The last few days I’ve been engaged in a debate on another blog. I’m not going to go into the details of the debate, but suffice it to say I found myself becoming increasingly frustrated, and agitated over this social justice warrior’s inability to see the other side of things. When I asked a question that chipped a rather large chunk from her foundational argument, she responded with “This conversation is going in circles, so I’m going to step out. Thanks for the discussion.”
Which basically said to me, “I have no answer for your question, so I quit.”
And that’s fine. But it still frustrated me that so many of this particular generation base their beliefs and actions on feelings, feelings which can change with the wind, because Truth is not absolute in this day and age. There is your truth, and there is her truth, and his truth, and supposedly my truth. I don’t understand how there can be multiple truths for any given situation.
Anyway, while I was feeling frustrated and agitated and irritable about all this, my husband pointed out that he’d been much less stressed the last few days because he’d been consciously avoiding any discussions that hinged on politics or social agendas. Which reminded me of something rather important.
See the title of my blog up there? ↑↑↑
Not “A Scribbler & A Shutterbug”…
“Persistently Choosing Joy”
I think I’ve slacked up a bit in that area. And I need to refocus. On my agenda.
To persistently choose joy.
Because if I’m persistently choosing joy, my focus is on the future.
Not the past. Adios, depressing blog posts.
And not even the present. Au revoir, social justice warrior debates.
My focus is on the future and what I can do, how I can serve, to live a joyful life for the benefit of myself and those around me. Positive actions (not feelings) actually produce positive feelings. Now isn’t that interesting?
I ran by the Alvin house earlier this afternoon to do a little “cleaning” in the garage before the closing next Monday. There were some odds and ends left on the workbench that needed to be thrown away or taken home. It didn’t take very long to sort through everything, and as I worked, I found history repeating itself in a way.
I can’t count how many times I saw my daddy stop working on whatever project he had going in the garage — building an instrumentation panel, cutting lumber for a project, or working on one of the vehicles — to walk out in the front yard and stare up at the sky. He’d scan the blue, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand, listening to the hum of an airplane making its way thousands of feet above us. It would only take him a second or two to spot it, and then he would impress me by identifying whatever kind of plane it was by the shape of the wings and the sound of the engine.
Today I stood in the front yard and stared up at the sky, scanning the cloudless blue, for the source of the familiar sound. I’m pretty sure it was a single engine prop, and I am certain it had two wings, but other than that, I’m sorry to say I didn’t inherit my daddy’s magic gift for plane identification. I do know the sun glistened off the fuselage as it turned and headed out toward FM 1462, and it was a beautiful thing to see. My Grandma Power, Daddy’s mama, once told me that Daddy would build airplane models when he was a little boy, before he could even read the instructions. She said he would look at the pictures and figure out which pieces went where.
He graduated from a small high school in East Texas, where the number of seniors allowed each a quotation in the high school yearbook. Daddy’s quote was, “Pluck out his flying feathers, and teach his feet a measure.” I always thought that was so funny!
A few years later, his passion for flying would be the thing that saved him, though. His daddy, stepmama, and little brother asked him if he wanted to go visit some family out of town. He had some work to do on an airplane at a little country airport and said, “Not this time.” On the way home from that visit, there was a terrible car accident and my daddy’s daddy didn’t make it. There’s no way to know for sure, but if my daddy had gone with them, he probably would have been driving. The loss of his daddy made him so safety conscious when it came to vehicles — he ordered seatbelts and installed them in his car because back then, they were not standard equipment. He would not even begin to drive until we were buckled up safe and sound, and he passed that on to me. He teased me that the car seat AJ and I bought for Jami looked like it was designed by NASA. He may have teased us, but I know he was pleased.
He lives in New Orleans now, but I’m pretty sure when a plane flies over his house he stops whatever he’s doing and walks out to the backyard where he can see the sky. He shields his eyes with the palm of his hand and looks up at the blue for the Cessna he knows is there.
My guy and I, along with our girl, spent years 1997 – 1999 living in Huntsville, Texas. We moved there, where we’d originally met in college in 1985, when AJ accepted a position in the Human Resources department with the state prison system. Though short, those were good years for us, in large part because we became friends with another married couple who would prove to be more like family than friends.
We visited a church called Family Faith one Sunday and really liked it. The worship was powerful and the sermon series on family was spot on for what we needed at the time. I don’t think it was very long at all, maybe two or three weeks, that one of the ladies there, Lucy Arnold, told me, “You need to meet Alena. I just know you will be great friends.”
I am so grateful for Lucy’s intuition, because she was 100% right regarding Alena. I was 33 years old, Alena was 24 — we immediately hit it off and became fast friends. We both loved to read, we were both relatively new mothers since we had toddlers and she had another baby while we lived in Huntsville. I loved how easy it was to talk with Alena — about anything and everything. She always took her life experiences and turned them around to what God had done for her, what He had taught her. Even though she was younger than me, I learned so much from her!
The bonus of our developing friendship was the friendship that grew between our husbands, too. When two married women become close friends, friendship between their spouses is not always a given. The fact that the four of us enjoy each others’ company so much is a real gift and one we do not take for granted, and it was Clyde who officiated at our wedding vow renewal a few weeks ago. A two hour drive now separates us, but when the opportunity to fellowship presents itself, we are delighted to rearrange schedules, whatever is needed to be able to spend that time together!
Today is Clyde’s 60th birthday and with his characteristic spontaneity he decided to take a day trip to his favorite place, the beach. Alena contacted us to see if we could meet them and their kids out there and, of course, the answer was “yes!” We made it out to Peregrine, going toward San Luis Pass, and the guys got the little portable grill going for hot dogs while Alena and I took a walk down the beach. Such a sweet visit catching up with each other! Upon our return, a fire pit had been dug and a small wood fire was burning in preparation for s’mores. We sat around the fire and talked, and then Clyde wrapped up our evening by leading us in a couple of worship songs.
How I miss having these people nearby! I love you, Tauriainens! You are the best! ❤
After seeing so many posts online regarding the “Day Without a Woman” protest, I honestly thought the world had gone stark raving bonkers. Seriously, who would have thought we’d see women walking around a few weeks ago in pornographic craft projects gone bad in protest?
Then my daughter, Jami, posted a link to this article on her FB page, and I was encouraged and reassured that there are still intelligent, responsible women walking this planet.
The article and the numerous responses of levelheaded women it documents give me great comfort in knowing there ARE strong women out there who don’t whine and complain about perceived injustices. They know they are strong and capable of taking charge of their own destinies, choosing their own paths. It makes me incredibly proud to know that my daughter recognizes what a truly strong woman does and is making her own path in this world without expecting accommodations, but by doing the work needed to achieve her dreams.
To continue the protests, this came out: Some Women Are Striking From Smiling Today. Apparently, smiling is a form of “emotional labor” — and women are tired of being forced to appear pleasant and/or happy. According to the article, “emotional labor” is a term that was coined in 1983 (a year after I graduated from high school) and it refers to putting others first in order to keep things going smoothly and make others happy. Supposedly, women walking down the street are being commanded by passersby to smile, and cautioned that an unfulfilled request can escalate into something undesirable. I’m trying to remember the last time I was out walking about that someone demanded that I smile. Oh, that’s right! NEVER.
Here’s a question for you, whomever you may be, whatever you may be (male or female): Why are these people so determined to be miserable? Whatever happened to taking one’s circumstances and making the best of them? There’s a good chance that, in the process, those circumstances will improve thanks to the effort. I’ve found that when I think of others in a kindly and caring manner, it is often returned to me. Treat my husband like crap? Refuse to think about his needs? I’m pretty certain I’ll reap the harvest of what I’ve sown. But care about him, do what I can to make his day a better day? I find he returns the love.
We just celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and my husband surprised me with a wedding vow renewal at the beach in Surfside, Texas. He spent a year planning an event that was perfectly us. He had the beach as his background (as a Galveston BOI, it’s his favorite place) and with our sisters’ help, he made sure I had the “pretties” I enjoy so much. Our road to that day (and to the future ahead) has not always been smooth. There have been times that we both thought “what the hell have we done?” Thankfully, we’ve never thought it at the same time, and we’re both too stubborn to quit on each other. So here we are. And here is the blog post he wrote that proves to me success is to be found in focusing on and loving others, not whining and complaining about how life isn’t fair. He said,
When I look at Laura, this is what I see. After 25 years, I do not see a beautiful, young, sexy thing. I see a part of me that has consistently withstood the trials of life and yet remained true and has stayed the course. To me, that is more beautiful and sexy than anything else in this world, and the stories we can tell!
I cannot think of any more beautiful words than those. Of course, a third wave feminist will take umbrage at the phrase “a part of me” — the outcry will be “I am my OWN person, not a part of any man” — and for those who can’t see the forest for the trees, I feel sorry for you. You get so caught up in the minutia that you can’t see this is a man who will give his life for me, who loves me as much or more than himself — who remembers every thing he’s ever heard me express an interest in and does what he can to make sure I have the enjoyment of that thing, the fulfillment of my goals and dreams. On the flip side of that, he is a part of me — I am committed to him with equal fervor.
If I’d only focused on the negatives, and refused to see the positives, odds are great we wouldn’t have lasted and I would have missed out on a ceremony that truly means more to me than the one we experienced in 1992. The first wedding was nice, there’s no doubt. It was in a church, I had the beautiful dress, we were surrounded by friends and family, and there was a big cake and punch. But the truth? Our renewal says this:
I kept my promise, and I choose to keep it again.
So on the days that aren’t perfect, the days I roll my eyes and think, “What have I gotten myself into?” — I choose to remember he may be thinking the same thing. And then I remind myself of the good times and the promise of more. I choose joy, no matter the circumstances. Choosing misery and complaint only produces more of the same, and is rooted in selfishness. My prayer for all these confused women is that they try joy for a change. Focus on others and see if things turn around. You might be surprised.
It’s only been recently that I’ve begun feeling the significance of my birthdays. Up until now, they’ve been days in which my loved ones showed me their love with gifts and cake. I never really thought about the numberattached to each birthday celebrated. Turning 30 was no big deal, which surprised me. I’d heard stories of people experiencing some sort of identity crisis — thinking 30 was old. Thinking I’d dodged an emotional bullet, I skipped happily along through the next decade, having a baby at 32, buying a house at 36 — doing the “grown up” thing, but never really feeling my age. In my head, I still felt like I was in my late 20s’.
I figured I’d experience that crisis when I turned 40, but surprisingly, I still felt fine. I celebrated my twelfth wedding anniversary and my daughter turned eight. These were not milestones marked by old people! Even the increasing number of grey hairs I fought with trips to the hair salon were not an indicator — I started getting grey hair at 16 years old. It meant nothing! And at 40, I figured I still hadn’t reached the halfway point of my journey on this earth. With grandparents on both sides that lived well into their 80s’, and a maternal great-grandfather who passed at the age of 103, my calculations had to be right.
Fast forward ten years to 2014. I turned 50, but I had a senior in high school — my own mother was 38 when I graduated from high school, so having a high school graduate at 50 meant I was still young, right? Right?
Yesterday my girl turned 21. Twenty-one. TWENTY-ONE. Her boyfriend (aka “The Tall One”) took her to her favorite restaurant, The Spaghetti Warehouse, where she ordered a glass of wine and was a little miffed they didn’t ask for her ID. Yesterday was the first birthday in 21 years that I did not see my girl or plan her celebration. She went to her classes, went to work, went back to her apartment and got ready for her birthday date with her boy. We chatted on the phone a couple of times during the day and I sent her lots of birthday love via text emojis, but I have to tell you — it was really strange waiting until her daddy got off work today, to drive up to Houston to spend the afternoon together.
Today I think I finally felt my age. I have an adult daughter who makes me so proud. She doesn’t do everything perfectly (said in an effort to appear unbiased), but she puts forth her best effort and she is navigating adulthood very well. We went for an early dinner at Sweet Paris Creperie and then shopped at The British Isles and a lovely stationery shop, Dromgoole’s, that sells Montblanc pens (good heavens, those things are expensive!) and boxes of Crane stationery (so hard to find). As I watched her navigate the aisles of the shops dressed in a cute outfit and heels, she looked so flipping grownup — and I realized she is. I don’t have a little girl or even a teenager anymore. I have a wonderful husband I’ve known and loved for half my life, and I’m mom to a lovely young woman who makes me smile (and sometimes cry, but in a good way) whenever I spend time with her. I think I finally feel my age, and that’s okay.
There’s been a lot of exciting stuff happening the last few months, but because there’s been A LOT of exciting stuff happening the last few months, I haven’t blogged about any of it. I’m going to try to catch up with a very picture-y blog post. Enjoy!
Then we went to UH to spend Friday with our girl during Family Weekend. We had another social obligation on Saturday, so we weren’t able to go to the game with her, but we all enjoyed the time we did get to spend together. Thankfully, her guy and his buddies went up to Houston for the game, so she had a good time without us.
My date was supposed to look like a 1920s’ mobster, but everyone who sees this photo asks if he’s Amish?
A coupla’ gansters and a moll.
Laura, Amber, and John
My sister-in-law, Amber and me.
My sister-in-law is still very active in a sorority group from her high school years in Galveston. They have revived their tradition of throwing a formal, and now they do it for charity. This year’s theme was “Putting on the Glitz” and proceeds from the 1920s’ style bash went to The Ronald McDonald House. We had a great time for a worthy cause!
Because my husband is the extrovert that keeps me from holing up in our house for weeks and months on end, we ended up at the Galveston Greek Festival the next day… He grew up attending the festival and we try to go whenever we can. This year we were just a tiny bit disappointed (well, a lot disappointed…) We went Sunday afternoon, and by the time we got there, they’d sold out of the dinner plates. The gyros are good, but we are big fans of the dinner plate that is loaded with Greek yumminess like spanikopita, dolmas, salad with feta and kalamata olives, and pastitsio (a pasta casserole-y type thing that I adore). It was agreed that we will go on Saturday next year and make sure we get there EARLY.
I thought we were done for the month, but that slavedriver husband of mine yanked me up and out of the house the next weekend to attend the Oktoberfest at the Lutheran church in Galveston. This is another one of those where we are going to have to get there earlier. I know that beer is a huge part of the Lutheran/German experience, but I’m not a big beer drinker. There are craft booths in the church, but both years that we’ve gone, we didn’t get there until the booths were closing up. So NEXT YEAR I want to get there early enough to see what’s up with the crafty folk.
I think that is everything for now that can be addressed in this little “catching up” post. I do plan on posting some photos from when my New York daughter (my bio daughter’s best friend) came to visit for a week this past August. I will save that for another day, though.
After an encouraging blog post from a friend who knows the struggle I’ve been battling regarding physical fitness, I managed to get up early Monday and Tuesday mornings to go walk. Tuesday started out well: I walked 1.88 miles in 33 minutes. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. I was pretty pumped up when I returned to the house because my friend told me that if I can walk a mile in 22 minutes, I will be able to complete the USA Fit Half Marathon in five hours. I signed up for the half marathon in August, before I started having gallbladder problems. Discouragement set in when I had to have surgery and then struggled with nervousness regarding exercising so soon after. My friend’s encouragement meant the world to me, so I was pretty excited to be back on track.
Not ten minutes after returning home, I received terrible news. My sweet father-in-law finally succumbed to the cancer he’d been battling for nearly ten years. When I met Bill, he wasn’t much older than I am now. We both attended the same church in Houston, but had never had any reason to interact. One Sunday morning before church started, I was peering over a friend’s shoulder to read a wedding invitation she held in her hand. I am not exaggerating when I say I gasped aloud at the bride’s name. The bride-to-be was the mother of the boy I’d dated in college. The boy I’d dated and then broken up with on less than amicable terms. The boy who broke my heart.
My friend got very excited, insisting I should go and say hello. I wasn’t too sure about it, but the boy’s mother had always been kind to me, and I finally mustered up the courage to do so. Marcia was very friendly and invited me to the wedding. I wasn’t sure about going, but in the end, I did and I’m so glad. Eleven months later I married the boy who is my ex no more. That’s a story for another day, though, because today’s story is about Bill.
Bill and Marcia met through a Bible study where they were both devoted students of God’s word. Their relationship flourished as they strove to build it upon the best foundation: Jesus Christ. Eventually, Bill proposed and Marcia accepted, and they were married on March 23, 1991. They served in ministry together, wanting to share the gospel with all who would hear, taking it even into the prisons. Eleven months later I married the boy who had come to the Lord and became a changed man, and on that day, Bill and Marcia, AJ and I, we all became family.
That all-important word: family. There are those who might correct me, but if I had to tell you what word was Bill Rozelle’s favorite, I would have to say it is family. I can’t think of a single family meal that began any differently than this, “Father, family was your idea, and we thank you for it…” Family was so important to Bill. He didn’t have any biological children of his own, but when he married Marcia, he took her kids and grandkids for his own. When I joined the family, I truly felt I was one of his kids, too. He was always interested in what we, as a family, and we as individuals were doing.
Earlier today I talked with my daughter — she told me how much she would miss their birthday talks. I raised an eyebrow because this is something I’m not familiar with. Apparently, whenever she celebrated a birthday, he would think back to when he was that age and tell her where he’d been and what he’d been doing at 16, 17, 18 and so on. I think she was looking forward to their “21” birthday talk.
Seesa, Papaw Bill, & Jami
Jami & Papaw Bill
I’ll miss him scrounging around my kitchen looking for coffee fixin’s — he loved his coffee and didn’t always want to wait for the coffeemaker to brew. That’s when he’d brew up some “cowboy coffee” in a mug. The man was serious about his coffee. I’ll also miss watching him peruse our bookcases, pulling some random book from the shelf and making himself comfortable in a corner with his coffee. He loved to read and could become completely engrossed in almost any subject, no matter what might be happening around him. He truly cared about people and when my sister was going through a rough time, he always made a point to ask how she was and to say he was praying for her.
I know my husband will miss him, too. Bill loved my husband as his own son. A number of years ago, they both had motorcycles and would go for rides together. On more than one occasion, my husband accepted Bill’s invite to his church’s annual men’s retreat. A lot of the men rode, and they would all head to the retreat center on their bikes. My husband said those were some great times. Maybe he’ll go again next year in Bill’s memory. I hope so.
I’m going to do something in Bill’s memory this January. I’d already signed up in August, but there’s no reason I can’t retroactively designate my participation in Bill’s honor: I’m going to walk a half marathon. My sweet father-in-law, in his day, ran full-blown marathons. He ran in the Boston and New York City Marathons, and he ran in the Houston-Tenneco Marathon. He was a real athlete. I’m just trying to challenge myself to eat better and move more. I think he’d be proud, though. Because we’re family.