Wingnutted Adventuresmui rus for XP64

Growing up in a family that uses music and reading as a primary entertainment and TV as a hidden box in Daddy’s retreat, I had to be creative about my playtime, especially when alone. I was alone a lot because Momma had some dumb rule about cleaning my room first. When we moved to Arizona our new home was a double-wide trailer planted firmly on a corner of the church property where Daddy Pastored.

To foster a homey look, we set our half the property off by large rocks we’d found around the property and placed them strategically at the end of the church “parking lot”. Thus we had a little parking space for our cars, a designated area for church members, and a boundary between the two. We even grew grass in front and back, but the side (where this boundary was laid by the rocks) remained bare and hard.

It was the perfect size for my imagination to lay out a restaurant, and I reordered the rocks as booths. In my little restaurant, you could eat the best of anything and be filled to delight calorie free. I walked from one booth to another taking orders and repeating them to my imaginary cook, who produced intricate recipes with lightning speed so I could dish them up with grand fanfare and collect my generous tip.

Picture how this looked to people driving by. You turn onto a neighborhood street in Podunk, Nowhere to pass by a little church to see a twelve year old girl talking to air, writing in her hand with nothing, and waving empty hands like she were passing food around a huge table, reaching over an empty space to keep from bumping candles that really aren’t there.

Ah, but fantasy is so much fun because you can say what you like, do what you like, and be what you dream. In fantasy, you don’t skin knees, pull muscles, or break bones. In fantasy you can fly without assistance and make straight A’s without effort. In fantasy you are only limited by the dream.

Then I grew up. My fantasy disappeared and real life knocked me in the face. But every now and then I remember the glorious moments when I lived in the world of my imagination. I dined there, became famous there, and ruled the world.

Today I look at snow flurries outside my window and shiver. I remember a world where I can have a blizzard come and go to leave fresh powder, followed by self-propelling snow shovels, massive street dryers, and an arsenal of other such accoutrements designed to keep the snow beautiful and glorious without me getting cold.

Such fantasy warms my heart and makes me wish I could make the real world a little more like my imagination. . Ah, I can dream, can’t I?

Growing up in a household limited to classical or sacred religious music and very little television cut a lot of common American culture from my childhood, but it opened my horizons to a different world.

I followed The Sorcerer’s Apprentice narrated by Jim Baccus, who had the creepiest voice on the face of the planet. I knew all the instrumentals to Peter and the Wolf and could sing along with each theme. I could also sing along with variety of musical excerpts from nearly every popular musical without having seen any of the musicals. Most notably, I consistently heard a variety of classical forms---from Bach’s two-part inventions and Vivaldi’s Spring to Beethoven’s long list of symphonies and concertos to Berlioz, Liszt and Schumann of the Romantique period. To this day my favorites include the piano literature from Chopin and Liszt.

My dad’s favorite piece of music (if I had to guess) must have been Beethoven’s Ninth, especially the Third Movement where the chorus would sing in German the music that I know as Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee. The resounding four part harmony with a glorious compliment of the full orchestra filled our home with the world of music at our feet.

On numerous occasions, Daddy would grab any implement that could mimic a baton and begin to direct the air before him with grand gesture, emphasizing each count of the four-beat measures in the conductor’s choreography, singing in German with the choir at the top of his lungs.

Sometimes the music inspired him to the point of taking his violin from its rarely opened case to play a tune. Occasionally his doing so would prompt me to take my smaller violin to play with him. We’d go from one tune to another, sight-reading through the hymnbook. Then he’d put the instrument away and go to the next record, listening and directing—or moving on to another task while enjoying the intertwining melodies.

A few weeks ago my husband had some classical sounding theme playing on his computer, reminding me of my dad. I couldn’t tell you why I did it, but I grabbed the nearest baton-like thing within reach and began to direct.

You see, I have inherited Daddy’s Orchestra and it is truly magnificent.

Momma had to be the most patient person in the whole world. She made the “mistake” of telling my brother and I that we were loved and precious. She made a point to tell me I could have a hug anytime I wanted just for the asking.

So I did. Constantly. I determined that I would take any measure necessary to prove or disprove what she said. In fact, my favorite manner to test her was to wait until she had her arms elbow deep in dishwater applying her famous “elbow grease” to a pan.

“Momma, I need a hug.”

Momma would calmly rinse her hands, dry them, and give me a right proper hug—the best kind—and even kissed the top of my head. I’d go somewhere in the house and wait a few minutes.

“Momma, I need a hug.”

“But I just gave you one.”

“I really need another one.”

“Okay, let me dry my hands.”

The second, third, fourth, and every subsequent hug thereafter was just as meaningful to her as the first. I couldn’t ruffle her feathers no matter how hard I tried. I could get her to sigh, breathe deep, and maybe cause her to mutter in her thoughts about how trying such a child might be, but I could never get her to deny me a hug, or to give up on me. She would still tell me how precious I was to her, how much she loved me, and that she was thankful to have a little girl.

Then I became a Mother. I determined from the first step my daughter made that I would not be like my mom—I didn’t have the patience or determination to do so and I would not let them take advantage of me the way I had taken advantage of her.

At one time or another I’ve told each of my four children that I love them very much, they are precious to me, and I’m very thankful to have them. But I also told them about what I did to my mom, and that as much as I loved them, they could wait until I got to a stopping point with whatever I was doing at which time they could have all the hugs they wanted.

Don’t worry, I believe each of my children has found a different way to make sure what I tell them is true. I won’t try to guess what each of them tried, but seeing my own traits in them quite assures me that they tested me. Have I passed? Maybe, but I do know this---there are worse things than stopping fifty times in the middle of washing the same pan because your child says,

“I need a hug, Mom.”

*Note: Backdated to original post date.*

Momma was the best cook in Alamogordo, New Mexico, at least for potlucks. Her desserts and vegetable dishes arrived in full array to be swiped from their serving dishes within minutes. One fall we had arranged to present three pumpkin pies to a local dinner, and my mother worked feverishly to prepare them.

Oh, they looked so good, so picture perfect, ok—except for that little tip of pumpkin sticking up from the rest of the filling. That spot didn’t belong there at all. It distracted the eye from the rest of the pie, and certainly did not look uniform. Let me just take care of that.

Oops. Missed. I smoothed it along the crust. No, that didn’t look right either. So I continued to create a pattern around the pie. Something was still missing, and besides, it did taste pretty good. So I added the final touch.

Meet Pumpkin Pie Smiley Face.

Enter Momma from living room.

Uh Oh! For some reason, Momma didn’t have a smiley face.

Afterwards, neither did I.