“There, I guess King George will be able to read that without his spectacles!” John Hancock, the President of the Continental Congress, is reported to have said after he was the first to sign the Declaration of Independence in 1776.  He is remembered for his large and stylish signature so much so that the term “John Hancock” has become, in the United States at least, a synonym for a signature.  My little one has been “signing” for me electronically at places since she was two.  It has always been a thrill for her.  But by four she could actually sign her name and I still cannot quite believe it.  So when she signed for me the other day a new cashier’s eyes visibly widened and, in a side whisper to the associate next to her, she asked, “Can she DO that?!”  I told her she was authorized to sign for me and winked.  This time I was the one who was thrilled, watching my girl carefully write her name.  I find it ironic that in an electronic age we all seem to be signing more instead of less.  In fact it would seem it is almost the only thing we actually write by hand now at all.  However I’m all for going paperless on transactions.  And I am SO glad my mother forced me to take typing in high school!  At SMU in the early nineties it was all pecking on computers and I had to learn to write directly from a keyboard.  I am happy though to still see people signing guest registries at major life events.  They are wonderful to look back upon and become cherished especially when the signer is no longer with us.  Someone on my husband’s side of the family signed his name and had it etched in his wife’s wedding ring instead of just engraving it.  I always thought that was unique and meaningful.  I am also a stickler about hand signing Christmas cards.  I realize printing, stamping and even embossing are more efficient.  But they leave me feeling cold.  There is an indelible imprint and something of one’s self that remains when it’s the real thing; as if a tiny piece of that person has been ever so slightly revealed.  It may be more time consuming, but for me at least, I still intend to sign at the bottom.

As a kid I lived for Saturdays:  Cap’n Crunch cereal, “Scooby Doo”, “School House Rock”, and then roller skating every afternoon from 2 to 5 at Broadway Skateland.  I got one quarter which I would spend on a “suicide” — all the sodas at the fountain combined into one.  I didn’t even like it; I just thought it was cool to order it.  Colored streamers billowed from the ceiling, as round lights changed colors in time with the beats of disco music.  We all orbited around an elliptical track like tiny planets revolving around the sun.  Presiding over us all was a giant disco ball suspended magically from the center twirling and sending out fragments of light in every direction.  Kids sat on mushroom shaped stools with shagged carpeting to put on their brown rental skates but I had my own.  My Daddy wouldn’t allow me to have black speed skates (he said those were for boys) but I did have white ones which I actually competed in at a local level much like figure skaters do at the Olympics.  Console video games were hot then and if I ever felt like giving up my drink money and using the water fountain I could play a game of Pac-Man.  A quarter was the ticket to everything in the seventies.  They were glory days in a way and I loved the rink as I never did a “club” when I became older.  There is just something so freeing about the wheels … gliding and spinning, that cannot be accomplished in regular shoes.  I have often thought it was like a child’s innocent version of Studio 54.  For so many kids it was an institution, a coming of age arena in an era that predated the internet, texting, and cell phones.  I am so glad our church had a function last year where the kids went skating.  Burk and I could not WAIT to take our little one!  I got her a cool skating outfit just like I had when I was little:  roller skate hair barrettes, a shirt with roller skates on it, and the all-important dark blue jeans rolled up at the bottom with a rhinestone design on the back pockets.  I even wore my School House Rock shirt in silent tribute.  See those skates I’m wearing?  They are the SAME ones I wore all those years ago as a sixth grader (wish I could say the same for my jeans size).  We all got glow necklaces which they did not have when I was little.  I skated backwards as I tried to hold up my then three year old who had never been on skates.  She was in the smallest size they had.  We all left EXHAUSTED.  The local rink in this picture is going to close its doors.  I resolve to go and take my girl back to the rink of my youth and pray it stays open.  It is a living piece of time and I want that for her:  the joy, the freedom, the independence, and the glorious feeling that the world is yours as you skate out on that waxy wooden floor.  American novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne once wrote, “Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.”  I want my little one to have some of the same shadows as I … before they skate by.

When it comes to cars I have always appreciated performance and superfluous extras.  Growing up we only had one car, an unairconditioned station wagon with paint ladders on the top.  But being able to look backwards from the rear of the car and wave at other people was so much fun.  My little one could not believe I did not have a car seat growing up.  I didn’t tell her I used to straddle the console between my folks up front or that I could stand, lie down or ride on Daddy’s paint cans pretending to play the drums.  Car seats?  I didn’t have a seat belt!  It was the ’70’s after all.  I may not have thought much for safety as a kid but I certainly think about it as an adult for my child.  My husband and I are trying not to be helicopter parents, constantly hovering over our little girl.  I have been hit hard twice in the last two years in accidents that were not my fault.  The first was by an uninsured motorist (T-boned) and the last (rear-ended) by an illegal who fled the country the very next day.  In both cases I had my little girl with me.  I am so grateful to God she has been OK!  And I am thankful to have been in cars built well enough to absorb a lot of the shock.  It’s not like the old days when cars were tanks.  That’s a huge part of why I do not want a bubble car; one is too vulnerable in a big city full of hostile, distracted drivers.  OK and yes, it lacks a turbo engine and ambient lighting.  Anyway, the last two cars I have had were black and I have decided switching to silver might be a proverbial fresh start.  Silly, I know.  American actress Alexandra Paul once said, “The cars we drive say a lot about us.”  In my case, I’m taking back the Edge.

It is probably the one thing the hubs and I were excited to have season opener tickets to:  Seussical the Musical.  The Dallas Children’s Theater outdid themselves on this one, and they have had some greats.  I was glad to see adults there on their own as well as those with kiddos in tow.  This was truly for children of all ages.  It is a theatre that does not patronize kids; giving them credit for being smart enough to get jokes and understand plots.  Hence why it is also so enjoyable for adults as well.  Seussical the Musical is sort of moderated by The Cat in the Hat and centered around Horton the Elephant, of Horton Hears a Who.  I do not want to give anything away, as I believe everyone should try to go and see this show.  The time flew by (inside pun for those who have seen it) and before we knew it the curtain came down for intermission.  Their box office is so inclusive and attentive to anyone with different needs.  Since our daughter cannot have gluten they graciously allowed us to bring in gluten free red velvet cupcakes and retrieve them during the break.  So we got to eat cupcakes right along with everyone else and our little four year old was so happy.  In the words of the famed American children’s writer Dr. Seuss:  “A person’s a person, no matter how small.”

I have always admired the symmetry of two tall green plants flanking the doorways of homes.  Some are more grand than others, but to me they all lend a sort of stateliness no matter what their size.  That is what I was attempting to create when I bought two Japanese Pencil Hollies for the windows on either side of our front door.  I’m sure they would have looked more formal in some type of urn or pedestal planter.  But I love Paloma here and thought it just might fit.  Now she resembles more of a quetzal but she makes me happy nonetheless.  If she could talk I think she’d say she sees lots of comings and goings:  big wolves trampling in and out, gatos malos (bad cats) trying to escape for a bit of adventure, a little girl with curly hair stripping off her clothes before she quite makes it all the way through the door, a mother hauling in groceries every day before going to work and a father hauling out recycling every day after he has worked.  But they are a happy bunch.  Our house is full of all sort of wolves, original art, family pictures, seashells, and our little girl’s toys.  Our home is our refuge and has on many occasions been called eclectic.  I have always supposed that was a polite term for unusual.  I have never fit into any mold and neither has my husband.  I think that’s why we’re so perfect for each other.  The French fashion designer Paloma Picasso once said, “I don’t have anything to prove anymore.  I can relax.”  For years I felt the need to prove myself.  By the grace of God, and with my husband’s help, I do not feel that way anymore.  It is incredibly freeing — and that sums up our dove’s tale.

I did not even get her name.  I was in the grocery store which, despite my best efforts, I seem to find myself in at least once daily.  My little family eats like a Biblical plague of locusts.  Seriously, it is not normal.  Anyway, I was on my way out when I discovered this woman sitting on a bench waiting for whomever she was with to finish shopping.  I stopped in my tracts because my little one has trained me to notice all things pink.  And here was this woman, wearing brown scrubs trimmed in pink, with pink and white nails, a delicate hint of pink eye shadow underneath her brows, and rocking varying shades of light and dark pink in her close cut hair.  Moreover, there was a radiance about her which I found captivating.  I could not help but ask for her picture and explained that my little girl, who was in school, would flip when she saw her.  I told the Pink Lady of my little one’s love for all things pink.  Graciously, and without hesitation, she obliged.  People often talk about auras.  I suspect she would have forced a psychic to squint.  The Hollywood actress and humanitarian Audrey Hepburn once said, “Pink isn’t just a color, it’s an attitude!”  If I had to describe it I would say it was happy, sassy, and kind.  And now I have proof, because today I discovered a pink lady.

There are few things I enjoy more than strolling through a nursery; a plant nursery that is.  Even when I had a condo I still could plant in containers on my balcony.  Since I’ve been blessed with a house planting in the ground (and in much bigger containers) has been a real thrill.  Sometimes I get it right and sometimes I fail abysmally.  Even when I carefully look at the placement and amount of sun it is not a guarantee.  I dislike yanking up live flowers for the next season and I try to invest in plants that are year round.  Once a year this particular nursery has a 20% off sale and I wanted to hit it for the addition of some “permanent” plants.  Between a couple of hours spent running around at the park, the heat, and the sun my little one crashed right on the flower cart.  The sweet cashier put a piece of cardboard under her head so she’d have something smooth to rest on instead of the hard grooves in the metal cart.  Then she moved her in front of a giant fan that was in the shade.  Texas in September is hot y’all.  I thanked her for her thoughtfulness and she said she remembered what it was like when her kids were little.  I have always felt the same as American actress Rebecca Romijn who said:

“I was never a girl who dreamed about what her wedding day would be like, but I’ve always dreamed about decorating my baby’s nursery.”

Having an only child who is now almost five I never thought I would be able to say this again:  my baby fell asleep in the nursery. ❤️

Drawing straws is a selection method used by a group to choose one member who must perform a task no one else will volunteer for.  In our house it’s more like rock, paper, scissors.  For instance, who has to let the wolfies out in the middle of the night?  Burk.  But who has to disarm the house?  Me.  Who loads the dishes into the dishwasher?  Burk.  Who cooks the meals?  Me.  Who mostly takes out the trash?  Burk.  Who has to pick up the disgusting hair ball the cat just cast up?  Me.  Always me.  Who feeds the cats?  Maris.  Who sets the table?  Maris.  As she gets older she is taking on more responsibility, some with relish and some with a soupçon of sassy.  The later is NOT tolerated.  When I was a kid my mother had a sign in the kitchen that read, “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”  Truer, more prophetic words were never spoken.  I think my two beloveds are JUST now starting to figure that out.  I wish I still had that sign.  Retired United States Navy admiral Michael Mullen is quoted as having said, “Don’t try to run your life through a single straw.  Someone, some event, will cut it off.”  I am thankful I have not tried to run my life through a single straw.  I was happy with myself before I ever got married.  I have always had my passion for animals, my love of music, my interest in history, my enjoyment in writing, and my faith in Christ.  All of the aforementioned have helped me deal with the deaths of my parents.  I still feel alone; I still feel sad, but I am thankful I have my husband and my child now to call family.  I have my four-legged babies, too.  I may like organizing things, but it sure is nice to have a little help.  As for who gets to clean up the pile of poop on the floor?  I’m all for drawing straws.

I started singing solos in church when I was about four and music has always been an integral part of my life.  The German monk and composer Martin Luther once said:

“Next to the Word of God, the noble art of music is the greatest treasure in the world.”

Now my little one has just discovered that all the tunes I’ve played for her in the car the past couple of years are on her iPad thanks to family sharing.  They are an eclectic conglomeration of songs I love.  She used to say, “Mama, play Lubby Dubby” for the band Loverboy’s greatest hits.  She’s heard my favorite girl band Heart as well as “hair band” songs like Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and FireHouse’s “Love of a Lifetime.”  I’ve heard her trying to get the words down to John Legend’s “All of Me” and in this picture my Marian child was listening to “Let It Be.”  What I had not counted on was her uncovering songs like Ted Nugent’s “Cat Scratch Fever” and 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop.”  Absolutely horrified, I told her the first was about naughty kitties that liked to scratch the sofa.  The second she just took at face value.  So now I will be reviewing her playlist before I have anymore uncomfortable, creative explaining to do.  I want her to know “The Rose” and I want her to hear my favorite singers:  Bette Midler, Julie Andrews, and Linda Ronstadt.  I want her to learn my favorite musical songs like, “Summertime”, “Edelweiss”, and yes, ABBA’s top hits.  I especially want her to know the legendary Nat “King” Cole.  She loves all my favorites, from Journey songs to Latin Gregorian “church music.”  Almost more than anything, I want my little one to have a lifelong pursuit of the greatest treasure in the world.

Meet Frasier.  I think you can surmise what type of bird he is.  I never watched “Cheers” but I absolutely ADORED “Frasier”.  I even have a Cafe Nervosa mug from the coffee house they frequented.  It is wild that his brother’s name was Niles and my mother’s name was Nila.  And no, I did not name my beloved Maris after the first wife Niles had but no one never saw.  My mother’s maiden name was Maris.  Kelsey Grammer’s television portrayal of the role of Dr. Frasier Crane spanned an impressive two decades.  The only show that came close for me was Michael Landon playing Charles Ingalls on “Little House on the Prairie”, which I loved throughout my early childhood — and still do.  I always find it ironic whenever I hear Hollywood actors eschewing television for their own children.  I have also uncovered a closeted sort of snobbery against those who admit to loving or even watching TV now.  We don’t look at much, but what we do we make count.  My whole family used to gather around the big wooden floor console to see “Little House on the Prairie” and as an adult I loved watching “Frasier” with my mother.  I read somewhere once that people with the highest intellect comprised their most number of viewers.  I get a silent giggle out of saying, “This is Frasier” when people go out to see our koi pond and they discover him.  If they’re smart, they get it.  I always appreciate it when they do.  And now I think I shall close and pour myself a glass of red wine, ending with my favorite quote from the show:  “As I always say … why go Merlot when you can take a Cab?” ~ Frasier Crane