Looking for Greatness

    I have pointed out on prior occasions, that I always seem to miss the Kodak moments of life with my head turned the wrong way looking for some missing item or lost treasure when great things happen around me.  This weekend, I realized that I have been so close to many great things and yet, I really must go back and revisit these things to fully appreciate them.  Case in point...   I was in a hotel this past weekend, blowing my son's hair dry with the tiny hotel hair dryer.  He was spinning around in the desk chair making the task quite difficult when the hair dryer made an awful noise like a fan blade had come loose.  I told my son to stop spinning and sit still so we could finish before the blade flew out and chopped an ear off leaving him to look like Van Gogh.. or was it Picasso.  Suddenly I wasn't sure which artist cut his ear off and I realized this was sad since I had stood right in front of both of their works and should know better.    I’ve been exposed to some of the world’s greatest artists, and yet I’ve missed so much.   

     Years ago, I took my children to the Louvre in Paris to see great art.  My daughter was much too young at the age of six to be drug on a European tour, but I wasn't leaving her behind and my son wanted to go.   When we arrived at the museum, we discovered that the tour guide forgot our tickets and we spent most of our morning waiting to get in.  By the time we gained entrance to the museum, we had 30 minutes left in our morning to soak in all we could possibly see.  We mapped out a quick plan to see the Mona Lisa, Venus DeMilo and the Crown Jewels.... all in thirty minutes.   We ran past the world’s largest collection of artwork all demanding our attention and yet we had no time to give.   We followed the map to the Mona Lisa and found a very small painting in a large room full of tourists.  There were hundreds of people clamoring forward trying to catch a glimpse.  We made our way towards the front of the line, still unable to see the Mona Lisa , when a museum worker in a gold jacket lifted the red rope that separated the tourists from the masterpiece and asked my kids to come under the barrier.  They were about to be nose to nose with one of the greatest paintings ever made.  My daughter was only six and I knew she didn’t understand the significance of this and I whispered, “Go - Remember this.”  I wanted to her to take in all the awe of what she was about to see and yet I knew down deep that a giant movie poster of Spongebob Squarepants or a rainbow unicorn would bring her so much more pleasure.   I hope that she remembers.  She was inches from greatness and while I never got the same view, I was thrilled that she did. 

    On the same trip,  we toured the Vatican.  I figured out early in our tour that I would not have the luxury of wearing the headset that explained everything in English to me.  I would be busy talking to my daughter about why there wasn't a pool or playground around.  Again, I walked past greatness, never to really know what I was seeing.  I remember a kind lady tapped me on my shoulder and said, "You should take a picture of that - It's where Constantine is buried."     I had walked right by, never knowing, so I now have a picture of his crypt from a distance as we continued forward.   We finally arrived at the Sistine Chapel where I knew I would stand in awe amongst the hundreds of other tourists gazing up at the beautiful frescoes on the ceiling painted by Michelangelo, himself.   I was in a room where great popes and rulers had once stood underneath the world's greatest masterpiece.  Just as I looked up in great wonder, a tiny hand tugged at mine and a teary eyed little girl stood there in sadness because she had lost her favorite lime green pony tail holder.  It had come out somewhere in the chapel and we had to find it.   Her tears flowed and I scoured the floor looking through the sea of stranger's feet trying to find my child's pony.  We covered every square inch of the chapel and I now know more about the floor of the Sistine chapel than most know about the ceiling,  We never found the hairpiece, I never got to use my headset and I followed the tour guide right out of the chapel trying to catch backwards glimpses of the greatness overhead that I had missed.

    So while I have been exposed to great artists works and great moments,  I may need to revisit them at some point in my life to fully appreciate them.  I wouldn't trade any of them though for the tiny hand that reaches for mine when she needs my help and my focus is diverted for more important things like lost ponies and wiping away tears.   I may get Van Gogh and Picasso mixed up and I may have flown right past an armless Venus di Milo, but I know that all the greatness I ever really needed was traveling right there beside me at full speed.  We have missed some details, but our experiences together are worth more than any painting or sculpture ever will be. 

Snickerdoodles and Headless Ducks

  

   Christmas cookies have a special meaning for my family. My mother begins preparations for the holiday season by stocking up on enough baking goods to make about 4000 cookies. She whips up batches of Snickerdoodles, Chocolate Chip Cookies, Mexican Wedding Cakes (note - As I type this, I realize that might be a politically incorrect term), and many more.  Great care goes into making sure each cookie is perfectly shaped, packaged and safely delivered to loves ones around town. We laugh that the larger the cookie tin, the better the friendship.    

   I'm not actually part of this cookie making machine because of lack of time to participate, but I do try to keep up the family tradition of making the Sour Cream Cut Out Cookies.  This is a recipe handed down from my great grandmother, Grammie. She gave her cookie cutters to my grandmother, Nana, who, in turn, gave them to my mom.  I have enjoyed forty-seven Christmases, all with cut out reindeer and tiny angels.  My favorite is a 1940's looking Donald Duck in a sailor cap.  His neck always breaks during baking and we end up with a bunch of headless ducks.   All the cut out cookies are always lightly sprinkled with just the right amount of red and green sugar crystals.  They are a sight to behold and a treasure to eat. 

   

   This year, the cookie cutters were handed down to me and instantly placed in my twelve year old daughter's hands.  She loves to bake and began the process of preparing the family treasure.   I let her go with little guidance as I was literally tied up trying to wrap Christmas gifts, pay bills, sort laundry, and prepare dinner.  It seems she discovered some Easter colored pastel sugars in the cabinet and thought they might be good to use. I assumed she was stamping out red and green reindeer and a few headless ducks and I took comfort knowing the family tradition would continue on.  

  After two trays of cookies, I suppose she lost interest and wandered off.  My mother came in about that time and I found her standing over the counter in a state of shock staring down at a pan full of purple bells, one legged horses, and a glob of unshaped dough all baked to perfection.  I saw her begin to tremble as she tried to grasp what had happened.   I knew her blood pressure was rising and her pace maker was probably jumping into override as she scanned the kitchen hoping to find the sour dough cookies that had been carefully prepared in the same fashion for over eighty years.   I quickly moved her to a chair, slapped some dough on the counter, rolled it out quickly and pressed out twenty perfectly shaped bells and angels and sprinkled them with just the right amount of red and green sugar.  I prayed as I placed them in the oven that I wouldn't discover a pan of burnt Christmas cookies with Halloween colors and tiny bat and pumpkin sprinkles.  That would probably send her straight into cardiac arrhythmia.   I continued with my cut outs and crafted pans of reindeer, Christmas trees and headless ducks.  Before too long, we had a container full of cut out cookies that would make Grammie proud and my mother's heart beat return to normal.   

Aren't I A Fun Driver

  
    Of all the Christmas presents under our tree, this one was the most difficult to wrap.   While Allie was thrilled with her new Christmas ride, I don't think anyone expected her dog Jodi to be quite as excited as she was.   All day long we could hear a continuous whirrrr outside the window as Allie and Jodi traveled up and down the street.  Jodi was the envy of every dog. 


    This Barbie style golf cart comes with street glow lighting, cell phone holder and a series of mirrors, none of which actually face the road or oncoming obstacles, but are strategically positioned so that Allie can view herself as she flies down the road.   She took me for a ride around the neighborhood and we flew over speed bumps and rounded corners while Jodi maintained perfect balance and I struggled to hang on.  We flew down a side street and crashed though rain puddles with Allie and Jodi smiling the whole time. I was frozen from the damp cold air and the occasional string of dog slobber that would fly in my face and I secretly hoped we were headed back to our house.  Just as we turned towards the warmth of home, Allie veered down a side street leading away from our house, flew through another puddle and exclaimed with great pride and a giant smile, "Aren't I a fun driver!" 


   I instantly pictured her at sixteen, flying through town in a convertible, with a car full of friends, all having a great time because of Allie's "fun" driving skills.  Suddenly, I wished the golf cart ride would never end and we could just stay stuck at this age for a while longer.  I realize that one day Jodi will be replaced with a girl Allie's age and the golf cart will be a thing of the past.  I can only pray that Allie is a safe driver and not a fun one.  I should probably start saving for a steel framed tank with no mirrors, a hands free telephone system and special seat in the back for Jodi.  

When You Call Me Big Papa

My son has the new iPhone 4s that comes with a personal assistant named Siri.  I was unaware that Siri learns about the phone owner and uses that information at later times.  When issuing commands or requests to this new apple product, Siri will respond by calling you by name.  While driving through the city tonight, I heard my son, who was sitting in the passenger seat, inform Siri that he liked it when she called him Big Papa.  I instantly found this both odd and creepy, but even more peculiar was Siri's response...."Okay Master Brodnax, from now on I will refer to you as Big Papa."  I wondered just how bizarre this could get and then decided it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. I had not noticed that my son was going by the name Master Brodnax and had also failed to recognize that somewhere along the line he picked up the phrase Big Papa.   Little did I know this was an internet fad and people around the globe were asking Siri to call them Big Papa.  Big Papa conjures up all kinds of images, good and bad.  It also brings into play images of women lovingly referring to their "man" as Big Papa.  I can't say I have ever used that term and I'm not sure it could fall from my lips without a giggle. Siri says it with no giggle or stumble and I wonder what kind of gal refers to a man as Big Papa with true sincerity, as Siri does.  I picture the Apple personal assistant as a woman with good shoes, a sharp wit, and cutting edge.  Could this be the kind of woman who has a "Big Papa" in her life?   I realize she isn't real and perhaps I should find the lesson in this that some things should not be over-analyzed.   So what if my seventeen year old son finds humor in having an electronic personal assistant who uses terms of endearment when speaking to him.  I suppose the true concern should be when he brings home a date who refers to him as Big Papa. Now that would be disturbing.  Perhaps I should get the iPhone 4S, change it to the male voice and ask it to call me Sweet Mama.  

Chips, Salsa and An Ice-Pack

     I make it a practice to try to return all of my children's friends home safely to their mothers without a trip to the Emergency Room or an intrarcranial hematoma.    This particular day, my daughter brought along a new friend whose mother trusted me with her daughter's safety. We stopped in Chili's for lunch and I walked into the restroom at the exact moment that my two girls discovered that one should not use their head as a door stop and that the other had the power of a freight train.   The Red Cross First Aid steps ran through my head (Check, Call Care) as this baseball size knot began growing on this poor child's head and I realized that these simple steps were only good when giving first aid to a mannequin named Red Cross Annie in a classroom setting.    I checked her head, called for the waitress to hold the appetizers and just bring an ice pack and care was evident as Abby posed for the kids to snap photos to quickly upload to Facebook.  I knew I had to call her mother as they were photo-shopping a large horn coming from her head and preparing to send it out to 462 friends of friends.   This is not the photo you want her mother to run across with 17 "likes"next to it and no knowledge of what has happened.   The fourth step in the Red Cross First Aid plan should be to secure everyone's cell phones and control all outgoing messages and photos until you have properly notified the child's mother. After that, the kids are free to upload messages, photos and videos.  You know it's bad when the table next to you is trying to take a picture, too and they don't even know you.


     My heart sank as I knew I would be unable to return this child unharmed.  According to Abby's mother, some guy on yahoo answers and a quickly googled up version of the American Medical Pediatric Guidelines, she should be okay since there were no signs of  nausea, blurred vision, headache, or exposed skull.   But let's face it... a giant knot is just a horrible thing to return a kid with.   We finished our chips and salsa, refilled our ice-pack and prepared to leave as the girls announced that they needed to go to the restroom.   I begged them to open the door with their hands and not their heads this time. Last thing we needed was a matching knot on the other side.

The Making of Nerds and Other School Projects

    It is normally close to bedtime when we discover that our kids have forgotten to make that scaled model of DNA or an interactive mobile of the planets aligning in preparation for some magnetic shift certain to change the world as we know it.  Because of this, I keep a supply of poster board, hot glue and assorted candy that I can quickly craft into chromosomes, solar systems and  working models of pulley and lever systems should I need to do so in a moment’s notice.    I also keep an assortment of costumes on hand for Book Parade day so we can dress as just about any Newberry Award winning character should we need to.   

  

    It was an exceptionally long day, recently, when my daughter informed me that tomorrow was “Nerd Day” at school and we would need a complete Nerd wardrobe.  Since this is the child with 42 pairs of shoes and a closet full of designer jeans, this was going to be a more difficult project.   Thanks to a 24 hour Wal-Mart and items from my Book parade collection, she transformed herself into an adorable “nerdy” girl.   Something inside of me tugged at me, though, as I wondered if this was really an appropriate activity.  It’s probably not so fun for the kids that already appear a bit nerdy and I was worried for them.   We had stepped upon the fine line between having fun and being rude.  I finally decided my over-analysis was a useless effort and just let my kid go with the school activity. The next day was sports day and that was followed by school color day.  Both of these were easy to pull off.    I kept my glue gun handy should I need to hot glue some candy ribbons into smooth endoplasmic reticulum, but it looked like Jr. High might be easier than elementary school and my crafting days may be numbered.  

    When my son reached Jr. High, he and his friend had to build a model of a roller coaster.  I was so excited as I mapped out plans for piping and tubing and tiny mechanical lifts until my son informed me he was doing this on his own.  My bubble burst as I realized I had to let go of control.  I handed him my glue gun, which has never been the same since, and sent him on his way.   I asked for project review at key milestones such as 60 and 90% completion and my son gave me that look that said, “let go.”    I saw him take his father’s drill to school and wondered how they were going to build this without a safety briefing and a proper assortment of drill bits.  Alas… they finished their project and I would get to see it on Project night.  

    When I arrived, there were roller coasters in the shapes of snakes and little coaster cars shot out of the eyes with such mechanical precision it made your head spin.  Another coaster dived under water amongst a complete ecosystem of fish and plants.  They failed to incorporate in oxygen, so the fish were all dead, but the idea was grand.  My son and his friend’s roller coaster did not have the flare of the others so they tacked on a home-made sign that said Vegas and duct taped his sister’s Barbie to a support pole.  She donned a tiny grey duct tape miniskirt and tube top and her feet and hands were bound to the pole.  I stood there in shock as the other mothers walked by quietly shaking their heads in disapproval.   Next to us, was a small crowd awed by the coaster built by a child whose parent was obviously a mechanical engineer.  I glanced over to see Barbie hanging from a strut and knew that one day soon, I would be asked again to help with school projects.  I can build coasters, nerds, life forms and more.   It is good to know you are needed! 

Spinning Reindeer and Mountainous Treks

 
    It was 1975 and as I walked out of elementary school for the last time, my grandparents were waiting for me in the parking lot in a Midnight Blue Lincoln Continental with a full size Airstream trailer hitched to the back.  It was summer and we were off to see America.  My cousin Ramonna, who is several years younger than I am, sat in the oversized back seat with me, as our feet stuck straight out in front of us and we headed West.   The car smelled of new leather, Old Spice and expensive perfume.    I was young enough that many of the memories have since faded, but I can still clearly see the wild storms in Kansas and the never ending highway that carried us to Colorado.

    We landed at Garden of the Gods Campground in mid June only to be met by an unseasonable snowfall.  We jumped in the big car, with trailer still attached, and headed to K-Mart where my grandparents bought us all winter clothes to replace the suitcase full of summer wear we had packed.  Hoping now that it was actually fashionable in the 70s, I remember leaving the store in a lime green pair of bell bottom pants with a giant cat embroidered on the leg.  The finishing touch was the white pom pom on the tail that gave it a 3-D effect.  Gosh, I loved those pants!     

    The next morning my grandparents would take us to “The North Pole,” an amusement park at the base of Pike's Peak.  It was a magical place with summer snow all around.  This trip would not be complete, however, without a journey to the top of the mountain.   Forty years later, I have to recommend that one do this without a 30 foot trailer dragging behind you.   At the age of 11, I had no clue to the danger we were in or the small heart attack that my grandfather certainly must have been facing as we climbed higher and higher on narrow roads with steep drops off the side and no place to turn around.   These were the days before break stations, runaway vehicle ramps and nitroglycerin in the glove box.   I only remember the amusement park and the view from the top and both were absolutely wonderful.

    Years later, I took my own family to Colorado and we ventured down to the Springs to see “The North Pole.”   My daughter was one year old and looked like a tiny Babushka doll in her headscarf intentionally donned to protect her ears from a late summer wind.   My son was five and wanted to ride some spinning reindeer sleigh ride.  I had forgotten about the Disney Tea Cups of Death not intended for any child with motion sickness and should have remembered to stay away from such rides.  The first time the reindeer passed us in its large circular course, I noticed my son’s color had faded.  The second time he flew by, he was looking a bit green.  On the third rotation, his head was down and I was leaping over reindeer to signal the operator to let the boy off the ride.  He had turned green and was in the full throws of motion sickness.

    We headed to the car and decided a slow ride to the top of Pike’s Peak was what we needed to relax.  I had no idea how slow that ride would actually be as we stopped every few miles for me to hold a sick child on the side of the road and curse those spinning reindeer.  As we got closer to the top I saw the dangerous two lane gravel strips of road with steep drops hundreds of feet below that we had to travel.  I thought back to the Lincoln and the Airstream trailer and wondered how worse this road had to have been forty years earlier.   It was bad enough now and I felt the energy of my grandfather’s courage that still remained on the mountain.  We continued our periodic stops on the side of the road and I wished that the car smelled like new leather, Old Spice and perfume, but it did not.  It was more of a sweaty child, cotton candy, carbonated soda and dust smell that filled our car.

    We eventually made it to the top and as we pulled into the parking lot a large dark cloud floated overhead and we found ourselves in a miniautre snowstorm.  We stood there in our shorts as the snow pounded down on us.   I had to smile as I found myself standing where I had once stood before and secretly wished that I now had that pair of lime green cat pants purchased for events such as this one.   I forced everyone from the car so we could take a picture. My son sported a post traumatic sweaty pre-hypothermia look.  The Babushka baby gave me that look of total discomfort and disgust and my husband stood in the background desperately trying to light a cigarette in the storm force winds.   I wished that my grandfather was there with his silver trailer and we could have climbed inside to take shelter from the storm.  I imagine he was one of the few who has actually pulled a small house to the top of Pike’s Peak and I felt honored to be a part of that.  Perhaps forty years from now my children will take this same path in their eco-friendly suburban utility vehicle and remember the flying reindeer and unseasonable snow storm.  My daughter won’t know why, but she’ll remember the warmth of a scarf on her head and the smell of cotton candy.  My son will breath in the cool mountain air and remember down deep somewhere how wonderful the air felt as we stood on the side of the road catching our breath and stilling the world for just a moment in time.