When Life Gives you Lemons...

...break down and cry. Not once, but until you can't remember how many times you've cried.

I feel like we have lived a lifetime this past week. We at least lived a week on Tuesday. At least, it felt like that. Is it really FINALLY Friday?

It all started last Tuesday. Well, I guess it really started earlier. After all, our car has been making noises for a while. Nothing terrible - just the sounds of old age. (It's a 2006 Hyundai Tucson with just over 182,000 miles and I've had it for eight-and-a-half years.) But as Ed and I were coming home Tuesday evening, it just kept sounding worse and worse. And then he couldn't get it into second (it's a clutch). So, he called in a personal day Wednesday and we took it to the shop to get the clutch fixed.

Now when your only mode of transportation goes into the shop, your life automatically becomes complicated. In order to avoid some of that, we figured we could afford a rental for a couple of days. And we would start looking for a new vehicle (something we had already decided we would do at the start of the year when some of our finances were freed up). But 24 hours later, complicated spiraled downward.

The mechanic called. It wasn't just the clutch. It was the brakes...and the rotors...and some wheel thing in the transmission (that would take till Tuesday to get in)...and, well, work that was going to cost roughly twice as much as the car was worth. So, we had to bite the bullet. We told him to put it back together so we could at least get around for a couple of weeks to car search.

I can't think of a word to use that is ten times worse than complicated, but by Saturday that is where we were. For they did get the car put back together...only now it wouldn't go into gear at all. I extended the rental (again!) and we argued with each other and the mechanic that if we brought it in in working order (albeit not perfect but drive-able) then we expected to drive it away as such. And we weren't going to pay for something that was their problem. By Sunday evening, we were finished. We'd pay for the repairs we originally told them to do...and call a tow truck on Monday.

Let me add a side note here that I almost cried when my Tucson came home on a tow truck. And again when it left the next day on another tow truck. The second driver remarked that he found women to be a bit more emotional over their vehicles. I replied that I didn't think that at all. Taking a truck away from a man is worse than taking his wife. My dad had to give up his truck 30 years ago and we still hear about it. And I won't deny that I was more than angry at Ed when he said we'd get nothing for my Tucson and when I countered that we had gotten $400 for his way-older-more-mileaged-worse-shape truck 2 years ago, his response was, "Well, that was a truck." (I still hear about and probably will for 30 more years.) The driver had to agree with that. But he didn't understand. Except for my family and dearest friend, I have never had anything in my life for eight-and-a-half WHOLE YEARS. Not a home, not a job, not a person, nothing. Except that Tucson. So, yes, I almost cried.

On Monday, Ed went out in search for our newest vehicle. Nothing. At least nothing we were looking for in our price range. He didn't have to be at work until Tuesday afternoon, so we all went out that morning to look. We stopped at a dealership at about 10:30...and life didn't slow down again until nearly 5 that evening. I won't go into all the details, but suffice to say we spent the rest of the day running around getting paperwork (we traded in the Tucson and an auction place took it), figuring out car loans, entertaining two kids (one of which got no nap at all and the other which had two very short naps in our drivings back and forth), signing enough paperwork that I still think I may have signed away my life...and ending the bedlam with driving away in a 2012 Honda Pilot.

Twenty-four hours later, the two of us collapsed on the couch, I finally turned to Ed and said, "What did we just do?" His answer: "I don't know."

The moral of the story: NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER buy a car when you needed one yesterday.

Our new car is a good car. It drives like a truck, and I don't doubt for a moment that it is a safe vehicle for my children. It will survive the awful roads in Pittsburgh, any snow that might get tossed our way and will probably last us at least ten years if not eleven or twelve. (At least, it better.) But that fact that we now have a car loan is daunting. (Especially for me who has never had a loan on anything in her entire life.) It was the biggest purchase I have ever made. (I, who as a single person would talk myself out of going to the grocery store because I could survive on Cheerios and peanut butter for another two days, surely.) And whenever I look at it, I'm still not sure exactly what happened on Tuesday. Which frustrates Ed more than it does me. (I'm use to car people taking advantage for I was single for 34 years and I've seen more dollar signs in the eyes of car people than I can count.) It's still hard to be at peace right now.

But while I could sit here and tell you all the things I could very easily complain about right now, or share my fears and worries, or even have yet another good cry, I won't. Instead, I will praise God for the provision thus far. For He did provide a down payment that didn't require we sign away our firstborn child. And He is sovereign, which means while we may still be in a daze He is never. And somehow He will continue to provide, even should that mean we have to face some difficult realities and hard days. So even though I have wondered often in the past week if God even cares, or hears, or bothers to visit Pittsburgh (something I've often wondered in the last three years), there's a little mustard seed that says He does. And I have to trust Him. Because in the end, He's the only one to trust. Amen.

Kids and Conversation

You've got to love the conversations kids have. I think Emry is a pretty good little conversationalist, but I realize I talk to her on a daily basis so I understand her vocabulary and it's nuances. When she attempts to talk to other kids...well, there is quite a bit lost in translation.

A few weeks ago, we met a couple from church at the park for a picnic and fun. Since they don't yet have grandchildren of their own, they've kind of adopted Emry and Ethan. We don't mind. Can anyone have too many grandparents?

We hadn't been to this park yet and Emry really enjoyed it. There was a whole "maze" of tunnels to climb through. She was having the time of her life...until several kids decided to invade her territory.

Emry isn't one to assert her position. She stands aside and watches. Or, I noticed once, she surreptitiously gets revenge (in this case, she went over to another kid's small tower and knocked it over when she wasn't looking after that kid had taken a train from her about five minutes before). So, she watched the other kids and contented herself with crawling through whatever tunnel they weren't in. The older kids wandered off, but two little boys about 4 years of age decided to camp out in one tunnel. Emry would wander over to see if they had left, but they hadn't. Finally, she just stood outside the entrance and watched them. One of them got tired of that and decided to talk to her.

"This tunnel is for boys only," he told her more than once. "No girls."

Emry isn't at the age where she understands the lines drawn between boys and girls on the playground. But she does now understand the difference between boys and girls, so she related his unfriendliness to what she knows.

"Biffen a boy," she informed him, meaning Ethan.

Of course, the boy had no idea who Ethan was, let alone "Biffen". He simply related her comment to they closest thing his vocabulary could bring up. And with a rather cruel look, he pointedly informed her:

"I am not your boyfriend."

Happy 35^th Birthday, Katey!

Katey – age 3

Family Trees

It has been years since I did any research or detailed work on my family trees. Recently I made an attempt to update them with the marriages of cousins and births of their children, but going by what I know or remember alone leaves much to be desired. I’ve always wanted time to do some in-depth research in archives or tramp around cemeteries to find the final resting places of those I know by name only. If I ever get that opportunity (once the kids are grown!), then maybe I can finally join the Daughters of the American Revolution as well as the Daughters of the Confederacy. (Mmh…now I know why those women are always pictured as old and grey-headed.)

Family trees are so interesting, even though they ultimately show us little to nothing about the people listed on them. Mostly names and dates, you can’t know who a person was from that. However, it is fun to imagine.

For instance, I recently pulled out my George family tree to refresh my memory for the blog I posted last week on that family. First, I found I knew further back in that line that I remembered. My first record is Isaac George, born in 1539 in Chelmsford, Essex, England, which is a village forty miles northeast of London. 478 years ago!

I don’t know anything else about Isaac except he married and had a son named Richard who married and had a son named William who married and had a son named Nicholas. This Nicholas came to America - Lancaster, Virginia to be precise. This is a little town between the Chesapeake Bay and the Rappahannock River. I don’t know when he came, but sometime after his son Nicholas was born in England in 1640 but before his death in Lancaster in 1661. So, very early on in American history.

The second Nicholas’s son William was born in Lancaster. He married and had a son William who married and had a son William who married and had a son William. (In case you’ve lost count, that’s four Williams. People say genealogies in Scripture are confusing, but at least they didn’t given their children the same names generations in succession!) This final William was born in Lancaster in 1756, nineteen years before the start of the American Revolution. This is the part of my family tree that gets interesting.

From information I found online, he did fight during the American Revolution in the 8^th Virginia and was even at Valley Forge. After the war, he went to Nova Scotia with the fishing and boating industry. There, in 1791, he married a woman named Africa Rogers in Guysborough, Nova Scotia, Canada. She was from North Carolina.

Here is where I get curious. Looking Guysborough up online, it was originally a small settlement of Acadians on Chedabucto Bay in the southeast part of the island. The Acadians were run out by the English in the 1750s. Following the American Revolution in 1783, it was re-settled by Black Loyalists and named after Sir Guy Carleton, commander of the British forces and Governor General of Canada in the 1780s. Black Loyalists…a woman named Africa. Can you see where I’m going with this? I don’t know if it means anything. Perhaps her family was also in the fishing industry (although she appears to be from a county in the middle of North Carolina and nowhere near the coast). Or maybe it was just a very pleasant place to live. I don’t know, but it does make me a little curious.

Anyhow, this William certainly had no intention of staying in Canada although most of their nine children were born there before they moved to Lincoln County, Tennessee (on the border of Alabama) somewhere around 1808 or ’09.  That includes the son I’m descended from, Thomas, born in 1803. He would have three wives in succession, and I descend from a son of the third wife, Owen. (Or, perhaps, Thomas Owen. It’s a little unclear if Thomas and Owen are two distinct people or one named Thomas Owen.) Owen would marry and have a son named Thomas who married and had a son named Felix Bert – my great-grandfather. Either Owen or Thomas moved to our hometown of Lewisburg in the later 1800s.

Family trees may be lists of names and dates, but I find them fascinating and full of curious entries that sure do spark imaginary/pseudo historical stories I would love to tell.

Mmh…perhaps I’ll do that, too, when I’m a grey-headed Daughter of the American Revolution.

Happy Birthday!

To my husband, Ed.

Siblings

Over the past several weeks, it has become more and more fun to watch Ethan and Emry interact. At first, Emry seemed to more-or-less ignore “Biffen”. And why not? Except when he was the focus of my attention, there wasn’t a great deal of excitement coming from a infant who just sits in his swing, or chair, or lays on the floor. Now that he can get just about anywhere, though…well, Emry finds him much more interesting.

Most of the time, she’s a good big sister. She likes to show him the things on his bouncy seat. She gets down on the floor to talk and laugh with him. She likes to join him when she thinks he is doing something fun. And most of the time she doesn’t mind if he has one of her toys. However, we have had more than one discussion on 1) sharing and 2) if you simply find sharing impossible, you may take away a toy that is rightfully yours but you must give him one of his toys in exchange. Of course, I would prefer #1 or #2.

Meanwhile, Ethan thinks the sun rises and sets with Emry. If she comes his way or pays him the slightest bit of attention, his whole face lights up and he laughs with pure delight. I think that’s what you call “adoration”.

“No, Emry! I don’t want a kiss!”

Showing Ethan the fun toys on his bouncy seat.

Ethan teaching Emry to crawl? He does do a military-looking crawl.

Watching out the front door – one of Ethan’s favorite pastimes.

7 Months!!!!

Today, Ethan is 7 months old. Today, I moved his 3-month clothes into his dresser drawers. Yep…like his sister before him, he’s tiny.

But he is strong! I’m not too surprised he’s weighing in at only 12 or so pounds. The way he moves, it’s amazing he gains any weight at all. By 7 months, Emry was sitting up by herself but that was all she was doing. Sit her on her blanket and you’d find her there two hours later, happily playing with her toys. Put Ethan on the floor and you won’t find him in the same place five seconds later! He’s everywhere!!!!!

So, yes, Ethan is extremely mobile. Not crawling…mobile. In fact, I think his upper body strength is greater than mine for he does this inch-worm thing and uses his arms to move himself just about wherever he wants to be. The legs seem to be more like helpful extras than useful limbs. Although, he does walk his feet up underneath him so he’s in a Yoga downward facing dog pose and then shoots himself off from there. It’s not his preferred mode of transportation and I get the idea that what he really wants is to run about on his feet like Emry does. And since he’s not yet sitting up by himself, I also have this awful suspicion that sitting is not something he’s going to do very much…

For that matter, I also think I’ll have to puree his food for the rest of his life. I never worried about Emry choking on anything. I can give him a grand total of two closely watched Cheerios before he wants to simply cut to the chase and inhale them. My telling him the whole time, “Chew, chew, chew,” while making that motion with my own mouth does nothing. In fact, he just gives me a little grin like he knows what he’s supposed to do but has simply decided not to.

Seven months…where has that time gone?

 Yea – 7 months!

Sit still? I don’t want to sit still, Mama!

I think I’ll just eat the Sock Monkey…

Finally – one good picture!

My Family: George

I was five. Up until then, I may have never been to a cemetery, but in the past six months I had become familiar with them. Familiar enough to run around with my sister Katey while my mom talked to the man who was there. I’m sure my mom must have told us not to touch any of the headstones as we’ve never stepped into a cemetery when one of my parents didn’t tell us not to touch the headstones, but the man soon stopped our running about. He pointed to a stone, fallen over on it’s face, not an unusual sight in an older cemetery. But he then told us that a little girl my age had been playing in the cemetery, caught a hold of that stone and pulled it down on top of her. It crushed her to death.

I’ve never touch a headstone again.

The picture above was taken at my grandparents’ wedding in 1951. The building behind these people is Bethbirei Presbyterian Church, located in that same cemetery I would run around in 36 years later. The people in the photo are probably all related to me somehow, but I only know five of them by name. First, the older man and woman in the middle of the front row who are my great-grandparents Bert George and his wife Annie Maple Lucille Hayes George (in the dark dress). Directly behind my great-grandmother is their son Macklin (“Mack”) with his lovely wife on the left, Elinor (pronounced “Elnor” with the right Southern draw). The toddler in the picture is their son Phil. It was a beautiful, happy day spent at their home church. Six years later, another family get-together there would come to a tragic end.

My maternal grandmother’s maiden name is George. She was born June 6, 1932 in Lewisburg, Tennessee. She had one older sister born in 1925, but Lucille died shortly after birth. Her loving, protective elder brother Mack was born in 1927. Although very poor, I think they were happy. And their history entwined with my life quite a bit.

I had just turned five when we moved to my parents’ hometown of Lewisburg. For the first six months we lived in the little house that had been my great-grandfather’s. Daddy Bert had died a month after I was born, so I never knew him or my great-grandmother “Sally” (as her grandkids called her) who had died in 1964. But I heard plenty of stories from my mom who loved them. Down the street lived Mack and Elinor. (Always referred to as “Mack ‘n Elnor” as if they were one. Which in so many ways they were, for after 58 years of marriage, they died three days apart this past spring.) Even after we moved closer to town, we spent a lot of time at Mack ‘n Elnor’s house and then at their newer house they built on the opposite side of their property. Family get-togethers. Fish fries every September for Mack’s birthday. And searching for Christmas trees every December,

In time, I would learn who their four children were: Phil, Janet, David and Kenneth. Like any adult with childhood memories, mine are a little funny. The only girl and the exact image of her mother (the first time I saw the picture above I swore Elinor was Janet), Janet had two kids we played with – Mary Leigh and Matthew. Kenneth, the epitome of “baby in the family”, was a bachelor when I was a kid and I thought him great fun (probably because the word “irresponsible” wasn’t yet a part of my vocabulary). He now has two sons…and is on wife number two. I first heard Phil, an attorney, described as an “ambulance chaser”. You can probably imagine what pictures a child’s mind conjured up over that phrase and I confess I still internally giggle every time I see him. He now owns/runs the winery on the property, and has two grown daughters from his current wife #3. David, who was apparently so quiet he was easy to overlook., I didn’t meet till I was a teenager. At the time, he was still quiet and easy to overlook. I hear he can be quite talkative now. All of them are in and out of memories from my years in Tennessee, people my mom would talk about and lives that I eventually understood connected to mine by blood. So, when I was about sixteen and made up my first family tree, I thought I had them all listed. But when I showed it to my mom, she shook her head and said, “You forgot Sheryl.”

Sheryl?

I had never heard the name. Possibly because it had never been spoken. For with the recent deaths of my grandmother, Mack and his wife; I asked Mom if they ever spoke of Sheryl. She thought a minute, shook her head and said, “I guess not.”

“Do you remember that day?” I then asked.

She thought and then once again shook her head, “I was three. I remember something, but not clearly.”

I could understand why. For the five year old little girl who pulled the headstone down on top of her? That was my second cousin Sheryl.

They were having a family get together at Bethbirei. The little cousins were playing in the cemetery. Maybe she tripped and caught it. Maybe she was just being curious as children are and pulled it over. Whatever happened…today local tell a ghost story of her haunting the area.

Families have histories. Happy histories. Tragic histories. Whichever they are, they make us who we are. Which is why I want to write some of them down for my kids…and also why they will never touch a headstone.