All His Boys are Girls

I was listening to a sermon (Church of the Highlands, my fave) on my iPod this morning on the way to work. The speaker was talking about his kids and the types of gifts they asked for and he made the comment, "All my boys are girls," because he has all daughters and just loves it. I thought that comment was pretty cute, and it hit home for me because I have two sisters and no brothers. My Daddy loves having girls and he's never regretted not having a son.

He was absolutely the GREATEST Daddy for girls. He drove us absolutely crazy teaching us to be confidant, stand on our own two feet, and to have the complete ability to care for ourselves. And I think we are able to have those traits because we always know we have him if we need anything.

He taught us to throw a football (Amanda's the only one that's good at this), play softball (I'm not sure any of us were good at this), and shoot hoops (all of us, including him, stunk at this). He drove Katie, Sally, me and the horses to horse shows, dressed up as "Joe Cool" to escort Amanda and a friend to a dance, dropped us all of at college, attended every single game I played in or cheered at (and I was always the absolute worst- see my cheer leading post), went on field trips, brought puppies and kittens to our classes for show and tell (he's a Veterinarian), took us fishing; all of it. He even played Barbies and watched Cinderella every day with Amanda when Katie and I were too old to hang out with her. 

This is just a little tribute post because I love my Daddy! And I am grateful to him, because I think that great fathers create strong, healthy daughters. 

How cute is he???

PS- totally made the collage frame pink on purpose. When we were little everything was pink, as you can imagine. He decided one day that his favorite color was pink after hollering, "Pink, pink, PINK! All I see is pink!" To this day- he will tell you pink is his favorite color. Which is a good thing because me lives in my Mama's house and the walls are pink (no joke). 

"Being barefoot liberates!" -Pat Green

When I was a kid, I went barefoot as much as possible. Much to the horror of my poor, neat, clean Mama- I went barefoot at the barn all the time. I loved it! I felt so free. I loved the sand under my feet, the mud between my toes and feeling my horse's coat while I was riding around bareback. I was a regular little farm kid- chicken poop, dirty stalls, none of it bothered me! Gross to think about, I know. But you know what- I didn't care. And that was the greatest part of it. It was the place in life I started learning not to worry about what people thought. Besides, Sally swears I got so tall from walking around where there was "fertilizer: (manure). My Roommate just hates mud, so naturally I am teaching my nephew to love it!

Nathan & Auntie

Toe ring Tay Tay gave me to wear for my birthday party. I, of course, had to remove my shoes for proper display!

My sweet Annie got home from her yachting job and headed directly to the barn... barefoot. She smiled at me and said, "I'm home!!" And I thought to myself, what happened to me?? I always have my shoes or slippers on now and think I need a nice pedi all the time. What has being a grown up done to me??

So I went to the barn with her and came back to the house with these toes:

Not pretty- but I was a happy girl! And this is mild compared to the black toes I had as a kid!

My childhood friend Drayton always said, "God made dirt, so dirt can't hurt."

Amen to that!

It's beautiful out today- find a park and go barefoot in the grass!

Flash Backs

I'm not really sure why I'm doing this to myself, but...

I found these lovely jewels when Mama and I were going through some old pictures recently. And the fact is, the idea of my EVER being able to pass as a cheerleader is as ludicrous as these pictures.

When I was in middle school, I wanted desperately to fit in. So desperately, that I decided to become a cheerleader. This was not a good decision. Note in the middle photo the girl second from the left whose arms are going in the opposite direction of everyone else's. Yep, that's me! And to think, my blessed mother had to pay additional money on top of my absorbent tuition for this. 

I can't even describe how bad I was. Suffice it to say that the entire squad was stuck doing only "spread-eagle" jumps (low to the ground and with your body like an "x") rather than toe touches (see bottom photo of actual cheerleader) because I was the one and only member who could not do a toe touch. No matter how hard I tried and how long I practiced. To this day, I can't even do a cartwheel. True story.

I only made the squad because they took everyone. And the next year when you had to try out I was quickly ousted. And to top that- the team we cheered for won about 2 games the entire season. And the following year, after flunking out of cheer leading, I tried basketball and that team also won about 2 games all season. It seems quite clear that I am a curse to competitive sports. So I have ceased playing them for the past 12 years or so. 

There's the story of the day. You're welcome for making you laugh with that hair do (permed and then brushed- that's right!)

Eternal Little Man

Apparently I'm in a mushy mood this week! I was in the bathtub reading Garden & Gun (a great magazine about the South) and the story was about the life of this dog. It was cute and hilarious! It reminded me (in a roundabout way) that I wrote this a few days after my sweet horse died. So I thought I'd share to give him some of the props he deserves. It's a bit long- read it if you have time. And PS- that sketch of him is a Christmas Present Katie did for me. Isn't it amazing?

I can’t even remember my life before him, but then again- I was only eight when I met him and began horseback riding. And in retrospect, I was pretty sure he would kill me when I was eight and I certainly never thought it would get to this point because I think I hated him a little at first, as I was surely scared to death of him. He had his own personality; his own ideas and his own way things should be done. And he wasn’t shy about telling you how it should be done. I finally gave up trying to ride him and learned to just ride with him instead. That was really the only way to go.

He is gone now, and I struggle with missing him. My thoughts to memories, mostly happy memories. And I started to realize that even my not-so-happy memories of him are actually happy in many ways. The day I thought I was going to die going through that first ditch taught me to trust him. His illness when we were both 17 taught me persistence and strength – and also that horse blood does actually wash out of clothes. The disaster after disaster of my four shows long showing career; that you don’t have to have a ribbon or someone’s opinion to let you know where your talent lies; that beauty is only an opinion that gracefulness isn’t always found where people think it needs to be placed. When I left that show ring after my beautiful horse lost a halter class to a donkey… I never looked back and never let anyone judge him again. If only I’d been able to teach myself that lesson about me sooner. Anyhow- I guess we got our final justification when we won a blue ribbon for our photograph in a photo contest. We always were prettier than we were talented. Sigh… someone has to do it.

If my reminiscing goes on long enough, I move on from “life lessons” to actual memories. The feel of those first loped steps and then never looking back; Sally (my instructor) yelling at me over and over, “Heels Down! Keep your HEELS DOWN!”; painting him like an Indian pony and braiding his hair and tying bows on him – the poor emasculated animal; the way his tail looked after a bath and hours of grooming; that crazy- free feeling of grabbing his mane in my hands and holding on for dear life at a run. The hours I spent just sitting on his back in the pasture, riding around on him all summer; friends and I trying to learn that trick they do in John Wayne movies where you ride and grab the girl’s arm to swing her up. I slammed into his side so many times. And trying to learn to jump up over his rump? That is obviously only a trick done in movies with trampolines and all it gets you in real life is a slam into your horse’s rump. Poor patient animal. To the end of his life, I always took particular pride in his following me without a halter or lead line and hearing parents tell their kids, “look at how he just follows her.” Self-centered, yes, but hey, we all need our moments. The day I used him as a ladder to climb over a fence and rescue a dog, sitting on him and holding a little child in front of me so they wouldn’t be scared the first time they loped, the feeling of “rightness” whenever I sat on him- just knowing I belonged there.

I told him two things in the last minutes of his life. I reminded him that for years he was my only friend, and thanked him. And I told him to meet me at the gate when I get to Heaven. And even in his pain, he leaned his head on me and gave that sweet little exhale of breath that always meant, “OK, I love you”.

My tears still come, sometimes in a trickle and sometimes pouring out. And I will always feel the hurt of the moment I had to walk away from him, to the house, knowing that I would never see him again. Or never in this life. Because loosing someone that is a part of you is painful- it truly tears away a part of your heart. But sometimes the scars left behind aren’t ugly. Sometimes they’re a reminder of something beautiful and make you remember what you were before and what you have become. They can remind you of times you cherish deeply and that made you what you are. They keep you from forgetting.

One time my sister told me that Little Man always looked to her as if you could just put a bow tie on him and take him to a party. So true. He was elegant and handsome and truly majestic in the way he carried himself. He was proud and true. And he had the characteristics we should all strive for in ourselves. Simple right and wrong, pure love, no judgment. We all know he had his ornery, pain in the butt side- but that just made him human. He was not fake, not pretentious. He was just always himself and always 100% real.

Don’t be sad for me- be sad for all of the children who will never know what a true lope feels like- but not for me. Because what is there to loose in this life? All the good we will see again in Heaven, along with mounds of wonder we can’t even imagine. Picture him like I do, groomed by the angels and gleaming next to his mother in the light of the glory of God- so much more beautiful than the sun’s light, waiting with his mother in a beautiful pasture behind the “place He has prepared for us” in Heaven just waiting patiently- like they’ve always waited for us. And I know he is there, because I know Jesus is coming back on a gray horse. (I know, I know- the Bible reads “white” horse. But John was not an equestrian and he had no idea that “white” didn’t exactly mean white. He meant gray, I’m sure of it.)

Classic Cowgirls

So, the girl that cleans our stalls informed me yesterday that she didn't know who Annie Oakley, Belle Star and Dale Evans were. HELLO! I almost fired her on the spot.

I grew up watching Saved by the Bell with the rest of you, and who didn't want to be Kelly Kapowski? But I also grew up on a farm riding horses and playing in the dirt. I was a cowgirl worshiper, and I'm still a cowgirl at heart. I had a book I read religiously called The Cowgirl Companion, and here are a few of my favorite tidbits for those of you who are not up to par on your cowgirl lore.

Dale Evans isn't the original cowgirl, as some people call her, but she did make the term famous. And, thankfully, she wasn't just some movie star in deer skin. She actually grew up on a ranch and could ride a horse and a milk a cow. Go Dale!

                    

Looks like your run of the mill pioneer woman, doesn't it? No Mam! Belle Star was an outlaw that associated with the likes of Jesse James and seduced lawmen when she couldn't buy them off. One tough broad!

                                           

If you don't know who Annie Oakley is, I'll shoot you myself! She rode in Wild Bill Hickock's traveling western show and shot from the back of a galloping horse as well as split a playing card in half on the edge side. 

And to wrap all of this up, here was my absolute favorite poem as a kid:

Hey, Cowboy

I may not have your anatomy

Nor weight the pounds you do

But, fella, let me tell ya

I'm not in awe of you!

Winters are cold to both of us

An' both our backs get sore

Old age don't care which sex we are

An' heifers in labor don't score.

The hand that feeds ain't woman or man

It's just the hand that's there

That truck won't start for God, Herself,

You read that right - don't stare.

The hands that rein the gather

Don't have to be a man's

Fencin' tools aren't pink and blue

To specify whose hands.

A green colt isn't more polite 

To a woman or a man

Either of the sexes

Can burn a proper brand.

My days are long and busy

'Cause I'm livin' from the land

Clothes don't make ya "cowboy"

It's the work that makes a hand.

And my favorite cowgirl of all time; Big Sal Robarts herself, known affectionately as BS and Nasty Patsy for various reasons. She taught me to ride a horse, hold my own, kick ass, and have a heart as big as my mouth!

Rain, Rain.... Don't Go Away!!

I love the rain! It's raining outside of my window right now. I'm looking at my view up Palafox Street and it looks softer in the rain.

Don't get me wrong, I love the sunshine too! And I would never be able to stand endless rain. But still, there is something beautiful and soothing about rainy days. I always want to curl up and listen to the sound of the drops with a good book or a nap. And if there's no lightening- I want to play! Katie and I used to go horseback riding in the rain during the summers and rip around the pasture soaking wet. When we were really little, my Daddy would drag an old mattress and blankets onto the front porch of our house in Louisiana and we would watch the storms pass. Or in safe rains, Mama would let us run around in the yard and wash our hair in the runoff from the gutters.

Rainy day view from my office window

Storm blowing in over the Grand Canyon (one of my all time favorite places)

Did I forget to mention that I also love the mud that rain creates???

What about you- rain or no?

Fairy Princess

It's my cute little fairy princess Mama's birthday today! Here is my effort at making her into a princess using Sarah's fun website.

Isn't she the cutest? She's been an amazing mother and friend to both of my sisters and I. She was always waiting for us when we got off of the bus with a tea party set up, we always played BEFORE homework, and she was always playing cute little fairy games. Toys in our rooms would be turned over, candy would be sprinkled around, and on all St. Patrick's Days green glitter would be here and there along with Junior Mints.

I had a fairytale childhood… and I mean that quite literally, a childhood full of tales of fairies. When I was about four, and my sisters were three and one and a half (We were all born within three and a half years. We can discuss my parents’ fertility later.), we lived in a very old house in Abbeville, Louisiana. Mama was trying to get all three of us to take a nap at once, not a simple feat. There was a big vine growing in the bedroom window, and Mama told us the story of the Fairy Vine. This was a magical vine, a vine where the fairies played Chutes and Ladders, or something of the sort. It was also a vine by which fairies granted the wishes of little girls while they napped. We were enthralled, naturally. Little girls are easily enthralled, and we had the most enthralling of mothers! We made wishes, apparently for beautiful jammies. And they appeared. Mine were blue. Beautiful silky jammies with lace. 

I can follow your thoughts here. I’ve had them too- in one of my lapses in judgment when I thought everything could be explained. She prompted our wishes, she ran to the store while we napped… something. First, let me tell you plainly that my Mama never prompted any of our thoughts. She loved our thoughts too much, she lived for them. She, both of my parents actually, were always very careful to allow us our own thoughts, our own dreams, our independence. You’ll have to take my word for it, but she never prompted our thoughts. And if she HAD prompted our thoughts, they would have involved glitter anyhow. Second, you likely haven’t lived in Abbeville, Louisiana. It doesn’t, or didn’t when we lived there, have stores that sell silk, frilly pajamas for little girls. And even if they had, it would have been blocks from our home and Mama would never have left us alone. Aside from having the foresight to believe in fairies, she was also a very good mother. 

So after our naps, when we woke up, there were our beautiful new jammies at the bottom of the bed. Just waiting for us. And we were ecstatic. I wish I remembered what we did when Daddy got home! I can only imagine how we relayed our story to him. 

And that was how all of our childhood was- full of fun and games and playing and fairytales. On rainy days, Mama put on her roller skates and roller-skated us, in turns, up and down the halls. On sunny days our dollar store swimming pool was filled with the shipping peanuts that came in my Daddy’s huge boxes of veterinary medical shipments and we “swam” in them in the front yard. 

She deserves a world of credit for the things she's sacrificed, the hour plus round trip car pools she's driven, and the one and only day she "grounded" me and took me shopping.

I LOVE YOU MOMMY!!

Perdido Key, Books and Women of Faith

So, I've been at my parent's in Perdido Key since Monday night with Van. (Van's doing better, but he way. Not good, but better.) Mama and I are talking about trying to go to the beach this weekend, if it's open. They've already banned swimming. It got me started thing about my beloved beach. I grew up in Perdido, not Pensacola, and it's just a small, quiet beach community. We don't get the huge crowds of Pensacola Beach- it's a fairly serene place. Lots and lots of sea oats left. I'm going to miss my sweet little step-sister beach after the oil hits!

When we first moved here (I was 6) we lived across the street from the beach and went almost daily. Daddy walked on the beach every morning and would bring us sand dollars before school. And when he wanted to build his own clinic, he designed it on the beach in Perdido with my sisters, Mama, some drift wood and me as the walls.

 I'll let you know how it looks. :(


So, thinking about going to the beach- I knew I'd want a book and I'm almost done with Lunch in Paris. A state of panic set it. I simply can't be without a book! Or three! I have about five unread beauties at the farm, but I'll be in Perdido and what am I do do when I finish the last three chapters of Lunch in Paris? Horror of Horrors! So I had to sneak away from work and run off to the used book store, where I picked up three books just in case. If I don't have a stack of unread books at any given time, I get antsy. I have a book addiction.

And finally, one of the books I picked up was a Women of Faith book called Keeping a Princess Heart in a Not-So Fairy Tale World. I love Women of Faith books. I read them regularly and really hope the conference comes close to me one day so I can attend. I also get their weekly devotions- this week happened to be about fairy tales and from the book that leaped off the shelf at me 2 hours ago. Think God might be telling me something?? I sent sweet Sarah an email with the link because she's living her fairy tale and it reminded me of her. Maybe it's me that needs a second look. You check it out...
http://blogs.womenoffaith.com/blog/2010/06/fairy-tales/

Fairytales

It seems a logical place to start would be my childhood. That generally explains a lot about people. Not that I’m particularly logical, but a girl has to start somewhere. And our childhood certainly explains a lot about my sisters and I- in very different ways, but all the same it explains a lot.


I had a fairytale childhood… and I mean that quite literally, a childhood full of tales of fairies. When I was about four, and my sisters were three and one and a half (We were all born within three and a half years. We can discuss my parents’ fertility later.), we lived in a very old house in Abbeville, Louisiana. Mama was trying to get all three of us to take a nap at once, not a simple feat. There was a big vine growing in the bedroom window, and Mama told us the story of the Fairy Vine. This was a magical vine, a vine where the fairies played Chutes and Ladders, or something of the sort. It was also a vine by which fairies granted the wishes of little girls while they napped. We were enthralled, naturally. Little girls are easily enthralled, and we had the most enthralling of mothers! We made wishes, apparently for beautiful jammies. And they appeared. Mine were blue. Beautiful silky jammies with lace.

I can follow your thoughts here. I’ve had them too- in one of my lapses in judgment when I thought everything could be explained. She prompted our wishes, she ran to the store while we napped… something. First, let me tell you plainly that my Mama never prompted any of our thoughts. She loved our thoughts too much, she lived for them. She, both of my parents actually, were always very careful to allow us our own thoughts, our own dreams, our independence. You’ll have to take my word for it, but she never prompted our thoughts. And if she HAD prompted our thoughts, they would have involved glitter anyhow. Second, you likely haven’t lived in Abbeville, Louisiana. It doesn’t, or didn’t when we lived there, have stores that sell silk, frilly pajamas for little girls. And even if they had, it would have been blocks from our home and Mama would never have left us alone. Aside from having the foresight to believe in fairies, she was also a very good mother.

So after our naps, when we woke up, there were our beautiful new jammies at the bottom of the bed. Just waiting for us. And we were ecstatic. I wish I remembered what we did when Daddy got home! I can only imagine how we relayed our story to him.

And that was how all of our childhood was- full of fun and games and playing and fairytales. On rainy days, Mama put on her roller skates and roller-skated us, in turns, up and down the halls. On sunny days our dollar store swimming pool was filled with the shipping peanuts that came in my Daddy’s huge boxes of veterinary medical shipments and we “swam” in them in the front yard. Our house was full of stink bugs in the evenings when Daddy got home from work and he would spend an hour or so chasing “Dee-Buhs” around the house and getting them out as a game. During thunderstorms Daddy pulled a mattress out onto the front porch and covered us with blankets while we watched the storm blow by. While Christmas shopping for Mama, we played games of chase up and down and down and up the escalators.

Like I said, fairytale childhood. And I chose to believe.