| Fort Zinderneuf Buckley Outpost created 6 November 2004 http://www.greatestfilms.org/beau.html Gary Cooper, where are you now that I need you? "Not the cry, but the flight of the wild duck, leads the flock to fly and follow" Old Chinese Proverb I. Mississippi Calling (Dateline: March, 2004) I was sitting around the dining room table the other night when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Hansen for my husband (to discuss some work we are having done to our house). My daughters, busily coloring, just love it when the phone rings ("can I say 'hi'?" is a favorite response to a picked up phone). I explained that it was Mrs. Hansen for Dave to discuss construction details. Daughter #1 (now 4): Mrs. Handsome? What does she want? Me: Not Mrs. Handsome, Mrs. HanSEN... Daughter #2 (now 4 as well) Why is her name Handsome? Isn't that what boys are? And girls are beautiful? Right? Me: Not HANDSOME, HANSEN! Daughter #3: If that is Mrs. Hansen, then who is Mississippi? II. Hui Hui’s Baptism (Dateline March 2004) So the day finally came we had been dreading - Hui Hui's baptism day. This is the kid who beleives that political statements are made at the top of his lungs for 1/2 hr time increments. And who doesn't like people touching him. Me, in my dark little mind, pictures a total meltdown in church. I see myself carrying the 5 yr old out the door of the church as the pastor is still trying to throw water on the kids head from the front of the church. He douses everyone but my son. I see myself ducking into the ladies room, dousing Hui Hui's head from the sink and calling it even (just between me and God). Fast forward - the gang of five had Sunday school (went really well -they have snacks there you know). Then 1/2 hr wait until church. Then 5 kids in their Sunday best sitting in the front row, with no place for mommie to hide...just me, 5 twitchy kids high on sugar, Dave looking sheepish (waiting for the lightening strike for not being there for so long), and me - wondering which was the fastest route to the nearest bathroom. Pastor #1 comes over to say hi. Wants to shake Hui Hui's hand – Hui Hui (age 5) just ignores him. Pastor babbles along in English, when everyone who is anyone knows the language of the day is Mandarin! Pastor #2 comes over - we repeat the same scene -Hui Hui looks at #2 as if he crawled out from under a rock. Hymm #1 is sung (Hui Hui has his hands over his ears -well at least one hand and one cast (he broke his arm within 48 hrs of arriving but that is another story). Then it's time to walk the 5 very long miles (ok, 5 feet, but it sure looked like an eternity) to the baptismal fount. Mom carries the 40 lb 5 yr old in her arms. Nicholas (6) and Annelise (5) are busy patting the stone wall that is the back drop to the altar (probably calculating the amount of force needed to bring it down), Simone (4) is standing next to daddy doing her own internal dance (right foot, left foot, swing your hair, repeat), Alexandra (4) is climbing the rock baptismal font - because it's there. My arms are about to break now, Hui Hui decides I'm not so bad after all because Pastor #1 is standing 2 feet away and waving at a small rock pool of water and this guy is really big. Dive into mom's hair and don't come up for air. Start the ceremony. As we don't have sponsors, the pastor announces that the congregation is elected to fill these shoes. So please answer up when I ask the really hard questions: Question #1: Do you deny your son's soul to Satan (or words to that affect)? Congregation answers "Yes". Alexandra (now in daddy's arms) answers "yes" just as clear as a little bell). Question #2: Will you help him grow in Christ and remind him not to take drugs, have premarital sex and color outside the lines as he grows up? Congregation mumbles "How many kids does she have now? 6? 7?" Alexandra answers just a little bit louder, and a little bit clearer this time "YES" Question #3: Do you promise not to lock him in his room when he begins holloring during the baptism ceremony and to give him his Sunday donuts anyway?" Congregation answers: "No, I only count five, but she said there were gonna be six...how do they all fit into that little van?" Alexandra, now on her way to sainthood, still in Daddy's arms says really loudly "YES!!!" Crystal clear, everything you could ever want in a sponsor, with all the conviction a 4 year old can muster, she says "YES, I WILL!" My second thought (after realizing that Hui Hui can still breath in my hair, and that his swinging arm at the pastor during the water part actually missed the man) was to thank God that Hui Hui will have someone looking after his interests when I am dead an gone. And that person is only about 3 feet tall, weights in at 30 lbs (barely) and has the soul of a Christian solder. You go girl! Momma loves you. Mary, who survived another hour waiting to be part of the greeting team at the door, where only 2 out of every 100 grownups understands that little kids don't want to be touched without being asked. Who's second son shook the hand of an 88 year old lady who gave him a chance to decline (which he didn't), but who ignored and growled and swung his cast at everyone else who had the audacity to touch him. (He's got my vote on this one). Post Script: "I'm hungry, can we go get Chinese yummies now"? Annelise, age 6, wearing her jade pearls from Taiwan and looking every inch a Shanghai beauty that she will become. "I'm hungry, can we go to Fireplace Inn now", Alexandra, age 4, direct from God's lips to your ears. "Where's the play room, where's the toys, can I run around and climb the walls?" Nicholas (7), Simone (4). "Are we done yet?" Dave (52) hiding behind Hui Hui. Mary (grateful for every last one of them...most of the time.) Mom to Annelise, Alexandra, Simone (China), Nicholas (Russia) Tanner (Hui Hui) (5, Taiwan), and soon Shen Hung (5, Taiwan) III. Mommie, how much did I cost? (Dateline March, 2004) The moment every adoptive parent dreads….right over the fish sticks, French fries and peas….the question I had been waiting to hear, just not so soon. Annelise (adopted from China four years ago, now age 6), coming up for air from the ketchup pool on her plate, looks at me with her dark eyes and asks “Mommie, how much did I cost?” Me: “Cost? You didn’t cost a penny! Now eat your peas!” Situation handled. At least for now. But let me think about this again. We are standing, Dave and I, on the shores of another “new” adventure. We are embarking on our 6th international adoption, bringing home another five year old boy from Taiwan. So, besides the obvious monetary cost of the process, how much did you cost? There is no mystery where the question came from. It came from four years of you absorbing our frenetic paperwork gathering, fingerprint getting, notary signing, and budget deficit spending for the four other children that followed on your heals from China. Or, it might have come from Kindergarten, where the children are so worldly they know more about where babies come from than they do about Bob the Builder. Annelise, your question briefly halted me in my onward rush for total enlightenment, acquired by getting 5 kids fed and bathed before 8 p.m bedtime. Your question has simmered and bubbled in the back of my mind ever since. Together, you and I have gone through “you are adopted”, “you didn’t grow you in mommie's tummy”, “not all babies are born in China”, “yes, airplanes are to used for other things than getting babies from China” and “no, you can’t have more cookies before bed”. So, Annelise, here is how much you cost: · A feeling of willingly jumping off the top of a tall building with no clue on how to land safely. I think it’s called a Leap of Faith. I’ll let you know when I land. · 1.5 pounds of paperwork · Three vials of blood, one physical, 15 visits to the doctor’s office because the notary screwed up... again. · Multiple social worker visits…are we there yet? · At least 5 headaches from thinking up creative answers to questions there are no good answers to, such as: what will I do when I return home after work to a totally wrecked house, a husband snoring on the couch, walls decorated in rainbow patterns from glitter crayons, cat vomit in a connect-the-dots pattern from the kitchen to the living room, and a 16 month old in the middle of the kitchen making dinner out of Oreo cookies). · Two 14 hr plane rides. · An overnight stay in Tokyo when we missed the connecting flight to Beijing · A sleepless night in Tokyo brought on by really reading all the earthquake warnings on the back of the hotel room door. · My first mommie moment when I learned what a being a mommie was all about after you threw up all the food I overfed you on the airplane (after bouncing you on my knee), after stripping you down to your diaper, after learning the airline blanket had not escaped the projectile vomiting, and after getting ready to rip the throat out of two smarmy airline hostesses who tried to ignore me asking for a blanket, while my child turned blue from the cold. · At least two weeks of feeling like someone dropped off their child with me and forgot to come back and get her · Two months of singing every rendition of “Rock-a-bye Baby” I could imagine for at least 2 hrs every night while I suffered from a terrible virus received from my trip to China, in the middle of the hottest summer on record in Northern Michigan · The cartilege in my knees as I learning to crawl out of your nursery with out making any of the floor boards creak, knowing full well you were still awake, but going hoarse from all that singing. · Learning how to stop dead in my tracks and pretend I was still laying on the floor sleeping next to your crib when you popped your head up because I missed one lousy, noisy, damn floor board. · Experiencing the joy of eating a whole quart of strawberries by the side of the road with my 18 month old daughter, because you didn’t know when to stop eating, and I was having too much fun to know any better. · Finding out there was only one true color and that was pink, pink, nothing but pink, so help me God. · Finally understanding that dresses are better than pants, with tights please, the ones with the frilly bottoms, and what do you mean they don’t come in 5T? · The realization that no matter how many children I adopt, no matter how old I get, you and your brothers and sisters will never, ever fill the hole created by the two babies that I gave birth to who died because they were too young to live. And while you can never replace them, they can never replace you either. Annelise, you cost me everything I never knew I had inside me to give. You cost me the wall I built around my heart when my babies died; the patience I so sorely hoarded because it was in such short supply; the personal space I thought I required; and my unceasing quest for answers from God who finally just plunked you down in my lap and told me “Look! This is all you need to know!” That, Annelise, is how much you cost. (Just an aside...after 9 years reading and belonging to International Adoption boards I realize that adoptive parents will argue and criticize over just about anything - just like a very large family. Well, the criticism has found me and I'd like to respond. First off, I never ever told my daughter (or any of my kids) that I paid money for them. When asked, I told them that the process costs an arm and a leg. Additionally, I have heard parents explaining that they adopted because they couldn't have biological children. That's one reason why we adopted. Better said, it's one reason why we focused our attention on international. adoption. After at least twelve miscarriages (I stopped counting at twelve, anyway), including the two daughters I mention above, my heart still hurts - maybe not every day and every minute like it used to, but it has become a part of who I am. I never thanked God for their loss, because that seems to trivilialize the lives they never lived. Instead, I thank God for showing me there are other paths to take, not just the one we had focused on for so long. The children we adopted will never replace the children that didn't live. And the children in my home could never be replaced by any biological chlidren I may ever have. They, along with my faith, rotate in a never ending circle in my heart. They are why I get up in the morning and go to bed at night. They are why I never give up, and never stop trying. They are my center. I hope that explains and answers the criticism.) IV. Why You (An open letter to my son) (Dateline April, 2004) Have you ever noticed that having trouble sleeping is a great way to sort out and right the wrongs of the world? Ever notice how many problems you can solve by gnawing on them endlessly at 2 in the morning? If I sleep through my 2 a.m. worry sessions I don’t feel like I’ve done enough to contribute to the betterment of society. If I have to put a happy face on my insomnia, what better thing to worry about than my kids? As all of my kids are alive and well (and I don’t ask for much more than that), I worry about adopting you, a child with special needs. Why does any parent willingly adopt a special needs child? What reasons do they give for taking on such a responsibility? How do they explain the why’s and wherefores of their decision in the bright, harsh light of day, without any romantic notions of “saving” a child from a life of deprivation? How do parents know they can manufacture the required stamina, money, knowledge, and perseverance that will be needed to raise and prosper a physically challenged child? How do they conquer a fear of the dark? A fear of the unknown? I knew you were out there - I had seen your picture on the agency website. I had seen a video of an earlier you provided by the agency. I saw you struggle as a small child to hold up your head and bring the cookie to your mouth. But like most parents when confronted with something I wasn’t sure about, I said we were looking for a “healthy” child. When your dad traveled to Taiwan the first time it was ostensibly to meet other Veterans taking a tour of the island. He was also going to take the time, at my urging, to meet our new five year old son - the lucky one who shared a February birthday with his new dad and sister. God must have had his thumb on Dave that day, because the child he noticed most, other than his new son, was you. You, the boy propped up against the doorjamb so you wouldn’t fall over. You, the child who couldn’t walk over and look at the older man sitting on the floor playing with the other kids. You, who could only stare and smile, and watch the world go buy. The more Dave noticed you the closer he came, until finally you were tucked under his right arm and his new son under his left. I have pictures of your first meeting with your dad: Dave sitting there with a goofy look on his face surrounded by small children, Hui Hui sitting in his lap, you on Dave’s right side with that beatific smile on your face, happy to be part of the action, happy to get attention, just plain happy to have company in your corner I’ve often heard the phrase “God works in mysterious ways” when someone tries to explain their motivation for doing certain things. In my case, I find God usually starts out with a gentle nudge (like a psychic itch) pointing me in certain directions. By the time He gets my attention it’s usually turned into something a bit more a forceful, something akin to someone yelling in your ear – Hey stupid! I’m talking to you here! (Picture God with a Long Island accent.) By the time Dave came home and showed me the pictures from his trip to Taiwan, I knew God wasn’t going to let me off the hook. I knew from the way Dave continued to mention you, how he didn’t shy away when I said I had a video of you, that God was getting ready to grab my attention again (that Long Island accent was getting kind of loud). So, God, Dave, and the bank willing, we are bringing you home. The agency didn’t need explanations when I told them we were thinking of adding a 2nd son so quickly. Bonnie told me the first time she saw your picture she knew you were special - there was magic in your smile. Your smile was so big, that given the laws of physics, it wouldn’t be contained in that small corner much longer. We made you part of our family, not because I have any strong belief that I understand your needs, but because to turn my back on you and walk away as if you don't exist was not something I was going to be able to do. Were we “saving you? Were we “rescuing” you? Were we pitying you? I don’t have any answers. The end of the story has yet to be written. But come what may we’ll continue the journey together. Welcome home. V. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy (Dateline April, 2004) I was lying in bed the other night with my four year old daughter watching TV, when a commercial came on that really caught her notice. It showed the Easter Bunny coming down the chimney with a huge bag of goodies. The Bunny landed in someone’s living room and proceeded to spread the gifts around (picture Santa Claus in a fuzzy pink and white suit). The next scene is of the family of four (boy, those were the days!) standing on the staircase, gazing in astonishment into the living room – watching this six foot bunny pass out Easter baskets, Easter candy, Easter froo froo, etc. I’ve seen this commercial several times now and I’m not sure if the family is wondering how in hell the Easter Bunny got down the chimney or why the crazy beast thinks Easter is Christmas time. Of course, the caption being that this particular store has sooooo much stuff that Easter is now like Christmas. I beg to differ, but that’s a different story all together. Needless to say this started one of “those” conversations with my almost 5 year old daughter: Daughter: Mom, why did the Easter bunny come down the chimney? Me: To get into the house. Daughter: But what about houses that don’t have chimneys? Me: Well, he probably knocks on the door. Daughter: Well, who lets him in? How come I’ve never seen him? Me: Because he (he?) comes at night when you are in bed and your dad lets him in. Daughter: Oh, like the Tooth Fairy. Me: Sort of. Daughter: But what happens when you swallow your tooth, like Nicholas did? Me: Well, you still get your quarter. Daughter: But how does she know? Me: Mommie and Daddy call her and tell her. Daughter: Oh, but what if she’s busy? Me: Then Mr. Tooth Fairy comes over, knocks on the door, and drops off the quarter. Daughter: Oh. How come I’ve never seen him either. Me: Because Mr. Tooth Fairy comes over when you are asleep. He comes over when Daddy is still up, they have a couple of beers, talks Marine stuff, Mr. Tooth Fairy leaves the quarter and then goes home. Daughter: Oh. I think it worked. At least for the next 12 hrs. But, life ain’t easy in my house. The next morning, trying to get five kids to eat cereal before going to school, the talk centered around the Easter Bunny coming down the chimney. “Yep, just like Santa Claus.” “Nope, we don’t have a chimney. Daddy lets him in.” “Yes, Santa does too drink beer.” “Yes, the Easter Bunny drinks beer too.” “So does Mr. Tooth Fairy.” “Yes, Mrs. Tooth Fairy wears pink.” “No, you can’t ask for more money for one tooth”…. So, query me this Batman – why is it I can give my kids straight answers about smoking (don’t do it or I’ll kill you), drugs (nasty stuff, see previous answer), sex (got the body part talk down, got the adoption difference talk down, sort of got the ‘how the baby exits the body' talk down), but when it comes to straight talk about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy I freeze up? Why, in this day and age of Barbie, Strawberry Short Cake, Bob the Builder and 911 I can't I tell my kids the truth about these cultural myths? I never grew up with any of it, so should they? So I never had any magic in my childhood. So I never worried about not having a chimney, pink outfits for the tooth fairy, and what happens if she is too busy to come over. So what? So, I keep lying to my kids – that’s so what. Magic is magic, after all. Who says that that there ain’t no Santa Claus. Just ask Virginia… Love, mom. VI. The Lady Bug Rescue Society (Dateline April, 2004) The Lady Bug Rescue Society is now in session. Members roll call: Mom? “Present!” Alexandra? “Present!” This meeting is called to order! “Mom! I got another ladybug!! Can we put it outside?” “Ok. You walk slow so it doesn’t fall off and I will blow it off your hand when we get the door open”. Whhhhoooooooossssshhhh…..….. Ever seen a ladybug? Of course you have. Ever seen three ladybugs all in one place? Sure you have. Ever see n 5,000,000 ladybugs all in one place? No?? Are you sure??? Then you don’t live anywhere near my house. Seems the “Lady Bugs” we are afflicted with in Northern Michigan might not be ladybugs after all. I hear they are part of a communist plot on the part of Mother Nature to mislead adoptive parents everywhere into dropping everything they are doing in order to “save the life of a ladybug”. I hear they are really another type of Chinese beetle masquerading as Lady Bugs to get on my good side. Now, I have no idea what ladybugs eat or how they survive the long, bitter cold winters in Northern Michigan, much less how they survive in my glassed-in porch. I have no idea why, on every even remotely “warm” days in January, they come to life in groups of 13 or more and crawl up curtains, bathroom sinks, French windows, or walls. I just know they do. I’ve seen it. It’s eerie watching a group of marauding ladybugs take over a freezing cold room in January and pretending they like it. My daughter has a thing for ladybugs. Which means I have a thing for ladybugs (it’s part of the mommy job description, you know). Don’t get me wrong – I like ladybugs, in groups of three or less. However, 15 bugs bent on freedom every five minutes really taxes my patience. It goes something like this: “Mom, I found another one, and this one is alive” “How do you know?” “Because she isn’t squished!” “Oh…well bring her over and we will release her out the back door”. “Mom, I found another one… “Ok, met me at the back door.” “Mom…” “Door!” “Mo…” “NO!” Now, I have to admit when left to my own devices (especially at 5 a.m. in the morning when I am up and the kids are still asleep) that if I find a ladybug I will do the “one hand waving out the back door” thing to get the bug outside – hopefully back to her babies (as my daughter tells me). But when the sun swings around the earth and spring comes to Northern Michigan, the bugs come out in groups of 50 or more. This is a great reason to vacuum the back sunroom, much to my daughters horror. “That one was alive!” “How do you know?” “Because it was still crawling!!!” “Oh, sorry…” So here’s the dilemma. In Michigan, we have two seasons – cold and less cold. The cold season lasts from October to May. The less cold season (some might even use the word “warm”) lasts for 15 hrs on 3 August. The rest of the time it’s either raining, blowing, howling, storming or just plain nasty outside (probably because we live on the highest point in the county and there are no trees.) So if I release the ladybug outside in snowy weather to get her “back to her babies”, then she freezes. If I leave her inside she multiplies into 15 other bugs in about 8 minutes. If I move her to the windowsill in the kitchen and hide her behind all the kid’s crafts, found items, and finger-paint pictures then I can pretend there must be bug food back there somewhere and she can live out her buggy life in relative safety from the vacumn cleaner. So – it’s a toss up – outside or not outside…that is the question. Whether tis better to endure the trials and tribulations of being picked up and plopped down in a safe place or better to fly away outside (gale force winds be damned!) in the hopes the “ladybug” finds her babies. So how do I explain all this to my daughter? I’m the person that I made her leave a ladybug at the beach last summer (“but she’s my best friend!”) because I told her that she didn’t want to take the mommy ladybug away from her babies. How and why she remembers this so intently is beyond me (so much for lying to my child). Ah, childhood. Will it never end??? This meeting of the “Lady Bug Rescue Society” is now concluded. Carry on. VII. "And, They're OFF!!" (Dateline April 2004) The Easter Bunny is a big deal at my house (but so is the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus). So planning for the Easter Egg Hunt is a week long project for my kids. They tell me all their plans and it’s my weeklong project. We start our preparations early in the week by supporting our local retailer to buy some Easter Egg stuff. Who needs new spring dresses for Sunday services when there are more important things to spend money on (like jelly beans!) So, being the multi-tasking person that I am, I picked up my two oldest kids from school and off we go to fight off the hoards at Wal-Mart. Ever wonder why most Wal-Mart stores are so big? It’s because most of the space is used to store all those UFO’s that got moved from Roswell, New Mexico. What little space is left is used to cram seasonal stuff in an aisle barely big enough for a three year old to squeeze down. Question: How many shoppers can fit down one aisle at three in the afternoon a few days before Easter? Answer: 4,523,632. So there I am, just me, two kids and an oversized shopping cart squeezing down a very small aisle crammed with Easter Candy, Easter Baskets, Easter Bunnies, and Metamucil (or else why would the over-90 crowd be there?) Grabbing way too much candy in an effort to get out with all my body parts intact we fight our way to the check out. Seems there’s a reason I leave my kids behind when I shop for stuff like this- the extra jelly bean bags (5), the extra chocolate bunnies (3), the extra Metamucil (?), and one screaming 90 year old nun (now who put her in there? Nicholas?!*($#@%$) Fast forward to Saturday evening…the kids are in bed and I have unloaded the back of my car where I have kept the baskets, candy and the nun hidden until this evening. Then I quickly tell my husband that I bought extra plastic eggs to fill (I think we are up to about 5000 – we have 5 kids you know) and then run like mad up to bed. Three hours later I hear my husband stumble up to bed, hands wrapped in bandages, mumbling something about black jellybeans being pretty tasty. Sunday morning arrives (finally). “Mommy, did the Easter Bunny get in the house OK?” “Were you joking about Daddy and the Easter Bunny drinking beer and telling war stories?” (Oh, I’m going to go to hell for that one!) “Can we do our Easter Egg hunt now?” “How about now?” “Now??” Just an aside – we live in an old farmhouse surrounded by cornfields and an occasional cow. We have about three acres of yard, most of it not mowed (going au naturale, as my husband explains). However, in an effort to restore marital harmony we do have a “path” mowed around the outside perimeter (Marine Corps Boot Camp training starts at the age of 18 months at our house). Dave has thoughtfully placed groups of five eggs in various places around the path. I guess he thought it would take the kids a good while to go collect one egg from each pile. I suppose he was thinking the kids would make a stately exit from the house, sedately stroll around the path and delicately place one egg inside their basket before going on to the next one. Yeah, right. Here’s the reality: * Run out the door without coats…It’s raining (ok, snowing, but it passes for rain in N. Michigan in April) * Come back into the house for coats, gloves, hats, snow shovels * Run like mad back out of the house. Ensure door slams five times. * Ensure glass door is still intact (me). * Run after the kids with one left-over coat (me). * Grab very small four-year-old daughter who is trailing everyone else by 1000 yards. Put her coat on. Pick her up and run like mad to catch up with other kids. * Scream at kids “Nicholas – one egg from each pile!! One! I SAID ONE EGG!” * Quick grab the remaining egg from the first pile and throw the plastic egg in the basket (and hope like mad it stays shut). * Still carrying Alexandra and the basket with one lone egg banging back and forth, run down the hill and grab the 2nd egg. No sign of other four kids, just maniacal laughing somewhere up ahead in the snowstorm. * Slide into pile #3 and grab another egg (for some reason all her eggs are yellow). By this time I see the bottoms of someone’s feet as they land face down in the wet grass, eggs spilling out of their basket. * Quick put Alexandra down and push her in the right direction (hoping she doesn’t get lost in the snow), grab the downed egg racer and re-right him/her, grab spilled eggs, candy, basket, snow, grass, and dead bugs and run like mad to catch up with Alexandra. * Repeat four more times. * Coming down the last stretch all is quiet. Stumbling out of the snow storm I fall across four kids squatting down staring at the big gold egg in the pile and arguing “I don’t want it, you take it.”I don’t want it, you take it!” “Mommy!!” “It’s got chocolate in it” “Mine” "Mine!” "MINE!” * Run to next pile, no kids, no eggs, only footprints in the snow… * Stagger to the back door just in time to see five kids sitting in wet snow opening eggs Total time to back door 3 minutes, 15 seconds. Ah, childhood. It's over so quickly. Mary (still snickering over the Easter Bunny commercial where he comes down the chimney. I’ll worry about the consequences of lying about the Easter Bunny next year – right now I need to sit down.) VIII. Ever notice… (Dateline April, 2004) Ever notice just when you are about to totally loose your cool because your kids did the same dumb thing for the millionth time that day and you are hoarse from telling them to stop that something always stops you from extreme violence? It's true about what they say about kids knowing which buttons to push...but my kids have discovered one more button I didn't know I had. My son, recently home from Taiwan, is learning English in phrases, not single words. And, as anyone who has brought home an "older child" knows - their behaviors don't always reflect what you want them to be doing. So this son (who is 5) just pulled another big time no-no (and I'm being nice about this). And just when I'm starting to loose it (and forget that yelling is a waste of time on someone who doesn't speak English) he pops up with "I love you mommie". Talk about a reality check! (Other kids have started it too... maybe I'm not so bad after all!) IX. USMC Instructions...(Dateline May, 2004) USMC Instruction 12396.2a: Things you never, ever say to/about a Marine #1 “My, that was very sweet” - Marines are not “sweet”. Marines are tough, competent, intelligent, hunky, but never, ever sweet! (Per my husband, resident expert, retired Marine and stay at home dad). #2 “That was very diplomatic of you”. Wrong again. Marines are not diplomatic. It’s not in their training. They are straight forward, and direct. (Again, per the resident expert in my house. Ok, ok, maybe some are...mine isn't and this about him anyway.) #3 “You didn’t really mean that, did you?” Nope, wrong again. They did mean it when they threatened to give the cat away to the next passing car. You know, the cat that threw up on the carpet (again) or dragged their nasty rears across your dining room table (because it’s the only way to get the cat litter out of secret cat places). If your Marine said it – he/she meant it. Of course, being Marines they know how to take orders. Being a retired Naval officer I know how to give them. (End of argument). #4 “I made an appointment for your physical, and there are needles involved.” Never, never, never, nevernevernever tell a Marine about needles. They will endure war, snipers, dinner with Bin Laden and nasty stuff between their toes, but not needles. So, if you need to mention needles at any time during your relationship with a Marine - wait until the last minute. Because boy can they run (even after 12 years of retirement!) #5 “Oh, you USED to be a Marine”. Wrong, wrong, and wrong again. They are deadly serious when they tell you “Once a Marine, always a Marine”. I don’t care if they were a Marine for one tour of duty 53 years ago, they are STILL Marines. Go ahead, ask one of them. USMC INSTRUCTION 12396b: How you know the person living with you is a REAL Marine (and not some slacker): #1) The hair cut. They may be the only guy in the neighborhood with a high and tight (besides your 6 year old son), but it’s the only haircut that doesn’t tickle their ears. #2) The attitude. They may have retired eons ago, but the attitude of commitment, dedication and attention to detail never dies. #3) They clean better than any one you ever met. They learn it in boot camp (we have the cleanest baseboards in Michigan). So kick back and enjoy it. #4) They eat meat. Green stuff is for cows. How in earth can they stay mean and lean on cow food? #5) They can still make that sound. You know the one…Urrrah. Hurra. Arrugh. Make that “ARRGGHHHH”. (This should get me some e-mail…) To all the Marines reading this, I salute you. Mary (wife of a Marine and mom to the first female Commandant.) X. Welcome to "Lots of Potential" .... (Dateline May 2004) When my husband and I began our married life in N. Michigan eons ago (dinosaurs, swamp gas, etc) we began the perennial, slightly psychotic all-American dance called “looking for a home. Having spent most of my life in Virginia I had visions of a big old southern style farmhouse with a huge wrap around porch. The kind of house you picture when you think of “Gone with the Wind”, mint juleps (hold the mint) and an 18 pound, 17-year cicada buzzing down your shirt. So much for visions. Seems in Northern Michigan they don’t have summers (see above), you have winter. Lots of winter. Winter = cold temperatures. Cold temperatures = high heating bills. Heating bills = money (lots and lots of money). Therefore most houses here are built small (well, ok, there are exceptions for people in the ionosphere wage bracket but we won’t go there). The houses we looked at in town were two storied older homes (circa 1900) with narrow street fronts. Seems in 1860 when the town fathers were still planning the local neighborhoods space was limited (why else would they build perpendicular to the street?) Want to have your psyche stretched to the breaking point? Try living in a house that is the exact opposite of the layout you are used to. By this I mean if you are used to living with your house parallel to the street – switch house types. Try living in a house that goes perpendicular to the street. You will quickly find yourself running into walls where doors should be, especially on your way to the bathroom at 3 a.m. You will begin to finally understand that your neighbors aren’t married to abusive spouses, they just have to go potty at 3 a.m and just moved into the area just like you. Your body will constantly tell you to walk out the side window enroute to the kitchen, or out the side door to the spare bedroom. Nine times out of ten you will find yourself trapped in the garage, blindly fingering tools and cinder blocks, muttering to yourself about pots and pans and where did your #$@#4 husband put the sink this time. As time progresses you will slowly become aware of a growing psychic uneasiness: feelings of being watched, a shortness of breath, a need to reach out and touch your neighbors house to see if you can really do it. Until finally you find yourself pacing up and down the five feet of sidewalk that front your property at 11 o’clock at night, just to get a little normalcy back in your life. Here is a little known fact of life – “back and forthness” is necessary for life on earth. Without it, you die in agony, waving your hands in front of your face and muttering about the sink. If you escape in time, you will probably find yourself in a long line of newcomers taking a long midnight walk back to someplace like Virginia where they know how to build houses. So…after about eight months of living in psychic hell my husband and I began eating the real estate ads in an effort to ensure we didn’t miss even one potential house we could afford. Like all things that come to people who wait (and wait, and wait, and wait) I spotted one of those teensy weensy little ads in one of those pocket sized real estate fliers that some company puts out. There it was. Finally. My dream house. A one hundred year old house with some very large trees out front, off a county road. (Little known fact #2 – in order sustain life in N. Michigan you need a road in front of your house that the state snow plows will drive down. Otherwise you never get to the store and you die. It’s called food withdrawal). So, after a very long afternoon of trying to find the house without the aid of directions or a realtor we gave up and called the number at the bottom of the screen…. (End of Part I - snack time!) With the help from the realtor we finally located the house. It was built by a family in 1895 that had moved into the area from a more southerly county (probably on the advice of a real estate agent). The house stayed in the family until right after WWII when the house was sold and the family moved even further north. Originally, the homestead had been one of the first in this part of county, sitting on about 80 acres of farmland. But over the past century it had been reduced to just the old farmhouse, an old milking barn and a few broken down sheds. The first thing I noticed when I saw the house (other than it was real old and parallel to the street) was the gravel drive way. It started at the road, went to the front of the “garage”, took a hard right and headed over to an old pig shed then turned left again and headed to who knows where. I couldn’t tell from the overgrown grass, weeds, bushes, trees, etc that decorated the property. The 2nd thing I notice is the current tenant’s dog tied up in front of the “garage” – with a chain that had been strung through a hole in the wood. Nice dog. Broken down milking barn. The house was described in realtoreese as “unpolished gem”. Actually the words she kept using were “lots of potential”. I must have heard it 386 times as we toured the property, each time her eyes getting just a tiny bit glassier as we viewed the “Michigan” basement (a hole dug for potato storage under the house), the “Michigan” bathroom (a closet with a toilet and a sink you banged your knees on when you sat down), the “Michigan” view (see driveway description), the “Michigan” open floor plan (all bedroom doors missing). But it did have a porch, albeit a “Michigan” porch (just a floor and roof). The porch stretched from one side of the house to the other and was over eight feet wide (oh shades of mint juleps!) There were beautiful ancient lilac bushes in full bloom along the side of the house (hollow and full of bugs – but that’s another story), and a spectacular wild rose bush in full bloom (planted right where the old out-house had been). So, just before the realtor ran from the house screaming, “It has LOTS OF POTENTIAL” we bought it. We bought a house with warped window casings that let the snow in during the winter (natural air conditioning), a leaky roof (natural cleansing), an overgrown yard (natural wildlife habitat), floors scarred from old wood burning stoves in every room (Michigan heating), and a back porch that sat directly over the septic holding tank (outlawed in 1943 but never removed). The house was eventually renovated into a more livable condition, to the point where people have actually stopped just to gawk at our outdoor color scheme (it’s cream colored, not yellow, damn it!) They gawk at the place where the lilac and rose bushes used to be (the bugs are all dead now, rest their little souls), the beautiful paved driveway (can you say AMEN!) and the mowed yard (mostly – had to save some space for the gophers, I mean yard squirrels to live). Our neighbors have stopped gawking in awe now (it’s been over 5 years) but there is always someone who mentions that the yard hadn’t been cut in over 30 years before we moved in, or that the garbage hadn’t been hauled away in all that time either. Part of the fun of renovating a house this old is being able to gape and gawk at the workmanship. Without a level plane Mr. Kettle and a couple of his sons put up a house that has lasted over a hundred years. That’s a hundred “Michgan” years’… windstorms (60 knot winds not uncommon), snowstorms (September through May), rainstorms (any old time) and red wing blackbird infestations (March-April). The real fun begins when you try to renovate a house with no square corners. I have to give my husband credit – he told me if I just tilted my head about 8 degrees it would look great and it does! During the latest renovation (making the back room even bigger to accommodate “just one more”) the local contractor remarked after about five minutes of looking: “This house isn’t square! There are no square corners or straight lines!” Such a nice guy – we got him saying “Lots of Potential” in about two days. Stop by sometime. The roses and lilac bushes are gone but the occasional stray pony stops by to say hello, the local domestic duck population has stopped raising their babies in my bushes (thanks to the neighbors electric fence), but the house is still cream, the septic tank is new and the coffee is on. Just remember to tilt 8 degrees off of true north and repeat, “Lots of Potential”. And if you forget there’s a sign on the freshly renovated front porch that says: “Welcome to Lots of Potential” STOP Click Here to go to Fort Zinderneuf Page 2 |
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