Oh, The Joys

Once Upon A Blogger

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Mon, 09 Jul 2012 16:32:00 +0000

Once upon a time, I was a blogger.

[And then I took a job for which I had to blog... but that is a different story and I'll get to that later.]

In 2007, I was regularly blogging and decided to attend the BlogHer conference in Chicago.

I was nervous.

What if no one wants to hang out with me?!

[Oh, the anxiety.]

I organized a meet up the night before the conference got officially underway.

It was open to everyone. There wasn't a guest list. It wasn't exclusive. It was just open, real, genuine.

And, as it happened, it was fun.

We called it, The People's Party and, over the years, it's become one of the official opening parties of the BlogHer conference.

The party is hosted by some great bloggers -

Megan Velveteen Mind, Janet Izzymom, Katie Motherbumper and Jenny The Bloggess, and by me, the artist formerly known as a blogger!

The People’s Party is Thursday night, August 2nd at 8pm right before BlogHer ’12 starts. And, as Katie said,

No RSVPs required
No special exclusive invitations
No feeling left out
HECK – you don’t even need to leave the hotel!

I hope you'll join us there!

Whizpoppers

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 12:00:00 +0000

In Roald Dahl's novel, The BFG, young Sophie is kidnapped and taken to a land occupied by giants.

Recently, I've been reading this book to The Mayor and The Rooster.

In the giant's world, their equivalent of soda fizzes downward instead of upward.

Instead of causing burps, soda causes, well... the opposite, an activity know to the giants as "Whizpopping."

When a giant releases whizpops, he is lifted off the ground and filled with a sensation of elation.

This is such a fun experience that whizpopping itself is a sign of happiness among the giants.

Reflecting on the chapter where we learned all this, The Rooster smiled at me and said,

Mama, you're the happiest person I know.

Hey, No Fair!!

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 19:47:00 +0000

K usually wakes up the children, but he had to leave the house early the other day.

We do it differently, the waking up.

K plays an out of tune guitar and sings a made up morning song that might remind you of alley cats meowing in the night.

I prefer to climb in my children's beds and snuggle them awake.

On this particular morning, I climbed in with The Rooster first and rubbed her back and talked with her until I knew she'd get up and get dressed.

Then I moved into The Mayor's bed.

Because relating to seven year old boys seems to require an element of rough housing, I didn't rub his back so much as gently transition him into several world championship wrestling maneuvers.

As I climbed out of his bed, I said,

You'd better get up and get dressed quickly because I left a fart in your bed.

And then, unbelievably, from The Rooster's room I hear,

HEY! NO FAIR! YOU DIDN'T LEAVE A FART IN MY BED!!

Seriously?

They will fight about ANYTHING.

The joys.

We All Face It Alone

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 15:27:00 +0000

Roo woke up this morning complaining of a stomach ache and wouldn’t eat.

I gave her medicine, I tried crackers, toast, juice... she just nibbled.

She stayed in her pajamas and wouldn’t get dressed.

She stayed home from Art Camp yesterday complaining that she was sick and she does have a cold or allergies, but no fever.

I kept encouraging her to do one thing at a time and I got in the shower.

While I was in there, she came and stood next to the shower curtain.

“I miss you when I’m at art camp,” she said in a small voice.

I pulled the shower curtain aside.

“Is this what your stomach ache and sickness is really about, Roo?” I asked. “Are you nervous about art camp?”

She nodded.

“Is it too new? Is it that you don’t know anyone there?”

She nodded again and started to cry.

She went for a full day on Monday and seemed animated and excited by her time there, but my Roo has a hard time adjusting to new places and new people. She's just as shy as can be until she feels safe and comfortable.

When I got out of the shower we talked about bravery, but Roo cried all the way to art camp.

She kept trying to wipe away the tears and get her game face on, but she was scared and nervous.

I thought maybe she’d grown out of this, but I suppose not. I felt ashamed not to have understood what she was feeling when she stayed home yesterday.

Am I too distracted?

I talked to the art camp director about Roo and she promised that she would help her make a special, new friend.

Roo fell on me crying one last time, kissed me, wiped her tears and walked into the classroom with the camp director.

I looked back at her as I left, but she was blurry.

I cried all the way to the office.

As It Turns Out, I'm Still Doing This!

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 14:16:00 +0000

BlogHer is only about a month away. Are you ready to party?

The Bloggess, Oh, the Joys!, Motherbumper, IzzyMom and Velveteen Mind are returning with...

The 5th Annual People’s Party!

As BlogHer continues to grow, our mission remains the same:

Host a laid-back, inclusive ice-breaking gathering the night before BlogHer.

As always, the People’s Party is for everyone.

[And that means you.]

You can get your "I'm going" badges for this party - and all the parties - here.

Damn the man! Viva the People!

Some People

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Fri, 27 May 2011 02:04:00 +0000

My son, who was busily schooling me on the art of meditation...

[learned where?]

...said,

...some people sit like this [cross legged] and some people sit like this [lotus] and some people hold their thumb & finger in a circle like this and some people...

On and on went the 'some people's, so I said,

Some people call me a space cowboy. Some call me the gangster of love. Some people call me Maurice.

My son rolled his eyes.

I blame Grandma Seattle for playing The Steve Miller Band so much when I was a child.

Chicken Breast Threat Level Orange

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 19:28:00 +0000

I never intended to pose a threat to airport security but on the way out of town, I realized that the fluid filled sacks in my carry on luggage might very likely cause alarm, attract attention, and, frankly, mortify me.

Two days ago, I learned that many of my female colleagues were planning to wear floor length gowns to our office's 'black tie optional' event though I had assumed we’d go with cocktail length dresses since we'd be working the event.

I scrambled, asking friends if they had anything formal I could borrow.

One friend (who shall remain nameless for reasons that will become clear as the story unfolds) loaned me a strappy, red number.

When I tried it on, she eyed me critically and said, “You’re going to need the chicken breasts.”

[That's the face I made too.]

She went to a drawer and pulled out two silicon filled sacks and told me to drop them in my bra.

“Trust me,” she said.

I was skeptical, but lo, said chicken breasts propped up the tired, old girls and gave them renewed vitality.

Who knew?

I borrowed the dress and the…items, loaded them into my carry-on luggage and headed for the airport.

Only when I was underway did it occur to me that the two squishy objects might be an issue at airport security.

Would they unpack my bag and expose my udder subterfuge?

[swidt?]

Thankfully, the Atlanta airport security employees let the… support group… sail through the line, but agents at Reagan National Airport were not so easily duped upon my return this morning.

My bag was in the x-ray machine when I heard the TSA agent call out to a colleague.

“What do you think that could be?” I heard him say.

There was a pause.

I piped up, “I can tell you what they are,” I said, “though I’m embarrassed about it."

I wondered how suspicious I looked.

The second agent leaned over to his colleague and whispered with authority and confidence, “PUSH UPS!!”

He turned and faced me with a wink and my luggage rolled towards my blush colored face.

I left DC grateful that TSA agents understand that some “secret weapons” are completely harmless aboard an aircraft.

[And for the record, I didn’t end up wearing the silicon support group. I went with the basic black cocktail dress... because I am a chicken.]

Proof:

Shown here with @Genuine.
I'm especially fond of the way the shadowy light makes me look like I'm missing my two front teeth. Changing blog name to Oh, the Trailer Park now...

UPDATED: Proof that I actually have all my teeth.

When Less Really Is More

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 16 Nov 2010 15:57:00 +0000

"You are too disciplined about turning off the DVD after just one episode," I say.

"We should get some sleep," he says. "We shouldn't stay up too late."

"I am not feeling appreciative about your discipline," I say.

He smiles devilishly.

"You might appreciate it later," he says.

"How much later?" I ask.

He laughs.

"In, like, ten minutes."

His eyes are twinkling.

He raises his eyebrows.

He smiles.

It's on.

Interventions

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 22:07:00 +0000

She opened the bathroom door and screamed,

"Hurry up!"

She shut the door, but opened it right back up and started yelling again.

"Don't get dressed again. Leave everything off except your underwear."

She half closed the door, then changed her mind.

She grabbed her daughter by the arm and dragged her out into the dressing room of the ballet studio with her pants at her ankles.

I was quietly helping The Rooster change into her leotard and tights.

There were fifteen other five year old girls in the room in various stages of dress all getting ready for ballet class.

I had noticed the woman even before she started yelling. She was sitting listlessly beside a baby boy - maybe eighteen months old. She looked extremely depressed and tired.

Her daughter started to cry as she was dragged by the arm out of the bathroom.

"You're a MESS!" her mother screamed and roughly wiped at her mouth with a tissue.

The girl continued to sob while the mother barked out orders.

Softly at first, I spoke...

"Take it easy."

Then I said it a bit louder.

"Take it easy."

I tried to keep my voice even and calm.

"Let's just take it easy."

She turned.

"Are you talking to ME?" she asked.

"I am," I said. "There are a lot of kids in here."

She told me it was inappropriate of me to talk to her.

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that you seem really angry and there are a lot of kids in here."

"I'm NOT ANGRY!" she insisted. "I'm just FRUSTRATED."

I felt so sorry for her. We've all been there. I could empathize with her situation.

"I'm so sorry you're frustrated," I said, "but there are a lot of kids in here." I concentrated on keeping a calm and even tone.

"The fact that you are STILL talking to me tells me that you suffer from some serious control issues."

[I tried not to laugh out loud because OMG I totally DO have control issues!]

Regardless, I looked her in the eyes and tried to seem kind.

"There are a lot of kids in here," I said again, this time as gently as I could.

She didn't say anything else.

I took the Rooster to her ballet class and waited in the lobby.

The frustrated mom spent the duration of the class in the dressing room.

I sat there second guessing myself a bit.

I wondered if it would have been better for me to mind my own business.

As a mother of two small children myself, I certainly understand her frustration and I know I'd be furious if a stranger called me out.

Still... there were a lot of kids in that room and she was so angry.

The Silly Run

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 16:10:00 +0000

"Do the silly run, Daddy," she says.

Every morning, we drop K off at the commuter rail station.

As he leaves the car, the silly run is often requested.

My husband then morphs into what I can only liken to a rocking chair with boat propellers.

His arms fly out like airplane wings.

His lower legs rotate at the knee joints and spin at odd angles.

He zig zags, serpentine in great S curves past expressionless commuters and motionless people quietly waiting for the bus.

Inside the car, there is laughing and sometimes applause.

He'll pause, halfway to the station entrance and throw kisses back towards us.

K is normally quiet and mild mannered.

He's an introvert. He's shy.

I hope my kids remember his silly run long after he's gone.

It is a true act of love.

How to Embarrass Your Offspring on Foreign Exchange

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 18:15:00 +0000

"No way! You actually have the shirt!" he said.

My good friend David is in South Africa for six months.

He's a visiting professor at a university in Johannesburg.

Recently, he was startled and surprised when an American student walked into his office wearing the shirt.

"What do you mean?" the unassuming student from Indiana asked.

After a bit of back and forth, David realized that the student didn't have a clue about what he was wearing.

It was the The Mountain Three Wolf Moon t-shirt.

(If you aren't familiar with The Mountain Three Wolf Moon t-shirt, then I *highly* recommend you take a break and read the Amazon customer reviews for this product.)

[Seriously. Go read them now.]

David showed the Amazon reviews to the poor, unassuming student from Indiana.

After reading many reviews, the student said,

"Oh, man! I'm SO embarrassed! My mom sent me that shirt."

This had me howling.

[Like three wolves with a moon.]

Do you think his mom knew about it?

I totally hope so.

The Dawn of Influence

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 00:23:00 +0000

Last year, The Rooster was a fierce pirate girl for Halloween.

This year, she asked to do this look again.

She was all set until it was time to get dressed.

Then she started crying hysterically.

She was afraid that her very best friend, who is tom boyish, would laugh at her.

In the end, she wore purple sweatpants, a red t-shirt with a batman emblem, a batman cape and a batman mask.

Though I have heard The Rooster's friend say she doesn't like to wear dresses herself, I have never heard her criticize anything Roo has worn.

I found myself distressed and alarmed by the amount of influence my daughter already allows a friend to have over her.

As we left the house to meet her friend, Roo looked depressed.

"What's wrong, Roo?" I asked.

She flipped a corner of the batman cape in the air and rolled her eyes.

"It's not your best costume ever," I said.

"I know," she said and sighed.

She is only five.

Transparency & Transition

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Sat, 30 Oct 2010 20:31:00 +0000

Last winter, I took a job in social media and I find that after I spend all day at work blogging, tweeting and posting to Facebook, I'm spent.

I really miss the way that regularly blogging here offered me a chance to reflect, even in small ways, on what was happening in my life and how I felt about it.

Since going back to work full time, I sometimes find that I'm not sure what I think or how I feel about anything because there's no time to stop and consider.

Life is one long task list it often seems.

Yesterday I found out I'll be speaking at the Mom 2.0 summit to be held in New Orleans from February, 14-16.

I'm super excited to be going because I know I'll love seeing some of my favorite bloggers and meeting new ones.

When I saw the announcement though, it was the first time that I have seen my professional blog linked to my personal one.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

I haven't taken down any posts here, but this new job in social media has forced my once (at least semi-private) identity to merge with my professional identity.

I don't mind, per se.

I mean, I stand behind the stories I've told here. I've been honest, I've been myself.

I've been transparent.

I'm not sure I'm used to being so completely transparent in a work context.

That's one thing I'd like to explore with friends at Mom 2.0.

More and more of us are translating our blogging experience into new career opportunities.

The blogging community helped me write through the process of becoming a mother.

This community was invaluable to me in that long path to integrating the idea of myself as a mother with the idea I had of myself before I became one.

I'm hoping that I'll write more, and that we can talk more, about what it means to be online personally and professionally at the same time.

Interested?

(Oh, and I probably have to talk about volunteerism too, because that is what I've always been all about professionally and now everything's all mixed up and jumbled together.)

So here we go...

Laying It Down

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 18:12:00 +0000

I was cutting the crusts off the bread for my kid’s sandwiches when my friend Michael looked at me and said,

“That is so wasteful. Look at all the bread you have to throw away!”

Our families were away together at the beach and Michael and I had returned to the beach house to make lunches for everyone.

This was three months ago.

Since then, every single morning when I make school lunches, I remember this comment and seethe.

Day after day, I mutter my unspoken retort,

“It’s just as much of a waste if they throw their sandwiches away uneaten!”

I'll at least admit that it has occurred to me that I’m being ridiculously silly about it.

So when our families went to dinner together last night, I told Michael it had been bothering me.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I only meant that children in general are wasteful with their picky eating habits. I didn’t mean it as a personal judgment.”

“It probably says more about me than it does about you, Michael,” I told him, “that I’ve been hanging on to it all this time.”

Michael looked at his plate then back at me with a sheepish look.

“Well,” he said, “remember when we went camping?”

“Three years ago?!!”

“Yeah, well. You were surprised that our family didn’t shop at the Farmer’s Market and you said that every time you walked into a regular grocery store and saw ‘the endless aisles of cardboard boxes,’ you asked yourself ‘where is the food in here?’ ”

My husband laughed out loud recognizing the quote as something both of us have said. Many times.

“I’m sure I did say that,” I confessed.

“Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” Michael said. “The food? ...is in the boxes.”

We stared each other down for thirty seconds and then burst out laughing.

The Worst Are Full of Passionate Intensity

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 23:54:00 +0000

She lives in a bushy area of the sidewalk next to a four lane road that we travel every day on the way to The Rooster's school.

Her four shopping carts are filled with plastic garbage bags and storage tubs.

She is always wearing a sweat stained, gray t-shirt, blue jeans and a backwards baseball cap.

Her carts and belongings are often strewn up and down the sidewalk in front of the U-Store-It facility, one of the nicer business establishments on this lonely, industrial stretch.

I'm puzzled by her presence there. She's alone, far from downtown - way out in the county.

The only things nearby are a grocery store, a funeral home and, about a mile up the road, there's a small county hospital.

Every morning and every afternoon my children look for her and ask about her.

Why is she always there? Why doesn't she have a home? What does she do when it rains?

I have found myself wondering lately if we should stop and offer help. Maybe the children would learn something about compassion...

We've yet to stop. I'm tentative, hesitant.

Though the organization I work for serves the homeless, my focus has always been on youth and education.

I don't have any direct experience with this issue.

At first, I think it's the approach that worries me.

What would I say?

I visualize myself trying.

First, I find somewhere to park my ridiculous mini-van, unbuckle my children from their car seats and march the three of us over to her like the Von Trapp family.

And then what?

What if it all goes horribly wrong in front of my kids?

I can think of a thousand reasons not to approach her.

Morning and afternoon we pass her and I finally realize why I've been stuck on this one.

I've been thinking about stopping for all the wrong reasons.

This homeless woman isn't there to teach my children a lesson.

If I can't stop and offer her help simply because she might need it, then I shouldn't bother stopping at all.

Why My Husband Is So Darned Appealing

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 19:36:00 +0000

When he receives obvious spam, like this...

-----Original Message-----
From: Maria Levy Mwanawasa [mailto:sanaali@bigmir.net]
Sent: Monday, August 16, 2010 3:17 PM

Subject: Hello

Hello Dear,

I know this mail will come to you as a surprise since we haven't discuss it before, but kindly bear with me at this moment. I have a special reason why I wrote you first in the dating site. My situation at hand is miserable but I trust in God and hope you will be of my help. My name is Maria Levy Mwanawasa. I am 22 years old and I held from Zambia, I am the daughter of late President Levy Mwanawasa, the former President of Zambia. My beloved father died on the 19th of August, 2008 in the French Hospital after he was hospitalized for a stroke. well, You can read more detail about they death of my late father here.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26287278/

I am constrained to contact you because of the maltreatment which I am receiving from my step mother and my uncle. They both planned to take away all my late father's treasury and properties from me since the unexpected death of my beloved Father. Meanwhile I wanted to travel to Europe, but she hides away my diplomatic passport and other valuable documents. Luckily she did not discover where I kept my father's File which contained important documents.I am presently staying in the Mission camp in Burkina Faso. I am seeking for long-term relationship and investment assistance.

My father of blessed memory deposited the sum of $6.4Million US Dollars in a local bank in Burkina Faso with my name as the next of kin. I had contacted the Bank to claim the deposit but the Branch Manager whom I met in person told me that being a refugee my status does not permit and according to the local law and the agreement between my late father and the bank does not authorize me to carry out the operation. However, he advised me to provide a trustee who will stand on my behalf. Please I need your Assistance in this regard. I had wanted to inform my stepmother Mrs. Maureen Mwanawasa about this deposit but I am afraid that she will not offer me anything after the release of the money. Therefore, I decide to seek for your help in transferring the money into your bank account in your country or any safer place. while I will relocate to your country and settle down with you.

It is my intention to compensate you with 30% of the total money for your assistancend the balance shall be my investment in any profitable venture which you will recommend to me as I have no any idea about foreign investment.

Please your kind reply is need and I beg you to maintain absolute privacy because my stepmother is seeking for me to provide infrmation on the account details for retrival of the money.

Yours Sincerely,

Maria Levy Mwanawasa.

He responds like this....

-----Original Message-----
From: K, Man of The House of Joy
Sent: Monday, August 16, 2010 3:28 PM
To: 'levy2@lajt.hu'
Subject: [POSSIBLE SPAM] RE: Hello
Importance: Low

The poetry of this moment, this unbridled act of generosity, this happenstance is so incredible that I have broken out in song. I sing for the generosity of the human spirit. I sing for the good fortune you should choose me. I pray my words of thanks soar to the ears of God.

This luck is made more incredible by the unbelievable happenstance that I knew your father well. We spent many an evening relaxing after a fine meal on the patio of the presidential palace in Lusaka, discussing the human hardship in Zambia and in Africa. He demonstrated great insight into the human spirit and evinced such compassion. He remains a great hero of mine.

I weep knowing the cruelty you must endure at the pampered hands of your Uncle and step mother. Godspeed to you.

I will gladly share with you any and all personal information that might effectuate our happy business cooperation.

While it has been awhile, I think I can recall enough Bemba and Nyanja to offer my good wishes in your home tongues. "Zee pinga war galun ta fisna."

K

They Were Strangers to You

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 00:52:00 +0000

“Mommy, do you have a Dad?”

“Yes, Roo. Pop is my Dad.”

She was quiet, thinking.

“But Grandma Seattle un-married him.”

“They did get un-married,” I said, using her language, “but he’s still my Dad and she’s still my mom and they still love me the same as when they were married.”

She was quiet again.

“What did it feel like when they got unmarried,” she asked.

“What did it feel like to me? I was sad, I guess.”

“How was it sad?”

“Well, things weren’t the same.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like Christmas. We used to all have Christmas together, but after they decided not to be married, I had to choose where to spend Christmas – with Grandma Seattle or with Pop.”

“Who did you choose?” she asked.

“I took turns for awhile,” I said, “and now we all have Christmas with Grandma New York so I don’t have it with either of them.

“What did it feel like when you got a new Dad and a new Mom?” she asked.

“What do you mean by new mom and new dad, Roo?”

“What did it feel like when Grandma Seattle and Pop decided to marry other people?”

“You mean when Grandma Seattle married Mark and when Pop married Nana?”

She nodded.

How did it make me feel? I wondered what to say.

My mom’s (now-ex) second husband was both physically and emotionally abused as a child.

The bruises of his early years seemed to remain forever purpled beneath any cocksure hide he ever tried to wear.

I think my awareness of this made me more tolerant of him - especially at times when I otherwise I might have found myself impatient with the way he repeated things he’d already told me or came across as the foremost authority on whatever was being discussed.

What does it feel like, she asked...

My father’s wife talks a lot -- more when she’s nervous or anxious.

She’s often both nervous and anxious.

She’s kittens and rainbows to my sushi and gourmet coffee. We’re both clichés, but not necessarily complimentary ones.

My Dad’s wife has ideas about the way our ideal relationship should look.

I think she wishes I would let her to provide me with comfort and closeness like a second mom or at least a treasured confidant, but it’s not something I need or want from her.

I don’t feel that kind of connection and I don’t pursue it.

I think she routinely feels rejected and hurt by me though it is not my intention to make her feel that way.

I am grateful for the companionship and care she provides my father.

“What did it feel like when they decided to marry someone else?” Roo wanted to know.

A long time passed as I struggled with how to respond.

“They were strangers to you,” she said, somehow finding the right words on her own.

It did feel like that, strangers suddenly part of my family.

“I don’t want that to happen,” she said in earnest.

“I don’t either,” I assured her.

My mind drifted to the impending separation of our close friends.

Soon they plan to tell their children, friends of our children, about their decision to separate.

We will have to talk about it with our kids too.

I will have to find the right words because while I support anyone's decision to end a marriage and trust that the choice has been made for good reason, I lament the way it causes the little ones to fret.

Going There

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 12:00:00 +0000

It was our year to get kicked out of the house.

There were too many people, not enough rooms and someone had to go.

In fairness, it was our turn.

As a bonus, Grandma Seattle said the kids could stay at the house with her...

...which made us think we might just show up at 10:00 a.m. and leave at 4:00 p.m. every day! Huzzah!

Instead of staying at a Motel 7 by the side of the state highway, we decided to splurge and stay at Berry Hill.

My relatives thought this was an extravagance, and it was, but all my life my Granny talked about this great southern mansion that had fallen into disrepair and its once resplendent wishbone staircase.

It was finally restored in 1999 and I'd always wanted to stay there.

Before the Civil War, Berry Hill was owned by the richest man in the state of Virginia.

And here comes the tricky part...

Berry Hill was home, as I understand it, to three thousand slaves.

Three. Thousand.

There was a room near the registration desk where guests could find continental breakfast items and K and I found ourselves in there one morning when an older, African American guest came and sat at the table next to us.

We talked about the fact that the coffee was tepid and exchanged small talk.

He told us that he was retired from the Army and now working for a federal agency in Washington, D.C.

"What brings you to this part of the world," I asked him.

"My wife grew up here," he told us, "but she hasn't been back in twenty years."

And here's where it got really tricky...

"She grew up around here?" I said with a wide-eyed look. "What's her last name."

He told me.

I took three deep breathes.

"That is the middle name of both my uncle and my cousin," I said.

There was a pause.

Only the day before, at the tiny, rural community pool near my Granny's house I had been gobsmacked and at a loss for words when someone actually said to me,

"Around here, we say that if you share a name with someone, you're kin to 'em, you used to own 'em, or both."

The man at Berry Hill and I looked at each other for a few, long moments.

"It's too bad my wife isn't down here for breakfast," he finally said. "I bet she would have been interested in meeting you."

He seemed to mean it, but there was suddenly both a strange intimacy and an electric tension to the conversation.

I didn't know what to say, so I did what I always do and fell back on idiocy.

"Well, maybe it's for the best," I said. "If she was here, we'd have to go to counseling and then write a book together."

He laughed. I smiled. We were released.

After he left, K said, "I'm surprised you went there. You don't know him and he doesn't know you!"

Maybe K was right. Perhaps it was forward, presumptuous even.

Still, if I never go there, if I never talk about it - the things that my ancestors did and those they did it to - how will I ever overcome them?

On the other hand, I exercised a certain privilege in going there.

If our roles had been reversed and he had been the one to realize the possible familial connection, it's most likely he would not have mentioned it, not in the shadow of Berry Hill.

What is the path forward?

Night Swimming

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 16:00:00 +0000

Sometime in the mid-1960’s, my great grandfather, Granddaddy Bee, donated land to a local trust to build a community pool in the rural Virginia farmland where my grandmother grew up.

Other gentlemen farmers from the area contributed resources and a small, country swimming pool opened to serve the local population.

There has never been a lifeguard on duty there.

No whistles are blown.

No one shouts, “no running!” and there’s no such thing as “Adult Swim.”

There have been numerous jumps off the pool house roof into too shallow water, many attempts to capture a greased watermelon bobbing in the pool long after dark has fallen, hundreds of vigorous games of beach volleyball in the sandy court behind the pool and thousands of cans of beer fervently sipped by underage drinkers.

A life time of memories of my summer visits to my great-grandmother’s house, and later, after she and my grandfather retired there, to my grandparents house are inextricably linked to this country pool, lost in time.

Before my grandparents moved back to the farm, I rode from my great-grandparents house to the pool in the bed of a pick-up truck along with remnants of hay and silage, bumping and tossing from one side of the truck to the other on the uneven country roads and dirt lanes.

My grandparent’s house sits on a piece of the family farm land adjacent to the pool and, since they built there, getting to the pool involves only a walk down a rough path mown the length of the overgrown meadow separating the two properties.

These days, we clomp through the spiky, minefield of balls from the Sweet Gum trees pulling wagon loads of floating rings and pool toys for The Mayor, The Rooster and their cousins.

Just as it was for me, The Mayor and The Rooster are related to almost everyone they meet at the pool.

On the fourth of July, they spent the entire day back and forth between the pool and my Granny’s house.

I don’t think clothes or underwear every came out of their suitcases that day.

I lost count, but upwards of 50 relatives stopped by for our annual covered dish affair.

My Aunt bought 20 pounds of pulled pork barbecue and some obscene amount of slaw.

[Which meant there was some serious over-eating to be done on my part!]

After dark, that same Aunt doled out glow stick bracelets and necklaces by the gross.

The children looked like aboriginal glow aliens.

My cousin Colin set off a cache of fireworks purchased at the state-line and, while his display didn’t have quite the same awe factor that a municipality’s fireworks might, there were no crowds, nor issues with parking.

There were only “ooohs and aaaahs.”

We appreciated the show. We clapped. It was perfect.

Afterward, my cousin Kaycee insisted on being baptized in the pool, having never been baptized in real life.

And so it came to pass that she was baptized.

On our last night in Virginia, my cousin Leslie stopped by after dinner to tell me she was at the pool with her kids.

The Mayor and The Rooster changed back into their still dripping suits and dashed back down the path to the pool.

When the sun sank, and the sky darkened, we flipped on the pool’s night lights.

“Pool Party!!!” The kids screamed.

They swam until long after dark, squealing and shrieking, reminding me of being little and up late at this pool.

I remember thinking something incredible must have been happening to be, not just awake that late, but swimming and playing in the pool after dark.

I smiled watching my kids have the same experience, while playing with the children of one of the cousins with whom I did the same things.

Bat wing flashed in the brightness of the pool lights as they swooped over the pool again and again catching their evening meal and I was grateful for them and for all of it.

Who Dat?

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 19:53:00 +0000

On the 4th of July, my cousin Kaycee announced that she wanted to be baptized in the pool near my Granny’s house.

She was never properly baptized as a child and she declared she was ready.

“What name do you want to take?” family members asked.

“Cowbell and Batman,” she replied.

The Mayor, always literal, said,

“I think you need to take a saint’s name.“

And then, doing the best that a six year old without the benefit of a proper religious upbringing could, he continued,

“Like from the New Orleans Saints.”

And so after the home-grown, state border purchased, family only fireworks display executed by my cousin Colin and his fiance Alyssa, it came to pass.

Kaycee was baptized,

"Kaycee Cowbell Batman Reggie Bush [Last Name]."

I hope you had a happy Fourth too!

Learn to Eat Like Old People

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Mon, 24 May 2010 15:19:00 +0000

Another guest post from my husband, K.

We ate dinner at our friend’s house last night.

It was a casual dinner party, kids included.

We fed the kids first and then the grown-ups ate.

All this skewed dinner a little late by our early-eating clock.

While we waited, we both noshed on crackers and hummus.

A little bit of cheese, yes please.

We picked at left over hot dog pieces and grilled mushrooms as we cleared the kids plates.

When it was ready, we both ate solid dinners.

We could not refuse the chocolate cake.

Soon after, regret set in.

Both of our stomachs hurt.

My practical wife said,

“We have to learn to eat like old people.”

Oh baby, you talk so sexy to me.

The Wild Bachelor

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Mon, 17 May 2010 12:00:00 +0000

Flabbergasting K and I, my mother offered to keep the children for a week at my grandmother's home in Virginia last summer.

I was, of course, excited about the possibilities of a child-fee week, but I was equally excited about my children having the opportunity to spend a summer week in the small Virginia community where I spent so much time as a child.

The Mayor and I talked on the phone one night before bed and he told me all about his day.

"I met Charlie and Joey at the pool and we talked and talked. We talked about the things we have, what we like to do and where we like to go... it was so great, Mom."

Charlie and Joey are both cousins of his.

Everywhere we turn in this part of Virginia, relatives abound.

There is something tremendously comforting in having a sense of place like that, where everywhere you go, you are related to someone.

I drove back up to Virginia to collect The Mayor and The Rooster the next weekend.

While I was gone, I got a series of e-mails from K under the subject heading "wild bachelor."

----- Original Message -----
From: K
To: Jessica
Sent: Jul 11, 2009
Subject: wild bachelor

Yes, I’ve gone wild.

I will now regale you of my exploits:

Changed the HVAC Filters

Washed the new sheets

Took stuff to Goodwill

Bought laundry soap and toilet paper (24 rolls! – Wild!)

Got sunglass clip-ons at the Walmart

Sorted sock drawer

Watch out.

-----Original Message-----
From: Jessica
Sent: Saturday, July 11, 2009 12:45 PM
To: K
Subject: Re: wild bachelor

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

-----Original Message-----
From: K
To: Jessica
Sent: Saturday, July 11, 2009 12:53
Subject: RE wild bachelor

The romp continues...

Replaced the kitchen fluorescent light fixture -Which revealed just how disgusting our refrigerator had become. Ew. Cleaned out bottom drawers and underneath bottom drawers (yuck - red strawberry something or other pooled and streaked and sticky).
cleaned the top of the refrigerator (also remarkably gross).
cleared out back porch, sorting hangers and beach toys.

I can't be stopped.

My mom says she'll keep them again this summer.

I live in unbearable suspense, wondering what my husband will get up to this year.

Summer List

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Fri, 14 May 2010 12:00:00 +0000

I saw this in the Real Simple magazine last summer and I liked it.

It seems like the right time to re-read it...

If you have an hour this summer...

Roll down a big hill

Paint rocks

Spray each other with seltzer

play flashlight tag

roast marshmellows

Catch (and release) fireflies

Bake mudpies in the sun

Toss a frisbee

Start a grass fight

Lok under stones near a pond

Run through the sprinkler

Read bedtime stories in the hammock

Organzie a crazy eights tournament

Make a daisy chain

Smack a tetherball around

Samp a family picture at dusk (in the beautiful light)

Weed (i.e. pick dandelions)

Challenge friends to a wtermelon sees spitting contest

Catch (and release) minnows

Jump rope with the hose stream

Work on your catwheel

Launch foam rockets

Skinny dip

Take a pj's walk

If you have a day...

Take a hike - make a display for the next hikers with the treasures you find

Write and stage a play

Create a rock garden

Build a raft and set sail across the creek

Sell lemonade

Say yes to a trip to the zoo or amusement park

Put on your bathing suit and wash the car (and the toy cars, too)

Sip smoothies poolside and give each other manis/pedis)

Volunteer at a working farm (find one at localharvest.org/csa)

Take a long bike ride with lots of stops (for ice cream, cloud watching, flower picking, etc.)

Rent a boat (and row gently or merrily down the stream)

Tour your town's playgrounds

Go to a minor league baseball game

Walk to School

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Wed, 12 May 2010 12:00:00 +0000

This is a guest post written by my husband...

We walked to school this morning and held hands most of the way.

It was a remarkably beautiful spring morning, cool, fragrant with all the blooms, noisy with the songs of birds, patterned in slanting light and shadows.

I’m glad we walked. We have fallen out of the habit of late and I realize the school year is almost done.

The Mayor was a little grumpy at the outset, upset that we had not looked for and found his Pokemon cards before we left the house. But the glower left his face shortly.

We talked a little about what he would do at school (Spanish every Monday, work time every day, recess when it's not raining – recess was likely today) and we said good morning to the stream as we walked over the little bridge.

We came upon the smoker man who, unfortunately, walks his dog and smokes his cigarettes every day around the same time we walk to school.

His dog is one of those teeny, pug face dogs that must be quite yappy when it gets to barking.

The Mayor twisted his face and stuck out his tongue after we passed him and ran into his trail of cigarette smell.

We talked about habits, how the smoker man walks his dog at the same time every day.

As we came alongside of school, I commented that the school year would soon be over.

I said, "Soon you're going to be done with kindergarten and on to first grade. How did you get so big?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

I told him how proud of him I am for doing such a good job at school this past year.

I was feeling very fond of him today.

We reached the front door.

I kneeled.

He announced he was not going to have school breakfast that day.

I told him I loved him and that I hoped he had a good day.

He kissed me. Gave me a hug.

Then he said, sheepishly, “I love you.”

I actually had to ask him what he said because I didn’t hear him and my face was less than a foot from his.

I hugged him again.

He asked, as is his habit, “Do I have to go to the cafeteria this morning?”

I told him he did.

I stood up and took a few steps away and he called me.

He stood by the front door and pointed up to a poster on the glass.

"What's this all about?"

I read the title of the event to him (a pony ride event) and said he should ask Ms. Pitts about it.

He turned and walked in the door.

He is so big, yet he still seemed so small.

I wanted to squeeze him in my arms.

Protect him. Love him.

Such a perfect little guy.

Westward Currents

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 11 May 2010 00:11:00 +0000

At exactly 7:00 Eastern time, The Family Joy sat gathered around the family dining table.

At the very same moment, it was 4:00 Pacific time and Grandma Seattle was meeting with her boss.

I knew she was worried about the meeting, the company she's been with for 10 years is changing.

[And, to state the obvious, change is hard.]

We stopped dinner and thought of Grandma Seattle.

"Close your eyes," K suggested to the kids.

"Say 'I'm thinking of you Grandma and I hope everything turns out just the way you want it to,' but don't say it out loud, just think it in your head," he told them.

The four of us sat with our eyes squeezed shut, concentrating, sending this message.

"Now," I said, "imagine there's a great red, swoop of love that rushes right out of the top of your head. Imagine it sweeping over all of the states in our country and traveling all the way to Seattle. Imagine it finding Grandma and swooping down and flowing right into her body."

Four sets of eyes remained tightly shut as a great red swath of love rode the wind westward.

"Let's send her kisses," The Rooster suggested.

And a thousand kisses flew from our windows and fluttered off to the great northwest.

We love you and we're thinking about you, Mom.