School Bus Stories, Part 1

“Cool,” I thought to myself as I stepped onto the bus one morning, 10ish years old, hair in pigtails, my Charlie Brown lunchbox clutched in my hands. “An empty seat.”

My exact lunchbox. Well, not MY exact one…but exactly the one I had! I bought it on Ebay a few years back.

I sat down, scooted to the window, smiled.

Only then did I realize that there were words all around me. Words jeeringly flung into the air. Words aimed at me.

“EWWW!! You sat in the throw-up seat!”

I didn’t. I did not. Denials rushed through my mind and my own sudden nausea soured my stomach. I looked wildly around at the seat. It looked clean. Much cleaner than usual, actually. This is not a throw-up seat. They’re just being mean. I remained seated, hoping to goodness they’d just leave me alone.

“You’re in the throw-up seat, you’re in the throw-up seat,” voices chanted all around me.

“I am not,” I muttered, redder than the beets Mom served at dinner.

“Are too, Freddy’s little sister threw up there right after we picked her up. And you’re sitting in it.”

So that’s why the bus was late today. Shoot. I AM sitting in the throw-up seat.

“Cleaned it up,” grunted the bus driver, Mr. Faff, a cap-wearing, denture-sporting, laid-back man who doubled as the school janitor during the day. Sometimes he took out his dentures to make us laugh. Mostly he just minded his own business and left us to mind ours.

“He cleaned it up,” I whispered in my defense. “He did. He cleaned it up.”

But he couldn’t clean its reputation.

PPW – or, How I Learned to Justify my Expenditures

I loved college. (Go Ducks!) I loved my friends, my classes, my freedom. Not that I was repressed prior to that or anything, but I mean that enjoyed making (most of) my own decisions in college. I enjoyed being an adult.

No, I was not crazy or wild. I was, actually, quite calm and well-behaved. I think the wildest thing I did was sleep out on a sand dune on the Oregon coast in a tent with several other friends on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, which, for those who don’t know, is the third week in January. And when I say, “sleep”, I exaggerate. We about froze to death. We had taken two cars and had two tents. When we “woke up” (read “gave up”) on the frigid dawn of the day after MLKjr Day, my tent-mates and I discovered that the other tent/car had given up and driven the 40 minutes back to the U of Oregon.

Wimps.

To be sure, I wouldn’t recommend sleeping on a sand dune in January to anyone except possibly college kids looking to be wild. That kind of wild I can approve of. There was no alcohol involved. Just silliness.

But I digress. I meant to talk about my college obsession with “PPW”. What is PPW, you ask? PPW is the Price Per Wearing of any article of clothing we, as college students, considered buying. There is also its lesser-known cousin, the PPU – Price Per Use. This was also an important consideration.

Take the free gym bag I mentioned in a previous post. Great PPU. Especially considering that it was A) free and B) is now 29 years old and still going strong.

But…again…I digress.

PPW – yes, that’s where I was going.

Exhibit A:

Within days prior to my graduation from Berlin American High School, I bought myself a letterman’s jacket. I had never had a letterman’s jacket. I hadn’t been in any high school long enough to earn one. But finally, my senior year, I earned my letter. What sport, you ask? Ha. Don’t make me laugh. I earned it for my involvement with Speech Club and Drama Club.

Yes, I was that kind of student. I even had a teal-colored corduroy pant suit. Jealous?

So…PPW…my letterman’s jacket, as I recall, cost about 200 dollars, back in 1988. I paid for it out of the $500 I’d won for the Veteran’s of Foreign Wars essay contest. (Who says writing doesn’t pay?) I wore that jacket approximately 1.5 times before graduating. If that.

I did wear it a few times in college because it was kinda cool and said Berlin on it. I got comments every time. But it was HOT, wool, heavy, and Eugene isn’t exactly cold so much as it is wet…so rain-proof gear was much more useful.

I still have the jacket. It’s been worn, oh, MAYBE half a dozen more times since then…on super-cold days…to take out the compost…

PPW of said jacket: about $25. NOT GOOD.

Exhibit B:

The other coat I bought out of that essay contest win: a German Loden trench coat. $300. Wool. Classic. Red and Black. It was warm, fashionable, and, while I only wore it on Sundays to church and occasional other outings, I wore it for about 20 years. I wore it until it was threadbare on the cuffs, missing buttons, pushing its “classic” definition. I LOVED that coat. Still do.

PPW of that coat: oh, definitely less than a penny.

One last exhibit: the silk dress I wore to my 10 year high school reunion.

As I recall, I paid $89 for it, 15 years ago.

I wore it once.

I still really like this dress. But by the time the next event rolled around to which I could wear such a thing…I was pregnant. And after that my body was switched with an alien’s body and I never looked the same – or wore the same things – again.

This July will be my 25th high school reunion. If it wasn’t in July, I’d wear my letterman’s jacket. Then the PPW would be down to, oh, $20? But wool isn’t exactly summer fabric. I’ll probably just wear the hippy-ish skirt and top I bought for my friend’s wedding last year. It’s good for a mother of three. And the PPW is already down to about $3.

Yeah. That works for me.

What’s a Little Ice When You’ve Got Angels on Your Side?

After 19 years of living in the Mid West, I think I’m beginning to belong.

I have joined the ranks of Minnesotans who say, “If we stayed home at the least little bit of nasty weather, we’d never go anywhere for six months.”

I have survived two horrid driving events in the past month and a half, and I am alive to tell about it, with my untainted driving record still in place.

Lest you think I am bragging, let me hasten to assure you that I know – I KNOW – that God has at least one angel on perpetual “Keep Gretchen Safe While She’s Driving” duty – so it’s not to my credit that I’m alive…it’s to His.

I don’t know why He has chosen to protect me in this way. All I can think is that He must still have some plans that involve me and it’s just not my time yet. Which is fine with me.

Both of these wretched driving situations of the past few weeks have involved freezing rain. Both involved me saying, “What am I, nuts?” as I drove along the highway at speeds less than half of the 65-75 suggested miles per hour. And both found my husband out of town and my kids and I braving the elements together.

And both, I must admit, did not take me out of the house for life or death reasons.

Take last night, for example. The kids and I drove out to our pastor’s house for a book discussion with some other couples from church. I like this chance to talk about interesting stuff, and the kids like the opportunity to play with their friends. I’d seen the weather report, yes. I knew that the rain was beginning to fall as we left the house…but I’m an optimist. I figured, “Either the weather report is exaggerating and this won’t come to anything or I’ll drive home in the freezing rain and put those angels to work.”

Okay, I didn’t really think about the angels. I just hoped for the best and ignored the worst.

When we left their house two hours later I was slightly worried. As we slid on our tennis shoes across the road to our car – holding tight to each other’s hands – I was a little more worried. As I started up the car, after breaking the ice on the door handles, I was in full “praying mode”.

This was one of those, “Kids, please turn off the radio and don’t talk,” car rides. What usually takes us 13 minutes took us 35. I saw a few semi trucks pulled off the road and I wondered – not for the first time – how truck drivers do what they do.

The temperature was 26 and the rain was relentless. In the dark and the conditions, I managed to make a wrong turn. I forgot to put on the Four Wheel Drive until I was about three miles from home. The ABS brakes kicked in several times.

But, despite it all, we made it home.

When the garage door finally shut behind us, I realized I was shaking.

“I never stopped praying,” Meep, our oldest daughter said.

“I prayed a little,” our son added.

The six year old was asleep.

Yep, she’s a born Minnesotan. “Mom will get us through. What’s a little ice?”

Either that or the angels were singing her a lullaby as they kept our car on the road.

That’s What Friends Are For

I mentioned last week that I’m writing several articles for my local newspaper. It’s going well so far and I’m having fun! I am certain that I’ll have all sorts of epiphanies to share with you about the whole process when I’m done.

In light of my creative juices being entirely taken up by journalism right now, I have asked my blogging friend Audrey if she was willing for me to re-blog one of her lovely posts and she was! I have mentioned Audrey and her blog, “Minnesota Prairie Roots” before, though it’s been awhile. Audrey is one of those amazing people who is able to blog daily. I can barely make my once-a-week deadline!

Audrey (r) and me, in her lovely backyard last summer.

Audrey writes about life in Minnesota. Every post includes relevant and often very lovely photographs. She writes about daily life, about heart-warming people, about thought-provoking issues. She writes about quirky restaurants or stores she comes across, local places of interest, Minnesota authors, Minnesota news, Minnesota life. But don’t count her out just because she’s not writing about YOUR state or country, because everything Audrey writes is, at heart, about humanity. About things people will find interesting, humorous, and important.

I met Audrey “virtually” a year ago last fall, and since then she has become a lovely and knowledgable companion in my writing journey. She and her husband even welcomed me and my family into their own home last June and served us a delicious meal. Boo, our six year old, calls Audrey, “the lady with the great backyard.”

I call her my friend.

I picked a post of Audrey’s from last November. It’s about a museum in northern Minnesota…but, mostly, it’s about one man and his amazing dream…

So…please click on my next post and find her fantastic story!

Thanks!

Gretchen

Catching Up

I’m behind in posting photos, so here’s a sampling of my past few months. Some from around our house, some from Minnesota in general. The captions will tell the story! All of them are kind of small for some reason but you can click on them to see them larger!

It’s been terriblly dry around here. This is a lake near our house…or, should I say, is supposed to be a lake. I believe this is a Redtailed Hawk, but I might be wrong.

Unsurprisingly, he didn’t stick around for long.

Cormorants near our house. I love how they dry their wings like this. They don’t have the oils in their feathers that most water birds have, so they have to hang them to dry!

This fall we drove up to Minneapolis and Saint Paul, aka The Twin Cities of Minnesota. Along the way I took a few shots…

I find old barns to be a lot more interesting than new ones.

In all my 19 years in Minnesota I’d never visited the Walker Art Center or the sclupture garden across the street. This is the most famous sculpture there, and has become synonymous with Minneapolis.

I kind of like this different view…

The Minnesota Capitol Building.

A bald eagle was hanging out along the highway. I was glad the photo turned out this well when going 55mph – no, I wasn’t the one driving!

Our back yard, a couple weeks ago.

Sunrise in Worthington, Minnesota.

A few minutes later a man walked by…

My Week as a Pre-School Teacher

I am a people person…kinda. I like people, I like talking to them and interacting with them…but I also need time away from people. Time to read a book or write, neither or which are things that are done too well when interacting with others. (These things can be done in the presence of others…just not in conversation!)

I like to think of myself as an extroverted introvert. I am not a person who thrives on contact with other people…but if I go a couple days with very little contact, I can become far too self-centered and I realize that I need that human contact to remain…well, a happy human.

All that being said, last week was a week of insanity for someone who needs a little non-people time in her life. I had agreed – without stopping to consider my introverted tendencies – that I would substitute as the aide at my children’s old preschool. Yep. Five days of kids…and zero days of writing.

I have a friend who once said – in public – “I do not like other people’s children.” I laughed out loud when she divulged this truth about herself, all the while thinking, “I don’t really either, but I would never admit it out loud.” Well, on careful consideration, it’s not that I don’t LIKE other people’s children…but I definitely do not want to have to take care of them for more than, say, an hour.  Once a year or so.  Tops.

I walked into the classroom on Monday morning, already feeling relieved that I had remembered a former commitment for Tuesday, which got me out of one day of preschool insanity. I was looking at 4 days, however. Four very long days of no reading, no writing, and no quiet.

The day began with a very smiley young man walking up to me proudly and saying, “I got a new belt!” Which, with a tug at his long-sleeved t-shirt, revealed not only the new belt but also his entire abdomen. “That’s great!” I said, smiling nervously in return and wondering if I ought to pull down said shirt or leave him alone to take care of it on his own. After several nanoseconds of deliberation – all the time looking anywhere but at the wee boy – he saved me from having to make a decision by lowering his shirt himself. Thankfully. He did, however, make the exact same declaration in the restroom on Friday, using the exact same tone of excitement in his voice. It’s a big deal, a new belt.

Monday proceeded without too much more excitement, and I headed home that afternoon glad that I only had three days left of this fun.
Tuesday I woke up both relieved and nervous. Nervous for the events of the morning – which I blogged about on my other blog if you’re interested – and relieved that I wouldn’t have to face any more belts.

Wednesday dawned cold and foggy. It also brought a phone call from the preschool teacher. She had the flu. Rather badly. And, with the regular aide being out of town, and no substitutes reachable, that meant that someone would have to phone all 40 children that both the morning and afternoon classes were cancelled. Being a member of the preschool board and the appointed substitute of the day…guess who got to make all those calls? Oh, and by the way, I hate telephones.

By the time I returned home after making approximately 65 phone calls, I was ready to go to bed.

Thursday morning brought yet another phone call from the teacher. Still ill. But, this time, she’d gotten a sub. I drove in wondering what the preschoolers would have to say about not one but TWO substitute teachers.

Can you guess?

“That’s not how we do it!” That’s what they said. Over and over and over. The other frequently-heard sentence of the day was, “You’re supposed to sing a song for that.” To which I replied, “I know, but I don’t know that song.” “We do!” was the shouted response. “Well, then,” I replied, “Can you sing it for me?” “Yes!” the happy children cried. “Okay, go ahead,” I said, knowing perfectly what their response would be.

Silence.

Total and complete silence.

I must say, however, that the children, though deprived of their regular songs, were wonderfully behaved and the morning went quite well. Since neither of us really knew what we were doing, it was all just fun and games and forgetting names all morning. By afternoon the teacher was well enough to return and never have I felt so relieved!

Friday dawned foggy and cold yet again, but this time as I drove in to school I felt relaxed. I’d made it this far – I could make it another few hours! Turns out, that day was the most fun of all, perhaps because I was the most relaxed and least worried of the entire week.

The day began with a discussion about water, ice and igloos. Somehow the question of penguins and the arctic arose and as the teacher was dealing with a minor behavior issue that involved, I believe, a demonstration of penguin tobogganing, one child commented, “They have penguins at the North Pole.” “What is the North Pole?” another classmate inquired. “It’s kinda like the South Pole,” the first child replied seriously.

I jumped up immediately to write that bit of wisdom down on a scrap of paper.

Later, during Choice Time, I found myself sitting at the playdough table. This proved to be an excellent place for relaxation and stimulation, both. I was relaxed because it was something I was fairly good at: making playdough cookies, snakes, and, as one little boy wanted to make, roads. It was stimulating because of the fabulous conversation around the kidney-shaped table.

“I saw my friend J. at church this morning and I was so exciting to see him. And he was so exciting to see me, too.”

You say “exciting” I say “excited”. Potato PoTAAto.

A few minutes later, when handed a playdough cookie (shaped like a whale) on a tray, my favorite wee girl (I know, you’re not supposed to have favorites. Couldn’t help it.) said, “This is delicious or, as Fancy Nancy would say, ‘it’s delectable’.” How could I not love a child who quotes Fancy Nancy?!

And then there was the candid discussion about one girl’s morning visit to the doctor. “I had to get three shots right here [shows upper leg] this morning and two right here [shows upper arm].” “Oh,” I replied, “that’s a lot of shots. Were you brave?” “No,” she said, smiling. “I cried and cried.”

The “five-minute” warning came about then, and I couldn’t stop grinning as we cleaned up the playdough. Turns out, I do like other people’s kids.

In moderation.

About once a year. Tops.

I Dream of a World…

So apparently I can’t get away from list-making and reflecting on the new year. I think it has something to do with the fact that for me the new year is doubly new, as my birthday is January 3rd, so not only is the new calendar year beginning, but so is a new year of my life.

I turned 43 on Thursday. To me this feels old though I know that it is not. I am not one of those people who won’t tell their age. I’m okay with being 43. Though, to be sure, 43 looks a lot younger to me than it did 30 years ago. Back then it looked old. Now it just looks…a wee bit old.

I thought that I’d have accomplished more things by this time in my life. I suppose that all kids imagine that. I thought that I’d be a published author. Or maybe a famous opera singer. Or maybe a scrappy journalist, speaking Russian and helping to end the Cold War.

Somehow the Cold War ended without me. The music major I’d considered turned out to be unrealistic, and the journalism major was more work than I was willing to put into it. So I majored in English (the standby for all people who love to read), went to grad school (the standby for all people who can’t get a job with their major), got married, taught a little, had kids…all those good, lovely things that happen to people, whether they achieve their imagined selves or not.

And I love where I am in life. I mean, I’m far from perfect. Far from the “#1 Mom” that my daughter tells me I am. Far from the perfect housewife, the perfect friend, the perfect parishioner. No, I’m not famous. I’m not perfect in body or mind or will. But I’m content.

No, I have not sold my book – not that I’m quite ready to try…give me a few more months – and I maybe never will. Maybe all the months and years that I’ve spent on it will end up as nothing more than a file on my lap top.

That would really be a drag.

For now, I’ll keep plugging away at it. I’ll take each day as it comes and not regret a thing. (Well, I do regret some things I’ve said and done …but I won’t bother regretting the things I haven’t done.) I’ll keep on washing the dishes and folding the clothes.

And it will be good. Because this is where I am. And I like the path I’ve taken to get here.

There are, however, a few things that I think would make the world a perfect place. A few dreams I have.

Allow me to share them with you:

I dream of a world where my children can sit together in the back seat of the car without arguing.

I dream of a world where my children notice that the garbage can is full and, knowing that it’s their chore for that week, will take it out without waiting to be told.

I dream of a world where our two cats totally reject their bird-killing tendencies, but totally keep on exercising their mouse-killing tendencies.

I dream of a world where the snow falls only on the grass and trees and houses, but never on the roads.

I dream of a world where hair care products for a family of five cost less than a new lawn mower.

I dream of a world where I can watch the news in the morning and every story won’t be about violence, sex, or irritating politics.

I dream of a world where I can eat all the Christmas goodies I want and my body will shrink instead of expand.

I dream of a world where we can actually use my husband’s frequent flyer miles as opposed to letting them build up but not having the money, kid-sitters or time to go anywhere with them.

I dream of a world where tiny pieces of Lego stay where they belong, rather than wandering all over the house and multiplying in mysterious ways.

I dream of a world where socks match up after the laundry, clothes never shrink in the dryer, and the clothes automatically fold themselves rather than remain in the laundry basket, mocking me every time I walk past them on my way to do other, more pressing things. Oh, and speaking of pressing, I dream of a world where I never have to iron again. Especially things with pleats.

I dream of a world where, when my children brush their teeth, it doesn’t mean automatically having to wipe the sink out afterwards.

I dream of a world where I don’t complain about stuff and face everything with a smile.

I fear that’s about as likely to happen as #1.

New Years REVolutions

I have never been a fan of New Year’s Resolutions. Too easy to break. Too easy to forget about. Too easy to ignore. In light of this fact, I have decided to rename them New Year’s REVolutions because, like a revolving door, they come and go faster than I can get through them.

And so, sticking to my resolution to ignore resolutions, I present you with a list of my personal hopes for the New Year (in no particular order). Just in case you’re wondering, these hopes do NOT include “get to the gym more often”, nor do they include “be more patient with my children”, two typical resolutions that many people the world over, make. The first one is excluded because, let’s face it, it’s not going to happen (though, possibly, I’ll get on the treadmill in the basement more often). The second one is excluded because, honestly, the need to be more patient with my children is a need that goes way beyond “hopes” or “resolutions” – it’s a matter of prayer.

So, my hopes for 2013: (or, if you will, my “revolutions”):

1) To learn the magical art of balancing my writing time, my blogging time, my cleaning/folding/washing/picking up time, my parenting time, my volunteering time, and my reading time.

2) To finish editing my last 100 pages of my book.

3) To find an agent who loves my book and for her (or him) to then find a publisher who loves it.

4) To begin writing the new book that has been brewing away on the back burner of my mind for the past several months.

5) To organize my “desk”, which is really the Dining Room table, so that we can actually use the table to eat together as a family.

6) To actually read the manual for my camera so that my photographs get better.

7) To stand before the county governing board next Tuesday (without my voice squeaking, my words getting muddled, or needing to run to the bathroom) and convince them that we need a new library in town.

8) To clean the deep, dark recesses of my house.

9) To finish my stint as a Girl Scout leader and not to be pressured into doing it for another year.

10) To be generous and kind and patient and forgiving and understanding and non-judgmental with everyone I come into contact with.

(I had to add that last one just to prove that I know that most of these “revolutions” are unrealistic and that I might as well just go all out and add a ridiculous one because then I’ll feel better about the other failed ones because I already know that my list is impossible. But no, I’m still not going to the gym more often.)

There. I have stood before you and I have spoken. We’ll have to see, come January 2014, how many of these hopes have come to fruition. I’ll keep you informed.

In the mean time, Happy New Year one and all! And my all your resolutions keep their resolve and not turn into revolving doors of shame.

For the Love of Vinyl: Part Two

I’ve been spending time listening to my records, as I discussed in Tuesday’s post. It’s so nostalgic, hearing the imperfect playback. Not exactly relaxing, however, not when listening to 45’s that only last for about three minutes.

I had a few old 45’s that were my dad’s. That’s how I learned “Unchained Melody” sung by Les Baxter and accompanied by his orchestra, on a purple, “Capitol Records” label. My sister and I would sing it dramatically to each other, her from her loft in the bedroom we shared, and I on the swing that hung from the rafters in the center of our room. I wish I had a picture of that room; it was so cool.  (By the way, this version I’ve linked is the exact version I have! If you shut your eyes while you listen to it, you can imagine it’s on vinyl. )

We even had a National Geographic record. Remember those? They’d be inserted in the magazine and you could tear them out – they were floppy – and then you could listen to real “Sounds of the Space Age”.  Highly educational. I didn’t listen to that one too often.

We found this 45 of The Hobbit a few years ago at a flea market. Had to get it even though we still have the 33 1/3. It’s a perfect example of those Read Aloud records. And how about that National Geographic record? It’s slightly bent and I couldn’t get it to play correctly at all when I tried today!

On Tuesday I mentioned that my kids love to listen to The Rescuers and The Hobbit. Those were my first-ever 33 1/3’s. The Hobbit is “The Complete Original Soundtrack including dialogue, music and songs” from the Rankin/Bass movie production in 1977. And, of course, it has the “special edition book” with it. My husband is phenomenal at knowing lines from movies, but he can’t hold a candle to my ability to quote The Hobbit. (By the way, I have already written “Go see The Hobbit” on December 14th on my calendar. Can’t wait.)

As for The Rescuers, it’s also from 1977, and actually was the first movie I saw in a theater. My sister gave me the “Songs and Dialogue” album for Christmas that year and I loved it. My dad, sadly, did not realize how much I loved it and he got rid of it in one of their cross-the-country-or-world-moves and I was so sad, nevermind that I was in college by then. I told my husband that story years ago and he, bless his heart, went onto E-Bay and bought me the exact same album. How great is he? So, even though it’s not my original album, my kids – and I –can still enjoy it.

A small piece of my childhood.

Occasionally I’d raid Mom and Dad’s 33 1/3 collection of records, but not too often, because all they had was classical. Oh, but he had Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass, “Whipped Cream and Other Delights”. Oy, vey, that album cover!

I was a wee bit shocked when I found this in my parent’s record collection, many, many moons ago. Turns out, it was quite the phenomenon!

But my favorite records of my parents’ were The Smothers Brothers. “Curb you tongue, knave!”, “The Two Sides of the Smothers Brothers”, “think ethnic!”, and “…at the Purple Onion” – these are still the stars of my record collection. There weren’t a lot of times I saw my mom wiping her eyes from laughter, but listening to the Smothers Brothers would make her do that. “The Streets of Laredo”, “Chocolate” and “Black is the Colour (of my Love’s True Hair)” – those were probably our favorite cuts from the albums. They were part of our family vocabulary. And – I love this story – it is partly due to The Smothers Brothers that I decided my husband would be a worthy candidate to be my husband. Never, in all my life, had I met anyone who knew who I was talking about if the topic of the Smothers Brothers came up. Then along he came and he knew. It was meant to be.

These are so awesome!

A few years back I found a duplicate album of theirs and bought it because I was into making bowls out of records – you melt them in the oven and have a cute bowl! (Take a look at how to do it! It’s easy!) I thought it would be extra-fun to have a Smothers Brothers bowl to hold candy AND memories. My husband wouldn’t let me melt it. “It’s the Smothers Brothers! That would be sacrilege!” So we have two of that album. Two, nice and flat records.

I made my bowl from an old Amy Grant album. He didn’t care about that one so much.

A little piece of my teen years: made more useful, according to The Sailboat King. It would be perfect in a Rumpus Room. If only I had a Rumpus Room…

I heard the other day that someone was releasing their brand new album on compact disc AND on vinyl. I love that. There’s nothing like having a record on in the background to sooth your soul.

Here’s a sample of The Smothers Brothers from long ago.  Enjoy!

I Philosophize About Epiphanies

When I began this blog a friend asked me, upon hearing the title, “But what if you don’t have any epiphanies one week? What will you write about then?” I refrained from smiling but I admit I thought, “You aren’t a writer, are you?”

The truth is, a writer can write whether inspired by some huge revelation or not. I can write about the big stuff, yes, but I can also write about the normal moments of life. The day-to-day events that create me far more than the big things. Because, while big things may mold us faster, it’s the daily stuff that makes us able to face those big moments with grace.

While the huge “Epiphanous Moments” may not come every day, every time I sit down to write (or stand at the sink and get to thinking or drive into town while pondering) I have moments where life becomes a little more clear, where things clarify themselves into coherent thoughts or sentences and I have to run to the computer to jot down my revelations (or write them on the back of a business card if I happen to be in the car, all while keeping my eyes on the road and upholding the law).

I think that most of us have small moments of realization all the time. I will think about some decision I have to make: let’s say, to dye my gray hair or not. I ruminate. I puzzle it out. I consider. This may take anywhere from a few minutes or hours to weeks or months. Then, quite suddenly, I know. I have decided. And, of course, I want to act NOW. I get on the phone and make the appointment. Preferably for that very day, though, in the case of haircuts, that never seems to work. (In case you’re wondering: I haven’t yet decided about my gray. I’m still too freaked out to decide. I do know I need a haircut, though.)

Yes, those small decisions or epiphanies, if you will, happen all the time. But I do certainly have huge epiphanies, too. Take the moment that I knew for sure that I wanted to marry my husband. We had been talking about the “M” word and I knew that he (being the researcher that he is) had bought a “secret book” about marriage (Saving your Marriage Before it Starts, by Les and Leslie Parrott) which he wouldn’t tell me the title of lest it freak me out. We’d talked about the future, about kids and life together, but he hadn’t yet officially gotten down on one knee…which he eventually did exactly 17 years ago next month, in the snow, in the gazebo (and camp) where we had met. I totally knew what my answer would be at that moment…thanks to the thinking I had given to the issue prior to that event…and The Epiphanous Moment that came as I stood by my computer one evening and suddenly JUST KNEW.

“Yes,” I said to myself, watching him as he worked on the computer. “Yes.” I hadn’t been contemplating it just then…it just smacked into me from the blue. “YES! This is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.” There. Decision made. No regrets.

I remember that moment clearly – though it was not romantic or memorable in any other way. It was a decision reached after the question had been left to simmer on the back burner of my brain. It was a decision made in a normal moment of life, knowing that I wanted all the rest of my normal moments to include him.

I did not know the moment was coming until it came. Such is the mystery of the epiphany. It is untouchable/unforcable/ unforeseen. And it is jolly good when it comes.

And that, my friends, is why I blog my epiphanies. Even if it’s a lesser decision – to dye or not to dye – I can write about it. I can make it work. I’m never at a loss for topics. The huge epiphanies may not come every day…and that’s okay. Just like my decision to marry The Sailboat King…I want my blog to include the normal moments in life.

I want to stand by my computer and say, “Yes”!