Grandma Neeley's crayon drawer

I don't know that my Grandma Neeley knew how much I loved being at her house when I was young.  We spent many summers traveling from Arizona to SLC to visit her.  She had a three story home that was purchased when my Grandpa was alive.  They raised most of their eight children there.  Then, as they each grew, cousins came along.  There was a happiness explosion each summer at Grandma's. 

Grandma Neeley had unlimited wonderful qualities.  But it's the big drawer in the kitchen, under the long bay window,  that overlooked her fruit tree filled back yard,  that I will never forget.  This drawer was packed to the brim with Crayola crayons.  It quenched my creative appetite to behold such mounds of delight.  If the hoped for color wasn't visible from the top, you could run your hands and fingers through to the bottom, like jewels in a treasure chest.  I colored fort hours there, subconsciously listening to the happiness in the next rooms.

I was privileged to watch Audrey and Henry today.  I think they could play all day, right through naps and eating.  They were content.  Audrey happily taste tested everything while she moved along the toy bins, standing against them for balance.  And Henry concentrated on potato head, magnetic shapes, and building a space center with plastic building pieces.  As I held sleeping Audrey, Henry whispered his play by play to me as he built and rebuilt.  I looked at their sweet concentrating faces and it took me right back to Grandma Neeley's.  That's how I felt at her crayon drawer.  Happy and content.  

I don't know if she knew it then, but I silently thanked her for it today.  I was filled with gratitude for the peaceful coloring memories., and the love I felt in her home.  Because of her, I could recognize the same peace in my little grand children's eyes.  I hope what I have to offer my grandchildren will always compare to the joy of Grandma Neeley's loaded crayon drawer.

Good Men

Happy Father's Day to a few GOOD men

GOOD

adjective, better, best.

1.

morally excellent; virtuous; righteous; pious:

noun

43.

excellence or merit; kindness:

to do good.

44.

moral righteousness; virtue:

to be a power for good.

Synonyms

1. pure, moral, conscientious, meritorious, worthy, exemplary, upright. 2. commendable, admirable. 5. obedient, heedful. 6. kindly, benevolent, humane, gracious, obliging. 23. full, adequate. 24. profitable, useful, serviceable, beneficial. 25. efficient, proficient, capable, able,

ready, suited, suitable, dexterous, expert, adroit, apt .Randy Clawson, Jeff Clawson, Gregg Clawson, Brenden Rensink, Rusty Crandell. 


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Saturday is a special day

The day started with small alterations of a typical Saturday, but we still "made hay while the sun shined".  A trip to the grocery store was a priority.  We are on the linger longer committee after church and Sunday we would put out a root beer spread for 75 socially, hungry (maybe or maybe not in that order) single adults.  So, 4 giant vanilla ice cream tubs and 12 two liter root beers later, we were off to load them into the church refrigerator/freezer.  We're not dumb.  Cooling them there was the best plan for an easier Sunday morning.

We carted each bag inside, carefully placing them on the kitchen counter.  Randy opened the refrigerator door and bent down to retrieve each bottle as I handed it to him from on high . . . until that one bottle.

Slipping out of my hands, and with a terrified expression on my face, I knew its fate - and mine.  Hitting the floor, a spastic root beer bomb exploded from a crack in its 89 cent plastic!  Like a bad dream, I keep replaying the bottle spinning 80 miles an hour, spray painting root beer in every direction from the floor to the ceiling.  It would have been hopeless to try and stop it. I turned my back away and hid my eyes. The damage was already done. . . .

When Randy peeked out from behind the protection of the door,  it was like we could hear crickets chirping, against what seconds before had been a battle zone.  The cheap plastic bottle lay spent and lifeless on the floor and was done for, except for about 1/4 of its flat contents.  We were afraid to move.  Now what.

Without speaking, Randy slowly stood and reached for (luckily, not my neck) the paper towel machine.  I tiptoed to the maintenance closet and retrieved a mop.  The overhaul began.  The refrigerator was standing in a root beer puddle.  We rolled every splattered rack of trays out and began dissecting the remains, knowing it would be a miracle if we could clean every last splat.  Spots everywhere?  That's putting it mildly.  You don't understand.

The mop came in most handy.  Over every inch of the uneven floor (hence, the fridge puddle) 10 times . . . oh, and of course across the ceiling a few times, since those spots were literally in and before our eyes. Brown ones. After a while we weren't even surprised to see spots under our arm pits.  Lets just say that after an hour, that kitchen has never looked better.  It was in need of an overhaul anyway.  Urban Stewart would have been proud.  We both knew the halls would smell like root beer for weeks, but that was OK.  It could have smelled like something worse.  We walked out with a clear conscience and no sounds of sticky shoes.

We came home and took a nap; right in our now dry, but previously root beer soaked clothes.

We carried on a few more Saturday priorities around the house.  And at bed time, putting a comb through my hair was impossible. It had turned to hard sticky candy. I felt like Barbies' plastic haired Ken.

Saturday is a special day.  It's the day we get ready for Sunday . . .  If you only knew.

Ukulele Band

I have always favored the sweet sound of the ukulele since I was a baby, when my Dad would serenade every evening after work. Sitting in a chair, whistling, singing or strumming beautifully, he could go on for hours. Serving in New Zealand on a mission made his playing even more sweet.

A couple of years ago, Randy gave me a ukulele for Christmas.  I had learned, through a friend I admire, that she played in a ukulele band.  I couldn't get the idea out of my head; this group had my name all over it!  I invested in a chord chart, and began the journey.

We meet at the Scottsdale senior center once a week in a conference room.  Every other week we play folk songs and golden oldies.  The other weeks are spent playing Hawaiian songs and styles.  Every chair is filled as we surround tables pulled together in a horseshoe.  We each own two 300 page songbooks, which we play random favorite songs from for 2 hours (intermixed with stories in between).  Pat, our leader, does his best to inspire us amidst "peanut gallery" comments.  He is pushing 80 and plays on a different uke every week, since he collects them (over 60 ukes).  He can play beautifully and through his stories you know he has exposed his own children and grand children to enjoy playing together.  He's a man after my own heart.  Especially impressive is the fact that he is hard of hearing. . . and he doesn't read music.  But SO qualified!

I had been gone from the group for 9 months and it felt great to be back today.  As I played away, it dawned on me that this is a setting I might have to defend to others that don't have a clue.  To understand my part in this, I will attempt to describe the other members:

Warren - Hawaiian native.  Wears a Hawaiian shirt every week.  Mid 80's.  Had his share of medical setbacks.  Still plays like he lives under a palm tree in Honolulu.  Must strum in his sleep.   Plays in a harmonica band.   Widower.

Mildred - Classy and well kept.  Volunteers, except for Friday ukulele group.  Mid 70's.  Skin cancer recipient.  Plays bass ukulele flawlessly.  Taught in Scottsdale School district.  Widow.

Tiffany - Mid 40's.  Lives in Payson.  Travels to uke group every Friday.  Not afraid to play the Beachboys "Wouldn't It Be Nice" as if no one else was in the room.  Smiles, nods, and sways to the rhythm of every song.

Marie - Classy.  Quick wit.  Previously a Sweet Adalines alto.  Late 70's.  Rides a scooter chair.  Plays the heart out of her small ukulele, never missing a chord.  Widow.

Alona - my friend.  Mid  60's.  Married to executive secretary in another singles ward.  Tempe.  Teaches and plays piano beautifully.  Is a spearhead in putting this group together.  Frequents Hawaii.  Sets a peppy, obvious tempo for every song, knowing we can all keep up. 

Susan - Mid 60's.   Previously a Phoenix Symphony violist.  Tempe.  Proud owner of a couple of custom made beautiful ukes, one being electric.  Wonderful musical knowledge and uke theory.  Technology wizard, making her searches for song and info fast.  Plays all introductions.

Dan - Plays competitive tennis.  Mid 70's.  New member to me.  A ukulele like mine.  Has played for a while.

Butchi - late 70's.  Husband comes with to listen along from his wheel chair.  Plays extremely well.  Cares about musical details.  Heart history 

2 or 3 others were there today, off to spend the summer in their cooler climates, only to be back in the Fall.  It's common for the men in the group to have learned how to play, serving in their military days.

After belonging to the group, I have come to admire and learn from these good people.  They are an inspiration and I find myself appreciating their zeal for life as well as music.  They are giving me a gift!

I think about my 89 year old Dad.  He would bask in their skills, too.  I've got to take him with me, and his ukulele. Without him, I wouldn't know all this fun..

Jody - Daughter of ukulele lover.  Proud of callouses that come from practicing.  Played first solo today, "April Showers", thanks to Pat, who teaches also about sharing to make others happy.   . . a piano angle I've used a hundred times.



 

Happy

Is it just me, or do pistachios make you happy, too?

 

 

sweet grandchildren

How does your garden grow?

All That I Am or Hope to Be

I went out to Gilbert today with Francie.  That seems to be the day I can take Mom grocery shopping.  She makes her list and in between the ailes I put pieces together about life with her and Dad.  This week we looked for canned sweet potatoes because Dad likes them.  Last week we learned that the 5 lb bags of old bananas Dad loves (not sure if it's because they are $ .25 or because they're not completely brown yet) will no longer be sold at Safeway.  They'll now go to the food bank.  (We gently broke the news to him!)  We also carefully chose frozen entrees to try; Dad, not being a fan of rice.  It pleases me the way Mom loves the produce section.  I can imagine her little "spreads" at meal or snack times.  She still writes out a check for payment, or she'll pull out exactly the right amount of cash Dad has provided for her, with her slowing fingers.  She laughs with Francie and I get a glimpse of her upcoming week.

When we got home, there was Dad.  He has been down (physically and "in the dumps") because of a very painful shingles episode in his left eye.  He always gets up and dressed, but has been unable to drive (I know, he's 89!), or read, or garden, or go home teaching, or church.  This eye thing has taken a lot out of him.  So, he has been home, trying to stay busy; but miserable.  We sat down at the bar and as I fed Francie,  Dad and Mom sat across from me.  I got ready for his stories.  But instead, he began to explain his gratitude for things being done around him that, before the eye setback, had gone unnoticed.  How, reaching for a clean towel, it occurred to him that someone had washed and folded that towel.  Or someone had put a place mat down before the meal (Dad has a thing for place mats).  He was talking about Mom, and all the things in her 84 year old life that she still does for him.  Mom angelically smiled.  

Next Sunday is Mother's Day.  I'm thankful for her example of selflessness, among hundreds of other perfect qualities.  And I'm so thankful to call her mine.  Don't think I don't still take notes, like on our Thursday grocery shopping trips.  I love them and I love her!

"All that I am or hope to be, I owe to my angel Mother"  (Abraham Lincoln)

PS.  As we visited, we realized that today is her Mother's birthday (Maude Groberg Neeley - Grandma Neeley).  I'm pretty sure she was listening in with us, too.