Oh, the Places I have Lived ! - Part 6

In an elevator in some place in Connecticut once, my mom was asked where we had moved from. She knew the man was asking about her Southern accent, but with a twinkle in her eye, she responded, “New Hampshire.”

 

“No you didn’t,” the man, surprised, argued.

 

“Well,” Mom admitted, “southernNew Hampshire.”

 

Yes, the man was very confused although my mom’s answer was the gospel truth. We did move to Connecticut from southern New Hampshire. He simply wasn’t asking the right question. And after a laugh, my mom told him she was from Tennessee. And the man’s next question?

 

“Oh! Did you know Elvis?”

 

Unfortunately, no, my mother never met Elvis.

 

People who have never lived in New England tend to group those six little states together but if you live up there and spend any amount of time in any of them you realize that while they have similarities, they are also very different. By the time we moved in Connecticut the summer I was eleven, I had come to an understanding with New Englanders and was more open to accepting Connecticut as a home than I had been New Hampshire. Combining that with the impressionable ages of what is now referred to as “tweens” and living there for a record-breaking three years and one month…well, I really loved Connecticut. Now, I probably wouldn’t live there. Not that I could ever afford it anyway.

 

My dad, while on business trips, found us a rental house to live in. He came home quite excited about it. It had a birch tree in the front, a huge field on the side we could play it, set on top of a hill, multiple trees in the back, and the view! Well, the view was to die for. 

 

“How many bedrooms?” Mom asked.

 

“Um, four…I think. The view, Pat! You can see rolling hills, and…”

 

“How many bathrooms?”

 

“Um, one and half, I believe. And there are orchards on those hills!”

 

“Does it have a kitchen?”

 

Of course it had a kitchen, but one without an oven. My dad could describe so little about the house itself my mom had a nightmare about it: there was a house with a kitchen, but it had holes in all the walls so she could look out at the view.

 

And the view was quite amazing. Visitors at our house took pictures of it! Rolling hills, orchards, beautiful fall foliage. The yard was to die for as far we kids were concerned: a hill to sled down, a field to play in, a driveway to ride bikes on, and trees to climb and have all kinds of adventures in. If the setting is what makes a house then we had it all.

 

But the house itself was a little odd in some ways. Actually, it was an old farmhouse built around the time of the turn of the 20^thCentury. We had picked up from various people in the area that it had once owned practically all the land you can see from the house and was quite a farming operation. And it had been a really nice house: well built with four bedrooms upstairs all around a central hall area, a spacious living room and dining area, a very large staircase, and a good kitchen although it needed some work. Even the basement was spacious and mostly dry. A screened in porch with three sets of French doors leading out to it made really easy for the movers to move us in and out. It also made a great butterfly house one summer for Katey who would grab her net and dash out of the house whenever a butterfly flew by a window. Between those and the caterpillars she caught and let loose in the porch, it was the biggest science project she ever conducted. We had a great time living there.

 

But the house was backwards, in that the front did not actually face the road it was on. The screened porch faced the road and almost looked like the front of the house, but once you followed the drive around to the back, you realized from the pillars holding up a balcony in great need of repair above a porch that you were now facing the front. It was also a bizarre yellow color and what shutters were still in place were a terrible avocado green. The owner paid his 19-year-old son and a friend to paint it one summer. I think the intention was to make it more cream like, but all the shutters were never put back up and they painted the brick chimney (except a good portion around the wires coming into the house) which made it look tacky. A job that took those two lazy kids weeks to complete.

If you google the house today and look at it in streetview, you can see it is now a pleasant gray and someone has turned the screened porch into a “front porch”, trimmed the windows in white and all of the shutters – now black – are in place. It makes me curious of what the real front now looks like and if someone has put some real thought and work into creating the inside into something really nice. But, regardless, I have a lot of fond memories of that house in Wallingford, Connecticut.

Memorial Day

It’s rather funny, but Memorial Day is one of my kids’ favorite holidays. I’m not sure why because I’m pretty sure that from the time Emry was born until we moved to Indiana, Ed worked every Memorial Day and we never did anything special. Except the year after Ethan was born and I remembered the tiny town we lived in actually had a Memorial Day parade. And since the main street was twenty feet from my back door, I dressed the kids in their most Patriotic clothes and we walked up there. Someone gave them flags to wave and almost every participant in the tiny parade threw candy at them. At the tender ages of three and one, I think they figured what wasn’t to love about Memorial Day? Flags! Parades! Candy! Best holiday ever!

 

We’ve been very careful with Emry, Ethan and even Ellyson to make sure they understand the reason for Memorial Day. The flags are wonderful. And we were sooooo grateful to be able to go to the parade this year that was so awfully cancelled last year by politicians who don’t understand Memorial Day, but…for all intents and purposes, Memorial Day is a very sad holiday.

 

We don’t sugar coat Memorial Day. It would be a little hard to do so when I have a large infrared photo of Arlington National Cemetery hanging above my rolltop desk. Since all that is in our “dining room” we have had many discussions about the picture and the place Ethan says he will go when he dies (and get a statue, he adds). For some reason, the discussion of Memorial Day came up on Friday as I took the kids out for a special treat of ice cream. I explained to them again how Memorial Day is a day to remember all the soldiers who have died for America so we can be a free country.

 

“But, Mama, where do the soldiers go when they die?” Ethan asked.

 

“Well, if they love Jesus they go to Heaven,” I replied. “If they don’t, they go to…hell.”

 

“Where’s hell?” Ethan asked.

 

“It’s dark there,” Emry pipes up. “You can’t see anything. It’s like the world before God created anything.”

 

“It is?” Ethan asked in wonder. “What else?”

 

And so, for the next five or six minutes before we pulled into Culver’s, I had a deep theological discussion with my six- and four-year olds about Heaven, Hell, salvation, and trusting Jesus. One of those conversations that can be a little hard as you try to put in their terms things that are difficult for you to understand, and yet also a conversation you wish didn’t have to end.

 

As last year, even without the parade, my kids drew flags, created Patriotic artwork, and talked about America even when I didn’t spearhead the creations or the conversations. And I’m glad. Because the conversation of Memorial Day is being taken away. The Vice President of this wonderful nation men and women have sacrificed their lives for used the day as a photo op – language-I-can’t-use her. Proving the point that Memorial Day is needed more now than ever. It’s a day we should remember. It’s a day we should tell our children about…and their children…and their children. Because the names on those markers at Arlington and other cemeteries all over this nation should never be forgotten. The flags placed on those graves should fly proudly. And we should get down on our hands and knees and thank God for their willingness to sacrifice everything for our freedom. 

Do not forget. Remember. And don’t let America fall without a fight. 

Oh, the Places I have Lived! - Part 5

When it was decided we would move from tiny Lewisburg, Tennessee up to New Hampshire, a woman at our church (who may have never left the borders of Tennessee but had certainly never been north of the Mason Dixon) asked us what we were going to eat up there. You might laugh, but she wasn’t too far off the mark.

 

I was two months shy of the age of nine and in the middle of third grade when we left my “whole life” and moved to the foreign country of New England. At that point of my life, my geography was a little sketchy (although I could name all eight states that touch Tennessee – can you?) so I really had no concept of where New Hampshire even was. I knew it was north. I knew it was cold. I knew we would get to ice skate and sled. (All things I’m thinking my parents told us to make the move sound less worse than it really was.) What I did not know was they did not have the same stores or the same products. (No corn meal in sight – my dad would buy it on business trips to Texas and bring it back in his suitcase.) Third grade in New Hampshire merely resembled third grade in Tennessee. (A topic that deserves a whole blog post in and of itself.) And they did not speak the same language. (I don’t pahk cahsor have idears, and my name is NOT Melissar.) Truly, we had moved to a foreign country.

 

But at least it had interesting houses. As a blossoming student of history, I found the fact that our house had been built in 1833 to be amazing.Even more fascinating was that it had been a part of the underground railroad. It even had a secret room. You couldn’t get to it, but you could see the staircase rising above the basement staircase and it looked as if the door (now sealed) was behind our stove. I found it wondrous and spooky all at the same time.

 

As a kid, the house just off the Derry “suicide circle” (rotary) on South Main seemed huge! There were real (but no longer working) fireplaces in almost every room. My bedroom had a crystal chandelier and real wood floors that I had to take a hammer to every few months to knock in nails that could potentially cause an accident that would lead to a tetanus shot. Katey’s room/the school room had so many layers of wallpaper we figured it was its own form of insulation. (The reality is in old New England homes, it can be virtually impossible to get old wallpaper off so you either paper or paint over it.) My parent’s bedroom had a “closet” that was basically another room complete with a window. The garage was three stalls with heavy old doors we had to push and pull ourselves (great fun!) and a complete attic above (that could have been a fun place to play but although it was “finished”, I don’t recall if it was heated). And there was a kitchen upstairs off the room that was my dad’s office. We didn’t use it, except my dad would heat water for his tea, but the previous owners had been two sisters (Lillie and Millie who were married to Frank…and Frank) and one couple had lived upstairs while the other lived downstairs. They loved the old house so much, they’d stop by to visit! And after the gravel driveway in Tennessee, a decent paved one was great for bikes, skates, and just about everything else. The yard was virtually a grassy area around the house with enough room for the swing set and the home of lot of snakes. (I hated when my mom made me go to the backside of the house to get the laundry from the line…I don’t care if they weren’t poisonous.) But the property backed up to a golf course and there was a good sized plot of land the course owned between our house and the neighbor’s that we played tag, kickball, and lots of other things. Plus, we could sled into the sand pit and it was just a jaunt over the green to a pond to ice skate.

 

To be bluntly honest, the house was one of the few things I liked about New Hampshire the first time we lived there. In a lot of ways, it was a culture shock. It didn’t help that I was still in a public school when we moved, so I finished third grade at the school up the street. The next year, my parents placed me in a Christian school. And the next year I transitioned to being homeschooled. My mom says I took it all in stride, but under that “stride” I was a little confused about where I stood in my little world which didn’t help me like the place where I had so many strange first experiences. By the time we moved two and a half years later back “south” to Connecticut, I was beginning to understand New England. And I would love Connecticut.

 

Our first New Hampshire home from 1989 to 1991

The Other Two

I realize it’s been a while since I posted much about my kids. I suppose that’s good, though. It means they haven’t done anything crazy or come to bodily harm. For which I’m grateful since our only car is the thorn in our side right now…

 

Since I just posted about Emry, I thought I’d catch up a little with Ethan and Ellyson. Ethan is, well, Ethan. He spend his days draining my energy with his endless commentary and risking his life in ways I don’t even want to know about. (Like climbing the six-foot fence on one side of our yard or scrambling up to the roof of the shed. At least he told he wanted to climb up to the roof of the garage so I could tell him that wasn’t allowed.) Since we finished up school this last week, I told him that along with Emry doing her reading and flash cards or math drills for the summer, he would be working on his letters and sounds so he can start Kindergarten. Since he’s seen some of his school books that I’ve already ordered, he assumes we are actually doing Kindergarten. I won’t disillusion him. But teaching him is going to be muchdifferent than teaching Emry. For example, the flashcard with the letter “T” had a picture of a toolbox full of tools.

 

“Ethan, what letter is this?”

 

“E-T-H-A-N,” he responded, stressing the letter T. 

 

Apparently, if the letter is in his or Emry’s name it cannot be said without spelling out the whole name.

 

“And what does ‘T’ say?” I asked.

 

He said the sound and then started rambling, “Toolbox! Tools! I have tools! Papa has that tool, but I have that tool. And that one. And the hammer…”

 

It’s going to be a long year of Kindergarten…

 

 

Ellyson, meanwhile, is sleeping through the night!!!!Mostly. I’ll add that disclaimer, because she has nights where I’m up several times. I’m thinking it’s teething. Her top two front teeth finallypopped through the gum today. On the other hand, she has always seemed to think that sleeping through the night is highly overrated, even when she was in the womb. She’s also just enjoying her nearly one-year-old life: getting into things, making messes, pulling up on things and even letting go to sit back down. No walking yet and that’s okay. She gets into enough trouble crawling. But even though she drains what energy I have left after Emry and Ethan, she is such a sweet little thing. What would life be without her?

 

Pragmatic

Dealing with things sensibly and realistically in a way that is based on practical rather than theoretical considerations.

 

Based upon that definition, I can’t imagine that anyone is pragmatic all the time. After all, God has given us an imagination and sometimes it gets carried away and wanders into “theoretical”. But even in those moments, I can become very pragmatic about how I am dealing with my theoretical. After all, one must always have a plan.

 

Last weekend Emry had her awards ceremony for her successfully accomplished first year on the b-Bopper team at her dance studio. After going back and forth in August about whether to allow her to accept the invitation for the team, I am very glad we decided to do it. It has been a really good year at dance for her. She has learned a lot not just in the realm of dancing, but also in being responsible in practicing and having her things together and ready. She has also performed on several stages in front of as many people as can currently sit in any given place, and I don’t think she was nervous even once. If only I had such confidence!

 

I don’t suppose I expressly told Emry she was allowed to dress up really nicely to attend the ceremony/party but I did tell her to wear shorts under whichever dress she chose as she may play games. I didn’t have to do that as she doesn’t wear a skirt or dress without shorts, but I’m a mom so sometimes I just have to say what doesn’t need to be said. And since I said it, she took that very seriously and chose to wear one of her favorite long tops that is not really a dress over a pair of pink shorts. Since I figured the girls ranging from ages five to nine would be “dressed up” in all and sundry (one little girl in a gorgeous white tulle dress with a pair of crocks – one blue and one purple – was the winner of that contest), I didn’t press the issue.

 

Emry had great fun playing dance Bingo, winning a prize, and giggling with the other girls. Then it was time to give each of them an award, the titles created by their instructor and helpers to represent their little personalities. As Emry skipped up to get her “Dazzling Dedication” award, Miss Kelsey remarked, “I love the outfit with the shorts. Very pragmatic.”

 

Her use of that word hit me and I almost laughed. For Emry is nothing if not pragmatic…at least as pragmatic as a six-year-old can be. My mom is forever laughing at how pragmatically she deals with her brother until he sees things from her point of view or plays the game her way (most of the time). It will be interesting to see if she can deal with Ellyson the same way. Or “pragmatically” think of how Ellyson can be dealt with! 

 

I wonder where she gets that…

Emry and her b-Boppers team in their “Minnie” pose.

 

Emry and Emma – her new “best friend”.