Perfection

Today we went to my parents to help do some fall work.  The boys had a great time, we got a fair amount done, and I got to have some of my mama's chocolate angel food cake.  Dad and Zane even got to blow out their birthday-buddy candles together.  All of this was great, but to top it all off, the Hawkeyes won and the Huskers lost to a team we already beat.  That, my friends, makes for a pretty perfect Saturday all-in-all. 

Fun Fact Friday: Facebook is So Yesterday

That's right--Facebook is so yesterday--if you're a teenager, that is.  According to this semi-annual report about teen buying and spending habits, only 23 percent of teens say Facebook is their most important influence on purchases.  Instead, 26 percent of teens cite Twitter as being the most important influence on their purchases.  So, for this Fun Fact Friday, Julie and I decided that we should weigh in on which of the myriad of options out there is our social media site of choice. 

My decision is pretty easy.  I don't have an Instagram account, and I rarely tweet.  On Twitter, I  follow news sources, a few friends, and a comedian or two, and I'm happy checking it once a day or once a week.  I check Facebook once a day, but am mostly annoyed.  It's a convenient way to keep up with people with whom I rarely speak, but I don't love seeing everything everyone posts.  So what is my favorite social media site?  Pinterest.  I don't know if that counts, but with Pinterest, I can control what I see; if I don't want to see what someone posts, I stop following them or just their particular board I'm not interested in.  I get inspiration from Pinterest as opposed to the other sites, and I love the visuals.  

So teens can have their Twitter, and I'll take Pinterest.  100 percent of the time.

Girls Like 'Staches

Tonight I have to pause my series (if two posts make a series) on people who have invested in me, to share a little teenage insight I received tonight.  You see, I was told in all seriousness by my 13- year-old that girls like 'staches.  This was said as he stroked the newly visible hair that has appeared above his lip.  By visible, I mean to those who happen to have a magnifying glass handy.  He went on to describe an eighth grader with a full grown beard, and a seventh grader with a dark brown, pencil-thin 'stache above his lip.  I usually just think those kids need to wash their face.  

As I made a big deal of the newly grown hair, I couldn't help but tear up a bit.  This is another milestone--a big one at that--in his physical development.  We raise them to grow and leave us, but that doesn't necessarily make it any easier. 

Candy Bars and Shenanigans

My Grandpa Downing was a blacksmith when I knew him. He had farmed most of his life, but when he and my grandma moved to town, he eventually opened his own blacksmith/welding shop.  I used to go visit him there, and I remember him with his welding mask on, banging away at his latest project.  He was an artist in many ways, forging picture frames, fences, mirrors, and other great stuff out of metal, horse collars, and riding tack.  He always had bottles of orange, grape, or strawberry pop in his fridge. On a hot summer day, in the shop filled with the distinct metallic smell and the dust from the gravel floor, it was about the best thing I'd ever tasted. 

I loved being with my grandpa.  He had this goofy grin that lit up his whole face, and I can still feel his chuckle that started somewhere deep in his chest.  His hands were gigantic and leathery, but I never noticed as he held me on his lap or when he would let me hold his hand as we sat in church.  If he wasn't at the shop, Grandpa always smelled of soap.  Grandma wouldn't let the poor guy too far in the door without a full hose-down in the shower. When we would leave to go home, Grandpa always gave us a fifty cent piece or two and a Three Musketeers bar.  A full sized Three Musketeers bar.  That was a rare treat I savored for the full three seconds it took me to inhale it before we even got out of town. 

But one of the things I loved the most about Grandpa was his stories.  During the week I would spend there each summer, Grandpa would be the one to put me to bed.  Rather than reading stories out of a book, he would tell me stories I thought he made up.  He told me a different part of the story each night and it began with a handsome young man meeting the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.  I was a sucker for a story like that (and still am).  He told me about evil step-sisters, and crazy car rides on bumpy roads, a marriage, and eventually the three beautiful little girls who followed.  He told stories about the three little girls--the oldest one being so smart and sassy, the middle one being the feisty, naughty one, and the youngest being the one they had to look after.  Grandpa had such a way of telling stories that even today, I can hear his voice and remember how I felt as he shared those adventures each night.  

I couldn't wait to go to bed and hear more about the shenanigans of the girls, especially the oldest as she was definitely my favorite.  Grandpa had timed his stories so that they all came together on the last night of my stay.  At the end, he told me the names of the three little girls--Marie, Mary, and Shirley--my mom and her two younger sisters.  I was shocked, to say the least.  The fact that my mom was naughty was flabbergasting and freeing at the same time.  The way he described his wife of 50-plus years and his love for her still stick out to me all this time later.  My Grandpa Downing was an amazing storyteller.  But in telling me the stories, he did so much more than entertain a little girl and help her go to sleep.  He gave me a sense of who my mother was and how much she was loved by her daddy.  He showed me what true love looks like--for a wife, for his children, for his grandchildren.  He showed me how to invest in our children, and to pass down the stories of our own lives to help give them a sense of place in their own.  

His gifts to me weren't really half dollars and candy bars.  His gifts were his time, his devotion, and his stories.

Making the Cut

This post is only brought to you by the fact that I must write for 31 days.  I'm excited to write the posts in my series about those who have invested in me, but getting home tonight at 9:30 PM does not lend itself to the creation of great material.  The people who have invested in me deserve far better.  So, in the world of blogging, this post would never make the cut.  Right now, I'm ok with simply putting in the time and showing up each day.  Sometimes, that's all we really need to do. 

Love and Chocolate Cake

My Grandma Sexton was the kind of grandma you read about in picture books.  At least that's how I remember her.  She had salt and pepper black hair, was short and fiesty, and smelled, for lack of a better word, yummy.  It was probably some Avon scent, but I distinctly remember how she smelled, how her house smelled, and friends, it all smelled like happiness to me.  

We went to visit my grandmas at least two or three times a year.  They lived in the same town after all.  I remember plenty of holidays, but what really stands out to me are the summers when my parents would drop me off to spend an entire week split between my two grandparent's houses.  Did I mention they also lived exactly one block away from one another?  It was a pretty great set up, that's for sure.  While I loved being with both my grandmas, I knew that at Grandma Sexton's, I could do no wrong.  At Grandma Sexton's house, I wasn't in the way or naughty (although I'm sure I was both), and she made me feel like I was one of the best things that ever happened to her.  We played games, did house work, and I pounded the heck out of her out-of-tune piano.  She showed me how to make home-made noodles, had the best grape juice, and made a mean chocolate cake.  We sang songs (she was always humming something it seemed), I read books, and I visited the neighbor lady who I adored.   The highlight of most days was when we watched Grandma's "stories" in the afternoon.  We each sat in our recliners and Grandma filled me in during the commercials on all the good gossip from not only her "stories", but the small town in which she lived. 

I'm sure I have some pretty rose-colored memories about that time with Grandma.   But the summer I was 15, she fell asleep peacefully and never woke up.   I knew then that I had lost someone I could never replace.  Grandma had shown me unconditional love in the way only grandparents can.  She listened to me and had time for me the way others didn't.  Her laugh was contagious, and her belief in all things fanciful was as well.  I felt safe with her on the nights when the thunder clapped so loud I couldn't stay in my own bed.  She would shush and sing to me and tell me all about the angels with potato carts rolling over bridges in heaven.  She prayed with me and showed me what faithfulness looks like in the face of loneliness and eventually illness.  She made me feel valued--something I hope to reciprocate in the way I treat my own children (not as often as I should) and my nieces and nephews.  My Grandma Sexton invested herself in me even though I wasn't the picture book granddaughter.  She just made me feel that way.

Coming Attractions

I'm cheating today.  All I'm doing in this one is telling you what's coming this week.  Thinking about this rooting deeper business, I have some people who have invested in me to do that very thing.  This week, I'll talk about a different person each day who chose to invest in me in one way or another to help me think about things below the surface.  To find meaning.  To focus on others beside myself.  To make sure my roots are strong and deep.