Blaming Mother's Sofa

Dear Young Mother,

I know it's hard to believe this, but once upon a time,  I was you. Once upon a time, long before we even used the term minivan, I was a young mother. My life was filled with with dress-up clothes and play dates, crustless sandwiches and sippy cups. I was pretty content with it all, once upon a time.

I was pretty content with the home place back then, too.  We had purchased it before the first little one arrived... according to plan... and I had decorated it stem to stern with every piece of '80s oak two childless incomes could afford.

It was pretty grand, in a mauve and blue country kitsch kind of way. Very trendy for the times. Very in.

But trends have a pesky habit of changing. I'm pretty sure it's a conspiracy between the furniture manufacturers and the design magazines, but every decade or so... even faster these days... what was in goes out. '80s oak goes the way of the wood paneled station wagon.  The cool table is made of cherry, and mauve and blue head to the yard sale to make way for jewel tones.

Trust me, it happens.

Suddenly, your perfect little well- appointed fairy tale house isn't so well appointed any more. It's what we women like to call dated. For me, it was a major source of discontent. I wasn't alone, either. Pretty much on a regular basis, play dates turned into gripe sessions as my fellow mommies brainstormed ways to squeeze new furniture into the single-income-with-kids budget plan.

It was during one such gripe session that the pity party took a walk down memory lane. It all started when one griper began to wax poetic about the beautiful living room in the home where she grew up. She remembered every detail, right down to the print of the sofa.  

And that's when I started thinking.
'Cause even back then, I was always thinking...

For the life of me, I couldn't remember what the sofa in our living room looked like when I was a little girl.  I have a pretty fantastic memory, too (at least I did back then), but for the life of me, I couldn't remember that sofa. In fact, I couldn't remember much about the whole living room.  Aside from the fact that the long white drapes made for wonderful hide-n-seek, and the pine floor was great for sock sliding, my mind was blank.

I'll tell you what I did remember, though. I did have a vivid memory of all the adventures we had in that place.  As the other woman wokked on about her house, my mind wandered to our home.  I remembered the picnics and day trips to Umpachene falls. I remembered the weekend trips to Fort Ticonderoga and Story Town, USA. I remembered the cross country adventures to Laura Ingalls Wilder's home in Missouri and Lincoln's New Salem in Illinois. Pretty grand adventures for a single income family of six.

I'm pretty sure I know where Mom squeezed out the money for those adventures, too. I'm pretty sure they came at the cost of new furniture and accessories for her home.

That's the way it appears, anyway, because when I called her to ask about the sofa that we had when I was five, she laughed and told me that it was the same one we had when I went off to college. Apparently, it was entirely possible to have a blissfully happy childhood in house with dated furniture. Who knew?

Mom did.

I made a decision that day. That day, I decided to get off the trendy tree house merry-go-round and spend my limited time and money on the stuff my girls would remember when they were thirty. So what if my living room decor completely missed the Tuscan craze. I promise, I don't regret it. Had I missed the adventures, though? That I would regret.

Because now that the dated nest is empty, I have plenty of time on my hands to redecorate our house, but I will never, ever have the time to re-create our home.

So there you have it. 

The reason I blame my mother for my dated furniture.

And the reason that I thank her for everything else. 

And today, because it's Mothers Day (and maybe just because)
 I will take the time to tell her so. 

Happy Mothers Day  

to The Duchess...

my mother,

the woman who wrote the book on family adventure

and taught me that the lively art of homemaking 

doesn't really have anything to do with furniture at all. 

*****

Comments are off

(But I'll bet you can relate...)

Ruth and Naomi...

... we were not.  

We didn't have that much in common, my mother-in-law and I.  

She loved dogs.

I'm terrified of them. 

She played tennis at the age of 80.

My idea of exercise is a brisk walk.

She was book club.

I'm luncheon club.

She could knit and crochet, and her work was exquisite.   

My idea of handiwork is decoupage. 

She leaned toward Danish modern and geometrics.

I like colonial and toile. 

She raised 5 boys in a very blue household.

I raised 2 girls and a lot of pink.  

She was a gifted cook and could whip up masterpieces

in her incredible self-cleaning kitchen. 

Pot luck is my Waterloo, and my kitchen is Katrina. 

We didn't read the same books, she and I.  We didn't like the same movies either. Like her son, she didn't mind the silence that I generally feel the need to fill with prattle. We were pretty much opposites in every area. Every area, that is, except one.  

She loved him with all her heart, 

and so do I. 

After a brief stay in the hospital last week, my mother-in-law passed away yesterday afternoon. She leaves four broken-hearted sons behind, sons who were blessed beyond measure to be raised in the home she made. I am blessed beyond measure to be married to the good man she raised.  Her fingerprints are all over him.

Please pray for my family today. 

Comments are closed.   

Big Sister-ing

The sideboard is finished and so is the table. 

Woohooo! I'm getting a bit closer to my big reveal.

I've been playing again...

Actually, I think the table is my favorite piece of all. I'm so crazy about her legs that I named her Betty Grable,  Betty for short.

Look at the gams on Betty...

You might recall that my cost for this set was basically zilch. It was given to me in its fix-r-up state by my sister. Now, this is not the tablescaping Farm Sister who shows up regularly in my posts. This is our Colorado Sister.

She's our big sister.

Several folks wanted to know what the Colorado Sister said about the furniture transformation. Well, I sent her some pictures, and she said,

Way to go, Kiddo! I knew you could do it! 

You see, that's the kind of sister she is. She's a giver and a cheerleader. She didn't need that set  because she already has a gorgeous one of her own. She didn't sell it because, to her, the joy of giving is far above rubies.

I said in THIS POST  that the word "sister" isn't really a noun; it's a verb. That's because being a sister isn't something that you are. It's something that you do. And big sistering? Well, that has a connotation all its own.

Big sistering Debbie was no small task. I was afraid of everything and good for nothing. I was a cry baby, a tagalong, and a copycat.  To make matters worse, I lived in a happy little place called Debbie Land.

Oh the thinks I could think...

Bless her heart, she tried. Whether driven by duty, love, or humiliation, I do not know, but my big sister tried. She taught me to catch a fly ball and not throw quite so much like a girl. She would have taught me to get a base hit, too, but she's a sister and not a miracle worker.

She loves horses and tried to teach me to love them too. Unfortunately, I'm more of a Shetland pony kind of gal.  In case you didn't know it, if a horse starts to gallop when you want to trot, it's best not to close your eyes and scream bloody murder.

Have I mentioned that she was a pretty fast runner too?

When I tried out for cheerleading, she taught me the moves. When I had tribulations in trigonometry,  she talked me off the ledge.  And when she was away at school for an unfortunate Homecoming incident, she sent me flowers, with a note that said just the right thing.

Yeah, as big sisters go, mine pretty much rocked.
She still does.

I just wish that she rocked a little closer to home.

The Duchess and Prince Charming

My parents were a mismatch if there ever was one.

She was five feet two.

 He was six feet five.

She was from the country.

 He was from the city.

She was a gifted musician.

 He played football... and basketball… and baseball.

She was a stiff backed Congregationalist.

He was a toe tapping tent meeter.

How they managed to make such a perfect team is one of life’s little mysteries.

The Duchess grew up in a Walton’s Mountain existence where everyone knew his neighbor and shopping was done by walking to the little country store. It was on one such trip to the store that she first encountered my father.  

Lying between her home and the country store was a little brown church which had been abandoned for years and recently reopened by one of those fiery evangelists from out of state. 

And he had a son. 

Because he hadn’t grown up and gone to school there, the son was pretty much a country curiosity. The Duchess knew nothing about him other than what she could glean by propping on her mother’s wringer washing machine and peering through field glasses as he tossed a football with her neighbor on Sunday afternoons.

Not that she was interested or anything…

So as she approached the church that Saturday afternoon, she easily recognized the familiar figure painting a sign on the front lawn.

Obviously, he noticed the figure approaching him as well, and as he was painting, he began to whistle. It wasn’t a wolf whistle or cat call or anything like that. He was merely whistling a tune.

It was The Dance of the Cuckoo, better known as the theme for Laurel and Hardy.

Harmless enough, perhaps, but while he appeared to be engrossed in his painting project, his tune seemed mysteriously whistled in time to her walking.

So she walked faster.

And he whistled faster.

The faster she walked, the faster he whistled.

Apparently, the preacher’s kid was what the Duchess calls, "fresh".

She was so horrified by the time she reached the store that she phoned home for rescue by automobile.

Now, the rest of the story has a truthiness that depends on the narrator. They both agree that it took place about a week later and at his church. According to the Duchess, she was reluctantly dragged to an event by an insistent friend who never did know how to take “no” for an answer.

Dad used phrases like chased me down in the vestibule of my father’s church.

Somewhere in the middle lies the truth that they officially met on the steps of the church, and that second meeting was more to her liking.  The attraction must have been observable because his mother invited her to a birthday party she was throwing him the next week.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

The courtship was a whirlwind, and within the year he pulled his car to a stop under a covered bridge on the way to a formal dance (which I like to call a Ball) and popped the question.

On June 8^th of the next year, they were married.  The Duchess wore a beautiful white cupcake dress and a crown of pearls that set the bridal standard for me for the rest of my life. Prince charming towered over her in a dinner jacket.

They were blessed enough to celebrate that day together for the next 43 years.

When Dad passed away, my sisters and I tried a variety of ways to make her anniversary day a special one, but after a while, she told us that it was OK to stop trying. Her anniversary was like Valentine’s Day, she said. It’s a day that can’t be fixed and didn’t need to be shared with daughters, no matter how well intentioned they might be.

Whether or not he’s here in the flesh, the day still belongs to The Duchess and her Prince Charming.

But I don’t think they would mind if on this anniversary day, I shared their story with you.

Mother's Day Unwrapped

If you're expecting a Great Mother's Day Adventure, you won't find one here. Yesterday wasn't that much different than any given Sunday.  That's because around here, every Sunday is Mother's Day. As I explained in THIS post, The Duchess reigns supreme over the family table on a weekly basis.  

Plus, the graduating seniors aren't home yet.

Plus, the newlywed niece had a wedding out of town.

Since geography is the only way to keep the Duchess away from an oven, we gathered at The Sister's farm instead.  She had a beautiful table set with her Italian Countyside dishes and a bouquet of roses from her equally  beautiful gardens.

Would you like to see some pictures?
Yeah. So would I.

Unfortunately my borrowed camera decided at that moment to take a Sunday snooze and recharge his batteries.  I would have used the Sister's camera, but that would have required her to email pictures. Simple task for you, maybe, but the woman with the degree in Management Information Systems has yet to get the hang of emailing pictures.

Or so she says.

Apparently, she got all of her computer savvy way back in the last century, which makes her a floppy disc in a laptop world. In the years since she stepped away from the business world, she has basked in the glory of willful ignorance. You know how old people can be...

Have I mentioned lately that she's 50...
and I'm not?

And so, I find myself picture poor this morning.

Not to worry,though, that status is about to change. When I opened my Mother's Day gift, I found a little gift receipt. Apparently, my two conspirators, with a lot of help from Super Dad, had been unable to find the gift that they wanted in the stores.  They did find it online, though, and they ordered it.

It will be here this week.

Want to guess what I'm getting?

I'll give you two hints.

It's shiny...

and it's red. 

So... what did you get for Mother's Day?

Back in the Saddle Again

I've had a bad case of cyber laryngitis this week for a variety of reasons. You see,  I'm still dealing with that whirly swirly circlet at random times when Della gets moody.  Plus, I've been stressed out  trying to wrap up my current teaching stint. The combination left me uninspired and pouty. 

That's the way I roll sometimes. I blame the hormones. At 49, you get to blame the hormones for everything.

Or so the husband says...

But this morning, I'm back in the saddle again, and I mean that very literally. Believe it or not,  we're in Macon again. Sitting in a hotel room... again. This week, however, it has nothing to do with cherry blossoms. It has everything to do with daughters, particularly one daughter who is celebrating a birthday.

Care to guess which one?

We may not be the most logical parents around, but what we lack in logic, we make up in love. After a long week on the road, the Man of the House rolled back into town around 6:00 last night only to do the quick change into his Super Dad suit and head back the same way he had come.

With his faithful side kick, Mighty Mom, tagging along.

We made the decision to road trip back to Macon because the daughters are too busy this weekend to come home  and we're pathetic.  We're sneaking in a birthday breakfast before they start their busy day.  This is the weekend of Mercer's annual Dance Marathon to raise money for the hospitals of the Children's Miracle Network.

Both daughters are involved. In fact, one of them is an organizer.  Care to guess which one? It isn't the birthday girl.  She'll be there with bells on, however, because this event is tailor made for her.  The kid was born with  boogie shoes. From the time she was able to walk, she has chosen instead to dance.

Time and place made no difference whatsoever.  The instant she heard the strains of a beat, those tiny hips started moving, followed quickly by the shoulder shimmy and head bob.  Bystanders would point and giggle. Big sister would try her best to hide behind a grocery cart and whisper, "Mommy stop her." 

Of course, I never did. More often than not, we just created a conga line for two.
It's a wonder Big Sister never needed therapy.

By now, you've probably guessed that our birthday girl is none other than Miss Whimsy.  She turns 19 years old today. How that happened, I do not know.

I could swear she was 5 just yesterday. 

Inconceivable.

So Happy Birthday to my Miss Whimsy. I hope the rest of the day is every bit as wonderful as you want it to be. And today, just as always, I hope you dance.

When God Gets Tickled Pink

So, how many adventurous folks out there took up the challenge from my previous post and celebrated Hoodie Hoo Day yesterday?  Anyone? Anyone?

As for me, I decided to join the Eastern Standard Time Hooters already in progress. As soon as church was over, I meandered against the crowd and headed toward the pulpit area...

and through the choir loft...

which leads to the back of the church.

There, we had parked the getaway car. 

Straightaway I went, making just one pitstop to hold a sweet smelling baby. I walked to the car, rested my load on the hood, raised my hands, and did the Hoodie Hoo before the choir could disrobe and catch me.

Quite pleased with myself, I headed to The Duchy for lunch. When I opened the door, I got The Look from the Duchess.

Where were you?

I explained that I had spirited myself out the back door to Hoodie in private. The sister just shook her  head and laughed.

Well, you missed it.

Indeed, I did. Apparently, the Duchess had read my challenge and shared it with her faithful sidekick Vern. So certain were they that I was oddball enough to Hoodie Hoo for a crowd that they had conspired to join me. 

They greeted the pastor as proper ladies do. Then, they walked down the steps, lifted those quilted Bible covers in the air and did the Church Lady Hoodie Hoo.

They turned to see my face.
Which wasn't there.
I was, as you recall, hidden on the Baptist backside hooting in secret.

All they saw were curious congregants wondering what spirit had invaded the First Baptist Church.  They explained themselves, however, and even convinced The Sister to join them for round two.

I'm pretty sure that her version was more like jazz hands and falsetto, though.  In her head, she probably sounded just like Snow White.

From all accounts, they created quite a giggle on the First Baptist lawn yesterday.  I'm pretty positve that  wholesome laughter is perfectly fine with God, too.  In fact, I think those two old church ladies made Him chuckle.

Do you know why I think so?

Because on my thirty mile country commute  home,

this is what I discovered. 

Awesome.

So if you're still looking at the dull gray of winter, don't blame me.

 Didn't I tell you to to Hoodie Hoo?


*****
I'll be sharing this little beauty with
Beverly at How Sweet the Sound
for Pink Saturday.

Happy Birthday to...

Someone who is

at least 50...

Which means that it can not be I

 because

although I did have a birthday

this past week...

I'm a proud 49er

and still

too young to deck my halls with

 a red hat tree

With a feather boa for a skirt.

No...

The Red  Hot  Hat birthday girl today is

 the Duchess.

She's seventysomething today.

Here she is giving the Duchess wave in the local parade

It's my favorite picture of her because it captures her completely.

And in honor of her birthday, I thought I would post

 a few more pictures

of her favorite things.

You know...

Christmas trees

This one guards her kitchen door.

She made just about everything on it 

 And most of it is edible.

Gum drop chains and wreaths...

and popcorn balls...

and gingerbread men...

In her bedroom, she has a Victorian tree

Dripping with lace and pearls

Her sun porch has a beach themed tree

With sand dollar snowmen
and all sorts of sea shell creations.

Tucked into this little nook is her Santa tree.

I think she needs a bigger space...

And perhaps a bigger tree!

Her living room tree is less whimsical.

It's full of

 brass ornaments. 





There is an ornament for every

 birthday and anniversary

This one says

Dee and Dave 1957

Of course, the ornaments which decorated their tree

 back in  '57

have made their way to

 this vintage tree in

another bedroom.

It's full of old ornaments and vintage Christmas cards

This simple tree is one of my favorites of all.

But then,

I'm very fond of vintage things,

especially the ones 

which have been cherished by their family

for generations. 

You know...

kind of like

 the Duchess.

A Merry Duchess Christmas

Let's start at the very beginning.

It's a very good place to start...

I have mentioned that  I'm somewhat of  a simplist and a Christmas decorating dork. 

The Duchess,  however,  is just the opposite.

Around town, they call her

 The Christmas Lady.

 Her home is decorated inside and out.

The outside is always designed for children

and it's different every year.

She makes every bit of it herself.

At 72, she can still run a jig saw with the best of them.

She welcomes anyone, especially children,

 inside to visit and take a peek.

 Inside, she has  trees in every room.  

But to understand the trees,

 you have to understand how the whole thing started.  

  Like most of us, I grew up with a single tree.  

You see, for five long years back in the 90's, my dad fought cancer.  His treatments required weekly trips four hours away to Atlanta.  Every Wednesday, Dad and the Duchess would head to Atlanta, where they would sit for hours for his chemotherapy. It made for very long days.  As she became more comfortable with the area, he encouraged her to venture out a bit.  What she discovered just around the corner was a new store that she had never heard of before. It was called...

Michaels 

And not far from Michaels,

she spied a Christmas Shop. 

 And that's how the whole thing started. While Dad had his chemotherapy, The Duchess embarked on some craft therapy of the Christmas sort. Every year, she planned, purchased, and crafted a new themed tree, believing the whole time that my dad would be around to enjoy it. It put the sparkle back in her eye and hope back in her heart. Dad approved. Even though he finally lost that battle, I'm positive he would still approve of the hobby that she enjoys to this day.  

Because she's The Christmas Lady.

While other women buy cosmetics and jewelry...

 clothes and purses and shoes...

The Duchess buys tree ornaments.

The first tree that you see when you walk in the door is her patriotic tree. It's a pencil tree which fits snugly into a corner of her foyer.

It's full of red, white, and blue.

That little Spirit of '76 ornament is my favorite.

Turning to the bedroom wing, you'll see a simpler tree.

 She calls this one her angel tree.

It's covered with little framed pictures

 of each grandchild.

 (Apparently, she thinks they are angels...) 

They start with baby  pictures

and continue until the cap and gown.

The grandchildren spend the Christmas season

playing a little game of hide and seek.

 They hide their own pictures from the dorky years

 on the back of the tree,

 and seek a dork picture of another grandchild

 to move to the front.

Her snowman theme is in my old bedroom.

With garlands of snowflakes 

 and snowmen in every conceivable shape and size.  

A Bitty Baby in a Christmas dress tops

 the toy tree

in this room which was Grama's nursery

 when grandchildren were small.

It's full of toys and books and childish ornaments. 

Garlands are bright colored beads and wooden blocks.

She even has a children's tablescape in here.

 Since our youngest child in the family is in 15,

 it sits waiting for the next generation.

Can't hardly wait...

She made this little tree skirt

sitting in the waiting room.

 

The next bedroom is the nutcracker room.

I love that paper nutcracker garland stuck in there.

And all the nutcracker characters.

There are more bedrooms and trees, but I haven't snapped the pictures yet.

I did take pictures of the dining room

where two similar trees flank the table.

This one...

And this one

One of them is the nativity tree.

It tells the true Christmas Story.

The other is a  music tree.

With the Angels proclaiming the Good News.
from the top.

Oh, there's so much more...

I'll try to fit the rest of the tour in before Christmas.

You really won't want to miss it,

since the one in her kitchen is edible. 

But for now, I have one daughter home and another on the way.  Why, it feels like Christmas morning in Debbie Land.