This Reminds Me

Archive for the ‘Way Back Machine’ Category

We’ve had a chaotic couple of weeks with basketball, choir, Latin competitions, trading germs, etc.   Today’s been the first day in many that I haven’t sounded like a emphysemic sailor hacking up a lung.   When I feel cruddy, everything either wears me out (makes me sad) or riles me up (makes me mad.)  I got to thinking about what my mom used to squint and bark at me whenever I expressed these emotions:  “”Well you just better turn that ‘mad’ or ‘sad’ to ‘glad,’ Missy.”  Mom was never big on dispensing gushy buckets of sympathy.

So here goes – tuning to Channel Glad now…..

The sad news from a Sea World last week made me glad Shamu didn’t see us as bathtub toys in 1998.  Though maybe Rachel had a few doubts at the time.

I know many friends really enjoy the Olympics – more power to you.  But personally – I’m glad they’re soon to be over.  They’re preempting “The Office,”  and that’s a show the girls and I watch together.  The last time I watched the Olympics was the 1972 night the Russians stole the basketball game via repeated do-overs.  I vowed I’d never watch again – and forgiving soul that I am – I haven’t.   U-verse – btw – has had a terrific application for the Olympics.

My continuing rancor at that travesty of a game is kind of funny since my favorite basketball player now is Russian.

There is little that makes me more glad than to hear my girls sing.  Tonight was Hannah’s pre-UIL concert.  That’s her – top row, far left.

“Walking in Jerusalem” really made me smile.  I just finished the book of John in “Faith by Hearing” yesterday.  I wonder about John.  What made him so beloved?

About two years ago, Julia caught a snippet of “Ben Hur” on TV and has pestered me ever since about seeing the whole movie.  “Mom, when are we going to watch that Jesus movie?”  I really didn’t think she was ready for it until recently.  I bought it last week (if I’d just waited one more week, I could have recorded it for free on U-verse – sigh.)   She and I are watching 30 – 45 minutes every few days.  Well, we probably watch 30 minutes, and have 15 minutes of questions.  She’s gotten the concept down – Judah Ben-Hur was a man whose life intersected with Jesus’ at different times, but Judah didn’t know who Jesus really was in those early meetings.  Last night, she told me, “Mom, that’s like us.  Everybody knows Jesus’ name but they don’t know who he really is.”   I was very glad to hear her say that.

From sad and mad to glad. 

Thanks, Mom.  I’m feeling better already.

We’ve had a tough couple of weeks here.  Judy’s husband of 44 years – my brother-in-law Carl – died early Tuesday morning.   I was a nine-year-old bridesmaid in their wedding (to which my dad was late, btw, because he was watching “Divorce Court.”)

David and me with Carl in 1965.

Judy and Sarah have been blanketed with comforting calls and cards, each offering condolences and offers of support.  But to a grief-shocked wife and daughter – at least for now – they’re just words.    And right now, words just aren’t enough.

We lost Carl as the tragedy unfolded Haiti, with more than 100,000 killed.   Every news report – every K-Love special announcement – as I traveled to and from Houston ladled on more buckets of Haitian misery – thousands of falling buildings.  No food, clean water or medical supplies for the hundreds of thousands injured.  And while a still-reasoning reservoir in my mind processed the magnitude of those numbers – I felt no desire to “do something.”   Except pull into my sister’s driveway.

Who and what  matters most are those in your heart.   So as incredible as were those Haitian numbers, they impacted me far less than the one.  Because just like words are sometimes not enough – neither are numbers.

Count your blessings.  Name them one by one.  And go give them big hugs.

We moved to San Antonio from Houston on January 2, 2000 and closed on our house January 12 – an anniversary dear to Keith as he quickly tired of sharing a small motel room with me and daughters ages 8, 6 and 4.    The girls still delight in reminding me the motel had no kids’ TV programming.

When I was told we had to move after having dodged the relo bullet for years, I cried every night for weeks.  Literally.

Lois and Hannah – Christmas 1999 in Houston.  12″ plastic tree on the coffee table; presents on the couch; stocks hung on the mini-blinds.  We let the girls unwrap their gifts Christmas morning – but no un-packaging.  As soon as they unwrapped an item, I placed in it a moving box.  Mean, mean Mom.  Our unpacking in San Antonio on January 13 was quite festive with the new toys, clothes, dolls, etc.

I sobbed when my dear friend Shelley – who had moved to San Antonio years before – called me.  Shelley laughed at me (she’s done that a lot over 33 years) and said, “Dry your ears, dearie.  You’re going to LOVE San Antonio!”

But I.  Did  Not.  Want  To.  Move.  Period.

And yet Keith and I had long cussed, discussed and prayed about our school situation.  We had managed to claw our way into a good elementary school for Rachel and – by legacy – Lois.  But there were no good public middle schools in HISD, and only one good high school, which we had no hope of attending.  What to do?  Should we move to the sticks and endure the commute?  One of us get an evening/weekend job to pay for private school?  Home schooling was certainly “out,” with our being pro-life.

So instead – we moved.  And I am so thankful.  When I think about all the time I spent crying, I laugh at myself.  What an idiot.

In honor of year 2010…and our 10th anniversary in Ole San Antone….here’s my personal “Top 10 Things I Love About San Antonio” list.   If you see this list later in a Chamber of Commerce brochure, remember – you read it here first.

#10  I Love the History

I’ve read that every real Texan’s home is San Antonio.  And why not, with the Alamo, its other missions and rich history?  Teddy Roosevelt gathered the Rough Riders at the Menger Hotel here  in 1898.   LBJ and Lady Bird (newest high school named for her) were married at St. Mark’s in 1934.    My first trip to San Antonio was to visit HemisFair in 1968, with its famous needle tower.

The city features tons of historical markers (or “hysterical markers,” as Keith calls them), fascinating street names (highly recommend this book) and engrossing cemeteries.

Hannah, Rachel and Lois at the Alamo, Christmas 2000.  “Remember the Woodworths!”

#9  I  Have Loved Watching Our Neighborhood Grow

When we moved to our neighborhood, the closest 24-hour pharmacy was seven miles away.  Ditto the closest Target – and it was small.  Not all the streets went through, and there were construction sites everywhere (handy for dead-of-night rock dumps when building a pond….if you know what I mean….)

It’s just been fun to watch everything grow – the shopping, more schools, four 24-hour pharmacies within two miles and yes – two nearby Super Targets.

The girls spent hours playing “fort” at the houses built on our street – like this one, behind us.  Keith and I walked those houses often, getting ideas.

#8  I Love the Buses – All of Them

We had no school bus service in Houston.  Here – bus service is provided if you live more than two miles from the school.  It’s been a godsend for elementary and middle school.

Keith and I have been riding the Express bus downtown to work since November, 2005 – we were its original riders.   It’s saved us a fortune, plus gives me to time to read in the morning, and nap in the afternoon. Everyone at home is happier if I get my nap, I assure you.

Julia and Hannah on the bus August 14, 2006 – the district’s first day of school, plus Julia’s first day of American school ever.

#7  I Love the Military Presence

Standing behind a full bird colonel buying a quart of milk in HEB….sitting next to parents in camo at a school play….attending moving-back-to-Germany parties at the end of every school year….watching the doctor from Ft. Sam hook his bicycle on the front of our downtown bus….that’s what we do, because San Antonio is a military town with Ft. Sam Houston, Brooks AFB, Lackland AFB and Randolph AFB.

USAA Insurance – one of the three biggest employers (USAA, AT&T, federal government) – preferentially hires veterans, like Keith’s brother Byron.

We’ve loved sharing Thanksgiving with airmen trainees from Lackland Air Force Base.  Those are our good friends John and Linda on the left, with whom we always co-host the holiday.  And those are our good friends Shelley and John on the right, who helped us unpack in 2000 – what a thankless job.  I remember Shelley sloughing her way through a sea of my Rubbermaid.

#6  I Loved Learning To Be New?

In gynormous Houston, you carve your niche.  My niche was bordered by Stella Link, Gessner, S. Main and 59.   If I went anywhere in that several square miles, I was bound to see a friend.  And I loved it.  It was sooo hard to be “new” in San Antonio.  I h-a-t-e-d it.  And yet – had we not been “new” – I never would have learned its loneliness.   And I never would have made some of the good friends we’ve made, because I wouldn’t have thought to encourage the girls to ask the “new kid” over to play, or seek the visitor at church.  I never would have thought of what to write down for a new neighbor – the trash pick-up days, when the pool opens, the closest 24-hour pharmacy, the nearest churches of their denomination.  It’s a lesson I needed to learn, but one I never would have pursued voluntarily.

After we moved, I was always encouraging the girls to invite friends over, particularly new-to-the-neighborhood or new-to-school-or-church friends. Being new stinks.

#5   I Love the 20-Minute Town

On our house-hunting weekend in 1999, we ran into my friend Bud at the airport who said, “You’ll love this place.  It’s a 20-minute town.”  Meaning you can get anywhere in 20 minutes.  At rush hour, that’s not quite true now – but still, San Antonio’s size, population (1.3M) and expanse is very manageable.

Keith describes San Antonio as “a small town of a million people.”   We quickly noticed one of the first questions locals asked was, “Where did you go to high school?”  Obituaries almost always list the high school, even if the deceased completed more advanced education.  San Antonio also uses street banners to advertise events.  Its freeway entrance/exit system is very small-town with a distinct lack of interchanges – the one thing I would change with my magic wand, if I had one.

I like the smaller-town “feel.”  I’ve long hated driving, and if everything I needed were within five miles of me, that’d be even better.

One of the best ways to get around (down)town:  The River Walk.  We go every Christmas to enjoy the lights, music and food.  It meanders behind the office buildings where we work.

#4  I Love Fiesta Texas

We have Sea World, Schlitterbahn and Fiesta Texas here – but Fiesta Texas is our favorite.  Sometimes in the summer, we go to just swim – it has a kickin’ water park, and it’s too hot to do anything else outside.   We renew our passes at spring break; go often in the summer; go once for Fright Fest, and once for Holiday in the Park.

Her first summer home, Julia would come to me and wave her crooked hand like a fish, asking “Bomp, bomp, bomp, bomp?” with an expectant smile.  That meant, “Hey, Mom – let’s go to Fiesta Texas and do some rides!”  Every summer, she races to check the height requirements for the bigger coasters.  When she grows tall enough for the Superman (54″) – listen for the shout.

We took Julia when she’d been home less than two weeks.  Our sainted social worker – Jennifer – thought we were stone cold crazy until she met Julia and got a feel for her personality.  We did not have to cocoon our post-institutionalized child as so many adoptive families have had to do.

#3  I Love the Patriotism

You may think #7 – Military Presence – and Patriotism are the same thing.  But they’re not.   Military towns are not necessarily patriotic towns.  And San Antonio is patriotic.

Fiesta Texas plays the national anthem before opening the park each day.  One day last summer – as we waited, hands over our hearts – a group of foreign-sounding high school students rudely talked and laughed and jostled.  I glared, then finally stepped over and said, “Excuse me.  That’s our national anthem.”  A girl answered, “I do not care.  I am French.”  I said, “You are a guest in our country.   I would hope you would show respect for your host.”  They did quiet themselves.  An older-than-me Hispanic woman walked over after the anthem to say, “I’m glad you said something.  I was going over to slap them.”

The first year we hosted airmen trainees for Thanksgiving (2002), I parked my eight-year-old Ford mini-van between a tricked-out Lexus and a beat-up Chevy yard truck filled with lawn equipment.   The families hosting airmen tend to visit, and it’s so much fun hearing how long they’ve been doing it, what they’re serving, etc.    Nobody talks about their their heirloom china, or the square footage of their dining room, or any “things.”  They talk about how happy it makes them to host trainees for dinner, and maybe their own military service away from home on a holiday.

God bless America.

Children’s Choir Members Rachel and Lois in 2001

#2  I Love Our Church

The third Sunday we visited Shearer Hills, Keith looked at me and asked, “Do you want to get this over with and join?”   We did.    We’ve made most of our friends there – been challenged to serve Jesus there – taught and been taught there.

There’s always something special about the church where your babies are born and if for no other reason, Westbury Baptist in Houston will always be precious to me.  But there’s also something special about the church where your babies are born again, and all four of ours made their professions of faith at Shearer Hills.

A church membership is not a substitute for a relationship with Jesus Christ.  But we are called to be members of the body, and when we don’t see our church family regularly, there’s a vague unease in our family life.    We do try welcome guests, too, as we felt so welcomed.  As Casting Crowns sings, “Jesus paid much too high a price -  For us to pick and choose who should come -
And we are the Body of Christ.”

Hannah’s 2003 Baptism

#1 – I Love Our Schools

We are profoundly thankful for our schools.  Keith knew – from online research – within two square miles where we’d live when we moved, based on the schools.  If we had to move, then we were going to solve our biggest problem, which was sub-standard public education for our girls.

Third-grader Rachel was an outstanding student in HISD.  When we moved into North East ISD in San Antonio – she was behind.  Badly behind.  Her teacher tutored her twice a week to help her catch up.

Other than three small bumps in the road, we have been very happy with Rachel, Lois and Hannah in their schools.  That happiness makes the steep property taxes worth it.

But with Julia – we’ve been more than “happy.”  We’ve been thrilled.  Julia’s English-speaking ability (which was “none”) was evaluated soon after she came home in May, 2006, in preparation for her upcoming kindergarten year.  NEISD brought in a Russian-speaking speech therapist to see if she needed speech therapy, which almost all post-institutionalized children require (she did not.)  Her kinder teacher – who also came to her baptism last year – kept a very watchful eye on her, to ensure she didn’t get lost physically or academically.  The school principal personally looked in on her once a week.  She received extra reading tutoring in first and second grades, and – as an ESL student – is regularly tested for any looming problems.  Her teachers couldn’t have been better if we’d hand-designed them.

We also appreciate the elementary after-school program – not available in Houston.  Because our kids could stay on-campus after school until we could pick them up, they could be in choir, chess club, storytelling club,  Girl Scouts, etc.  Rachel – an education major at UTSA – now works in that program at a nearby elementary school – and loves it.

This picture Julia drew for her kinder teacher at the end of the school year says a lot.

So that’s my X-File…… I’m an ex-Houstonian, and have now lived in San Antonio for X (10) years.   The truth is out there.  And it’s that I love San Antonio.

Come see us sometime!

Every family has its stories.  It’s one of the attributes that defines a family.

I grew up with stories of my Hoosier mom – Wyoming – and her three sisters – Arizona, Oklahoma and Nevada – plus their four brothers – Hugo Denver, William S. Hart, Texas and Kirby.   My mother’s father – a despicable hillbilly drunk – was enamored with the American West.  My mother’s mother – a long-suffering Quaker – acquiesced to his moniker choices.

(l-r) Oklahoma (Mary), Wyoming (Wy), Nevada (Neva) and Arizona (Zum) in the 70′s.  To tease my mom, I’d say, “Oh, Wyoming, you’re in such a state.”

We lost Mother in 1998.  Mom’s four brothers died long ago.   Her last sister – Mary – died in the wee hours Monday.

Aunt Mary and Me in 2007

Mom and her sisters – including Aunt Mary – did not let their bleak childhood circumstances define them.   They all attended college or completed professional training; all reared/encouraged their children, nieces and nephews; all used their creativity, generosity, wit and intelligence to leave this world a far better place than they found it.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve marveled at what they accomplished.  They truly were “The Greatest Generation.”  I wonder if I could have done the same.   I know I’ve been given more, and accomplished less – that is not false modesty,  it’s simply truth.

I’ve grown weary in recent years of adults whining about their parents – perhaps because I tired of it in myself.   What our parents did.  Or didn’t do.  What slights, hurts and psychic sores we’ve picked at for decades.

When do you just grow up and let it go?  Seriously.  When do you?

Maybe it’s when your parents – and their siblings – are all gone.

Because then there’s no one left to blame.

You’re “it.”

I spoke to Aunt Mary at least once a week, and listening to her was sorta like hearing my mom again.   I loved her chuckling through stories about my family.  Our family.

Those stories have helped define me.  I know now, too, that the threads that weave family ties don’t always have to be knit in the same pattern.   And those threads can span generations, and even worlds.

Mom and her sisters always hated to say “goodbye.”  So I won’t.  I’ll just say, “Your life was a great story, Aunt Mary.  I’ll make sure my girls hear it.”

I miss you already. But you know that.