Wishing on a Wintry Wednesday...

My routine's all out of whack.  We haven't had a normal week of school in all of 2014.  There's a good chance that we won't leave the house for days.  And, yeah, once again... I'll probably be in school until almost July.

Winter blues?  Sort of.  But then, I look out the window and see this:

 

How can you not find it beautiful?

 

 

(I guess talk to me at the end of February.  If we get any more snowstorms, I might lose that reverent feeling.  But for now, I find it soothing.  Romantic.  Enchanting).

It also reminds me of The Winter Writing Retreat, an event hosted by The Eastern Shore Writing Project.  Sadly, ESWP is currently on hiatus.  And despite the winter timing, the retreats I attended never looked quite like this.  But sifting through my old blog the other day, I found a piece that I'd written upon return from the retreat and wanted to share.  The thoughts I recorded in this post eventually played an important role in my deciding to travel to Peru in the summer of 2011 as a missionary, so this piece has a truly special meaning to me.

It is dedicated to all of my friends and colleagues who miss ESWP.

I hope you enjoy.

Originally posted Monday, January 17, 2011.


                                                                            A Love Affair

This weekend, I experienced one of those once in a lifetime, luxuriously refreshing string of events that you might equate with an unlikely romantic fantasy or an unspoken, secret dream: in a beautiful oceanfront hotel, where I watched the sunrise over the sea, talked all hours into the night and early morning, enjoyed laughter from the depths of the soul, invigorating intellectual conversation, and plastic cups filled with cheap wine, I fell in love...

It wasn't a weekend getaway with a long lost lover (though that might have been nice, too). This weekend, during the Eastern Shore Writing Project's Winter Writing Retreat, I fell in love again with writing, with living, and with people. It was a love affair of different sorts.

I engaged in a whirlwind romance of the mind as my colleagues and I examined the power of words, allowing ourselves to express heartfelt sentiments about writing, teaching, and communicating. I wrote, I reflected, I read my words aloud. I laughed. I felt deeply my own pain and joy, and that of those around me, as we captured the little miracles of life and typed them into existence on our laptops, jotted them into permanence in patterend journals and tattered spiral notebooks. We came together in a way that is truly rare. I realized, once again, that writing is a bridge across cultures, years, gender, experience. I smiled and cried as I was touched by the words of those around me, and I was humbled as I watched my words fall meaningfully onto the ears of others.

I was swept off my feet spiritually, as well. In a place when I was more inspired than I have ever been by the common bonds uniting us, so many vastly different people, I reflected on what God has done for me, the incredible gift of salvation that I believe is found in Jesus Christ. I ran across the boardwalk at sunrise, watching the incredible display of glowing pink rays lighting up a still soft, star speckled sky, the cold ocean consistently lapping the shore below. I thought of how big my God was, yet how accessible He is, to all who seek him. I prayed for my new friends, and thanked God for the amazing blessings He has given me.

Of course, it's all very noble to claim that I had planned this spirtual rejuvenation in conjunction with my adamant need to exercise. Truth is, I had to force myself to run. Self, I began, you've gained at least five pounds if not more over the holidays. You embarassed yourself terribly at your last 5K. If you don't run at least once this weekend, I'm going to kick your own butt later.

So I exercised my resolve and woke up at 5:30 in the morning, as to not interfere with the precious writing time or the socialization to which I had quickly become addicted, having come together with some of the most interesting and fantastic people I had ever known. As I'm too cheap to pay for a gym membership, and too much of a pansy to be hardcore with my running in the icy month of January, I decided a run in the hotel's treadmill would be a special treat.

Down I went to the gym on the second floor, and yes, it's quite possible that I forgot my sweats and had to run in my pajama pants (don't worry. They're gray, and except for the penguins and surfboards across my derriere, I don't think anyone would have noticed anything suspicious about my attire). Luckily, I was the only lunatic in the gym at what I would have thought was an ungodly morning hour.

*Sidenote--I just had to google "butt synonym" to figure out how to spell derriere. True confessions of the randomness of my life.

So anyway, I attacked the treadmill, and it attacked me back. I've only resorted to indoor running a handful of times in my life, and when I checked my mileage after twenty-five minutes, a timeframe when during my normal efforts outside I would have been at close to three miles, I had managed to run just over two. Sweaty, hot, and disgusted by the stuffiness of my gym and my poor performance, I jumped off the treadmill and wandered out to the balcony to breathe in some fresh air.

To my delight, it wasn't a frigid, furious winter morning, as I assumed it would have been. The cold that greeted me was exactly what I needed to refocus my mind. I jogged down the stairs, having found the inspiration to finish what I'd started. I ran the final mile down the deserted Ocean City boardwalk, awed by the spectacular display of nature in the sunrise, convinced that God had chosen this moment to talk to me.

It was a beautiful experience.

The people I spent the weekend with: dear older friends and instant newer ones, too, were truly some of the most fascinating I've ever met. Many of us are teachers. Some of us are students. All of us are writers. Stacie, the single mom of four I invited from my church, one of my favorite friends I made last year, discovered that she is, in fact, a writer. My friend Greg, a college student and full-time construction worker, held his own and kept us in hysterics as he carried his weight as one third of our entire male population (the only time you'll be in the minority as a white male, we joked). His creative documentary on seagulls is both hilarious and a bit scary. Once he posts it online, I'll provide a link. Laura, who has easily done enough living in her short time on this planet to have lived fifteen people's lifetimes, told of her adventures in twenty-one countries, and her Deep Conversations with Random Strangers, a brilliant book idea that stems from her energy and fearlessness in meeting and connecting with new people. I heard sentences from her mouth that I would never anticipate hearing again, things like "So I was in Chicago, and it was after I'd won third place in the Amateur Ventriliquest Competition..." We practiced the art of Deep Conversations with Random Strangers, marching into The Atlantic Hotel in Berlin, demanding to know if this was in fact the hotel Richard Gere stayed in during the filming of Runaway Bride. The gracious owner, who was sidetracked by her duty to check in actual paying guests, handed us the key to Room #20, and up the stairs we went. Cynthia touched the bed Mr. Gere slept in; we all admired the toilet he peed in.

We finished the weekend out with Jody Kelly Wright, a local author and partner of a West Ocean City restaurant. She spoke beautifully, encouraging us all, inviting us to celebrate whatever successes it is that we have achieved, and to constantly challenge ourselves to take it to the next level, whatever that may be. Jody is living my dream. She has had one book published by a small press, and is now an agented author pursuing traditional publication for another of her novels. I think given her energy, dedication, and obvious talent, she is a definite name to watch. As I sat in that room with other aspiring authors, I thought back to that grueling run on the treadmill, and how the moment I stepped outside, I was free to really run. It suddenly became easier, because instead of running in place, I was actually going somewhere. I think so many of us run, run, run through our lives going nowhere, just as I was struggling and huffing away on that treadmill. Only in breaking loose and running in the fresh air, which we are so often afraid to do, because of the cold, because of the inconvenience, because of the unknown, because of the challenge, only when we venture outside, do we find we are finally able to run somewhere. I don't even know that where you go is the important thing... I just know it matters that you are moving in a direction of your choice, as opposed to staying still despite your best efforts.

As I thought about God and all his majesty, the gifts he gives us that we take for granted or get distracted from (the most sacred of which is the gift of His own son), I vowed to not run in place any longer. I vowed to pursue my dreams and those God has for me, and to not settle for running in place, to exhaust myself in a struggle to make it through without actually going anywhere. I want to live life to the fullest. As I returned to Salisbury for church in the evening, my pastor's words summed up my realizations of the weekend:

"It is never too late to be the person you were always meant to become."

Why wait another day? We are given so very few, and they are truly precious. I'm getting off the treadmill now.

Will you?

Why settle for an affair when you could be married?

Here's to living each day to the fullest.

New, Raw and Uncut: A True Tale of Everyday Crazy

This is going to sound like fiction...

Warning:  This story contains an image of my father in a pink bath towel.  Don't worry, it is rated PG-13.  No full nudity occurs.

Rule Number One:  Don’t Wake Mom

(Unless the House is on Fire)

If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the time I nearly burned down the house.  I was ten years old.  The incident involved a cinnamon flavored pop-tart, an aging toaster, and my sleep-deprived mother. 

            Mom had trained us never to wake her.  She worked the night shift at a nursing home, see, and came home around seven in the morning.  Rule number one growing up in our house was always Don’t Wake Mom.  Not only did she stumble home red-eyed and exhausted from an evening of taking care of the elderly, but on the rare occasions I found need to wake her, it was a terrifying experience.  She would always stare vacantly at us for a moment or two before something in her eyes would change and she would gasp, grab a hold of our arms, or sometimes even give a little shriek.  Not how you want to start your mama’s day, trust me.

            So as I stared at the thick cloud of black smoke puffing up from the malfunctioning toaster, I actually froze, considering:  Do I wake mom up for this?

            I’m sure that with the entire home in jeopardy, some of you are wondering why I would have even paused.  All I can say in my defense is that I was pretty sure she might kill me.  After all, I had actually set the house on fire.  All I had wanted was a cinnamon pop tart, and I’d realized something was wrong when the minute and a half needed to toast the thing had passed, with no springing sound of the pop tart ejecting.  Clearly, the toaster was eating my pop tart for me.  Was this worth waking mom for?  Yes.  Was I going to get out of this without getting in trouble?  Hard to say.

            I tiptoed to her bedroom, wanting to break the news to her as gently as possible.  I lightly pushed on the bedroom door, taking a deep breath.

            “Mom,” I called in a hushed whisper.  “Mom…”

            Nothing.  I hesitated.  “Mom,” I managed in a slightly louder voice.  “Mom… the toaster is smoking a little bit,” I was downplaying the amount of smoke, hoping that by giving her a less dramatic version of what was happening, I might lessen my punishment.

            Mom stirred under her covers but didn’t open her eyes or respond.  I frowned, hovering in the doorway.  This was not good.

            Quickly, I ran lightly down the hallway, skidding to a stop in front of the kitchen.  My mouth dropped as I took in the scene in front of me.  The heavy black smoke poured upwards, the pop tart a smoldering black mass of goo bubbling over the toaster.  Orange flames shot up and licked the bottom of our cabinets.

            I raced back down the hallway, flying into Mom’s bedroom and grabbing her by the shoulder.

            “Mom,” I began urgently, “Mom… the toaster’s smoking a lot!”

            She mumbled something unintelligible, attempting to roll back over.

            “Mom!”  I screamed, panic taking over.  “Mom, the toaster is on FIRE!”

            At this, with one fluid motion, she shot out of bed, threw back the covers and went sprinting down the hallway.  As I followed behind, I heard, “OH MY GOD!”

            She raced back by me as I cowered in the living room, entranced by the toaster fire blazing away in the next room. 

            What happened after that has been burned into my memory, a hilarious image that will stay with me all of my life:

            “JOHN!” I heard my mother’s panicked squawk, followed by a muffled, urgent conversation hidden from my ears as it was covered by the bathroom door banging open and the hissing sound of my father’s interrupted shower.

            The next thing I knew, my father came exploding down the hallway, a tiny pink bath towel wrapped around his waist, barely (but thankfully, completely) covering everything one hoped would be covered.  Legs pumping like an NFL player’s, he rounded the corner, skidded across the kitchen to the toaster, and as I watched fascinated, he grasped the toaster and its cord out of the wall with one hand, hurling it into the sink and jerking on the faucet to extinguish the flames, all the while using his other hand to continue to keep his towel wrapped around his waist.

            And just that quick, it was over.

            I learned a lot that day (besides the obvious—that you always wake up an adult if the house is on fire).  I learned that I could depend on my family.  I learned that honesty is always the best policy, that I could tell my mother anything.  She was angry and amused that I was afraid to wake her, given the situation.  She also decided that other than a mild chastising, no other punishment was in order, considering the trauma I had just experienced in nearly burning down the house.  But what I realized from that day forth is that no matter what, my mother would be there for me.

            And thankfully, in every other subsequent mess I ever got myself into, the solution never again included my nearly naked father in a pink bath towel.

I am From...

A good one for #ThrowbackThursday...

My "I Am From" Poem.

Composed on my last birthday.

Originally shared as a note on Facebook, 8/30/13.


Inspired by readings from Ms. Kim Patrick's Young Writers' Open Mic, and dedicated to all the people who have made me into who I am...

I am from golden days spent wiggling toes in sun baked sand, and the taste of salt that lingers after reluctantly saying farewell to the sparkling waves, dragging boogie boards and plastic buckets the half mile trek away from the beckoning Atlantic.
I am from Daddy's big laugh as he thrust me high above his head to do Super Girl, flashes of pine trees whirling by above us.
I am from "If I wanted to build my house in a field, I would have built it in a field!" accompanied by a satisfied nod when Mommom complained to him about those pines.
I am from the comfort of cherry flavored tobacco, snuggled up in my Poppop's generous lap--the warmest, safest place to lay one's head at Mommom's house.
I am from "Welcome to the Family of the People Who Love the Lord" sung by warbling, honest voices in the tiny Baptist church on Rt. 54, and the tears that stung as a teenager as I tried to form those words, not understanding why I cried.
I am from "If you want to be baptized, you have to be nicer to your brother."
I am from elaborate hand-stitched Halloween costumes and my mother's smiles, crispy bacon and hot scrapple on a Saturday morning, cartoons blaring in the background from one of the three lonely channels the satellite provided.
I am from Friday nights under the lights and round-off, toe touch, cheer!  Green and Gold and the swelling victorious instruments blasting out "Da-da-da-da-da, hey!" beneath starry October skies.
I am from the love of my life staring at me in a high school chorus class, tossing my music on the floor or playfully touching my side, my shoulder.... tingles that brought back smiles hours and years later.
I am from dreams of getting off the Eastern Shore, palm trees of North Florida swaying under cloudless blue skies and college life with my best friend, who went 800 miles away with me after forming a playground friendship by the sliding boards in second grade.  I am from going back to where you came from, and so is she.
I am from a bustling, vibrant, welcoming church, filled with thousands of people who love Jesus and each other.  A church that grows and changes and laughs, while staying true to the scriptures.
I am from "Thank You," as my love's beautiful brown eyes fall on me in the hospital bed, our little Rose cradled contently in his arms.
I am from "She won't look like this when we see her again," and his hand on my shoulder as we hold our youngest in the oh-so-soft blanket--the only thing I will ever buy for her.
I am from never look back, or they'll see you as weak, and the thudding of sneakers on pavement as my eyes search for the finish line.
I am from rejection after rejection, sprinkled with glimmers of hope from agents who praise my writing ability, gently admitting my novel is not quite right for them.
I am from all eyes on me at open mics, and laughter and tears and comments that urge me to sit down and begin typing again.
I am from Dr. Puma's barely legible "I expect to see your name in print some day" scrawled across the bottom of my final memoir turned in for Non-fiction class.
I am from believing.

You Know You'e From Slower Lower If...

It's a Winter Wonderland out there today!

I sort of called it.  Well, I guess we all did.  The weather people got it right this time.  Which I'm impressed with.  I get that there's a lot of uncertainty in forecasting, and that it's not an exact science, but sometimes, I get downright irate with the local weather guys.  I feel like if they were held accountable like teachers are, there might be some more accurate weather predictions going on.  Can you imagine?  A state test for weathermen?  I say, go for it.  I mean, why not?  We spend billions of dollars testing the crap out of our children.  Maybe we could share the love by testing the competency of a grown up or two.  My vote is to start with the people who are telling us what to expect every day.  When they're wrong (which, sorry, weather people, is pretty often), everybody who cared enough to turn on the TVs or check their smartphones to dress for the occasion ends up feeling stupid. (And sometimes, too cold.  Or hot.)

If your kid gets a math problem wrong, at least, in general, she's only impacting herself.

Anyway, I digress.  One weather service I'm particularly fond of was started by a former student of mine, a Delmarva local who ALWAYS passed his state tests.  Delmar Weather tends to be more reliable than any other weather source I know of... and during intense weather events, they provide frequent, helpful updates.

So as my students were discussing the impending storm yesterday, I smiled, and told them that I was sure we would be off tomorrow.  I had checked Delmar Weather, had great faith in their predictions, and, as I know that Sussex County is incapable of dealing with even half an inch of snow on the ground, I figured we'd shut down for the duration.

"That's not what Ms. ***** says," commented one student.

"Ms. ***** isn't from here," I smiled.  "I've lived here longer than you guys have been alive.  I'm telling you, we're not going to have school tomorrow.  I'll see you next week."

So, I'd brag about getting it right--I already told my students they could say I told them so when they finally saw me again, which, for all we know, might be February--but really, it's not surprising.  I'm not picking on Sussex County here.  I LOVE that we have no idea what to do when it snows.  It's kind of our thing.  Dusting on the ground, two hour delay.  Stuff on the road?  Stay home until further notice.  It's quite awesome.

So this thought had me thinking about other things I love about Sussex County.  Things that separate the true locals from the transplants.  No offense is intended to either locals or tourists or new residents... just the musings of a born-and-bred country girl (which, Rashieme confirmed to me the other day, I most certainly am, no matter how I try to avoid it) from good ole Slower Lower Delaware.

And so, I present...

You Know You're From Slower Lower If...

• You are completely aware of the origins of scrapple, and you continue to eat it for breakfast on a regular basis.
• You drank Dogfish Head beer before they went nationwide.
• Your education or that of your children was impacted by thousands of hours of lost instruction due to fog delays.
• Beach fries (either D.B.'s or Thrashers) are considered their own food group.
• The smell of chicken manure in the spring and summer time doesn't offend you.  You've grown so used to it you barely notice.
• You knew what Punkin Chunkin was before they put it on TV.
• You've ever had someone from another area of the country ask you what state Delaware is in.
• 30-50% of the male student body population missed school for the first day of hunting season in any given year.
• You've ever worked in the retail or restaurant industry at the beach in the summer time, only to have a tourist ask you where you go for the rest of the year.
• You inadvertently killed upwards of ten pet hermit crabs throughout the course of your childhood.
• You don't drive on Rt. 26 in the summer time, because the commuting time from one end of the road to the other goes from 8 minutes in the off season to a minimum of 38 minutes (and often longer) when the tourists are in town.

Can you think of any others?  Comment below!

#ProudToBeFromDelaware

A Man By Any Other Name...

Is still your man.  But if your dad doesn't know his name...

Read on to find out what happens.

 

What’s In a Name?

            My dad was a great man.  He was a skilled carpenter who built his own house from the ground up.  He was an active father, cheering on all of his kids in their various sporting endeavors.  He was known to be the center of attention at the bars he frequented even into his sixties—he had one of those big, booming laughs that filled a room and made you wonder what kind of story he was telling… because he was also the kind of guy who laughed loudly at his own stories.

            For all the things he was great at… one thing he never did too well with was names.

            It didn’t take me too long to learn this.  The earliest example I can remember, and the most frequently recurring one, had to do with our neighbors, the Criswells.  I don’t know if there ever was a time that Dad actually knew their last name.  I believe he moved into our home around the time those Chevy Chase movies featuring the Griswalds started coming out, and I’d venture to say that if Dad happened to see the Griswald family on the big screen before he met the Criswells, it was highly unlikely he ever learned their actual names.  Maybe, if he met them before the Chevy Chase movies, maybe for a short time, he got it right.  I wasn’t around then, so I can’t say.  But what I can testify to, is that at any time growing up when my father mentioned the neighbors, always referring to them as “The Griswalds,” he was immediately chastised by my mother who would throw up her hands, roll her eyes, and scream, “CRISWELLS, John!  Criswells, not Griswalds!  We’ve lived next to them for twenty years!”

            This injustice, at least, was mainly done behind the neighbors’ backs, as I doubt my father ever found occasion to address them by their last name.  With my girlfriends, the humiliation was much more uncomfortable, as my dad routinely addressed them by the wrong names.  Pre-adolescent and teenage girls are embarrassed easily and self-conscious enough when no one in the room is paying the slightest bit of attention to them, so imagine throwing into the picture a boisterous, well-meaning, terribly loud, and completely unintentional and oblivious father into the situation, who, for the life of him, could not get the names of these girls straight!  While my girlfriend’s faces demonstrated that they were praying that they would melt down into the carpet and dissolve in order to escape, my father would continue jabbering on cheerfully, calling them by the wrong names every time the chance presented itself.

            He was especially bad concerning two of my best friends who, understandably, shared some physical traits.  Lindsay and Elizabeth (who went by the unusual nickname WizB) were both fair and petite.  And since Lindsay and WizB sounded similar, in my father’s brain, I’m not sure their names ever stood a chance.  Dad frequently mixed them up, calling Lindsay WizB, yelling for Lindsay when he meant WizB.  Eventually, his mind seemed to settle on one interchangeable term for both of them—he dubbed them both LizB and was done with the whole thing.  Efforts to correct him were futile, and, eventually, we gave up.

            The worst, however, was yet to come.  When I got into a serious relationship with a man named Rashieme, I knew that this name was going to be the biggest challenge yet for Dad to master.  When Rashieme and I found out we were having a baby, I was more determined than ever to make sure that this time, whatever the cost or humiliation, Dad learned Rashieme’s name.

            “Dad,” I said, sitting down with him one day.  “It’s really important to me that you learn Rashieme’s name.”

            “Machine?” Dad asked, scrunching his brow and glancing at me questioningly.  This was not the first time we’d had this conversation. 

            “Rashieme, Dad,” I said patiently.  “We’ve been together for several years.  We’re getting married.  We’re having a baby together.  As the father of your grandchild, I think it would be really great if, you know, you learned his name.”

            Dad paused as though he were in deep thought.  “Well,” he began finally.  “It ain’t like he’s got an easy name, like Tom, or Bill.”

            “Be that as it may,” I continued, “I would like for you to try.  Rashieme.”

            “Rashieme?”

            “Yes.  Rashieme.”

            Dad nodded as though the matter were settled.

            However, a couple weeks later, I got another first-hand lesson that proved to me that try you may, try you might, there are no guarantees when it comes to my Dad.  Upon my request, Dad was moving my childhood desk into our apartment.  He and his girlfriend showed up, rang the bell.  Dad greeted Rashieme with a smile, but, I noticed, made no effort to greet him by name.  I was actually a bit relieved, figuring Dad would wait for me to say his name aloud to refresh his memory before attempting to address my beloved.

            The visit was brief but friendly.  Dad and Rashieme moved the desk in, positioned it per my instructions, and then the four of us stood around chit-chatting for a bit before Dad informed me that he and his girlfriend had lunch plans and were about to head out.  I nodded, giving him a hug and a kiss.  Dad then turned his attention to Rashieme, gave him a grin and a congenial wave, before belting out, to my horror, “See ya later, Darnell!”

            Rashieme froze, smile plastered on his face, managing to wave back at my dad and watch the apartment door slam behind him.  It was only then when he turned to me, smile still on his face, and demanded, “Who the *insert explitive here* is Darnell?”

            After repeatedly assuring Rashieme that I didn’t even know a Darnell and had certainly never mentioned one to my Dad, and embarrassingly confessing that it was probably the only “black” name Dad could remember on the spot, my honey rolled his eyes and accepted my profuse apologies before getting ready for work.

            When I later confronted my father regarding this major disaster, he shrugged, and returned back to the “Not an Easy Name” defense.  You’ll be happy to know that by the time our child was born, Dad had managed to learn Rashieme’s name.

            He even learned his granddaughter’s—another “difficult” name—Kaliah.

            Now that my father is no longer here to mess up the names of my friends, the memories that used to annoy me now only bring a bittersweet smile.

            He took the time to learn Rashieme’s name, something that most of us would take for granted as a simple task.  And for many, maybe it would be.

            But how simple is it, also, to tell the people we love, quirky habits and all, that we love them?

            Just as easy, I’d presume, yet some of us let it go day by day, taking for granted that we’ll get another day to say the words or demonstrate our love.

            Inevitably, if you live long enough, you’ll lose someone that will make it clear for you that tomorrows aren’t promised, and what you have to say today, you might as well say it now.

            And while you’re at it, if you’re a dad… take the time to learn the names of your daughter’s friends.  And especially her boyfriend.  Trust me, she’ll appreciate it. 

Movin' It On Over Monday!

So since I can't give away ALL of my new stuff (if I ever expect you guys to buy anything assuming I'll someday be published)...

Here's what I think is an oldie but a goodie.

It's a throwback to 2011, when my daughter (currently a third-grader) was on the cusp of her kindergarten graduation.

This was originally published on an earlier attempt at a blog that I've since abandoned.  It was inspired by the famous poem “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten,” by Robert Fulghum.
I call it, "All I Really Need to Know in Life, I Learned From my Kindergartener."

It is, of course, dedicated to Kaliah Rose, now eight and a half. 

My how a few years makes a difference!

THEN:

As my daughter nears her kindergarten graduation, I cannot believe the way these few years have swiftly passed us by. When I close my eyes, I still can feel her snuggled up against my chest, wrapped in a cozy onesie and a cloth blankie, smooth cheek resting on my shoulder. Now, I watch her zip by me at any given moment, eyes laughing and voice bubbling, going a million miles a minute. Watching her easily transition into school, friendships, and the second half of her first decade on this planet, I pause to capture the simple yet profound lessons we can learn from a kindergartener.

• If you’re going to be sloppy with the toothpaste, you might want to put your nice shirt on after you brush.

• Work first, then play. But make sure you do plenty of both. Too much of either leads to less than desirable results.

• Read. Read during the day. Remember that the ability to read is an amazing skill. Later in life, you will probably forget what an intricate process learning to read was, but try not to take the gift of literacy for granted. Above all else, read a bedtime story every night. And if you’re able to, give someone a kiss and a hug before you shut your eyes.

• You can have a Reese cup. Or even two. But make sure you’re eating the healthy stuff, too, and don’t overdo it with the sweets.

• Be nice to everyone, even those who aren’t nice to you. Sometimes people will hurt you, or your feelings. Don’t make it a secret that you’ve been hurt. But if you get no apology, forgive them anyway and move on.

• Laugh every day. As many times as possible.

• Everybody mispronounces a word, gets a problem wrong, or screws up an assignment every once in a while. Accept corrections and criticisms with dignity, and don’t allow yourself to be embarrassed.

• Always tell your mommy and daddy that you love them.

• We all have meltdowns occasionally. If you’re having one, the best thing to do, usually, is take a nap.

• If you don’t understand something, ask. If that question leads to another question, ask that one too. If the person you are questioning doesn’t know the answers, don’t be discouraged, ask someone else. Never lose your sense of curiosity.

• Sing loudly, even if you sing off-key. If you’re trying your hardest and having a good time, no matter what the task, who cares what anybody else thinks?

• Follow the rules. Follow the directions. If you break a rule or skip a direction, be prepared to live with the consequences. When you’ve done something wrong, say that you’re sorry. And mean it.

• When you come home, tell somebody about your day. The more details the better. Then, listen while they tell you about yours.

• The show must go on! I was particularly proud of my little girl for getting up on stage by herself for the first time ever during a talent show. She had a nasty cold, and her partner didn’t show, but Kaliah dancing ballet to “Jesus Loves Me,” the first solo act of the evening, her tiny little figure moving gracefully, cautiously, and a little unsteadily across the stage all by her lonesome self, showed me that bravery comes in all shapes and sizes.

• Enjoy the little things in life. Sunshine. A rainbow. An encounter with a butterfly. Be amazed by the small stuff.

• Love someone all the way to infinity and back. If we all possessed the trusting, innocent love of a kindergartener, we could take our relationships to places we never imagined.

• Go to bed at a decent hour, or you’ll be seriously cranky-pants in the morning.

• Every once in a while, go ahead and be a show-off. Shake it like there’s no tomorrow to “Walk Like an Egyptian.” Be proud of your accomplishments, and share them with your loved ones. Don’t get carried away though—everything you do is a gift from God.

• Be honest. Kindergartners are particularly good at this, as they’ve yet to learn the art of “tact.”

• Have faith the size of a mountain. Be unashamed of it, and willing to share with those who need it. Pray for everyone you love, and even those you don’t. Pray for yourself, too. Always remember that God is with you. Allow your heart to be touched by the bigness of our world and the people in it who need our love.

Thank you, Kaliah Rose, for being the best thing that has ever happened to me.

Love,

Mom
5/26/11

Now:

The Waitress Diaries

Happy Sunday, everyone!  Over the next couple days, I'll be reposting some of my material from throughout other places on the web:  Stuff I've previously shared on Facebook notes, my old blog, or other random places in cyberspace.  To start off with, this was by far the most popular in terms of likes and comments on Facebook:  I give to you another True Tale of Everyday Crazy.  Originally published July 12, 2013, this reflection is for anyone who has ever carried a tray, spilled a drink, or forgotten part of an order.  It's for all those who've given impeccable service and still received a lousy tip.  If you're in the restaurant industry or love someone who is, this one's for you.  If you like what you read, please comment, share, or follow my blog!

The Waitress Diaries

            I have been a server since the age of 19.  For ten plus years, I have worked either full or part-time in the food industry, and I have waited tables for chain restaurants popular all across the country, family owned cafes that seat under thirty, popular beach destination casual eateries, and fine-dining establishments whose fresh seafood and tender steaks will make you drool even thinking about them.  In my decade of serving the public, I have seen it all.  (Or, most of it, at least).  Here are a few reflections from the one who carries your trays:

1.       The customer is always right.  Even when the customer is clearly an idiot.  Still, there is a way to inform us of a complaint tactfully.  Use it.

2.      I am going to do my best to give you the best service you’ve ever seen.  After all, I’m working for a tip from you.  Truth is, though, I will do my job to the best of my ability no matter how you treat me.  No, you do not have to fear that I will sabotage your food if you make some snide comment to me.  But didn’t your mama ever tell you to treat others the way that you want to be treated?  Geez.

3.      Don’t complain that someone who came in after you got their food before you did.  After all, you have no idea what they ordered or how long it takes to cook it.  Just because you ordered salads (topped with chicken grilled to order, mind you) doesn’t mean you’ll get your meals instantly.  So yes, the table full of pot roast orders was ready first, even though they sat down after you.  I put your order in first, thank you very much.  Pot roast happens to be a blue line item, meaning all the cooks have to do is scoop the already prepared entree onto a plate.

4.      I am just as embarrassed as you are unhappy when we’ve run out of an item you were planning on ordering.

5.      Spills happen to the best of us.  In ten plus years of serving, I’ve spilled twice in front of a customer.  Both times haunt my dreams; both times reduced me to tears.  If your server spills your drinks or (God forbid) your food, of course you have a right to be disappointed, but please believe me when I say that he or she is already mortified.

6.      Berating a server has never led to anything positive happening to anyone, so far as I can tell.

7.      Taking it out of the server’s tip if the food wasn’t cooked to your liking is just wrong.  Especially if you didn’t give me a chance to try and fix the problem.  But even if you did have something re-cooked, or order something different… I am not cooking your food, just delivering it.  Please remember that when tipping.

8.      Don’t assume that every server over the age of 22 is too much of a moron to get a “real job.”  Serving is a real job, and lots of professional people make great money doing it.  If you think it’s beneath you, ask your server if you can carry the drink tray across the dining room once, and unload one drink without toppling the entire tray.  It may not be rocket science, but it does take more experience and practice than you’re probably expecting.

9.      Good tips and bad tips come with the territory.  This is a reality of the profession.  More than some, I get how tight the economy is and don’t want you to stay home forever.  If it’s a special occasion and things are rough, I don’t mind if you come out with your family and leave me 15% instead of 20%, providing that you’re also polite and easy to work with.  But just so we’re clear—10% tips (or less!) are completely unacceptable.  Stay home. Also, industry standard is trending toward 25-30% now.  Seem unreasonable?  Just so you understand, I make $2.13 an hour.  I also tip out the support staff at the end of the night—bussers, bartenders, hostesses, food runners… if you come in with a huge party, drive my sales through the roof, and then don’t tip me fairly—I’ve essentially paid money to wait on you, since I tip out based on my sales, which you’ve now hiked up without giving me my fair percentage.

10.  Don’t order off the kids’ menu if you’re not a kid.

11.  If you come in during the middle of dinner rush, or at the last possible moment before dinner ends, please don’t order water and the cheapest thing on the menu, and then hang around talking for two hours, tying up my section while I’m trying to make money, or catching up with your long lost best friend or Aunt Edna when I’m trying to go home.

12.  If my shift is over and I ask you politely if I can sweep a nearby table, please say yes.  If I care enough to ask, assume I care enough to not be loud and obnoxious with the broom and dustpan.  If you say no, and I have nothing else keeping me from going home, you’re either making more work for some other waiter, or you’re going to have to deal with me sitting at my dirty table and staring at you while you try and finish your dinner.

13.  Jesus people—I love you!  I am one of you!  I think it is so sweet that you are trying to reach servers by leaving us pamphlets saying that God loves us.  This is a great “tip.”  However, when your pamphlet is accompanied by a lousy monetary tip, two things happen:  1) We immediately decide you are a hypocrite, because we all know Jesus said be generous, which you are clearly not.  I can’t feed my kid with a booklet.  2) We don’t bother reading the booklet, because you are a hypocrite.  How can you promote Christ while being a cheapskate?  Think about what you are doing!  You won’t ever reach the lost by being stingy.

14.  If you are such a high maintenance eater that you have to change everything about an item before you order it, stay home and cook for yourself.  Not trying to be rude, but orders like the following are ridiculous:  “I’ll take the Cobb Salad, no avocado, and I don’t want the normal greens, can you substitute spinach instead?  And hot bacon dressing instead of the honey mustard.  And also, leave off the egg, but could you put on extra tomato?  And I’ll add shrimp, but I don’t want the chicken.  Okay?”  Then you wonder why your food is taking forever—it’s because the entire kitchen staff is trying to recreate a salad to your liking.

15.   If you’re using a coupon—please, for the love of God—tip off of the original bill.  You’ve already saved your money, you don’t have to sacrifice our cut by not tipping off of the total before the discount.

 

Your servers come from all walks of life.  We are high school students saving for college, and college students working for spending money.  We are career waiters and waitresses, who will continue to serve you and your family for years and years until it’s finally time to hang up the apron.  We are professionals who lost our jobs when the economy tanked.  We are struggling artists who mix drinks and carry trays at night until we get that book published or land that acting gig.

We are people, just like you, and we make mistakes from time to time.

So the moral of the story is, that while there are some crappy servers out there (just like there are crappy teachers, crappy lawyers, crappy doctors, and crappy reporters), the vast majority of us care about our jobs and more importantly to you, we care about your experience.  So unless your service is God awful, please give us the benefit of the doubt and realize that we didn’t forget your side salad or soda refill on purpose—we’re just flawed human beings, and though it happens to the best of us rarely, we do still make a mistake or two when the restaurant is completely full and we are slammed. 

            And if you get exceptional service?  If you have the means, every server I know would very much appreciate an exceptional tip.

Repeat Offenders Club, Running Out of Gas Edition...

My newest unedited story from This is Going to Sound Like Fiction... True Tales of Everyday Crazy.  For those of you who are members of the Repeat Offenders Club, this one is dedicated to you.  The Few.  The Ashamed.  The Multiple-Whoops-We-Ran-Out-Of-Gas-Again-Perpetrators. 

Driving on “E”

                If you’ve ever allowed yourself to run out of gas while driving… you understand what I mean when I say that it’s hard to imagine another situation in which you feel like a bigger idiot.

                If, by chance, you’ve allowed it to happen to you twice?  Well, that there’s the situation in which, yes, you’ve discovered, it is indeed possible to feel like an even bigger idiot than back when you let it happen the first time.

                But if you happen to be in the special rank that I am in—the Repeat Offenders Club, who can claim that they’ve run out of gas THREE OR MORE TIMES—well, I believe there is a special classification for folks like us.

                I’m sure those of you who are wired to never even let that light come on have no idea how we could allow such a preventable tragedy to befall us not once, not twice, but THREE OR MORE TIMES… and to you, I think I speak for all of us in the Repeat Offenders Club when I say…

                Yeah, we don’t know, either.

                Because trust me, there is absolutely no event on earth that makes you feel quite as stupid as when, after miles of praying for just one more mile after that little light has blinked on, suddenly the sputtering begins, the wheel locks up, and you barely manage to coax your dying vehicle to the side of the road.

                The first time, you were probably young and dumb, so that almost doesn’t count.  I was in college at the time, and I honestly can’t even remember who I called.  A roommate?  Triple A?  I remember feeling pretty stupid, but I decided the “E” didn’t stand for Extra Five Miles and filed this information away in my brain, vowing to never let it happen again.

                But I guess I wasn’t quite as embarrassed as I should have been, because not even a year later, I let it happen again.  Now this time, I was humiliated, because even at nineteen, I thought to myself, what kind of idiot lets this happen to her twice?  Did you not learn the lesson the first time?  I’d sort of like to blame it on college living, the day to day scrape-by  that happens between scrounging up enough money for McDonalds in between studying for exams, and paying at the pump in quarters because you didn’t put in many hours at the part-time job that week, due to the stressful course load.

                But of course, I can’t apply that excuse to the third time.

                This was, to my benefit, at least a couple years later.  I was dropping Rashieme off at work when it happened.  He was not amused.

                He was even less amused when, not even two weeks later, it happened again.  I don’t think I can claim Pregnancy Brain—I’m pretty sure Kaliah was already in the picture—but at least maybe I could blame it on New Mommy Brain.

                Rashieme didn’t care.  As you can imagine, he was quite irritated at being late not once, but TWICE, at my inability to force myself to stop at a gas station and fill up the tank at the first moment the warning light comes on.

                So after that time, (the fourth, I cringe to say), I made it a couple years without incident.

                I know, I know. 

                There really isn’t an excuse.  I guess it’s just part of who I am.  Maybe there are other Repeat Offenders out there who can vouch for me.  We’re artsy types!  We’re creative!  We’re brilliant intellectuals who spend so much time thinking and writing and observing the beauty of the world around us that practical tasks like filling up our gas thanks just somehow get lost in the shuffle!

                Or maybe, just maybe, I really am that much of an idiot.

                The next time it happened was the absolute worst.  I’d made it probably at least three or four years since the last episode.  Kaliah was in pre-school or kindergarten, I don’t remember which.  I think kindergarten, so that would have made her five.  She was in the car with me, chattering on a million miles an hour as she was wont to do, when all of the sudden, that old, familiar, sickening feeling as I recognized the dreaded slow-down, the limp wheel…

                I managed to get the car to the shoulder.  I called everyone I knew in my contacts list from my cell phone.  When no one answered, I glanced in the rearview to the backseat, where Kaliah was just then apparently realizing that we had stopped for some unbeknownst reason on a winding country road in between her school and the highway, where, thankfully, there was a gas station, maybe a half a mile away.

                So as we walked, she continued babbling excitedly about all the things that kindergarteners talk about, me half listening as I brainstormed  ways I could convince her to keep this experience to herself as opposed to sharing it with her father, who, I was sure, wasn’t exactly over the last two times I had run out of gas.  I wasn’t sure if he knew that there were two times before that, but even if he didn’t, three times to run out of gas was still going to be three times too many in his book.  The last two times I’d made him late to work.  And this time, I’d forced a five-year-old on a mile long expedition.

                The first tenth of the mile was okay.  “It’s a beautiful day, Mom!”  gushed Kaliah.  (She was always an extraordinarily cheerful child by nature.  She used to wake me up at ages two and three by bouncing into my bedroom and saying, “Get up, Mom!  It’s another sunny day!”).  “Look at the trees!  Look at the clouds!  Mom, where are we going?  Mom, do you see that bunny?”

                I didn’t want my child to outright lie to her dad.  I wasn’t crazy about encouraging lying by omission, either… but Rashieme just might kill me in order to prevent me from running out of gas a sixth time.  As I tried to put together a plan to get Kaliah to keep this adventure between the two of us, something happened that would completely ruin my attempt to get her to keep quiet:

                “Mom!  MOM!  Oh, my gosh, Mom, A DEAD FOX!!!”

                Apparently, seeing a dead fox was the highlight of Kaliah’s young life.  She couldn’t stop talking about it.  How did I think it died?  How long did I think it had been there?  Did I think it went to heaven?  What was it trying to do when it died?

                Suddenly, there was no possible way to get Kaliah to keep this incident a secret.  A dead fox was clearly newsworthy information that was just too good to keep to oneself.  And any adult who was halfway listening was going to wonder what we were doing and where we were doing it when we discovered the dead fox.

                She stayed on the topic of the dead fox for a good ten minutes before she finally got back around to what we were doing and why we were doing it.  I calmly explained that Mommy had failed to put enough gas in the car, and the car would not go without it, so we had to go buy some more from the gas station and walk it back to the car.

                I watched my little girl’s brown eyes widen in disbelief:  “So, we’re not even half way done walking?” she demanded, peering toward the gas station in the distant future.

                I tried my best to convince her we were on an adventure, and I promised her a treat at the gas station if she was a good girl.  Even my feet were beginning to hurt (I was a runner, but not attired for the occasion), so I knew my daughter’s little legs were wearing out.  I tried my best to keep a positive attitude, carrying her a few minutes when she periodically grew tired of walking.

                But on the way back, it had started to rain (lightly, thank God), and then, on top of that, at one point, when I couldn’t carry Kaliah, because one of my hands was consumed with the gas container, she tripped and fell, scraping her knee.

                “This is the worst day ever!” she wailed.

                And I thought to myself, it really was.

                But alas, eventually we made it back to the car.  All’s well that ends well.  I distracted Kaliah with some ice cream, and apologized to her, and made a feeble attempt to ask her to maybe not tell Daddy all about our little adventure.  Eventually, she said something to him, because, really, who can expect a five-year-old to keep a secret?  She was confiding in her teacher and classmates the very next day, because, of course, she couldn’t keep that dead fox to herself.  

                “And,” I imagined her announcing to her captivated teacher and classmates, “Mommy says I can’t tell Daddy, because she ran out of gas again, and Daddy will be mad if he knows Mommy let the car run out of gas AGAIN!”

                By the time she got around to telling her dad about it, it wasn’t all that relative anymore anyway.  Sure, it had been an unpleasant experience, but beyond a scraped knee and some sore feet, neither of us had been harmed.  So though I’m sure Rashieme was annoyed, he never blew up over it.

                And I’m happy to report that in the years since, I’ve only run out of gas ONE additional time.