Remember When

published October 14, 2010

in the Stockton Sentinel, 

Stockton, Kansas

     The month of October generally fills me with nostalgia, and I suppose it has to do with our wedding anniversary. My husband's birthday is also in October, but that just fills me with relief since he finally reaches the same age as me.
     The day this paper hits the newsstands is the day my husband and I will celebrate 37 years of marriage. I don't know how it's possible since I'm not much older than that, but that's the number I get when I do the math.
     There's just something about our wedding anniversary that puts me in a reflective mode. I think about our life and our family: two sons, two daughters-in-law, five grandchildren. I think about the various career changes we've made, the different addresses we've had and the homes we made at each one. Mostly, I think about our love, and how it came to be and continues to grow after all these years.
     I know there are many of you reading this who have many more years of anniversaries behind you than we do, and I'd be interested in your thoughts on 'what makes it work.' In fact, I'd be happy to sit back and let each of you write a column about your marriage and life experiences that have kept you together. Then we could combine all your stories into a marriage manual for others to learn from.
     One of my favorite authors, Dr. Seuss, said, "You know you're in love when you don't want to fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams." That's not to say that married life is a bowl of cherries, but it's interesting to me that when I look back over our life, it's not the tough times that come to mind; it's generally the times that came AFTER the tough times that are most memorable.
     So here's to us, sweetheart, and here's to all of you with big-number anniversaries... an anniversary song and slow dance, provided by the mellow voice of Alan Jackson.

Remember when thirty seemed so old

Now lookin' back, it's just a steppin' stone

To where we are, where we've been,

Said we'd do it all again... Remember when.

Remember when we said when we turned gray,

When the children grow up and move away,

We won't be sad, we'll be glad

For all the life we've had, and we'll... Remember when. 

Trash Talkin'

published October 7, 2010

in the Stockton Sentinel, 

Stockton, Kansas
 

     Pardon me while I step up onto my soapbox. I just don't get it. I walk around town or ride bike a lot, and I have to wonder... when people toss trash out onto the street or sidewalk, who do they think is going to pick up after them? Or out along the roads and highways... are trash tossers just wanting to make sure there is stuff out there for the volunteer groups to earn their community service points?
     At ballgames, concerts, movies, fairs -- any public event -- when it's over, someone has to deal with all the trash that's left behind, even though trash cans are plentiful. Don't worry about it; someone else will clean it up.
     I thank my parents for instilling in me the value of cleaning up after myself and not tossing trash on the ground. Not even a gum wrapper. I hope that's one lesson I've passed on well to my own kids.
     We are blessed to live in such a beautiful world. We are fortunate to have such wonderful facilities everywhere we go for public events of all kinds. And we're just down-right spoiled when it comes to conveniences designed to make our lives easy. All we have to do is watch the evening news to understand how rich we are in resources and "stuff," and we really didn't even have to work very hard for it. We pretty much take it all for granted.
     With everything that we've been blessed with, it seems to me that we have a responsibility to care for it and preserve it. After all, in the whole scheme of things, we're here for just a short while anyway, and then it will all belong to someone else.
     Okay, I'll step down from my soapbox now. I see a wadded up McDonald's carryout bag on the street that needs to be picked up.

There's Magic in Music

published September 30, 2010

in the Stockton Sentinel, 

Stockton, Kansas

     How is it that a song can bring back vivid memories of exactly who you were with, where you were, and what you were doing? You can even feel the old emotions you felt back then, perhaps when you first heard the song. It's just weird. Why and how do you suppose that happens? I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday, or what I did last Sunday afternoon, but I can remember exactly what song was playing when I got into my car to try driving home after coming out of a storm tunnel on March 13, 1990 -- the day a tornado ripped the town of Hesston apart. I can't remember what I played for a prelude or offertory in church last Sunday, but I know what I played the Sunday after September 11, 2001.
     There is something magical about what music does to us and for us. Music can either soothe or excite, empower or subdue. Even though you may not be aware of it happening, there is a strong possibility that a certain song will evoke a special memory. Some of us oldies like the oldies radio stations for the very reason that the music brings back memories of "the good ol' days."
     In many ways, music serves as an autobiography of our lives. It may be a song from your high school prom or graduation, a song played at your wedding or the funeral of a loved one, or a song played on the radio the day of a tragic incident in your life -- each one serves as the title of a chapter in your life story. And hearing the song again, whether in your mind or in your ears, brings back not only the memory of that event, but also the emotions.
     On a lighter note (no pun intended), from now on, every time I hear Kenny Chesney's "The Boys of Fall," I will think of football season in the fall of 2010, and the Stockton High School Tigers. "You mess with one man, you got us all -- the boys of fall."

Tiny Towns and Huge Coincidences

published September 23, 2010

in the Stockton Sentinel, 

Stockton, Kansas

     "I grew up in a tiny town, sidewalks rolled up when the sun went down..." These words, written by Keith Stegall, are the beginning of the song "Tiny Town," performed by Tracy Byrd on his album, Truth About Men. Even though I grew up on a small farm, I can relate to these words because my hometown of Goessel has a population of around 500, on a good day. There are over 300 towns in Kansas with populations of less than 500, so my hometown is in good company.
     My parents still live in Goessel, and I send them a Stockton Sentinel each week so they can keep up with us and the goings-on here in Stockton. Last week, my parents learned that, in addition to them, another lady in Goessel also receives the Sentinel. I don't know her, and my parents have not known her, but they met her last week because they delivered the Sentinel to her that had been mistakenly been placed in their mailbox together with their own paper. Instead of having the Post Office correct the delivery error, my parents made the small-town friendly gesture of locating her by using the phone book and then went to her house and delivered her paper.
     We thought it quite a strange coincidence that in the tiny town of Goessel, some 190 miles away from Stockton, there would be TWO people who receive the Sentinel. But what really got us chuckling is that their Post Office boxes are side-by-side -- one gets their mail in Box 405, the other in Box 406. What are the odds of that happening anywhere, let alone with my parents in my tiny hometown?
     Here at the Sentinel, my co-workers frequently say that "all roads lead through Stockton," meaning that wherever you go, chances are you'll bump into someone with ties to Stockton. The statement comes up frequently in conversation, and by now I'm becoming a believer.

My Ho-Hum Life

published September 16, 2010

in the Stockton Sentinel, 

Stockton, Kansas

     The old saying about "bigger is better" is not always true. I'm sure this revelation comes as no surprise to most adults who have a lot of life experiences on their "been there, done that" list.
     Last week, I attended three days of meetings in Topeka with Kansas Housing Resources Corp. (KHRC), getting up-to-snuff on all the latest rules and regulations from Housing & Urban Development (HUD), so that I can return to my morning job at Stockton Housing Authority/Valley View Apartments and keep cranking out a ton of paperwork. Like many of your job situations, about the time you feel like you're getting a handle on how to do something, it changes, and you have to start all over again. Not surprisingly, since I work under the federal government's umbrella, this is a regular occurrence at the Housing Authority.
     When I attend these meetings and sit in a conference room with a couple hundred other housing managers and management agents, we're all in the same boat; we all have to work under the same rules and regs. But as I hear their stories, I appreciate my quiet, pretty little neighborhood at Valley View even more.
     I come away from our meetings thinking about how much of the information was directed toward HUD housing in urban settings -- worries and concerns that I will not likely have to deal with in a small apartment complex in a rural setting.
     While it's nice to visit a large city, I would not want to live there. Oh sure, to be right there when you want to go shopping, or to have a myriad of choices when you want to avoid your own kitchen, may seem nice. But with "bigness" comes a lot of "badness," and as I listened to their stories, my own problems shrunk in comparison. To the city dwellers, we live life in the slow lane, in a "ho-hum" existence. But after all was said and done (and yes, including some shopping), I happily pointed my car west and returned home to pleasant little Valley View. I'll keep my "ho-hum" life, thank you very much.
     I enjoy attending my training meetings in Topeka or Kansas City because, more than anything else, I learn that what we have here -- not just at Valley View, but in Stockton and the surrounding area -- is really special.

The Changing Seasons

published September 9, 2010

in the Stockton Sentinel, 

Stockton, Kansas

Even more than the four seasons of summer, fall, winter and spring, I love the transition days in between. Just when we think we can’t handle another triple-digit summer day, in comes a cold front that changes and refreshes everything, including our attitudes. Even though it’s not yet officially fall, mornings and evenings certainly give a pleasant hint that autumn is on its way. We know there may still be a few hot days to endure, but we also know those days are numbered.

And after a long dreary winter, when it seems like we’ve had ice on the ground since October 24, and we never get to see daylight because we go to work in the dark and go home in the dark, the new greening of grass, budding trees, and blooming daffodils are a most welcome sight.

Since my husband has coached a variety of sports most of our married life, and because we had two sons who played a variety of sports, I remember the days when our house looked (and probably smelled) like a locker room. It was during those years that time marched in accord with three seasons: football, basketball, baseball. (Some of you reading this have more than three seasons, especially if you have a girl or two.)

Football season, unlike fall, is officially here, and just the sound of a football game on TV makes me feel cooler, even if the day is still warm. And then comes basketball, and nothing makes winter tolerable more than basketball. In the same way, there can still be snow on the ground or a nip in the air, but the sound of a televised baseball game (usually being played in Florida!) is like a warm, spring breeze.

Don’t get me wrong: I love summer, as long as temperatures stay below 90 degrees, and I love winter, as long as temperatures stay above 35 degrees. I also really love spring and fall, although those are the worst times for my allergies!

I guess what I’m saying is, my most favorite seasons of the year are still football, basketball and baseball!

  

Stir Fry

published September 2, 2010

in the Stockton Sentinel, 

Stockton, Kansas

While stir-frying some chicken teriyaki for Sunday dinner, I was remembering the first time our family was introduced to stir fry. We and our then-young sons were invited to my great-aunts' home in Hutchinson for a meal. These never-married sisters, my dad's aunts, lived together nearly all their lives. They were the coolest ladies who had traveled all over the world, and they always brought back some really neat stuff as souvenirs. I used to tell them they were the living definition of "great" in "great-aunt." But the older they got, the more eccentric they got. They probably planned the menu for our dinner together, and then I'm sure they each contributed an equal dollar amount to the grocery buying. Their refrigerator had an imaginary line down the center; each sister kept her own groceries in her respective half. Fortunately they were crafty enough to figure out how to prepare dinner on a shared budget.

I remember that when I saw what they were fixing and the many different kinds of veggies they were chopping up to toss into the frying pan, I went to the living room where our boys, probably about 3 and 8 at the time, were playing with some of the world bazaar toys that the aunts had brought back from some far-off land. I remember telling them quietly that they might not like all the stuff we were going to have for supper, but they could pick out the things they liked and just push to the side anything they didn't care for. I told them they had to try it and not complain, and if they were polite and didn't say anything rude about dinner, we would stop at McDonald's when we left to get them something to eat. (Veggie Tales had yet to be invented, and my boys were definitely NOT veggie-lovers!) Anyway, our boys must have been good because I don't remember anything else, but I'm sure I was held to the promise of stopping at McDonald's before leaving Hutch. Kids don't let you forget something like that. 

As we begin a new school year, I would draw this comparison:  There's a lot of stuff mixed in a stir fry, some of which you like, some maybe not so much. Generally, there is some sort of meat. Some things are added just for color; other things are added to make it spicy or tangy. Some things are tender, others are just downright crunchy, and it's usually held together in a real sweet sauce.

A school year is a little like stir fry. The new school year will provide an array of "ingredients." Some things you may like better than others. Perhaps you will slide some things off to the side. But if you truly give it a try, you just might experience a sweet blend of something you never before imagined. 

"Fair"ly Good Food

published August 26, 2010

in the Stockton Sentinel, 

Stockton, Kansas

As much as I have come to love the Rooks County Free Fair, I'm glad it comes around only once a year and lasts only one week. I can't think of any other reason that we would eat out nearly every meal -- lunch and supper -- plus line up for snacks between meals. We would certainly complain if we always had to pay four bucks for a hamburger or five bucks for a cup of lemonade. But mostly, our cholesterol and weight would soar if we always had menu choices of half-pound barbecue sandwiches, marinated cheeseburgers, bloomin' onions, French-fried potatoes piled a foot high, or deep-fried-everything-you-can-imagine. We also willingly (and joyfully!) spend big dollars to watch our granddaughters go round and round on all the rides at the carnival, only to have them get sick and lose their four-buck hamburgers.

Fair week is a tremendous amount of work for many people who make it happen, and their efforts are much appreciated by many. A huge "thank you" is due to all those who make the Rooks County Free Fair an exceptionally great county fair. It is certainly something to be proud of in our community. Thanks, also, to the many vendors who tempt us throughout the week with those calorie-enriched food items, but thanks for leaving town so we can all get back to our workout routines.

Attitude of Gratitude

published July 2, 2009

in the Stockton Sentinel, 

Stockton, Kansas

One day last week I received two thank-you cards in the mail. Yes, TWO in one day! I felt SO blessed, and the old gospel song, "Showers of Blessings," kept going through my head all afternoon. I vowed once again to remember how good it felt to receive those notes and to do a better job of sending similar warm fuzzies to bless another person's day.

Someone named Margaret Cousins is credited with saying "Appreciation can make a day, even change a life. Your willingness to put it into words is all that is necessary." I don't know who Margaret Cousins is, but I know how she felt when she said those words. Perhaps she had just received a note in the mail.

Today's modes of dashing off quick messages on our phone or in an email makes receiving a good "old-fashioned" note or letter in the U.S. postal mail feel like a treat. As much as I enjoy and appreciate finding messages in my "INBOX" from friends and family, or checking our family web page for the latest news or pictures, nothing can compare with the feeling I get when I tore open a real handwritten note. Getting two notes in one day was simply a double blessing! 

A little appreciation certainly did make my day, and all it took was someone's willingness to put it into words. Let that be a lesson to me... and to you!

Fringe Benefits

published October 15, 2009

in the Stockton Sentinel, 

Stockton, Kansas

It happened so quickly and quietly that I didn't even know it until it was a done deal. Bob and I had our three little granddaughters with us Saturday evening, and we stopped at Kentucky Fried Chicken for supper. It was there that the young kid at the cash register delivered a startling reality check: he gave Bob and I a "senior discount." And he didn't even ask our age. I might never have known it if Bob had not checked our ticket to see why our final tab was less than expected and then proceeded to share this revelation with me.

I suppose it is just one more rite of passage, and I'm sure at some point I will learn to appreciate and even enjoy this "fringe benefit" of growing older. But this is the first time it has ever happened. Perhaps the young kid taking our order figured those three little kids with us must be our grandchildren, and that would make us grandparents, and from his young perspective, that would make us old. Maybe we actually DO look old. Maybe we actually ARE old!

An email I received recently defined old age as "the time when you still have a lot on the ball but you're just too tired to bounce it." That's especially appropriate since I've lived with "Coach Becker" most of my life. And even though it describes how I feel many days, I'm certainly not ready to throw in the towel.

Tuesday, the 13th, was Bob's and my 36th wedding anniversary, and my oldest brother and his wife are about to celebrate their 40th. I was talking to my mother one day last week, and she commented about how old these events of ours make her feel. I told her I understand how she feels, and that even my own birthdays don't make me feel as old as the birthdays and anniversaries of my children.

Our oldest son, who is 32, has been married 10 years and has three children. Three granddaughters for us to enjoy and lavish all our love and attention upon, and that's the BEST fringe benefit of growing older! So from now on, we will happily take those three little fringe benefits into KFC or any place where we receive a "senior discount."

A Remarkable Tapestry

published in 2009
in the Stockton Sentinel, 

Stockton, Kansas

One of my favorite novelists, Richard Paul Evans, in his book, "The Carousel," wrote, "I have come to believe that we do not walk along in this life. There are others, fellow sojourners, whose journeys are interwoven with ours in seemingly random patterns, yet, in the end, have been carefully placed to reveal a remarkable tapestry. I believe God is the weaver at that loom."

I fully understand Evans' thoughts and believe these words to be true, especially since life is much easier understood looking in a rear view mirror. Looking back at where I've been and what has happened in the past makes much more sense than trying to make decisions about something current or in the future. Remembering the people I've met along the way and thinking about how they came along in my life at just the right time or for a certain purpose simply puts me in awe -- a virtual "footprints in the sand" experience. Looking backward helps me understand the picture going forward.

Some people move from place to place a lot and don't know what it is like to put down roots in a place for a long period of time. Whether in a military family or some other occupation that requires relocation, some folks seem to live out of boxes. I am too much of a homebody to adopt that kind of life. I want the security of knowing the relationships I form will have a chance to develop into deep, lasting friendships. I want to know when I plant flowers or trees that they will be for my enjoyment, not someone else's, or when I paint a room in the house, it is for my pleasure and not to make the house more sellable.

The first half of my life was like that, with roots that went 40-years deep into the life of the Goessel, Kansas community. The thought never crossed my mind that I would move away from my hometown. But God had different plans, and the tapestry of my life continued its amazing, colorful weave. Although I balked at moving, I have been blessed each time. Blessed by wonderful friends, rich experiences, new challenges... each move has been a growing experience.

Having lived in Stockton, Kansas now for several years, I know the weaving of that tapestry continues. Just thinking of people I would never have met or experiences I would not have had if I had not moved here helps to erase any feelings of "homesickness." The strands of the tapestry are not only more colorful, they are also stronger because each leg of the journey takes me out of my comfort zone and strengthens my character. God continues to weave at the loom, and the patterns are beautiful.

Sticky Notes

published in 2009

in the Stockton Sentinel

Stockton, Kansas

 

I once read that women over 50 don't have babies because they would put them down and forget where they left them. That used to be funny until I became a part of that group. I don't go anywhere anymore without my trusty notepad. If it's not written down, it probably isn't going to happen.

And then there are those wonderful sticky notes. Whatever did we do without sticky notes? I have them stuck everywhere, of course, reminding me of something to take care of. I've even written a note on a sticky note to remind myself to buy more sticky notes.

Did you know a church choir member invented the sticky note during a sermon? He was frustrated that his bookmarks always fell out of his hymnal, making him lose his place, so he began thinking of ways to remedy the problem. Makes me wonder, though, what creative thoughts are churning in the minds of my choir members.

Strangely enough, the 3M company where the inventor worked first thought the idea of a "reusable bookmark" was wasteful and silly. Well, believe it or not, those wasteful little notes are now over 40 years old, which means that many of you reading this have not known a life without sticky notes.