Change is in the air

I've been inspired by longtime blogging buddy Irene, who has two fine sons, to brag blog once more about my darling only boy.

Dear Irene (as I always call her) has more pure creative ability in her left earlobe than I have in my entire body, soul, and spirit.

She is a voracious reader but also a writer, and a true artist. Her sons are writers too and she is justifiably proud of them both.

Boys are very different from girls when it comes to child rearing.

Our three girls were a breeze to guide along into adulthood. The number of "scenes" we had among all three can be totted up on the fingers of one hand, leaving a hand free to pat their pretty heads.

And none of the five "scenes" involved Erica. She was a near-perfect child.

She was so good and so special, Stephanie once took her to school for Show and Tell.

I don't understand why Erica's such a curmudgeon now.

Audrey? Well, let's just say she's my clone.

Like for example:

Enough said.

Andrew? A trifle more complicated.

I don't think anyone ever truly understands anyone else but I understand my boy kid less than I get my girl kids.

All I know is, although occasionally capable of playing the knucklehead, he is a man of integrity and energy and action. Handsome, too.

And like my daughters, whom I love unconditionally, I love him, and he loves me.

So naturally we were very proud of Andrew when, six years ago come April, he joined the Tennessee Air National Guard ahead of going to college.

Now he's done with college and the six-year commitment is nearly up, but the Tennessee Air National Guard has presented him with an opportunity that he decided to take.

It will involve re-enlisting for six more years and changing both his unit and his MOS (Military Occupational Specialty).

From the beginning he trained for a Space Ops job, and has been attached to the 119th Command and Control Squadron (119 CACS) at McGhee Tyson Air Base in Knoxville.

When he re-ups he'll be going up for real, like in airplanes.

It is, after all, the Air Force. They get teased, called the Chair Force, because a lot of the jobs do not involve flying but rather sitting behind a desk.

Never mind that while sitting behind a desk, painstakingly-trained airmen accomplish thousands of sensitive missions crucial to our national security.

Be that as it may, Andrew's new unit will be the 151st Air Refueling Squadron, an arm of the 134th Air Refueling Wing at McGhee Tyson AFB.

He will go to school for several months and be trained as a boom operator.

That means eventually he will take his place in the belly of a KC-135R Stratotanker, flying around the world wherever fighter jets and other aircraft require in-flight refueling.

He'll be the one maneuvering the boom so that fuel can be transferred from the tanker to the thirsty jet.

He sent me some videos and yes, I nearly fainted. But I recovered.

Watch another one. This is so cool:

The fighter planes are like bees to blossoms. My boy will be doling out the nectar.

I salute all of the brave men and women of the United States Armed Forces. I wish Andrew every success and above all (pun wholly intended), safety in each endeavor.

It's a privilege to be his mom and I think the Air Force is lucky to have him.

God bless America.

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Happy Wednesday!

Raindrop, meet birthday

Oh hai! Did you miss me?

Well I missed you.

It's been a long while since I've been too busy to update this blog on a Friday as scheduled.

That's what happens when one mentions to one's husband that one wishes to change the color of paint on the walls of one's large-ish kitchen, and said husband does not have to be told twice.

And husband begins said project at the beginning of a week that ends with his own birthday and the resultant houseful of offspring and grand-offspring who come home to help celebrate.

So anyway I got the idea about six months ago to repaint our kitchen. Only I didn't say anything to TG right away.

You've seen pictures of my kitchen on here a hundred times at least, so you know it was painted an old gold shade (Sherwin-Williams Blonde) with the table nook accented in a dark red that may or may not have been Sherwin-Williams Poinsettia.

And I'd decorated with a theme of roosters and coffee Americana, with some fleurs-de-lis and French words thrown in for good measure.

Lots of metal signs. I love those.

Well there's no getting away from roosters and coffee -- or French, or metal signs, or the fleur-de-lis, just call me Joan -- in my estimation, so it was a simple matter of changing the wall color.

And of course the window treatments.

I always use pure white or clear dishes so no worries there.

At any rate several months ago when I got the idea to change my wall color, I decided on a shade not unlike Martha Stewart's signature seafoam teal, or whatever you want to call it.

I've always been partial to teal, so I knew my new color would be in that neck of the woods even if Martha Stewart's actual paint didn't make it onto my walls.

In the final analysis, when about ten days ago I mentioned the project to TG and he presented me with a narrow but weighty book of paint chips, it took me all of ninety seconds to pick my color.

Its name is Raindrop in the Sherwin-Williams iteration.

TG didn't buy it in Sherwin-Williams brand, though; he is devoted to Valspar Signature paint and primer all in one, so he bought the superior paint in my chosen color.

Martha Stewart will be wanting to use this hue I know, so I thought I'd provide her with all the details up front.

At any rate TG gallantly finished the paint job on Thursday morning and all three of our girls, and the three grandkids, showed up Thursday night.

They had decided that their father's birthday, falling exactly one month after Christmas, is prone to be neglected.

An idea I reject, because I never neglect TG's birthday (or anyone else's in the family for that matter; quite the contrary) and neither do the kids, but I'm always up for a party so I said, well come on then.

Stephanie had planned to travel on Friday but she arrived on Thursday evening instead, ahead of the ice storm forecast for Western North Carolina.

Audrey -- who was in the storm's path as well -- and Erica both took Friday off and got here Thursday night too.

I spent all day Thursday cleaning, doing laundry, and re-hanging my pictures. And still, I didn't get done.

That's because, one, I had to pause to take a nap, that's how tired all that rigmarole made me, and two, I am always dead last when it comes to FedEx deliveries, so my new curtains didn't arrive until nearly seven. 

I'd ordered them from Amazon on Monday night, black and white awning stripe cornice-type valances to replace the red-and-gold rooster ones, and I paid extra for the privilege of receiving the goods on Wednesday.

So when did I get the box? When Thursday was practically a memory.

Then I had to install the curtains, which is most interesting with a three-inch cornice rod and a two-and-ninety-nine-tenths rod pocket.

But I digress.

At any rate Erica helped me complete the picture-hanging on Friday before the birthday party.

(She's a good hammer-holder and nail-hander and she's very level-headed which is good because although I don't use a level, I don't like anything to be crooked.)

But not before we had a donut feast for breakfast and planned a sumptuous repast for dinner.

Friday was one of the coldest days we're likely to see around here this winter, with a high temperature only in the high thirties.

It was overcast but unlike areas a scant hundred miles to our north, we didn't have to worry about precipitation, frozen or otherwise.

Erica had made the cake according to a recipe I got from a blogging buddy. Hat tip, Mari.

For dinner we planned hamburgers (TG grilled out on the Weber, even though it was very grilly chilly) with fixings such as caramelized onions, feta cheese, thick-cut applewood bacon, and my unique steak sauce concoction.

(Hat tip to my cousin Deanna who, when I saw her last October, told me she was enamored of hamburgers trimmed with feta cheese and caramelized onions.)

Don't ask me what's in that steak sauce; there is no recipe. Oh, OK. It contains (in unknown quantities) prepared barbecue sauce, ketchup, mustard, molasses, brown sugar, Tabasco sauce, kosher salt, lemon pepper, and coarse-ground black pepper.

At least, those are the ingredients I can remember.

To make the caramelized onions I started with three big sweet red onions and I chopped till I cried. Then I added them to a heavy skillet with olive oil and butter.

And they cooked and cooked and cooked for about an hour and I wish you could have smelled it.

I added a sprinkle each of kosher salt and sugar, and at the end, when the onions were greatly reduced in volume and a delectable brown color, I deglazed with balsamic vinegar.

You just wouldn't believe how those taste on a prime rib burger grilled to perfection over charcoal by my TG, then garnished with feta, thick bacon, and that steak sauce.

To go with? We had the best macaroni and cheese known to humankind. Hat tip, Paula Deen.

I've made this mac 'n cheese recipe twice, and both times I amended it thus: I used twelve ounces of milk (instead of eight), six tablespoons of butter (instead of four), four cups of grated sharp cheddar (instead of two and a half), one cup of sour cream (instead of a half cup), and sixteen ounces of macaroni.

And it doesn't need to cook for three hours. Two is long enough; in fact it's just right.

Everything else stays the same. This makes a larger recipe for a larger crowd, and more leftovers, which in this case is great because reheated in the microwave with a generous amount of milk added, this is even better the next day.

I asked TG what he wanted for his birthday and he said, just lots of love and a good time. We've got you covered! I thought.

But in addition, he received golf shirts, gift certificates for golf games, ties, books, pistachio nuts.

Two balloons, many cards, and several phone calls.

Plus that scrumptious meal, which I am here to tell you, was memorable.

And then there was the company of our three beautiful girls, and yes it was terrible to miss Joel and big Andrew but we had little Andrew to keep us marveling at the handsomeness of men in our family, regardless of age.

TG turned sixty-one; little Andrew will soon turn one.

Melanie was her usual quirky, adorable self, all elfin giggles and huge appetite and pensive moments when we all wonder what she thinks of her family and her life.

Allissa was her usual loving, nosy, hyper-observant self, reluctant to ever sleep lest she miss something, sans tiara this time because she said it began hurting her ears.

She enjoyed drinking homemade cocoa out of Aunt Audrey's espresso cups.

Allissa is obsessed with the movie Penny Serenade -- specifically the parts where Trina is a baby -- and we watched a few scenes of it together on YouTube.

You don't have to twist my arm where Cary Grant is involved.

You can see the entire film on YouTube, and I recommend that you do, with a big bowl of popcorn and a full box of tissues. You'll need them both.

Speaking of salty tears, Baby Andrew is a crier. Fed, clothed, dry, clean, rested, he just stands and howls, head thrown back, inconsolable.

Reminds me of myself.

It's amazing what happens when his mother picks him up, though: he stops.

Which is what I'd better do.

For now.

Happy Monday! Happy Week! 

We're home, baby

WARNING:

This post contains a graphic image of the result of a legal medical procedure.

Abortion is ugly.

Parents, use discretion.

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When we moved to Columbia more than a decade ago it didn't take long to become aware of Johnny Gardner, a/k/a The Voice of the Unborn.

Brother Johnny (as I call him when I greet him at church) has worked since 1991 to raise public awareness of the fact that abortion is murder.

He does it in a decidedly grass-roots way: He stands on heavily-traveled street corners with umbrella strollers containing one or two lifelike baby dolls.

The strollers are decorated with large octagonal signs that read:

STOP ABORTION NOW.

TG tells me he's also heard Brother Johnny on the radio.

The thing I love about Johnny Gardner is his humility, his dedication, and his refusal to take counsel of the enormity of the odds against him.

He does it for the babies. And yes! He has made a difference.

Yesterday I attended a pro-life rally organized by Johnny Gardner and held at the South Carolina State House.

The rally's purpose was to show support of the Personhood Act of South Carolina, which was introduced in the State Senate on February 24, 2011.

The bill, also known as S. 616, asserts that: The right to life for each born and preborn human being vests at fertilization.

The rally also marked the fortieth anniversary of the Supreme Court decisions in Roe v. Wade and Doe v. Bolton which "legalized" the murder of unborn children in the United States.

Since 1973, more than fifty-five million babies have been "legally" put to death in America.

According to the South Carolina Department of Health and Environmental Control, six thousand three hundred and seventy-nine of those children were killed in our state in the calendar year 2011.

Approximately one hundred people showed up for the rally. 

Hundreds more swarmed around our group as we occupied a central part of the main floor of the State House for about an hour.

Some stopped and listened to the prayers and the preaching. Most walked on by.

I stood beside a very nice Christian lady for part of the rally. We exchanged names and chatted for several minutes about the deplorable condition of our government.

We agreed that the POTUS is depraved and most likely given over to a reprobate mind.

Then my new acquaintance revealed to me that she could not bring herself to vote in the last presidential election.

"It's the first time since I was eighteen that I didn't vote," she said.

I'd be lying if I tried to make you believe I wasn't stunned.

And I didn't lie to her either. "People like you are the reason we're in this mess," I said.

She defended her decision to stay home from the polls on November 7, 2012, arguably the most important election day in the history of our country.

"I knew Obama would win anyway," she said.

There were a lot of things I wanted to say in response but I kept them to myself because I didn't wish to be any ruder than I feared I'd already been.

And although I think I understood what she meant, I did wonder how anyone but God could "know" the outcome of an election before it even happened. 

I'm certain of this: The Obama supporters got out and voted to make sure he'd win. The other side was shockingly AWOL.

I thought about my daughter who lives in a swing state that early on was clearly in the win column for Governor Romney.

On election day she was sick with bronchitis. She has three little kids. It was raining outside.

I guess she could have reasoned that Mitt Romney was obviously going to win North Carolina and her vote wouldn't make a dime's worth of difference.

But she didn't. She dressed herself and and went to the polls and voted. I'm sure thousands like her found it inconvenient to vote, but did it anyway.

Hundreds of thousands of registered Republicans, however -- no doubt many of them Christians -- like my new friend, couldn't bring themselves to vote.

And so here we are. And lest you doubt, elections have far-reaching consequences.

To quote Bette Davis in All About Eve, you'd better "Buckle your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night."

Because having strong beliefs is all well and good. And we should.

But strong beliefs are worthless without action, and actions are ineffectual without method.

Barack Obama has strong beliefs. I haven't noticed him backing down, being reluctant to act, neglecting to have a plan.

On the contrary. His evil advance on our freedoms is relentless and nothing if not methodical.

Speaking of movies, I know I said on Monday that I wouldn't watch any TV, least of all TCM which was doing its annual bleeding-heart homage to the late Martin Luther King, Jr.

Well, I broke my promise. Late in the day I was working on a project and turned it on.

The movie playing was To Sir, With Love, a 1967 classroom drama starring civil rights posterchild Sidney Poitier.

I like Sidney Poitier. Guess Who's Coming To Dinner, made in the same year, is one of my favorite films.

To Sir, With Love tells the poignant story of a schoolteacher who makes a difference in the lives of some working-class London hooligans.

I was doing something else while the movie was playing so I missed a bit but from the way one scene in particular played out, I gathered that Mr. Thackeray (Poitier) walks into his classroom unannounced.

For some reason the room features a fireplace. The kids are all standing around the fireplace, which is giving off copious amounts of smoke.

Apparently one of the girls has put into the fireplace a soiled personal item.

It's not clear what the item is however, except from Mr. Thackeray's instantaneous reaction. He thunders to the boys that they are all to leave the room.

Once the guys are gone and the door has closed behind them, Mr. Thackeray, complete with flaming eyes, bulging neck veins, and furious body language, delivers this brief diatribe to the astonished female students:

I am sick of your foul language, your crude behavior, and your sluttish manner. A decent woman keeps certain things private. Only a filthy slut would have done this! Those who encouraged her are just as bad! I don’t care who’s responsible. You’re all to blame! I’m leaving for five minutes, by which time that disgusting object had better be removed and the windows opened to clear the stench. If you must play these filthy games, do them in your homes and not in my classroom!

Whoa! Back up the Tell-It-Like-It-Is Train, Mr. Poitier! I mean, Mr. Thackeray! Sandra Fluke's tender ears may be nearby!

Truth has such a radical sound to it these days.

I wonder what the chances would be of such dialog making it into a movie in 2013.

Probably about as much chance as Barack Obama holding a presser in which he breaks down in tears and begs the American people to forgive him for being a traitor, and promises to mend his ways.

In conclusion I would like to talk about one more movie. If you've stayed with me this long, you may think I've veered radically off topic.

But I don't think I have. It is America that has veered radically off topic, drastically off purpose, and catastrophically off course.

Remember the 1991 film Not Without My Daughter, the true story of Betty Mahmoody's death-defying flight from her Muslim husband and his Muslim family in Iran?

Although the film has been roundly criticized by liberals for depicting Iranians in an unfair light, a mere ten years before the events of September 11, 2001, this movie got made.

And it grossed fifteen million dollars domestically.

And it starred Sally Field, an ultra-liberal actress.

Would that movie find a producer, a studio, and a distributor today? Would any liberal Hollyweird type star in such a film?

I doubt it. We can't go near the truth now. Beyond here, there be monsters.

Still thinking about the babies, I give you the final very moving moments of Not Without My Daughter, in which Betty Mahmoody and her little girl, Mahtob, have safely made it out of Iran.

Aided, I must point out, by some very brave Iranians.

I wish more mothers would carry their children. Carry them to term. Carry them out of despair. Carry them into the light of truth.

Carry them to within sight and sound of the beautiful flag that waves o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. And teach them to love it, and all it represents.

Happy Wednesday!

Celebrating the Ignore-uration

I wish you could see how assiduously and determinedly and emphatically I am ignoring the big fancy to-do up in Washington DC today.

Of course I've seen a few pictures by accident but I quickly looked away. I've spent almost no time online.

I refuse to turn on the television.

Even TCM, which I normally have playing throughout the day if I'm home, is showing movies to honor Martin Luther King, Jr.

They'll do it without me.

Faux News? Fuggheddaboudit.

I can do without schtick-y commentary from the uber-libs, the RINOs, the quasi-libs, the politicians, the ratings-conscious entertainers, and the phalanx of stiletto-heeled, lip-glossed, plastic-haired, Spanxed-in, tarted-up females who look like they'd crack if you touched them with a feather.

And no, I'm not the one with my head in the sand. And no, I'm not the hater.

The haters are the ones who love the guy driving the car, who may or may not have placed his hand on a Bible today and who is being feted lavishly by, among others, crackhead celebrities, Hollyweird denizens, ecumenical clergy, enviro-whackos, pinko commies, abortion enthusiasts, salacious rappers, and a homosexual poet.

The ones with their heads in the sand are those who look at him and listen to him and believe even for an instant that he's not all about making freedom as we have known it, a thing of the past.

Let me be clear: Barack Obama is a Socialist. He is a radical far-left ideologue. If you're a patriotic American, he loathes you and your ilk.

You'd do well to fear him if for only one reason: The next four years.

In which I promise you, he plans to dismantle America the way a hyperactive two-year-old decimates a sand castle during a day at the beach.

But that's not what I meant to say at all! Forgive me.

What I meant to say was this:

There are so many wonderful ways not to ignore people.

Even so, there are bumps in the road.

Stay with me now.

The other day I wrote my daughter Stephanie a note. The kind that goes by snail-mail.

Normally I wouldn't do that but I wanted to send her a receipt and I thought I'd write a few words to go along with it.

Not an hour after I sealed the envelope and put a stamp on it, Stephanie called me.

And I proceeded to tell her everything I'd put in the note.

Oh well. At least there's the receipt to surprise her when she receives the piece of mail.

A few days later, I called Stephanie as I was out and about in my car.

We talked for a few moments about one thing and another and then she said, "I was just writing you an email, telling you all of this."

And I said, "Well, have you finished the email? Have you actually sent it?"

She said she was just about to wrap it up and hit send but was tending to Baby Andrew when I called. 

So we decided not to talk on the phone lest she leak to me all that was already in the email, thus causing the time she'd spent writing it to be wasted.

"This better be a good email," I thought as I rang off and continued about my business.

All day I dreamed of that newsy communique.

It turned out to be approximately five sentences.

?????

I am infamously not "on" Facebook as, if you've been paying attention, you know I have no use for that particular brand of social media.

My status updates? My photos? They're here on my blog.

But don't look for me to tell you when I've just enjoyed a cup of "yummy coffee," or to post five dozen selfies at a clip.

I do like me some Twitter but mostly for the ultra-conservative banter, far-right insights, and invaluable links, all in small doses.

I only recently began texting. Actually, I only recently began responding to texts.

For a long while I was successful in ignoring them.

I hate texting! I had been heard to loudly say from time to time, and it kept most prospective texters at bay.

But that all changed and, now that I'm used to it, I know that texting is actually a pretty cool -- and very unobtrusive -- way to communicate.

I'm actually starting to like it. I think it's here to stay.

But please don't text me.

Then, the other day? I got an email from an old friend.

She contacted me the no-fail way: via my blog.

We exchanged several cyber-missives before she supplied me with her phone number and invited me to call, explaining that she dislikes typing.

I had to howl because I love to type and hate talking on the phone.

All evidence to the contrary.

I was on the line for ninety minutes last night for two conversations with two of my four kids.

My phone was so hot I practically needed a potholder.

At the same time, those who know me well know that I don't send a great many emails.

If I have a lot to say -- and I usually do -- it makes more sense to talk on the phone.

Or meet for lunch. Which is what I and my old friend are planning to do tomorrow.

Isn't that a novel idea! Having a conversation in person!

During that whole time, I'll ignore my phone. Don't call! Don't text!

But you may rest assured I'll be in touch.

Happy Monday! Happy Ignore-ural Week!

SkyWatch Friday: Life has loveliness

Life has loveliness to sell,

All beautiful and splendid things,

Blue waves whitened on a cliff,

Soaring fire that sways and sings,

And children's faces looking up

Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,

Music like a curve of gold,

Scent of pine trees in the rain,

Eyes that love you, arms that hold,

And for your spirit's still delight,

Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,

Buy it and never count the cost;

For one white singing hour of peace

Count many a year of strife well lost,

And for a breath of ecstasy

Give all you have been, or could be.

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~Sara Teasdale, American Poet (1884-1933)~

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Sky, trees, and vultures photographed by Jennifer Weber on March 6, 2012

Bellview Cemetery, Lenoir, North Carolina

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Happy Weekend!