Monthly Archives: August 2023

Living Tall

You have to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was.

—Abraham Lincoln

Six-foot-four-inch Honest Abe, the tallest U.S. president, did his own growing quite well. Wearing a stovepipe hat, he stood almost seven feet.

While growing to only five feet, nine inches, I felt like a seven-footer during middle school. Frequently stuck in the back row with the tallest boys, I sneaked Mom’s coffee, hoping it would stunt my growth. Instead, long legs, arms and feet tangled with every move — especially around the aforementioned boys. After a spectacular tumble down school stairs, I hid in the girls’ restroom for a week.

My great-grandmother handed down her smallness to my grandfather and my mother — but not to me!

My grandfathers weren’t tall. My mom took after Grandpa, who’d favored his diminutive mother, Diadema.

Why couldn’t I have inherited those genes?

Instead, my stature mirrored my father’s. As a child, I marveled at the distance to the floor when Daddy carried me.

But my adolescent self hoped I wouldn’t reach six feet too. Fortunately, many boys experienced growth spurts during high school. Being stuck in the back row then wasn’t a bad thing at all.

In 1967, I felt like I towered over every boy in my school.

One caught my eye. That special tall guy and I eventually married and produced one tall son and two daughters a little shorter than I.

Go figure.

Fortunately, rulers don’t rule our lives. Five-foot Dolly Parton once said, “I walk tall. I got a tall attitude.”

My caring, confident daughters and powerful mother, who fit under my armpit, would agree.

Whether their size or that of current female Guinness World Record holder, seven-foot Rumeysa Gelgi from Turkey, we don’t have to measure ourselves in feet and inches. We can grow faith that towers over insecurity and fear.

Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay.

Though tall, my gawky 21-year-old dad chose Psalm 61:2 as his Bible college theme: “Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I.”

Like Honest Abe, we all have to do our own growing, but we can look to Someone who, even without a stovepipe hat, stands much bigger. Much better. He wants to carry us when we’re too small to walk. He longs to reassure us when, with growing pains, we take tumbles. Whether we’re stuck in the back row or shaking in our shoes in the front …

He wants to stand beside us.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How can you grow a tall attitude?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: Too Much of a Good Thing?

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Father, You recall that as one of five kids, I cherished the rare privilege of dipping the first spoon into a jar of peanut butter. With PB & J overdoses during Hubby’s stint in medical school, however, my thank-You-for-this-food prayers didn’t ring true. But, OMG, thank You that simple joys, along with gratitude, can return. (And that I now dip that first spoon a lot.)

Being There

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These small words elicit king-sized effects.

My first cranky thought, another songwriter has run out of originality, as in:

Being there (ooh, baby)
Being there (ooh, baby)
Being there is like … 
Being there (ooooh, BABY!)

Okay, I need a second cup of coffee today. With double cream.

Much better.

Now I recall that being there when airline personnel solicit volunteers to take a different flight, I might land a free future trip.

Being in the right checkout line can mean the difference between three Tylenol^® and only one.

Fifty years ago, my being there to observe this cute boy from a library’s balcony changed our lives.

Being there at a library during a 1970 Christmas break placed me near the railing of a second-story atrium, eyeing my future husband below. Thus, I ensured he wasn’t with a girl and could “accidentally” run into him. (He still calls this stalking, but that’s because he hasn’t yet drunk his morning tea.)

Being there at a gas station when someone, perched on a ladder, is changing prices can mean a savings of 11 whole cents per gallon. Although, if the price is upped 11 whole cents, you’ve picked the perfect time and place to ruin your morning.

Though that timing isn’t as bad as certain shoplifters’ when, according to Reader’s Digest, they attempted major heists on Shop-with-a-Cop Day.

Being there can get complicated. Still, we want others to be there for us.

My mother refined this into an art form. One joyful day, when I learned I was ranked 10th in my high school class, I arrived home to the fragrance of muffins fresh from the oven. She’d baked them either to celebrate or console. Whatever happened, they were there for me.

So was Mom.

However, she also was there to enslave me with chores, require church attendance, and stare through my dates and me with righteous black eyes.

Years later, I appreciated her when I, too, baked after-school treats, mini-vanned my kids everywhere, and wandered into the den to “get stamps” from my desk while they were entertaining dates.

Being there can be threatening, wonderful, scary, tedious, triumphant, smelly, or comforting, but rarely boring. And lots better than not being there.

Sometimes, it’s just plain cuddly.

Tonight, Hubby and I are watching a Cubs game. We don’t make brilliant conversation. We don’t have to make conversation at all.

We simply savor being there.

Ooooh, baby.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Who’s been there for you?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: Maddening Marigolds

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O Lord, I thank You for volunteer flowers that beautify our yard. Yet, having seeded this flourishing patch BEHIND, not in front of our forsythia bushes, OMG, are You hiding a grin?

Classic Post: August — the Not-So-Special Month?

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This post first appeared on August 8, 2018.

My daughter once wished for a different birthday month. I referred her to God for further discussion.

I see her point. August boasts no holidays — not even a fake holiday like St. Patrick’s Day. Nobody parties on the eve of August 1, as in January.

The hotter the weather, the more we chill. Dressing up is wearing matched right and left flip-flops.

Still, a tiny tadpole of awareness wiggles into our days.

It’s August. Something’s different.

Outdoor projects delayed till warm weather now are postponed till fall. Yards need extreme makeovers, but we’re so sick of yard work, we pay 4-Hers to release goats on our premises.

August presents an end-of-summer reality check. I purchased a “miracle” swimsuit in May. Now I realize the only miracle is that I paid big bucks for it.

August affects mothers strangely. Kids talk Mom into buying cool new backpacks, though 23 uncool backpacks languish at home. Mothers also obsess about changes in schedules: “Go to bed now so you’ll be ready when school starts.” My mother did this. As of August 1, all five of us went to bed at 4:00 p.m.

Even the sun listens to Mom and retires earlier in August. Yet during daytime, it unfurls golden rays as if leading an everlasting summer parade. Eating watermelon in the backyard, we experience a different kind of reality check: It’s been a great summer.

By August, every able-bodied Midwesterner has ridden a Ferris wheel and consumed a warm, crisp elephant ear.

We’re recovering from that gathering of DNA-related strangers known as a family reunion, when we rendezvoused with cousins who long ago sneaked into drive-ins with us. We kissed baby kin’s brand-new cheeks and gave grandmas and grandpas big hugs.

In August, homeowners stop vying for the Yard of the Year. Instead, we concede the grand champion ribbon to God for His spectacular pastures of goldenrod, Queen Anne’s lace and Sweet Williams.

He treats us to evening concerts by cicada choirs. Fireflies, now veteran presenters, perform spectacular light shows at dusk with few technical glitches.

Whether we own farms or only farmers’ tans, the cornucopia of gardens, tasseled cornfields and leafy rows of soybeans reassure us: After harvest, we’ll celebrate with plenty of food on our tables.

All during August — the not-so-special month.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What do you like best about August?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: What a Lady

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OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: O Lord, SO thankful for the 103 years You gave my dear Aunt Lurline on this earth. She would have loved the wonderful service and the get-togethers in her honor — and wouldn’t have minded if the children got a little rowdy. …

Classic Post: Celebrity Goat Runner

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This post first appeared on June 23, 2021.

Comedian Bob Hope served humankind by performing shows for military overseas. Dave Barry paraded with The World Famous Lawn Rangers precision lawnmower drill team. When asked to be our 4-H Fair’s Celebrity Goat Runner, I, too, answered the call.

But my friend mentioned the word “maze.”

I get lost in my driveway. “Please pair me with a goat with a good sense of direction.”

Instead, she promised the goat and I would run an obstacle course.

Visions of Goat Gladiators haunted me. Would the animal scale the Ferris wheel with me tied to his back?

Get real. Goats weren’t allowed on Ferris wheels. Besides, who would show up to watch us?

Image by cheskapoondesignstudio from Pixabay.

Only a few hundred spectators. So what, if my name as Celebrity Goat Runner echoed for miles over the fair’s loudspeakers?

Fellow goat handlers’ helpful hints encouraged me.

“Lift the leash,” one little girl advised. “If he still won’t go, lift his tail.”

I’d worn white Capris. …

My goat, Toby, bore a distinct resemblance to a long-ago teacher. Thankfully, Toby, like Mr. P., was hornless. Unlike Mr. P., he tangled with two young whippersnappers. But Toby hadn’t knocked me onto my butt. So far.

Of course, I went first.

“4-H-ers,” said the announcer, “watch our Celebrity Runner carefully so you’ll know what to do.”

Not good. Especially when Toby decided God didn’t make him a hurdler. I politely requested he move. One step? Please?

He not so politely declared he wouldn’t.

I lost it and said his nanny wore combat boots. He said, actually, his mother ate combat boots. Toby devoured my shoelaces to emphasize the point.

Finally, I yanked him along. Digging in hooves, he skied halfway through the course like a motorboat-powered beauty.

Toby wasn’t required to make a basket using a NERF ball and a toy shovel. Why me? Perhaps my pitiful basketball prowess won his sympathy. He refrained from balking, butting and making derogatory comments about my mother. Or maybe Toby decided cooperation was the quickest way to end this agony. We finished 23rd out of 23.

Afterward, a different friend (where do I get these friends?) said he’d never met a celebrity goat. Did I get his autograph? What was he like?

I told him, “When you get to know them, they’re just regular people.”

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Have you ever met a celebrity goat, up close and personal?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: Too Much Cake and Eating It, Too

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OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: O Lord, after all the shredding, mixing and cleanup, my chocolate chip zucchini cake flopped. Too concave to give to new neighbors. Oh, well. Thank You, OMG, that this failure, unlike some, presents an opportunity to laugh! (And with a thick layer of salted caramel icing, to eat it all …)

Classic Post: Summer Driving, Going Crazy

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This post first appeared on June 13, 2018.

Is road construction a good thing?

During my pre-driving days, I liked it, especially on long family trips. Bright-colored signs, flags, cones and barricades broke up eternal stretches of highway. Burly men (no women were road construction workers then) drove huge trucks, bulldozers and graders. Lines of traffic snaked along roads, semitrailers’ air brakes whooshed and horns honked — all very exciting.

Road construction kept Dad and Mom occupied. Flapping maps, they forgot to monitor my siblings and me. When who-was-looking-at-whom crises arose, we kicked each other freely.

Dad’s mutterings graduated to addressing aloud the sins of fellow drivers and construction workers. A pastor, he didn’t swear. Instead, he called them Zeke, Pete, Cedric and Mephibosheth:

“Zeke and Cedric, are you going to yak all day? Or actually work?”

“Park it or drive it, Mephibosheth!”

He addressed irritating women drivers as Gertrude. Unless he was really mad. Then they became Sister Shumpett.

“Sister Shumpett, you’ll send us all to Jesus!”

We kids loved the drama.

As an adult, I’m not so thrilled. Hostile plastic barrels target my car. Reduced lanes can’t accommodate a skateboard, let alone semis rocking around me.

Other drivers go crazy, too. Speed limit signs become mere mirages as they rocket past at warp speed. Others meander across skinny lanes as if they are middle schoolers riding bikes on a summer afternoon. Pete, Cedric, Mephibosheth, Gertrude and Sister Shumpett are alive and well on summer highways during this millennium, too.

So how can I ask a stupid question like, “Is road construction good?”

Before you add my name to the above list, consider this: The only thing worse than road construction is no road construction. In the Bahamas, Hubby and I nearly drove into the sea because no one had bothered to barricade a washed-out road, let alone, fix it. In Ecuador, we smacked our skulls repeatedly on a bouncing truck’s ceiling, following la calle para burros (the road made for burros).

Image by Natalia Kollegova from Pixabay.

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay.

We’ve also driven in Michigan, a state whose annual highway repair budget is $15.83. Unfortunately, for family reasons, we continue to drive in Michigan.

I’ll soon pull our pop-up camper, as Hubby insists I spell him. Look out, Zeke, Pete, Cedric, Gertrude, and Sister Shumpett!

And you thought you already were being driven crazy.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your favorite — or least favorite — road construction story?