Life Long Learning

  The school bell doth toll...this time for ME!  Yep, 45 years old and I'm a backpack toting, Psych 101 studying, note taking, BONAFIDE student.

    Admittedly, this is not the first time I have answered the call of the "bell."  My first college experience was while I was in the Navy, stationed in Spain.  I added English and Ethics courses to my regular duties as a "Squid" overseas.  Not a bad way to break the scholastic ice.  The next time I headed back to school was sheerly for knowledge itself.  I was on a spiritual quest and wanted to know WHY I believed WHAT I believed.  So, off to the Franciscan University of Steubenville I went, with a course load of theology, sociology, and even an acting class (SO much fun!).  I then took time off to apply some of this knowledge in a practical way.
 
   A few years passed before I heard the Diiing...Dooong...ringing a beckon to further knowledge.  I answered with, "Yes please, I'll have a course of Public Speaking with a side order of Principles of Management."  By this time I had a little one to chase around so this was a whole new ball game figuring out how to manage time.  I decided the timing wasn't right to go for my undergrad degree.  However, that was not to be my last attempt. I eventually tried going back when I was the mother of four children.  That trial period lasted one semester of four classes.  Clarity struck when one of my children was standing a mere foot away repeating, "Mommy, Mommy, Mama, Mom..." in an effort to gain my attention. I was bleary-

eyed from staying up til 3:30 A.M., hunched over my keyboard searching for the perfect ending to a history essay assignment when a flashback struck like a lightning bolt. The flashback was a vision of what kind of Mommy I had always thought I'd be and it was in stark contrast with my then current abilities as wife and mother of four kiddos aged six and under, attempting a full time course load.  Aaand...I was expecting again.  That semester was a defining moment, teaching me to "let it go."

  Here I am, 13 years later, not regretting a single moment my choice allowed me.  In fact I'm grateful I had the opportunity to be present to my family, give myself fully to my loves, and live life in the moment.  Though I am far from not being needed as "Mom" (may that never be the case!), the pealing bell summons again.  This time, it's a family affair.

My 6 year old finds neurons interesting...sort of

  My youngest of seven is in first grade and she fakes interest while I describe how the synaptic vessels deliver neurotransmitters.  My seventh grader is willing to discuss the topic of "fake news" with me since we are both currently covering this matter in our respective classrooms, and my tenth grader has volunteered to tutor me in Algebra if need be.  Trust me...if I have to take any math class, the need will definitely BE.


 My husband takes my breath away with his support.  He works hard to help me carve out the necessary time for homework yet balances me with an invite to tuck the younger kids in and say their prayers.  My teens still burst in or quietly wander through the office door and flop in my easy chair to ask questions, share their highs and lows of the day, or willingly be subjected to the latest chapter on Human Behavior.  I never took down the chin-up bar from when my eldest occupied this room so I have a pretty constant call to watch daring feats of strength while I'm memorizing definitions.

60s means heat wave in Erie

  I've learned the way for me to achieve balance is to include my family in my studies and insert my studies where my family is.  This weekend the beautiful weather whispered, well, more like shouted
our names with temperatures in the 60s.  We couldn't let that call go unanswered, so off to the park we went.  I read from the text book while my youngest played on the jungle gym and her older brothers shot hoops.  When she tired of climbing, she asked for a push on the swing.  I readily complied then jumped on the open swing next to her and pumped my legs til my feet touched the sky. We giggled like crazy as butterflies filled our bellies.

  Maybe I needed to be taught more from the school called LIFE before the "school bell" called me back.  I find myself relating what I learn in the classroom to moments I've lived through and I'm grateful for the opportunity to have a deep well of experience to draw from.  Feels like the timing's right.  We shall see.  Diiiing...Doooong.



GIFTED Art

  I'm going with an old adage I've heard that says it's NEVER too late to say thank you.
  So, here goes..."Thank you, Mr. Brian Pardini!"

  Utterly whimsical and completely captivating, your gift to me was freely offered and spontaneously found.  It embodies the spirit of fun and your playful presentation itself, highlighted the surprise and lent to the magic of receiving. 

  To those of you have no idea what I'm talking about...allow me to explain:
  A few years ago I brought a few of my children into the Lincoln Center Community Library and was unexpectedly transported to a delightfully playful world of imaginative creativity.  I was, for the first time, encountering Brian Pardini's display of incredibly cool driftwood pieces, which formed fantastic creatures, ingenious animals, and insightful people.  Resting atop the neatly ordered book shelves and nestled into nooks and crannies these creations called to me...I simply couldn't get enough.  My children and I wandered the library, lost in the allure of inventive pieces fashioned from the kind of material we had undoubtedly walked by countless times on our trips to Presque Isle and other jaunts down to the shores of Lake Erie.  Now we were seeing natures gifts with new eyes- through the lens of possibility!

  I researched Brian's work but never got up the nerve to reach out to tell him how his work inspired me with it's light-hearted creativity and use of what was naturally offered.  Over the next several months I saw pieces of the collection move to the Raymond M.Blasco, M.D. Memorial Library and even read an article in the paper about him. 

  What I did not expect...at all...was to be presented with my very own Pardini original.  In keeping with his fun, playful style and much like the first time I encountered this art- I happened upon it.  I was walking the Karl Boyes Multipurpose Trail  at Presque Isle State Park with a friend, when something out of the ordinary caught my eye.  THIS very piece was sitting on a park bench.  I

Thank you Mr. Pardini!

immediately recognized the style but had no idea why it was there...unescorted.  How could this be?  Was it stolen from the library and discarded anonymously during a sudden bout of thief's remorse?  Was it forgotten during a lunch date on that frosty bench?  Was I being pranked or tested?  Whatever the case, I was not about to let this work of art sit out in the elements, which I suppose is funny since that's where it originated.  I looked around to see if anyone might have just stepped away for a moment with the intent of coming back for it.  No one fit the bill.  In a split decision, I snatched it up and kept on down the path, talking my friend's ear off about my fascination with these creations.  It's a signed piece- this was special!  I was determined to find it's rightful home.  I even considered a book I had read titled UNthink, by Erik Wahl, a graffiti artist/motivational speaker.  In each town he visits he hides an original piece of his art and leaves clues for it to be found as in a scavenger hunt.  Could I be that lucky?


  Days passed before I worked up the nerve to bashfully approach a librarian at Lincoln library to ask if she'd heard of a piece of the Pardini collection gone missing.  She laughed and conspiratorially leaned forward to reassure me, "That's what he does.  He'll randomly leave a piece of his work near an area he collects material as a thank you.  It's for the finder to keep." 

  I was dumbstruck in a sudden tumble of appreciation, relief, and inspiration. "HOW FUN IS THAT!?!," I thought.  What a cool way to pay it forward.  My family was elated that I would not be a suspect for thievery (whew! ha ha)...and that we were, in fact, the proud owners of a Brian Pardini original!  It's rightful home was mine and I was thrilled!

Legitimately ours: A Pardini original!

  Therefore, a very heart-felt and official THANK YOU, Mr. Brian Pardini, for the inspiration to see beyond what the eye sees and for the gift of spontaneity and generosity.  Your art and your spirit are themselves, a true gift to this world.


  Brace yourself for inspiration as you check out more of Brian's work here:
Brian Pardini: Art

**Make sure to read Brian's "STATEMENT" on the left hand column of his site...Intriguing!



 

Date Night!

 

  "Hey, guess what?," my six year-old daughter hollered, "My Mom and Dad are going on a DATE!!" 

The eyebrows of the visiting neighborhood girls shot up as they responded, "Wow, that's great!," before turning to me with twinkling eyes.  "Yeah," I responded with a lackluster grin.  My husband had just asked me to join him for wings at the corner pub and I was tired but determined to see this through as I had turned down his last three "30 cent wing night" invites.  When I whispered "Daddy and I are going on a date," to my youngest it was more with the incentive of hurrying her through her nighttime routine of jammies, teeth brushing, prayers, and story time.  She took my announcement as the epitome of every princess and prince story time and...well...ran with it- straight to my closet to pick out the fanciest of fancies for me to wear on our "date."

Fancy!

  I kid you not, my pipsqueak, little blondie was starry eyed as she dove into the array of coat hangers and literally held up sequins and ruffles.  I countered with comfy hopefuls of denim capris and t-shirts.  She developed a system of giving me thumbs half-way up or even thumbs down.  At one point her thumbs down was so vehement that I asked if I should donate the colorful tank I halfheartedly held up.  She responded, "nah, you don't have to get rid of it...I might grow used to it...one day."  Aaand, into the donate bag it went.



  Disappointed but willing to accept my desire for comfort over pizazz, she ultimately gave a half-hearted, midway thumb-up and shook her head sadly as she agreed to my extremely bland "date" attire.  Eager to move on, she exclaimed, "Ok Mom, time for make-up!"  With lightning speed she located and pulled out that one tube of bright RED lipstick that must have pulled at my sentimental heart-strings enough to hide it out of sight instead of discarding it during the removal of all 17 pieces of Wal-mart's holiday deluxe make-up gift set.  By this point, even knowing I'd severely decimated every romantic notion once whispered into "happily ever after" stories, I could only stare blankly at that tiny hand waving her red, waxy magic toward my lips.

  "Ummmm...how bout we try something that matches a bit more?," I weakly offered.  She could deal with options, "Sure Mom, show me what you got!"  "Wellll...," I tried to buy time as I rummaged around and came up with two safe choices.  I bravely held out #550 SAND in one hand and with a flourish attempted to impress her with No-name option 2 which could have been named SAND with a mere hint of glimmer.  Her obvious lack of enthusiasm was immediately on display as she lowered her eyelids halfway to convey her boredom and asked, "So...they're the same?"


BOOOORING!

  This night was destined to be a teacher from the get-go...I can barely admit that I had attempted to reward my sixteen year-old son's hard work at the house by inviting him to come with us.  To say my husband lacked enthusiasm with eyelids half lowered would be a gross understatement.  He was looking forward to "date-night" as well.  Turns out all this effort was to open my tired eyes to see how deep I had dug into the trenches of Mommy-hood.  In the end, well- actually before we began, we were asked to leave the wing establishment because of our son's age.  We had no idea they had recently changed their rules to prevent anyone under 21 to be seated after 9 p.m- even at the outside patio that had drawn us on previous summer nights.

    Ironically, my six-year old daughter was my "wing-man" that night...having my back and giving me a lot to think about in terms of dating my husband. 

  All's well that ends well.  On my next invite to date-night you can bet I found a happy medium somewhere between sequins and denim...and even broke out the curling iron and brighter pallets that left SAND in the dust.  My husband and I eventually enjoyed a night out, held hands, giggled at brave karaoke participants, and reveled in that sweet feeling of 17 years and going strong.  Casual or frilly, I'm looking forward to dating my hubby for years to come!

 

ROOTED in Surprise

  My five year-old daughter and I were snuggled in for my "favorite time of the day."  This "favorite time" is notoriously known amongst my children as "Nap Time."

  Looking for insight and inspiration from the mind of one so young and unsullied as my little, sparkly blue-eyed cherub I asked her, "So, what's it like to be Evangeline Rose Yurkewicz?"  To which she responded without missing a beat...

  "Well, I've always wanted to be a horseradish."

  And there you have it folks...outta the mouths of babes.  Well, kiddo, I gotta admit...I did not see that one coming.

In Her Mind's Eye...

  In her mind's eye I was a bunny rabbit.  Not just any bunny rabbit, but the most beautiful of bunnies with a healthy pink glow in the cheeks, a soft pink nose, teeth that are perfect...even if they are pink and droop from my bottom lip, and of course satiny pink ears that might as well stem from my eyebrows.  Yes, I was a delightful creation that had sprung from the depths of her boredom. 



see my pink teeth?

  In MY minds eye...well, let's just say I was a sucker...thoroughly enraptured with my five year-old daughter's commitment to seeing this project of face-painting through.  Though I had been swindled into role reversal in a proposal offered to end her despair of "nothing to do" on the fourth day off of school, I delighted in every dip of the paint brush she held in her tiny yet capable hand while I sat in my "make-up" chair and let her work her magic.

  Actually, at this stage in my life letting someone dab one of my softest paint brushes over my face felt so good that I didn't mind the offer to paint butterflies and a duck (morphed into a t-rex) upon my hands as well.  Sure darlin', set your inner artist free.  Mama is your canvas and I am captivated with your confidence as your paint droplets of "oops" become a new creation.  No fuss no muss...complete lack of worry nor need for perfection.  I want to be her when I grow up.

Taaa-daaa!  Big reveal in the mirror brings my widened eyes to new levels of "appreciation,"  while my husband, sons, and of course the neighbor boy are treated to the unveiling of Mommy Rabbit.  "Oh Mommy, you're BEAUTIFUL," Daddy graciously doles out compliments while readying his camera.  I thank my tiny artist and give knowing smiles to my sons looks of astonishment mixed with dollops of hilarity and head to the shower.

  Only, there's no time for shower before a knock on the door announces my Mom's arrival from across town.  "Just in time for tea with the bunny,"  could be my only welcome in such a situation.

  A good hour and a half into our lively conversation my husband takes pity, or so I thought, until he announces, "I just can't take you seriously like this," and heads to the store.

 I marvel at his goodness as he unloads the largest jar of Noxzema and a tidy packet of make-up removal wipes.  Surely this will remove the dyed remnants that mere face wash and water couldn't erase. 

just...won't...come...off!

  Well, six scrubbings and the removal of approximately five layers of sloughed skin returned my comfort level with leaving the house.  My little artist had to get to dance class and I was her ride.  Off we go with her singing and my scarf worn high while my hat is pulled low.  Yet there is still a smile glistening in these eyes.  This is the stuff life is made of and, "Remember when?," stories are born.

Airbrushed vs. Toothbrushed

Brushing my hair and applying makeup were once thought to be practical steps to beautification before heading out of the house. 

  Not so much...anymore.

  Ever since the time, in the not-so-distant past, when not once...but TWICE...found that by leaning over the bathroom sink to apply a bit of color to my pasty white skin I was actually completing the task of becoming minty fresh as well.  That would be quite the multi-tasking feat IF it were happening in the dental region.  However, since it was happening midriff section...I was less than pleased. 

  Yes, I had managed to get a good-sized glob of toothpaste across the undershelf of my belly zone.  What the heck, I'm 44, mother to seven children,  compiler of countless hours of exercise with a side of clean eating.  I have absolutely no reason to put on airs and deny the "baby pooch."  God as my witness, I've tried to humble it's appearance.  It can't be that bad, because no facial, close-up mirrored reflection reveals it.  No, apparently it can't be seen until all make-up is applied, hair is curled, and I'm ready to walk out the door.  Only when time is running short and a step back is taken to reveal the finished product will it most likely reveal itself.  Of course, the fact that it is outlined in a thick, sticky, white, peppermint-scented tracing of my sink ledge might draw attention to it. 

  I quickly decided it best not to highlight the area by allowing my children's dental routine left-over's to remain on my purple bloused midsection.  I grabbed the nearest towel slung into the tub and quickly doused and rubbed before glancing in the mirror only to notice I still had mascara to apply.

 No big deal, no harm done I thought, UNTIL I leaned back from the mirror and observed, YET ANOTHER slab of breath freshening intrusion across my towel-blotted belly.  You have got to be kidding me!  I checked the time, which was already pressuring me, and lunged for the sopping towel once again to rid myself of all offensive white paste.  It worked!  However, left in it's place was the darkened shapes of not one...but TWO dark silhouettes coming together to form a genuine likeness to the finger lakes region.  I probably could have explained one sodden patch...but this new addition called for drastic measures. 

  I ran for my hair dryer, searching high and low, until locating it in the most obvious of hiding places- right next to my wood-burning fire place.  Memories of my 15 year-old trouble-shooting, ingenious son attempting to achieve a hotter and higher flame during the previous night's cold-snap enlightened me as to the why of it's location.  No time to reminisce and ponder on his brilliance...nope...only time to recognize the familiar ashy scent that had flooded the house the night before causing windows to be opened a crack.  If I weren't scrambling for time I might have appreciated the scientific teachable moment which revealed air circulating into a suction driven motor will carry other particles along with it depositing a certain scent as air is dispersed...right into the fibers of my swampy, purple blouse in five seconds flat.

 I give up.  Why try and hide the fact that my life is not picture perfect, nor am I.  Perhaps this is a good thing...if you don't require fragrance free and have an appreciation for the finer perfumes not found in the most exclusive boutiques.  It seems I have created a most enchanting, totally original, unique aroma boasting an outdoorsy bouquet of mint, laced with hints of soap and undercurrents of filtered woodsmoke.  Ooh la la.

Dinner Party

 

  Question for you:  Do you find anything unusual about a frozen, lifeless waterfowl being shown around the table during a dinner party? 

  Clarification:  It WAS formally dressed for the occasion in a swanky, white, plastic garbage bag with just it's head exposed...well mostly, there was that beautiful colored wing feather that deserved to see light.

  I ask because I was a participant at said dinner party.  Ok, fine- I hosted said dinner party and was participating in the oohing and aahing while my hunter son walked seat to seat, proudly displaying this chilled, beautiful bird.  Forks paused midair while guests viewed tinted hues of greens and blues.

  It wasn't until my eyes met my mother's, amused and twinkling under raised eyebrows, that it occurred to me... perhaps this is not the norm around dinner tables across our great country.

 My desensitization began thirteen years ago while checking the pockets of my young son's jeans before loading the washer.  I was horrified and completely disgusted upon withdrawing a tangle of shriveled, dry worms.  You can thank me for sparing you the blog I envisioned about two years ago titled, "Fish guts on my front door."  And I won't bore you with details of the frog leg I stepped over while trying to break into my own back door to retrieve the keys locked inside. 

  I will tease you with tantalizing hints of future posts detailing how glorious it will be to have yet another set of antlers that are currently being... readied...for display from the newest hunter to hit the trails.  But you probably know ALL about that...because doesn't EVERYONE have a deer head buried in their yard with just the antlers sticking out...covered in tinfoil...letting nature do the dirty work?

 

 
 

Oops...

  Fiction could not be funnier than the truth during a recent car ride across town to visit my sister.

5 year- old daughter in a hoarse whisper: "JAAAMIE"

9 year old son distractedly turns his attention from the passing view out the window to his sister as he responds in a similar hoarse whisper: "What?"

5 year-old "You should have brushed your teeth before we left for Aunt Liz's..."

To which my 14 year old daughter chimes in from the front seat, "Guys, we're passing the poop factory," while gesturing to the Wastewater Treatment Plant on our left.

My five year-old daughter simply squeaked out "Oh," before sliding her eyes to her brother sitting a mere foot and a half away in the backseat and added, "sorry."

My nine year-old manages to catch my eye in the rear view mirror to express his exasperation with an understated eye roll before returning his gaze to the city whizzing by just outside his window.

Aaand...on we drive.

Pushing Through

 

  Overcoming obstacles is largely a mindset.

  The other night brought howling winds.  I hadn't gotten my walk in that day and I was determined to keep the schedule I had going.  Add to that, the text from my accountability partner telling me to get out in that stinkin weather.  She had run seven miles facing 50 mph winds.  How could I not walk my two measly miles?

  Dusk was due pretty soon after the motivating text came in so I needed to move it.  I sought the child most susceptible to pitying their mother walking alone in inclement weather.  Thank you dear sixth grade son:)  By the time we got to the Peninsula the winds were whipping the waves into a choppy soup threatening to splash if we got too near.  It was necessary to divert my son's growing apprehension in facing the creaking, thrashing limbs of trees lining the path. I tried to talk him into looking horizontally instead of vertically at the overhanging frenzied branches.

 Not even half way to our turn around mark, my son was reaching high-anxiety levels, complete with screaming over the wind, pleading, glistening eyes squeezed in fright, and hands locked over his ears.  "C'mon, we're almost there!," came my return plea.  "I want to go home!  Don't you hear how dangerous this is?," he shouted right before a branch landed behind us with a loud CRACK!  For the first time since I began walking this summer I began to add interval sprints.  "Hey", I panted during the recovery phase, "courage doesn't mean you're not afraid.  It means you feel the fear but do it anyway."  I don't know what reserve of strength kept my son moving forward in the darkening night as the wind screamed, branches yelled menacing threats, and dried leaves accompanied the desolation with their scratchy skittering for cover across the paved paths.  Our backdrop of the rolling water leapt into 3-D focus with intermittent sprays adding to the surreal evening that seemed to intensify in danger the further we went.  We continued on at a quickened pace while I yelled to myself as much as to my frightened boy, "Don't miss the beauty!"  Though justified in our wary state, it would have been a shame to miss the crescent moon taking center stage in the stormy sky.

  We did it!  We made it to the half way mark...now to get back.

  We were face to face with an onslaught of the wind's full force pushing back against our efforts.  My son's arms were aching from his effort to hold them against his ears the entire way.  He resisted my earmuffs and gave me a scathing look at the offer of my fluorescent pink scarf.  My legs were feeling the burn from unfamiliar exertion.  Our clothes billowed out as we held onto one another during the frequent burst of upscaled gales.  Anxious to be out of harms way, my son said, "C'mon Mom, let's run through this next part!"  I knew he wanted to quickly get through the tunnel of trees lining both sides of the next hundred yards.  We had already been stepping over downed limbs.  I felt the leaden weight in my legs and knew I had reached exhaustion..."I can't.  I just don't think I can do it."  Clearly, I had made an error of judgement in pressing on- but we had no choice but to get ourselves back to the car.  We had three quarter mile to trod and we would have to fight for every step.

  That was the moment I realized how brazenly I had encouraged my son about courage as I kept on in the face of his keen terror.  He had kept going...I figured he'd be proud of himself for overcoming his fear.  I hadn't  the extreme mental mountains he was climbing to get over that hurdle.  I truly believed we'd be fine- I had walked this trail in a downpour before though my son had not.  My son is a lean and lanky, natural runner...though I am not.  I looked at the path ahead and made the decision to push my legs and lungs hard!  If I could ask my son to keep going, in what appeared to be a death-defying situation from his perspective, then I better darn well give his request the same respect and push through my perspective which insisted I simply could not.

  I gained insight as we rounded the bend to the safe comfort of our car.  It's easy to ask others to keep going in the face of their struggle when we know the outcome.  It's easier yet if they are our children and we have authority that can demand it.  It would be very good for our appreciation of what we are asking of them if we but walk, or run, in their shoes every now and then.

Linked In...Somehow

  With Thanksgiving a couple days away most people's thoughts drift to family, feasting, giving thanks, pumpkin pies and the like.  There is, however, a group that IS looking forward to all the aforementioned delights of the season...and yet, their focus has already shifted past the actual holiday.  Their heartbeat has already begun to quicken at the thought of the following Monday.  There's a subtle buzz of excited energy that seems to surround the die hards in this group, almost as if they're hearing a call in the close distance but must bide their time until they may answer.

  You very well could be related to this group.  Doesn't matter if you are a daughter, son, spouse, parent, cousin, grandchild or friend to one in this group.  If camouflage, antler rattling, binoculars, walkie-talkies, deer urine, or no-scent laundry soap have entered your home or conversations...you most likely are linked to this breed known as HUNTERS.  Perhaps YOU are the link in your family?

  I have vague memories of my Dad taking my brothers out in the vineyards and woods around this time of year for small game.  Those instances were so rare that I remember a feeling of surprise they knew how to hunt or that my father even owned a gun.  And yet, it wasn't until a few years ago, when I was given a DVD of my Dad's childhood that I learned of his passion for hunting with his family.  His joy was apparent in the black and white footage that captured several excursions with my uncles and people I don't know gathering before, during, and after triumphant hunts.  I grew up in a family of twelve children.  My Mom was in need of as much support and assistance as she could muster.  I've since come to understand that hunting from dusk to dawn was the first of many sacrifices my Dad would make over the years. 

Ironically,  I married a man who, I thought, was hardcore into nature.  Sure, he talked a great deal about animals and loved to take me for walks at his buddy's camp to "show me the beauty of the trails."  I simply had no comprehension of scouting.  I suppose I could have been a little more tuned in to the fact he had owned his own archery shop.  And while he seemed to have a real penchant for brown, green, and olive clothing it was the unusual liking for fluorescent orange which perhaps should have raised some serious questions in me.  There were the couple times I was caught off guard as he startled the heck out of me during one of our nature walks with a spot on crow call.  I remember giving him an awkward compliment on nailing the likeness as I let the question of what type of person learns the calls of the wild fly right out of my mind.   If my Sweetheart told me he was a HUNTER while we were dating it must have gone right over my head and out of my radar with regards to how it could possibly affect my life.  While dating, I realized this sincere, kind-eyed cutie was a man of few words.  Hindsight being 20/20, I NOW see how I greatly underestimated his phrase, "I like to hunt." My experience with hunters were the infrequent, random times my Dad and brothers went out with a gun to see what they could see.


  My accumulated information over the years now reflects my maturing knowledge on the topic.  Whereas, I was used to fall for the line, "Honey, we have to go most nights this week.  The season ends Saturday!"  I now know there is almost always something in season.  The main changes are merely the target and tools used to hit the target.  The urgency I once naively catered to has grown into a respectful, "Hey, babe do you mind if we go out tonight?  The ducks are flying."  The subtle change showing in the question mark. 

I have come to truly appreciate the meat in the freezer with seven of our own children.  I love that my husband has passed on this incredible survival skill to those of ours who want to learn.  Yes, there are a couple daughters in line to take the hunters safety class as well.  The balance of heavy work-load is shifting in these later years.  The babies in bibs I tended to during the hunts are growing into camouflage bibs, worn to scout and call in the deer they only heard about in their youth.

  I've noticed a trend that most hunters skipped a generation.  My husband learned from his grandfather since his mother was determined to never marry a hunter.  She had grown up in a house where hunting schedules inflicted a strain on her parents.  Hunting can be an undeniable passion.  Some might call it an addiction for those who answer the call.  I kind of got swept in before I knew what was happening.  My sacrifices of being the "hunting widow" throughout different seasons have mellowed into a joyful expectation of spending time with those who stay back.  That's been the tricky part.  One of my younger sons recently confessed the reason he stopped hunting with Dad was that I always took the other kids to the movies, out to eat, shopping, and visiting with cousins while they were gone.... 

 So, yeah,  I'm not gonna lie...I learned to be a woman of few words as I would tell my husband, "No, Hon, I don't mind if you take the older ones to go hunting for a long weekend."  Hey, they learn to call, scout, and track.  We learn to "adapt." ;)


 

 

Ticked Off

  You may have read in an earlier post, titled DUCK! And Cover, that we are in the midst of the hunting season making ducks fair game.  What you didn't read about is the young man in his mid-teens who eats, sleeps, and breathes hunting...and lives under my roof.  Yes, the clamor of duck calls regularly sounds off in my dining room, accompanied by a variety of camouflage paraphernalia everywhere the eye can rest.  Duck decoys arrive in the mail and are proudly displayed throughout...well, everywhere the eye can rest.  Thankfully those decoys took the loud hint and migrated to the hunter's bedroom.

It's time to go hunting!

  This past Saturday was a decent day for hunting.  I heard floorboards creaking rather early and knew my son was biding his time til he dared disturb his father's slumber.  This period of waiting has become a stressful ritual in our home.  Upon my husband's emergence from the bedroom, he is faced with non-stop references to the current hour and minute followed by intervals of hovering during breakfast.  The subliminal message permeating our mealtime is, "Who has time to eat?!?  There's hunting to be done!"  Thank heavens maturity and consistent working with our son has led to the message being subliminal...time has softened the full-on verbal barrage.

  The time had come and my husband put us all out of our misery by asking our son to load the vehicle, which of course had been done an hour ago.  A kiss from my husband, a forehead presented by my son for me to kiss, and out the door they went.  This was the perfect opportunity for me to grab my eleven year-old boy and head to our favorite trails at the Peninsula.  Yes, the same Peninsula the duck blinds are located on.


  We'd been walking about ten minutes when my younger son pointed to the road which leads back home and announced, "Hey, there goes our van!"  Perhaps the warning bells should have been going off in my head...yet, I've learned I'm never far enough, in cases of emergency, I can't be reached.  So, on we walked...even as the dreaded awaited call came ringing in.  "Yeees?  I said, trying to be as cheery as possible."  I don't wish to bore nor scandalize you with the tirade that exploded into my ear describing how they never even made it into the duck blind.  I won't fill you in on the unflattering and rather disrespectful picture, painted of my husband, with such hostile words.  My teen, who had been chomping at the bit for this highly anticipated moment, was more than frustrated with the hope that had gone dead in the water without firing a single shot.

I admit I did feel bad for the fowl-tempered fella and quickened my pace to get home...though not so much that I would catch the initial fall-out fireworks I imagined were going off.  I even texted a couple nephews looking for a stand-in hunting partner.  I automatically assumed my husband's back was causing him such pain that he bailed and needed to rest.  Therefore, I resigned myself to the rescuer's role and began to mentally prepare to wrap in a blankey and sit in the blind if imploring texts to my nephews didn't pan out.

  With the walk finally over, we headed to the car only to be let down by a deflated rear tire.  Great...what the heck kind of day is this??  I called my husband to ask if I should drive like that.  He said he'd fill the compressor and be right down.  As I write this I'm realizing everything happens for a reason...it's a very good thing he was home or my 11 year-old and I would have had a long, uphill, chilly walk home...after our long, chilly walk we just took.  I was briefly filled-in over the phone how our teen ignored requests to find a trail leading to the blind.  Instead, he stomped right into the tall grasses determined to find a quick route there.  There was something about ticks, which alerted me to my husband's rightful concern... Presque Isle, lovely as it is, is known to have a large deer tick population.  My husband had once been bit by a deer tick, confirmed to have Lyme's disease.  He was never at ease with spending much time at Presque Isle, let alone going off trail and into dense vegetation where they'd most likely be.


Deer ticks can cause Lyme disease

  After his arrival and quick fix of the tire, I offered to drive the van home while he'd take the car to the closest gas station and check the tire's air pressure.  That offer was quickly rescinded upon hearing that three large deer ticks had already been found crawling in the van.  Sure enough, our son had walked right into a hot spot for the buggers before his frustrated Dad demand they were going home due to lack of obedience.

Eeeew!

Once home, I was surprised by the calm I walked into.  I was certain there would  be arguing and pleading for me to fulfill my impatient hunter's plans for the day.  I was impressed to see his quiet resignation as he worked side by side with my husband to rid the van of these tiny, disease carrying, blood suckers.  I was relieved yet horrified that a total of eight ticks were discovered in our family's vehicle.  I listened to my 11 year-old ask, "Dad, what is the purpose of ticks in the world?" and wondered the same thing.  We didn't come up with much of an answer...likening them to mosquitoes and other insects that seem to do more harm than good.

  Perhaps, in that instance the tick's purpose was to provide a teachable moment.  Difficult as it was, there is more patience added to my young hunter's arsenal.  He has learned to pace the floors on Saturday mornings instead of bounding onto our bed...maybe he will listen to the voice that warns him to stay on the path and understand wisdom is born of experience.



Pumpkin "Bliss"

 "Mmmm, what is that smell?  Do you have yogurt in here?" 

  This is the "hello" I received as my two youngest hopped into the car to escape being dampened during the four foot walk from the school bus.  Normally, I just walk across the street to escort them home.  Normally, as in- not experiencing gales that broke my wet-weather confidence, flipped my hardy umbrella inside out, spanked us both and sent me scrambling back for car keys.  The odd and somewhat humiliating piece of this generous act of kindness on my part was the rapid deceleration of winds and the slowing of pelting rain to a gentle drizzle by the bus's arrival.  After deflating their excited expectation of going to a store or fast-food restaurant, the focus shifted back to the car's unfamiliar scent.

  "Why it's Pumpkin Bliss, of course!" I declared proudly.  Their unimpressed "oh" wasn't my desired response.  During my purchase of the orange packaged car freshener, displaying pumpkins, cinnamon, and colors of candy corn, I envisioned tv commercial actors deeply inhaling wafts of heart-warming, homemade Pumpkin Pies.  Yes, my reward for spending $3.99 +tax would be watching my children breathe in the likeness of those cinnamon fall treats followed by twinkles of delight, shining in their grateful eyes.  I must admit I did not notice any trace of pumpkin pie or harvest spices in the bought essence.  If I covered one nostril and sort of breathed out while half-breathing in I might have been able to justify the colors of candy corn...kind of.  But, for the purpose of pride, I declared once more with gusto, "It's Pumpkin Bliss!" and drove back around the bend to our house.

  An hour later I agreed to drive my oldest daughter to her friend's house.  "WHAT is that smell?!?" she asked, while lifting a genteel palm to her nose.  "It's Pumpkin Bliss!," came my triumphant, yet wavering response.  After all, it was her calling attention to the car's mild odor the day before which prompted my aquiring such Fall freshness.  Show me some love, I think as she blurts out, "It smells like yogurt."  I covered my waning hope with a smile, "That's funny!  That's what the kids said!," I weakly offered.  Her eyes slid sideways towards me as she added, "Rotten yogurt."  I began to think back to my attempts of choosing between the store's two offered scents.  Vanilla and Cream's scratch and sniff declared it NOT the winner.  And...wait a minute...that's funny...three Pumpkin Bliss in a row don't have a scratchy piece of plastic to test?  How odd, I think as I dig through the entire stock...not a one.  Hmmmm....perhaps I should be suspicious?  Well, it IS raining out and I really don't want to go to another store soooooo...we'll go with- you guessed it, Pumpkin Bliss.  Til I get in the car and realize it's more like Butterscotch Feet.  I guess I shouldn't be shocked by my children's underwhelmed reaction. 

  Another 15 minutes go by before my second eldest daughter chimes in during her ride home from school.  The dramatic question passes through lips curled in disgust, "What smells like SWEAT in here??"  Siiiiigh... by this point I can't even muster a jolly declaration so it comes out more like a question, "Pumpkin Bliss?"  "Eeeeew, it doesn't smell anything like pumpkins!," is her gauntlet tossed on my defeated purchasing prowess.  "Look here!, I begin my defense, "I saw pumpkins and candy corn and thought it would be festive with Thanksgiving coming up AND I paid for it so we are USING it!"  "Eeeew," seems to be her best come-back.  Then I just could not help myself and had to know, "So you really don't think it smells like butterscotch feet?"  Just as swiftly as the wind had died down, my white flag rose and the stink became casual conversation.  "Ummmm no, I think it smells more like sweat, but kinda like a vanilla-y sweat. But I get why the other kids smell yogurt."  I can't believe I'm nodding my head in agreement to this...siiiigh.

 It's been a solid week of  scent that never fails to "surprise" us each time the car doors are whipped open and the aroma wafts out.  It never gets old and doesn't seem to be ebbing in strength.  I've circled Thanksgiving's date on my calendar to count the number days I must be strong until a "certain purchase" goes missing on garbage day.  I already have it's replacement stashed deep in the cupboard to conceal my defeat.  It's  Frosted Pine.  Hey! Save your judgement...it had pictures of snow covered pine trees and a lovely holiday gold...right above a white convertible with it's...OH NO...how did I not see it's... top down???  In winter??? 

 Oh well, I already bought it...