Still haven't found what I'm looking for

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I'm looking for something and having one <cuss> of a time finding it. And it's making me crazy.

Comments from this post last week led me to an idea for a new post that I can't wait to share, one related to that one, one telling you of something I have done that you likely would never believe. To assuage your sure disbelief, I plan to include in the post proof of my claim. Proof of something awesome. Proof that comes by way of a certificate.

But, alas, I can't find that <cuss> certificate.

And it's making me certifiably crazy.

When you live in one place for a long time, you inevitably end up with things you'd forgotten about stashed away in spots you'd forgotten about. But Jim and I haven't lived in this house very long, and I've been pretty good about organizing where things go now that the nest is empty and all spaces are Jim's and mine for stashing.

Yet I still haven't found what I'm looking for. And, like I said, it's making me crazy. Especially because I've found everything related to our family history except that <cuss> certificate, unexpected finds such as:

• The hospital wristbands worn by each of my girls when they were newborns

• The baggie of tissue-wrapped teeth the Tooth Fairy removed from under pillows (all in one baggie so I don't know which teeth belong to which daughter)

• The Congratulations on Your Baby Girl card Jim's stepmom and now-deceased dad sent when Andie was born ... with the bicentennial silver dollar they included still taped to the card

• A collection of fingerpainted artwork created by my girls when they were toddlers, using homemade fingerpaints whipped up by yours truly

• Decades worth of handwritten letters from my dear grandma who recently passed away

• The "proof of account paid in full" documents showing we finally, after seven years, paid off Brianna's birth, having had no health insurance at the time

• Every paper related to the seemingly millions of dollars in PLUS loans taken out for the sake of providing our daughters considerable educations

• A manila envelope stuffed full of newspaper clippings and memorial booklets related to the explosion of the Challenger, postmarked 1986 and sent from the Rocky Mountain News

• The 1988, 1989, and 1990 calendars I was missing from my calendar stash

• Three Certificates of Award to my oldest brother from his high school that certify him in 1977 as: 1st place for senior that skips the most and gets away with it, 2nd place for senior class clown, and three-way tie for 2nd place for senior with the most leadership (Don't ask...)

• An undeveloped disposable camera from Megan's wedding, courtesy of Jim's brother

• The commencement program from when Jim's sister and mom graduated from the community college ... at the same time

• The "Beauty Culture/Manicurist" certificate awarded to me in 1991 upon completing the required number of beauty school hours to hold hands with strangers do manicures and apply artificial nails

• The undated Certificate of Appreciation my Girl Scout troop presented Jim for being the troop's Cookie Manager during cookie-sale season

And more. So much more.

But no certificate of the awesomeness I wish to share with you. Nowhere.

At least not yet.

It has now officially become my mission: I will find that certificate.

Then I will write a post about it.

And you will think it's awesome.

Once I find the <cuss> thing.

Once I stop considering and crying over all the memorable things I have found on my mission.

Today's question:

Fill in the blank: Something I unfortunately lost and never found again is ____________.

12 things I've never done (and likely never will)

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I have never:

1. Jumped off a diving board

2. Worn contacts

3. Had my wisdom teeth pulled

4. Been proposed to (marriage was a decision for Jim and me)

5. Gone blonde

6. Gone snow skiing ... despite living in "Ski Country USA"

7. Had a one-night stand

8. Said to friends, family, or co-workers, "You wanna go out for a smoke?"

9. "Tried" to get pregnant

10. Used the allotted one phone call to be bailed out of jail

11. Ordered squid

12. Told the bank teller, "I'd like that in all hundreds, please."

Photo: flickr/Postcard Farm

Today's question:

What would be on your list?

Ripple effect

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One of the questions I regularly ask the Grilled Grandmas is "What do you most want to pass along to your grandchildren?". I'm continually impressed by their thoughtful answers because in considering that question myself, I find it difficult to narrow it down, to sum up in a few words what I want the sons and daughters of my daughters to have and to do and to be.

I want to pass along to my grandchildren so many things, some that I have, some that I don't, some that I wish I had mastered.

I want to pass along the traits of faithfulness and thankfulness. I want them to know they’re loved and worthy and important. I want them to have memories of incredible moments and the motivation to create more. I want to pass along a love for themselves as well as a love for others, regardless of how alike or different others may be. I want to pass along the desire — and the ability — to make the most of the gifts they have been given.

I want to pass along to my grandchildren all that and more. Ultimately, though, what I most want to pass along to my grandchildren is life and all the beauty and blessings and potential wrapped up in that. I want them — my extended family — to be and to continue to be. To continue the family line, the family tree. I cringe at the idea that everything Jim and I put into the family we’ve created could have ended with our most immediate progeny. No, I want our family tree to have strong roots and abundant shoots going forward, and for those roots and shoots to make a difference in the world.

I want the lives of my children, my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren and so on to matter and make a difference in the world, partially to better themselves, to better the world around them. But in all honesty — and in all selfish realization — I also want those things partially so my life will have mattered, to know that I made a difference.

I have no illusions that I’ve shaken the world up in any way. I do believe, though, that through my children and their children and their children, my jiggles and jerks from beginning to end have had and will continue to have a ripple effect. My words, my actions, my love have touched my children, who then have gone out into the world and touched others with their words, actions, love. Then the ripples continue as those touched in turn touch others, matter to others, make a difference to others. My ripples grow larger, wider, eternal. That won’t happen if the family doesn’t continue, if life is not passed down, again and again and again.

Yes, I want to pass along love, independence, fortitude, passion, compassion, sympathy, empathy and more. Those are the things of life, of living. For better or for worse, those are intertwined with pain, heartache, fear, longing, loss — life’s unsavory bits that make what's on the other side of the coin all the more sweet and appreciated and worth every utterance of gratitude and thanks.

So, regardless of reason, justification, or explanation, when I truly consider what I want to pass along to my grandchildren, the bottom line is this: I most want to pass down to them life and the gumption to make their fair share of ripples — possibly even a big splash now and then, too — with that life.

Photo: stock.xchng/biewoef

Today's question:

Whose ripples from the past continue to impact your present?

Summer!

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Today the trumpets sound and summer officially begins!

Simple seasonal pleasures I look forward to:

• The smell of freshly cut grass

• Raspberries, cherries, blueberries, rhubarb, and sweet corn

• Gurgling from the back yard waterfall

• Scents wafting from BBQ grills ... ours and the neighbors'

• Open windows at night, awaking to a slight morning chill

• Hummingbirds

• S'mores and weenies over the fire pit

• Covering with only a sheet at night

• Dinner parties, game nights, and margaritas on the patio

• Non-party dinners on the patio, just Jim and me ... and the girls, when they visit

• Hot air balloons floating over the house (although the part where they scare the cuss out of Lyla isn't so great)

• Root beer floats

• Sunny day BBQs with friends and family, our place or theirs

• Relaxing in our peaceful three-season porch ... which really can be enjoyed only one season — this season — in Colorado

• The sound of the ice cream truck rolling through the neighborhood (although it would be much more delightful if he updated his play list)

• Apples, peaches, plums, hollyhocks, geraniums, clematis, zinnias, roses, dianthus, day lillies, grape vines and the wild and crazy vine I've yet to identify, growing in the front yard and back. Plus others I try to get to grow in the front yard and back

• Rocking in my rocker on the deck, listening to the birds cheep and chirp and the wind chimes tinkle in the breeze

• Homemade ice cream, at least once

• Watering my flower buckets ... and the zucchini/pumpkin patch that will produce this time

• Our annual summer visit to the desert, this time to not only celebrate Bubby's birthday, but to meet his new baby brother Mac!

Today's question:

What simple pleasures of summer do you look forward to?

Perspective

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Like many folks, I’ve faced a fair share of challenges the past couple of years due to the economic mess we’re plodding our way through. I’ve also had a few other challenges and disappointments, many related to family situations, writing failures, and having a big ol’ chunk of my heart residing 815 miles away with my daughter and grandson.

I worry and whine about my woes. Often. More often than I should. Which has been made quite clear to me by a young girl I recently met. Her name is Blessing, and she lives a life far more challenging than mine, with hardships that make my complaints pale in comparison.

Blessing is 12 years old. She lives with her mother and older brother — and umpteen cousins and others — at her grandparents’ shack of a home in Nigeria, after her father deserted the family. Blessing is wise beyond her years, she's tenacious in the face of upheaval, and she's fiercely loyal to her brother.

She’s also not real.

Blessing is the narrator of the absorbing coming-of-age novel I’m currently reading called Tiny Sunbirds, Far Away by Christie Watson. And though she isn’t real, the daily hardships she endures as an adolescent girl in Nigeria are. Fictional Blessing and factual residents of contemporary Nigeria provide a much-needed perspective to my perceived hardships and force me to reconsider pity parties I’ve conducted in the name of my plight.

I whine about having to cut back on groceries and dining out because of a tightened budget. Blessing and her family eat fish stew, stretched with water to feed all the hungry mouths of those sharing their ramshackle home. In addition, yams — one of the few foods I hate — are a staple of their diet, and all meats must be fried to kill the parasites they carry.

I lament not having the funds to spruce up and newly accessorize my bathroom. Blessing has no bathroom, uses an outhouse or a hole in the ground used by all the others in her family. She also has no running water and no electricity.

I complain about having to dust, vacuum, sweep, and clean the cat box. Blessing must collect water in town and carry it home in a bucket balanced on her head.

I bemoan the unsavory parts of my job, listen to Jim and the girls do the same regarding theirs. Blessing is forced to learn and practice the midwifery trade from her grandmother — at 12 years old! One of the other women living with her family has a job as a professional mourner at funerals. Both are happy to have the work, the meager wages that help keep the family fed.

I stress over the usual pains and occasional procedures endured by my loved ones and myself. Blessing fears daily for her brother’s life because of asthma and allergies that wrack his body, made worse by limited money for medication, limited access to appropriate foods, and limited (or nonexistent) sanitation.

I lament needing to lock the doors every night because of increased crime in our neighborhood. Blessing and her family are surrounded every day by crime and violence by way of corrupt officials, warring tribes, and renegades trolling for random victims as well as new recruits.

It’s a hard life for Blessing. It’s an even more difficult one for Blessing’s real-life counterparts, those not populating the pages of a novel but daily traversing the difficult, often undignified — and often fatal — road of contemporary Nigeria’s reality. A road that makes mine look thoroughly blessed and bountiful in comparison.

I’ve not yet finished reading Blessing’s powerful story, I don’t know how it all ends. But I sincerely hope it’s a happy ending for the young heroine and her family. She deserves that. Because although Blessing isn’t real, the positive difference she’s made in my attitude and my outlook is. For real.

Disclosure: I received a free copy of Tiny Sunbirds, Far Away by Christie Watson from the publisher as part of the From Left To Write Book Club, where members write blog posts inspired by books read by club members.

Today's question:

What fictional character has impacted your life?

A little of this, a little of that ... not!

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Where I'm least likely to exercise moderation. (Can you blame me?)Yesterday's post and question was about cupcakes, and Grandma Kc mentioned in her comment that although she loves sugar, she's pretty good about "moderation."

Well, I'm not good about moderation. At least when it comes to some things. Here are a few of those things:

Accumulating books. I plea for free ones for review, I download free ones, I buy as many as I can afford from Amazon.com and the bargain shelves at Barnes & Noble. I have a serious book addiction — even when I'm physically unable to read them all. Crazy, I know.

Doritos. Yes, they're horrible for you, which is why I do my best to not purchase any because regardless of how horrible they are for you, if they're in the house, I eat them. But Jim loves them, so I occasionally acquiesce — then eat them until my TMJ acts up and my jaw pops ... or locks up completely.

Recipes. I've got an out-of-control recipe and cookbook obsession, despite using only a few of my many recipes on a regular basis. They just all look so darn good that I tell myself that I will definitely make them ... one day.

Pictures of loved ones. I can't take just one ... or one hundred. More, more, more is my motto. Now if only I had the money to print them all, my obsession might be satisfied.

Bubby. Moderation is not even a consideration here. I truly cannot get enough of him, yet I keep trying. And he feeds into the one just prior to this: pictures. I'll never have enough pictures of him, either. It's a vicious cycle.

Socks. I love socks, especially unusual ones, cool ones, non-black-or-white ones. It used to be standard when the girls would ask, "What do you want for Christmas?" (or Mother's Day or my birthday) that I'd respond with "socks." They satisfied my sock cravings for a while, then simply groaned every time I asked for more. So I don't get socks anymore. At least not from them.

Candles. Replace "socks" in the paragraph above with "candles" and you'll get the idea.

There is certainly more that proves moderation is not my middle name, but that's a start. A moderate start, I admit.

Hey, maybe I'm on to something here: proof that I can do moderation.

At least to a moderate degree.

Today's question:

In what are you least likely to exercise moderation?

Seagulls and cereal

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When I was nine years old, my parents took us to Disneyworld. They loaded the station wagon to capacity with the family of nine for the trek from our farm in Minnesota to the Happiest Place on Earth.

Other than memories of the photos of our Disneyworld visit, I don't remember much about the Magic Kingdom. I don't recall how long we stayed, what we saw, what we did.

I do, though, recall the beach house my dad rented for much of our stay in Florida. Not the inside of the beach house, but the outside, the beach part of the house.

Specifically, I recall one of our first golden mornings on the beach as my six siblings and I danced along the edge of the water, dodging waves and soaking up the sun we'd been missing back home in the still dark and chilly days of winter. The light, the air, the tranquility so unfamiliar, so inviting.

We exhalted in the sandy expanse of the beach, quite different from our usual playground of soybean fields and dusty dirt roads. We raced in opposite directions. Like colorful kites in our new vacation outfits, we flitted about as the breeze refreshed our skin and our smiles, the sand tickled our toes, the distance between us and the beach house a relished freedom from the angry discourse between Mom and Dad surely taking place inside, a never-ending discourse the change in scenery failed to obliterate.

Seagulls danced merrily above our heads and someone — my mom? my older brother? — suggested we feed them. With our breakfast, our dry cereal. One quick toss of the cereal and we were sold.

My siblings and I took turns throwing cereal pieces into the air then shrieking in delight as one seagull after another swooped down to nab the goodness mid-flight. A magical memory in the making.

Handful after handful we tossed to the seagulls, who never grew tired of our treats. Eventually, though, we grew tired, beckoned by the wonders of the water, an ocean we'd never seen before just waiting to be explored. We tossed the last of our offerings and moved on.

With the cereal consumed, the seagulls moved on as well, their white wings soaring smoothly as they disappeared into the summer haze above the water. A golden moment gone for good.

The other night at dinner, Jim and I had a conversation that took an unexpected turn down memory lane. Not the lane we've traveled together the past 30 years, but his from childhood and teenhood, before I knew him. He shared again stories few outside his family know, stories they're reluctant to share.

Then he shook his head, physically shaking off the memories.

Why do we always remember the bad things? he asked. What about the good things? We have to have good memories, right? I know the stories of your bad memories, but tell me one good memory you have from childhood. You have to have at least one.

Do I have at least one good memory of childhood? I surely must have a few, I thought.

Without hesitation I told Jim the one about the seagulls, the one about the cereal. I told him the one I remember.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What is one of your favorite memories of childhood?

Everyday wonders

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Wonder and amazement are often considered territory of youngsters. As we grow older, we grow less fascinated with the world around us, take for granted the everyday wonders in our paths.

Or so I'm told.

I'm happy to report that even as a grandma, there is much that still amazes me, no matter how many times I experience the things of wonder.

Most recently my sense of awe kicked into high gear while flying to the desert to visit Bubby. I've done it too many times to count, yet it never ceases to amaze me that in less than two hours, I can get from here ...

... to here ...

In the air. Without falling out of the sky. While still having refreshments to nibble, restrooms nearby, someone else at the wheel, someone else fully in charge of navigation.

And while traveling from mountains to desert, I get to sit back and enjoy this:

Yep, it truly amazes me. Each and every time.

I'm thankful it still does.

Today's question:

What everyday occurrences still amaze you?

Label me loony

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Last week I told you about all the press releases I get in my mail box and how I delete them all. At least most of them. I must admit there are a few product pitches I fall for, and most recently it was labels.

I'm a sucker for labels. Not labels marking a person part of this clique or that stereotype or a renegade marching to his or her own beat. No, I mean the labels marking a thing mine. Mine alone. Per the label with my name — and only my name — clearly printed for one and all to see.

I'm not sure exactly how my label obsession began but I think it had something to do with one of my favorite gifts ever received as a child: a book of labels all marked LISA, given to me by a well-intentioned relative. Stickers in the shapes of circles, stars, squares, hearts, rectangles bearing my name in block, cursive and wingy-dingly fonts of varied colors. They were lovely, and they were mine. Only mine, an uncommon affair in a family of seven kids. I marked anything and everything ... at least anything and everything that was mine.

The fixation on labeling all things LISA increased when I started babysitting and used my hard-earned cash to buy my own goodies — everything from books and records to socks, shirts, and snacks purchased just for nibbling on with my friends or by myself — and needed to protect such goods from some especially sticky-fingered siblings.

Label it or lose it became my motto. (Of course, the tactic wasn't always fool-proof.)

Then Jim and I first entered into twitterpated-ness, he fed into my labeling obsession right away in especially cutesy-coy fashion. Using an old hand-held Dymo label maker, he fashioned our first love note: a label reading "Iay Ovely Ouyay."

Labels continued to be the name the game from that moment forward. I labeled record albums, books, dishes and utensils shared during potlucks. I labeled the girls' clothes with their initials so they'd know what belonged to whom. And when they became old enough to steal my socks wear the same size footwear as me, I labeled the bottoms of my sports socks with MOM so they'd steer clear of mine. (Although as MOM upside-down is merely WOW, that tactic wasn't always foolproof either.)

Now that Jim and I are the only ones with socks in the laundry, it's pretty obvious the size 13 men's socks are his, the size 7 ladies socks are mine. No need for labels anymore. For the most part.

That didn't stop my heart from twittering a tad when I recently received an e-mail offering the opportunity to try out Name Bubbles, newfangled waterproof labels that stick to anything. Best of all, the PR company asked me to simply supply the name I wanted on my review labels and they'd be on their way to me. It was an offer I couldn't refuse.

And I didn't refuse it.

I gotta admit, though, that despite having no need whatsoever for waterproof labels fit for camp clothes, water bottles, and school totes, it sure was tough to not offer up LISA as what I wanted on the Name Bubbles headed my way. I seriously considered it.

What stopped me was knowing that if I had done that and Jim started seeing new evidence of my seemingly silenced labeling obsession, my dear husband would surely offer up his own label for me — that of LOSER.

So I caved ... and am soon expecting some shiny new Name Bubbles personalized with Bubby's real name.

I'm wondering if his future wife will one day rue a seemingly innocuous gift once given him by his well-intentioned grandma.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

Which of your possessions do you label? And how?