tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30392430962005154582024-02-08T08:10:40.842-08:00The Hauler's Wifestay at home mom, business owner, wife, chef, friend, volunteer, owie kisser, book keeper, junk shuffler, lawn mower, grocery juggler, the list goes on ... this is my attempt to make light of an otherwise crazy life!The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-73873033839434650212012-05-19T08:01:00.000-07:002012-05-19T08:01:15.899-07:00The Haves and the Have-nots<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Six short years ago I left the classroom to become a full
time parent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many believed I was making
a huge mistake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, I had a job!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one gives up a job these days!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wasn’t it too risky?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if, what if, what if??? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My conviction was strong….visceral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just KNEW it was the right thing to
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part of my choice stemmed from
lessons learned in the classroom. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
students, 14-16 years of age, were MY teachers!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Watching, listening, interacting, I learned that children fall into two
distinct groups – the <u>haves</u> and the <u>have-nots</u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>The haves are the children whose parents are tuned in to
their child’s life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can I tell?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By observing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sorry, no prejudice intended, but the haves <u>look</u> different:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They smile. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their heads are held a little higher; their
eyes rest easy into mine during a conversation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a ‘knowing’ about them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like, they know to turn their music off when
they enter the room, lower their voice, and go quietly to their seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
learned to count on the parents of the haves to answer correspondence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was never surprised to see one pop into the
classroom from time to time. It’s not uncommon to receive an unexpected email –
“just checking in.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The haves are like
any other teenager.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They screw up but
when they do I can be assured their parent will be on it and I know a
resolution is on the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Parent, student, and teacher become a
partnership.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Have nots have a different set up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There ARE parents, but generally I don’t meet
them until the end of the quarter (if at all).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I can tell without anyone saying a word which students are the have
nots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get a lot from their eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have not eyes don’t twinkle with anticipation,
they dart with uncertainty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have nots
are loud, boisterous people demanding attention as they burst into a room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A have not will try to avoid my greeting at
the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rarely will they take a seat
without being told….actually, ordered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When they do sit, it is with extreme exaggeration, sometimes knocking
into anyone in the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Homework assignments are generally
missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Parent conferences are
unattended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Requests for signatures are
ignored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have not eyes drop when due
dates come around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have nots do not expect
success; by their very action they accept defeat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One
have not parent summed it up “I don’t get it,” she said as she checked her text
messages, “he’s got everything he needs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’s just Ef’d up.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Each year I watched the behaviors repeat themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My students taught me that to have or not
have has <u>nothing</u> to do with money, possessions, or status.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of my highest achieving students came
from low income families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of my
lowest achieving students came from wealthy families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without a doubt their parent’s interest and involvement
made all the difference—each time, every time - no exception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></div>
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</strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Six short years ago I left the classroom to become a full
time parent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After my experiences in the classroom my
choice turned to necessity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The years with my children, now 6 and 4, cannot
be replaced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have provided an
unconditional nest of love, compassion, guidance, and support.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been with them, beside them, and
behind them, gently nudging each through the first steps of their years, while steadfastly
protecting their naivety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know them well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They know me even better. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re a team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It WAS the right thing to
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></div>
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</strong></span></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-67696303096859159662012-03-14T16:26:00.003-07:002012-03-15T11:21:23.177-07:00Where it all began ...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>After purchasing our first home, my husband decided to buy a trailer to complete a project. He was digging large amounts of dirt and rock from the basement area in order to make an even larger basement area.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>After completing this project, he wanted to keep the trailer so he placed an advertisement on craigslist to try to pay off the trailer: "Hauler. I have a 10' hydraulic dump trailer that I can help you haul your unwanted items to the landfill. Please call Blake."</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>At this time, I was still working as a High School Teacher and Blake was working as an Information Analyst. On the weekends he would make extra money hauling debris and slowly this business expanded.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>We were a newly married couple, without any children, so the weekend jobs were just extra money to play with after the trailer paid for itself.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The phone began ringing so regularly that we had to get a second line to take the calls and book the jobs around our already full time schedules.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>At this time, our family was expanding. In January of 2007 our first child arrived and we made the decision for me to stay home from work, run the hauling business and raise our family.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>With this decision, we also had to hire employees, acquire the proper insurances and, eventually, purchase trucks and trailers to complete all the jobs coming our way.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Throughout the years we have acquired many items that came from other people's lives: furniture, art, household accessories, etc. At first, we saw value in everything. Our garage filled quickly! I vaguely remember a time when we once parked a car in our garage.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Over the years we have learned that not everything has value. We donate much of what comes our way, however, the higher valued items we either keep or sell.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>And then there are the other items ... the ones that once meant something to someone: the silver salad tongs, the currency from overseas, the once prized baseball cards and comic books, the miniature figurines, the priceless photographs, the jewelry .. the list goes on. These items were all valuable to somebody at one time. I can't help but to think they would like their stories to be passed on ... </b></span></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-19106924293883697082011-09-17T10:48:00.000-07:002011-09-17T10:48:40.530-07:00Smiling at the Memory<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span>"Oh Mom," I sighed, as I turned away to block my eyes rolling to the back of my head. I entered my room and turned the tape deck back on to listen to Donnie and Jordan convince me that I had the "right stuff." Oh, oh, oh, ohhh...oh, oh, oh oh! Mom had done the inexcusable, ...again,... gotten all dreamy on me as she re-told the story of my first day at school. Yes, Mom, I remember....How many times can you hear the same story without getting a little impatient? What's the big deal? Oh, oh, oh, ohhhh! </span></span></b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span></span> </span></b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Smiling at the memory, my mind blasted back to the present . It's my turn now, I thought. The first day of school. Breakfast was over and I was putting the last of the dishes away. My little girl sat anxiously across the room at the kitchen table intent on watching the clock advance to the magical hour---the big hand on the 12 and the little hand on the 7. She swung her legs impatiently, opened and closed her new backpack, checked once, then twice for necessary pencils and crayons and freshly colored picture for her new teacher. Happily she examined the lunch I had packed inside her overly-sized lunch box and asked again "when is snack time at school, mama"? My hands rested on the edge of the kitchen sink as I patiently reviewed the schedule of the day with her. I stared out the kitchen window--my eyes wet, tightly clenched. </span></span></b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span></span> </span></b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span>After more than five years of being her sole care giver, I found myself struggling with "letting go." Caught up in the moment my mind swirled in long ago memories from my first day at Kindergarten. I was so ready! My December birthday made me wait a full year longer. My daughter's January birthday put her in the same predicament. A full head taller than most because of age and genes, we had a lot in common! I remember the day well, maybe because it was retold so many times. Regardless, I can still feel the excitement of wearing my new blue and white diagonally striped dress. My hair, freshly washed and curled, was held back with tiny white butterfly clips. I stepped into the morning air with my brand new orange Snoopy lunchbox and was ready to launch! But wait! My Mom insisted on taking me to the bus stop. When we arrived I didn't hesitate to jump out of the car and race to the front of the line. Shortly, the bus arrived! The door opened with a swoosh and as I stepped up I heard my Mom call out for 'one last picture.' I turned and she caught the moment in a picture Why the tears, Mama? I turned and entered the huge yellow cavity; the door closed and a whole new world welcomed me.</span></span></b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span></span> </span></b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Now, glancing down at the fresh face in front of me, I knelt down to meet her eye to eye. She placed her little hand on my cheek and leaned in for a quick kiss. She giggled. She recited her teacher's name and wondered out loud where she would put her lunchbox. Do they have a refrigerator, she asked? Will I have homework tonight? Innocence. Sweet, sweet innocence. Smiling, I answered each question slowly arguing with time. Behind my calm smile the back side of my brain exploded with hope, anxiety, love, fear....is she ready? Did I say all that needed to be said? Did I teach her all that needed to be taught? Did she learn? Will "they" be nice to her? Will she be nice to them? Will she be accepted? Quickly now, brush the tear away, it's time! Am I ready?</span></span></b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span></span> </span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;">With all the excitement of a Christmas morning, we arrived at school. The car was parked and we made our way through the crowd of school-aged children. Confidently, my daughter held onto my hand walking ahead, pulling slightly! Just before we arrived at the Kindergarten meeting area, I stopped her for 'one last picture'. She obliged and her moment was captured! A quick kiss and she rounded the corner into her new world, on her own. The picture has become one of my favorites. I can't wait to show it to my Mom! She'll understand why it is so dear to me--my daughter, not so much! It may take a few years - But I'm gonna tell the story over and over anyway...I wonder what teen idol will be around to calm her nerves? </span></span></b></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-29410691771487971592011-08-05T17:31:00.000-07:002011-08-05T17:31:48.768-07:00Leanna Judith<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b>I don’t offer myself much time to actually stop and think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Usually we hit the ground running by 6:30 a.m. and don’t stop until 10 at night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Days are filled with the activities of the business and our children’s lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Often my husband and I only offer each other a quick hello and goodbye as we briskly pass each other through the different corridors of life---busy, busy, busy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like the Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland running with the clock dangling at his side repeating “Can’t be late!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, the inevitable will happen…..</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b>My friend’s baby girl died last week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was his third child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was 4 days old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend and his wife knew of possible complications.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had been warned by all the best doctors, but their convictions were strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They refused to believe science and instead relied on their faith—a faith so strong it boggled my mind as I listened to his testimony day after day of God’s healing grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did not waiver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Makes me wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b>On the day of the baby’s birth I received a text message announcing the news and later I received a call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His voice was calm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Something is wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not like my other two babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctors are talking about tri-something 18.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will call you when I know more.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waiting is the hardest thing, isn’t it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not a good waiter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to the computer and ‘googled’ tri-something 18 and found the news I did not want to read—a chromosome disorder, an extra no. 18 chromosome, which inevitably causes death, either early in life, or by the early teen years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What remained of my faith withered…how <u>could</u> you, God?</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b>A day later I received another text.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t know if I can do this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my daughter!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And after two more days, his little girl died in his arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b>As any other friend would do, I attended the Rosary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I arrived a few minutes ahead of time to find that the gathering had burst the side chapel and had been moved to the ‘big’ church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quietly I walked inside to see row after row filled with.... well, who?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who are these people?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat quietly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m Catholic, so I knew just what to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knelt, crossed myself and reached inside a pocket for my rosary beads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I situated myself for the first “our Father” I glanced down to the front of the church and spied a tiny pink casket; a perfectly shaped head rested on a pillow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her dark hair was edged with a pink elastic band.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My gaze drifted over to the front pew where my friend sat with his wife—tall, so tall and his wife— poised, but motionless. She rested her head on his shoulder, eyes fixed on the pink nest cradling her daughter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shifted in my seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God, <u>why</u>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is <u>not</u> right!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why this couple?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are so faithful to you!</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b>The joyful mysteries of the rosary were prayed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was melodic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been a long, long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dropped into the rhythm easily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend’s sister read a lesson from the New Testament.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eldest daughter—all of 8—stood bravely beside her aunt and when given the cue spoke clearly into the microphone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His four year old (known as the feisty one!) quietly waited her turn to speak –“I love my baby sister”, she plainly said and then playfully peeked from around the podium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cute, I thought to myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How proud my friend must be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the more reason to scorn you, God!</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b>The next day I attended the funeral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The parking lots were filled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I parked halfway down a street and I was fifteen minutes early!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For pete’s sake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no idea this guy had so many friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time I met another cohort from work and we made our way into the church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A piano quietly played “When You Wish Upon A Star”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is going to be hard”, I said as I looked over and saw her eyes filled to the brim with tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I know”, she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mass began with a familiar tune, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was for as I turned to look to the back of the church my eyes landed on my friend proudly holding the tiny pink casket in his arms as he led the procession.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His wife and two daughters followed closely behind holding hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The daughters wore matching dresses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you kidding me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend’s eyes were gripped with sadness as he moved forward. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gently placed the casket in front of the altar and joined his family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The prayers of the mass began and at all the appropriate times the crowd responded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The priest spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He relayed his experiences with my friend over the past four days and judged it has the highpoint of his lengthy priesthood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He remarked of the countless people touched in such a short time and gestured to the crowd as witness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reminded the parents attending of their own children and the lifelong significance of their position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spoke of unconditional love and encouraged parents to be the parents they were intended to be. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The priest turned his attention to the children attending and lightly agreed that while a parent doesn’t seem to know much at times, it was probably best to be patient because one day they would have the wisdom seldom found in youth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mass ended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend and his wife advanced to the podium and began to speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each took a turn thanking their church family, parents, relatives, hospital staff, hospice volunteers, and friends for the support shown over the past days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They explained the chromosomal disorder, Trisomy 18 and reaffirmed their commitment to life, even if it meant losing their little one just days after birth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart softened as I listened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began to understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend’s daughter was brought to all of us to teach the valuable lessons of unconditional love, the irreplaceable role of parenting and the reasons for an unwavering faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b>The following day I visited with my friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I noticed he still wore the hospital bracelet placed on his wrist to identify his rightful title as “Daddy”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His voice was soft, but his faith shone through his sadness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shared intimate details of his daughter’s life and referred to her as ‘my little angel’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said he knew she was protectively watching over his family and knew she lived and died to bring his family closer to one another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could offer no words of comfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He actually comforted me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was living proof of faith tested and victory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat quietly, alone but NOT alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you, God, I get it and I will not forget.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-size: large;"><b>For more information about Trisomy 18, please visit www.trisomy18.org.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-68666635584050292652011-07-09T07:29:00.000-07:002011-07-09T14:14:33.713-07:00Rule No. 1: A Hauler's Wife is Not Allowed to Leave Her Post<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>My family is patriotic. We can't sing "The Star Spangled Banner" without wiping a tear from our eyes. When we see a color guard approach, we stand and salute our American flag. Veterans are our heroes and we enjoy the splendor of fireworks on the 4th of July. So, I invited my Mom to celebrate our nation's independence. It would be perfect, I thought, as I dropped into a steady gaze outside my kitchen window imagining the weekend ahead. I envisioned the hometown parade followed by an afternoon on our back patio. We'd enjoy the cool breeze and raise our glasses to the birth of the greatest country on earth! In my dream I could taste the cool cocktails and smell the freshly barbequed hotdogs. The day would be topped off with ice cream churned the old fashioned way and my girls would giggle with delight at the lyrics of "Yankee Doodle". The nearby wading pool would keep the kids entertained as my Mom and I quietly gossiped about the latest family drama. Husbands, of course, were engaged in man-stuff, i.e., keeping an eye on the pressure of the pony keg and setting up the backyard fireworks! Neighbors would arrive soon and festivities would continue through the night! Ahhhh, God Bless America! I smiled to myself as I turned to see my husband standing behind me. He had that look on his face--uh-oh, no fairy tale here! </b></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"Babe" he began "remember I made plans to meet the guys at the lake"! "Don't worry, I'm taking the girls so that you can get ready for your Mom's visit. All the trucks are set with their schedules so there shouldn't be ANY problems. You'll have to take the 'hauling phone'-- I don't get reception out there. Don't worry--ENJOY!" Famous last words, I thought.</b></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Rule No. 1: A Hauler's Wife is not allowed to leave her post.</b></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"MY" plan did not include the hauling phone today. Knowing the girls would be gone and that my Mom wasn't expected to arrive before the afternoon, I RSVPd to a baby show -- at a spa! Each of my friends had chosen a treatment--facial, manicure, pedicure or massage. I chose a massage. What fun, how relaxing ... I needed this! Following our treatments, we planned to lounge in comfy robes, eat decadent finger foods, and share well-deserved time together--without husbands or kids! Now, with the phone in my hand the picture-perfect day began to dim. Quickly, I shook it off. I refused defeat! Everything would be fine. My boss said so ... Confidently, I tucked the phone in my purse and headed out before the festivities of the holiday weekend began! </b></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>I reached my destination, greeted my friends and slipped into my robe. We sipped bubbly, while listening to the new mom's ideas for names; some shared "war stories" of birth and others shared rebuilt bodies after birth and mommy hood! Gosh, this is fun, I thought ...then....bzzzzz,bzzzzbzz,bzzzzzzzz--my pocket was vibrating! I quietly excused myself and answered. I listened ... flat tire. On the roadside, now about 30 minutes behind. The driver had called the next client but just wanted to let me know. Everything in control. Check. I returned to the party and soon after was called for my massage. A bit tense, I flopped on the massage table. I breathed in deeply, closed my eyes and listened to the soft music.....the lights were dim and I began to relax under the pressure of the therapist's touch...... BzzzzzBzzzBZZZZZZ! My eyes popped wide open! Now what?! I stayed in the still, prone position and the massage continued innocently. My mind raced... What could be happening! I NEED to get the phone. I thought. BE STILL! I reprimanded myself. I heard the soft words of the therapist urging me to relax....RELAX? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA OF THE LIABILITY (then, forcing calmness) that is out on the road right now? Calm down...!! Everything is going to be just fine. You hire capable men, I reminded myself. I willed my shoulders to relax. BzzzzBzzBzzzBZZZZZZZ! I inhaled deeply, I exhaled with greater force. I pinched my eyes closed. Ahhh, this is NICE! What a luxury! This..IS...nice, I repeated again to myself. The therapist had found a tight spot and expertly rubbed it to submission. My fists unclenched ....relax, I coaxed myself. Silence at last, then BzzzzBzzzBzBzBzBZZZZZZ. Damn! </b></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Time crept by and the phone continued to vibrate reminding me of waiting messages. I endured the session and when it was over I politely thanked the therapist, jumped off the table and before the door closed my phone was dialed for voice mail....WHAT, what could it be? I stood, half naked and listened intently--"Hi sis, it's Mom...we got down here early and I let myself in. Where are you guys? We brought the potato salad and ice cold watermelon. Take your time. I'll start the ice cream. We'll be in the back yard when you get here. Can't wait to see you! Bye!" I put my phone down, tipped my head back and laughed to myself ... My Mom! </b></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Rule No. 2: A Hauler's Wife needs to relax!</b></span></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-31783987619199046262011-06-28T14:23:00.000-07:002011-06-28T18:45:48.619-07:00Where will this day take me?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="color: #999999; font-family: inherit;"></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;">Coffee is something I look forward to each morning. There’s something—dare I say, almost erotic-- about the fragrance of brewing coffee as I slowly wake up. I poured a hot cup and lazily considered my options for the day: the Zoo, SeaWorld, the beach. I recalled the time when I woke to the sound of an alarm, only to rush through a shower and then fly off to teach “the future of America” ... was that so bad? On this particular morning, my husband had started the pot prior to leaving for work. After taking my second sip, I decided to get my daily chores started before the girls joined me for the day. The dishes had been washed, but needed to be put away. Laundry was dry, but there was a wet load that needed to be moved to the dryer; another load was ready to follow. The cycle never ends!</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Opening the door to the garage, which doubles as my laundry room, I planned to change the first load of laundry. It was still early in the morning and the light of day was just seeping through the windows of the garage door. With two little girls and a hard working husband, it seemed like I never got caught up. It will only get worse, I thought, as visions of teenagers entered my still hazy mind. </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Pain stabbed the front of my leg and jerked my attention to a stack of debris in my pathway. “What the ... ?” I stopped abruptly to first survey the damage to my shin and then to peruse the pile. Damn! I thought. More shit left here for me to sort through. As I rubbed the pain from my leg, I stooped down take a closer look: bar stools, framed prints, a box of pots and pans, and a tool box so crammed that the lid remained open. This will all be going to the Goodwill today! </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I stood, leaned against one of the bar stools and sipped my coffee. The other part of hauling that was beginning to haunt me was the growing frequency of being called to clean out abandoned or foreclosed homes. The recession came through our communities like a ravaged storm leaving behind a trail of lost dreams. I sighed as my foot nudged the lid of the overfilled tool box to an open position. Sarcastically, I asked myself, “What valuable treasures could be so important to justify ruining my morning?” My eye settled on a faded photograph taped to the inside of the lid. Two beautiful little girls swinging, faces filled with the joy as a slimly built woman smiled and readied herself for the next push. I knelt to look closer at the picture and began to finger through the odds and ends. There, placed perfectly in the corner on the top shelf of the rusted tool chest was a small Raggedy Ann doll. Her head tilted to the side, her smile with cheer and her arms wide, almost asking for me to rescue her from the saddened misfortune of being left behind. Around the little doll's neck was a necklace with a small shiny locket. Gently I opened the locket to see the face of a handsome young man smiling back-- eyes wide and filled with love. I breathed in deeply and stared back at the man. Who are you? I asked silently. And, <u>where</u> are you now? </span></b></div></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-40334155092611507132011-06-19T12:26:00.000-07:002011-06-19T12:33:04.723-07:00Practically Perfect in Every Way<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The week was crazy. Standing in the spare bedroom-turned-office the muscles in my neck began to twist as I gazed over the disorder. Our normal routine was disturbed by the close of the preschool year. My daughters, under tow every day--all day, pulled for my attention. The business phone rang excessively. The office had turned into the hub for activity -- coloring books, puzzles, and paints were strewn across the floor as evidence of the attempt to keep my 5 and 3-year old occupied while the day's work schedule demanded focus and precision. Calls to return, a driver's schedule to organize, landscape products to order, pictures of a job prospect to sort and submit with an estimate, and then of course, my favorite--making time to prepare for an unemployment claim fraudulently filed against our struggling to stay alive part-time, gee-isn't-this-fun-business! My throat began to close off necessary oxygen and the walls began to close in around me as I looked about the room. </b></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b></span><br />
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<div style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>I must confess: I'm a Type A. It all seemed so innocent, Your Honor. A clean closet, homework turned in on time, and a high school part time job -- I was even awarded graduation with Honors to continue this behavior into my college days! And, now look! Who'd a-thought it could shred my innards and give me hives? Type A personalities relate to Mary Poppins...."a place for everything and <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1308511014_0">everything in its place</span>"! -- "Spit-spot!" -- and the mantra that rolls through my overly crowded head -- "Practically perfect in every way"! The truth is, <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1308511014_1" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;">Mary Poppins</span> might have been smokin' something!</b></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b></span><br />
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<div style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>If I were to write a Type A marriage manual, my number one caution would be: Beware! Do not marry another Type A (don't worry, I didn't). If you <b>do, </b>make certain his first name is preceded with "Prince" and his address is somewhere on Castle Drive. And because I know the heart <b>always </b>wins, make certain before you commit to have one phrase on the tip of your lips at all times--"NO, DEAR" and then practice using it with various combinations, always with a smile: "No, dear, I can't work a full time job with two preschool children and manage your business". "No, dear, I am sorry, dinner will not be ready at 6 tonight". "No, dear, driving the hauling truck for the week is not okay...it stinks." Lastly, stick to your guns--this "A" world is cruel to those who have fluffed the nest of their homes with too many "Yes, dears...." </b></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b></span><br />
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<div style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>As I write, the children remind me of promised watermelon slices in the back yard, my phone has alerted me that the driver is ready to pick up his schedule, the doorbell is dinging (we don't have <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1308511014_2">Westminster</span> chimes!) announcing the arrival of a package or a Craig's List buyer and my Boss (aka hubby) is calling to be assured that the day went "as planned"...."No, dear, it did not." The words come out as lightly as I can say them and he, understanding, says in his most princely fashion, "Don't worry, I'm on my way home. Tell the driver I'll get the schedule to him in an hour, ask the buyer at the door to wait two minutes--I'm coming up the street...And babe, don't worry - I've got dinner with me, so why don't you turn on the hot tub. I'll help with baths tonight and we can relax after they are in bed." Music to my ears...."practically perfect in every way."</b></span></div></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-47867802530361058832011-06-07T07:48:00.000-07:002011-06-07T19:05:29.721-07:00Me, the Pack Mule?!<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">As a new wife, it was my pleasure to grocery shop for my new husband. I regarded the experiences of choosing fine cuts of meats, fresh organic vegetables, exotic fruits, and savory cheeses as just one more gift bestowed on my front porch of life. My husband, a treasure all by himself, would jump at the sound of our car arriving in the driveway. Before I could open the car door, he'd have it open and be leaning inside for a quick kiss. Without hesitation he would turn to the back seat and swiftly gather up all the groceries into one arm (my purse in the other), turn in time to kick my door closed and still have time to step ahead to hold the door to the house open for me. As I made my way in to the house, my attention never strayed far from my freshly manicured nails; other times, I sifted through the mail as I idly walked through the front door. If there were more groceries than one trip could afford, I paid no mind. Hubby would grab them and bring them to the kitchen. Life was gentle. </span></b></div><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b><br />
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<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Years passed and doggone it, so did chivalry. I remember the first time I drove into the driveway after my usual grocery spree. Naively I sat for a minute longer than usual. I believe I turned to organize the contents of my purse or something. I wasn't waiting. But, looking back, -- I was. When a comfortable amount of time passed, I got out of the car feeling a bit of confusion. I retrieved the first load of groceries and made my way into the house. "Hi babe, I'm home." Silence. I walked through the kitchen to the living room and found my knight huddled over an X-box remote controller. "Babe, hi--just got home with the groceries." I said standing behind him. "Gooood", he responded without looking up, "Did you remember to get tomato juice?--my turn to make Bloody Marys before the game today". "Yep" I said and turned, still expecting him to join me. He didn't. I brought the rest of the groceries into the house. Never an unkind word was spoken; not necessary, there was no anger. </span></b></div><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b><br />
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<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Parenthood introduced a whole new element. My precious, <i><u>precious</u></i> cargo! I <b>wanted</b> to hold my babies! I cooed into their faces as I buckled them in and out of their car seats. I didn't want just anyone touching my cherubs' toys or personal belongings. I was in Heaven as I proudly walked the promenade of motherhood. I didn't notice the changes taking subtle shape.</span></b></div><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b><br />
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<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Fast Forward....Eight Years...Two Daughters...and One Knight (with slightly tarnished armor)...</span></b></div><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b><br />
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<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I am now a pack mule. No kidding. I even refer to myself as one! Getting out of the car these days requires a sturdy back, strong arms, the ability to balance multiple things with multiple parts of my body and the patience of Mother Theresa. The usual scene goes something like this: The car pulls into the driveway. My husband has been missing from this scene for years, so I don't even hesitate. Before the kids can reach for the latch on their car seats, the neighborhood kids are beckoning them away to their game. I literally jump aside as my daughters scoot by. In passing each reminds me: "Don't forget....." and they list prizes from the day's events: the toys they couldn't leave the house without, art projects from their day at preschool, and most certainly their beloved worn to rags blankets and stuffed toys. And I always say with as much loving sarcasm as I can muster -- "Don't worry, the pack mule will get it"! -- And with all the innocence of little girls, they laugh as they turn to their friends and say "Oh, Mom, you're soooo funny!" </span></b></div><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b><br />
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<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Mothers don't just<i> become</i> pack mules....mothers <u>train</u> to be pack mules and I admit it has taken me a while to "get it." I believe the strongest message came to me as I made my way into our house after an outing. Flanked with groceries, toys, blankies, and articles of clothing I glanced up to see my reflection grasping the butt-end of my daughter's beloved stuffed dog "Pinkie" with my teeth. My gait had been slowed as I was deftly navigating my youngest daughter's trike inside the door with my foot. Good Lord! I <i><u><b>AM</b></u></i> a pack mule. </span></b></div><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b><br />
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<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I believe life is a series of lessons. My moment in the mirror taught me a lesson. Funny as it was, I stopped calling myself a pack mule--for two reasons: (1) I am NOT a pack mule and (2) my youngest daughter got a kick out of loading up the pack mule (me!). Re-training has begun. These days we're learning to share the responsibilities of living together. Each daughter is responsible for her own belongings. "Bring it along if you must," I say "but remember, you are the one to carry it back into the house". We've had some unhappy moments when Pinkie isn't around at bed time and it requires a quick trip to car to get him tucked in for the night! Everyone is responsible to bring one bag of groceries inside and oh, they struggle as their friends call out -- "Come play!"</span></b></div><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></b><br />
<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><b><span style="color: #999999;"> </span><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 13.5pt;">The transition has been slow but re-training is never easy. My husband and I never discussed my pack mule revelation, but I know he's watched. Just yesterday, I pulled up into the driveway with the car packed--from around the corner of the house, he appeared and without a word, opened the back door and began to help unloading the days' treasures--first our girls, then the groceries. I swear I could see something shiny under his shirt. </span></b>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-74799681102831589202011-05-25T11:52:00.000-07:002011-05-25T20:37:53.000-07:00Teaching Manners<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On Monday, the skies were gray and the weather a bit chilly, so I decided to put on my "uniform" (aka, my comfortable clothes) and hoped the girls would be low maintenance. Yeah right! They were very aware it was "Monday- Funday"!<br />
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I attempted to tantalize them with puzzles, coloring books, paints and legos to no avail. Beaten down, I decided to switch things up quickly. Hair brushed, shoes on, we all jumped into the car for a spontaneous outing. But, where to go? I thought hard. Not the zoo--way too much walking for this lazy day. Ronald McDonald didn't appeal to me either. Even in comfy clothes the idea of crawling up those brightly colored tubes to save a stuck child didn't entice me. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> Before I reached the freeway, I had another idea....Lately, we had been working on our table manners. Each daughter enjoyed the pleasantries of "please pass the bread" and "may I please be excused from the table"? We had gone over the use of a napkin and how it was folded gently into one's lap. I was confident that my daughters were ready to fly solo. "Hey, I know what we could do, girls, let's go to a <u>real</u> restaurant"!</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> <br />
Okay. So, it was Monday, noon -- maybe not the best decision, but I proceeded naively not remembering what it was like (in my past life) to be on a designated lunch break with only a certain amount of time. I moved quickly from my seat, closed the door and reached for the passenger door to help my daughters step onto the pavement. With the door wide open, I encouraged the kids to hurry along. Unknowingly, three nicely dressed business men were behind me waiting. Annoyed, one of the men attempted to squeeze through the narrow channel while the other two turned and went to the other passenger door. I wedged the girls closer to the car allowing him to pass, smiled and jokingly said, "Sorry, it takes a bit longer with my little crew." Without a gesture or a nod of acknowledgment, he swiftly slid into the already revved car and left with his cohorts.</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Since 'manners' was my theme for the day, I knelt down beside my daughters and explained the importance of patience with all people in the world (and especially women with children!).</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Taking our place inside the restaurant and reminding them of all the basic manners to remember we ordered our lunches. Our napkins were folded in our laps as were our hands. "May I please have a grilled cheese sandwich with white bread? Thank you." "May I please have chicken nuggets, but no spicy sauce? Thank you." Well, that went well, I smiled proudly. Thankfully a coloring book was provided for the wait. I quietly continued the lesson reminding each to stop their coloring project and thank the waitress when our lunch was served. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Looking across the restaurant I saw a table where four women sat. It didn't appear they were friends. No one spoke. Two looked off, bored, one was wildly texting. The fourth, however, smiled as she watched my girls color in their books. We made eye contact and I returned a smile. My imagination went into high gear as I pictured her as a mom longing to be at home with her children. What she didn't know, I thought, is that there are days I would gladly switch places. </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">I turned my attention back to my table just in time to see our waitress advance with our tray of delicious food. The girls dropped their crayons, sat up straight and in unison said "Thank you!" The waitress dropped down to their level and complimented each for using such good manners. They smiled broadly--"Mom said we had to", the younger one blurted as she reached for a nugget. The waitress looked my way as she got up to move on, "It doesn't happen often, you should be proud of them, ma’am." The meal was a success; no spilled milk, no outbursts, and lunch hungrily devoured. There is no doubt in my mind -- I am here for a purpose -- today, at least!</span></b></span></div></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-50810762685974869092011-05-17T18:58:00.000-07:002011-05-17T19:10:17.897-07:00Integrity - Get Some!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 14pt;">My husband and I made the decision early on in our junk-dealing career that we would not charge our patrons who served in the military, fought crime in our communities or put out fires. It was our personal way of saying thank you. Sometimes the decision pinched our pocketbook, but we were always happy to pay it forward. The other day we inherited a brand new top of the line carpet cleaner. I was excited! It was an easy sell on Craigslist and I envisioned the crisp $100 bill that would be placed into my hand. </span></b><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 14pt;">On the day I listed the carpet cleaner I got tons of calls! Sweet, I thought! A $100 day! The first call was from a young guy. We made quick introductions and he mentioned he was in the Navy. Upon arrival, he took a look at the carpet cleaner, rubbed his chin and confessed he was only interested in the hose attachment kit. Without hesitation, I unleashed it from the handle and as I handed it to him I said "My husband and I would like you to have this at no charge and thank you for all you do for us..." He gratefully accepted and went on his way. </span></b><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 14pt;">Later that day a friendly older couple came to see the carpet cleaner. By that time, I had uploaded a lower price as the hose attachment was not included--"Brand new Carpet Cleaner--$75! They introduced themselves as Al and Sadie and we visited for several minutes as they inspected their prospective purchase. Pleased with the condition, they handed me a wad of bills. I tucked it in my pocket, we said our good byes and I headed back into the house to answer the ringing telephone and pull my girls apart from a squabble over whose Barbie doll was going to ride in the pink sports car. With both issues quickly settled, I opened my hand to count the bills. Uh-oh! I had <u>five</u> 20s! $100! I checked out the window but their car was gone. I called the phone number they had used when they first called to inquire -- dang, it was their home phone! I left a message explaining that they had overpaid and asked them to please call so that we could arrange a time for them to pick up their change. </span></b><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 14pt;"></span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 14pt;">The following day I received a phone call from my new friend, Al. He thanked me for the carpet cleaner, said he and his wife had used it that day and didn't hear my message until the following morning. (Older folks, I've learned, don't check their voice mail as often as we do!) He wanted to let me know he was pleased with it but that his real reason for calling was to thank <u>me</u> for having the integrity to call him about the overpayment. He went on and on about 'back in the day' and 'how it used to be' and over-joyfully exclaimed that my action restored a lost faith he had had for the future of our children. He said he knew that if there were more parents 'out there' like us things would be fine, just fine, he said. Once again, we said our good byes, this time with my mind exploring his words. Hmmm....in-teg-rity....I thought of all my recent encounters with the people in my life....<i><u>integrity</u></i>----got some?</span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-23145804011135392992011-05-09T19:17:00.000-07:002011-05-09T20:55:44.638-07:00Is the Sludge Good for the Marriage?<div style="color: #999999;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">At our wedding, my brother-in-law gave the most amazing 8-page speech. He spoke of their childhood and all the fond memories he has of his big brother. He said quite a few things (most of which went over my head), but one item he touched on stuck out in my mind. He spoke of the wires that one day may string from room to room in search of a more efficient home. And the potential “experiments” that may one day take over my kitchen. I laughed, thinking this was a funny joke and gazed on at my groom with dreamy eyes.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">When we met, he lived downtown in a condo. In his bathroom he brewed small amounts of beer, but that was painless, right? He had one tool box, a car that worked and fewer clothes than me … This would be a match in heaven.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Who would have thought that our 2400 square foot home could be filled so quickly? I remember moving in and thinking who could fill all this space? Who would have thought that the enchanted rose garden would have been transformed into an edible garden? And who would have thought the small, gas friendly cars would transform to large diesels running on bio-fuels?!</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I try to gloat about the bio-fuels. I like to tell people that the emissions are far better for the environment. I keep waiting for someone to ask, “But is the sludge good for the marriage?”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I most often love the comment: “Gosh, smells like french fries when you start your car!” Or, even better when someone asks, “After I fry this turkey, can I dump my oil in your tank?”</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">The jokes keep coming and I keep smiling. I love my husband, I do .. but I think there may have been more to my brother-in-law's 8-page speech than I understood!</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><br />
</div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-22341636097909290432011-05-04T11:11:00.000-07:002011-05-04T11:57:44.497-07:00A Perpetual Garage Sale<div style="color: #999999;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>As a high school student, I loved garage sales. I had this crazy friend who was just like me. If we spent Friday night together (which was more often than not) we’d get up at the crack of dawn, throw on clothes which we had purchased the week before from someone’s driveway, and head off for the local Circle K for a fresh cup of cinnamon coffee. Armed with our hard earned money from babysitting jobs, part time pizza parlor stints and a buck or two snatched from my mom’s wallet, we’d head off in one of our almost-working cars to follow the signs to Saturday’s treasure troves.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Time, time, time, what has become of me?....As much as I would love to spend my Saturdays cruising from one sale to the next, my life has pulled me in a most interesting direction. In many ways, I am living in a perpetual garage sale! </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>I’ve never actually initiated having<u> </u>a garage sale. With working full time, then staying home with my daughters, and adding the hauling business on to my repertoire the very </b><b><u>last</u></b><b> thing I wanted to do was greet the 5 A-Mers to haggle over the price of a lamp shade. But I will participate! Any time a neighbor asks if I’d like to add to their sale, I pull open the garage door and swiftly move through the collection and select choice pieces. I do it for a couple of reasons: (1) I really </b><b>like</b><b> garage sales! They are so American ... When else do we sit in the cul-de-sac and visit with neighbors over morning coffee? And (2) I do it to clear a path in my garage. Afterward, I feel so cleansed, so orderly! I sweep the cleared space and reclaim it for silly stuff like laundry baskets and Costco bulk! I’ve learned this is just part of a cycle that will repeat itself several times a year. Stuff appears, crowding my way--I reorganize, shuffle, sell—Then, stuff reappears crowding my way and the cycle begins again. I’m an optimist, though…I’m <i>certain</i> this is just a phase. I close my eyes, click the heels of my shiny red shoes and dreamily say….there’s no place like home….</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Not long ago I learned that our neighborhood was scheduled to have the “famous” annual HOA garage sale. To faithful garage sale-ers this is The Big One. It attracts thousands of people! Some people will have traditional garage sales—others will sell hot dogs and sodas. Crafters work all year long and set up their table of colorful wares in their yard. Some come out from behind their front doors with patio chairs just to watch the spectacle! </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Excitedly I began to prepare. Dishes were stacked in one section, furniture in another, clothes out front—people love to go through other’s closets! Ceramic pots for gardening, kids’ toys and books—all neatly stacked and priced to sell! Certainly I don't want any of this to make its way back in the house or garage! It took only a couple of days. And, the garage never looked better! Boasting, I even left the garage door open for a few minutes for my across the street neighbor to see! You can never be too proud (even if it is only a small victory)! </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The sale was a success! We had a great day milling in and out of each other’s yards. By the day’s end we were beat and a few dollars richer! As the sun disappeared behind the mountain, I gathered up my kids, said our good nights to the neighbors and headed upstairs for evening bath time. The girls happily splashed as I sipped a much deserved cocktail. In the distance I heard the low muffle of the hauling truck lumbering up the street and glanced out….the sides of the truck were bulging! I clicked my heels and silently repeated…there’s no place like home…there’s no place like home.</b></span></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-68488783379585729832011-04-28T10:25:00.000-07:002011-04-28T10:27:26.161-07:00Ask and Ye Shall Receive<div style="color: #999999;"><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My husband has the uncanny ability to proclaim a desire and voila! it appears soon after in a hauling job! I used to laugh at the coincidence, but I've learned by watching him that it has little to do with coincidence. There really is something to this "ask and ye shall receive" ... especially after all the hype from <u><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1303997200_0" style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;">The Secret</span>!</u> The trick is <u>believing</u> in what you ask for! </span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Just last week, as he gazed into the back yard he dreamily sighed: “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a <i>bigger</i> composter this summer? Ours is just too small.” Okay, I thought … but we already have one. Why would we <i>buy </i>another? I dismissed the comment but the following day.... a brand new <u>bigger </u>composter showed up on the back of our truck! </span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A few weeks ago, same thing... he boldly put it out there: “Wouldn’t it be cool to have a <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1303997200_1">water softener</span> for the house?” Really? I mused. I barely understood what a water softener did--, but soon after, one appeared in mint condition in one of those famous trash outs! </span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">New storage racks for the garage … got ‘em!</span></b> <br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Longer <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1303997200_2">pressure washer hose</span> ... done!</span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Patio furniture … check!</span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I'm paying more attention these days because I think he's really on to something. He might even be like a guru or some sort of manifestation ninja. </span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Manifesting....hmmm, let me think. Five bedroom house on three acres in the north county sure would be nice. "Honey," I call out, "how do you feel about moving? Can we talk about what I've got on my mind?"</span></b></div></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-37979334128210428952011-04-26T10:50:00.000-07:002011-04-26T14:46:14.366-07:00Silver Salad Tongs<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><b><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">I was raised in a family where personal belongings were cherished. They are regarded as treasures and the stories of their beginnings were told with the deepest respect. My grandmothers' homes are filled with "hand-me-downs" -- tarnished trinkets on dressers, crocheted afghans thrown over aged furniture, collections of teapots, sugar bowls and fine crystal. Everything has a detailed story connected to it. I've heard each one several times, as I listened to them being retold by my Mother and Grandmothers. Here I learned the importance of family history. In the absence of a long passed ancestor, I feel their presence while holding the precious treasure.</span></b><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;">As a Hauler's Wife I've collected an arsenal of <span class="yshortcuts"><span id="lw_1303798229_0">other people's treasures</span></span>. Their stories are lost by the time I come into the picture. As I gently handle pieces of jewelry, leaf through books with inscriptions, or admire hand knit sweaters I often christen the item with my own rendition of its heritage. Sometimes I'm lucky to have a faded photo in the mix. When I do, I match the face to the item and off I go conjuring up my version of what happened and eventually put the item in my treasure box. My curiosity has become a little ritualistic, or maybe obsessive. In my opinion all things deserve their last rites...or a new beginning! </span></b><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
<b>Recently my mind wandered as I held a set of silver salad tongs...to anyone else, it would be just that -- salad servers, for pete's sake. But this was different. This particular item was found in an abandoned house -- at least that's what was reported through the pictures. In the shuffle of "junk" a photo album had been unearthed. Feeling intrusive, but curious, I devoured the pages. The pictures revealed a young couple during their courtship, their fun-filled college days, their eventual marriage and the birth announcement of a child - a baby girl named Elizabeth Claire. Then.. the frequency of the pictures began to dwindle and eventually stopped . I imagined a couple much like any other that our middle class America manufactures: full of hopes, dreams...and plans of a future together. Life would be grand, they promised one another. Their smiles were infectious as I flipped through the pages.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
<b>But, I had seen the pictures taken the day of the "trash out" and knew there was no happily ever after ending. The abandoned house was literally trashed -- but the remnants left behind offered clues to a different past. From the pictures I spied tastefully painted walls with over-sized furniture and home decorations that screamed "<span id="lw_1303798229_1" style="cursor: pointer;"><span class="yshortcuts">HGTV</span></span>". This once was a beautiful home. A toddler's yellow and orange minivan was in the background, tipped to one side, door to the car open ... abandoned. The pictures scanned the back yard to reveal a stainless steel built-in barbeque grill and a volleyball net ripped from the pole; the ball lay off to the side, aged from sun exposure and begging for one last match. The long grass had grown around hundreds of beer bottles left haphazardly throughout the scene. The fence, faded with age was leaning toward the street, exhausted from holding the past within. Here it is, I thought, the average American family gone wrong. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
<b>My mind returned to the salad tongs. I held them up to examine them more closely. Stamped with "<span id="lw_1303798229_2" style="cursor: pointer;"><span class="yshortcuts">Wallace Sterling</span></span>" I imagined <span id="lw_1303798229_3"><span class="yshortcuts">engagement parties</span></span>, giggly girls getting their manicures and pedicures, ribbon bouquets delicately made for the bride-to-be, and the lime sherbet 7-Up punch served in a deep glass party bowl used only for special occasions. I envisioned the young bride holding the tongs up in the air for all to see and I heard the ohhhs and ahhhs as each relative, cousin, and friend admired the pattern. In my mind, the proud silver set was passed to each guest to admire more closely. Along the way, someone made a quip about being the first to be invited over for the couple's first <span id="lw_1303798229_4"><span class="yshortcuts">dinner party</span></span> and how nice the silver would look aside the previously opened mango wood salad bowl. The bride's Maid of Honor cautioned that friends may have to wait a longgggg time for an invitation because the couple had been "waiting for marriage" to spend the night together! This make believe memory made me smile. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
<b>Snapping back to reality, I gathered up the silver polish and went to work. I have a remedy for broken dreams. I may never know what happened to that family. But, I do have some control over the inanimate objects left behind. These salad tongs deserve a new beginning. Once polished they can reign over my family gatherings and one day become a treasure my daughters will speak of to their daughters.</b></span></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-24326666827824181512011-04-21T11:13:00.000-07:002011-04-26T14:49:29.355-07:00Monday Fun-day<div style="color: #999999; font-family: times new roman,new york,times,serif; font-size: 12pt;"><div><div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My daughters refer to Monday as “Monday Fun-day.” It began when they started attending a neighborhood pre-school three mornings each week. Monday is our "off day" when mornings begin on the lazy side. We plan an outing together over breakfast: a trip to the zoo, the local mall, or a nearby park … I move their ideas along to activities that I am certain will tire their little bodies out for an afternoon nap -- I'm no dummy! It thrills the girls to pack their bags with snacks, their favorite stuffed toys, and a book or two. Sometimes it's just the three of us; other times we invite friends. </span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I am always a little leery of which way the day will go as kids will be kids and I do have my "job" tagging along. I'm kind of proud of my ability to multi-task. O</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">ne minute I can be in the middle of the zoo, gawking at an orangutan and the hauling phone will ring. I step aside politely to answer and as I answer the query on the other end of the line I often spy the "expert" Mom off to side glancing first to me and then sadly to my two orphaned children. I am<i> that </i>Mom on the phone while her children are seemingly left on their own to come to their own conclusions about why the monkeys pick up their own poop and throw it at each other. I am <i>that</i> Mom who seems to be waving her children off while enjoying a mindless chat with a girlfriend. The truth is, I am probably giving directions to a lost driver, trying to play damage control with the client we are late to see or negotiating with a frugal customer. Most often, I listen patiently as some kindly old lady explains her gardening project and her desire to have a yard or two of compost delivered. Have you ever noticed how older people just want to visit?... Don’t get me wrong; <i>I </i>understand this is my “job,” and from my vantage point I believe I do it well -- my girls and my peers wouldn't always agree. </span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">One Monday Fun-day we met a friend of mine and her three children at a nearby mall. The mall has a child's play area near the local coffee shop with benches for Moms and others to rest. Nearby is a carousel that we save for the final treat of the afternoon - the grand finale of the day. Our children know the routine. They romped off as we sipped our lattes and caught up on the recent gossip surrounding our lives. We were relaxed, caught in the moment and laughing at our budding acrobats playing together so nicely. The business phone rang and I sprung into Hauler's Wife mode. I turned and walked to a quieter area..my friend, understanding, waved me on--my good friends do that, they understand. I continued the conversation with my attention still on my little angles. Suddenly my eyes caught the wide-eyed panic of my friend -- she shrieked that her two-year old was missing! </span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Without a word my friend and I swooped up the remaining children and began scanning in opposite directions, half walking-half running. Up and down store fronts, quickly in and out of doorways, eyes peeled for any sign of that little boy. Horror flooded my mind. Stop! Settle down! Breathe! We continued our search in desperation, smoothly moving through the waves of people. Tightly holding on to my daughters' hands, I stretched my neck to look over the crowd. Where are you little one? Tears welled in my eyes. I brushed them aside and continued feeling as if I would implode. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The panic I experienced was unlike any other … and he wasn’t even my child -- how must my friend feel? My face flushed with anxiety and fear. I couldn't stop the tears from running down my face.</span></b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">After what seemed an eternity, we stumbled upon the little boy -- delighted to be in the arms of the carousel conductor and waiting his turn for a carousel ride! Mom and son reunited, she on her knees in front of him, tearfully hugging and caressing his soft hair. This time I took her children and waved her off, understanding -- good friends do that, you know. After a few quiet moments, she joined us. We were in line waiting our turn for the carousel. I spoke gently to my girls. They, too, had become frightened with all the commotion. All together again, we decided to ride the swan that would fit us all! I tucked my phone into my pocket and turned my full attention to our happy group. Hauling calls would have to be answered later. The driver may have to stop and ask for directions, gardening projects would have to wait ... I sat back against the swan's wings and looked sideways at my friend who had both her arms around her children and one on her lap. Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted down. Knowing her as I do I am certain she was thanking God for her fortune. I silently joined her as the children's laughter drowned out our throbbing hearts. </span></b></div></div></div></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-65771560693292671912011-04-19T13:14:00.000-07:002011-04-19T13:45:39.322-07:00Mother Lodes<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A semester's end in a college town becomes a busy time for A Hauler's Wife. The surprising thing to me is that the students are not calling for help--it's the apartment manager calling to "trash out" a place. In "my day" (am I really saying this?) we packed our well-used furniture in a friend's pick-up truck and moved it a couple of blocks to a new domicile, set it up, rearranged it for the new look and called it good for another semester. Now, we rarely see anything dated--Well, I take that back. I do remember a recent apartment filled with Grandma's maple furniture. The student remained for our arrival and actually apologized for the 'junk' he was leaving behind. Vintage furniture, junk? Yea right! This is worth a small fortune. </span></b> </div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Today's college apartment is smartly dressed with IKEA furniture, Old World Market dishes and Pier One Import light fixtures and bedspreads. To my shock, it's all considered disposable in their eyes! Pantries filled with canned goods; dead or dying marijuana farms (probably a science project I'm sure), exotic shampoos and conditioners and the inevitable carpet cleaner -- all left behind. Interestingly we don't come across many beer bongs or "water" pipes, so I surmise that some belongings have that old "sentimental value".</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">By the time we are called, the trash enclosures are so packed with "disposables" that residents can no longer exit the parking structure. I can always tell by the pitch of the manager's voice just how hectic the situation is--"Hiyahhh, the fire marshal was just here...can you send your guys <b><i>today</i></b>? Students are unable to get their cars from the parking structure!" The word "today" is a plea for "<u>right now</u>"!</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">End of semester apartment trash-outs have been endearingly named "Mother Lodes." We've all learned from our 4th grade teachers about the California Gold Rush in which "mother lodes" became a very common man's endeavor--akin to today's Mega-bucks lottery! Quite frankly, I know the old gold diggers exhilaration...As funny as it sounds, I get goose-bumpy excited when a driver calls and divulges “There’s some really great stuff here. You want me to bring the trailer by before we dump it?” Oh, yes ... It’s like Christmas! </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Generally we</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> park our trailers on a vacant nearby lot, but sometimes, I cannot resist--I must have it delivered!! Again, I bow ever so humbly toward my patient neighbors. I am certain they have their opinions (I can feel it), but I continue to convince myself that we are such 'nice people'...perhaps they will overlook the intrusion one more time. By the time it arrives, it doesn't matter -- I am a kid in a toy shop -- I dive in! </span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"></span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">One such load sticks in my mind. I arranged for the driver to "trash out" the apartment but when he arrived he called: "Rebecca, I'm not sure about this one. It looks like people still live here -- the shower has just been used, I can smell toast from breakfast, there are school books on the kitchen table and the TV is still on...What do you think"? I panicked--what if he was standing in someone's apartment? What would happen if the students suddenly returned to find a strange man in their home"? Had I paid my liability insurance? Panicked, I called the apartment manager to re-confirm the apartment number; she assured me they were gone. Within a few hours he had backed into my driveway and I devoured the contents! </span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The following morning, I called the apartment manager. She laughed at my paranoia, only to tell me that the apartment had been rented by two foreign exchange students. Headed back to China they had little use for the "mother lode" they left behind. Phew, I thought … I couldn’t imagine asking our crew to re-set-up the apartment they had just torn apart. Anyway, by the time I heard that piece of news the dresser had already been sanded and ready for a little antiquing, the dishes were donated to the nearby Salvation Army and the textbooks were in my car to be sold back to the school. Waste not, want not!</span></b></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-189036680729776092011-04-15T09:14:00.000-07:002011-04-18T15:25:47.084-07:00Doctor So and So, President Chit Chat<div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I am not one for titles. For me, first names are sufficient. But every once in awhile I will receive a call from an overly resonant voice announcing himself as "Doctor So and So" or some quick snappy chirp from "President Chit Chat" of the local volunteer organization. My antenna goes up in an instant and I am in defense-mode. My response is well-founded as I've learned they believe we common folk won't understand a word coming from their well educated lips.</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My title “Hauler” or “Hauler’s Wife” just doesn't have the spin necessary to impress many people. Believe it or not, many will look down on our kind. I hear questions like, “Do you <u>understand</u> what I am saying?” or “Does this make any sense to you?” or, “Have you <i>written</i> this down so you don't forget?” I'm especially amused when someone asks me to have the <i>owner</i> call them back; they have a few questions that I probably won’t be able to answer.....brother!</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I listen and answer questions politely and wait for the critical moment, the pause in the conversation, when I casually mention that my husband, the owner, won't be home until after 4 -- that he is an Information Analyst by day and a hauler by night so that I can stay home and raise our two children. Generally that catches a bit of interest and if it doesn't, I expand the family description and continue telling the doctor or the president that he also enjoys being the president of his business club, makes bio-diesel and occasionally enjoys concocting a batch of IPA. When he's not working, I continue, he enjoys spending time with his family and <i>loves </i>working in the yard. (okay, so the yard is a bit of a stretch...!) If I am given the opportunity I proceed to inform them that I, too, graduated from college, received my teaching credential <u>and</u> my Master’s degree, taught high school for 5 years and by my own choosing now stay at home to enjoy these short preschool years and run the hauling business.</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I'm a pretty friendly person and I don't believe my comments are offensive. Some get down right interested and change their tune altogether! Others could care less. Honestly, I think I do it more for myself. It's reassuring to hear my voice recant all our credentials and the lofty plans we have for our family. I know I will not reeducate anyone who has already made a decision of their important position in life and my subordinate placement. One thing is for sure A Hauler's Wife I am and I do, after all, get the last say...."How will you be paying ... cash, check, credit card?"</span></b></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-50545304757147600052011-04-12T10:51:00.000-07:002011-04-18T15:26:04.778-07:00Scrap Metal<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Recently we discovered that the trailer loads of "scrap" were very popular with "scrappers". Unknowingly we were tossing everything only to find that each metal has a value! As the economy dipped deeper we began to receive daily calls “hey, you got metal in your trailer today?” </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">As entrepreneurs, we saw the immediate value and decided to collect and separate metals for our own extra cash: one bin for copper, one for contaminated (metal mixed with wires or plastic), one for bronze, aluminum, etc. For about six months our side yard turned into a <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1302622116_2">junk yard</span>. At first it was fun--kind of like composting! Each day I tossed my recyclables from the kitchen into the proper bin. However, it wasn’t long before the scrap pieces wouldn't fit into a single bin and the piles began to grow. We had <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1302622116_3" style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136);">aluminum awnings</span>, engines, air conditioners, pool side lawn furniture. It became impossible to hide behind our backyard fence. The side yard took on the look of similar landscapes one might find in neighborhoods on the outskirts of town. </span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Let me explain something about where I live. Our house is<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> on a cul-de-sac in a well-trimmed middle class neighborhood. Our neighbors are our friends. We meet with our kids in the street and visit as they ride their bikes and learn to roller skate. We have group yard sales and help each out in emergencies. We're normal! They like us and we like them. We'd like to keep it that way.</span></span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But inevitable happened. We received a letter from our HOA. Kindly, they informed us that our trash enclosure area was unacceptable. We had 30 days to improve it. It was a good time to take the scrap metal in and collect our cash! My husband and I sorted the different metals for an entire afternoon. I learned there is a technique. I was given a piece of <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1302622116_4" style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136);">steel wool and was instructed</span> to scratch the surface for proper identification. Dutifully, I fulfilled the assignment and soon we had a trailer load. Excitedly, we headed for the <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1302622116_5">scrap yard</span>.</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The scrap yard is <u>the</u> most culturally eclectic place I've witnessed since changing my name at the Social Security office! At first I was a little intimidated with the rough mannerisms of the metal handlers. Few words are spoken. A heavy iron gate swung wide open for our trailer and we were directed by an unshaven man with a single finger pointing to the right side of the yard. We pulled up and were met by a middle aged woman in a tank top advertising some local bail bond company. She smiled through her decayed teeth and offered to help us unload. The nearby radio station was blaring the latest version of "Your Cheatin' Heart." The lady hummed the tune as she reached for the bumper of an old car. I pulled on my gloves, opened the trailer doors and helped. Finished, I thanked her for the help--she motioned me off as she reached for a nearby soda. </span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Checking out through the same gate the same burly man silently took the slip of paper from my hand, noted the weight and counted back over $200 in my hand!! My husband and I broke into a broad grin as we leafed through the 20 dollar bills. We felt rich! Little was said on the way back to our house. My mind was filled with chores left undone and dinner to be made. Without a word, my husband pulled into the grocery store parking lot. "Let's barbecue burgers for the neighbors tonight, babe." Good idea, I thought--nothing wrong with sharing the reward. </span></b></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-60573730196057243852011-04-06T19:58:00.000-07:002011-04-18T15:26:41.931-07:00The Life of a Queen<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Having a hauling business also means having multiple diesel trucks, hydraulic dump trailers and more tools than I ever knew existed! I grew up in a family where one had a single set of wrenches, a hammer, two brooms (one for inside and one for outside), a few screw drivers, and a couple different sizes of shovels. When I met my husband, he lived in a condominium and had one tool box. The tool box had the basics and the lid easily closed! I am confident I was tricked.</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Now our garage is lined with tool boxes and shelves. We have jack hammers, welders, different sizes of car, truck and trailer jacks. We have carpet cleaners, dollies, wheel barrows, vacuum cleaners, piles of tarps, cabinets of paints and oils and more household cleaners than I would need to clean all the houses on my street – every day – for the rest of my life! I am certain when we were married we shared the garage. We came home from work each day, pulled our cars in the garage and smiled at each other. I would change a load or two of laundry … he would grab the mower or some garden tool and prune the yard -- I was definitely “Living the Life of a Queen.”</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Today, I can barely close the garage door! I would consider myself a Queen to have a small shelf to store laundry supplies. Walking into the area is hazardous and has definitely been banned for bare feet! With each new job, a new tool (or two) comes home. We have piles of tools we need to sort, piles of tools we need to donate and, I am sure, piles of tools we don’t know exist! As long as I am able to clear a pathway to my laundry area, do I have a reason to complain? Oh, and by the way...the lawn?--I mow it now!</span></b></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-39267891665411869022011-04-04T15:46:00.000-07:002011-04-18T15:26:26.665-07:00Will I Ever Sleep Again!?<div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Shortly after having our first child, I became confident in my new role as “stay at home mother.” It wasn’t as tough as I imagined it would be. Although the new baby was getting up quite a few times at night, I was advised that I should take advantage of the baby's daytime naps to catch up on some of the lost sleep. Yeah, right! As every other seasoned mother knows quite the opposite happened. While she napped, I dove into the daily chores that every stay-at-home Mom faced: endless "picking up"--dishes, newspapers, bath towels from the morning showers, dirty socks from yesterday's haul and oh! those muddy shoes; piles of fresh laundry to be folded; dinner to prepare and the nonstop responsibilities of the business. </span></b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Sleep? Just as I would see the opportunity to close my eyes, either the hauling phone would ring or the baby would wake up. </span></b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I am certain I am not the first new mother to profess angst over the lack of sleep, but keeping the business going during that particular time only added to my already hormonal imbalance. I remember whining to my friends, “I have never been so tired in my life! Will I ever sleep again?” And, as good friends, they were quick to remind me of the double duty in which I was enlisted. "Oh", but remember our college days? We'd stay up all night, grab a cup of coffee and get to an 8 o'clock class, then rush to work for the night shift, make it home in time to meet at the neighborhood hangout and stay up all night again .. why is this sleeplessness tougher"? We all laughed at those mindless days! Now that I reflect I think a lot had to do with the fact that it was just me and my little girl whose only delight came from unscheduled suckling and a fresh diaper. </span></b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Each day was absolutely up to me, I understand this. However, this could go south quickly with one call from an eager client or driver with a problem. Often my decision was just survival! And that I did. There are more good things to remember than bad about my early motherhood days. One thing I'm still particularly proud of is the fact that I was able to change a loaded diaper and schedule a hauling job all without baby or client knowing they are only getting half my attention! </span></b></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-79113857192660839612011-04-02T06:59:00.000-07:002011-04-18T15:25:33.459-07:00Blaming Ourselves<div style="color: #999999;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“Do not talk to me when I am on this phone!” These words haunted me for months. I will never forget the look on the three year old's face when I barked these orders at her from across the room. “This phone” was the hauling phone. I had it in my pocket all the time. I answered it at the zoo, at the grocery store, in the middle of bath time, story time, lunch time … whenever it rang. It was my job.</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Her little eyes welled up with tears as she tried to explain to me that she wanted help getting water for her sister (who was pretending to be her pet kitty). They were playing so nicely while I was on the “business” phone. Of course they didn’t understand the difference. All their young minds knew was that their make believe world needed attention, and all I knew was that I needed to take the call coming in so that I wouldn’t hear about how many calls I missed that day when my boss came home.</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I have heard parents blame themselves for their children's bad behavior: mother’s feeling they shouldn’t have gone back to work so quickly when their children were born, father’s thinking they hadn’t spent enough time with their young children and mothers and fathers agreeing they have done and said things their children didn’t deserve.</span></b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I am not an expert on child rearing. In fact, I am sure I have done most everything wrong at times. What I do know is that as a parent when I make a mistake, I need to apologize and try to explain to my child why I was frustrated or upset. I hug and praise my children daily in hope that when I make my next mistake, they will know they are loved and they will bounce back as stronger individuals to take on the challenges of their future.</span></b></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-13481197881563889142011-03-29T16:59:00.000-07:002011-04-18T15:27:53.179-07:00Around the Clock Servants<div style="color: #cccccc;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Being a Hauler’s Wife isn’t all that glamorous. In fact, I can think of quite a few other titles that might just suit me better: Mother Extraordinaire would be my first choice, followed by Simply Amazing Homemaker or Made-it-From-Scratch Chef. Titles are funny things. As a teacher I received accolades from my colleagues and most certainly my husband had higher regard for the work I was doing. For whatever reason, “just” a stay-at-home mother is expected to perform with extra pizazz: be in charge of the family--discipline, finances, social gatherings, thank you notes and family albums-- maintain a tidy house, </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">keep a variety of home made food on the table,</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> keep the kids clean (ohhh, I can't tell you how many times I've chased kids with hairbrushes and toothbrushes!), spiff up the hubby each morning before he embarks on his day and elevate HIS personal happiness to #1 on this list. Oops, I left one off ... run the hauling business. Moms, like other around the clock servants, need vacations. I'm way past due.</span></b></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-85046700046750644872011-03-27T12:02:00.000-07:002011-05-06T08:28:22.247-07:00Deciding What to Keep<div style="font-family: 'times new roman','new york',times,serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999;">Receiving calls from people who have lost loved ones always breaks my heart. What will I do when I'm faced with the inevitable? How will I even begin? I've learned that feelings have be sorted quickly as the business of death leaves no time for mourning. I imagine sitting in the middle of a house deciding how to sort: One pile to keep, one to donate and one for the dump. Cold, harsh reality. Who’s to say what has meaning when <u>everything</u> left was important enough in some way to keep. We receive calls from children cleaning out their parent’s houses, parent’s cleaning out their children’s houses and neighbors helping neighbors. </span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: 'times new roman','new york',times,serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b> </div><div style="font-family: 'times new roman','new york',times,serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999;">My heart broke the morning I received a call from a distraught woman. Hearing the crack in her voice, I shifted from my normal carefree receptionist voice and quieted my chirpy responses. She informed me she was calling from out of state--Texas. "I am sorry" she said through her tears, "My son, he was attending the university--second semester--I received a call yesterday--no matter, I need to schedule a pickup". I softly asked her a few questions--location, what was to be picked up--the usual queries, but with a kinder probe. She explained to me that her son died and she needed to move his belongings from his apartment to re-coup his deposit. The expenses of the funeral were mounting and she was trying to save anywhere possible. I took the information and made the necessary arrangements. </span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: 'times new roman','new york',times,serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: 'times new roman','new york',times,serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999;">I spoke to Sue daily until the apartment was cleaned out. She told me she had never been to her son's college town so I took pictures and emailed them to her. I became an un-biased listener as she described her son. She had recognized a change in her relationship with him but thought it was because he was busy with new friends and challenging college courses. Not long before his death he suggested she come for a visit to see his apartment and meet his friends. She wanted to go, but money was tight and her work schedule was heavy. She promised a visit soon and "now," she said "there is no time". He was young, healthy, and fun-loving. "How can this be?" she asked her faceless new friend. </span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: 'times new roman','new york',times,serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><br />
</b> </div><div style="font-family: 'times new roman','new york',times,serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999;">Rather than send Sue an invoice, I sent her a box filled with pieces from her son’s life. Knowing what to send Sue was challenging. Pictures, of course, of happier times but what else? I struggled as I chose music CDs, a bottle of cologne, a comfy jacket, beach worn sandals, a personal diary and books with inscriptions. With finality, I taped up the box and readied it for mailing. I gathered my two little girls and cinched them safely into our car. As I pulled from my driveway destined for the post office I glanced at their round soft faces in the rear-view mirror. Sue's son was gone--forever. I cleared my thoughts and with a new understanding I called out to them-- "After we stop by the post office, how 'bout the zoo today, girls"? </span></span></b></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-62404253639454102422011-03-25T10:25:00.000-07:002011-03-25T15:04:35.837-07:00Too Good for Second Hand Goods?<div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Throughout the years we have furnished houses, sold enough items to purchase vacations, donated tons to <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1301071903_2">homeless shelters</span>, <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1301071903_3" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; border-bottom: medium none;">thrift stores,</span> and families in need. At first our family and friends were a little leery of our “<span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1301071903_4">Sanford and Son</span>” style. But as the finds continued, they began to ask, “hey, if you get a dresser in decent shape let me know” or “do you ever run across kid’s toys or clothes?” We have even had people ask if they could come to a jobsite to pick through the items prior to us “trashing out” the house or apartment.</span></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">One trailer load that always makes me chuckle came from a college student’s abandoned apartment. The women left behind everything!--furniture, clothes, kitchen accessories and food. Our driver was thrilled! He salvaged all the canned and unopened food. The furniture went to one of our neighbors who was having a yard sale (who ended up making over $200 from all the furniture) and the clothes came back to my house for sorting. </span></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">At the time I had a very well-kept friend. She always had the latest hair style, never missed a nail appointment and never, <u>never</u> left her house looking anything less than chic. I thought of her as I opened the bags -- these would be perfect for her small cute frame! I gave her a call and without giving her any detail I offered the booty!</span></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The clothes had been taken out of the garbage bags and sorted prior to her arrival. The trailer had been moved from our driveway. The evidence of their origination had been wiped away! As I suspected, she was thrilled to see all the <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1301071903_5" style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136);">designer jeans</span> and cute t-shirts and tops. She gathered everything enthusiastically with her girlish coos of approval and then turned to me and asked, “where did all this come from?” I smiled slyly and asked if she wanted the real answer or the answer she would like to hear. She scratched her head, laughed and said, “don’t tell me. I’d rather not know.”</span></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3039243096200515458.post-28492304282783253682011-03-23T17:35:00.001-07:002011-03-25T15:11:19.563-07:00Other People's Trash<div style="color: #999999;"></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My boss is my husband. We haul trash. We have been compared to ‘Sanford and Son.” As the adage goes, “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” This is true. It wasn’t until the car was pushed out of the garage that I began thinking that we may have a problem.</span></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">As a “stay at home mother” my duties entail the usual: take care of the children, keep the house clean, keep up on the laundry, play with the children, grocery shop and prepare food. Oops, I almost forgot the other duties I squeeze in between my already busy days: answer the work phone, scheduling employees, making (and changing) daily driver routes, invoicing and preparing payroll. I am sure I am missing a few items from both lists; however, these are the duties that keep me the busiest throughout each day.</span></div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #999999; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My friends have always told me how lucky I am to be home with my children. In my mind, I laugh to myself: “if you only knew.” Often times, I wonder if I would have been a better wife and mother had I gone back to work. Maybe it’s easier to leave the house early in the morning, stop by the market on the way home and rush the kids into bed only to start all over the next day. I am sure that phone calls taking precedence over my children won’t get me nominated for mother of the year; however, I am hopeful that when our kids look back on their childhood they will remember all the “fun” outings and treasures they received from other people’s “trash.”</span></div>The Hauler's Wifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00971534848031668940noreply@blogger.com1