The wind would blow through the trees, crisp, filled with the scent of pine. The baby blue sky, clouds tinted with delicate pinks and oranges. In the setting sunlight, the pine trees would come alive, the vibrant green standing out against the yellowing grass and fallen pine needles. There was a soft crunch under my tennis shoes with each step that I took along that dirt path. Over the hill. At the top, I could look down at my grandparent’s home and restaurant. I could sit on the rock jutting out of the ground, beneath the tall, long needled pine tree. My grandpa built their home. Their entire house was built by hand and I have never seen another place like it. The beautiful old wood and rustic atmosphere were unique even for the small town locale. Originally, my grandparents place was an actual general store. From the stories I have heard, it was also a local hangout; a place where the locals would come to talk and drink coffee. Eventually it became a steakhouse. On Friday and Saturday nights people would make reservations for a steak or chicken dinner and listen to live, local, country or bluegrass bands. When I was younger I would go to the top of this hill before bedtime. I could hear the music and the diners and smell the steaks cooking on the grill outside. Growing up next door was amazing. I loved the music and the stories about guests. Like the time that the astronaut came for dinner and signed a photograph that they framed and hung on the wall. But on Sundays there was church. Every Sunday my siblings and I would make our way over the hill. We were usually the first ones there on Sundays. When you first came through the door there was a long wooden church pew, the only pew in the whole place. The old wood of the pew still bore the signs of use, my grandparents never had it refurbished. Above it were handmade wooden shelves filled with some of the coolest western items. I especially loved my grandma’s green Depression glass peanut jar and my grandpa’s cowboy statues. In the window was an antique cash register that was given to my grandpa many years ago. The buttons stood up off of the rounded surface, covered in an ornate looking metal that I always assumed was brass but may have been something else. Everything in the store was unlike anything else I had ever seen, from the art on the walls to the old butter churns we used once or twice to make our own butter. On Sundays, during the winter months we would help our grandparents fold up the tables and set up rows of chairs to sit in during service. We would make as many rows as possible with an aisle down the middle. Then we would set up the projector and hang out until everyone else began to arrive. During the summer months we would have church in the barn. My grandpa built the barn just like he did the store. He painted it a salmon color on the outside and hung a huge wooden cross on it. We had church in the loft where they kept the hay for the horses below. We would sit on the hay bales during service and then head back to the store for the after service potluck. Everyone was good friends and Sunday church service was friendly and enjoyable. We never had a bad service. The pastor would read directly from the Bible and he would encourage discussions. We would pray for each other and our friends and families. When I got older, two things changed. My grandpa started a volunteer fire department, since there wasn’t one nearby. That and they opened the restaurant for lunch and breakfast during the week. It is easy to say that my grandparents store became a central hub for the community. Their place was the meeting place, and everyone was family. All of us on that mountain, we weren’t just neighbors, we were friends and family; always there for each other. I haven’t been back in there in a very long time. The restaurant is closed and they don’t have church there anymore, just a small service where they listen to Bible Study and have dinner. It’s hard knowing these things. I never imagined that the restaurant would close, or that church wouldn’t be in the barn. It has been that way for as long as I can remember. I always imagined that someone would take it over once my grandparents couldn’t do it anymore. That they would still live there and socialize with everyone and leave all of the hard stuff to us. If not us than someone else from the community that they trusted to keep the place going. I guess things are not that easy. My grandparents place will always mean the world to me. I will treasure it forever.
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Sometimes it is hard for us mere mortals to keep in mind what is really important to us. We get caught up in the little things and forget to see the big picture. In doing this we can find ourselves missing the little things that are more important.
As you may very well know, I have recently had some computer issues, in the form of one really nasty virus. Because I was not writing on my blog, my visits took a dive, and a big one. Where I had been getting a steady stream of visitors weekly, whether I posted something or not, that stream dwindled rapidly as more and more time away from my blog went by. Today, I finally got my computer working properly for the first time in weeks. Which meant I could have started working on my blog immediately. I kind of did too. I posted on my Facebook and my twitter that I now had my computer working and would soon be posting again, especially book reviews for all of the books that I finished in the time that my computer was out of sorts. I didn't start right away though. As much as I wanted to write all of you wonderful and loyal followers that I have on here, there was something more important going on in my living room. My daughter was practicing writing her letters, and my son was telling me a story from one of his picture books, The Pokey Little Puppy. Even though he can't read, it was one of the best stories I have heard in a while. I am very grateful to all of my followers, without you, I would not have a blog. Though I have been away, for a small amount of time, my family is more important to me than my blog. When I do post, this post, you may see it and come read it. If someone shares it I may have additional followers before I know it, but in a week you may be tired of my posts and no longer visit, but in a week, my children are going to be older, and so am I, and if I do not prioritize my life correctly, I will miss the things I truly do not want to miss. Thank you all for following my blog, and I hope this post doesn't run anyone off. I will have more posts coming very soon, for even though my computer wasn't working, I was still writing. I have many things to share with you, and many more things to say.
I wanted to post something about the moon, but what really is there left to say about it? It has all been said at one point or another. It amazes me how the moon can mean so much to so many people. It is everywhere, for centuries. From literature to television, the moon has held a a special place in the lives of millions of people. But why?
I have no idea. I don't even know why exactly the moon means so much to me, but it does. I feel like the moon is a close friend. Someone to talk to when everyone else is asleep. It makes the night less dark. when everything in life seems dark, it is there to remind me that the smallest amount of light can penetrate the darkness. I have always felt more at home in the moonlight than in the sunlight. In a world that thrives on humiliation, the nighttime is the one time you can avoid all of the judgment, if you want to. I have no idea what the moon means to anyone else. I know that the moon I look at in Missouri is the same moon that I used to look at in Colorado and it will be the same moon anywhere else that I go. I do sometimes wonder if the moon would mean so much to me, if I hadn't grown up reading and watching it mean something to someone else. Weather I was nose deep into a good book that had a great moon scene or if I was watching Home Alone with my family, it has always been something that everyone else seemed to find magical. If I hadn't had that influence would it still mean so much? I don't know, and quite frankly, I don't care. It means something to me now and it has for such a long time. There isn't much left to say about the moon, it has all been said before, but that doesn't mean that it isn't still important.
It is supposed to be the place for the entire family. A place where they can let go of all of the things from their day and talk to one another and spend quality time with one another. It is supposed to be where we are nourished; bodies, hearts, and minds. Where we find comfort and belonging. Around the dinner table.
Does the dinner table still hold the value that it once did? Most people still have a table in their homes, for such a purpose, but I wonder how many people actually sit down with the family at the dinner table on an ordinary night. Does it matter? Is the dinner table the important place that it used to be? We still have good food, whether we eat it at the table or somewhere else, right? So why is it so important? Maybe because it was a place for families to connect and spend a little time together at the end of a long day. Whether that day had you out in the corn field or in an office or chasing children through the house and backyard. Has something been lost since the dinner table has been replaced with couches and the drive-thru? I'm not sure. A lot of people say that it has, and even I feel like it has from time to time, but I think it is still the table that brings a family together. Maybe it isn't the original dinner table, in the dinning room, with plates set up nicely and beautiful dishes of food down the center. Maybe instead it has simply evolved into other parts if our lives. The most important part of the dinner table was the connections made and the time spent with family. I think that , if we aren't going to be sitting around the dinner table every night, well that's alright, as long as we still have that means of connecting in some way or another. We still congregate around food, we still seek that time with family and friends. And as long as we continue to do that, I think we are going to be just fine.
photo credit: ProFlowers.com place setting for The Bachelor viewing party with a rustic theme red roses in a glass vase plates silverware napkin via photopin (license)
"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."
I, like so many others, grew up hearing this phrase. My parents told me to remember it if ever I was bullied. I wasn't supposed to allow mean words to hurt me. When I was older, I learned that words could hurt much worse than a broken bone, as well as, take longer to heal. Words are powerful. They build cities, invent technology, and help to reduce poverty. They enforce laws, discover new places, and construct governments. They can also raise forests, demolish countries, and enslave people. They can inspire hate, breed unrest, and incite chaos. Words are magical. They create heroines, ride dragons, and battle pirates. They grow friendships, inspire dreamers, and kindle hope. Words can bring people together or tear them apart. Words, spoken or written, English or French, have the power no stone or stick will ever have. We should always think about the words we use.
Adulthood holds so many things for those just entering into it. You have to choose where to live, where to work, what to drive, etc. etc. But I feel that often we find, these hard decisions, the ones that give us pause, aren't actually that life changing of decisions.
I know some people will laugh at me and say that I am crazy for saying such a thing, but I mean it. It isn't the decisions of whether or not to buy a house or what car to drive that change our lives the most. Its the little ones. The decisions we barely realize we are making that change our lives the most. The decision to run to the store to by a gallon of milk today rather than tomorrow. Deciding to go out with friends or stay in and study. Choosing to have one more glass of wine or bottle of beer on Valentine's Day. These all seem like pretty innocent, not life changing decisions. But what if while at the store, you meet the man you will one day marry. If you had waited until tomorrow, he wouldn't have been there. Or going out with friends lands you in the hospital after your car gets hit by a drunk driver or you fail the test that would have changed your chances of getting into the school of your choosing. I know there are a lot of big decisions that do really change our lives . Like buying your first house, going to college, and or choosing to have a family (big one there). Getting married. Another big decision, but how did you meet the man on his knee before you? How long have you been dating? Have you already moved in together? Taken that last step into the intimacy realm? When you think of all of it together, the bigger decision was going to the store to buy the milk, in a lot of cases. So is it more the little decisions or the big ones?
Spring calls to us. The sun begins to warm the earth and wakens the animals and flowers. It warms the waters and wakens us from our winter slumbers. The air flows through the meadows and gardens. It stirs our hair and brings smiles to our faces.
Flowers bloom and bring color to our world along with their intoxicating perfumes. Grills are lit and balls are tossed. Laughter echoes from parks and schoolyards. The beauties of Spring abound and capture our hearts. Spring brings to mind bright green sunlight filtering down through the trees while the ropes of our tree swing creak with every forward motion we make. The splash of water as we leap into the swimming hole. The whack of a baseball against a bat at the local little league game.聽 Spring is here. Spring is all around us. It makes us better and drives us to be better. Spring is here. Spring is now
I can't help but wonder about what drives people to do some of the things that they do. Why did Van Gogh paint 'Starry Night?' Who came up with the dry erase marker? Why do some ideas take off while others don't?
It's a lot like when I look at fashion magazine and think: besides Lady Gaga, who would wear that, especially to work or on a date? I guess it is all of the little things, though, that make us such an interesting species. Humans are weird. Which for us is normal. We get these crazy ideas in our heads and we can't get them out. They sit there, in our heads, and simmer until they are fully cooked and then we plate them and serve them up for the rest of humanity to poke and prod and judge. It doesn't matter where you came from either. It doesn't matter what your parents did for a living or where you bought your clothes, or how you wear your hair, or even what country you come from. Wow. Imagine that. Makes me proud, if a little puzzled, to be human.
I love a good young adult, fantasy novel. It also happens to be the genre I read most of. I was in a discussion with a lovely older lady from my online book club the other day and she asked me a very interesting question. Why do I like young adult stories so much? Of course, I asked her what she meant, because I didn't want to misunderstand her question, and she told me that she felt young adult fantasy stories were unrealistic and ridiculous. I told her that, where I agree with her that some are highly unrealistic, I doubt you can really run through a stone pillar to board a train to get to school, not all of them are unrealistic. She countered that they were, because the teenager always ends up being the hero. We talked a little longer, quickly changing subjects, before I had to get off the internet. Later, I found myself asking, what is wrong with the teenager being the hero?
As we age, we experience different things that beat away at our innocence and our sense of wonder. Children are innocent by nature, they believe in fairies and wishes and morality. I feel that teenagers are a nice blend of the two. They are old enough to understand responsibility, they have acquired knowledge and ability to strategize, they know that not every decision is an easy decision and that the line between right and wrong sometimes blurs to gray. They know some of the ways that the world actually works. But unlike an adult, they still believe that good triumphs over evil, that people are naturally good, and that anything is possible. I understand that not all teenagers, or adults, are this way, but I feel that many are. They are not yet tainted by the harsher realities of the world. Unlike my book club friend, I believe that the teenager being the hero makes perfect sense. I know that adults can also be heroes, and even children, we hear about it everyday. I mean no disrespect, I simply understand the appeal of a teenage hero in a fictional story, after all there are teenage heroes all over the place. You just have to decide what really makes a hero a hero.
I am not a very worldly person, I will admit. But in my life I have discovered that your home can be anywhere. A home is so much more than a structure and a yard. It isn't the address on the postcard. My home, is laughter and toys on the floor. It's bouncing on the bed and bye bye's at the door. I found, though, that I needed a space that the toys couldn't get to. So here I am, setting down some roots in the internet. This is another home, A place all my own. Thank you all for visiting and I hope you come back again. For this home is my space, but also open to friends.
photo credit: ♡✌ Kᵉⁿ Lᵃⁿᵉ ✌♡ Real Estate Photography (109 Santee Street, Asheville NC) via photopin (license)
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Currently ReadingWhere the Crawdads Sing by Delia OwensAmazon Associates ProgramImages on these pages should lead you to Amazon links to find the books. "We are a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for us to earn fees by linking to Amazon.com and affiliated sites.”
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