Cowgirl to Car Girl

 From Cowgirl to Car Girl

If you caught last week’s post, you know my parents moved to Arizona when I was four years old because I had asthma. If you didn’t catch that post, I put a link at the end of this one so you can check it out. 

The move to Arizona likely influenced my decision to be a cowgirl when I grew up. Well, that and the fact my dad and I watched westerns on television every Sunday afternoon.

In Arizona we went to rodeos and visited Old Tucson. My closest friend was a Mexican girl named Moey. She taught me a few words in Spanish. Her mother cooked tortillas on a griddle, flipping the thin round flour food they used as we did bread, with her bare hands. I was fascinated. We pretended broomsticks were our horses and we fought wild Indians together. (No comments on not being “politically correct” here, please. I was four.)

We moved back to Ohio near the end of my first-grade year to the house where my father was born. It was on my grandparents’ property. The move was necessary because my grandfather needed help on the farm following a heart attack. The medical assumption on my end was I had “outgrown” the asthma by that time. 

Once we settled in Ohio, my dad made good on his promise to buy me a pony. I named her Flicka after a pony on the television show, My Friend Flicka. I know. Not very original.

Flicka came with only a short lead. Dad talked with me about learning to ride a horse. He told me my pony had never been ridden and it would take a while to break her in. “And the thing to do if you get bucked off is to get right back on,” he advised. Dad looped a rope around Flicka and tied her to the fence post in the front pasture and left. 

I must have figured it was up to me at that point. She was, after all, my pony. I took a feed sack and draped across her back.  I tugged on the rope to get her close to the fence, climbed up and jumped on her back. 

In less than a minute I was on the ground. Undaunted, I tried again. And again. And again. I don’t know how many times I tried before my mom came around to the front of the house and saw me. She was not a fan of broken bones. She told me to stop before I broke my neck. 

It wasn’t my neck that was hurting. 

Dad came home later with a saddle, bridle and blanket for my pony. Under his instruction, Flicka and I learned the joy of riding. We had many adventures on that dairy farm. I was truly a “cowgirl.”

Flicka wasn’t my only horse experience. Flicka birthed Thunderhead. I had a Quarter horse named Duchess and her foal I called Princess. There was Tiny and the Appaloosa I called Saki. She birthed Abi. 

In high school I lost my passion for horses as my interest in boys increased. The only “horse” I enjoyed through those years was a Midnight Blue1966 Mustang. I named her “Midnight.”

Perhaps Midnight was a vision of my future. 

You see, since marrying Mike, I’ve become less of a cowgirl and more of a “car girl.” 

My Arizona Experience: I call it The Gift of Caring Parents. Click HERE.

    More of a Car girl, Less of a Cowgirl, though I get my "fix" every Sunday. My husband, Mike, and I now attend Stable Faith Cowboy Church in Brooksville, Florida.

 

 

 

Parents Who Care

 The Gift of Caring Parents

This past week I went to the doctor for my annual checkup. I’d gained a couple extra pounds. That didn’t surprise me. Mike and I have had a crazy schedule for a while. Eating fast food and taking our meals at varying hours doesn’t bode well for me. It’s just the way I’m made, 

But when the doctor listened to my lungs, she frowned. 

“I had asthma as a child,” I told her. 

“You have asthma now,” she said. “You are very asthmatic.” She sent me for further testing and prescribed an inhaler. 

Not the news I wanted to hear.

My parents heard that same statement many years ago. Nothing helped then. Nothing. The doctor recommended we move to Arizona until I “outgrew” my asthma. It was a huge sacrifice for them. We moved to Tucson. I was four years old.

I have always held great admiration and gratefulness for my parents embarking on such a journey because of my health. Dad left a good job without knowing what he would do when he reached Arizona. He and Mom knew nobody there. Nobody. 

But they made that sacrifice. They carved out a life in the West. In all likelihood, we would still be there except my grandfather had a heart attack when I was almost through first grade. I was breathing great by then so, we headed back to Ohio and moved into a house on Grandma and Grandpa’s farm. Dad helped Grandpa with the dairy farm for a couple of years before we moved to our own farm.

So here I am now, decades later, living in Florida, and once again dealing with asthma. 

I’m an adult so I should be able to manage on my own. The rare flare ups in the past I’ve addressed with a hot cup of coffee. This is not a flare up. It has become chronic.

I’m set on following the doctor’s orders. I picked up the inhaler from the pharmacy. I’ve made Mike aware of the symptoms and possible triggers. My mom lives close by. She’s dealt with this before. 

I’m pretty sure a move to Arizona is not in our future. 

However, this experience has made me appreciate even more what my parents did on my behalf those many years ago. 

Look around. There are parents like mine out there who would give up anything and everything for their children, but they are few and far between. 

Jobs, careers, fancy houses, and club memberships are sometimes more important than the people living under their own roof. 

It isn’t true in all cases, but I’ve witnessed it as a teacher, a neighbor, and a friend. I am forever grateful to my mom and dad for that deep demonstration of love for me.

I once said to my mom, “That took a lot of faith and guts to move across the country to a place where you didn’t know anybody and didn’t have a job or anything.”

Her response?  “Not really. We loved you.”

By the way…An internet search reveals the jury is still out on the notion a person can actually outgrow asthma, but my recent shortness of breath suggests that would be a “no.”

Mama's Day

 Mama's Day

Mother’s Day is joyous for many, hard for others. 

I’ve given everything from a bouquet of dandelions to full blooming rose bushes to my mother through the years. But now that I am an adult, I’ve learned the gift of time is what we all value most. 

This Mother’s Day, my daughters and I (all moms, ourselves) presented my mom with a special sort of gift. We drove her to Kentucky for the weekend to the place where she grew up. On Saturday, we visited the cemetery where her parents, maternal grandparents, and brother as well as her great grandparents, and other family members are buried.

L-R: Mom, Danielle, Allison, Kendall & Me

I should note, we couldn’t have done this without the help of my cousin, Gerry, and her husband. It’s a hike up the side of a steep hill and not ideal for a ninety-three-year-old. Harold and Gerry drove Mom up in a truck while the rest of us made the climb. All of us. That included three of my mother’s “younger” cousins who were there to share the experience.

My grandmother was orphaned at the tender age of seven. Grandma often told me how she would visit her mother’s grave and talk to her. It was as close as she could get to her mom. As a teen, I helped Grandma make crepe paper roses to place on my great grandmother’s grave for Mother’s Day. Those are sweet memories for me. 

This time, my mother, daughters, and I placed flowers on the graves. Storebought, but the sentiment was there.

As we sat in the sunshine, my mother shared the family stories I’ve heard so often from Grandma. We reminisced. We prayed. We sang hymns of praise. We laughed. We cried. We shared a Mother’s Day I will forever cherish in my heart.

 There was one song I had considered for the day. I’ve heard my grandmother sing that song. It's a hymn written in 1922 called “If I Could Hear My Mother Pray Again.” I didn’t do it because I wasn’t sure I could pull it off. Still…

My grandmother left us a legacy of faith and forgiveness. Her story was a challenge to live knowing we are loved by God no matter our circumstances on this earth. This day at the cemetery was a reminder of the power of love and faith.

I could end this post there, but there was more to come.

The hotel where we stayed that night offered a full breakfast buffet. Mom and I were the last to arrive. My middle daughter, Danielle, had covered our table with a beautiful tablecloth and matching napkins. There was a floral centerpiece. It was set and ready for our Mother’s Day breakfast. A gift of thoughtfulness and care.

As we were all dressed for church, after breakfast we went out under the trees by the hotel for an impromptu Mother’s Day photo shoot. An unexpected gift.

Afterward, we piled into our cars to attend the church of Mom’s youth. We enjoyed the morning service but something special happened as the hour ended. 

A woman in the congregation stood and asked if she might share something. Her mother was gone now, so she wanted to sing a song that was on her heart. The pastor nodded in agreement and the woman began singing. As she came to the refrain, many of us joined in. 

“If I could hear my mother pray again,

If I could hear her tender voice as then,

So glad I’d be, t’would mean so much to me,

If I could hear my mother pray again.”

What a Mother’s Day gift to all of us!

Mother’s Day for us was more than a day to celebrate moms.  It was a day to celebrate family and enduring faith.

After church we gathered at my cousin’s house for a LOT of hugging, reminiscing, crying, laughing… and food. 

A perfect weekend. A perfect “Mama’s Day.” 

I don’t take that lightly. Perfect doesn’t come around often. 

Thank you, Allison, Danielle, and Kendall for sacrificing Your Day in the Limelight to bring pure joy to your grandmother...and me.

 

 

Moving Conversation

 It’s Time We Had a Rather Moving Conversation

If you follow my blog, you know my mother moved to Florida. Mostly. She has been living in a condo about six miles from our house. She bought it and moved in right away. One little glitch…most of her belongings were still in Ohio.

She had a bed, a couple of chairs and a sofa. She had a small dining set, a washer and dryer. Basics.

I loaned her a small skillet and saucepan. Doable for the short term. As for dishes? Paper plates, plastic cups, and disposable silverware is fine for a picnic or party. But every day?

Fortunately, Mike had a spare coffee pot and we had mugs. But still…

Even her car was safely tucked away in her Ohio garage.

Mom has lived that way since the end of March. 

She made the most of her time. She has met several neighbors, gone on long walks with a few of them. We pick her up in Mike’s truck on Sundays for Cowboy Church and in Mike’s boat on occasion for our Friday night cookout. I take her with me to the grocery store.

Living in a space without all your own stuff surrounding you gives you time to reflect on your true needs. 

This past week, Mike, Mom, and I headed north to retrieve her “things.” Mike rented a 6’X12’ U-Haul trailer and we packed it, making good use of every inch. Actually… not “we” exactly. The sons-in-law and grandsons helped Mike.  I stood in awe. If you had told me we could practically fit a house of stuff in that trailer, I would have said, “Impossible.”

As we worked through closets and cupboards; desks and boxes, we came across photos and newspaper clippings; lots of books and old letters or documents. It is interesting the amount of plain old “stuff” we accumulate.

"STUFF"

Mom has lived in that house for twenty-five years. Moving and packing, you relive your life. The process brings back memories. Mom’s good nature and positive attitude helped us work through the process. But it WAS a process. 

The experience magnified for me the need to turn loose of things. Purge as you go. 

That cute party favor you saved from your niece’s wedding?  Send her a card on her anniversary and pitch the favor. She’ll be happy to hear from you.

Received beautiful cards or sweet notes from someone you love? Put them in a scrapbook. Or better yet, call the person and tell her or him you came across a sweet note and it made you smile. Then toss the note.

Saving that sixteen-place setting of good China for some unknown special occasion that may or may not happen in the future? Let’s face it, if you’re entertaining sixteen people, do yourself a favor and use paper plates. You DO NOT want to spend your evening in the kitchen cleaning up.

Simplify your life now. It is freeing. And…. It will save you a lot of stress when you move to Florida.

If you missed the post about picking Mom up at her Dock, CLICK HERE.