In Parenting a Child: Karma Is Everything

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How September 11 Makes Me Remember

Posted by Catherine, the redhead mom blogger on Sep 11, 2008 in Remembering

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

~John McCrae “In Flanders Fields” (1915)

Until next time -

Catherine, the redhead blogger

Tags: 9/11, A Week In The Life of A Redhead, Poetry

How The Fourth Of July Always Makes Me Nostalgic

Posted by Catherine, the redhead mom blogger on Jul 5, 2008 in Remembering

I always seem to have one of those birthdays which begins well before the Fourth and ends sometime a week later. It’s a wonderful time of year to have a birthday.

People are happy and carefree, beer and wine seem to run like water and the smell of barbecue fills the air. Bright colors of yellow corn, mom’s special potato salad, catchup and mustard bottles, red and white checkered tablecloths and hundreds of American flags are a feast as far as the eye can see. It appears as if everyone is celebrating my birthday.

They aren’t?

Thursday night my neighbors and I walked down the street with our lawn chairs in tow to watch the fireworks spectacle from the fairgrounds. A neighbor left me a collection of Mylar Fourth of July balloons, a goofy Fourth of July hat and mums that look like stars from the sky. I love little surprises. A sense of peaceful happiness overcomes me. Growing old has never bothered me. I don’t bemoan fate – it’s a waste of precious time. I have much I still want to do with my life, so many things to look forward to. Life is a kick in the pants. I mean, come on – I have a birthday on the Fourth of July – how awesome is that? There is nothing a redhead loves more than a bunch of people drinking in her honor, smelling of charcoal burning hot dogs, while picking corn from their teeth as fireworks explode in the night’s sky.

This is the 48th year of my birth. A poignant birthday since my father died when he was 48. It seems unbelievably young as my 48th year stretches out before me like the Yellow Brick Road leading to Oz. I almost need to pull out his clipped obituary to see that I am the same age he was when he died. On this birthday, I miss him more than usual. Sometimes I still have a hard time understanding why he isn’t here telling me what is wrong with my life, while insisting on buying new tires for my truck. Of course, if I give him my look that always made him laugh, he’d empty his wallet and tell me not to say anything to my mother. I adored him. I miss his wise advise and my ability to coyly talk him into things that my mother would say no to – except for dating and men. No one was ever remotely good enough, and if he could have prevented me from dating until I was 30, his life would have been complete.

“Who’s that boy?”

“Dad! It’s just a friend.”

“Friend my ass. I know boys like him.”

“Dad. He’s just a friend.”

“Does he work?”

“Dad, he’s 16.”

“Yeah he should have a job. I had a job when I was his age…”

“But you smoked cigarettes when you were his age.”

“Everybody smoked. Don’t change the subject. Why isn’t he leaving?”

“Because Mom said he could stay for dinner. Will you be nice?”

“Young lady I will be however I want to be. If he is a man – he will survive. I suppose he will be eating my food too?”

Sigh. “Yes. He’s an honor student you know, and good with cars.”

“Good with cars …? Like I am ever going to let you get in a car with him.”

“Dad, he’s just a friend. Besides, I will never love anyone like you.”

“Do you need some money?”

Little did I realize during those years, cancer was slowly eating him from the inside out. I thought he would always be there in his recliner reading a book or laughing at some Jerry Lewis Dean Martin movie. Always there to go dancing with my mom, walk me down the aisle, bounce grandchildren on his knee or teach Brian how to drive a clutch. That “always” was about as permanent as the summer breeze.

On the Fourth a small group of friends threw me an intimate party in their home. We’ve been working together and supporting each other since the days of North American Mortgage – back in the 90’s when Brian was still in diapers. We laughed, told stories and shared our dreams for the future. We drank the sweet nectar of Northern California wines, ate birthday cake and passed around Tums and aspirin. Yep, we’re in our 40’s alright. I wonder if my Dad’s 48th birthday was as much fun. I was 17 at the time, but I just don’t remember. I am sure that he would have put his birthday cake in a drinking glass, poured in cold milk and ate it with a spoon.

Today we rest. Tomorrow we celebrate with my mother and some cousins at the Biggest Little Fourth Of July celebration in California. It starts at 10 in the morning with a parade that goes one city block. The entire town is just one block. I think my feet are longer. They close the street for the day and have a huge Fourth Of July celebration. I already know what one of my gifts is going to be, so I should be taking pictures and able to post photos again. That is if I can figure out the digital camera, which hopefully should be a step up from my old blurry camera phone photos.

I wonder if Brian will remember my 48th birthday…

“Mom?”

“Can George come with us tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I love you Mom…”

“Do you need some money?”

May all of you enjoy your family and friends this holiday weekend, for you never know when it might be your last. My “Big Uncle Bud” succumbed to his cancer and died yesterday. He was like a cowboy of the wild West – something right out of Lonesome Dove. How fitting he should die on the Fourth, and I am honored that he picked my birthday as the day to go party with my dad. I hope they are somewhere enjoying cake in a drinking cup filled with milk. They are probably making fun of the men I have dated and waiting for the day they show up in Heaven. I wonder if a dad and uncle could make a guy dig a ditch for eternity?

Happy Fourth of July.

Until next time -

Tags: mom bloggers, the next erma bombeck

Who Else Wants To Go See Gravity Hill?

Posted by Catherine, the redhead mom blogger on Jun 30, 2008 in Remembering

Lucky is typically defined as something that produces or results in good by chance. Brilliant luck is what happens when luck plus a teenager result in a wonderful time. I am infinitely aware of just how preciously short life is as I watch Brian’s feet quickly grow out of his size 11 shoes and teenage moments of wisdom reveal themselves.

After reviewing the certified check and letter, I ask Brian what he would like to do…

“Mom, let’s go out to dinner and celebrate.”

“You hated my job that much?”

“Even more. You know that Churchill guy said never to give in, so I think you needed to leave.”

(Churchill actually said, “Never give in. Never never never never in anything great or small. large or petty – never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense.”)

“Oh. So things are better now that I left?”

“Yeah. If I were older I would have found a way to make money and make you stop going there months ago.”

“Then we probably should go out for sushi.”

“Yeah.”

Why not go out for something mildly expensive that we both enjoy? The air in Sonoma County is constricted from the fires and it feels like someone is holding a burning cigarette in a cloth over our faces. Let’s just ignore this and the fact that I am job hunting, and venture out to dinner. California is burning around us, so why not celebrate my release from prison, or as Brian likes to call it “my release from the prison known as the Symphony”.

I haven’t driven the truck in weeks due to my ankle. It feels good to leave the house and venture out. Brian even bothers to take a shower and run gel through his hair. I feel honored. He must really want some sushi.

Have you ever had one of those perfect evenings with your teenage kids? You know, the ones where they talk with you, laugh with you and actually enjoy your company? During my dinner with Brian, I hardly touch my food for hanging on his every story. It was as if time stopped for us. Over dinner, I learn more about Brian in those 45 minutes than I have noticed in the last 8 months. No wonder he wanted me to quit. Sometimes life is magic.

As he holds the doors open for me to leave the restaurant, I ask,

“Ever heard of Gravity Hill?”

“No. What’s Gravity Hill?”

(I dare not tell him it used to be a place where kids drank, made-out and caused harmless trouble … and *wink**wink* I never went there…).

“It’s a place where ghosts drag your car up a hill.”

“No.”

“Yes, wanna see it?”

“Well yeah mom!”

gravity_hill_rohnert_park I grew up in a small town at the base of Gravity Hill, underneath the blanket soft grasses which cover the rolling hills which make up Sonoma County. My first experience with Gravity Hill was with my own father who wanted to take me to a place where ghosts play pranks. I was probably about 8 and a brave little girl back then. As long as I was with my father I could conquer anyone or anything. Long winding two lane roads give way to a narrow one- lane road, blanketed on each side by fields of blond grass and massive oak trees. My father pointed to a crumbling Victorian farm house on our right, “That’s where the ghosts live,” he motioned. I move closer to him from the back seat, standing behind his back from the floor of our Impala.

It is so dark that only the car headlights illuminate our way over this old narrow road. I wonder if Christ once road his donkey here. Finally, my father turns the car around at what seems to be the narrowest point of the road and faces a hill. He turns the engine off and then the headlights, while placing the car in neutral. “Here we go,” he says, as I place my arms around his neck from my position behind him. Suddenly the car jolts forward, then pauses and moves forward again. It seems the car is being pushed up the hill. I gasp, as our car slowly moves upward. “The ghosts are pushing us.” my dad exclaims. I bury my face in his neck, but can’t resist looking up. I beg him to turn the lights on. He does, and points to the many lights of the valley below. I wasn’t sure if I liked ghosts, but I loved this experience with my dad.

So here Brian and I are, so many years later driving the same winding roads that lead to Gravity Hill. Surprisingly, not much has changed over the last 40 years, as we silently gaze at the vast blond fields of grass and massive Oak trees. Old rock music blasts the radio. I feel like I am 16 again. I point to were I once loved riding horses with a best friend. It is as if my dad and I are riding the same road all over again, except this time I am driving and he is sitting in the passenger seat as Brian.

“It’s pretty here Mom.”

“Yeah, it is.”

The truck winds its way to the top of the hill and I stop as we face the top.

“Brian, are you ready for some ghosts?”

“Bring it on, Mom.”

I place the truck in neutral, turn the engine off and move my feet back. Suddenly the truck leaps forward and begins to move up the hill.

“Cool.” Brian looks at me like this is just another moment in a video game. We slowly glide up the hill. He stares back at the valley below.

“Want to do it again?”

“Heck yeah.”

I turn the truck around, descend down the hill, turn around and start the same process all over again. This time we are talking about my dad as the truck lunges forward.

“Do you think maybe your dad is here watching us?”

“Maybe…”

Just then a large buck leaps past us into an upper meadow. We stare like we have never seen a deer before. Wild jack rabbits hop by to our right, followed by a family of wild turkeys. The sun is slowly beginning to set. It dawns on me that it is a beautiful evening.

“Mom, this is cool.”

“Are you having fun?”

“I always do with you. I’m glad you quit your job.”

“Me too … well … do you think there are ghosts here?”

“I don’t know, but this is probably some mathematical thing.”

We slowly descend back down the hill in silence. Bye Bye Miss American Pie comes on the radio. We begin to sing. Oddly, even though he is just 13, Brian knows all the words to this song. I am reliving the 1970’s all over again. We sing the way to our home. He hasn’t yet reached the teen age where he’s too cool to sing with his mom. We even manage some truck seat dancing. Shhhh … don’t tell his friends.

Just as we finish the song and enter our driveway, my cell phone rings. My mother is calling to tell me that our big Uncle Bud from Fallon Nevada has leukemia and just a few days to live. This is a cold reminder that life is precious and we should cherish every moment. It is said that life is a brief collection of moments, but sometimes in those moments we get a memories which last a life-time. We should remember to slow down and enjoy the moments of collecting.

My uncle would be thrilled that Brian and I spent such a wonderful evening collecting memories. He is a man who will
leave this world with no regrets. He always showed me how much he loved me, just like my dad. He gave me the gift of many loving memories and I now collect them with Brian. I am lucky – my “collections” runneth over.

How about you?

Until next time-

How September 11 Makes Me Imagine

Posted by Catherine, the redhead mom blogger on Sep 11, 2007 in Remembering

On each anniversary of September 11 I always think of these lyrics by John Lennon…

Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today.

Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace.

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one.

~John Lennon

I remember you every Sptember 11th.

Until next time-

How I Survived My 8th Birthday When My Brother Killed My Balloons

Posted by Catherine, the redhead mom blogger on Jul 4, 2007 in Remembering

fourth-cake The year was 1960. It was a leap year, and Monday the fourth of July when I came roaring into this world. (Talk about omens of my future). My older brother was three years old and just developing his taste for fireworks – the true childhood meaning of the fourth of July. My mother was in the hospital delivering a little sister instead of setting off the fireworks as planned. The family joke is that my brother never quite forgave me for screwing up all future fourth of Julys. This marked the beginning of many ”boy tortures” which magically occurred at my birthday celebrations.

One year, my brother and two of his friends decide to kill most of my decorative birthday balloons, which hang suspended under the backyard patio like mini hot air balloons. They concoct the brilliant idea of filling water guns and shooting my balloons, thus popping them and spraying colored latex over my red, white and blue decorated party table.

I (being a future redhead) manage to catch my brother and his gang in mid balloon kill. It doesn’t matter that I am in my pretty party dress with my white blond curls and shinny dress shoes. I scream loud enough to raise the dead. I take off in a mad dash after my brother, who sat with his friends atop the fence grinning like Alice’s Cheshire Cat. I have visions of killing him when I catch him, which if you saw the difference in size between me and my brother, you could see this is pure fantasy on my part. But there is that fiery redhead temper, and all I want to do is hit him as hard as I can – or at the very least break something of his. Nothing is going to stop me from seeking my vengeance.

I quickly close the distance between us, because I can easily leap bushes. The years spent as a ballerina have its’ own athletic benefits. I am screaming at the top of my lungs while faintly hearing my mother yell, “What is going on?” from deep inside the house. I don’t answer, as I am too busy screaming; determined to tackle my brother and kill him.

I don’t count on my brother’s dark horse: Kevin. Kevin is the younger brother of Terry; two boys who live in the house next door. Kevin and Terry are the other two perpetrators of this evil assault on my birthday celebration. George, my brother’s best friend is not around, as George has never perpetrated one mean, boyish thing – ever. He would have said no to this diabolical boy plan out of love for me (or fear that his father would kill him). I’ll pretend it is the former, although it was more than likely the latter.

I am almost at my brother’s back when something comes at me from my right, leaping off the porch. It is Kevin. He tackles me, sending me and that frilly party dress down upon my father’s perfectly mowed lawn. I am so angry that I instantly begin kicking and yelling, directing all my anger at Kevin. He doesn’t quite know what to do with me, as he is now holding the Tasmanian devil.

He somehow manages to get a hold of my ankles. He pulls me into the air, thus hanging me upside down. My dress falls about my waist. I don’t care, as I attempt to twist about to punch his knees, while gathering enough spit to land a loogie on his crotch.

Is this a crystal ball’s glance into my future with men?

It is right at this moment that my very mortified, angry mother bursts out the front door yelling, “STOOOOOP
IT RIGHT NOW ALL OF YOU!!!”

With that, Kevin lets go and I drop to the ground with a thud. I jump to my feet screaming what the boys are up to, all the while glaring at Kevin, and planning his death. I had to swallow my loogie, which made me angrier as I had just arranged it in my mouth for the perfect spit. My mother instructs me to calm down, go in the house and clean up. She sends my brother’s friends home while speaking the sentence dreaded by all boys everywhere,

“Son, come over here. You and me are going to have a little talk.”

I remember sticking out my tongue at all three of them as I strut into the house, full of grass stains, strands of grass and a tear-filled defiant face. My brother is forced to change his clothes and help with my birthday party, followed by a week’s restriction. It still doesn’t stop me from thinking I will extract my vengeance at some later date on all of them. My brother is miserable just having to hang out at his little sister’s birthday party with her 10 giggling friends.

Years later, I would run into the elusive Kevin. He is home visiting from college, sitting on a bar stool in a local dance club. I pass behind him and he turns around to take in my features. He is devilishly handsome. At first, he doesn’t quite recognize me. I am 5′10, 130 pounds, red-haired and in my early 20’s. It is a good thing he has the bar to hold him up.

I think somehow he wishes he could turn back time and erase all the boyish things he’d done. We chat and I end up giving him a ride to where he is staying. There is chemistry, but neither of us act upon it.

The thought of him having torturous redhead thoughts for an eternity comfort my redheaded soul.

Because it all started with spit, a crotch and a party.

Doesn’t it always?

Just remember to be kind to redheads on the fourth of July. Consider it fair warning.

Until next time-

PS. How’s life treating you Kev?

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