Actual Unretouched Photo

One time when I was fifteen, my dad took me on a rare outing.  We slid the yellow canoe he’d inexplicably purchased into the nearby slough.  As we paddled around, I took a deep breath and asked him the question that had been on my mind for a long time.

“When I turn 16, can I wear make-up?”

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Paint belongs on a barn.”

And that was the end of that.

I have been cursed with dark circles under my eyes and no eye lashes to speak of.  The other girls had been wearing make-up since sixth grade.  Compared to everyone else I was dowdy and ugly, if you asked me.  (My school pictures will confirm this assessment.)

I respected his rules, though.  One time, I performed with two other girls in a public place and my friends put make-up on me.  I was performing, after all.

When I returned home, my dad appeared in my bedroom doorway.  My stepmother had reported to him that I was wearing mascara and she immediately reported this infraction to him.  So I was scolded.

I remember the burning injustice I felt.  I was a straight A student.  I babysat in my spare time to earn extra cash.  I paid for all my own clothes, even my own shampoo.  I never caused a bit of trouble.  I did not drink, I didn’t take drugs and I didn’t date.  For fun, I went to the library and read.  I entertained myself by practicing the piano. I did my own laundry.  I went to church three times a week.

And I was in trouble because I dared to wear make-up for a special occasion.

I never wore it again until the day I arrived at college.  In Missouri.  Far, far, far away from the eyes of my father.

For the record, we never again went canoeing, either.

And frankly, I think if a barn needs painting, you ought to slap some paint on it.

All I really wanted when I was a teenager (besides being a size four and for my bangs to feather) was to be of use.  I wanted to be necessary, indispensable, valued for my contributions to the world.

I’m not kidding.

I was a volunteer extraordinaire.

I watched babies in the church nursery.  I helped with a 4-H group.  I taught Sunday School.  I bagged sandbags during a flood.  I scrubbed refrigerated cases in a food co-op.  I sold baked goods at rest stops on the freeway to raise money.  I walked in a Walk-a-thon.

But by far, my favorite volunteer activity was working as a “Volunteen” at the local hospital.

I wore a pink smock and helped out on the “broken bones” floor.  I gave patients cups of cold water.  I ran errands for nurses.  I fed people.

I loved it.

But the problem was that my parents refused to give me rides to any of my activities, no matter how altruistic the cause.  They forced me to take the public bus (which always terrified me, probably for no good reason) or beg for a ride from an acquaintance or friend.  I hated to ask for a ride only slightly less than I hated to wait in the dark for a public bus.

An acquaintance of mine (her name was Mary and she was so blond she had nearly no color at all) also volunteered at the hospital.  Her father was a doctor there.  Her mother picked her up after our shift.

I asked Mary if her mother would mind giving me a ride home, too.  After all, we lived in the same small town.  She agreed on behalf of her mother and that settled that.  Instead of having to stand on the street corner in the dark, waiting for the bus, I could ride the seven or ten miles home in a private car, in safety.

But Mary’s mother could not hide her annoyance with my presence in her car.  I don’t understand it to this day.  She did have to drive probably three miles round-trip out of her way to deliver me to my driveway and perhaps that was just too much to ask.

I still have a sick feeling when I think about how much that woman appeared to resent me.  She probably can’t remember me, but I remember her.

Other people’s parents can be so mean to teenagers.

This is a blog book tour post.

Last spring, I went to a writer’s conference and submitted the beginning pages of a novel for critique.  The writer who critiqued my work was Tricia Goyer, who is “the author of eighteen fiction and non-fiction books, including Blue Like Play Dough. She won Historical Novel of the Year in 2005 and 2006 from ACFW, and was honored with the Writer of the Year award from Mt. Hermon Writer’s Conference in 2003. Tricia’s book Life Interrupted was a finalist for the Gold Medallion in 2005. Tricia writes magazine articles for publications like Today’s Christian Woman and Focus on the Family. Tricia also enjoys speaking. She and her family make their home in Montana.”  (Yeah, I just copied that from the PR stuff because it’s so late and I should have done this so much earlier!)

Anyway, Tricia is one of the nicest people ever . . . and I’m not saying that just because she liked my writing and was so encouraging to me.  She is one amazing human being . . . and her books are so fun to read.

Now, if I were to judge a book by its cover, I would proclaim this the most beautiful book in all the world.  Seriously, the cover is gorgeous (sunflowers, sunset, et cetera . . . check out the blog tour here and maybe you’ll see someone who has posted a photo of it since I am utterly incapable of putting photos in this broken blog.)

So, the book itself is a fun, easy read, full of characters you want to live next door to.  (I only read three chapters so far . . . sue me, I’m too busy!)   And here is some more information for you.

About Sunflower Serenade:  A small town summer . . .

The days are long and lazy, the corn is high, the sunflowers are in bloom, and everyone in Bedford is gearing up for the biggest event of the summer: the annual county fair. But when a Nashville music producer approaches Bob about using Heather Creek Farm to film a country star’s new music video, he and Charlotte are faced with a dilemma. Will they allow the glamour and enticements of big-city life to encroach upon their peaceful home? Will the excitement of celebrity drown out the simple joys of summer?

About the Home to Heather Creek series: Charlotte Stevenson’s world is turned upside down when her daughter, Denise, dies in a tragic car accident. She ran away at eighteen and Charlotte has never forgiven herself. Now, Denise’s children, abandoned by their father, are coming from California to live on Heather Creek Farm in Bedford, Nebraska.

Charlotte is uncertain about her ability to care for three grandchildren who are not thrilled to give up the beach and sunshine for snow and farm chores! But she sees a chance to make amends and will do whatever it takes to keep her fragile family together. Feel the courage, strength and commitment of this family as their lives unfold in the Home to Heather Creek series.

The books come in a series and you can order those here. However, if you just want to order Every Sunrise you must call the customer service number (1-800-431-2344).

Contest: Playing on one element of the book – big city entertainers vs. old county fair – the contest for this blog tour is City Girl Goes Country!  Share your funniest story (about you or someone you know) about a time when you as the “city girl” goes to the country or “country girl” goes to the city. Enter the contest here.

I received a free copy of this book so I could do this review.  Just so you know.

Dead & Buried trailer Twenty years ago was my dad’s last Father’s Day.  He died on September 21, 1989.

Napoleon Dynamite full I’m rerunning my Father’s Day tribute from a few years ago.  Just because I can.

Blood Sisters video

Happy Father’s Day . . . and happy First Day of Summer!

The Elephant Man rip Oh, how I do suffer in the name of research.  In order to tell you about Haagen-Dazs “Five,” the new ice cream that features five all natural ingredients (milk, cream, sugar, egggs and one “hero” ingredient such as mint, ginger, passion fruit, brown sugar, milk chocolate, coffee or vanilla bean) I had to taste four flavors.  What a sacrifice!

• Oliver & Company release

Now, the Passion Fruit Ice Cream was good.  Great, if you like fruity flavors.

The Ginger was odd, but maybe paired with the appropriate recipe, it would be outstanding.  (Also, if you’re a fan of ginger, well, this is the ice cream for you!)

I adored the Mint flavor, so smooth, so perfect.  Really, maybe the most perfect Mint ice cream ever. (Especially with a hot fudge topping . . .)

The Happening release The Silence of the Lambs psp

And then, the ice cream that made me fall in love with it, Brown Sugar.  I literally tasted one bite and than ran upstairs to share a bite with my husband.  Then–and this is important–I returned downstairs to hog the rest of the pint.  No more sharing.   My old favorite ice cream (Ben& Jerry’s Wavy Gravy) was discontinued (long ago, alas) and I have been longing for a new favorite.  Haagen-Dazs Five “Brown Sugar” has filled that void.

And BONUS:  This ice cream has less fat than the other varieties of Haagen-Dazs premium ice cream.

And even BETTER BONUS:  I have coupons to share with four of you . . . the coupon is good for a 14-ounce product or package of Haagen-Dazs bars.  Leave a comment and tell me why you need to receive a coupon.  I will choose a winner on Tuesday.

[This post is unrelated to the fact that I put my diet blog on hiatus earlier this week, but it is ironic, isn't it?]

Yesterday, I knelt on my grandmother’s bedroom floor, tucking a pile of her belongings into boxes. I only pilfered a few things, like an old umbrella that has survived decades, from the looks of it, and four marble eggs made in Italy. While I folded her coats and stuffed scarves into the cardboard boxes, my sister proclaimed, “I am going straight home and cleaning out my closets!” And I said, “Yes, because this is what it comes down to. People rifling through your things and wondering why you kept them.”

My grandma kept old calendars. I don’t know why, since they had no notes written in them. Probably for the pictures.

I keep old calendars because I like to go back and read the notes. When my twins were young, I’d scrawl down funny things they’d said so I could remember.

My grandma kept old keys. My mother gave me a skeleton key she found in a drawer at Grandma’s, thinking it might be to the old Singer sewing machine that Grandma gave me. (It wasn’t.)

I keep old keys. It just seems wrong to throw them away, even when they’re from the front door of the house we no longer own in Marysville.

She’s only been gone a few weeks, but already we are moving along, moving the remnants of her out of that house as quickly as possible so the house can be sold.

I think of the top drawer of my white dresser, the one I bought for $15.00 at a garage sale. I spent weeks stripping paint, sanding, priming and painting that dresser. The materials cost $75.00.

The top drawer is jammed packed with weird stuff that has no other home and sentimental things like cards. There might even be a dried-up umbilical cord stump in there, nestled next to a collection of foreign coins. And speaking of coins, whatever happened to silver dollars? My dad used to have a silver dollar or a fifty cents piece jangling in his pocket from time to time.

My storage room is piled with crazy stuff that doesn’t fit anywhere else. If I had a spare day, I could deal with the mess. I actually like sorting, purging and organizing . . . but I don’t have time. And my daughter, who comes by her packrat tendences honestly, will want to keep everything she sees, even the plastic baby toys hidden in large tubs.

Packing away a dead person’s belongings puts life into perspective. You really can’t take any of it with you–no would you want to, I’d think, if given a choice.

Today, I spent the afternoon digging in my front yard, trimming branches off hedges in the side yard, washing the patio with the hose in the back yard. The temperature reached 80 degrees and my daughter appeared in her Dora the Explorer swimsuit. My husband cooked dinner using his George Foreman grill. My teenagers used sharp implements to cut branches and hedges and I ended up being the only one with a cut (on my pinkie, from trying to catch the saw when I lost my grip).

The tulips prepare to bloom. The wasps buzz in and out of a hole near the front door. The leaves unfold like tiny green fans. And the stenciled walls at my grandmother’s house are hidden underneath a coat of fresh, white paint.

My grandmother died last night. She was 102 years old. My telephone rang this morning and when I saw my mother’s cell phone number I knew this was The Call. Just last night, my mom had stopped by to deliver my birthday gift (from January).

My daughter sat on my bed in front of me while I answered the phone. I was in the middle of combing out her blond ringlets. My mother told me directly, “Last night Mother died.” At least I think that’s what she said. At these life-altering moments, I seldom remember the exact words.

I hung up the phone and said to my 5-year old, “Great-grandma died last night.”

“Oh,” my daughter said, “She’s going to miss me.”

We’re talked about heaven all day. I can picture my grandma falling into the arms of my grandpa. They were married 61 years when he died on their anniversary nineteen years ago. She has missed him so much. I am so happy that she has finally crossed the threshold into eternity.

I was dry-eyed, curiously unemotional today, though as I bought new flowers and pots for my yard, I couldn’t help but think about my grandmother and her lifelong love of flowers. Rhododenrons remind me of her–she had two giant bushes outside of her back door and my siblings and I lost many bouncing balls inside those shadowy branches. Calla lilies and gooseberries make me think of her, too. As does laundry hung out to dry.

I remember how she sewed me clothes when I was a child. (Always orange and rust-colored, to complement my brown eyes, I guess.) A few years ago, she gave me her treadle sewing machine. I cherish it, even though I’ve never threaded it.

I remember with some lingering mortification, how she taped closed the M&M jar when I wouldn’t stop pilfering those candy-coated chocolates during a childhood stay at her humble home.

I remember her brushing my hair with a stiff hairbrush under a running faucet in the summertime heat. I remember the yeasty rolls she baked and the step-stool she kept in her kitchen where I perched to watch her work. I remember the way she washed dishes–she filled one side with soapy water and the other with steaming hot water. The washed dishes were submerged to rinse in the hot water. Then, always, always, wiped dry with a cotton dish towel.

She never wore a pair of pants in her life, always a dress. If you stopped by during mealtime, she’d have on an apron. I only saw her feet bare once in my whole life and that was when I spent the night with her. Until she was very old, she’d never cut her hair, but wore it twisted up in a bun. She sold Avon when she was younger. Her house always smelled like roses.

I cannot imagine a world where my grandma does not live in her tidy house with her organized drawers and labeled boxes in every closet. I cannot imagine living in a world where my grandmother doesn’t mention my name in her prayers every day. She held my hand to her heart only eleven days ago. I hold her in my heart forever.

Good-bye, Grandma. I’ll see you in heaven. Tell my dad I miss him.

We miss you already.

Madeleine L’Engle died last Thursday. She was eighty-eight. One of my favorite books of all time is her Circle of Quiet, a book I found in a book warehouse sale when we lived in Connecticut from 1987 to 1989. That book is one of the first books I ever read with a pencil in hand, underlining sentences and paragraphs, making little arrows and asterisks in the margins.

Madeleine L’Engle’s books, particularly her non-fiction books, made me feel less alone in the world.

She was a bright light, now shining in another place.

Rest in peace.

• Easy Virtue film

The past week has left me weary with the sort of fatigue that even a good night’s sleep fails to solve. We drove up last weekend to spend time with some friends from college, but my husband had to drive back through notorious Seattle traffic that night because he had a funeral to do the next morning. After the funeral, he again navigated the Seattle traffic and arrived in Bellingham at about dinner-time. All told, he spent about fifteen hours driving back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.

When we returned home the next afternoon, the red light was blinking on our answering machine. A friend from our church was in critical condition at the hospital. My worn-out husband responded with, “I have to sleep for an hour,” and did so. Before his nap was over, another phone call came, reiterating the message about our friend in the hospital. And so, with meetings and church business sandwiched in between, my husband began sitting vigil at the church with the man’s family.

Here’s the story as I know it. I think the details are accurate.

Our friend, Jeff, went outside last Saturday to do yard work. He came in after fifteen minutes, complaining of exhaustion. He’d suffered from shortness of breath all week. His wife took him to the doctor because something just seemed off. The doctor x-rayed his chest and said, “Friend, you have pneumonia. You’ll have to stay in the hospital a few days until you feel better.”

The night, his wife kissed him good-bye and said she’d be back after church Sunday. But Sunday morning she called the church music director and told him that she couldn’t sing the solo as scheduled. “I feel like I need to go back to the hospital,” she said.

When she arrived, a nurse blocked her way from Jeff’s room. And then the nightmare began. Sometime between her departure from the hospital and her arrival that morning, Jeff’s body crashed. The medical team revived him, but his heart was beating dimly. He’d been intubated. He was no longer conscious.

And so Jeff lingered between life and death for four more nights and three days. My husband spent every available minute the hospital, buying food and offering comfort, until Jeff’s kidneys shut down and his heart beat its last beat. He was 62, I think.

He left a wife, grown children, some grandchildren and a giant circle of friends and acquaintances.

Last Saturday, he went out to do some yard work. Today, I believe he’s running in heavenly fields, basking in eternal daylight. I will never cease to be shocked by the sudden ending of life. At least with birth, you get months to get used to the idea of someone new. Even with some warning, I never get used to the finality of death and the loss of someone dear. We spend most of the days of our lives living as if we have an infinite number of days to frolic and work and squander time. And then the days run out for someone–what? so soon?–and we stop for a moment, until we forget again that our days are limited. Each time someone dies, it’s a stunning shock all over again that life on earth is limited.

On Sunday mornings, I hurry into church without my lipstick on, cringing as I’ve just noticed that my children have chosen pants too short, shirts too shabby and shoes that don’t match anything. Always, as I pull open the heavy wooden doors with stained windows and rush inside a minute or two behind schedule to teach my Sunday School class, Jeff scans me and my unkempt kids and even though I try to be invisible most Sunday mornings, he says from his seat in the entry-way, “Good morning, Mother,” in a voice brimming with wry amusement. He never let me slip past without this greeting.

But now he’ll never say it again and I can’t tell you just how much I’m going to miss him.

You know what I miss? My pillow. Oh, pillow, where art thou, pillow?

It occurs to me that I failed to mention a writing contest I entered and won. You can go here to read my article.

I find it distressing that school starts in a little more than a month. (August 30 around these parts.) I did have a random moment of longing for pumpkin patches and falling colored leaves, but the sane portion of my personality digs in her heels, resenting being dragged headlong into the future at such an alarming rate.

I’m not ready. And I have too much work to do. Didn’t summer just start twenty minutes ago?