That's Not a T-Rex - That's My Momma

Love is but a song we sing
Fear's the way we die
You can make the mountains ring
Or make the angels cry
Thought the bird is on the wing
And you may not know why

Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now

"Get Together" - The Youngbloods

Sometimes you say you're not going to say anything, until you say something. So I'm saying something. While I would love to go on a political rant, I just don't think I'm qualified to spew an opinion. Maybe that's my message? I think it's fine and dandy for anyone who wants to state an opinion to state said opinion. I'm a FIRM believer that you shouldn't stay stuff unless you know stuff. I don't know stuff. So, until that point and time when I can look people in the eyes and say "Y'all, I know stuff"....mums the word, politically and otherwise. But, me being quiet? Never going to happen. While I can't make sense out of nonsense, I can spin a yarn good enough to take your mind off of everything we cannot fathom. Let's do that, shall we?

It's been a rough few months in my world. No, nothing is wrong. No, I'm not sick. No, it's nothing I can put my thumb on. It's just been odd. Weird. I call myself an empath from the standpoint that if you're upset and you run into me one day....I get upset later. I cannot see the future. I don't communicate with spirits. (OK, I do get really weird "signs" sometimes but so does my cousin, Leslie, so it's genetic.) I seem to be  really really cognizant of other people's energy and I cling to it until it either elates or hurts me deeply. I constantly have to remind myself, in times of giddiness or despair, that it might not even be me. It just is.

Now, back to the last few months. Kids getting married. Kids living in Houston. Kids fleeing to my house and leaving one behind. Houston flooding. Everyone being ok. My parents moving into an RV park. My parents deciding that wasn't a permanent solution. My parents attempting to buy 271 odd houses (perhaps a slight exaggeration) and none working out. My parents buying a 100 year old house. My living room floor collapsing. Me realizing I'm 50 years old and living in a house with a collapsed living room floor. Kids saying goodbye to a SEVENTEEN year old pet. Local politics. National massacres. Basically, NOT life in general, but when" not life in general" grates against raw nerves, it just feels. There was no proper modifier I could think of, so I ended the sentence at feels. I don't know what else to do. Except talk about cotton.

I don't want to talk about the cotton controversy. I just want to talk about the look, the feel, the fabric of our lives. I do not hail from a prosperous lineage, though I can shoot some $20 words atcha. My great-great grandfather and my great grandfather both died when their flatbed truck stalled on the railroad tracks in rural "around here somewhere" as they were racing the clock to get to the cotton gin. They were taking their cotton to market. They picked it. One died immediately and one died a few days later. Early nineteen tens (ish). Fast forward to today, see me obsessed with cotton. It makes a GORGEOUS arrangement. Have you seen raw cotton in a vintage pewter pitcher? In a mercury glass vase? It's amazing. What's also amazing? IT'S SO EXPENSIVE and I, greatgreatfabulouslygreat granddaughter of the gentlemen who succumbed to a train in rural "somewhere around here" area with their crop, refuse to pay RETAIL for raw cotton.

Member when we talked about my parent's buying a 100 year old house? It's a fixer upper and a half, but it's so beautiful. I love driving out there, like I did today. 40 miles through the Kaufman and then the Ellis County countryside. I drove through Seagoville. I drove through Ferris. I drove until Bristol. I passed gravel pits. I passed junkyards. I passed rural 'Merica. I drove through a metric ton of cotton. I wanted a bouquet. SO MUCH. As Mom and I ventured out to Ennis to go shopping, we drove through even more cotton, that age old cash crop of the south. "I think cotton is beautiful," I said. "So does your father," she said. "He wants to pick some and I won't let him because can you imagine the mess if he was arrested picking someone else's cotton?" I pondered on that for a bit. "Yes, that would be our luck." Mental note to self, do not illegally pick cotton.

We wound up at the Ennis WalMart. Momma and I don't get to shop together all the time, so we make the most of it when we can. Today's escapades included my vegan version of Mexican food which included a margarita for each of us. Then, safely ensconced at WalMart, Momma found the
ginormous mascot heads. So, we tried them all on. Now, politics and cotton and massacres be damned, I watched my mother stand in the Ennis WalMart with a huge cat and a huge T-Rex on her head and thought to myself, "How can the world not be ok?" As we were driving back to Bristol, I had a vision.....

"This is Fox 4 News. Kaufman County Councilman's wife arrested for an agricultural theft in Ellis County. The Ellis County Sheriff's department is seeking public assistance in identifying another person of interest in this case." This is where they would broadcast my Momma's picture captured at the Ennis WalMart. See pictures below.

Moral of the story: the world is spiraling out of control but I distinctly remember my Momma telling me that 40 years ago. Mankind = not the smartest tool in the shed but I think that's always been the case. Is it worse? Heck, yes. Can we fix it? No idea. Should we try? Always.

If you read this, I love you. I don't care what political party you belong to. I don't care where you were born. I don't care what race you are. I don't care what gender you identify with or what religion you profess to champion. I don't care about anything EXCEPT what you think when you fall asleep at night. Do you love other people? Do you worry about your carbon footprint? Does your heart bleed for humanity? Would you break bread with someone when your bread is in short supply? We live on a planet that pivots on a string that is no stronger than a spider web. Hundreds of years ago we thought that string would pop. It has not, nor has it strengthened. Could it be today? Could it be tomorrow? In 100 years? I don't know. Neither do you. Do not fret little ones. It is not ours to know. It is only ours to long for, this life. Appreciate the beauty around you. Cotton is beautiful. So is my Momma. So is this world. So are you. Let's love one another. Right now.

The Six Degrees of Tofu Bacon (Kevin's 3rd Cousin Twice Removed)

If I could reach the stars
I'd pull one down for you
Shine it on my heart
So you could see the truth
That this love I have inside
Is everything it seems
But for now I find
It's only in my dreams
That I can
Change the world
I would be the sunlight in your universe
You would think my love was really something good
Baby if I could
Change the world

Change the World - Eric Clapton
written by Gordon Scott Kennedy, Wayne Kirkpatrick, Tommy L Sims

So, I've been contemplating a new blog after the suggestion from many people that I talk more about vegan recipes. Okay, that's really just three people, one of whom is my husband. But, I already have this blog and then there's the old blog from my really super sad days - www.dayinthelifeofdina.blogspot.com. Do I really need another blog? This one actually says "heirloom recipes" in the tag line. So....no. Annie wants the vegan stuff too. After all, this blog is named after my adorable paternal grandmother, Annie Mae, who made the best vegetable soup this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. I think she'd approve. Before we dive into makin bacon (I've been dying to say that) let's address some basic truths.

Why vegan & who am I to have an opinion? I became a vegetarian in the late 80's. Back then, there were basically 4 forms of vegetarianism: Lacto Vegetarian (eats no meat but still consumes dairy from animals), Ovo Vegetarian (eats no meat but still consumes eggs), Lacto-Ovo Vegetarian (no meat but consumes animal dairy AND eggs), and Vegan. I was the Lacto-Ovo girl. I was on the right track, but my head was still so crowded with the government throat shovel of post WWII nutritional crap that we STILL suffer from as a society. I truly thought I needed that lacto-ovo crap to pop out healthy babies. And, I did...as a vegetarian for 7 years, including my uber crunchy childbirth at home, Birkenstock sandal years. Actually, one turned out to be not so healthy, but that had nothing to do with my eating habits. Let's plow on. Then, the preschool years hit me like a brick. If there were one thing I could get a mulligan on, it would be my kid's diets. I so wish I'd offered them a plant based diet, even though there were actual cases where CPS was called in to examine vegan parents! Can you imagine? Like, we're going to take your kids away. You're just too healthy (eye roll). But again, I caved to society's pressure and the ignorant ideology that kids need cow's milk and red meat and chicken nuggets...and it just became too much for me to do, the cooking of all their meals and then a separate one for me. So I lapsed back into carnivorism, though veggies were still my preference. Then, in 2008, 6 weeks after my teenage daughter passed away, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. While it had a happy ending, this cancer phase included lovely things like chemo and radiation and the realization that my post chemo body just cannot process animal protein. Not now, not ever. Enter veganism. But I miss cheese! But I miss steak! But I miss ice cream. I did, too. Something has changed recently. Really, really changed. I don't miss it. At all. One day I woke up and asked myself why I was vegan. Was it health related? Weight loss related? Love of animals related? State of the planet related? The answer was yes, to all of the above. I do want to be healthier. I don't want to force feed myself chemically laden animal products from often sickly & factory farmed animals. I do see a calf or a chicken the same way I see my poodle or the horse I so desperately want. I understand that the world is being decimated by agribusiness that could be the ruination of us all. So, I made difficult decisions. If you don't want my plant based food, that is fine. Truly, it is. Eat your animal protein. I'll still love you. But you cook it yourself. Actually, you go buy it and bring it home and cook it. I want no part of it. My life. My body. My rules. As for my role in all of this? I'm going to learn to make some damn delicious vegan food! You'll lust after my plant based diet. Just you watch. Gladly, I will share, because we're all in this together. And now, bout that bacon.

Did you know that the World Health Organization categorizes processed meats as a Class/Group 1 Carcinogen? I'm not talking about our government, I'm taking about the government OF THE FREAKING WORLD. Class 1 is THE SAME CATEGORY AS CIGARETTES! Processed meats include lunch meat, hot dogs, bacon, and many other items. If I were in a bibliography makin mood, I'd list a notation that backs this factoid up both on the American Cancer Society website, the WHO website, and the movie "What the Health." On top of the already carcinogenic properties of the processed meat, bacon is injected with a chemical called sodium nitrite. It aids in preservation of the meat, especially in meats that need that "smokey" flavor. Several reputable health organizations, including www.livestrong.com & the AMA, tell us that sodium nitrite can limit the ability of your red blood cells to get oxygen to all of your body. This could lead to respiratory problems. It's called Methemoglobinemia. Look it up. It can be fatal. If you don't stop eating processed meats, will you die? I'm not a doctor and I don't even play one on TV. In the event of a zombie apocalypse, I'm not going to Terminus, though. Cause cannibals, duh. What I'm saying is that I'm not willing to take that chance. Maybe you are. Meanwhile, I'm also not about to give up bacon. Now we're back where we need to be! This recipe uses tofu. Last soapbox, I promise. I HATE TOFU. It tastes like wet cardboard. Pei Wei can get it crispy so why can't I???? Waaaaaah. I can. Now. And, so can you. And tofu cooks beautifully. And tofu marinates beautifully. And tofu is filling and healthy and protein laden and has all 8 of those awesome amino acids and that good old iron...and, and and. So let's turn it into bacon, shall we?

What you'll need:

1 package of extra firm tofu (just firm won't cut it)
1/2 cup of brown sugar
1/4 cup of soy sauce (light sodium is fine)
1/4 cup of organic Apple Cider Vinegar (look for the words "from the Mother")
Steak seasoning - like McCormick's Smokey Montreal Steak Seasoning
(alternatively, seasoned salt and cracked black pepper are just as suitable, as are sodium free             seasonings)

Step 1: Press that tofu. Press it real good. See tofu has tons of water in it. If we want any hope of crispiness, we must eliminate as much of the water as we can. If you don't have a tofu press, wrap your tofu in paper towels (or a clean kitchen towel if you've gone paperless in the kitchen like we have) and stack a couple of heavy things on top of the tofu: a coffee table book on old Hollywood movies with a 4 pack of garbanzo bean cans on top of that, perhaps. Walk away for an hour. Also, you can put this whole system in a casserole dish and pop it in the fridge overnight, but an hour works just as well.

Step 2: After you've pressed your tofu, pop all the rest of the ingredients into a large Ziploc bag and mix well. Add your block of pressed tofu and put it in the fridge. The longer the better. An hour is fine - overnight is even better.

Step 3: Heat a few TBSP of your favorite oil (I'm currently obsessed with avocado oil) in a large non-stick skillet and preheat your oven broiler. Go ahead and line a cookie sheet with foil and spray it with non-stick spray or coat it with some oil. Slice your tofu in thin slices with a VERY sharp knife. The thinner the better.
(Now I'm going to post a picture of the finished product followed by a picture of the flabby uncooked tofu in the pan because I don't want the flabby tofu to be the picture on all my social media pages and I'm not smart enough to figure out how to not default to the first picture.....it's not easy being me.)

Pop them in the skillet and cook them on med to high heat. Remember your marinade? Spoon a teaspoon of that onto each strip. As the tofu cooks, the brown sugar will start to caramelize. You'll see the edges turn dark and you'll know you're on the right track. Your skillet will not be easy to clean, hence the non-stick request. Flip every few minutes until the edges are dark and the tofu resembles actual bacon. It will not be crispy yet. That's ok.

Step 4: Place your pan cooked tofu strips onto your cookie sheet and spoon another dollop of marinade onto each strip.

Broil them, checking every few minutes. I wish I could tell you how long, but my 1910 bungalow has a 30 year old tiny apartment range (the McOven) that sometimes broils and sometimes doesn't. Just don't leave your kitchen! You'll remove the tofu a couple at a time. Don't worry if you wind up taking your cookie sheet out and putting it back in several times. That is perfect! You want the edges crispy and the entire strip dark. If you don't get the edges super crispy, you're still going to love the taste! What you wind up with is very similar to a thick cut bacon strip with a peppery maple flavor. Disclaimer, PLEASE use the foil on the cookie sheet. Your oven will smoke and that marinade will bubble and burn on the foil. Perfectly normal. Do not be alarmed.

What can you do with your amazing bacon? Make a BLT with vegan mayo (easy to make yourself or try Vegenaise), crumble up in a salad, use it in a wrap...use it any way you'd normally use bacon. My favorite way to eat it? Standing in front of my microwave at 6 am with a cup of coffee in one had and both eyes still mostly closed. It should keep in the fridge in a sealed container for 3-4 days & it microwaves to reheat beautifully. Furthermore, your cholesterol thanks you. Your energetic hemoglobin thanks you. The planet thanks you. These little pigs especially thank you. No one likes crying wee wee wee all the way home.

                                                    Wishing you love & light. Blessed be!

Pillars

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own

I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"

One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Calvary choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword & shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
Once you're gone there was never
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

"Viva la Vida" by Coldplay

I was almost sort of running at the gym today when this song played in my headphones.
I literally cried and pretended I was just really sweaty. No truer words exist for how I feel tonight. It's April 12th Eve. That means nothing to most people. To a select few of us, however, it means everything. It means that Easter is upon us. It means that Lent is almost over! Prep those vices. It means that in six scant weeks we'll be celebrating the cancer diagnosis that I survived. It means that tomorrow is the day that my daughter, Chynna, died. And. yes, every single stinking year I blog about this. It is inescapable. It is exhausting. It is absolutely necessary.  It is what it is. You are not obligated to read this. I get it. Another blog entry about her daughter. But, I can't not. So humor me.

Nine years. Now, I'm a happy person. I challenge you find anyone who thinks otherwise. I'm like the Vitameatavegamin girl. I'm a happy peppy person who DOES pop out at parties and is NOT unpoopular. So, with that in mind, maybe we can skate over the obvious. It's SHOCKING to me that it's been nine years. That means next year marks a decade and then we'll blink twice and it'll be 30 years and I just don't know if I can take that. I've managed to attract many new followers who will be scratching heads and making faces....WTH is she talking about? Just dig back in the blog entries (see "Pinkish" or "Eight Christmases" or "Unbreak My Heart"). We don't need to revisit that info here. If you've ever lost a child, whether that child was in utero or 50.....I hope you can agree that, at some point, even though it never gets easier - never fades, that there are silver linings should you choose to look. I would like to share a few of those with you tonight. Placating a fellow nice person pretty much assures you sainthood, so read on, St Soandso.

Death hurts. All death. My son and his fiance have a 17 year old Blue Heeler. I dread the day. My own father, who is probably healthier than most everyone I know, is 90. It's the circle of life, as much as we hate it. When a child dies, though, I'm sorry but that upsets the order of the universe! A child just should not die before a parent. I've been through some stuff in my life. We all have, But I pray I will never have to endure a sucker punch to the gut the likes of which I experienced 9 years ago. And yet, it shaped me in a good way. It hardened some of my too soft edges and softened some of my staccato. I wake up every day thinking of some form of Chynna; baby Chynna with a shocking head of black hair, the "Miss Otis Regrets"4 year old tap dance recital Chynna who gave THE BEST dance facials in the history of ever, and even the "Momma I made it" 16 year old Chynna who couldn't tumble but dared to try out for varsity mascot. Every. Single. Day. I'm here to tell you that I am a better person to have survived this. I'm here to tell you that I am PROUD to have survived this, maybe more proud of this than of anything else I've ever accomplished. Let's end on a high note tonight. Here's what I've learned. I hope there's someone out there - just one person - struggling with the loss of a child who reads this and thinks - "OK, I can hold on for one more day (Wilson Phillips reference) because I'm not so sure that things won't get better." To you, dear person, I take my hat off. We can do this! Now....what I've learned, in no particular order:

• This is a service oriented world we live in, here in Forney, TX. Do not doubt me when I tell you that THIS TOWN saved me nine years ago. Living here and losing a child was like getting a nonstop virtual hug. To this day, I feel the love. Thank you. Forney. Thank you so much. How do you repay that sort of kindness? You give back. You volunteer, You reach out. You love your neighbor. No, really. I'm serious. It feels SO GOOD. I will do better, I will do more.
• FOR ME (and only for me do I mean this)...stuff means nothing. I don't want a big house. I don't want a brand new car. I don't crave success or riches. I just want to walk outside and feel my feet on this Texas soil. I want to grow roses. I want to rescue animals. I want a claw foot bathtub & an occasional glass of red wine. I want to hug all my boys and all their girls. I want sweet granddaughter kisses. I want my husband to love me. That is all that is important to me.
• I have always believed in a higher power but now I CRAVE spirituality. I love my religion and I love reading about all religions. Furthermore, I cannot rest each night unless I feel I have given all, done all that I could, and surpassed whatever ridiculous goal that's running around in my head, however crazy it seems. Veganism - check! Paperless kitchen - soon, grasshopper! Who knows what's next.
• I have to stick around because there is something I am supposed to do that I haven't done yet. I have no idea what that is yet, but, IT IS EPIC. That much I know.

As you rest your head on your pillow tonight, say a prayer. Pray for me, my family, all the grandparents and all the cousins (you'll be praying a while), and all of the friends, and this sweet little town that dared to shut down school for a lovely 16 year old's funeral in 2008. I can't help but wonder what I could've accomplished if I understood then what I know to be true now. Because it's a fact. Our castles are all built upon pillars of salt....and pillars of sand. <3 

If Walls Could Talk....

What Lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more,

Sonnet XLIII - Edna St. Vincent Millay

It's winter in Texas. That means so, so many things. It means snow. It means 80 degree days. It means those two anomalies can occur in the same week - in back to back days, even. Hello, y'all. I started a blog sans song lyrics, for the first time in almost a decade. I started a blog entry with a poem by my all time favorite poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay. This is NOT my favorite Edna poem, but it's a goodie. Why, you ask? We need to talk about something. We need to talk about a current obsession of almost everyone. Let's chat about houses. So, you wanna live in an old house? Oh, hun, have you come to the right person. Come on in. I'll get you some tea.

I have ALWAYS loved old houses. I love all old things: people, dogs, cats, cars, horses, houses. The order of importance tends to vary based on the day. Why? Easy. Everything I associate with happiness started with an old house. Here are some examples...my Granny's bungalow in Wilmer, TX with the New Orleans inspired wrought iron columns (complete with my Gramp's barbershop in the front room), my maternal grandmother's in-town cottage in Seagoville, my childhood rural home that happened to be an old East Dallas church that my father had moved to the country. If it ain't old, I don't want it. Fast forward a considerable amount of time. It took me a good bit, but I finally live in an old house - a 1910 bungalow, to be exact. Funny how none of my "pieces" ever fit into the succession of new homes I've lived in over the years. Like square pegs in round holes, nothing ever looked right until we moved into this house. Winchester sofa? Looks great here. Art Deco mirrors? Fit right in. Turn of the century portraits of people I don't know? Made for this place. Turns out, though, I'm not alone.

There's a home show that EVERYONE is addicted to - Texas based. My intent is to name no names because that's not what this is about. If anything, this unnamed show makes me feel so understood. Why, I'm not alone. Turns out, half the country wants an old house. Or do they? See, I feel like I'm a bit of an expert on this. So, before you strike out to conquer your own ramshackle antebellum mansion or dilapidated Victorian lady, listen to me. Linda, honey, listen. This life, it's not for the faint of heart. See, most of us don't have hundreds of thousands of dollars to commit to this lifestyle. Read on, reader. That unnamed home show, why, they showcase people whose "all in" budgets are almost a HALF A MILLION DOLLARS. Good for them! High fives all around. My life ain't been no crystal stair (two poet references in one blog! We are so sophisticated! Thank you, Langston Hughes). I dare say there are more people reading this blog who fall on my side of the fence. Welcome to the poor side of town.

I said my house was built in 1910. I can say this with certainty because we are only the 3rd party to own this home. That made my heart beat when we happened upon this place. See, the original owners managed to keep this little bungalow (the first bungalow built in Forney, TX) in the family from 1910 until 1990. That is an unheard of feat. I have a poem written by the granddaughter of the original owner hanging on my dining room wall. It mentions all who were born between these walls and all who died - we'll get to that in a sec. Then a local old home enthusiast purchased the home in 1990 and did some much needed restorations. Then it became a rental home. Then, we accidentally found it, in between renters. I saw the original 1910 cast iron farmhouse sink through the kitchen window and was obsessed. So, why do I feel the need to go on and on about hazards and such? Cause, 1910.
If you think you want to live in a near turn of the century home, here's what you DON'T know. Thank me later.

• I said, brrrrrr, it's cold in here. If you're buying a home that's pretty much in it's original condition, there is little to no insulation. Yep. Boil in the summer. Freeze in the winter. Watch a few episodes of Little House on the Prairie and get back to me. We have a high quality HVAC. Go us. Still, there are only two temperatures in this house: Icelandic & Equatorial. There is no in between. That's fine for us old folk. but I can't imagine raising babies here. Our drafts have drafts. I finally understand the term "bone-chilling".
• I'm not drunk, its just this old house. Expect to level. And level a little more. And level later on. Did I mention you'll need to level? See, old homes in the South are exclusively pier & beam, meaning your house is sitting on Bois d' Arc stumps (because they just don't rot). They do, however, slowly sink into the abyss that is black gumbo soil.
• I hate you, but I can't slam the door in your face because IT WON'T SHUT. We live and die by the rain. After a good old southern rain. all the doors that wouldn't shut suddenly will shut. And the ones that did shut will not. This includes exterior doors. Hamburglars, don't read this.
• That's not a snake - it's an extension cord. Get this! "Lectricity" was an afterthought when these homes were built! Sure, it was added as it came into town, but sparingly. Thus, my bathroom has one outlet, UNDER THE SINK. My kitchen (I use that term lightly because there are no cabinets) has 2 outlets. 
• The Purge is more than a scary movie. In 1910 there were no closets. ZERO CLOSETS. See, folks in 1910 had 2 outfits, max. Britches to work in and church britches - THAT'S ALL, FOLKS. So, in order to survive here, I had to do some culling. MASSIVE CULLING. 
• Halt, who goes there? Remember when I told you about the "people who died here" poem? I have a swinging door in my kitchen. It's a 9 ft tall door with hinges that are bigger than my hands. And it has a ginormous rubber doorstop that keeps it open. And it randomly slams back and forth. ALL THE TIME. My husband recently came home with the "as seen on TV" motion activated nightlight for our bathroom. Awesome! Except on night #3. I'm a light sensitive sleeper. I don't like any lights at night: clocks, carbon monoxide detector, smoke alarm, cell phones, televisions, clocks, etc. I sat up in bed on motion activated bathroom night light #3. It was going off every 15 minutes. No one was in the bathroom. No one. Cue the music from the Psycho shower scene. I left it in there. It's like a disco strobe light. Every night. Caspar was a friendly ghost, correct?

Moral of the story - maybe you're old house obsessed like me. Maybe you have half a mil to spend on an old house reno. If so, AWESOMESAUCE. But, what if you don't? Do you give up? Wait. Hold up. How serious are you? See, I just can't live where my hands were the first hands. Make sense? Everyday I wake up and walk into my cabinetless kitchen. I look at my original (non-insulated) wood floors and I peer through the (non-insulated) wavy window glass and look at the gorgeous mahogany window moldings and a calmness settles over me. I think of all the hands that touched each door. All the feet that walked on these floors and the lips their lips have kissed and where and why. I read that first granddaughter's poem every damn day. I think about the good times. I think about the bad times. I envision the bread making & the fat rendering & the fruit preserves they made. I can almost see those 1910 children picking the mulberries off of the tree in the back yard. They were so proud of this house. How did they fare during the Great Depression? They brought children into the world here and they said fond farewells to their loved ones in this very space. So, I culled my clothes. I wrap up in blankets in the winter. I open those wavy glass windows in the summer. I dream of the day I have a half mil to reno. That day may come. That day may never come. It really does not matter. I'm an old soul. I can't be happy anywhere else. After all, I cannot say what loves have come and gone. I know, however, that summer sang in this house. I will make sure it sings here evermore.  Presenting the Jones Family - circa 1930ish. Thank you. Thank you so very much.

A Ted Tale

One night when the moon was bright on the moonlit bay
That is where I found my little Cherokee maid
The memory of that night of love is lingering yet
And I know I never will forget

My little Cherokee maiden, I love her so
And though we're far apart
I know I'll never be tradin' my love for her
For anybody else's heart
Someday I'll make a trip back to that Cherokee Strip
And I'll carry her away with me
And straight as an arrow flies
We'll ride to paradise
My sweet little chickadee, my little Cherokee maiden and me

"Cherokee Maiden" - written by Cindy Walker & 1st performed by Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys

Confession. This is a post about my sweet Daddy. My dad is quite the music man. He's the ultimate Renaissance guy, a modern day Barbara Mandrell, if you will. Instruments he mastered at one point in his life: guitar, violin, piano, accordion. Heck, he can probably pick out some western swing with a comb and tissue paper. He LOVES Bob Wills. He is my Daddy. He is 90 years old today.

I couldn't pick a song, only an artist. So, I caved and just chose MY favorite Bob Wills song. Western Swing is about as interesting as my father. It's a little folk and a little campfire country and a teence of bluegrass (Bob likes to holler) and a lot of jazz. I have come to appreciate and love it a little more every year, especially Bob Wills, who is, in fact, still the King. But back to my Daddy. What is being 90? It means you were born in 1927. It means you grew up in The Great Depression. It means Uncle Sam beckoned you into WWII. It means hard work and lots of gumption and zero charity and a warm, loving heart. It means Ted Stilwell. I wanted you to know more about him, this nonagenarian who can still cut a mean rug on the dance floor and makes the best vegetable soup you've ever eaten. He's the Ted who just drove a 500 ft motor home (ok, it's 37 feet but it might as well be 500 ft) across town and perfectly parked it in the RV lot. He's the Ted who can outwork and outsmart and out maneuver any other man I've ever met....still.

At the end of the day, I'm just a girl who loves her Daddy more than the world. If you're also a daddy's girl, this is for you. I wrote a letter to my father and tucked it into his birthday card. He'll open it later today. If you read the whole thing, you'll get to see a picture of the most handsome 90 year old man in the history of ever..........


I have something to say to the world. Not me, exactly. Not the almost 50 year old me, but the little girl me wants to tell you something. I feel bad for all of you other little girls. Really bad. You didn’t have my daddy. I wish you would’ve for I know the world would be a much better place simply because we’d all know the most amazing things. What things, you ask? There are so many, but here are my favorite daddy lessons.

·         The world neither promised nor owes you a damn thing. YOU go out and work your tail off every day. YOU put in the time. YOU figure it all out. YOU make your own luck. YOU sow the seeds & reap the benefits. YOU deal with the consequences. YOU give it everything you’ve got and go to sleep every night knowing the world took 200% out of you and dream happy dreams because you are privileged to get up the next day and do it all again.

·         Be humble. You are no better than the worst person and no worse than the best. We all have glorious light in us. We all have terrifying darkness in us. Things that have no bearing on your relationships: race, gender, nationality, wealth, education. Things that forming a relationship with any person should hinge on: their willingness to share a meal with you when there isn’t much to share, the fact that they are first in line to help you when the day is long and the work is dirty, that they are honest, that they are kind even when no one else is watching, that they work hard.

·         Live beneath your means. Live way beneath your means. Watch every dollar. Count every dime. The Great Depression was a hard time to be a child. Remember, hard times make you who you are. Hard times make it easy to tell the good folks from the not so good folks. Without the hard times, how would we appreciate the good times? You can’t feel the highest high unless you’ve felt the lowest low. So save that money for the rainy days and save even more for the torrential downpours.

·         When you say something, anything, have something to say. Don’t complain about any single thing unless you are prepared to give solid advice on a solution. Better yet, just try and say the good things. Those bad things are already looming around in the recesses of our minds. They don’t need a voice. Give the good things a voice. Go in search of sweet words. Make people feel blessed to have spoken to you. The kinder you can make your own words, the sweeter thoughts you’ll think. Suddenly, the world won’t be such a terrible place.

Not every little girl had a daddy like mine. They didn’t get the daddy that grew up in The Great Depression. Their daddies aren’t WWII veterans. Their daddy didn’t make them feel like he’d lay his life on the line for them, dig a 40 ft well by himself so they could have water, show them how to grow all the veggies, show them how to work on cars, accompany their violin playing with an organ, teach them to love Bob Wills. They didn’t get to see their daddies turn 90.

I am a lucky, lucky girl.

Where's the Beef?

Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack
I went out for a ride and I never went back
Like a river that don't know where it's flowing
I took a wrong turn and I just kept going

Everybody's got a hungry heart
Everybody's got a hungry heart
Lay down your money and you play your part
Everybody's got a hungry heart

"Hungry Heart" - Bruce Springsteen

 I'm rolling my eyes already. You probably don't want to read this because it will probably come off as preachy and that is not my intent. I looked at the tag line for this blog today and it definitely reads as "vintage design . heirloom recipes . merciful stories." I have been sorely lacking both the design front AND the recipe front. But as for that tag line...things that are best described as heirloom: brooches, tomatoes, old dentist tools, the odd corset. Yet, I chose that nomenclature to describe the recipes I would showcase. Oy vey. I meant to give you heirloom recipes, I truly did. My stomach did not agree. Allow me to explain.

More eye rolling. I cannot eat animal protein. Actually, my mother told me to stop saying there are things I cannot do because that could accidentally become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Rephrase! I try not to consume animal protein because I wind up in the fetal position for a few days when I do. There! Thanks, 8 years ago chemo. Love you, too. So I'm vegan. Am I the type of vegan that thinks we shouldn't eat animals? Well, I could say yes, but in my heart of hearts I realize I wouldn't be vegan if my stomach hadn't thrown a ginormous hissy fit. I will say that I totally believe no one would eat meat if you could see the average post WWII farm, both the way the animals are housed and the manner in which they are slaughtered. It's disgusting. Still, I occasionally cave. For instance, this past weekend was my daddy's 90th birthday bash! My brother smokes brisket that would make any pit master shake in their shoes. I had to eat it. Ditto with sliced beef pho. Ditto with Boots Burgers in Rockwall, TX. So I simply try to eliminate all but a monthly carnivore experience, making sure it is actually worth a come to Jesus gut apocalypse. What do I do all the other days of the month? I'm veganish. Yep, if it had a face and it is a substance I could eat or if it produces the substance I could eat, I don't. Eat it, that is. (Cue Weird Al Yankovic.) So, if I don't eat animal stuff, what do I eat? Tonight I bring you tacos.....crunchy vegan style.

My kids (they are actually grown ups and they are a married couple with a child, but I will forever call them my kids) came into town a while back. They stayed with us. I decided to experiment and cook a vegan dinner - BTW, my husband is FORCED to eat vegan with me and his cholesterol is so low it deserves a medal. So, I just told the kids there were tacos in the kitchen. My adult son was on his 4th taco before I broke down and told him they were vegan. Yep, that good. I'm about to show you how to make a boat load of vegan "taco meat." Get ready to have a religious experience.

What will you need?

• 1 head of cauliflower
• Several mushrooms (I didn't count them - eye roll. maybe 1/2 of a small cardboard container)
• 1 cup of walnuts (mine were chopped but any consistency will do)
• Seasonings - Cayenne, Chicago Steak Seasoning, Cumin, Chili powder, Garlic powder
• A food processor & a skillet

Rinse your cauliflower thoroughly and chop into florets. Take the stalk and all the other parts of the cauliflower, wrap them in a grocery bag, and take them outside to the trashcan. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY DO NOT PUT THEM IN YOUR KITCHEN TRASH. If you do, the police will show up the next day to do a welfare check and they will assume you're either dead or you murdered someone a week ago. That is how bad the cauliflower will smell by the next morning. Trust me. You will need to separate the florets into 3 batches. We are going to run the cauliflower through the food processor and I haven't found a processor yet that can handle the whole shebang. So process the cauliflower in 1/3 increments until it's the consistency of rice. Dump it all in a mixing bowl. Next, run all of the mushrooms through the processor, also until they are the consistency of rice. Do the same with the walnuts. At this point you should have a HUGE bowl of cauliflower and smaller bowls of both mushrooms and walnuts. Like so......

Odd, yes. But, hang in there. The best is yet to come! Next you'll need a large skillet and approx 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Heat the skillet. Heat the oil. Toss in 2 cups of cauliflower rice and 1 cup each of the mushrooms and the walnuts (probably all of the mushrooms and walnuts. Eye roll - sorry, I don't measure). Put the rest of the cauliflower in a sealed container and refrigerate. You can heat it in a skillet. later in the week, with a little salt and pepper and use it exactly as you would rice! Stir your concoction well and add the seasoning. I even included a picture!

I think I usually start with 2 Tbsp of Chili Powder, 2 Tbsp of Garlic Powder, 1 Tbsp of Steak Seasoning, 1 Tbsp of Cumin, and a liberal dash of Cayenne. After that, just taste. I like extra everything and tend to go heavier on the spicier elements. You do you. Cumin is life. That is all. After you get your seasoning just right, heat at medium, letting the "meat" brown on both sides. Guess what? That's it! You can now have a taco salad, soft tacos, hard tacos....add this to taco soup in place of the meat. You name it. It is delicious. You can now have 2 tacos. Cause, who needs meat? Not me....until next month. Here are two amazing iPhone pictures of the finished product...

Listen, it wasn't a brooch or a tomato, but it is a kick A alternative to animal protein that you'll find to be amazingly meat like both in texture and in flavor. Yes, that plate is sitting on my kitchen island which is really a thrift store desk that I painted to resemble a shipwreck with a mermaid and some koi fish. I'm a little cray, but it's a 99% vegan cray. Your tummy and your cholesterol will thank you. If you made it to the end of this post, drop me a comment. And, I thank you, too! You pretty much rock. GO VEG!

Spider & Ted's Excellent Adventure

Just the good old boys
Never meanin' no harm
Beats all you ever saw
Been in trouble with the law
Since the day they was born

Straghtenin' the curves
Flattenin' the hills
Someday the mountains might get 'em
But the law never will

Makin' their way
The only way they know how
That's just a little bit more
Than the law will allow

"Theme from the Dukes of Hazzard" - Waylon Jennings

Today I took my parents to see my daddy's brother. Nothing remarkable about that on the surface. My father has two siblings who are still alive and well - my Aunt Pat & Uncle Billy who we all refer to lovingly as Uncle Spider. Uncle Spider has been under the weather and we thought it was high time to go for a visit. Recently, I realized that my husband can spend 30 minutes alone with my father and hear stories I've never heard before. Hubby has a kind heart and a gentle soul and he dotes on every word my father says, garnering these results. I decided to stop talking so much and start listening more. Today, I secretly recorded a three minute conversation between these two brothers. It was sweet, hilarious, and brought me to tears. I want you all to read it. This is transcribed VERBATIM with no changes, including grammar and what I call "country folk talk." Enjoy this little ditty about life in Bristol, TX pre-WWII.

Uncle Spider: This old cow we had down there, she was a gentle old cow. She come around and she picked me up on her horns and carried me plumb down to that creek. Boy, I had me a good cow.

Daddy: Boy, I don’t remember that.

Uncle Spider: Yeah, I was up there just a ridin’ along. Course old JB (their father), he was just waitin’ on another bill from the doctor. I broke both of these arms and he had to go get 'em set.

Daddy: Yeah, now that I do remember.

Uncle Spider: I don’t know where Daddy got the money, cause there wasn’t no money.

Daddy: I remember Jack was layin’ down & Spider would get on his feet and Jack would shove him and he’d go way up in the air, you know, and come down. But, one time he come down and broke his arm.

Uncle Spider: Well, I broke the other one, too, when I was down at Uncle Bob’s playin’ rubber guns, you know, up in the barn. Somebody shot me and I fell off and broke my arm. JB had to carry me to Ennis to Dr  Thomas (?) You remember him? Who knows where he got the money. He didn’t have any money. But, that was way back there in 1942.

Daddy: Oh, lordy, times have changed.

Uncle Spider: Man, I miss old JB.

Daddy: Oh yes.

Uncle Spider: Well, momma too, you know. I don’t believe you could find a more perfect momma and daddy in the world than them, do you? I just don’t know if any other couple would make a better mother and father than what we had.

Daddy: That’s right. That’s right. They were good (smiles). They had problems, too, back when he was playin’ the fiddle. And, he brought this old record home, “Seven Years with the Wrong Woman.” Well, momma listened to that til she finally said that was it and she took that record up and (breaks it over his knee). Broke that thing into 99 pieces. And, that was all of the song, “Seven Years with the Wrong Woman.”

Uncle Spider: (Talking to me) My dad was – the government made him, in Bristol – Bristol’s on a high hill on a direct line to Houston. So, they made JB the Air Raid Warden, but he was drunk all the time so I got to do it. I was 12! 12 years old. I’d get up on that old phone, you know. That old ringer phone. And, Maude Manry would answer. Well, when I said “Red Flag” everybody got cut off (he explained it was a party line).  And, it went right direct to Love Field. Then, I’d tell em I was in Bristol. See, they had a huge map up there & a bunch of military people. And I’d call in – they had this program all the way to Houston – so I’d call in from Bristol. You know I’d say “I just saw an airplane come over. 4 engines.” Stuff like that. But, I guarantee you I did it for 2 years. Air Raid Warden and I’s 12 years old. That was back when WWII was startin’. 

Daddy will soon be 90 years old. Uncle Spider is 87. There are so many more stories to hear. How my great grandfather had a cabin on the banks of the Trinity River and my Granny was scared to let young Ted go alone for fear of the alligators that were so prevalent. How my Gramp became a barber because there just wasn't a future in sharecropping. How Gramp was quite the honky tonk fiddle player back in the day. How Granny wasted all the fresh eggs one day because the boys wouldn't stop fighting so she PUMMELED them with eggs. Those Stilwells. They sure are good stock! I implore you to do less talking and more listening, too. The world needs more good stories. 

Eight Christmases

Please take down the mistletoe
'Cause I don't wanna think about that right now
'Cause everything I want is miles away
Snow covered little town
My momma's in the kitchen, worrying about me
Season's greetings, hope you're well
Well I'm doing alright
If you were wondering
Lately I can never tell

I know this shouldn't be a lonely time
But there were Christmases when you were mine

"Christmases When You Were Mine" - Taylor Swift

This isn't going to be a sad post. It may be a bit melancholy, but hang in there just a bit. It will not be sad. I've been there. I have a Phd in sad. I'm so over sad. Melancholy, though, is a whole different monster. Contemplative is a beast. Introspective is a freaking scary movie. Resignation is a house of horrors. But not sad. Never, ever again. Mark my words.

As a child growing up in a very rural suburb of Dallas, had you asked me where I'd be today, I'm not sure what response you'd have received. If you could read my Dr. Suess "All About Me" book, you'd know that 6 year old DD wanted to be an airline stewardess with a mini-skirt uniform, a Marlo Thomas "That Girl" bouffant flip, knee high white shiny boots, and an ascot of some sort. Middle school me was convinced I would be an amazing actress - maybe the next Kristi McNichol or Tatum O'Neal? High School moi was determined to be a news anchor. Heck, I should be on Good Morning America by now. I knew one thing. I was going to be somebody important. Oh, but those best laid plans of mice, men, & naive children. 49 years later, I can tell you one thing. It's been an adventurous life. I worked in a bank. I worked for an ex-husband. I worked in a library. I worked in pharmaceuticals. I worked in sales. I worked in management at a distribution warehouse. I worked for a veterinarian. I worked as a national traveling sales trainer. Which job did I like the best? Easy peasy. The one I hope to hold for another 49 years. I worked as a mom. There were 4 beautiful children. All so different. All so perfect. All so me. Some are here. One is gone. Three were birthed. One was inherited, like that even matters. I have diapered. I have nursed. I have taught. I have cried. I have prayed. I have bargained with God above. I have worried. I have sacrificed. I have won. I have lost. I have been an abysmal failure. I have been the absolute best.  This is one job I have never, ever quit.

When you lose a child, you lose a tether - a tether to other people, a tether to yourself, a tether to reality. It's a bit like being in a hot air balloon, I would imagine. Very scary. Totally unpredictable. Yet, as you're free floating through the sky, IF you can calm your heart, & IF you can take deep breaths, & IF you can keep from vomiting, you'll notice the sky. You'll see the ground. You'll realize you have a vantage point to witness such miraculous things. Things you never noticed before. Things like how beautiful people's skin tones are - no two are alike. Things like rain & clouds - Instagram only wishes they had those filters. Things like the majestic sound of thunder. Things like the smell of freshly mowed grass or the smell of coffee. Things like someone you love saying your name.

It has been eight Christmases since she was here. I remember everything. Every mole. Every fingernail. The smell of her head. The sound of her voice. The clomp of her feet in the morning. Her laugh. I remember these things because God answered my prayer. He told me to always love her. He told me melancholy was fine but sad was no bueno. He told me to see her in every newborn puppy and every blade of grass and every raindrop. He said I could find her in the eyes of each kind person I would ever meet. He told me that she would be snuggled up next to me in the wee hours of every single morning. He said, if I tried really really hard, I could feel her hugs when I needed them most. He said I was somebody important, after all. That's why he shared her with me.

Be important.

Merry Christmas.

Boys with Mustaches

If you had not have fallen
Then I would not have found you
Angel flying too close to the ground
And I patched up your broken wing and hung around a while
Trying to keep your spirits up and your fever down

I knew that someday you would fly away
For love's the greatest healer to be found
So leave me if you need to, I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground

"Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground" - Willie Nelson


I am pretending that I am at a funeral. Lord knows that the older I get the more funerals I seem to go to. I suppose it's equal parts age and good southern manners, but, goodness - it's still difficult. See, I am missing a funeral next week. I don't want to miss it, but there's this thing about this mastectomy revision surgery. It involves me being absolutely fine and as cancer free as one could imagine. Nevertheless, there are surgical drains and my potential incapability to draw in my eyebrows correctly that are keeping me from attending. Mostly, the drain. A little bit involves the restriction of raising my arms above my head. Or driving. But the person who passed, can we talk about him? I haven't laid eyes on him nor have I spoken to him in well over 30 years, yet I've cried over him almost every day for the last week. Let me tell you a little story about Roger Dale McKinley, Jr.

It was the fall of 1979. I was in the 7th grade (cue my momma's Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight pulling up to the curb of Seagoville Jr High School one afternoon). I had long brown hair and feathered bangs that were not permitted to start the feathering process until they reached my cheekbones. I was not even 5 ft tall. I wasn't allowed to wear make-up yet, but I was not opposed to sneaking pool cue chalk to school in my otherwise empty purse and using it as eyeshadow in the girl's restroom (this was Seagoville, after all). I was most likely wearing dittos jeans and earth shoes with a peasant shirt AND a ton of Love's Baby Soft. I'm sure I spotted the Olds and held back for a bit, painfully shy as I was, back in the day. It was my chance to observe. Fast forward - I launch myself into the chocolate brown velour front seat. As my momma reached for the gear shift on the steering column, I did the simultaneous spoken and gestured "stop." This boy walked out from the covered awning and stood next to the sidewalk. Jeans. T-shirt. Baseball cap. Pretty much the outfit du jour of today's modern day 7th grade boy. But, he turned. For 5 seconds I thought maybe he saw me. And, never one to be shy in the safety of my momma, I said - "I love him." Enter Roger McKinley.
So, the funny part of the story was my momma! I distinctly remember her saying, "Dina Dale, is he 30?" This is where things get super funny. Yes, we had the same middle name. Great for him. Not so great for me, but I digress. This is where we pretend I'm actually at the funeral and I found the wherewithall to stand up when they say "would anyone like to share your memories of the loved one"...raise your hand if you remember the full on Roger McKinley stache of the 7th grade? Am I right? He had a complete mustache & I loved it. I also don't think he knew I existed. Yet.

Act 2. It's the spring. Young Roger is between Jr High romances and somehow I manage to catch his eye. I cannot recall the specifics but I imagine it involved 300 spiral notebooks of lettering our names together and 300 more calls to Eagle 97 for them to play "I Want You to Want Me" and undoubtedly some practical magic on my part. He looked at me outside of the cafeteria, baseball cap/mustache/feathered hair and all, and said the magic words. Will.You. Go. With. Me.
For the next approximate 3.5 weeks, I traipsed the grounds of the joint Seagoville Jr High/High School campus holding hands with the then love of my young life. Back to reality. Young Roger's life would not be a bed of roses. He would lose touch with me. He would lose touch with many. He would fight demons and addictions. Sometimes he would win. Sometimes he would lose. Sometimes he would haunt my dreams. The whole purpose of this blog entry is for me to share this part of this recollection. I've lost immediate family members. This is the kind of story I would have enjoyed hearing from an old friend.

When Roger McKinley is your 7th grade boyfriend, it goes a little something like this: He calls you on the phone Friday after school and asks you if you'd like to go on a "date" at Super Skate Saturday night. Duh. You pause for effect, looking down at your princess slimline baby blue phone (because a girl has to play hard to get) and you say, "kay." He says to meet him at 7:30 and not to be late. So you do. If you think you'll pay for your own Dr Pepper at the concession stand, think again. That's not how Roger rolls. He's extremely soft spoken. I seem to recall he had the voice of an angel. I seem to recall it was next to impossible to get him to sing. He opens doors for you. He orders for you. He puts his hand on your back to guide you into the snack bar. He finds a booth and he doesn't sit down until you do. When they leave the jalapenos off of your nachos, he goes back to get them. He's not a big skater, but if you make a pouty face during the couple skate, he can be persuaded. And, when another boy says untoward, vile things about you, he'll tell you that he'll be right back. As you sit there, unaware, he will take that boy around to the back and teach him some manners. And then he will sit with you on a bench for the rest of the night while you pick his bottom lip out of his braces with a concession stand toothpick. My 7th grade Roger was a gentleman.

See, I didn't know the Roger of the last 30 years. I'd heard here and there - stories of his misfortune. I knew he wasn't doing well. I knew, like so many people we all know and love from every single walk of life, that he was fighting battles in a war his family so prayed he would win. About 2 years ago, he sent me a Facebook friend request. I accepted. That's all I did. I saw he was doing better. I saw that he was fighting. Demons be damned, Roger was not going down easily.  I wish that I'd done more. I wish I would have reached out and shared this memory with him. About a boy in the 7th grade with an awesome mustache who shared my middle name and fought for my dignity.

Fly high Roger. We'll always have 3 weeks of 7th grade romance.

Your takeaway - if you have a Roger McKinley in your past, share your memories with them. We all need to know we made a positive impact along the way. He did.

Banana Snipers & Tiny Raves

The mouse takes the cheese
The mouse takes the cheese
Heigh ho the derry-o
The mouse takes the cheese

The cheese stands alone
The cheese stands alone
Heigh ho the derry-o
The cheese stands alone

"Farmer in the Dell" - Author assumed to be a German individual in the early 1820's

So, here we are. It's just me, a girl from the country. Raised among feral cats, ride-able donkeys, and the occasional cur dog. I'm not above mucking around in the what-have-you. I've shot a gun a few times. I can drive a standard if need be. I've pulled a trailer a time or two. I've backed a boat down a ramp on more than a few occasions. I killed a snake with a garden hoe once. I murdered a hawk-attacked chicken where the ants had already taken over, just out of humanity's sake, in front of my 5 year old daughter...WITH A SHOVEL. I birthed babies at home. I survived breast cancer! My point in telling you this? You'll surely see that I am a tough girl. I don't succumb to silliness and I don't go down easily. If I'm ever found unconscious or worse, check under my nails. I guarantee you there will be forensic evidence. It's just that I'm in a dilemma that I've only been in a time or two. Lawd have mercy, there's a mouse in this house.

Book One - What in Heaven's Name is Going On?

I'm an early riser, Mostly, that's due to the fact that I'm a crappy sleeper. My Mom is also a crappy sleeper. She used to get up at 6 am. Now she's up at 3:30 am. I'm deep breathing just thinking about what the future holds for me. But anywho, bout that mouse? I stumble into the kitchen around 6:15 with no alarm. Now, there's a ritual to be observed and I am all about the rituals in life. I get up, The poodle gets up. I put my jammie pants on. The poodle stretches. I place the poodle on the floor. We walk together to the bathroom. We then walk together to the kitchen. We let the other, less fortunate dogs out of their super comfy kennel with the uber soft comforter. They go outside, I gather their food bowls. I mix extraordinarily expensive hard dog food with extraordinarily expensive soft dog food and I basically spoon feed them all. The poodle and I return inside. I grab creamer. I grab coffee. I blindly punch buttons on the Keurig. Then, I see it.

For about 30 seconds I chant "it's just spices" about 100 times out loud. I rationalize that pepper grounds roughly the equivalent to half of a chocolate chip were magically left for me by the previously unknown "pepper elves." What else could it be? A comma that literally dropped off of a page? Barbie's bobby pin? As my almost 50 year old eyes begin to adjust, I see other things that are wrong. So very, very wrong. Why do all the bananas have quarter sized holes in them? Banana sniper? Seriously, is there a tiny white sniper van driving down my kitchen island aiming at the fruit bowl? Then I see the hellacious mess in the pantry. There's a hole in the flour bag. On the second shelf. There's flour EVERYWHERE, Suddenly, I realize what I'm dealing with. There's a mouse. A rogue mouse. He got high on bananas and obviously threw a rave in my pantry! What are those microscopic orange things on top of my washing machine? They could be pieces of the flour bag. They could also easily be tiny mouse-rave wristbands. Or glowsticks. I'm assuming my mouse was the DJ - Spinderella cut it up one time.

The rave wristbands and the holy bananas (punny as all get out) and the wayward commas all get swept away with a liberal dosing of peroxide. My hands get a liberal dosing in a hot shower. I get myself together and I get to Walmart. I'm on the mousetrap aisle. This is also the ziploc bag aisle, the air freshener aisle, AND the paper towel aisle. There are options. So, so many options. Then, wouldn't you know it, I GET EMOTIONAL! My mouse is adorable, suddenly. My mouse is ticklish. My mouse has a lisp! My mouse is Tiny Tim from A Christmas Carol complete with the British accent! "God bless us, everyone!" I call my husband. In my ear he sounded like the teacher from the Peanuts cartoon (Waa waa waa waa wa waa waa wa WAAAAA). Subconciously I am aware that he is saying things like "kill" and "disease" and "mites"and "no, you cannot buy a live animal trap."


Book Two - Mouseaggedon

Fast forward: I have since been back to Walmart TWICE. We now own 2 different sizes of hard kill traps and two different sizes of glue traps. This is NOT a nice mouse, folks. He's MANIACAL! I have used my amazing profiling skills to create my own Criminal Minds, Mouse Edition. We all have to band together on this one. Pay close attention to this description!

Unsubs name: Ren, as in Ren McCormack from Footloose
Description: severe undercut with the side part "line," known to sport vanity glasses, hasn't worn socks in 5 years. Has been seen with a beard but also known to wear a handlebar mustache. Currently learning to play the guitar - look for him at coffee shops. Likes cardigans and bow ties.
Other useful info: Has been known to speak of his desire to develop his own IPA or manage an Indie band. Has attempted to start his own mouse music festival - Rodentpalooza. Eschews the West Coast at all costs. Dreams of a hipster life in Manitou Springs.

If you see Ren, DO NOT CALL 911. You're on your own, Peace be with you.

Faith in Feathers

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly
Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night

"Blackbird"  -The Beatles

Part 1 - I'm a Little Cray

It's time we talked about feathers. I've been anxious to broach the subject with you, but it's a tenuous line at best, the whole feathers thing. I mean, I certainly put stock in it. But, will you? I've been called many things. Crazy certainly comes to mind. Too free-spirited has been said a time or two. A little bit out there is another fragment I've heard once or twice, downwind from a conversation in my midst. That's ok. Really, it is. With the way the world is today, for me to be considered non-conforming is a heck of a compliment. That's how I'll take it, at least. So, about those feathers.

Lots of things come to mind when one hears the word feathers. Things can be feathered. Like 70's bangs. Paint strokes. Big bird. Smallish birds. People dipped in tar. Things can be filled with feathers. Pillows. Down comforters. Insanely expensive couch cushions. Remember that early 2000's phase where all the girls were getting feathers permanently attached in their hair? That was kinda cool, actually. There are feathers in chandeliers nowadays. Feathers hanging in dream catchers. Native American headdresses. Tattoos. The list is never ending. I'll stop now. Let me get to the heart of the matter. I need to tell you about my feathers.

When someone you love dies, you miss them. Duh. It hurts your heart. Sooner or later, if you're lucky, life intervenes. The other people that you also love need you. Really, really need you. So, you plow forward. Seasons change. That's good, too. And, not so good. Sometimes you sit up in the bed at night with tears streaming down your face and you feel so guilty. Maybe you had a string of several happy-go-lucky days. Even 2 weeks in a row where you belly laughed continuously and did unheard of things like take a vacation.  Your person, though, is still there in your heart. In your mind. In your soul. In your dreams. Do they think you forgot them? How could you dare do this? This being happy thing. Damn you. Then the next day you get up, that overnight nervous breakdown a distant memory, and trudge on. But the winds of change, they're a blowin',

Part 2 - Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

My mother loves cardinals. She believes with every fiber of her being that a cardinal means someone you loved who passed on is coming back to visit you. Cardinals, to her, are a sign of hope. She sees cardinals and thinks of her parents, the baby sister she never knew, countless aunts and uncles, and her granchild, my daughter. I knew someone who firmly insisted that every single penny she every saw on any surface that existed was a sign from her late son. He was telling her to be happy. He was telling her he was ok. That he loved her. Some people associate certain smells with those who've passed away. I'll have to admit, I have a very vague memory of my Great Aunt Floy. Very vague. She was gravely ill in her home. I went to visit her and another of my Great Aunts was there with her grandchildren. My siblings were old enough to live on their own when I was born, so an afternoon with other kids was a rarity. They were boys and they showed me how to make bridge tunnels in the dirt and roll the hot wheel cars through them. Earth shattering. Later on, I was ushered in to see my Great Aunt. She held my hand and touched my hair. She made me promise to read lots of books and she gave me a tiny figurine of a French Victorian lady that I ALWAYS asked to hold when at her house. That was almost 45 years ago and that figurine is currently in my dining room. But, I digress. Almost 20 years later and hurrying to catch the DART bus, I was scurrying through one of the downtown Dallas tunnels that takes you seemingly halfway across the city. I smelled oregano. Tears came to my eyes and I had to stop and take several deep breaths. Aunt Floy, I thought. I smell your kitchen, Aunt Floy. It made me so incredibly happy. And I missed the bus that day, but I was so in awe of this perceived connection that I didn't even care.

And, what does any of this have to do with feathers? That is my sign. From my daughter. I guess when you leave this world at 16 you're always 16. That's the way I see her, anyway - 16, laughing, and beautiful. I have a jar of feathers. Actually a jar, and a tin, and a box. There are a lot of feathers. And, ok, you may be thinking how this has sort of turned into a lame story tonight, BUT WAIT. You haven't heard the whole thing yet. These feathers turn up in the darnedest places. Like, that one time where I was running one morning and really thinking about my daughter. I was wearing sunglasses. Tip - crying in public is much easier when you wear sunglasses. Thank me later. Anyway, as I recovered and be-bopped back up to my house, I'm unlocking the door and about to walk inside when I look down and see, wedged in between the screen door and the front door, a blue jay feather. So, I kept it. And I had the best day that day. Remember the winter a couple of years ago where we had actual snow in Texas? It was way too cold for way too long. I found a feather in the front yard on the snow, which I thought was odd. Here's the BEST feather story. I was working extensively with my friend, Emily. It was c-c-c-cold. December-ish. I was driving to our meeting point. Not a care in the world. (I don't drive. I hold benefit concerts. So, I have the radio as loud as it will go and I belt out songs. Occasionally in key.) When I got to Emily's, I reached for my purse, grabbed my keys, unhooked my seat belt, and noticed something. On my leg. A feather. A guinea feather, no less. In the winter. I scurried inside, feather in hand, and said, "Look what I just found ON MY LEG as I was pulling in." She said, "That's from Chynna." This week, I've found no less that 5 feathers in random places. Somewhere I was about to step. The bed of my truck. Next to my mailbox. Today I was walking into Walmart. I had yesterday's Starbuck's cold brew coffee cup in my hand and thought I'd actually throw it away in the trashcan instead of letting it procreate with the other cups in my truck. As I was trying to get the disgusting gum encrusted trashcan lid to swing inward, something glided past my face and landed at my feet, Forrest Gump style. A feather. A huge, black feather with white speckles on the ends. I kept it. It's sitting here next to me as I'm writing this. "Okay, daughter of mine," I thought. "Let's share this." Maybe one day I'll have enough feathers to make a Native American headdress. Or a dream catcher. Or a pillow. Maybe she is trying to tell me something. I guess that is a long shot. Communicating with my late daughter through a series of feather sightings? But after all, what is the definition of faith? Unshakable belief in something you cannot prove. Boom. I'm ok, baby girl. Better than ok. I'm awesome. And I love the feathers. And I love you.

Unbreak My Heart - AKA everyone's guide when someone you love loses someone they love

Spend all your time waiting
For that second chance
For a break that would make it okay

There's always some reason
To feel not good enough
And it's hard, at the end of the day

I need some distraction
Oh, beautiful release
Memories seep from my veins

And maybe empty
Oh, and weightless, and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight

In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here

"Arms of the Angel" - Sarah McLachlan

Today I sat in the baptist church of my childhood. The church where my grandmother, Lucille, sat every single Sunday - eyes bright and ears ready for the gospel. The church where her sister Jewel both worked and worshiped. The church across the street from my Aunt's house - both current and past. Don't try and figure that one out. There's just something about a good old Southern Baptist church to bring you to your knees. But, this wasn't a Sunday sermon. It wasn't a wedding. It wasn't even Reverend Shaw Moore from Footloose bringing down the fire and brimstone warnings of dancing and carrying on and whatnot. It was a funeral. Of a young person. A young person the ages of my three children, one of whom has also gone from us already. Tragic.Unfathomable. Gut-wrenching. The names in this story have so definitely been changed to protect the innocent - except my grandma's name really was Lucille and one of her sisters really was Jewel. But that is all you need to know about today. There is a mom and a family and an extended network of loved ones grieving this night and they deserve all the anonymity we can give them. So there. But back to the church. I sat in a pew with three of the most beautiful souls that ever graced my old high school. See, the funeral was for the son of an old friend. And we four old friends just happened to wander in and find each other, in support of our other old friend. Thank goodness. I was not looking forward to doing my ugly crying in that pew alone. And I needn't have worried. It was oddly cathartic and even slightly therapeutic; the pats on the knee..the little hugs...lots of sweet gestures meant to let me know they understood how hard it must be to go to a young person's funeral when your young person already had a funeral. As we stood outside waxing poetic about the past and better times, one of my sweet friends told me how she couldn't wait to end this stressful Friday with an awesome margarita tonight. And then, it happened. I opened my mouth and weird stuff came out. "I'm going to drink a bottle of wine and write a blog entry about what to say to people who've lost children." So, here we go! The wine is yet to be uncorked. But it's there. Just in case. Gentlemen, start your engines. All the things you ever wanted to say to someone who's child passed away, but you weren't sure if you should. Or shouldn't. This, of course, is just my interpretation. No two people have the same experience with any of life's foibles. That's my disclaimer and I'm sticking to it .Let's do this in list format, shall we? But first, a quote written by someone I don't know about a topic I consider myself to be an expert on.....

"A wife who loses a husband is called a widow. A husband who loses a wife is called a widower. A child who loses his parents is called an orphan. There is no word for a parent who loses a child. That's how awful the loss is."

-Jay Neugeboren - An Orphan's Tale 1976

1. Please, please, for the love of God...please don't ignore us. Maybe it was 100% completely my imagination (quite possible) but I sort of promise you that I remember walking through WalMart and seeing people I knew. The moment they realized who I was, there was a flurry of movement and shuffling and buggy maneuvering, and power walking. Away. From me. Is it comfortable to talk to someone who's kid just died? Hell, no. But, odds are the person in question will avert your eye contact and you will get to breathe a sigh of relief. If not...oh well. Tears will pour from our eyes and snot will run from our nose, but we'll be so grateful you walked up. And, guess what? You'll feel amazing after the fact. You will understand how much it meant to us. You'll be like a superhero. Trust me. Just hug us and say, "Been thinkin about you."

2. The BIGGEST fear a person who lost a child has is the fear that everyone in the universe is going to forget them. Crazy, right? I promise you it's the truth. We want...no, we NEED to talk about our lost children. We need to say their names and, more importantly, we need to HEAR their names spoken. If there's one thing I advocate for anyone whose friend has gone through this travesty, it is this: suck it up, buttercup. Call them. Go by. Sit a spell.  Say these words, "Tell me more about________." Then just sit back and listen. If you really knew this precious angel they miss so much, add in this line, "You know, the thing I always remember about ________ is this...." Again, that's a total superhero move. Your cape is in the mail.

3. Death does not discriminate. It knows not the human distinctions of race or wealth or religion or gender. Death suffocates the living. Death definitely does not adhere to any human imposed timeline. All the things you may have read about the stages of grief? Evil eyes, hexes, voodoos AND hoodoos to those foolish thoughts. People who go through the loss of a child will be sad forever. Period. End quote. Repeat. Sad forever. And ever. I am not trying to depress you. What I am trying to do is to tell you not to ever say these words, "One day you'll feel better." If your child died and you said this to someone, ya lied. If you did not lose your child, please just don't ever say this to another person. Here's the deal. Wait......this is a segue to #4, so read on, my friend.

4. What does it feel like to lose a child? The night my daughter died, I started screaming the moment the doctor told me she was gone. Only problem was, no sound was coming out of my mouth and I had a blank stare on my face, so I'm told. But, in my head, I was screaming. In my head, I was vomiting on the floor in the fetal position. In my head, I was swinging a baseball bat at every breakable object I could see. I can't tell you what it feels like because there are no words to convey what it feels like. After staying to meet the organ donation team, my husband took me home. I demanded he take me to my daughter's room where I put on my daughter's pajamas (she was 16 - I do not recommend this if your daughter is much smaller than you, Sorry. Feeble attempt at humor). I sat in her bed and watched her favorite movie and screamed into a pillow. For hours. And hours. And hours. Almost 8 years later, here's what I know about grief. You may quote me on this. I think I wrote it. If I did not write it, I guarantee the person who did write it lost a child and does not mind me using this quote. 

"Grief over someone who died is like walking into the ocean for the first time. If you've never walked into a crashing wave, your feet will fly out from underneath you and you'll tumble, end over end, into the water. It takes your breath away and it stings your eyes and you can't breathe properly for a good bit. It will happen, just like this, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. One day, a year from that moment or 5 years from that moment or 25 years from that moment, you'll walk into that same ocean. This time, when the waves crash against you, you won't lock your knees. The waves will ALWAYS crash against you, but you'll bend, just the tiniest amount. And you won't fall. And that makes all the difference." 

5. There is no grief hierarchy. This, in my opinion, is the most important thing I need to tell you. See, it's the one I struggled with for the longest time. People called me. They emailed me. They texted me, back when you had to hit that "7" button four times if you wanted an "S". See, there's humor in death, folks. Anyway, I was insulted. My daughter was 16 when she died. She was being courted by colleges. She was set to attend a medical conference for high school students who were interested in being doctors and had the GPA to back it up. She received a letter from a private Catholic college that did not guarantee but did mention the word "scholarship." She was basically an adult. She was important. To me. HOW DARE YOU COMPARE THE DEATH OF MY PRECIOUS ANGEL TO THE DEATH OF YOUR: ______________________. Now I'm crying because I see how wrong I was. Words you could insert into the blank above include but are not limited to: grandparent, parent, best friend, infant, fetus. The list knows no end. I am so so so so so so sorry. I get it now. May I explain it to you? Cause I think this is a game changer. The worst feeling you've ever felt is the worst feeling you've ever felt. End of story. If you've never experienced loss before and your grandparent dies, it hurts like shit, pardon my French. If you've managed to make it to middle age and your parent dies, God help your soul. See? Here's one better. Grab a kleenex. From the minute we women learn we're pregnant, our imaginations go into overdrive. Within the first 24 hours, we've named our baby, we think we know the gender, we're planning weddings, imagining grandchildren, dreaming of family vacations and holidays and picnics and first steps and bat mitzvahs and first communions and college entrance exams and, and, and, and, and, and..........and we see you, precious little one. We see you. And we love you. And you belong to us. And when you don't get to come home with us or don't get to take that first breath, it hurts. Just as bad, I pray. Because if it hurt worse it would mean something else bad happened to you. So, to wrap this one up, me thinking your loss was less than my loss is equivalent to me saying I wish you'd lost more so you could know how I feel. And, I love you. I do not want you to lose anything. So enough of that crap, right?

Hours have gone by as I've written this. I did not drink a bottle of wine, though I do hope my friend had the best margarita of her life. As the sun sets on this day, I'm looking ahead to April 12th, the day I lost my daughter. Eleven days from now, I'm taking a mental health day. I may stay in my pj's. I may work in the garden. I may watch "our" movies: The Little Mermaid, The Wizard of Oz, PS I Love You, I Am Sam, Juno...... Then again, I may do any number of things. I guarantee you tears will be shed. But, I won't fall down. See, I learned to bend my knees. That has made all the difference. Go hug your kids right this minute. Here's a virtual hug for you. <3

Chynna, I miss you. Here's something for you:

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell,"  -Edna St. Vincent Millay