The Tooth About TV Tag

Back in elementary school, there was a popular game called "TV Tag", where, instead of a base, you had to touch the ground with both hands, stick out one leg for balance, and yell out a TV show before the tagger got you.

The one rule was that you could never repeat a show once someone yelled it, and if you couldn't think of one, you ran for your life until you could.

At the time, my best friend, Laura Church, who had the same birthday as me, would play on the school playground during recess or in the morning before the line-up bell. 

One morning, the tagger was trying to catch us. Laura was ahead of me, and I looked behind me to see how far the tagger was. Unfortunately, Laura picked that time to touch the ground and yell out a show, sticking her leg out. 

Down I went, hitting the ground not with my hands, but my face, specifically, my two front teeth.

Crack.

I felt my teeth hit the concrete, and my head snapped back a little. I tasted blood, and I could feel cold air on my teeth that made them hurt.

Lip split and face scraped, I stood and realized I had a lovely triangle-shaped hole in my two front teeth. Laura and the other students stopped in shock, and the school guardian ran over to see what had happened. She took me to the nurse right away.

Some kids looked at me enviously in the hallway, knowing the event warranted the rest of the day off from school.

No one was able to find the shards of my teeth, and I wasn't sure they could put them back in place anyway. I wondered if the hole would let me make those loud whistles people did at sports events, but when I tried, it didn't work. Bummer.

My mom was called, and off to an emergency trip to the dentist I went (back in those days, you were seen right away), and during the ride, my tongue found the empty space fascinating. We arrived at the dentist, and I got a new partial set of fillings and something from the goody box he had when a patient behaved. By the time it was done, all you noticed was my fat lip and a couple of scrapes.

I didn't care. I had a new toy, and Mom took me out for fries and chicken nuggets.

After that, the kids agreed to squat instead of sticking out a leg when playing TV Tag. It made the game a bit more challenging and often more fun; It wasn't easy to stop short and squat with your hands on the ground after running full tilt. Sometimes the target fell over into a roll, and the tagger had to leapfrog over or become another school injury statistic. 

Laura and I still played TV Tag until the end of the school year. I never saw her after we graduated from fifth grade, and I never blamed her for the accident, because that's what it was. I wish adults were as forgiving as children. Maybe that's why God said to be like them.

Although TV Tag in my late 50s would probably require a medical team on the sidelines! 

Gym Class Superpower

 Last week's post was about what I couldn't do in gym class, which was, unfortunately, a lot.

I couldn't do chin-ups, climb the rope, or run very fast (although the boys always watched when I did), and I was absolutely abysmal at baseball. No one told me I had to put the glove on my non-throwing hand. Have you ever tried throwing a baseball with the glove on? I dare you to try — it's not easy, and the ball doesn't go far.

So, I was always picked last for most team events, basically the 'default' player who wasn't chosen, but fell to the opposite team that chose last. Then we were introduced to Tug-of-War. 

The biggest, tallest, and strongest kids were usually placed at the end, called the Anchor, and that kid was the one who usually helped the team stay behind the Red Line of Death. My team groaned when I was defaulted to them, and though I wasn't fat by any means at the time, my weight was more than the average for a 12-year-old, well-developed, curvy, and I had thick muscles on my legs and thighs. Leg strength was what was needed for this sport, so they made me Anchor, hoping they wouldn't lose within the first few seconds.

I was determined to show them a thing or two. 

One trick that always worked well for me was quickly running to the bathroom before class started and wiping down the bottom of my sneakers with a damp paper towel. This gave me more grip on the polished gym floor when running or performing other activities that required speed or fast turns. 

Done.

I got in my place, took the thick rope in my hands, and wrapped it behind my back, making sure my grip was firm.

The whistle blew, and I whipped around, facing away from the team, and leaned forward hard, using everything I had with the rope wrapped fully around my waist. I'd made my first few hard-earned steps when the whistle blew.

"Stop! Back to place!" yelled the gym teacher. "No one is allowed to turn around. Face forward to the center only!"

Crud. That was a rule?

I wasn't sure if I was the only one who inadvertently broke the rules, but I was glad he didn't single me out. But he didn't say anything about the rope, other than a slight shaking of his head when he saw me wrap it fully around my waist again. 

I formed a different strategy. 

The whistle blew. 

I got a firm grip on the rope, leaned back, and bent my knees, letting all my weight rest on my legs and hips, not depending on my arm strength. My sneakers held fast as I pulled back as hard as I could, keeping my arms straight but loose.

I could feel the rope tension fighting me at first, then a slight slacking before pulling taut again. Every time it went slack, I did the opposite of my classmates and pulled harder, instead of trying to get a better grip.

The red rag tied in the center of the rope shifted to our side of the Red Line of Death inch by inch. 

The whistle blew. We won!

Cheers from my team as they let go of the rope right before I was done pulling, I squeaked in surprise and fell right on my butt. I was a little embarrassed when they laughed at me, but it didn't matter as much because we all realized I had a gym class superpower. 

I was still the weird kid in the class, but whenever we were scheduled for Tug-of-War, I was the first one picked. And it felt good. I knew the reason they chose me, but I didn't care — because I had a skill they needed, and it was nice not being last for once.

Not everyone is built to fit into everyone else's expectations. I knew I would never be a ballerina, play golf, or be a sports star. But if someone needed a push to get their car out of a snowbank, or needed something heavy moved a short distance, I was your gal. 'Strength like bull,' I'd say, in a Russian accent to my friends when they needed help, but after that expenditure of energy, I'd need to rest before I could do it again.

Play to your strengths. Know your weaknesses and don't cater to others' idea of what you're capable (or not capable) of. Be you, and be blessed!

The Golf Lesson

Back in my middle school days, when we used to call physical education Gym Class, we also had lessons on a multitude of skills for those who weren't athletically inclined, and one of those, to the chagrin of my gym teacher, was golf.

Each of us, in our gym rompers — outfits more like giant, ill-fitting royal blue onesies with elastic thigh bands so tight they almost qualified as tourniquets — was given a golf club and a ball and told to use self-control until the teacher could give instructions.

That lasted about 3.2 seconds. It took another twenty minutes for my classmates to retrieve their errant golf balls before the real lesson could begin.

"Okay, everyone!" my teacher bellowed to the gaggle of 11-and 12-year-old chaos critters. "Bend at the waist slightly, and hold the club like this-" demonstrating a V-shape with his arms on the club, "Arms straight, and don't bend your elbows."

Easier for him and all the other boys, but some of the early blossoming young ladies (including, or perhaps especially, myself) were having trouble. I could either bend my elbows or stop breathing because straight arms sent my bosom into my neck, not only blocking my view of the ball, but constricting my breathing as the compressed womanly blossoms impaired my esophagus from its proper functioning.

My teacher, a mostly balding, very tall man with kind blue eyes, made his rounds, clipboard in hand, correcting and instructing my classmates into proper form — until he got to me, the most endowed girl in the group.

I swear I could hear the man utter a small sigh, thinking I didn't hear it. I was always his challenge student because I'd never been able to do pull-ups or get more than two feet off the ground on the rope climb.

"No, your elbows are bent," he said. "Do it like this," and demonstrated again. He noticed me turning a little blue and tried to hide a chuckle. "No, you have to lay your arms on top of your chest."

On top of my chest? I gave him an odd look. "Tell me you're kidding," I said. 

He told me to try. I gave him a knowing little smirk and did exactly as he instructed. My arms were straight, my waist was in perfect form;  however, the golf club was at least a foot off the floor. Unless I bent in half, there was no way that club would hit a ball, unless I used a railroad spike as a tee. We both looked at the club, then at each other. I shrugged, looking sheepish, and he shook his head, trying not to grin.

"You get a C," he said, marking it down on his clipboard before walking away.

He always encouraged me to try things, but after a while, we had an understanding. I had muscle, but it was short bursts of strength-muscle, not athletic endurance-muscle. And he learned later on that I had a place in the gym world after all — but that's a story for another day.

My Daughter, the Demon Fighter

My daughter moved out of the house (sort of) to the job of her dreams. She's been working toward running a horse camp for more than a decade, and an opportunity arose to work at a Christian ranch camp that plans to start a horse therapy branch in September.

She's staying on the grounds, playing house mom to the under-18-year-old counselors, bunking with them until personal housing is provided. This is something she had to do anyway, as it's never a good idea to let teenagers run loose in mountain country, even if the boy counselors weren't in another cabin on the other side of the ranch campgrounds.

This helps prevent the 'I'm sorry, but your daughter got eaten by a bear on the way to the bathroom' letters to their parents.

Two days into her new life, we got a phone call. Or my husband did, because I was at work.

My daughter shared an incredible tale.

The girls were getting freaked out because, in the early evening, they saw a shadow of someone walking around in the empty bunkhouse where they slept. The property owners and my daughter checked it out, but there was nothing there. However, my daughter felt something was off.

The girls went to bed, and again, shadows that blocked the outdoor floodlights moved outside the windows. Humanoid shadows with no one there to create them. 

My daughter had enough.

Let me give you a little background on my daughter. She can see spirits, good or bad. Not always in detail, but she does see them. And we've dealt with demons before, so she knew what to do.

She went outside and prayed a hedge of protection as she walked around the cabin three times. The girls watched with interest, but didn't step outside. My daughter came back in and settled down. Her confidence that they were protected settled the girls a little, though it didn't stop them from casting nervous glances out the windows.

When my daughter looked out the window a few minutes later, a large black shadow seemed enraged, backed up, and charged at the cabin full force. 

The girls screamed as the shadow hit an invisible barrier, exploding in a gold-glowing flash of bright white light.

No one else on the grounds saw it, but all of the girls inside did. They said it was like lightning. Yet the skies were clear.

The shadow was gone and never returned.

I'm the proud mom of a demon fighter. You GO, girl!

Since she doesn't have a cabin for herself yet, she comes home every other weekend for some personal downtime (someone else takes over staying with the girls when she's not there). She's making her way in the great wide world, and though my nest is (almost) empty, I couldn't be happier or prouder of her. I just wish she'd stop bringing loads of dirty laundry when she visits, but I guess even demon fighters need to wash their clothes!

Updates: a New(ish) Job, a New Book, and a New Outlook

 So much has happened since I last posted, and I do apologize (again!) for not posting regularly. Honestly, there are more than a few reasons I haven't posted:

1. I didn't have much time (like I did before...NOT)

2. I didn't want to post the negative stuff, and 

3. I forgot not only my password but the new email I transferred the Blogger login info to. Oops.

But with diligence, a lot of tears, a few threats, and some dark chocolate, I finally figured it all out.

And now, a condensed version of the past year and a half.

I got a new part-time job as a rural news reporter in 2023 (okay, so more than a year and a half, but still relevant. Shush). Lots of writing, but just the facts, please! Though sometimes my boss lets me put a smidgen of humor into the plethora of articles I've written, it doesn't happen often enough. Do you know how hard it is not to make a funny blurb about a cow that got loose and knocked over several police officers? Gotta love rural news!

You'd think that would make me blog more often, but after a few sessions with a therapist, I have been told I 'unofficially' have ADHD.

That means when I should be letting the funny part of my brain off the leash, it defies me by shutting down any thoughts regarding humor. Ugh.

When I'm supposed to be serious, I want to be funny, and when I want to be funny, my brain takes a vacation. Joy and rapture abound.

Since I last posted, my husband has been running his bakery, except during the winter months. Just as we were getting to be known in the community and gearing up for spring, a new inspector came and shut us down, but not for the reasons you think. 

We were mislicensed. 

So we have to make a few renovations to be properly licensed, but since that was our major source of income, it put a damper on things — especially since it was the beginning of tourist and camping season. 

We're not mad at the inspector. We've just been misinformed about so many things between the FDA and the Department of Agriculture; the wires got crossed somewhere. It happens. It's just bad timing. Why don't these things happen in winter when we are already shut down? Blah.

We were shut down after he did a day of baking, so we had fresh pastries and bread we couldn't sell, so we either had to eat them or give them away. 

I gained three pounds.

Just kidding. Sort of. We did find hungry families to donate the bread and goodies to, after 'taste testing' to make sure they were safe to give away. Nom nom nom.

Just a few weeks ago, I had a breakthrough. The book I've been writing for over 25 years finally became a published entity, and I have a new book out! PMS is My Life — Ticklish Tales from Booties to Bunny Slippers has made its way onto Amazon and Kindle, and I'm working on an audiobook for it (once I learn how). It will also be in print at Barnes and Noble, and I'm working on getting it out into the world, one book signing at a time. 

The plan is to sell enough books to get the bakery up and running again, and to get three children's books illustrated for publication. They are already written, I just need to pay my illustrator, because he can't live on bread alone. Though he did enjoy the cookies we sent as a bribe...er, thank you.

PMS is My Life is a series of stories I've written from childhood, up to speculations about being a grandma one day. The PMS part is in the chapter titles: Post Mommy Syndrome (babyhood), Produce Munchkins (motherhood), into Perpetual Meddler Syndrome (when the kids move out and when you visit you see they're doing it all wrong), and ends with Pamper Much Syndrome (when I try to guess what kind of grandmother I'll be).

It's filled with short personal essays of true-life happenings, some funny poetry sprinkled in, and enough speculations about life — like what would happen if men took turns being pregnant — to brighten your day and your predisposed perspectives. Here's the link to the book: PMS is My Life Book

Think Erma Bombeck if she had Philly snarkiness.

Here's a gander at the cover:

One of my new fans suggested I do a syndicated column. I looked into it, and the idea excites me a great deal! Can you imagine my stories making people laugh in newspapers throughout the country? How phenomenal would that be?

Please remember to like, share, and comment! I'd love to hear from you!

Chains of Convenience

 

    I love it when shows give me a fresh perspective.

    I started watching this Western series called 1923 (after watching 1883, of course). During this series, electricity was becoming a regularly used resource among the elite but was still resisted by those of lesser means. 

    One scene hit me like a ton of bricks.

    The family was in town, and there was a salesman with all kinds of appliances sitting out for display on the street. The men rode on by, but the women were intrigued and asked what they were for.

    Washing clothes, the salesman said. The older woman scoffed at such a ridiculous-looking piece of machinery, but the younger women were curious, though wary. After all, why have that big thing in your house when clothes could be washed in a tub, with a metal board and bar soap?

    Then one of the men chimed in, asking how it worked. Electricity, the salesman answered. The man laughed, saying that made no sense. Doing it the old way was free, but doing it with the machine that had to use electricity meant they'd be working for the electric company, not themselves anymore, because there'd be a bill to pay every time you used it.

    I paused the show. Holy conglomerates, Batman, he was right!

    Think about it. Who do we really work for nowadays? Ourselves? No. We work to put money into other peoples' pockets. The energy companies. The gas companies. The cell phone company. The internet. The government. And all of it runs on electricity.

    Don't get me wrong—I love the stuff. It allows me to write on this blog (after more than a year...oops), run my car, and do everyday life. But in the beginning, they made us want it, then made us unable to live without it. All to save labor.

    Would anyone be willing to live without electricity in this day and age? Even most of the Amish are using it nowadays in the form of generators.

    No, I'm not blaming electricity for everything wrong in the world, but sometimes I wonder if we'd be better off without some of our 'creature comforts'.

    Communities would be stronger. Several generations of one family would live and work together. Everyone would come running if you ever needed help. 

    There's a joke where a man was fishing on the side of the road, and a businessman stopped by, asking the man what he did all day. He said he sits out in the sunshine until he catches six fish, sells two, and he and his wife and two children prepare the rest for dinner, singing songs and enjoying time together. The businessman told him all he needed to do was catch more fish to earn more money, then he could buy a boat, start a fleet of fishing ships, and then retire a rich man. The man asked what he would do then? And the businessman replied, sit on the side of the road, fishing, enjoying the sunshine and time with his family...

    I think that's the reason people are running towards the homesteading life. Corporations have gotten so big and so bad for us that the world as we know it will implode from their greed and laziness. 

    Homesteading is a lot harder (especially when you're older), but at least you know what's in your food, who your true friends are, and how to fix something if something breaks. And if you didn't, one of your neighbors did and would teach you what to do for next time.

    Boomers are ignored as they try to give wisdom to their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. What they remember is almost extinct. Their ingenuity will soon be lost to the ages, unless someone can find that eensy-weensy spot where lost secrets go on the internet.

    GenXers are the next in line to be ignored. We are the last generation that knew how to play outside, even in the rain, and rode our bikes to the corner store with our friends, getting candy from the penny candy vending machines. We're the last generation to freely use our imaginations with toys and Play-Doh. Our books were something to be cherished and held under the blankets after bedtime as we read that last page under the glow of a flashlight so our parents wouldn't catch us awake. Computers came into schools around the time we graduated high school, so the internet bug didn't hit us as hard as our lesser-graded peers.

    We resisted cell phones, home computers, and the need for any tech that wasn't a gaming system with cartridges. Eventually, technology was a disease we all willingly contracted, and now the contamination is so ingrained that no one realizes they're still sick anymore. I have little hope we'll ever be free of it, unless God Himself decides enough is enough.

    The sad part is, many of our children and grandchildren can program our phones and have access to a vast amount of information, but their brains are like 5-hour-old oatmeal. Boomers and enXers cringe when we hear some of the 'wisdom' coming out of their mouths.

    I've heard more than my fair share of doozies.

    'We don't need gravity,' one young lady on the internet said. 'Issac Newton should've never invented it.'

    'We don't need trees,' said another. 'They take up too much oxygen.'

    'Cows need to stop being on farms,' said someone else. 'Methane is destroying the planet.'

    I just put my forehead in my hands and ask God to take me Home before these people run for office.

    If there were no electricity, I wonder where we'd be now? Or if the use of it was limited where there was no internet or computer games, would we be better off? Or do the homesteaders have the right idea?

    Wake up when it's light, sleep when it's dark, start fires when it's cold, and swim in streams when it's hot? The trade-off would be that most of your time is spent growing and processing your own food, and crafting things to trade when you can't make them yourself, surrounded by family and friends.

    Think about that for a minute. Food, shelter, family, friends...isn't that what most of us want?

    Sounds like a good life to me! Anyone want to go fishing?

The Holy Trinity of Updates- Part Three: Blessings Through Hardship

Blessings are only sometimes seen once you've been through the rough stuff. It's like a geode; You don't see the good until you crack them open to see what wonders are in store.

God was readying my wings for flight, but I wasn't ready to fly yet. Just a month before my raise and benefits would come, maybe wait until the end of the year, after the holidays, or even Spring, when the farmers markets would open. I could then quit and help with the bakery as I established myself as a fabric artist...

God had other ideas.

I was let go last week. I was shell-shocked. Within fifteen minutes, my life plans changed, and I was driving home in tears.

When bad things happen, I tend to spiral down into a depressive misery that takes weeks to recover from. I was finding it hard to breathe as I drove home, but the Spirit in me started to speak, and I decided to listen this time.

You were already thinking of quitting. You wanted to establish the bakery and work from home as a sewist. Isn't this an opportunity in disguise?

I realized with surprise that it was. So why was I crying to the point of not breathing?

Because someone else decided when I would stop working. I was not given time to adjust. I was my family's primary source of income and had yet to establish my business.

I was still trying to control my environment instead of letting God handle things.

So I pulled over, calmed myself, and started talking to God. Not a prayer per see, but telling Him I would let go and trust Him in all things, including being newly unemployed.

He provided before. He could provide again. Duh. Why do I keep forgetting that? And I thought the Israelites were forgetful...sheesh!

I still had bouts of tears on the way home, but there was also relief. I could spend time with my family again. I could start sewing what I wanted and write what I wanted. When I returned to blogging, I realized I was a week shy of a year since my last post. Yikes!

But what about the money? Yes, we would need it, and I still don't know where it will come from. I got my last paycheck today, but beyond that, I have no idea. Usually, I start obsessing immediately about money when hardship happens. This time it took almost a week before I began to spiral, but instead of remaining in silent misery as usual, I decided to call a family meeting and share what was happening in my head. 

I needed prayer and reassurance to keep me from shutting down into a depressive state.

As I confessed my worries, they assured me this was a blessing in disguise and things would be okay. I was encouraged to continue sewing, and we'd pray and let God tell us what to do concerning the bakery.

Then my husband started playing on his phone, or so I thought.

At first, I was annoyed (no phones during discussions, please!), but he showed me a listing for a home-based double oven. And after asking about it, they offered a flat-top stovetop as well. We rushed all over the house, gathering all the loose change, raiding our wallets and the donation jar for baked goods he's been testing on the locals for the past few weeks. 

After counting up everything, we not only had enough, we had three dollars left over without touching the bank account. (I traded the coins at the local store for bills- I wasn't paying them with all that change and singles!)

They were ninety minutes away, and we zipped off in the truck to bring home our bakery booty. We told them about our bakery, and they were happy to hear their renovation benefited us.

Something weird happened next.

I did something I never did. I moved my husbands' hand truck out of the way. He did something he never does. He forgot to put it in the truck. In fact, he felt God prompting him to get out of there as fast as possible. So we did.

We were almost all the way home before he realized he left the hand truck behind. I confessed to moving it, and when we had a signal (there's no internet in the mountains), we found the family had tried to contact us in every way possible to tell us about the forgotten hand truck.

But something else was weird. The time stamp on the messages was only minutes after we left their house. We had an internet connection for forty-five minutes before we lost signal. So why didn't anything get through?

We arranged a time for me to go get it on the fifth since the next day was the fourth of July (my daughter and husband were working the fifth), so I made the solo drive, mad at myself for moving the darn thing in the first place, but glad to be able to bring them a sample of our baking as a thank-you.

As I pulled up, I was greeted by the kids, that squealed with delight as I brought out the cake box. Before I could hand it off to the mom, she stuffed something in my hand before I could let go of the box, telling me it was for the cake.

The cake she didn't know I was bringing.

It was money. She said she was refunding me for the stovetop because they wanted to support us in our bakery adventure. Before I could reply, she also asked if I was interested in a venting hood for the stovetop.

Gobsmacked, I blurted out that yes, I'd be interested. She told me they ordered a new one, but it arrived dented, and the company told her to keep it- they'll send a replacement. So she offered it to me. I accepted and offered to give her back the refunded money for it. She refused.

I was expecting their old one (since they were renovating), but when she mentioned the new one with a dent, I said the thing could look like Quasimodo for all I cared, as long as it worked! We both laughed, and she brought it out so I could put it in my trunk.

It's a good thing that one of the kids remembered to bring out the hand truck- I'd almost forgotten it again!

After loading up and waving to Mom and the kiddos, I drove home, resisting the urge to call my husband at work to tell him the great news. I started singing hymns all the way back home. Let him open the trunk when I arrive and be surprised!

Now we know why God told my husband to leave right away! It also explains why we could only communicate with them once we got home. Isn't God amazing?

I'm still not sure how long it will be until we can work as a cottage bakery, but we're definitely on our blessed way!

How has God worked in your life that seemed terrible initially but became a blessing? Tell me about it in the comments!