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By Richie Ann Ashcraft
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
You know who should get a parade? The parents of the kids who made it to the Little League World Series.
We've always been big fans to this series because these kids play with heart. But this year, I watched with a new eye — a Little League mom eye. Yup, I'm one of those these days.
Ask our sports department — Little League parents are pretty demanding. I finally know why. It's because baseball is a committment the entire family takes. When baseball season is on, there's nothing but baseball. The family spends their time at the baseball park. They plan their free time around practice. Then, they go home and throw the ball some more in the back yard. They endure hot dogs, chili cheese fries and Gatorade. Siblings do their homework on the bleachers. And, the parents make friends with each other as their kids move up in the ranks.
We are busy with baseball. The boys interleague in the fall so often Marty and I have to split up and drive kids in opposite directions around the valley. We seriously have to consult the spreadsheet everyday to figure out who needs to go where and what time they have to be there.
We love it.
But, can you imagine what it must be like to have a kid who is going to play in the Little League World Series? Or, what it took to even get there? What's that snack schedule look like? How much money did these families have to spend? On top of that, can you imagine the behind-the-scenes job of comforting the losing teams?
I was thinking about all this as I was watching the series. I don't think I'm a Little League parent on that level. It would be like parenting an Olympian.
So, my Haute Mama hat is off to parents! It was a job well done!
By Robin Dearing
Monday, August 25, 2014
If 9th grade was a person, I'd give it a big, ole, sloppy kiss on the face. Yes, I realize we are only just over three weeks into the school year, but it's already head and shoulders better than last year.
Remember this post I wrote about Margaret's experience with middle school? So much has changed since then. And thank goodness for that.
Margaret had let herself get so down on everything after three years of middle school. She was due for a change and change she has made. Going to a new school has allowed her to have a fresh start with her teachers and classsmates and herself.
The first thing she has changed is her attitude. Through nothing more than encouragement and allowing her room to grow on our part, Margaret figured our that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. She is focusing on the positives, rather than the negatives. She is so much happier and that makes this Haute Mama so much happier.
That positive attitude has lead right into intial success in her classes. She is really happy with the choices she made for electives and is even enjoying honor's literacy. She has found and proudly touts the fact that hard work is rewarded with good grades. She is spending much more time studying for her courses and is loving the good grades that comes with it.
Mar had a lot of anxiety over taking honor's literacy and I aided that by getting her off on to the completely wrong foot. She was required to do a reading assignment over the summer. When we received notification of the assignment, I immediately went to the school's website and printed off requirements ... for the 8th grade honor's literacy (because I'm helpful like that). Doh! Luckily, Margaret noticed the mistake weeks before classes started.
The 9th grade assignment was to pick a book from a list and write responses as she read. The list included a bunch of great books, including Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. She ended up choosing Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild. Now they are on their second book project and she got to choose from yet another list of great non-fiction works such as Seabiscuit and Angela's Ashes. I'm really jealous of the books she gets to read.
Except for book-reports books which came from a much-less-cool list, I was stuck reading such tomes as The Scarlet Letter. Not that there's anything wrong with The Scarlet Letter. But right now, Margaret is reading Kabul Beauty School for her second reading project. This book is so much more relevant to the world we live in now. She's really enjoying it. I don't remember "enjoying" much of the required reading in high school.
She feels accomplished and successful. It took me so much longer to figure out that I held the keys to my own happiness. It's a delight and a relief to see her be rewarded through her own hard work.
By Richie Ann Ashcraft
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
You're probably wondering where the boys' first day of school pictures are. Well, I forgot. Worst mom ever who forgets to take the milestone first day of third, first and pre-k picture.
(Pretend there's a picture here.)
The boys stared school this morning loaded down with a thousand school supplies, new clothes, new shoes, hair cut, showered, teeth brushed, and breakfast in their bellies. It was a Herculean effort to get there because all of us are very much resisting this non-vacationing lifestyle. We've enjoyed a lazy summer capped by a lazy vacation where we slept in our tent until 9 a.m., took naps whenever the mood struck, and stayed up late watching movies or listening to the constant north western rain hit our tent.
It's not just them, it's me. I'm disorganized and overwhelmed by all that fall (well, sort of) brings.
When we spread out the mountain of school supplies last night, I had forgotten things. I got confused with the three lists and bought things we didn't need and overlooked things we did. So, I had to make an early morning trip to Target which only added stress to a busy day.
The fall baseball season started this week too. It's taken me a few days to figure out those three lists and the needs of all three teams.
I felt so overwhelmed by it all that I stayed up late creating a spreadsheet that lists the schedules of baseball and school. It's hard to tell people that "we're busy" without them rolling their eyes, but seriously, I need a SPREADSHEET to organize my children's lives.
Sink or swim Haute Mama — Kersplash!
By Robin Dearing
Monday, August 18, 2014
While re-reading this post Randee wrote last month, I was reminded of some photos I took while we were on vacation in western New York in June and July.
Several times, we drove by this tiny cemetery surrounded by a farmer's fields:
Only the grassy drive up to the little plot of land was not being farmed.
Driving on the grass is something so foreign for those of us in the west. We treasure every blade of grass, but it grows in very nook and granny back east.
What's also common in rural New York, are tiny, old cemeteries tucked into odd, little plots of land. I saw a new housing subdivision flanked by a small grassy area which held 30 old headstones. It reminded me of the vast history of the area and little, self-sufficient communites that used to dot this region. Would you buy a house next door to a charming little graveyard?
While several of the 19th century headstones had fallen over, the graveyard was well manicured. It looked more like something out of central casting, than a knoll in the middle of a famer's soybean crop.
I was also taken by the inscriptions. Many of these from the 19th century didn't have birth dates. Instead, the stone — like this one for John L. Wilson — included the death date and Mr. Wilson's exact age, 28 years and 24 days when he died.
When looking through these pictures, I thought I had captured ghosts in this one. Then I remembered it was windy that day and I was having a hard time keeping my hair out of the frames.
There's something about visiting cemetaries that reminds me of how we are just here, living on this earth, for a tiny fraction of time. It's both sobering and comforting. Time goes on with or without us.
By Robin Dearing
Thursday, August 14, 2014
I haven't been sleeping well lately. My mind won't quiet. I lie in bed listening to Bill saw logs while I toss and turn.
Out of desperation, I downloaded an app on my phone that plays soothing sounds. I set the timer for 15 minutes, get comfortable and put in an earbud. I focus on the sounds instead of the crazy floating around my gray matter. It's been working pretty well. I've been getting to sleep much easier.
Last night, I set up my phone and put in my earbud. I was getting lulled to sleep when I realized the earbud was on the floor. I was no longer listening to the sounds of the electronic app. I was listening to a rainstorm blanketing our high-desert valley with always-needed rain.
I've not found a more soothing sound than rain. But living in the desert, we don't get much ... until recently.
I moved to the Grand Valley 18 years ago this month. I remember someone telling me that the monsoons were wonderful in late summer. Ever year I would wait for them. Every year summer would end hot and dry, like it started.
Fall would cool down, but the monsoons were always missing. Oh, we'd get a few showers, but they never lasted long enough though. They were always just a tease.
This year, we've had rainstorm after rainstorm. It's crummy for camping and hiking, but it's been great for my psyche. The rain is so refreshing and healing. Plus, it's a great excuse to lie in bed reading instead of getting out and walking the dog. Also, I heard that the peaches have never been better.
The desert always needs rain and I know exactly how it feels.
By Robin Dearing
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
By Robin Dearing
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Here's Margaret as she was getting ready to leave for her first day of 9th grade:
Super cute, indeed!
Her first day went fine. She's pleased with most of her courses and has friends with whom she can eat lunch. She's going into this year with a better attitude and is focusing on her school work and trying to stay out of the drama (if that's possible among teenaged girls).
But this morning, she was so tired, she put her head down on the table instead of eating. I'm feeling it, too. We have to get up much earlier than last year because we have a longer drive to get her to her new school.
Maybe it's because I'm tired, but I'm so irritated with the school district. Could someone please explain why high-school kids need to start school at 7:25? Elementary kids start at 8:50. Why not move high-school start time to 8 a.m.?
By Robin Dearing
Friday, August 1, 2014
When I brought home The Box by Fitmark, my husband said, "Wow! That's a nice bag." When I showed him what was inside, he was doubly impressed.
Fitmark creates their high-quality bags specifically for the fitness enthusiasts, but they are useful to armchair athletes, as well. The Box is more than just a bag for carrying your lunch. It is a food organizer that comes complete with two Meal Containers, ice packs and their Smartshake Shaker Bottle which holds drink powders and any pills, vitamins or supplements that you may need during your day or your workout.
I can easily see me using this bag to pack my husband's lunches during the week and then using it on the weekends for when we go rafting or skiing. I love that the front of The Box zips open so the you can put your food on the flap. Plus the divider is velcroed to the bottom, so it can be moved out of the way for largers items. Honestly, I've never seen a nicer food-carrying box that includes everything I will need to pack a good meal.
The lid has a mesh pocket for silverware and napkins. The outside has larger mesh pocket that easily fits my husband's travel coffee cups. The Box has a handle on top and an adjustable carrying strap, too. Those Fitmark people are really clever in their design, plus they use really nice materials that will last.
Overall, I was really impressed with the quality and functionality of The Box by Fitmark. The fact that the ice packs, containers and drink shaker are all included is impressive. Fitmark is selling a complete meal management system in one easy-to-use soft-sided box. Very nice product and I can't recommend it highly enough.
For more information about Fitmark, you can find then on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and Instagram @FitmarkBags.
By Randee Bergen
Monday, July 28, 2014
Early in the summer, I was camping in the southern Utah town of Cedar City. After a day of hiking and then napping by the pool at the campground, I ventured out for a short run about town.
Heading south down the main street, from the northern end of town, I came upon a picturesque cemetery. The tall trees, in an otherwise high desert setting, cast shade about the thick, neatly trimmed grass, made a brilliant green by the slant of the evening sun, and upon the roads leading into the cemetery, vacant on this late Sunday afternoon, inviting me in.
At first I focused on my running, feeling fortunate for the quiet roads and cooler venue. Out of respect, I ran as lightly as I could, placing each step without sound upon the pavement. Is this irreverent? I wondered. I’ve run alongside my hometown cemetery, but never through it.
But soon my attention was on the headstones.
There was something perplexing about them. Each marker seemed recently placed – clean and gleaming like new countertops, all with what appeared to be freshly incised lettering. A newer section of the cemetery, I thought, but, with the inscriptions so sharp and mysteriously not timeworn, I could see, easily, that they were diversely aged, many having been situated there more than 50 years.
How has time not permanently dusted and dulled these markers? Why are the loving inscriptions and vital statistics not worn down, lost to those looking upon them now for the first time? My wondering continued as I ran.
And the decorations! The sites, nearly every one, were adorned with bright bouquets, crisp and new, like the headstones themselves. Deep reds, not one bit faded from the hot western sun, and yellows vibrant as if they had just popped that morning. I saw balloons, aloft of the markers, not drooping in the least, seemingly placed just moments before I arrived. Hats, flags, garden decor. All tidy. Colorful. Nothing out of place. Every grave looking as if it had been attended to that day.
How is this possible? I wondered, looking around, searching for someone, anyone, to inquire if they were noticing what I was noticing, to ask if they knew the secret of this place. It would make sense if it was just past Memorial Day, but the holiday formerly known as Decoration Day was two weeks gone. No one else. No one there to wonder with.
I thought of my running friend, how we’d discuss this if she was here. And my hiking partner; he’d enjoy contemplating these things with me. But mostly I thought of my mom. I remember visiting with her live-in partner one day, remember him saying something about how my mom never says, “I don’t know.” He said that when he asks her a question and she doesn’t know the answer she won’t say, “I don’t know.” She’ll muse about it, toss out some ideas, ask him what he thinks. He didn’t seem to understand why she would do that, why she wouldn’t just say, “I don’t know.”
“Is that bad?” I asked him. “Because I do that, too!” I visualized doing this with my mom; yes, we definitely had thought, together, about things we weren’t sure about, exchanged ideas, furthered our thinking, and often come up with answers or explanations that we wouldn’t have, had we not gone through the process of wondering, together.
I needed my mom, a friend, information about this cemetery, Google, anyone.
After running crisscross up and down all the paved roads in the cemetery, I came upon a newer section toward the back. Here, the roads were gravel. Here, there were no trees, none casting shade anyway. But the markers themselves looked the same–new, recently etched, smartly adorned. An American flag, not faded in the least, flapped in the wind, wind not previously perceived in the more protected confines of the cemetery.
I ran on.
Now I came upon a small dirt area, red dirt, typical of the southwest. Short sticks and rocks marked the burial sites, presumably those of pets. Twenty graves perhaps. Why just 20? Just 20 beloved pets lost over all these years? Perhaps the pet cemetery concept hadn’t taken off or the idea ruled against. A few weeds grew here. Why are there weeds here and nowhere else? Why haven’t they been pulled?
Oh, to mull these thoughts over with someone.
Not far from the pet cemetery, I came upon an information board and a map explaining the layout of the cemetery. A bit of information to shape my pondering.
What? Not a pet cemetery, but an Indian burial area. More questions. Why just 20 or so Indians? Maybe shortly after Indians were permitted (or chose) to be buried here, they were included in the regular sections, treated equally, with grass instead of weeds, proper markers rather than sticks and stones.
I went back to the little dirt area. Took a closer look. Noticed an etching on one of the sandstone rocks placed there. Tom somebody. This rudimentary carving was not sharp, not legible, not even up close, not even later when I zoomed in on the photo. October 1947? 1941? Space for just one date. Was this the year of birth or death? Probably death. Tom. Lost. Lost to most.
I continued on through the cemetery, taking each road one more time. Wondering about this place. Wondering about wondering. I could stop by the office the next morning. Ask some questions. Inquire. I could, upon arriving home, do some research on the Internet. Was there another cemetery in Cedar City? An older, more historic, more typical one? Where were most Indians buried, back then and now, too?
No, forget it. I wasn’t going to. To leave here just wondering, that’s what I decided to do.
I recall mentioning to my aunt the conversation I had had about my mother and her wondering, her thinking aloud, her expecting others to build upon her thoughts, her using this approach to try to come to some understanding, some conclusions. I recall my aunt saying, “I didn’t have a mother who wondered. I had a mother who said, ‘I don’t know.’ It was the more appropriate thing to do in her time.” And then, “I missed out on a lot of conversations.”
So here’s to the power of wondering, to thinking aloud. And here’s to my mother for engaging in this behavior, drawing me in, teaching me to wonder, to just wonder.
By Richie Ann Ashcraft
Monday, July 21, 2014
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