My prayer for the last 26 years has been "Dear Lord, just let me live long enough to get my babies raised, successful, and happy. I don't want anyone taking care of them but me."
He answered that prayer, and for that I am thankful.
So. Now what? Everything I've read, everyone I've talked to says, "Well, now you have to figure out who you are." Easier said than done. You'd think at this stage of my life I would have figured that out. I haven't. I know what I'm not, which is a start. Who and what I'm not is pretty boring. I'm beginning to think that who I am is not as important as who I want to be. Here are things I like:
I love to spend time with my family. We're a pretty tight bunch.
I love the beach when it isn't 100 degrees.
I like my house to be clean, but I don't particularly like to clean it.
I love my job and I love to work...so shoot me. I love to work and I love my job.
I like to bake when I'm in the mood.
I don't care for television.
I like to watch Alabama football when we're winning. I hide in the bathroom when we're not,
and I put my fingers in my ears so I can't hear.
I like quiet and calm and no drama.
I love to travel for fun, but I don't like to travel for work.
I want to go back to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, France,Seattle, the Rockies,and a bunch of other places.
I love my friends, but I don't make time for them like I want to do.
So...maybe who I want to be is who I am. Maybe, in my case, I just need to stop trying to figure out who I want to be and just be Vicky. Maybe in this case...no change is necessary.
That was easy.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Two New Vibrant Women in My Life
Rose Ann Burnham Thompson, Pat Lake Grant, Linda Manning Grissom, Deb Buettner, Jenita Smith, Lorie Butler Black, Mama, Franzi Frieg, Christel Frieg, Grandma, Oma,Loucrecia Collins, Leah Keith, Sue Butler, Montez Butler, Wanda Hyatt, Jo Ann Sachs, Juliana Black Robertson,Debbie Garrison, Francie Abbott, Heidi Abbott, Courtney Thompson, Courtney Watts, Diane Barnett, Patsy Doherty...
How blessed am?
That's just the tip of the supportive female iceberg...women who have had a profound and lasting impact on my life. I have left someone out I know, and if it's you, I am sorry...like I said, this is just the tip.
Five of those women are gone,and that's so hard for me to believe. I guess that's one of the main reasons I'm determined to keep changing...so I can become a better person in honor of them. They left an indelible mark on my life, and I can't tell them, so all I can do is to be my best because they would expect that of me.
The good Lord keeps putting vibrant women in my path, and He always puts the exact ones I need. The latest two gifts from God are Amita Smith and Ann Maddox. I "inherited" them when I started my new position with Cullman County Schools. I think I had forgotten how to belly laugh. Work was stressful, home was stressful, and more often than not I found myself scowling instead of smiling. Nothing worse than an already aging face with a scowl to boot.
These two women are the funniest two women I've ever worked with. Don't get me wrong...we work and we are really good at what we do if I say so myself...but I have never laughed as much as I have the past few months. And I can't really remember what we laugh about...it's just that everything is funny.
I am so grateful for my women friends...and I consider my sister and my daughters and my niece my friends as well as my family. I am thankful for my dear long-time friends, and I am thankful for my new ones. I am one lucky girl.
How blessed am?
That's just the tip of the supportive female iceberg...women who have had a profound and lasting impact on my life. I have left someone out I know, and if it's you, I am sorry...like I said, this is just the tip.
Five of those women are gone,and that's so hard for me to believe. I guess that's one of the main reasons I'm determined to keep changing...so I can become a better person in honor of them. They left an indelible mark on my life, and I can't tell them, so all I can do is to be my best because they would expect that of me.
The good Lord keeps putting vibrant women in my path, and He always puts the exact ones I need. The latest two gifts from God are Amita Smith and Ann Maddox. I "inherited" them when I started my new position with Cullman County Schools. I think I had forgotten how to belly laugh. Work was stressful, home was stressful, and more often than not I found myself scowling instead of smiling. Nothing worse than an already aging face with a scowl to boot.
These two women are the funniest two women I've ever worked with. Don't get me wrong...we work and we are really good at what we do if I say so myself...but I have never laughed as much as I have the past few months. And I can't really remember what we laugh about...it's just that everything is funny.
I am so grateful for my women friends...and I consider my sister and my daughters and my niece my friends as well as my family. I am thankful for my dear long-time friends, and I am thankful for my new ones. I am one lucky girl.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Daddy and the Suzuki Shop
I drove through Cullman the other day - where Little Bit was before April 27th. There is only a blue and red cement floor, but that floor stirred so many memories for me!
The year was 1974. I graduated from West Point High School and immediately started working for Daddy at the Suzuki shop - where Little Bit was...until April 27th. Daddy worked for Bill Smith and Jimmy Waldrop who, at the time, owned the shop. My cousin, Michael Butler, was working for Daddy too. Michael, who went on to be a successful accountant, was...and probably still is...a pretty good mechanic.
I was the parts girl. Don't ge me wrong. I knew absolutely nothing about motorcycle parts, but I figured I could learn, and Daddy gave me a chance. That whole summer Daddy and I drove motorcycles home and back to work. No way would I get on a motorcycle now unless there is absolutely nobody else on the road. But I was young and Daddy always thought I could do anything I wanted - including driving a motorcycle. He taught me how to do that exactly the way he taught me how to drive anything I ever drove (a stick shift, once...and only once...one of his big trucks, a tractor, and a motorcycle) - he put me on or in and said, "Drive." When I asked, "How?" He said, "You'll figure it out."
And I did. I still do, and he still has confidence in my ability to do anything. Gotta love a daddy like that.
But back to the blue and red cement floor. It was blue and red then too. There were two wide doors into the building and a garage-type door out. In between was the sidewalk - which survived April 27th.
Before housing the Suzuki shop Mitch Smith Chevrolet was there if I remember correctly. Probably the same blue and red floors.
So the other day when I was driving through and I saw those floors, I was reminded of one day when Daddy put on a helmet that was way too small, got onto a little 75 Suzuki, and drove through the store, out the doors, down the sidwalk, and back into the other doors singing "Taking Care of Business" at the top of his lungs. Gotta love a daddy with a sense of humor, and mine has one!
For just a moment I was 17 just out of high school with the whole world in front of me. For just a moment my daddy was young. For just a moment.
I don't know what they'll build there, but I'm guessing they'll cover those blue and red cement floors. And in a few years nobody will remember them.
Some change seems small and insignificant...but this one doesn't to me.
The year was 1974. I graduated from West Point High School and immediately started working for Daddy at the Suzuki shop - where Little Bit was...until April 27th. Daddy worked for Bill Smith and Jimmy Waldrop who, at the time, owned the shop. My cousin, Michael Butler, was working for Daddy too. Michael, who went on to be a successful accountant, was...and probably still is...a pretty good mechanic.
I was the parts girl. Don't ge me wrong. I knew absolutely nothing about motorcycle parts, but I figured I could learn, and Daddy gave me a chance. That whole summer Daddy and I drove motorcycles home and back to work. No way would I get on a motorcycle now unless there is absolutely nobody else on the road. But I was young and Daddy always thought I could do anything I wanted - including driving a motorcycle. He taught me how to do that exactly the way he taught me how to drive anything I ever drove (a stick shift, once...and only once...one of his big trucks, a tractor, and a motorcycle) - he put me on or in and said, "Drive." When I asked, "How?" He said, "You'll figure it out."
And I did. I still do, and he still has confidence in my ability to do anything. Gotta love a daddy like that.
But back to the blue and red cement floor. It was blue and red then too. There were two wide doors into the building and a garage-type door out. In between was the sidewalk - which survived April 27th.
Before housing the Suzuki shop Mitch Smith Chevrolet was there if I remember correctly. Probably the same blue and red floors.
So the other day when I was driving through and I saw those floors, I was reminded of one day when Daddy put on a helmet that was way too small, got onto a little 75 Suzuki, and drove through the store, out the doors, down the sidwalk, and back into the other doors singing "Taking Care of Business" at the top of his lungs. Gotta love a daddy with a sense of humor, and mine has one!
For just a moment I was 17 just out of high school with the whole world in front of me. For just a moment my daddy was young. For just a moment.
I don't know what they'll build there, but I'm guessing they'll cover those blue and red cement floors. And in a few years nobody will remember them.
Some change seems small and insignificant...but this one doesn't to me.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Jo Ann
Her name was Jo Ann Sachs. She was my mentor teacher when I first started teaching at West Point High School. I was miserable that year. I had to change classrooms 5 times a day. I had overcrowded rooms and some pretty disruptive students who gave me a run for my money. And I had an assistant principal who maintained that "boys will be boys" even if that meant they spit on the floor in the hall. Not a great year. By March I had had it. I told Jo Ann I was quitting and going home. She took me in her room, sat me down, and gave me a good lecture. So I stayed, but only because she convinced me it couldn't get any worse.
That summer I got divorced, and I was so grateful I had a job and so grateful to her for convincing me to stay. The assistant principal moved on, I got my own room, and things did get better.
That was the beginning of a friendship that spanned sixteen years. She was there for me every step of the rocky, bumpy road that has been my life. I'm not complaining. I have a great life, but like everyone else...I have had those times...
Six years ago she came looking for me. She came to my house first, but I wasn't home. Acting
on a hunch, and knowing me as well as she did, she found me at Berkley Bob's having coffee with our other dear friend, Wanda.
"I have breast cancer," she said.
If the road has been bumpy for me, those bumps pale in comparison to what she endured for the
next six years. There was a time we thought she would be okay. We laughed until we cried over the silliest things. We all met for coffee, went junkin together, pretended we really were going to do the crafts we bought all those books for.
Then, it was back with a vengeance. And she started giving me things. A book I said I liked; a Hummel figurine she bought for 25 cents at a yard sale; a big pewter thimble shot glass that says "Just a Thimble Full," a necklace she made just for me (she made all the West Point buddies one), and finally...on a day she could barely walk, she insisted on giving me a beautiful set of old mixing bowls because she knew I loved them. When I protested about her giving me things she would say, "I'm downsizing."
I knew she was going to die. The cancer had ravaged her body. She was so strong, so resolute. She didn't take pain medication until at the very end. She died with dignity.
But I wasn't ready to lose her. Selfishly I wanted her here to ease me over the bumps. We never talked about her dying. Maybe she had that conversation with Pat Tucker or Wanda Hyatt, but not with me. Once I sent her an email telling her how much she meant to me and how much I loved her. She never responded and she never mentioned it. But she loved me and I loved her. We talked about life and fun things...but never about death.
Life is full of changes. This one is painful. I need my friend. I miss her and I would give anything for one last, long, funny, serious talk. I love you Jo Ann. Thank you.
That summer I got divorced, and I was so grateful I had a job and so grateful to her for convincing me to stay. The assistant principal moved on, I got my own room, and things did get better.
That was the beginning of a friendship that spanned sixteen years. She was there for me every step of the rocky, bumpy road that has been my life. I'm not complaining. I have a great life, but like everyone else...I have had those times...
Six years ago she came looking for me. She came to my house first, but I wasn't home. Acting
on a hunch, and knowing me as well as she did, she found me at Berkley Bob's having coffee with our other dear friend, Wanda.
"I have breast cancer," she said.
If the road has been bumpy for me, those bumps pale in comparison to what she endured for the
next six years. There was a time we thought she would be okay. We laughed until we cried over the silliest things. We all met for coffee, went junkin together, pretended we really were going to do the crafts we bought all those books for.
Then, it was back with a vengeance. And she started giving me things. A book I said I liked; a Hummel figurine she bought for 25 cents at a yard sale; a big pewter thimble shot glass that says "Just a Thimble Full," a necklace she made just for me (she made all the West Point buddies one), and finally...on a day she could barely walk, she insisted on giving me a beautiful set of old mixing bowls because she knew I loved them. When I protested about her giving me things she would say, "I'm downsizing."
I knew she was going to die. The cancer had ravaged her body. She was so strong, so resolute. She didn't take pain medication until at the very end. She died with dignity.
But I wasn't ready to lose her. Selfishly I wanted her here to ease me over the bumps. We never talked about her dying. Maybe she had that conversation with Pat Tucker or Wanda Hyatt, but not with me. Once I sent her an email telling her how much she meant to me and how much I loved her. She never responded and she never mentioned it. But she loved me and I loved her. We talked about life and fun things...but never about death.
Life is full of changes. This one is painful. I need my friend. I miss her and I would give anything for one last, long, funny, serious talk. I love you Jo Ann. Thank you.
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