garret of her grandmother's house. She eventually makes her way North, and is ultimately reunited with her children.

The book horrifies me on so many levels. On the one hand, it is hard to fathom someone treating another person as property. That level of cruelty is hard to wrap your mind around. Having 2 children myself, I can't imagine either one of them being born, and belonging to someone else. And not only that, but to belong to someone who does not have mine or their best interests at heart flabbergasts me. I cannot even imagine what I would have done in that situation.

One of the worst parts of the book (and there are many) are the times when her master uses her children as pawns, threatening to sell them if she does not comply and grant him her sexual favors. The horrific position of having to choose between controlling your body or protecting your children - what a choice to make! To use another human as a pawn, to threaten to sell them so that you can never see them again - I can't imagine sinking that low.

Despite the discomfort in reading such stark suffering, I think slave narratives are something every person should read at some point. It gives you a better understanding of why racial relations are so twisted in this country. How we can we have honest discussion and debate about race issues if we don't all understand where we came from, where the problems started? If I ever do realize the dream and become a professor, slave narratives are going to be required reading in as many classes as I can manage.

Creeping Provincialism?

We moved to Murfreesboro, from the thriving metropolis of Rantoul, Illinois (population 12,000) almost 2 1/2 years ago. At the time, we were thrilled to be moving to Middle Tennessee, because Middle Tennessee symbolized one thing for us - family. It is where our families are from, and where they still live. We (or at least I) fondly imagined ourselves basking in the warm glow of extended family life, attending Sunday suppers, making homemade ice cream, and just gradually getting together with our families as often as possible.

Somehow, this has not happened. What we failed to take into account was the fact that we had been gone for 7 years, and during that interim, we had become pretty self-sufficient. Used to not having family around, we had learned to plan other activities for the weekends, had gotten involved with and became parts of church families, etc. We simply did not know how to go about scheduling time with family, unless there was a holiday involved. We had also had a child, and had gotten as busy as families do.

I am from Nashville, and I deeply love my hometown. I worked after college for the Tennessee State Library and Archives, and had often spent my lunch hours wandering around downtown, reading historic markers and soaking up the atmosphere of the place. Moving away after my marriage was gut wrenching. It felt as if a part of me had been amputated. Gone was my sense of history, my sense of knowing I was treading the same streets as Davy Crockett, Andrew Jackson, James Polk, suffragettes, and everyday people.

So I thought that I would spend a lot of time in Nashville when I returned to middle Tennessee. I thought Murfreesboro would simply be a home base, but Nashville would be the pull, the place I would live my life. To be truthful, other than to visit my parents, I have gone to Nashville a handful of times since I moved back.

For one thing, Nashville has changed. It is bigger and busier. Years spent driving in central Illinois (where I saw more corn stalks than people) did not adequately prepare me for Nashville traffic again. Things have moved, or been torn down or built up, and I no longer feel at home there.

What I have become is a provincial. Other than church, and a play date that may take me to a different part of the county, I rarely leave eastern or downtown Murfreesboro. Everything I need is in this area - Hardy's preschool, my doctor, the kids' doctor, the grocery, my favorite park, downtown. I would probably stay pretty happily in this area of Murfreesboro forever, only leaving to visit family on occasion or to take a brief vacation.

I wonder sometimes if this provincialism is a negative thing - how on earth can I do whatever it is I am meant to do if I spend 90% of my time in a 5 mile wide area? How will I ever accomplish anything of value, of lasting worth? Shouldn't I want to go out and see more, venture out and do more?

I then think of some people who achieved greatness despite living very quiet, retired lives. I think of Emily Dickinson and Jane Austen. Both great writers who spoke great truth, but never ventured out into a wider life. I think of the thousands of women in the past who raised great leaders, such as Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Abraham Lincoln. These mothers were not famous, did not achieve greatness on their own. Yet somehow they managed to produce greatness.

Perhaps greatness does not always need great square footage to flourish - perhaps what it needs more is an unfettered heart and mind, willing to dream big, to think big, and when the occasion requires it, to act big.

Vacation Fun

The family and I recently took our first family vacation. When Hardy was first born, we lived in Illinois, and it seemed only fair to spend any vacation time visiting our families, allowing them to interact with our precious boy. Once we moved back to Tennessee, life seemed to intervene and not allow for vacation time. I became pregnant, and did not fancy any kind of road trip when I had to use the restroom every 30 minutes. Once Ellie was born, I just wanted to get through our day without adding anything more complicated to it.

So Justin and I decided recently to take a "starter" vacation, so to speak, over his Fall Break. His one request was that it would be under 2 hours away, as Ellie is not a great traveler. So I went into planning mode.

One thing to understand - there are few things I like better than planning a trip. I love to pour over vacation guides, surf the web, and brainstorm about where to stay, what to do, etc. So I have been in "hog heaven' (as my dad would say) in planning.

We decided on Chattanooga, as it is only 1 1/2 hours away and has a great aquarium that the kids have never been to. My research showed that Chattanooga had lots of other fun family activities, so off we went!

The first thing I did was book a cabin, and I was thankful for that. We rented a 2 bedroom chalet on Lookout Mountain. It was wonderful - a hot tub we all enjoyed, beautiful scenery, gas grill, 2 TVs, a kitchen. I definitely want to stay there again.

The first day there we hit the Aquarium. The kids loved the fishes, the butterflies, and all manner of wildlife they have there. They were both troopers, looking at things with no whining and no fits (definitely the way I judge a successful outing at this point in my life). We only stayed about 1 1/2 or 2 hours there - the kids began to drag at that point. Rather than push them past their limit, we took them to lunch and headed home for naps. We spent the rest of our evening watching a movie and just enjoying playing in the cabin.

The next day we went to the place Hardy had been asking about ever since I told him such a place existed - the Towing Museum. Unknown to us before the trip, the tow truck was invented in Chattanooga. The museum is reasonable and has lots of old tow trucks on display, as well as other memorabilia. There is even a wall filled with tow truck toys through the years. Aside from the fact you can't actually touch the tow trucks, the kids had a blast.

We then headed up Lookout Mountain, to Point Park. This is one of the locations for the Battle of Lookout Mountain during the Civil War. The view from there is amazing. We had a great time looking at the views, pretending to fire cannons, and just running around.

The highlight of the entire trip for both kids, however, was the hot tub. They both fell in love with it. Hardy asked if we could have one at our house. After unwinding in one, I am definitely in favor!

We ended our trip with a detour. In Tracy City (a little town about 5 miles from Monteagle on Monteagle Mountain) is the Dutch Maid bakery, which has been there since 1902. We stopped and enjoyed cookies and the heavenly smells of fresh bread baking. It is a good thing we don't live closer, or I would weigh 900 pounds.

This is the end of our vacation story. We had a great time. The best times were the quiet times in the cabin, when we could play and talk with each other without worrying about chores, or appointments, or anything at all. It was restful, and reminded of why I love my family.

Who I Want To Be When I Grow Up

Today is one of those gray, gloomy days that seem to be in such abundance lately. In addition to this, I am feeling a bit under the weather with allergies/sinus issues. I am therefor a bit nostalgic or homesick for the past. I find myself thinking of a the woman who has been my idol since I was a little girl.

The lady I am talking about is my sweet grandmother, Esther Mae Ward Hardy. My mother's mother, I only knew her as a sweet old lady. My mother is the youngest of six, and was born when her mother, Esther, was 37. My grandmother was a remarkable woman, not for her educational attainments or professional successes, but because of the force of her personality. Even today, more than 20 years after her death, all those who were fortunate enough to know her remember her fondly.



My grandmother was born in 1912 in Moore County, Tennessee. Her family was poor; in order to earn extra money for the family, she would drive another girl to school (a very wealthy girl, at least for that area) in a horse and buggy. She married at 14 to my grandfather. They struggled for many years - they sharecropped, tried anything to support their family. At one point, in 1929, as the Depression began, she and my grandfather, along with their baby, boarded a train for Detroit, Michigan, in hopes of finding a better life. Whatever they were searching for, they did not find it there, as they shortly returned back to Tennessee for good. She did what she could to help support her family - working as a cook at a girls' school, making butter.

In all their trials and tribulations, no one could ever remember my grandmother uttering a harsh word. She was known for always seeing the good in people, for not gossiping. You could take the meanest person you know, and she would see only how sweet they were to their mother. It is not that she was blind to their faults - it is that she loved them in spite of their faults. To me, she exemplified Christ-like love more than any person I know.

She also loved to cook, and to show her love through food. Of course, this meant the food that tastes amazing, but you probably should not eat. (As an aside, we never say that a person is showing their love for you when they give you salad - wonder why that is.) Whenever she knew my father was coming for lunch, she would hasten to make his favorites- turnip greens and homemade banana pudding. She would try to make my favorites as well - chicken and dumplings and tea cakes. Once, when I was visiting in the summer, she realized she had no special cookies for me. So she whipped up a batch of homemade cupcakes with thick fudge frosting. She did this in order to let you know that you mattered, that she was glad you were at her house.

She was a member of the Methodist church for almost 70 years. I cannot even fathom being the member of anything for that long. She read her Bible nightly, reading it out loud to my grandfather once he lost his sight. She prayed nightly, and her faith never wavered, even in the midst of severe family trials that would have shaken the faith of any person. She always held out hope that God would somehow provide - we might not see how, but we could rest assured that God knew, and that was all that mattered.

In the eyes of the world, my grandmother was not a very successful person. But in my eyes, she is the woman I want to be. Despite a lack of formal education beyond the eighth grade, she was intelligent enough to love people as they are, to accept them as they are. She embodied grace and acceptance. She taught me how to work hard, and how there is no shame in hard work, as long as it helps you support yourself and your family. She taught me to love others and to seek to make them feel special and loved. I hope one day that as many people were positively affected by me as by my grandmother.

Why I Gave Up Being the Perfect Mom

I haven't been a stay at home mom the entirety of Hardy's life. I worked until he was 2 1/4. There was never any question of me staying home then - Justin was in grad school, and until we got over the pesky habit of eating, I needed to contribute monetarily to the household. In truth, I always felt guilty about working when Hardy was a baby because I was not working my dream job. It was a fine job, and the people were nice, but it was not what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I longed for the time when Justin would be a professor and I would be home.

I thought I would be an entirely different type of stay at home mom than I really am. Before I started staying home, I envisioned a highly structured day for Hardy and myself, one in which we engaged in flash cards, worked on algebra, and conjugated irregular French verbs together (never mind the fact I took Spanish and Latin). We would whip up tasty meals together, chuckling happily over Hardy's attempts to master paella (which I can't eat anyway due to shellfish allergies). We would have sing-a-longs and perhaps even a puppet theater to rival the Von Trapps.

And then reality set in. By the end of the first week or so, I knew that there was no way I would ever be able to set up, let alone stick to, a highly structured plan for our days. I didn't realize that the walls would start to push in, making me so restless as to eagerly jump at the chance to run any errand with Hardy. I did not county on the unusually hot summer that welcomed us back to Tennessee, forcing us to stay inside.

We became busy - Hardy started to Mom's Day Out two days a week. That fact made me extremely guilty at first - I had one kid and maybe 850 square feet of duplex to keep clean - why did I need a day out? We found a mom's group, ostensibly for Hardy to socialize but really for me to maintain some semblance of sanity (without my mommy friends, and our monthly Mom's Nights Out, I would surely be in a loony bin somewhere). We went to the Discovery Center weekly. We played at the indoor playground at the mall - anything to get out of the house for a bit and to kill some time.

After the birth of Ellie, life became even less structured. My sweet angel girl wanted to eat every 2 hours and take 4 short naps a day - no time for singing sweet songs with Hardy or making our own butter. She was a different baby from Hardy, and I at times had no idea what to do with her.

At some point recently, I decided to stop feeling guilty over the type of Mom I am, and accept that I will never be a Martha Stewart type of mom. We are more likely to play tickle fingers over here than to conjugate irregular verbs. My kids might not be able to count to 10 in 4 languages, but they know how to build a turtle shell and pretend to be a turtle family with me. We might not sing folk songs together, but we have a blast cranking the Black Eyed Peas and dancing around the den.

I think by stop stressing over being the perfect Mom, and by being the best Mom I can be, I will actually end up a better person. Perhaps my kids seeing me stumble from time to time will make them more accepting of other's mistakes. Perhaps instead of being the perfect Mommy, I can be the Mommy that tried to teach them to stretch their imaginations, to love the places a good book can take you, and to always find time to dance in the aisle at the grocery store.

Free Speech and the Confederate Flag

To my embarrassment, my home state has been in the news recently due to a case involving the Confederate flag. Students at an East Tennessee high school sued (several years ago) that their free speech rights were violated because they were not allowed to wear clothing with the Confederate flag on them at school. The Supreme Court yesterday declined to hear the case, thereby ending the matter and leaving the school system's ban on Confederate flags intact.

I have mixed feelings over this case. On the one hand, I believe whole-heartedly in the concept of free speech. I believe this right is the backbone of a free society. I believe that as citizens we should have the right to say or wear whatever crazy or idiotic things that we wish. And I believe this right should be extended to everyone, not just to those who believe as I do.

So while I detest, with every fiber of my being, seeing the Confederate flag, people should have the right to wear it if they want. The thing about believing in free speech means that you have to defend those who spout things you believe are vile and offensive. While I hate the Klan, they have the right to spew their hatred. I also have the right to voice my opinion about their beliefs, and to do what I can to convince others they are wrong. I am not a big fan of Rush Limbaugh (his voice hurts my ears), but I do listen to him from time to time. I am glad that I live in a country that allows those I disagree with to have a voice. I feel that means that my voice cannot be taken from me, if I protect the voices of others.

To the Confederate flag issue, it saddens me that it is associated with the region that give birth to me and to which I call home. I hate that people focus on the flag and the hatred, and do not focus on how much race relations have improved over the past 40 years. I hate that things and people that should be synonymous with the South, such as Eudora Welty, Fannie Flagg, biscuits, chicken and dumplings, chess pie, iced tea, Paula Deen, kudzu and fried pies, are overlooked in favor of the flag.

I cringe when someone says they display the flag to show pride in their Southern heritage. If you truly have pride in your heritage, fly a flag with a biscuit on it. The flag is synonymous with the Confederacy, and with a war fought over basic human rights, a war on which we fought on the wrong side. Why on earth should we honor a heritage that viewed people as property, as lacking in basic human dignity based on the color of their skin. Why laud Southern honor when that honor was used to dominate not only African-Americans but women as well. I see nothing glorious about people who would go to war, risk killing the young men of their region, over the right to keep people enslaved, to deny them basic rights.

If we truly want to honor our Southern heritage, let's laud those things that have made us better, not worse. Let's not honor the things that have divided us.

Sins of the Father

I am taking an African American history class this semester to see if I want to go to graduate school; attending class has only intensified the desire to go to school. It is a very interesting class, and the professor really encourages a lot of discussion. He also tries to get the class to see how events of the past shape the events of today.

Tonight he touched on the idea of "post traumatic slave syndrome". It is an idea that the effects of slavery linger on, even in today's society. That what people decry about the "state of the black family" has roots that go back hundreds of years to slavery. He was not espousing it as something he necessarily believed; more he wanted us to know a strain of academic thought that is present.

The discussions made me think more about "sins of the father". It is a concept I never really got before. Why should I be punished for something my father or some distant ancestor did? Where is the fairness in that?

It's not that I am being punished for another's actions; it's that sin has consequences, some times long reaching consequences we can not even begin to imagine. So while slavery has been illegal since 1865, you cannot undo the sin that resulted from slavery in a few years. African Americans did not obtain full citizenship in 1865 - there were 100 more years of legalized discrimination, Jim Crow, erosion of voting rights, economic discrimination. Not until the Voting Rights Act of 1965 were African Americans able to fully exercise their right to vote. School segregation and housing segregation continued on till at least 1980 in some places, if not longer. How can we be surprised that there are still racial issues to be dealt with in this country?

The sins of our fathers still linger. I see it every day I go to the gym. After I drop Hardy off at school, I turn beside an older home that is for sale for $1.2 million. In the .4 of the mile I drive from there to the gym, I pass housing projects and other housing that speaks of years of endemic poverty. Even in our small city, there are pockets of poverty and ill-education that are being ignored. How long must these people be punished for the sins of others? And what is my responsibility in this? Do I have any? What can I do so that my children do not have to bear the costs of the sins of those who came before?

Confessions of a Cabbage Patch Kid

If I did not have my father’s nose, I would have bet that my parents found me in a cabbage patch. To say I am not a lot like my parents would be a bit of an understatement. I am a somewhat quiet introvert who loves nothing better than curling up with a good book, especially if it is one that I have read about 100 times already (bonus points if it is Jane Austen). I was the kid wanting to blend into the woodwork, hoping no one would take notice of me. My parents, on the other hand, are a bit different.

My father has lived a varied and interesting life. He dabbled in amateur drag racing back in the day (by which I mean the 1950s – I am a late in life, second marriage kid). He married (the first time) young and divorced young. After his divorce (which left him, as he often says, with his wheelbarrow and his clothes), he lived hard. Not many nights passed outside of a bar or other nightclub, and fought his fair share of fights. He managed a drive-in market for awhile, and sometimes illegally “ran” liquor from Kentucky. He got more than his fair share of speeding tickets. He was a butcher for a bit, and the night manager of a beer distributorship. He has sold first aid equipment and been an insect control guy. He has a core group of friends that he has been friends with for 65-70 years (since elementary school). He has lived in the same area of Nashville for over 70 years, so it is hard to go anywhere in that part of town and not find someone he knows. So to say my dad is interesting is a bit of an understatement.

My mother is your classic extrovert. She walks into a room and can strike up a conversation with anyone; I joke that she has never met a stranger. She is a keen dancer, and won several dance contests as a young woman (never with my dad – he is not a dancer by any stretch of the imagination). She can out-dance me (not a particularly hard feat, as I did not inherit any sense of rhythm) today, even with her having gout. We laugh and call her the “social butterfly” – when she enters a party, we do not see her the rest of the night. She flits around, talking to people, telling jokes, trying to get up a dance, you name it. She too has held a variety of jobs – worked with a non-profit back in the 1970s, helped my dad manage a grocery store, been a stay at home mom, and ran her own daycare for the last 25 years.

I have often wondered what my parents made of me growing up. I was always pestering them to take me to the library (which they did with unfailing patience, letting me browse for as long as I wanted). Instead of asking to go to the beach, I wanted to vacation at historic spots (my favorite vacation was to President Andrew Johnson’s home in Greeneville, TN). I started working part-time at 14. I never stayed out past curfew (curfew was a moot point as I opted to work every weekend from age 16 until college). I never tried to sneak alcohol as a kid, and they never received the dreaded 2:00 am phone call from me. I did not even date much in high school, as boys distracted from my goal (a college scholarship).

Despite our differences, however, my parents and I have always gotten along (barring the preteen years when I was convinced they had lost all sense and had no idea of how the world worked). They willingly took me to the library every 3 weeks (when the books were due), and let me stay there as long as I wanted, seemingly without impatience. They took me to I believe every historic spot in Tennessee and every Civil War battlefield (of which Tennessee has a fair few – the second most battles of the war were fought here, with only Virginia having more battles). They never pressured me to be more outgoing, athletic, or anything that was not me. They turned up at every drama club performance, softball game, parent’s weekend, and anything else I was part of, cheering me on and making me feel special.

I learned a very valuable lesson from my parents, and one I hope I pass on to my children. I learned the beauty of tolerance and acceptance. I learned (hopefully) to accept people as they are, without trying to change them or force my own agenda on them. I learned that different people can not only get along together, but love each other. There are no persons (outside my husband) who I value more than my parents. I only hope that my children one day feel I gave them the same love and support that my parents gave me.

My Son, the Sports Star

Today was one of Hardy's soccer games. We are new to organized sports, as Hardy is only 4. My last voluntary contact with sports ended when I was about 9 years old, and I decided to give up my softball career. As one of my nicknames as a teenager at Governor's School was "Miss No Depth Perception" (not the most witty bunch of teenagers), you can guess Hardy inherited no sporting ability from me.

One of the things I admire (and fear a bit) about my son is his very vivid, creative, imagination. He spends a lot of time pretending to be a rooster (he "crows" in the morning to let us know he is awake), a monster truck, a fire engine, a train, a turtle, a ladybug, a cat, a dog, etc. Very rarely does he ever think he is a little boy. When one of his friends greets him when he arrives at school, he inevitably answers as whatever he is pretending to be that day (barks if he is a dog, revs his engine if he is a car, etc.). After some strange looks, and time spent around my son, my kids have realized he is in his own world and let him inhabit it.

It's fun to watch Hardy play soccer because he always has fun and plays his own game. What that game is no one has figured out yet. And he does not seem particularly interested in inviting people to share his game. It wasn't until the third game (after 4 practices as well) that he realized he is supposed to run after the ball. Before that he would just randomly run up and down the field. When he would be goalie, he would spend the time with his back to the field, probably pretending to be a fire engine. If he encounters the ball, he usually runs the other way, as in this picture.

Today was classic Hardy. When he was playing an offensive position (I am not sporty, so have no idea what that is), he would usually run away from the ball when it came near him. I am pretty sure at one point he was pretending to be a chicken (he had his arms like wings while he was running down the field). At one point, the coach put him in as goalie (the coaches do a great job of switching the kids around to all positions). Justin went over to stand near the goal and give him some encouragement. A ball starts coming his way. Justin yells, "Stop the ball, Hardy." So what does my literal son do? He walks out, puts his hand up in the stop position, and yells "stop" to the ball. Surprisingly, soccer balls do not yield to such persuasion, and the other team scored a goal.

I could not tell you what the score of the game ended up being. I am pretty sure we did not win (our team has not managed to score a goal yet this season, a point which bothers absolutely no one on the team). I could not even tell you most of the names of the kids on the team. But I can tell you that my son had a blast, running and playing in the fall air. Perhaps he is the one who has it right. Rather than worry and fret and try to fit other people's expectations, perhaps I should just relax and enjoy the fresh air. Perhaps I should relish the person I am, and not worry if no one else wants to play with me. The important thing is to get out there and to do your own thing.

Why Goofy is My Hero

I have loved Goofy ever since I was a very young girl. I received my first Goofy when I was 3 years old. I had been visiting my aunt, and she and her family had recently returned from Disney World. They had brought home 2 Goofy's and I had latched onto one during our visit. At the end of the visit, my aunt gave me Goofy. Years later I realized this probably belonged to one of my cousins; I can only hope he did not love Goofy as much as I did.









Over the years I have collected various other Goofy memorabilia. I have Goofy coffee cups, Goofy earrings, Goofy watches (my favorite one was my backwards watch - it ran counterclockwise!), figurines, house shoes, movies, cookie jar, etc. If it had Goofy on it, it ended up with me (not in a scary, shoplifting kind of way). I have not had a chance to add anything to my collection since I had children who clearly inherited the Goofy loving gene. After my son became a toddler, he claimed several of my small stuffed Goofy's as his own, and was especially tempted by my Goofy stockcar. I packed away most of my collection until a time when it is not so tempting to little hands.













I still have my original Goofy, as seen in this picture. We have been through many tough and good times together. He has had multiple nose and hand transplants (thank heavens for the wonders of pantyhose), has lost an eye, had a little girl pull his ear off (much to my horror - I was 5 and promptly pushed her down and started whaling on her. You DO NOT touch my Goofy. I am not quite as hypersensitive about sharing Goofy now. Most days, that is.). He lost his original clothing years ago. When I was young, my grandmother made him a little suit out of some sort of gray pinstripe material (she was an excellent seamstress). No one had a spiffier Goofy than myself. Unfortunately that snazzy suit did not survive the depredations of childhood. Goofy even went to college with me, and soberly presided over my dorm room.

Most of the time Goofy lives in my bottom drawer, safe from prying and sticky fingers. I love my children and would share anything with them EXCEPT Goofy. Remember, you do not touch my Goofy. The rule applies even if you sprang from my womb. I do admit, however, that Goofy still gets pulled out when I am sick for cuddling.

One reason I love Goofy so much is that he is always so joyful. No matter what is happening, Goofy is always happy and having a great time. He might not understand the joke is on him. Or he may understand and not give a darn (I hope I am as comfortable in my own skin one day). He is a loyal friend, always looking out for Mickey and willing to take part in whatever Mickey has going on. He doesn't even mind being upstaged by the less-talented and more obnoxious Donald Duck. When he falls down he promptly gets back up and goes at it again. Also, Goofy never takes himself too seriously. That is a quality I find endearing and which I think helps you get through life. There are just going to be too many occasions where you fall on your behind in this life. You might as well laugh at yourself and have a little fun in the process.

I think life would be happier for us all if we took Goofy for our role model; if we decided to always enjoy life, no matter if it is the life we planned. To get back up when we fall. To laugh even as others laugh at us. To be comfortable in our own skin. To be a true and loyal friend. In short, to be full of graciousness and love.