Looking Ahead to 2017

My husband told me he doesn’t make New Year’s resolutions. Good enough. I’m not sure I do any more, either. But as we begin a new year, I find it a good time to reflect on the challenges down the road this coming year. Maybe it’s what I hope to do. But I hesitate to really call these things resolutions. So here are some things I hope to do (and yes, some may be harder than others):

•        Pray for our country and the Trump presidency. I don’t normally delve into politics on my blog, but this is a big one. I must confess – he wasn’t my choice. In fact, I’m still scratching my head trying to make sense of it. While I won’t elaborate here, I don’t think much of him as a person. (Mind you, it’s not a Democrat versus Republican thing, it’s just stuff about him.) But I’m really hoping he can win me over. Having said this, I feel I must respect the democratic process that elected him to office. The fact of the matter is, people voted for him, and because of the way our electoral college system works, he was elected. So yes, he will be my president and I truly want him to succeed. His success (as I define it) will only benefit me and my loved ones. So I will pray for him, and put 2017 in God’s hands.
•        Finish this weight loss thing. I began my latest weight management journey in August, and am feeling much better. So at least that’s one thing I don’t have to begin from scratch with the new year. So far, down 42 pounds (and for those wondering how, the New Direction very low calorie diet through the St. Elizabeth Physicians Weight Management Center). I still have about another 20 pounds to lose. And then, after that is when I’ll hit the more challenging part – keeping it off. I’ve done well at being focused on this, but admit that I haven’t lost quite as much during the holidays. But I guess I did good to maintain. As we hit the New Year, I have a renewed focus.
•        Complete Clay’s quilt. I’ve made quilts for my sons Luke and Sam. Now it’s Clay’s turn. I started it a while back but I’m still early in the process. I’m hoping to turn it up a gear, as I’d like to have it done by the time he graduates college this summer.
•        Stay strong. I mean this in a more emotional sense. Within the next few months we will most likely be transitioning Ed’s aunt to a higher level of long-term care. I think I’m procrastinating at beginning the process because the prospect of this breaks my heart.
•        Look forward to new professional challenges. In March I will have been with St. Elizabeth Healthcare for three years. Considering the tenure of most employees there, this still makes me a rookie. But I’m so grateful to be a part of this organization and its mission. New challenges are in store for me in 2017, and I certainly hope I’m up for those challenges. This is but one thing that brings me to my next point.
•        Overcome my fear of failure. How many people fail to try something out of fear they may fail? So many, I’m sure. I try to tell myself that the only real failure is to not try at all. And that occasional failure may be a means for becoming better and stronger. If we learn from our failures, are those not learning opportunities? I try to see it that way. Yet it’s hard when you so desperately want to be perfect the first time (or the second or third) and to please the people you serve.
•        Blog more. I launched this blog several years ago during a challenging time in life – probably more as a coping mechanism than anything. Anything I post online is meant to be read. I wouldn’t post it if it wasn’t for anybody and everybody to read. But I guess the blog is more for me than anyone else. I would still write it even if nobody read it. Still, if anything in any of my posts has ever provided insight, or wisdom, or just touched your heart, that’s great too. I think I only wrote two blogs in all of 2016. Let’s see if I can double or triple that in 2017. Still, I don’t want to post something just for the sake of posting. But when I feel inspired to write, it seems the words just flow.
•        Pray more. This goes without saying. I realize my relationship with God could always be stronger, and should go beyond church on Sunday and evening grace at the dinner table. I do try to live my life as God would want me – which includes following Christ’s example of love and tolerance for all.

OK, so that’s enough. That’s just a few things I’m facing as we enter 2017. I’m sure I’ll think of more. I guess my first challenge is to try to come down from the emotional high of the holidays and brace for the winter ahead. I would say let’s skip January and February and head straight to March, but then wouldn’t I be wishing my life away? Besides, something really awesome could happen between now and then. I just might not know what it is.

No, I won’t wish my life away. Nor will I become overwhelmed by these various to-do’s. And besides, one thing age has taught me is to not get so freaked out, even if I have an ambitious agenda.

So maybe I do have just a couple of resolutions for 2017.

I’ll take life one day at a time.

I’ll remember to stop and breathe.

And most of all, I’ll have the faith to put it all in God’s hands.

Time for a Fall Project!

It's project time again. Which means we are minus a bathroom.

Those of you who know my husband Ed know that he lives

Our completely unfinished bathroom.

for his next project, and this one happens to be the upstairs bathroom. This weekend Ed spent his time completely demolishing everything in the bathroom, and now there's pretty much nothing left except for the closet shelves.

So now this means that son Sam gets to share our bathroom in our bedroom, which he's not all too thrilled about. But at least he's the only one. Luke left for college a few weeks ago so he's not here, and Clay's been gone to college for a while now.

They were all home last weekend for the Labor Day weekend. And of course, Ed put them to work. What a comical scene to watch the four of them attempt to get a 350 pound cast iron tub up the stairs. I thought for sure someone would break his neck, but somehow they prevailed.

Now that the demolition is complete it's time to put it all back together, which will take some time. Ed has until Thanksgiving. We're hosting this year, so we'll have to have the bathroom back in order for when the company comes.

So I guess this is where some of the decision making starts. Ed says we're going to have to decide on a faucet set for the bathtub soon, as I guess that's one of the first places he starts. So do I go with black, which I tend to prefer; or with the chrome or brushed nickel, where there are more choices? We already have the new vanity and vanity top, as well as the aforementioned heavy bathtub. Just want to make sure our new bathroom is perfectly color coordinated. That's pretty much my job. All the hard labor falls in Ed's hands.

Whatever the finished product, I'm sure it will be spectacular. My husband does good work. It wouldn't be inaccurate to call him a perfectionist when it comes to stuff like this.

Just as long as he knows he's on a deadline. Turkey day isn't so far away!

Of Patchwork and Perfection: Life Lessons Learned from Quilting

“Good enough.”

Luke's Quilt

I couldn’t believe I actually heard myself saying that. But that was the case just a few days ago as I was joining the ends of the binding on a quilt that I had been working on for the past five months. For those of you familiar with quilting, you might be able to relate when I say that joining the ends of binding is one of my least favorite tasks in the process (second only to pin basting the quilt sandwich once I complete the quilt top). And my desire is that when I join the ends that the edges line up perfectly. But they seldom do.

In this instance, the edges hardly lined up. It actually kind of came out kind of sloppy. But after five months of patience, persistence, and good old-fashioned sweat putting this quilt together I came to the conclusion that while my efforts to join the binding ends were far from perfect, they would have to do – simply because I didn’t have it in me to rip out the stitches and try again.

This brings me to larger point. A few years ago, while I was working in the corporate world (which I’m still doing, but in a different corporate setting), the higher-ups thought it might be fun for all of the staff to take one of those personality-type tests. I’m not sure which one it was, but it doesn’t really matter.

Anyway, I’d like to say my “label” was unique, but I actually came out in the same classification as about 60 percent of the staff – “perfectionist.”

Wow. Perfectionist. In some ways I wouldn’t consider myself a perfectionist at all, but as I examine my inner depths I guess maybe I am. I do want things to be just as perfect as possible – including myself. And I have always stressed out if there wasn’t something about myself that was just perfect. Being that I’m wrought with imperfection, that would mean I’m quite stressed.

Well, a couple of years ago I took up quilting. I thought it would be a fun thing to do. I’ve always loved quilts – their simple beauty. And to me, a handmade quilt simply exudes love. I actually had it on my bucket list to make a quilt. So I took a class and made a small quilt, and loved the creative process so much that I just kept on going.

I made a quilt for my youngest son Sam, one for my grandmother, one for my best friend from high school, one for my dad, and now I’ve just finished one for my middle son Luke – a gift for his upcoming high school graduation. (My next project – one  for my oldest son Clay.)

And what have I learned in the process? I’ve learned that if you’re a perfectionist and want to be broken of that, there’s nothing better than to take up quilting.

Because unless you’re an absolute master quilter (which I’m not), you’ll most likely look imperfection in  the eye. Dozens of times during the process of creating any masterpiece of mine, I’ll cringe at this flaw, or that one. And as I gift my quilts to my loved ones I will make a point to say (as if I owe an explanation) that while the quilt was made with the ultimate of love, it has many flaws – just like me.

Yes, I cringe at the flaws. But the interesting thing is when the quilt is all made and I take a step back and look at the entire piece, I find it to be absolutely beautiful.  I don’t even notice the flaws.

It got me to thinking. Could we as humans be so obsessive about our tiny flaws that we’re unable to take a step back, see ourselves as whole people and appreciate how beautiful we are?

I’ve never denied my flaws. While I won’t divulge them here (those who know me best know what they are), I can’t help but wonder if one of my ultimate flaws is being so obsessive about my flaws that I don’t appreciate  my own value as a whole person.

In that sense, maybe I should give myself a break. And while I think there’s always opportunity for self-reflection and self-improvement, maybe it doesn’t hurt once in a while to accept yourself and say “good enough.”

As for the quilt I just finished, it’s not perfect, but not bad. But it doesn’t have to be perfect. I made it for my son Luke, who I love deeply. And when he cuddles up under the new quilt that I just finished and put on to his bed tonight, I don’t necessarily need for him to inspect the binding, or examine whether all the stitches are straight. I don’t know whether he’ll notice if all the seams line up. I don’t care.

All I really want for him to do is to get under that quilt tonight and know that his mother loves him.

Killing Time in the Kentucky Bend

A few weekends ago we headed south to Murray, Kentucky to see our brilliant son Luke, who was in the middle of his five-week stint at Murray State University in the Kentucky Governor’s Scholar’s Program. Saturday was Family Day, so we left our house at 5 a.m. just so we could get to Murray by 9 a.m. (central time) to pick him up and spend the day with him.

The dilemma, of course, was once we got there, what do we do? Though it seems like a quaint college town, the things to do in Murray seem to be limited.

Being that I had taken up quilting a little less than a year ago, I really wanted to go to the National Quilt Museum in Paducah, which was about 45 minutes away. Unfortunately, I was outvoted on that one. Apparently, I’m the only real quilt enthusiast in the family.

So we just started driving. South, we went. Murray is close to the border, so within 15 minutes or so we were in Tennessee.

The modest sign that welcomes travelers to the Kentucky Bend.

That’s when my husband had his bright idea. We would head for Kentucky. The other Kentucky. The Kentucky that isn’t part of the rest of Kentucky.

I never knew of such a Kentucky, but my husband had actually noticed on an atlas once that the most southwest part of Kentucky is actually detached from the rest of the state. Getting there entails leaving Kentucky, traveling through Tennessee, then heading north back into the “other” Kentucky. It was the one part of Kentucky where he had never been and wanted to go.

It’s called the Kentucky Bend. And all I can say is if you want to go there, you’ll have to really, really want to go there.

It took us about three hours to get there from Murray. We did stop at a restaurant near Reelfoot Lake for lunch, and that was nice. But after lunch we proceeded with our journey toward the Bend. Through Tiptonville, Tennessee we went, then north up Highway 22.

Yes, we went north, up through the middle of nowhere. At one point we had the waters of the Mississippi on both sides of us. I feared that we might encounter water on the road, and if that was the case, I wasn’t willing to risk flooding our van just to get to the other Kentucky. But the water stayed mercifully off the road. We glimpsed some signs of civilization. An occasional house and farm; some electric lines. So it’s not as if we were totally out of reach of reality.

A few miles of some twisty-turny driving, and we finally arrived. To the “other” Kentucky. And now that I’ve been to this other Kentucky, let me enlighten all who may wonder what is there.

Nothing. No historical markers. No signs explaining how

Courtesy: Jim Efaw, author of  this  work

this little bubble-like piece of land managed to get detached from the mainland of Kentucky (answer: an earthquake). No parks. Just nothing.

We entered the Kentucky Bend as we approached the crude (but I’m guessing just as official) Welcome to Kentucky sign. You’d think the folks in Frankfort would send these fine citizens of the Kentucky Bend one of the more official looking Welcome to Kentucky signs. But I’m thinking instead they told the residents to make their own.

I shouldn’t say there isn’t anything there. There is. There’s corn. Lots of it. And we did spot what appears to be a family cemetery. And a sparse sprinkling of homes. I believe the last census put the number of Kentucky Bend residents at 17. It could still be that – more or less.

And that’s pretty much it. We followed the road for a couple of miles until it turned into a dirt road, and then we didn’t go any farther. I’m guessing if we did, though, we would have hit the waters of the Mississippi. At that point we headed back into Tennessee (despite the remoteness of the area, kudos to Tennessee – they did have one of the official looking signs). Then back toward Murray, Kentucky.

I have to say, the adventure left me a bit underwhelmed. But at least I can say that I’ve officially been to the Kentucky Bend – the part of Kentucky that isn’t attached to the rest of Kentucky. And my husband can make that claim, too, which makes him happy.

Of course, since that exciting excursion took about five to six hours, there was no time for the National Quilt Museum afterward. Guess that will be another adventure for another day – and yes, I will make it there someday. If I can grin and bear the Kentucky Bend, then I’m sure my husband can spend an afternoon learning to appreciate the beauty of fiber arts.

For those who are determined to go to the Kentucky Bend, have at it. Just know you’re only going to say you’ve been there, and for no other reason. It really is pretty much a destination to nowhere.

 

 

Advent of the Empty Nest

“Did you remember to bring toilet paper?” I asked my oldest son Clay as we were about to haul his stuff into his new apartment.

Of course he didn’t. And that’s not all he forgot. As he prepares to begin his sophomore year of college at the University of Kentucky, perhaps at some point this morning it dawned on him that he should have started thinking about packing (and what to pack) before late yesterday afternoon.

A trip to Target is probably in his very near future (like, today). I mean, the kid can’t even get cleaned up. Apparently, while it’s a furnished apartment, it does NOT include the shower curtain, or hooks, or rings.

Had he planned a little better he probably could have talked his mother into a trip to the grocery store for a load of groceries. But no. So now he’s on his own.

And he really is on his own – a reality that’s just hit me in the past day or two. Last year when he went away for his freshman year, I knew he’d be back for the summer. He did come back, and he irked me enough to where I’m glad to see him get back into a regular routine.

Still, it’s bittersweet. This time he won’t be back.

The apartment lease is for a whole year, which means he’ll have to stay in Lexington next summer (and hopefully work and make money). And as I considered the fact that he won’t be coming home again, it occurred to me that I never went home again after my freshman year of college.

I guess the empty nest syndrome has begun. Yet I still remember so vividly the day Clay was born, his first day in day care, his first day of preschool, his days playing Knothole baseball. Those days all seem like yesterday.

Not that his younger brothers are quite so reminiscent. They’re trying to figure out which one will have dibs on Clay’s room.

Nevertheless, it’s a weird feeling to be so proud of your child, all grown up and ready to fly on his own; yet at the same time have a big hole in your heart because you know the days where you see him every day are most likely gone forever.

I’ve always known that my job as a parent is to ultimately work myself out of a job. I don’t feel that time has quite come yet. After all, I can still claim the kid as a dependent on my taxes (as I should – I just paid his tuition). Still, I realize with Clay the child-parent relationship has entered a new phase. He’s a young man now.

And to be honest, despite some of the irritations I may have with him from time to time, he did turn out pretty good. Just an all-around good kid, well-grounded, confident, and good looking if I say so myself. Oh, and he can name every World Series winner since 1965.

And while he’s all grown up now, I hope he knows that his mother will always love him, cherish him, and sometimes spoil him as she can (within reason, of course).

I’ll always be his cheerleader. I remember the year he was cut from his Knothole baseball team (a totally crappy thing that should have never happened to him) and I was so disillusioned that I wanted him to give up the game. Yet he was so determined to continue on with another team. I was so proud of his perseverance that when I took him to buy a bat I ended up buying him the most expensive bat in the store – just to boost his confidence. In the end he prevailed.

Now new challenges lie ahead, particularly with his demanding coursework. And I know he can persevere again.  His father and I support him all the way.

But there are some things he’s just going to have to learn to do for himself. Cooking and cleaning for starters. Hopefully his father and I and have given him a good foundation there.

Oddly enough, it’s the little things I worry about. As I speak, my little boy has no toilet paper. It’s no doubt a rough spot to be in. That’s just one big dilemma he’s going to have to work out for himself.

My Fry Baby

So it seems my 16-year-old son Luke is an aspiring fry cook. Quite by surprise a few weeks ago he announced that he had been hired to work in the kitchen at a nearby restaurant. Why in the world his $10 a week allowance didn't seem to be enough I don't know. But hey, he's grown into a young man, and I figured it wouldn't hurt him to learn what it's like to have the responsibility of a job.

I myself had such a job when I was his age -- working all the stations at my local Burger Chef preparing sandwiches, tending to the salad bar, assuming cashier duties on the front line, and of course the incessant sweeping, wiping down the tables, emptying out the trash and other general cleaning duties (including washing a dish or two).

However, after just a few weeks, I'm thinking I'm not so crazy about his work arrangement.

My son: master fryer and king of the sampler platter.

Not that I'm not proud of him. He's undoubtedly a hard worker. And when he comes home each night wreaking of grease, I simply hold my nose and overlook the stench (and of course encourage him to get into the shower as soon as he can).

I think it's' just that I miss him being around . I guess I enjoy his presence more than he knows -- even if we're not necessarily saying anything to each other but merely co-existing in the same space.

Since my middle son was just a baby, he has always been he one with the calming presence. I remember so vividly the times when he was a baby when I might get upset or frazzled. All it would take to soothe me was to pick him up and hold him for just a few minutes.

Even now, in the midst of what are sometimes chaotic situations, Luke brings a certain equilibrium to the household. When everything else around me is going crazy, Luke's demeanor helps to settle things down a bit.

So now his restaurant job is taking him away from me. But even more, I fear that it could get in the way of other things I deem more important in his life -- namely school and his extracurricular activities. I figure he has his whole life to work. Though I'm sure going back to a $10 a week allowance won't be easy.

Still, I'm confident that once school starts, he will set his priorities accordingly. He does have a pretty good head on his shoulders, so I trust him to do that. Plus I really don't want to see him blow his 4.0 GPA because he's out late every night frying up chicken wings and cheese sticks (and let's not forget the fried pickles either).

Not that this hasn't been a good experience for him. I'm glad he's learning what it's like to work hard. But honestly, I'm ready for my Fry Baby to come home and join his family at the dinner table every night for slightly healthier fare.

So to my son I offer this assurance. When the day comes that you get totally sick of the burgers and wings and fries, your mother will be here for you.

I'll always have broccoli waiting for you at home.

What to Do with my Ruger Twenty-Two?

With my dad being a law enforcement officer, it’s an understatement to say that he’s a gun guy. He has the whole gamut – 45’s, 22’s, 9 mm, shotguns, rifles, and whatever else those gun folks make. Needless to say, he’s amassed quite a collection.

So last spring when we were home for Easter, I went out with my dad (and my husband and boys) to the shooting range to pop off a few rounds just for the heck of it. I have to admit, it was kind of fun.

Now I’ve never been much into guns, but I did

Don't know what to do with your Ruger 22? Make a business
card holder out of it!

find the whole shooting experience to be quite exhilarating. It had been 20 years or so since I had used any sort of firearm. Was it like riding a bicycle, where you just pick up where you left off? Well, not really. It did seem awkward at first.

Probably because I learned off the bat that a 45 is definitely too much gun for me. I only shot the 45 a couple of times, because that’s all I could bear. The kick from the blast was so powerful I swear it almost broke my wrist! The 9 mm and 22 were much better.

My dad was all too glad to show me the proper procedures for shooting these weapons. And he knows what he’s doing, I guess. He taught concealed carry courses for years. Business was especially good for him once President Obama was elected. Apparently, folks were so concerned about Obama taking away their guns they made a mad dash to earn their concealed carry permits. To my knowledge, the whole “take away our guns” thing never came to fruition – but it’s always good to educate yourself about the weapon you’re carrying, no matter what the motive.

So after our shooting session ended, my dad showed me a handgun that caught my eye. A sweet little Ruger 22. It’s a cute little gun. Once I saw it I wanted it.

Of course, there are probably many other things on my wish list that I would rather have than a gun. And owning a gun is something I never really thought about until a couple of years ago. Two houses, both within two doors of ours, were broken into and burglarized within days of each other – both in broad daylight, while the owners were gone.

Yikes! That was a little scary. I wondered what would happen if our house was next? At that time I was home during the day. What would I do if burglars came crashing through my window when I was home alone? That’s the first time I ever considered maybe procuring a gun for personal protection. Fortunately, it was only a matter of time when, through their own stupidity, the culprits were nabbed. Yep – young, misguided kids in their early 20s, one whose mother lived just a block away. Anyway, after the crooks were caught, my panic died down.

I didn’t give any more thought to the gun thing until a couple of months ago, when my dad and husband attended a local gun show. Later that day, after they had arrived back, I was in my office only to find a box with the label “Ruger” plastered on it. I peaked inside, and there it was. A sweet little Ruger 22.

My husband went through all the legal channels to get it – he completed the paperwork, went through the background check, etc., and he managed to procure the piece without any trouble whatsoever. (I’m not sure why common sense gun control is such a contentious issue, especially when it comes to assault rifles and high volume magazines, but I suppose that’s a debate for another time.)

So now I’m the proud owner of a Ruger 22. The question now is, what do I do with it? I take it out of the box every once in a while and look at it. At this point, that’s about it. My husband tells me that the next time we go down to my parents’ house, we’ll have my dad take us out to the shooting range again, and I can learn to shoot it there. Okay.

But in the meantime it would be nice to get some practical use out of it.

Sooooooo, what can I do with it? Use it as a paperweight, maybe (without the bullets, of course)? Or maybe I could hang it on the wall. Nah. I would need a gun rack for that, and this little handgun is too small for a gun rack.

I know! I’ll stand it up on end and put a little flower into the barrel – get a “war and peace” theme going. Or I can stand it up on end and use it as a display for my business cards. Now I’m thinking creatively! That will work – at least until I learn to shoot it.

But once I learn to shoot it, what do I do with it then? Take it places? Where? I can’t take it to work with me, as there are no guns allowed in my workplace. (Which is understandable, but I still carry pepper spray, because the garage I park in is kind of creepy). Church? Oh, please! Sporting events? Pretty sure weapons aren’t allowed there, either.

Guess for the time being I’ll just admire my virgin Ruger 22 and keep it at home. I expect sometime I’ll get to shoot it. I’ll just chalk this little device up as home protection.

Not to say using it as a business card display isn’t a good idea. If I think about it, I’m probably better at shooting words rather than weapons, anyway.

My keyboard is my true ammunition. And the Ruger 22? It’s a nice little “lady gun” if I ever saw one. I admit, I can’t wait to shoot it. But hopefully, I’ll never have to use it. Which would probably be for the best, because I don’t envision myself ever having the fastest trigger finger.

Not that I don’t have triggers in my life. Triggered thoughts? Triggered dreams? Triggered ideas? Triggered passions? Sometimes I fear the atrophy of those, but I suspect they’re in me somewhere.

On occasion I just need some time away from the chaos to clear my head. So who knows? Maybe an afternoon at a shooting range, plunking off a few rounds with my Ruger 22, is all I need.

Guess I’ll give it a shot. Literally.