Life's a Beach (And One Year Blogiversary)

You know you've perhaps left the regular world behind when a truck turns in front of you that has a shark jaw attached to the grille. Other signs surface, too: throngs of people are walking, not at the strident city pace, but more at a languid stroll; traffic has slowed to well below the speed limit; most drivers' windows are down; and surfboards crown car tops.

At the final turn, as the expanse of the beach opens fully, you are again taken by how the sky and the surf team together and push the horizon almost out of sight.

The sand welcomes each footstep's tattoo. Already, the transformations have begun. A man whose recumbent silhouette matches that of a Volkswagen Beetle proves surprisingly agile when lofted upwards on a kite board. Two women whose bikinis have been overrun by that which they should contain do not provoke stares or giggles. They walk comfortably in the ebb, deep in conversation. An elderly man and woman each grasp a hand of the chubby, copper haired toddler between them, the baby slathered in white layers of sunscreen like mayo on a hamburger bun.

Sea gulls and grackles compete for the title of jester, each group daring the other to more outlandishly bold antics. Their calls blend with the comforting clamor of the waves.

Those waves strain to reach further across the sand, all bluster and fury until their gentle denouement into the shore. Breaking with an unforced, ancient rhythm that began when God Himself first stirred the waters, their cadence seeps into you. Your heart rate calms and steadies, and the herkey-jerky thought patterns of the work world even out in harmony with the majestic pounding under you.

The sun has warmed your body and is now steeping your soul, relentlessly illuminating every dark nook and niche.


Your eyes close and the crisp saltiness of the air plunges through your sinuses, cleansing and opening, inviting in the cool Gulf breezes.

Life is indeed a beach.


This is my one year blogiversary. Thank you all for so graciously reading, commenting, and sharing in my life. I was only going to do this one month...I'm like the guest who comes  to visit and won't leave!

Coming Home

It was the late 1960's, and I was in the second grade. The day was already laced with excitement because we were all going to the airport to meet my grandfather, coming home from one of his assignments in Venezuela for Shell Oil.

In the days before TSA, and especially in small airports like this one, people could wait very close to the runway in small sheltered areas. Steps would be rolled up to the door of the airplane and passengers would descend and walk across the pavement and into the terminals.

As my siblings, cousins and I followed my grandmother, my parents, and various aunts and uncles into the airport to the passenger pick up area, I noticed a group of three or four men already in the passenger pickup area. They seemed old to me because they had scraggly beards, but they were probably no further out than their early twenties. They had long hair and wore clothes unlike any of the men in my family.

My mother cautioned the kids to keep close and not to wander off as we settled in to wait.

The first plane that landed looked to me like an amazingly graceful, alien bird, setting down with an ease that belied its size. My grandmother had already told us it was not my grandfather's plane, but it was a wondrous thing to watch as the heavy door swung open and passengers filed down the steps into the intense sunlight.

Some stretched, some moved quickly, and some seemed to be a little afraid of the steps as they picked their ways gingerly down. One man towards the end of the line of passengers had a short haircut like my college football player uncle. He wore a uniform which my 10 year old cousin, Mike,  excitedly told us was a Marine's uniform. Mike had wanted to be a Marine almost since he was old enough to talk, and he was our military expert.

The soldier paused just past the bottom of the steps leading from the plane, looked around as if he were taking in a deep, satisfying drink of his surroundings and dropped to his knees on the tarmac. He set his duffel bag aside, placed both palms flat on the ground and lowered his face to the pavement. What he did next made no sense to me then, but he touched that hot, tarry concrete with his lips and kissed it. He slowly pulled himself back to his feet, retrieved his bag and made his way to the area where we all awaited.

The shaggy men we had seen earlier stirred themselves as they saw him pass through the waist high, aluminum gate that separated us from the runways. I thought they were his family, there to pick him up. My older cousins and I were close enough to see the military man had streaks of tears making a trail down his cheeks.

 As the soldier neared them, though, the long haired, bearded men contorted and twisted their faces, spewing words at him with the venom of rattlesnakes. "How many babies did you kill over there?" one snarled.

"You're a murderer!" another with the long hair stridently interjected.

The soldier only looked straight ahead as he worked through the press of people.

What happened next is seared indelibly into my core. Another of those bearded men suddenly flung his head forward and ejected a stream of spit that landed squarely on the Marine's cheek, who recoiled as if he'd been slapped. His eyes widened and the skin on his face burned red, but he made no reply as he continued his journey through all the waiting people.

As he walked, the soldier pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the spittle off his face, never breaking stride as he drew close to us. His eyes looked sad and haunted.

My cousin Mike did it first, and then all of us in our group of siblings and cousins followed suit.

We each stood as tall as we could, hands drawn up to our foreheads in our best renditions of a shaky salute.

He paused and looked at each of us. He said not a word as he dropped his duffel bag, drew himself to attention, and snapped off a sharp salute to us before making his way out of the airport.

As I remember and honor those who gave their lives in wars popular and unpopular, I also remember those who came home from those wars and had to fight even more battles here.

To them all, thank you; a million times, thank you.

The Goodness

A heart shattering tragedy happened at school yesterday and truth be told, I am still a little shaken by it. I feel the need to dip myself in a well of goodness and to submerge myself in that which is pure, holy, and right.

Despite what your circumstances may be telling you, you are profoundly and deeply loved by God, uniquely engineered to bring your brand of goodness to this earth, and irreplaceable. The things that happen to you and around you are temporary. Please know that.

These pictures make me smile. I hope they do the same for you. Life is so very good.

(This one is Teenaged Daughter, 15. She always puts a smile on my face.)

The Time Yvonne Peed Herself (But Not Really)

Yvonne was a woman among girls in our 8th grade class. During an era when a swiftly swinging paddle silenced  any wayward voices in the classroom, Yvonne still let hers be heard, and felt the sting of Mrs. Boley's paddle, called "The Silencer", time and time again.

Yvonne was always a little different; in demeanor, background, and dress. Her parents were divorced, a rarity at the time, and she lived with her mom in a tiny house that used to actually be a feed storage room. Her mom waitressed nights at a tavern in town and Yvonne, being the only child left at home, was often left to her own devices. The rigidly enforced dress code at our school dictated that dresses, skirts, and shorts worn by girls could be no higher that five inches above the knee. At the morning measurings before school each day, the young secretary appointed to do the honors would shake her head when she read the ruler measurement at the back of Yvonne's knee. While most of us chose to stay carefully under the limit, Yvonne always pushed the envelope with 5 1/8", 5 1/4". The secretary would heave a sigh and exasperatedly wave Yvonne on.

Now, the last day of school, Yvonne excitedly called us over, clutching a large purse to her chest. "Wait till you see what I've got!" she chortled.

"What, what?" we all clamored around her.

Looking furtively around first, she lowered the purse to waist high in the cover of our circle and slowly opened it.

It was full to the top with pastel colored balloons. Balloons filled with water. Water balloons.

A collective gasp went up from all of us.

"I've got one of these for every lick Old Lady Boley gave me with that paddle!" she explained. "As soon as the last bell rings, we all grab one, stand up, and chunk them at her!"

Seeing the shocked looks on our faces, she reasoned, "It's the last day for 8th grade. We won't be at this school anymore. What are they going to do to us? Come on! Learn to live a little!"

One by one, she went around the circle to seek our participation. One by one, each girl nodded assent. When she got to me, I remember thinking how much trouble I was going to be in at home, but the rebel aspect really appealed to me. I took a deep breath and smiled and nodded, too.

She laughed out loud. "Alright! This is what we'll do. I'll ask to go to the bathroom about 5 minutes before the last bell rings. We'll be having the end of year party in the classroom, anyway, so it shouldn't be a problem. One by one, you all come near the door. I'll be right outside and slip you each a couple you can hide until it's time. Our signal will be the last bell. Once it rings, throw them at her and run!"

Yvonne stowed her Goliath purse beside her desk and was careful all day not to let anyone step near it. The day ticked away until it was almost done. At exactly five minutes before the last bell, Yvonne raised her hand in the cacophony of all the noise of the party and asked Mrs. Boley if she could please go to the restroom.

Mrs. Boley eyed the large wall clock and said, "No, the bell's about to ring. You'll have to wait until school is out."

"Please! It's an emergency!"

"No," said Mrs. Boley decisively, peering sternly over her black rimmed glasses. "You'll have to wait."

Yvonne's mute expression and wide eyes showed she hadn't considered this possibility. Now, I was getting a little scared. What had made me agree to this? Was Yvonne going to launch an even more egregious attack in place of the aborted plan?

At that moment, a lumpy boy named Kenny moved to get past Yvonne to load his plate with more chips and dip. He misjudged his own size and brushed past Yvonne roughly, knocking her off balance. She sat down, hard, right on top of the large purse she'd been zealously guarding all day. Those of us near her heard the sharp splash made by all those water balloons bursting inside the purse.

A quickly growing pool of water soaked the seat of her white denim pants and the floor around her.

Mrs. Boley was back at Yvonne's desk in an instant, showing a surprising agility that belied her age.

"What...what...has happened?" she asked in a bewildered voice.

I knew our time was up and that we would all be hanged at dawn.

Yvonne shouted at Mrs. Boley, "Look what you made me do! I asked you if I could go to the bathroom and you wouldn't let me! This is your fault!" she accused as she gestured at all the wetness around her.

She took the performance to an even more intense level by burying her face in her hands and choking out faux sobs.

Mrs. Boley looked so contrite that I thought she might cry herself. The last we saw as we left the room was Mrs. Boley on her knees beside Yvonne, apologizing profusely, and offering to take her home and buy her an ice cream cone to boot.

We were never able to commiserate with Yvonne about that last day. She unexpectedly moved to another state a few days after the end of school and we never saw her again.

But every year, as the last day of school nears, I always think of Yvonne, her water balloons, and how she got an even better payback than she'd ever planned.

Riding on the Boy Bus

It had to happen. Just as when you haven't been picked for jury duty for years, and the summons is on its way in the mail... it's that little feeling that tickles at the base of your skull, near the pituitary, and works its way up. Your turn's next.

I had that feeling before I even got to the buses. On larger field trips, the students are separated by gender: boys on one bus, girls on the other. The girl bus is rank with privilege: good smells, lady-like laughter, and enjoyable conversation about shoes, makeup and clothes. The boy bus is...well...jammed with 13 and 14 year old boys. On this field trip to visit area universities, I drew the boy bus. My turn had finally found me.

I love my male students and female students equally. I enjoy the direct communication style of boys; their take charge attitudes, and their budding gentlemanliness. But the boy bus is...well...the boy bus. I was to be the only female on board this day on a lengthy field trip. I had some misgivings, but I pasted on a smile, even as I glimpsed my colleagues jovially laughing on the girl bus, and resolved to make the best of it.

I learned some things.

On the boy bus:

1. In your instructions to the boys as you are leaving the school, as you try to delicately broach the subject of controlling body odors (because of a prior bus incident found here) and fumble for words, the straightforward boys will understand when one raises his hand and says, "Oh, you mean for us not to fart too much?"

2. In preface to a question as to why a certain girl might act like she does, a boy across the aisle asks you, "You used to be a girl, right, Mrs. M.?"

3. The boy who is sitting immediately behind you begins his conversation with you like this, at approximately 30 decibels louder than normal conversation,  "IgotupSUPERSUPERearlythismorning!Howhasyourmorningbeen?Huh?Huh?OMG!OMG!WearegoingtohaveSOSOSOmuchfunonthisfieldtrip!!!" You see three Venom drinks in his open backpack (super-caffeinated energy drinks) and the empty cans of another two. You pick up the three and hide them away.

4. The boys have won a behavior incentive and get to choose the radio station that will be playing on the bus stereo system. They have chosen a heavy metal station whose catchphrase is "Loud and Proud, 24/7" and covers even the 7:30 AM hour. The air guitars and air drums being played all over the bus do provide a respite of entertainment from the battering ram active inside your head.

5. As you near the first university, a faint odor whiffles past your nose. It is only moments later, though, when a runaway train of smells barrels through your sinuses. Behind watering eyes and a narrowing throat, you investigate and find at least 12 boys liberally spraying themselves, their arm pits, and even their shoes with all manner of manly body sprays and colognes. Hair gel is being passed around and all variations of spikes are coaxed from short hair styles. In answer to your choked inquiry as to why, they smile and one answers, "College girls!"

6. On the return trip, allow yourself to become an active participant in conversations about Hemi diesel engines, which rims are the best for a Ford F150 truck, and how much torque is required to really pull a trailer up the hill near the school. Wantonly sprinkle the conversation with words like head gasket and turbocharger without regard or knowledge as to even what part of speech they are.

7. You imagine you are swimming in a sea of testosterone while they talk excitedly about the newest line of Case tractors, the great scope one of the dads got for a hunting rifle, and why A-Rod costs his team too much money. Look at your cute shoes and let your mind longingly spin what you could have been talking about on the girl bus, all the while nodding your head and pretending to understand what they are talking about.

8. Smile when one boy tells you he's glad you rode the bus with them because, "You're cool!" and other boys nod, smile, say thank you, and express their appreciation on the way out of the bus.

The boy bus...is...well...maybe not so bad after all.

Border Insecurity

A friend of ours farms almost 1,000 acres near us. One of his part time tractor hands, a high school boy named Justin, works hard and already has his plans set on majoring in agriculture science in college.

Justin was plowing a remote field about five miles from us last week. He stopped the tractor and climbed down to make an adjustment. While he worked over a disc on the plow, three men emerged from the brush. Two had pistols. They ordered Justin to his knees, hands behind his head. One of the men talked to the other two in Spanish about what they'd do "with the body". He ordered Justin to bow his head and Justin felt the tip of the pistol at the back of his head.

At that moment, the chop- chop sound of a helicopter flying overhead sent the men scurrying back into the brush, allowing Justin to run an adrenaline laced race to the road and escape in his truck.

This is one of several more frequently occurring episodes.

My parents, who live a pasture away from us, have a lovely sun-room at the back of their house, with floor to ceiling windows and a view of their pool. They enjoy taking their morning coffee in this room. One morning before sunrise, my dad left early for an appointment. My mom made several trips through the sun room, tidying things as she went. She heard a noise in the semi darkness outside, and thinking one of their animals might be getting into something, she opened the sun room door and stepped out. There, a set of WET human footprints on the sidewalk leading from the pool to the sun room door stood as stark evidence that someone had indeed been there very shortly before, probably watching  her through the uncovered windows.

There are other stories, too numerous to tell. Not long ago, we always helped people who came through, needing food, sometimes with a pair of shoes or a jacket to keep warm. These were people looking for work, even family groups with small children moving at night through the brush. I have strong feelings about doing things legally, but my heart will never allow me to turn away someone who asks for food or a warm blanket for their child.

These new travelers through the brush are different. They are cartel related. At best they cut fences and kill cattle. At  worst, they leave a grisly wake, especially on the Mexican side of the border, of decapitated bodies, warnings carved into flesh, and worse. Many of these cartel related people literally worship a demon god with rituals so evil I cannot speak of them here. The news media in the U.S. does not report the severity or frequency of what is happening.

It is not all areas in this part of Texas that are having these problems. The beaches, towns, and other tourist areas are safer than the gold at Fort Knox. These folks who deal violence like cards from a deck prefer keeping to uninhabited, remote areas and away from towns and cities. Like cockroaches, they are drawn to dark, unlit areas. They walk a distance through brush and pastures to avoid Border Patrol checkpoints and patrols until they meet their pick-up people at predetermined points on the highway two miles from our house.

Our friends who are Border Patrolmen tell us about things that go on that would unsettle many who feel secure in our border's safety. It's not just Mexican drug cartel laborers who are moving through, but operatives from other countries hostile to the U.S. There are very sophisticated measures now in place to detect people going through who shouldn't be, but they are targeted mainly at checkpoints on the highway and at railroad freight cars.

This has altered my life. At my husband's insistence, I am having to reconsider the regular runs I take through our remote back pastures, as my husband has found the remains of their small campfires there. After the incident with Justin, the area farmers and ranchers have now armed themselves, even when plowing and planting.

We have shored up security at our house, as have my parents. I do not like guns, but I know where my husband's are, where the ammo is, and how to use them. Our daughters do, too.

I do not know what the answer is that will end this.

More than being scared, I am sad. I miss the days when we could be an outstretched hand of help instead of an outstretched hand holding a gun in self defense.

I apologize in advance for this post. I usually try post things that will be uplifting and/or positive, and I know this is neither. It is something, though, that weighs heavily on my heart.

Mama Mia

I once watched a cat go after a javelina. The javelina outweighed her many times over.

(This is a javelina.)

The javelina had large tusks, a nasty temper and other foul smelling javelina friends nearby. Yet, the little cat attacked the larger animal with reckless abandon, a hissing, yowling ball of teeth, claws, and furious fur. The javelina (and the javelina's friends) turned tail and hastily scuttled off, startled at the onslaught. The cat watched them run, her tail hair standing at full attention, an unearthly growl rising from the pits of her small being, until she was satisfied they were indeed gone. The javelina's transgression? Wandering too near her warm nest of tiny, mewling kittens.

Moms just have it deep within, whether they be animal or human. Nothing speaks stronger to a woman's soul than protecting, nurturing, and loving her children.

Some mom facts:

• There are 2 billion moms  in the world (82.5 million in the U.S.)
• The average age of new moms today is 25, vs. 21 in 1970
•  Currently moms average two kids in a lifetime (1950s: 3.5 kids; 1700s: 7-10 kids)
• 4.3 babies are born each second
•  Mrs. Vassilyev of Russia gave birth to 69 children between 1725 and 1765
•  Rosanna Dalla Corte gave birth to a baby boy when she was 63 years old in Italy in 1994
•  Signora Carmelina Fedele gave birth to a 22 lb 8 oz boy in Italy in 1955
• A mom will change 7,300 diapers by baby's second birthday
• Moms take 2 minutes, 5 seconds to change a single diaper (which adds up to three 40-hour work weeks each year!) , vs. 1 minute, 36 seconds for dads
•  Most moms multi-task in the bathroom. Reading is the most common activity, followed by talking on the phone, meditating, watching TV, drinking coffee, eating, and balancing the checkbook

My own mom is amazing. A kindergarten teacher for 37 years, she won countless awards and is still revered by the thousands of students she taught. Some have said they went into teaching exactly because of her. I did. She is an amazing cook and loves to prepare full family meals often. She is known for her generosity, warm heart, and love. I feel so blessed to have been born to and raised by her and I am still well loved by her.

Here's a salute to you moms who do the hard stuff everyday, amid the sleep deprivation, poopy diapers, spit up, endless laundry, teen angst, school, and all the other things that spice up motherhood. You don't have to have birthed a baby from your own body to be a mama. There are plenty out there who have done the work of a mother, stepping in and loving with a mother's heart where it is needed. 

I am so blessed to be a mom to two amazing daughters. I can't imagine not being a mom.

Give a shout out to your own mom/grandma/female nurturer in your life, or other terrific moms you know. Let us hear about her in the comments!

Happy Mother's Day!