Month: April 2017

As I’ve mentioned before, “tax season” is the busy time of the year for my wife.  She’s a tax preparer, so April 18th for her was the equivalent of the last day of school for me as a teacher–it’s time to take a deep breath and try to relax just a bit.  The next year is coming, but for now it’s time to slow down and catch up.

Our granddaughters have missed their Nana, who likes to spend the other ten months of the year seeing them considerably more than she has over the last two.  It’s not as if they haven’t seen each other, but it hasn’t been as much as any of them would like.  This year, as things started to draw to a close, my wife announced a treat for the end of the season: We would take the girls pajama shopping!

Now, for me, I didn’t really understand the excitement of going shopping for what in essence is an old pair of gym shorts and a past-its-prime t-shirt.

Okay, despite having never been a two- or three-year-old girl, I guess I did understand.  What was it going to be? Trolls have been popular, and My Little Pony is still high on the list of things that make their hearts beat faster.  Maybe a favorite color: pink for the older and purple for the younger.  Regardless, I knew that gym shorts and an old t-shirt wasn’t what they had in mind.

Tax season saw its last day pass, and it was finally shopping day.  If this was a movie, the day would have dawned clear and crisp with a light breeze to make it more exciting for the butterflies and flowers to dance in the air.  As it turned out, though, an unseasonably cool morning, a wind from the north, and a fine mist is what greeted us as we stepped out of the house.  Not quite one of Pooh’s blustery days, but not a beautiful spring morning, either.  

The shopping experience came and went, and a good time was–for the most part–had by all.  The three-year-old was just excited because somethingwashappeningsomethingwashappening! and the two-year-old turned out to be, well, two.  That’s okay, we had fun and made a memory, if not for them, then for us.  If our plans for next year hold out, we’ll be out there again in the middle of April with two children who are another year older, ready to go through a new selection of pjs in search of the just-perfect pair.  

Me? I’m so much more than happy with what I’ve got, thanks…and my pajamas are okay, too.

There is not an audible whoosh when I slip my foot into one of my hiking boots.  I listen for it every time, but haven’t heard it yet.  There is, however, a deeply satisfying piston-like feeling as I grip the tongue of the boot with one hand, the fabric loop on the back with the other, and slide my foot in.  A few loops of the lace around the hooks, a just-tight-enough tug, and a quick knot has me ready to go.  That was part of the routine a few mornings ago as I got ready to hit the trail on one of my most memorable excursions in quite a while.  

Meeting the crew at the trail head half an hour later helped me know just how demanding this trip would be.  As I looked from Aaron, the seasoned Sierra Club hike leader, to Mike, recently transplanted to our area from the land of Colorado’s fourteeners, those 14,000 feet high behemoths of stone, I knew I was out of my league.  Then there was Heather, a veteran naturalist with plenty of her life spent in the wildernesses of our nation, and Erin, whose well-worn hiking boots gave testimony to her time putting one foot in front of the other along the paths of innumerable rocky elevations throughout the southeast United States.  Glancing down at my own boots and recognizing that I could only see their toes beneath my waistline (shrinking, thank you very much, but only slowly) didn’t help matters.  

Finally, there was the crew member who would soon reveal herself to be the true leader of our sojourn, not because of her experience or other bona fides, but simply through the force of her personality.  It was easy to recognize her as an experienced hiker because of her calm, I-belong-here demeanor.  I’m happy to say, though, that my butterflies eased a bit, and I found no small measure of solace as I read the graphic emblazoned across the front of her t-shirt.  It helped me know I’d be able to keep up with this most august group of trekkers.

“Wish, Dream, Sparkle,” with a wand-toting fairy flying alongside the words.

At four years old, this little hiker with the Velcro-fastened shoes was a force that had to be respected. That said, I knew I was going to be okay.

And I was.  We had a wonderful morning, hiking within a tract of land preserved by the local government and maintained by the Land Trust of North Alabama.  This hike was billed as “family friendly,” and it came about as a way to fill the need for activities that are slower and allow for folks to bring their younger children.  (Quick aside: I wasn’t exaggerating when I described the other members of our group–there really are many, many trail miles hiked among them.)

That day we experienced much of what the trail had to offer us during the few hours we spent hiking along it.  The color of the day was apparently purple, which suited our youngest companion just fine.  She quickly stated it was her favorite color, and based on her outfit I had no reason to doubt it.  We counted nearly 10 different flowers that were a shade of that particular hue, the most brilliant being a single crested dwarf iris–the only one we saw on the trail that day (crested, anyway).  Gorgeous.

While my memory and notes bring back plenty of reasons to smile, the single event that sticks out in my mind came as we were hiking up a relatively strenuous incline.  As we moved carefully from one limestone step to another, our youngest member–without prompting–suddenly burst out with a proclamation for the surrounding creation to hear: “I love hiking!”

I do too, young lady, I do too.  Thank you for taking me along.

 

It doesn’t matter what you do, whether it’s for a living or otherwise; it doesn’t matter how long you’ve done it; it doesn’t even matter how well you can do it now.  There was a time when you did it–whatever it is–for the first time.  That time when you took a deep breath, put on the brave face, and committed to actually getting in there and making it happen.  Ready or not, here I come, and all that.

If you’re a parent, you brought home your first child, nervously wondering how you could possibly nurture and raise another human being after struggling for five minutes with something as simple as a car seat.

If you’re a teacher, you stood there mildly quaking in your low wedges (sensible flats for me) as your first class walked toward you in the hallway.  “Wait a minute, I’m here by myself?”

If you’re a retail clerk, you had your first customer.  A police officer, you had your first traffic stop.  A firefighter, your first structure fire.  A barista, your first latte.  A ten-year-old kid dragging a lawn mower, your first paying yard.  The list goes on.  Pick a profession…each has its firsts.

So, about my haircut the other day.

It wouldn’t be right to say that I have a hairstyle, per se. My hair is too thin (though not that thin) and I’m too old to grow it longer, I’ve got a few well placed cowlicks that require it to be sorta-parted on the right side, and, honestly, I don’t have the energy or inclination to maintain it with anything other than a brush in the morning and my fingers run through it during the day.  At my age I’m thankful for what I’ve got–my dad says you can comb grey–but every month or so I don’t go to get it styled…I just need a haircut.

I frequent a local chain that features sports TV and a guy-ish atmosphere.  There usually aren’t too many kids, and it’s far enough away from my school that it doesn’t matter if there were.

I learned a long time ago that it’s best for me to let the barber, er, stylist just cut my hair.  If I try to tell her what to do, invariably she’ll do exactly what I ask and people will look at me funny for the next few weeks until it grows back out.  It does grow back out, you know.  While I’m a control freak in many other areas of my life, when I sit down in the chair I just ask for a haircut.  It works for me.  

The other day my name was called and I shook hands (nice touch, I suppose) with a stylist I’d never met before.  She looked younger than most, but nothing seemed amiss as I made my way back to her chair.  I still had my glasses on as she put the cape around me and asked how I wanted my hair cut.  My glasses are relevant, because without them I wouldn’t have seen her expression as I asked her to simply give me a haircut.

Note to self: When a stylist’s eyes go wide with your request, that’s not necessarily a good sign.

I elaborated, giving my quick spiel about her knowing her business better than I do, and she seemed to understand what I wanted.  I’m not trying to ruin the story, reader, when I say that my hair looked pretty good when I walked out the door.  It did, well, for the most part. No one has looked at my hair any funnier than they usually do.  

There were a few moments, though, after I realized she was just that new at this that I was worried: She dropped the comb twice (“Your hair is so thick that I can’t get a comb through it!”  Ohhhh kay), she stood there looking at my head for a few really long seconds a couple of times, and the entire process took two innings of baseball–nearly an eternity in stylist years. Oh, and she brought over the stylist from the next chair to actually finish the cut. In retrospect, I guess that was a positive.  Bless her heart, though, she did okay for a newby.  We’ve all been there, and it’s not easy.

Besides, when it’s all said and done, it does grow back out, you know.

It’s a sunny spring morning, this first Sunday in April, and our girls came over earlier for breakfast to celebrate Lisa’s birthday.  It was great to have all of them: Karin, Kim, and both granddaughters, ACT 1 and 2.  (We’re avoiding putting the girls’ names online for now.  Since both of them have ACT as their initials, ACT 1 & 2 is a convenient–and cute, in our opinion–way to refer to them.  Kind of like Thing 1 and Thing 2, only different.  Did Karin plan it that way?  Probably.)

They’re back home now taking naps, Lisa’s gone into the office (she’s an accountant who specializes in personal tax preparation, and there are only two weeks left until April 18…’tis the season), and I’ve got the side porch to myself.  Well, almost.  Our dog, Maggie, is sunning on the top step.

And there are the chickens.  When I sat down to pen (type? keyboard?) this narrative, our chickens weren’t part of my plot line.  I’m being totally honest when I say they didn’t even enter my mind until after I’d written the word “myself” in the previous paragraph.  Our ladies were doing their free-ranging thing since I’m out here to supervise, but I wasn’t going to tell you about that.  I was going to write a story about my wife trying to teach ACT 2 to wrinkle her nose.  The Google doc I’m working in is even titled “Nose Wrinkling.”  Then I got these pictures.  

Quick aside: The advantage of an iPad and Bluetooth keyboard over a typewriter is apparent during these situations.  No one ever picked up a typewriter and took a quick picture with it.

Chickens are naturally curious, I’ve observed over the years they’ve been a part of our lives, and some of them are just a little bit bossy.  There are docile breeds and more aggressive breeds, and within each there’s a range of personalities.  We’ve got a Rhode Island Red that simply needs to be in charge.  She’s not necessarily aggressive (although she does peck at toenails during sandal season), but she’s far from being shy.  

I was sitting in a chair with my keyboard perched on my lap and a cup of coffee on the porch rail beside me when this little lady marched up the steps. She was clucking away, and without breaking stride walked up to me and flew/hopped the 18 inches to my right knee.  

Um, hello.

She gave me the eyeball (like most birds, chickens’ eyes are situated on their heads in such as way as to allow only one eye to really focus on an object at once), pecked away at my keyboard–the trim, not the keys, or I’d have totally left those letters in the story, and expressed her displeasure when I reached out to stroke her comb.  My wife read once that stroking a chicken’s comb or wattles is a pleasurable experience; for years, we’ve wondered if the author meant for the person or for the chicken since she wasn’t really clear in the text.  I’m leaning toward the person.

After a few minutes I’d had enough fun for one day and nudged her stubborn fluffy butt off of my leg.  Away she went, back into the yard, apparently satisfied with her on-the-porch exploration.

There’s a slight breeze that’s nicely offsetting the rising temperature, I can hear birds singing all around me, and the smell of fresh grass is tickling my nose as a result of my upwind neighbor’s lawn mowing.  I’m going to finish both this narrative and my coffee now, since, for the life of me, I can’t remember the story I sat down to write.  Trust me, though, it was cute.