Here lies my father, a soldier

I was very comfortable in this cemetery. My parents maintained the grave sites of family members with clockwork precision; bringing geranium-filled crocks in the Spring, stopping by monthly to spruce up around the stones, weeding, watering, and then bringing the crocks home in the Fall. There was a hand-pump from where, as a little girl, I would wrestle water to fill the sprinkling can. Mom would hand me fistfuls of dead blooms, twigs, and weeds to toss into an enormous gorge which I now realize was just a mild embankment of composting debris. I explored the cemetery, drawn to the solemn mausoleums. I read names, chilled by the children. My mother would quietly re-introduce me to these strangers; members of a family tree that I was forever cut off from.

Years ago, my parents took me and my daughters to see their stone and I wish that day was more etched in my memory than these names now carved in granite. My parents are not here. I do not feel the need to hover over a rock, bequeathing blossoms to a boulder.

My husband, of course, is much wiser than me. 

He patiently waited a couple of months before finally nudging me towards the cemetery.

I turned off my mind (and my heart) as we made another long drive to visit my mother. Or rather, a stone
upon which her name was inscribed.

I was quiet for most of the drive but as we drew close, I asked my husband, my voice quivering, "Will there be grass?" 

"No, baby," he answered, now worried that we'd come too soon. "Are you still okay?"

No.

But I nodded.

We'd brought a bird seed bell to hang in the tree next to my parents.

We pulled up but I found myself paralyzed. I couldn't look. 

Brad got out of the vehicle to place the bell but was soon knocking on my window, urging me to come out. "You have to see," he called through the glass. I approached reluctantly, wincing at the scarred soil but Brad was pointing to the tree, exploding with white and pink buds. My parents' song? Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White.

Beautiful.

Brad gave me another couple of months and nudged me again. July. My parents' anniversary. 

The ground was now blanketed in green.

But Brad frowned.

The cemetery swam with small flags, a testament to all who had served.

"Where is your dad's flag?" my husband asked.

A naive civilian, I did not understand the weight of this question. I scanned the area and noticed a nearby grave with two flags. I didn't even have time to take a step before the soldier who was now firmly entrenched with me growled. "Don't even think about it." He walked the perimeter of the area surrounding my parents' grave, finding three more veterans unrecognized. 

The son-in-law was now a sentinel. 

And this over-sight would be corrected.

We had hand-held flags at home but decided to stop at a nearby store to fix the problem immediately. I went in and asked. The clerk accompanied me to the area and we stood before the empty display in shock. "I can't believe that we're sold out," she said apologetically. "But isn't that wonderful?" I replied and we both grinned, heartened by this unique representation of patriotism. 

I wasn't grinning as much, three stores later when we still came up empty.

"Our little flag will have to do," Brad said glumly.

Discouraged, we stopped at our own grocery store on the way home and I made one final attempt. 

BINGO.

"Why do you have two?" Brad asked as I danced across the parking lot to him, waving the flags like I was getting ready to start the Indy 500. "Just in case," I replied.

We returned the next day, adorning my Dad's stone along with another nearby service member's stone with the flags we'd purchased and setting our own, smaller, flags with the other unadorned graves. 

We tidied up my parents' stone and left.

They are not there.

But Brad demonstrated that I can still serve them, honor them, and love them by the small, simple act of visiting a stone. 

Deuteronomy 27: 2-3

...you shall set up for yourselves large stones and coat them with lime and write on them all the words of this law, when you cross over, so that you may enter the land which the Lord your God gives you...

Raising the brow (bar) of our friendship

My friend Deb texted me out of the blue to see if I was interested in a little outing. She offered me the choice of steps or snacks. Wow. Tough choice.

Armed with my five-year-old Vertical gift card, we headed out on our quest for a fun, themed beverage and an alarmingly-oversized pastry. God bless America.

I cringed the moment we walked in the door as we were immediately welcomed by the warm smile and exuberant greeting of our friend, Shanna who is the human equivalent of a golden retriever. After first feeding us emotionally by sweeping us up in her fiercely-determined hug (I cannot outrun her) and forcing us to provide detailed updates of our lives, Shanna then turned her attention to feeding us physically. As I feared, Shanna refused to accept the gift card (that she had given me), sliding it back with a grin. "You'll just have to come back," she teased, shoo-ing us to a pair of comfortable chairs as she prepared our order.

I asked Deb if we could enjoy our treat in the newly-renovated niche tucked next to the building. "You mean the alley?" Deb asked, balancing a cinnamon roll that could double as a beret. "No, no," I corrected, "Imagine an intimate Parisian passageway, tucked between two book-ended buildings like a love letter to be discovered, centuries later, by two wandering woman ready to embark upon a great adventure." We sat happily on rustic metal chairs, surrounded by bricks and a wild jungle of greenery, beneath magical strings of lights. It was a feast for the senses. 

A red light suddenly went off...signaling the river of traffic flowing perpendicularly before us to stop and the diesel tractor trailer idling in front of us flooded our narrow channel with a mystical gray mist...a fumigated fog embraced us. "I think I've had enough of my taste of Paris," Deb rasped as we raced back to Shanna in the clean, climate-controlled, cinnamon-scented coffee shop.

Returning to the vehicle, we noticed a beauty salon with an impressive and baffling list of services. As educated, world-wise women, we could figure most of the terms out but the "lash lift" and "brow lamination" occupied most of our conversation as we headed to our next destination. For a moment, we understandably confused "lamination" with "Lamentations" but as no other books of the Bible were represented on the narrow door, we dismissed that possibility. "I've seen those ladies that string your eyebrows at the mall," I had argued.  Plenty of opportunity for lamentation as they rip out those small, delicate hairs. 

We arrived just at the close of Vacation Bible School, approaching the registration table quietly as students were singing and dancing in the sanctuary. "Who are you here for?" the kind woman asked us. "My daughter, Linsey," Deb said, failing to keep a straight face as we jokingly signed out her 27-year-old offspring who had volunteered as VBS staff. We sat in the back as the program drew to an end, waiting with delight as Linsey, crowded into a group picture, finally spotted us and we waved like proud moms at a t-ball game.

We whisked Lins away for yet another themed beverage and tasty baked good. She translated brow lamination for us; describing it as an eyebrow perm...rendering Deb and me silent as we considered how on earth one perms one's eyebrows. The shoppe had a colorful display of macaroons so, to extend our  metaphorical Parisian trip, I selected one for each of us...we toasted our time together (lamenting the carbs). We were really on a roll!

"We'll go heavy on the protein next time," I promised as Deb dropped me off. an hour later "You butter believe it," she yelled. I went into the house and called up the salon to schedule brow lamination appointments for Deb and me for our next big adventure. The receptionist immediately penciled us in.

We made it by a hair

"Didn't you check Google before we decided to come here?" my husband asked glumly after we'd paid the ten dollars for parking from the machine that ignores his Veteran status. He ignored the Rumplestitskian-sized temper-tantrum I was currently throwing in front of the "detour" sign that was barring my way from the gorge trail AND the life-altering shuttle bus that would be waiting for me at the top of said gorge. 

I paused to glare at him. "No, I did not think to ask the interweb if a state park was open in JUNE."

We weighed our options. We could skip the park altogether (forfeiting our ten dollar parking fee) or attempt the dreaded rim trail. I watched a pair of elderly ladies carefully maneuver their walkers up the steps to the first landing. The delightful Belgium waffle I had enjoyed moments ago ("Whipped cream?" the waitress had asked. I had been confused. Was that even UP for debate?) weighed heavy in my belly. I remember clearly, Brad asking me if I wanted him to grab a water as I skipped happily across the ten-dollars-to-park parking lot. "Water's for suckers," I'd yelled. A woman with a stroller walked confidently toward the rim trail entrance. She was wearing flip-flops.

"What the hell, Katriel?" (I like this particular phrasing because it rhymes.)

As I staggered up the second set of stairs ascending to the rim trail, I began cursing my friend who had visited this park weeks ago and, to my admittedly absentminded recollection, had not said A WORD about not being able to access the gorge trail to this jewel of a state park. The gorge trail is the ONLY reason anyone would visit this state park. The parade of people lining up behind my snail pace of "progress" forced me into a theatrical pose of nonchalance as I assumed the character of "woman in shape." I quietly ("Quietly?" Brad asked.) bemoaned the lack of handrails, gripping the rock walls like I was scaling Half Dome. My orthopedic shoes were no match for the Olympic pool-sized puddles of which I was considering as a hydration source at this point. A three-year-old lad scampered by me sporting Crocs. 

By the third landing, I had added another to my blame list:

"How's it farin', Erin?" (See what I did there?)

Had it not been for Erin, I would not be on this death march (A contingency of tourists nudged past me, wearing sandals with socks. Their grandmother was bringing up the rear.). Instead, I would be at her house, seated on a counter stool, snarfing down ice cream for her annual First-Day-Out-of-School celebration. But...no-oo-oo. She had to cancel. Like driving one's mother to a doctor's appointment is SO much more important than feedng Amy Mosiman ice cream at 9:45 in the morning.

We'd been hiking ("Hiking?" Brad asked.) for hours ("Minutes," Brad clarified.) There was more sweat pouring off of me than water running through the gorge that I could hear but not see. According to Brad's report, I had turned an alarming shade of tomato red.

"How far do you plan on walking?" Brad asked. To be fair, the lack of oxygen to my head had caused any reasoning skills that I may have once had to completely shut down. I honestly didn't know. The grannies with walkers were still ahead of us. "There was a sign about a meeting at the suspension bridge for a tour," I muttered madly. "The suspension bridge is a mile ahead," Brad informed me as I sank to a plank bench, prone...immobile...defeated. 

No one else was turning back. They scampered happily along in their inappropriate footwear, lugging their
weight in water.

"A little further," I whispered hoarsely through my chapped lips and parched throat. My waffle was threatening to make a reappearance. Brad sighed as he hoisted me from the bench. 

Hours later ("It felt like hours," Brad remarked.), I stood, victorious, in the shadow of the suspension bridge. "Do you want to go up?" my husband asked. I looked at him like he was suddenly sporting socks with sandals. Why on earth would I want to do that? 

We made our way, slowly and carefully, ("That's accurate," Brad agreed.) back down the trail. My new goal was a container of close-to-boiling water locked in our van located in a ten-dollars-to-park parking lot.

Brad had larger aspirations for his waning wife. After escaping this hellhole, he pulled our vehicle into a roadside stop for some ginger ale (That waffle) and cheese curds. 

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I had gotten suddenly quiet.

Glancing at me, his eyes grew wide with alarm as I held up a rectangular piece of cheese curds for his inspection. Wrapped around it...coiled like a little snake...was a long brown hair. Brad rolled my window down for me so I could send it flying.

We sat in silence for a moment...reflecting on our day. Brad watched with some surprise as I reached into the container for another cheese curd. Noting his expression, I shrugged. I was going to drink out of a puddle today. A hair is hardly cause for concern. 

I don't want to split hairs but kayaking doesn't float my boat

It's tough to really pinpoint who is to blame...there are so many to choose from.

I guess we could start with Allison who, for some odd reason, loves this annual outing and COULD NOT BE CONTENT with just her and Katriel attending. Oh no...wouldn't it be just peachy if the ENTIRE 4th grade team participated? She knows I'm a sucker for camaraderie. But only when food is involved. Plus, she was sneaky...attaining Traci's enthusiastic approval first and THEN coming to me.

Which brings us to...Traci. Yeah. LOADS of blame lie upon her slender yet muscularly-defined shoulders. In the classic game of "Which one of these is not the same," one would look at a picture of Traci, Jennifer Aniston, and me, laugh out loud and confidently raise one's hand, certain of a win. Sure, these women are all the same age but two of them have elevated the age of 56 to an art form. They practically vibrate with good health, beauty, and vitality. They obviously work out, eat well, and take care of themselves. The third woman is well-insulated from the cold, fermented with decades of preservatives found in Pepsi, Twinkies, and Dove chocolate and brags about her daily intake of dairy in the form of six string cheeses. Squats are her mortal enemy. Traci KNEW that, by accepting Allison's diabolical invitation for a kayak outing, she was also signing my reluctant watery warrant. 

And then...there's Katriel, who has had to employ her vast knowledge of simple machines to hoist my prone
form off the floor on multiple occasions. Who KNOWS that lowering my unfit form into an unstable kayak would be an act of extreme concentration and heart-stopping skill. Imagine maneuvering an adorable blob of oobleck down the raised surface of a dining room table with the intention of having it drop neatly into a small Dixie cup positioned beneath the rim of the lowered side. No problem. Not embarrassing at all.

And let's not forget Spencer. Who was PERFECT. Kind. Accommodating. Supportive Spencer. Who would have happily set me up in the little ring of Adirondack chairs with a beverage and loudly declared that one member of our party MUST remain back for safety in case the kayakers met with an unfortunate meeting of the famed and feared Perry Sea Serpent. She would have proclaimed my actions "heroic" and "sacrificial" as I, alone, remained shore-side...a watchful eye on the horizon, awaiting the questionable return of our crew. I, alone, surviving to tell the tale. Instead, I latched onto Spencer's kayak and made her lug me about the lake.

Friends, I won't lie, I learned a lot about myself that day.

First of all...I look ADORABLE in a kayak. Naturally, I planned my outfit to represent the occasion. My long-sleeved, zippered-front, to-the-knee bathing suit (Warm robe waiting in the car) layered beneath my otter-patterned rash-guard. Brad found the one life-vest that fit over my ample bosum, zipping it up several times for me to ensure that it was working right. He almost made me late, so very thorough and extremely conscientious about safety is he. Cowboy hat and sunglasses? Ready to go! I was so confident in my wardrobe choices that it took me a moment to process that everyone else was just in sweatshirts and street wear. AND...were foregoing life vests. "Amy, it's right here," Allison told me, patting the strapped-down safety device BEHIND her. I will try to resist yelling "I told you so" when the thirty foot swell from a sudden tsunami takes her and her strapped-down life-vest O-U-T.  Amateurs. Our friend Jaime also joined us, outfitted with enough cardboard-colored Carhartt to be in a commercial if Carhartt made kayak-wear (They don't.). I worried that the water-logged Carhartt would make Jaimie sink like a stone when the tsunami arrived and I, naturally buoyant, a gift bestowed upon me by God, would be unable to save her. Allison, obviously, is on her own.

Not all of my self-discoveries were delightful.

Apparently, it is rare for me (these days) to be eye level with my knees.

Spencer paddled over, quickly and expertly, in response to my frightened gasp. "What's wrong?"

Shocked and repulsed, I pointed. "Look."

There. Just starboard of my knee, a single hair towered...the Sequoia of strands...a Truffula-tree of tresses...a harbinger of hope, perhaps? Or a portend of poor grooming? What next? Would my eyebrows slowly grow together? "I could use it as a towrope," I told Spencer glumly. "Toss me the line then," my friend grinned, "I'll pull you in."

I will spare you the sad tale of us floating, like hopeful little bobbers, outside our friend John's lakeside residence, waiting for him to happily discover us. His emailed reply to my inquiry of his whereabouts was "a meeting" but I strongly suspect that he was hiding behind his curtains, praying that a strong wind would sweep us away.

 I will also spare you Allison's super-human strength in lugging me to land. Look away, dear ones, as me and my long leg-hair awkwardly crawl from the kayak. 

It was a quiet drive home as my leg-hair knew the length of its life was being cut short with each passing mile. 

Brad met me in the driveway. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

I handed him my life-jacket as I got gingerly out of the car, wrapped snugly in my warm robe. "I don't know," I told him, "it was a close shave."

Analyzing a bovine moo-vement

I heard the restroom doors...er, uh...I mean, the gallery doors open and recognized my daughter's footsteps. "Sydney, come in here," I said, granting her access to the handi-capable stall. In this intimate enclosure, I had been reflecting upon a surprising but meaningful work of art and was delighted to now share it with Sydney. Together, we have perused the hallowed halls of the Louvre. We have spanned the United States to see art work by Matisse, Monet, Munch, Wood, Warhol, Rembrandt,  Vermeer, de Vinci, Van Gogh, and Picasso. We have learned, on our journey together, that art is everywhere.

"Am I wrong?" I asked as my daughter deliberated. Standing between painting and porcelain, tapestry and toilet, art and outhouse...an ironic threshold that  determines Gesamtkunstwerk from gastronimic distress. I will admit to feeling flushed as I waited for her opinion.

"It is compelling," she admitted, "Tell me what you like about it."

What DIDN'T I like about it?!?

"The juxtaposition of the soft, fuzzy ears and the derisive scorn emanating from the eyes first drew me in," I explained. Sydney nodded. How I wished she cradled a just-lit, intricately-carved pipe in her hand. "The metallic paint used for the fireworks of flowers exploding from the bucket..." I trailed off, over-come with feelings, "The metal bucket..." Sydney smiled gently at me, recognizing this emotional connection with my dad. I imagined her swirling a glass of brandy as we further analyzed this piece. Excitedly, I pointed out my final observation. "Look!" I exclaimed, "an intentional blob of white paint, raised from the canvas, running down the exterior of the bucket!" Incredible!

"Wow," Sydney finally said, "you really connected with this mass-produced, manufactured painting!" She asked for some private time to be able to further reflect upon it. I waited excitedly by the sinks for her to emerge from her sanguine solitude. I handed her a paper towel after she'd washed her hands."It's no Moo-na Lisa," Sydney remarked, "but this experience does prove that you never know where one will find their artistic moo-se."

 

Next time I'll remember my license so I can continue driving Brad Mosiman up the wall

I'd had so much fun at last year's nearby Kentucky Derby event that I was determined to go again. "You've been awful busy lately," my husband pointed out when I, again, popped this little proposal on him at the last minute. "Are you sure you're up to it?" 

Brad Mosiman prefers a minimum of twenty-four hours of planning and determination to be spontaneous. Picking his ponies on the thirty minute drive prior to Post Time is not his ideal scenario. Add to that his having to deal with a nervous wife who may or may not bolt prior to his placing his bet and you can see why, sometimes, it's just easier to stay home.

We successfully made it to the busy parking lot of which I scurried about like a scared squirrel until Brad wrangled me to the doors. He sighed with resignation when I immediately began stammering out my apology. I pointed to the sign that read "No admittance without ID" and without a word, my husband pivoted so that we could leave. Before we reached the exit though, he pulled me to the side. "Let's at least place our bets," he said.

I hadn't done my research this year so I went with my gut. Rarely does that go well. Tucked into a corner table at a nearby restaurant, I watched my horse rear up and then topple backwards rather than be loaded into the gate. I respected that. I watched, worried to see if my pony and his rider were okay and then laughed as my horse skipped happily back to his stall, rewarded for his bad behavior. I wouldn't be surprised if someone offered him a Dum-Dum pop later. My daddy had told me not to bet on the grays.

 

Would you believe that, after all that, I still won?

An evening out with Brad Mosiman and a good meal is an unbridled victory.

I know the drill: Bracing myself for the storm

After my dentist of over twenty-five years gave me the Irish good-bye ("Didn't you receive his form letter in the mail?" a friend asked. "Yeah, three months AFTER he left the practice," I complained bitterly.), I will admit to some feelings of hurt, anger, and betrayal. I'd given that man the worst teeth of my life, funding his in-ground swimming pool as well as trips to Africa, South America, and Greece. We had a relationship. He could count on seeing me only when a tooth had exploded beyond repair and I could count on him to drive me to wherever my truck had most recently broken down. His staff was kind and compassionate while he developed a sure-fire way to handle my off-the-medical-charts anxiety: Ignoring it.

So...there I was. New dentist. Same location.

Okay...familiar surroundings are helpful.

New staff. Whew! Still kind and compassionate.

My new friend Marlene met me at the office door. "Amy, we're ready for you. It should only take about an hour."

I laughed. That Marlene. She's a silly one. "You mean five minutes," I shot back, navigating the narrow passage back to rooms filled with medieval torture chairs.

Marlene laughed. That Amy. She's a silly one.

I suddenly stopped short. Not to pivot and flee like I usually do. But to crouch and coo. 

"Hello," I said softly, "And who are you?"

I was quickly introduced to my new dentist's dog, Stormy. She wagged a welcome before trotting away.

Soon, I was ensconced at an alarming angle, the blood rushing to my head, being fitted with a dental dam (think of it like a mouth condom), glad that I'd recently gotten a pedicure because my toes were the tallest feature in the room. Wish I'd chosen silver glitter...a disco ball would have been a perfect addition to this little scenario. 

My former dentist had failed to leave behind my secret file on how to deal with the consequences of my anxiety. Instead of boring me with endless stories of him refereeing middle school girls soccer leagues or replacing the chains on his bicycle, this new guy thoughtlessly asked me how I was and if I were comfortable. Sure, this mini-trampoline attached to my face is the height of luxury. Instead of ignoring the uncontrollable shaking, the tears streaming down my face, or the fingernails being dug into my arm, Marlene gently asked if I needed to have her hold my hand and the new guy forced a squeezable mango into my clenched fist. Breaks were offered. Voices were soothing. "Amy, do you want to pet Stormy?"

I was embarrassed. To be this emotionally exposed and vulnerable is humiliating. I just want to be ignored and push through. 

But...a dog?

I nodded past the rubber gag that sounds so much better in the naughty novels of which some women of low moral character occasionally read. 

Stormy sidled by my chair and I reached out a shaking hand, stroking her silky fur.

"Do you want her to lay in your (45 degree angled) lap?"

I couldn't. That would be ridiculous.

I nodded.

Stormy settled in and I let go of my death-grip on the mango and ran my fingers through her fur.

My apologies for all the doubts and derision that I'd cast on all the emotional-comfort service dogs being used out there. Of course there are countless naughty people out there down-loading those certificates for their own selfish gain but if even ONE person is helped...so what??? I could feel my heartbeat slowing. My breathing evened out some. My muscles relaxed as I pet this sweet, calm animal. 

My only problem now?

A storm had settled on my bladder.

I shifted. Stretched. Curled and kegel-ed. 

I gave a subtle (for me) sign language gesture, easily-recognizable to elementary children everywhere. 

No good.

I was going to have to be bold or risk water-boarding the room.

Never had a hydraulic lift moved so slowly. I raced, my mouth still Tupperware-lidded down, to the dark bathroom, and dove in, leaving my dignity at the partially-gaped-open door. I primly shut it to wash my hands, flipping the light on, unable to scream at the nightmarish creature staring back at me in the mirror. Stand back, fellas. She's taken. That Brad Mosiman is one lucky devil.

Believe it or not, this was one of the BEST dental experiences of my life. 

Yes, I looked like an idiot with my taut latex mouth condom.

Yeah, I humiliated myself by crying for over an hour in a situation where a majority of adults AND children are able to skate through without a second thought. 

And, yup. I almost pissed my pants.

But still, one of the best.

There's a lot to be said about focusing on canine care when you visit the dentist.

Yee-huh? We're done? We're done!

Our reluctant, one-year, guilt-ridden directorial gig somehow expanded into three. We've explored weird and wonderful realms:  medieval kingdoms, industrial steampunk circus tents, and the Wild West. We yelled ("Projected"), threatened ("You CAN be replaced!), encouraged ("Cut! Do it again!"), cajoled, quick-stepped and clapped our way through three productions, feeling like fake, foolish frauds. When was someone going to realize that Erin and I had no business doing this?

Directing young actors is an exhausting, soul-sucking endeavor that encompasses your entire life. How on earth were we going to quickly attach a sheriff's badge that could be easily seen by the back row to three consecutive individuals? I sat bolt-upright at three in the morning. Giant magnets! I wrestled a sheriff badge out of cardboard to prototype my idea, Erin glittered it up and we were done. "I appreciated your inclusivity," my daughter commented after viewing the afternoon performance. I was confused. "I liked the Star of David that all of your lawmen were sporting," Sydney snickered. Oh no! I was so busy making sure we didn't unintentionally culturally-appropriate  from our Native American friends (re-casting the part of Chief Squatting Squirrel to the more politically-correct Miner Inconvenience) that I forgot about the tribe of Israel. Oy vey!

I am not sure why this worked. There is nothing subtle about Erin and me. We are loud, obsessive, and have no trouble expressing our feelings. Thanks to God, though, we were blessed with talented, dedicated actors and surrounded by a hard-working, gifted team who all put up with our antics. We front-loaded forgiveness in the beginning, prioritized our friendship over the esteemed (and ridiculous) position of "director", took turns venting, constantly balanced out our roles of "good cop" and "bad cop" and communicated constantly. Rarely were we at 100%. We picked up one another's slacks during the flu, kid-commitments, care-taking, death, and the constant up-keep of Erin's waxed floors. 

We respected and encouraged each other's gifts. Erin is a brilliant choreographer and is insanely organized. She has high expectations of her cast and will nip at their heels to help them bring out their best performances. She kept us to a tight schedule with the end goal always in mind and can delegate needed-responsibilities like a drill sergeant. My roles included re-writing British puns for rural American audiences, creating posters and programs, team-building with unnecessary improv exercises, and, oddly enough, following up Erin's constructive comments to our cast with constant reminders that we love them and are proud of them. Ugh.

Our brain-storming sessions were seasoned with bouts of screaming laughter that alerted our prop manager that she was going to be asked to do yet another ridiculously-impossible thing for a one-second sight gag. A water closet, a stage coach, 18 pairs of cardboard boxer underwear? How hard could it possibly be to create a tumbleweed? C'mon! Snap-snap! And Sandy would smilingly "snap-snap" our vision into place. It would not be too far off to say that one of the real stars of those plays were the sets. 

We never did trust-falls in improv but that's what being involved in a play is like:  One big trust-fall. Holding our breath waiting for the spotlight to hit or a sound effect to land...and it always did (Thank you, Eric and Katriel.). Needing a shovel right at the last minute and suddenly, it appears. Needing a rolling cart to be moved two feet over in the pitch dark near the edge of a stage with a three foot drop? Thank you, Cindy. "Yes, I know you aren't really going anywhere, but we need you to lift your knees higher as you walk in place. I don't care how stupid you feel. Just do it." And Joey did it, keeping a straight face as she sang, holding onto the string connecting

her to a ridiculous costumed mule while behind them, clouds cavorted by, the sun shimmied through, a cabaret of cactuses crossed, tumbleweeds trickled in, and a stagecoach full of our administrators sped by. And Joey just kept singing, trusting Erin to keep time. Trust is what happens with the stage lights go out and the auditorium empties and the entire Mistretta family joins the stage crew to take down a set that took months to assemble. Trust is what happens when, seconds before the performance, Erin and I clasp hands in the darkened hallway and we pray, thanking God for this opportunity to serve Him by providing an environment of acceptance and encouragement for kids to support one another and showcase their incredible talents in a safe and loving atmosphere. We thanked God for our friendship and for the people He provided to help us with a task we weren't sure we wanted or even could do but, by His Great Grace, we'd reached the finish line. 

Jokingly, our much-repeated line to the kids, our first year, was "This is the best play we've ever directed!" To which they would happily bellow back, "It's the ONLY play you've ever directed!" This year, with the Wild West theme clearly in mind, Erin and I, much quieter, determined to make it as much about the kids as possible, promised one another, "This year, we will go out with a bang." During the finale, a rousing number called "The Stetson Stomp," our cast clapped, stomped, and do-si-do-ed around the stage. A high-energy performance that almost knocks Erin and me out of our chairs. What we were NOT prepared for was the wave of matching energy that hit like a tsunami coming from behind us. Our eyes on the stage, we didn't dare look but we could feel the clapping and stomping that accompanied our actors as our audience unexpectedly joined the cast. 

It was perfect.

Last play.

Last song.

We did it. We went out with a bang.

That's a wrap, folks.

Thanks.

One Thousand: Big Whoop

 
I admit it.

The number definitely got in my head. "Just write the darn thing already," my friend, Joan, said. It's just a number.

One thousand blog posts.

Yikes.

And me...still not an international writing sensation and/or a ka-zillionaire. The last thing that I had officially published was a eulogy. And I don't think I even qualify as a thousandaire. I rushed my husband to the store the other day because the printed-out $1.75 reward coupon was about to expire. 

It gets a girl to thinking.

Fun fact:  The QWERTY keyboard was designed over 150 years ago NOT to promote typing efficiency but to prevent typewriters from jamming.

 According to my three seconds of research, this inefficient design has never been upgraded due to a lack of incentive to relearn. I laughed. And then I stopped laughing because AI was funnier than me. And AI was (inadvertently? Amy pauses in her laborious letter-pecking to look around suspiciously) a little too close to the mark here. Did I really need a thousand posts to realize that only a small handful of friends bothered to read my inane (Spellcheck keeps changing inane to insane. Wow. Soften the blow a bit, Too-Technical-For-Me--World.) musings with any regularity. There are, of course, the slightly-more-shallow-than-me acquaintances who actually admit that they only read posts if they're featured in them. 

Is the one thousandth post mark a cause for a celebratory self-high-five or a sad realization that I should have stopped 999 submissions ago? I once made a New Year's Resolution to write a haiku-a-day for a year and successfully completed it. I felt more satisfaction in reaching that goal than limping over the finish line here (until my friend deleted them all...paper and pencil, friends...paper and pencil.). 

Perhaps I had vaguely set my unvoiced, not-clearly-thought-out, unrealistically-impossible expectations too high. I'm not sure there even exists a Nobel Peace Prize category for blog submissions. 

I guess there isn't a finish line here. It's not a race or a resolution. It's a journey. I can wander off the path when I want to...put my shoulder down and wrestle my way forward when the hard winds blow...describe a daisy in minute detail...pour out my feelings when the storms come. And laugh...a lot. I lack the talent or incentive to knit or crochet so I spin yarns instead. I'm a writer. And...when you are here...you are my reader. And I am ever so grateful.

See you at post 2,000.

Maybe.

Wow. Two thousand is a lot.

"Just write the darn thing, Amy."

Austin Adventures: Part 5- Otterly delightful

Three-quarters of the Mosiman household had gone radio-silent as my departure to Austin grew closer. I had been adamant about my intentions...or rather, LACK of intentions. I planned on being suction-cupped to Savannah's couch the ENTIRE time...brain turned off...fueled by cheese strings, fruit gummies, and peppermint patties. I wanted only to be an emotionless-mass beached beneath warm cozy blankets.

But the emanating wave of silence was speaking volumes. I knew something was up but I didn't know what. Through the good grace of God, I had survived January but then February arrived with its own host of debilitatingly sad challenges. Finally, one late night phone call put me completely over the emotional edge and my family decided that it was time to play their trump card:  While I was out in Austin, I would be swimming with otters. No, this didn't solve all the problems of the world but it sure provided me with a bit of a lift.

I am no stranger to a fun animal encounter:

Penguin #1

Penguin #2

Almost a capybara

Whale-watching camel

I've swam with manatees in murky-water, touched a turtle in Mexico ("Only once," warned Brad Mosiman, who JUST THEN decided to follow the dictated rules. "Did you see the men with guns patrolling the beach?" Brad hissed at me when it looked like I was going to go in for touch number two), hand-fed carp the size of small cars, had a herd of deer tackle me for an empty ice cream cone, tossed mini-marshmallows to bears bellowing below me, had an elephant extract a full-sized marshmallow from my hand, and made a fist-to-finger exchange of Fruit Loops with a monkey.

All of these experiences were delightful...albeit morally questionable.

Finally, I could focus on something fun rather than wallow in the misery around me. Bring on the otters.

I immediately began searching for the perfect meet-the-otter outfit. I learned, late in the game, that your wardrobe, surprisingly, can really up the experience. My black and white ensemble may or may not have contributed significantly to a penguin becoming enraptured with me. With the otters, I was leaving nothing to chance. To cover my bases, I bought a matching shirt for Savannah. I'd wrestle her into it myself if I had to. I considered buying a can of fish oil with which to slather myself but my research revealed that these little guys can be quite the vicious carnivores and I didn't want to risk my encounter going awry with an unprecedented otter attack.  

Like all good things in Texas, this place was in the middle of no-where. Savannah nervously eased her Mustang over a questionable, rickety, old, one-laned, wooden bridge. Our expectations were LOW. As we waited by the mini-Jurassic-style entry gates, we could see a turkey with some cows in a field. Sweet. The gates opened and we drove in...and immediately started squealing:  "Look! A giraffe! Zebras! Mom! There are kangaroos!"

Two Saint Bernards came to meet us as we parked.

Our guide threw us in a side-by-side and drove us across the amazing property. Giraffes unfurled their legs and raced beside us. Savannah and I were enchanted. Our guide was much more based in reality. Motioning to one in particular, she explained that Jeffrey can be quite an ass. 

Wonderful. A giraffe that is an ass!

We heard the otters before she even turned the engine off...a mixture of birds and cats.

A friendly giant pig with an unfortunate underbite welcomed us to the otters enclosure.

"There are eight otters today," our guide began and Savannah and I mentally filled-in-the-blank regarding the rest of her sentence..."and you will be meeting ____________ today."

NO!

We would be swimming with ALL of them today!

Yee-Haw! Just fill my fists with Talapia and call me right on time for an otter's dinner party!

Savannah and I were eager to believe that otters mimic cats in that they do their business in a specific part of their enclosure and NOT in the giant otter stew that we were being added to.

This could not be happening.

But, yup. There we were...boiling away with a bundle of chirping, cheerful, energetic otters who slid, eagerly, in and out of our arms in the most wonderful Amy and Savannah soup you can imagine.

They were so happy.

I was so happy.

Pure, unadulterated joy.

We gobbled up our Tilapia. Extracted ice cubes from a cup and played with the floating glaciers before they melted. Dove and danced. Spun, spiraled, shimmied. They LOVED Savannah in the water and I seethed with jealousy. "I'm the one who got her the shirt," I explained to them but apparently ALL otters have ADHD so none of them slowed down to consider my words.

But then it was time to dry off.

On the land...they were MINE!

We were captivated as otters wiggled on their backs along the carpet. Savannah and I, wrapped in towels, sat among eight otters and their assortment of toys. A small maraca and an over-sized toothbrush were obvious favs. I realized, when I raised one towel-covered knee up that my sleek, furry friends loved my inadvertent fort. They quickly disappeared beneath the covers. Savannah and I did not have enough hands to rub the backs and bellies clamoring for attention. 

It couldn't have been more delightful.

We had more otters than you could shake a stick at (and they would just have a ball playing with it). We were given ample time...more than we could have hoped. In fact, WE called it because, two towels aside, we were still cold.

It. Was. So. Much. Fun.

The otter enclosure was spacious and clean. The animals were well-socialized, healthy, and seemingly very happy. It was an experience that you could just feel good about.

I am so grateful to Savannah for arranging this wonderful experience. Face it, there is NO bad time to swim with these sweet, playful creatures but swimming with them when you are in the midst of a bad time is therapy like no otter.

Austin Adventures: Part 4

My plan to fly to Austin and simply sit on Savannah's couch was being thwarted at every turn. My eldest daughter could not abide the idea that her mother not be engaged and enriched every moment of the blessed day.

"What would you like to do today?" Savannah asked.

As if she didn't already know.

I had been VERY clear.

"There's some sort of tulip farm not far from here," she said, moving to interrupt my locked gaze from her large television.

Darn it.

"That just popped up on my Facebook algorithm," I admitted, begrudgingly.

Apparently Facebook knew I was in Austin. And was also intent on enriching me.

I sighed. I guess picking a posy wouldn't kill me.

We broached the subject to my younger daughter, Sydney, who typically adores photographic opportunities. Turns out that, for Sydney, a forty-five minute drive wasn't worth the experience of frolicking in a field of flowers. By Wyoming County standards, forty-five minutes is a mere blink of an eye so I buckled up for this blossom-based adventure.

Texas does NOT disappoint. 

Drive to the middle of nowhere and you will, inevitably, find something.

A two-story tall shovel sculpture, for instance. I believe Sydney Linda arranged that particular excursion (And where was she now?).

Savannah and I finally came upon the tulip farm, yes, in the middle of nowhere and realized, immediately, that we had not done our research.

We didn't have time to explore the lovely barn packed with farm-related animatronics, fudge, backed goods, and gifts galore because we were racing to reach the miniature baby goat pens that stretched, a mile long, behind the barn.

Again...I tip my two-gallon hat to Texas. If it weren't for your three-digit summer temperatures, I'd happily embrace the notion of "Go west, middle-aged woman!" A cute little chain hooked each enclosure and anyone could go waltzing in to kick-back with the kids. Savannah and I danced right in.

Want to pick up a miniature baby goat? Go ahead! No snooty lecture or list of regulations required. 

Want to kiss and hug a miniature baby goat? Go for it! No animal rights group was picketing these pens...just families buying feed or bottles to nurse our happy little friends. The area was clean with ample shelter for each creature. A waterline ran the length of the pens. It wasn't fancy but SO MUCH FUN!

But we weren't done!

We had a MAP!

We had two complementary tickets to shoot apples out of an air-compression cannon but, in my excitement of blowing giant bubbles at the giant bubble blowing station we encountered on our way to the air-compression cannon BEFORE looking for the miniature Highland calf that we never actually found because we got waylaid by the racing pigs before contemplating zip-lining through a forest to land on in-ground trampolines the size of a basketball court, I lost one of the tickets. NO-OO-OO! I sacrificially gave the remaining ticket to my daughter and the young man, in charge of apple distribution, was so moved by my selfless gesture that he grandly gave me an extra apple! 

And Texas just trusted that we would just know how to operate this insane (but delightful) weapon that annihilated apples. Lock and load, baby!

We did finally make it to the tulip field. 

Beautiful.

We agonized over each choice as we filled our container.

I imagine that a tulip field in Holland would be like walking into an Impressionist painting. Walking into a tulip field in central Texas is like slipping under the cozy cover of a velvet painting depicting Elvis playing poker with a group of cheating dogs. "Savannah, climb on top of those wooden shoes (bigger than her car) so I can take your picture." 

"Do you think we should try over by the grand piano parked in the patch?" 

"No...that's a high traffic area. Let's try over by the windmill and the bicycles." 

"Are there more tulips over there?"

"At least we know there are a few pedals!"

Savannah and I were big fans of the tulip farm!

Austin Adventures: Part 3

Y'all know I'm a country girl. Dirt roads for miles. Up-rooted railroad tracks that run wild in both directions. Fields in which to frolic...woods to ramble...all there for the taking should I ever muster the energy to get off my couch. 

My daughters have both relocated to well-known metropolitan areas where one must drive to experience a centralized-pseudo-nature planted within the pastures of parking lots and pay-toll roads of the cities they currently inhabit. 

Savannah, fortunately,  landed in a nifty little neighborhood that has gated access to a small forested area buttressed by a slowly-flowing river. She and Lisa dubbed it "The Hundred Acre Woods" and enjoy it daily with their dogs. 

Despite its reference to the gentle children's story, "The Hundred Acre Wood" is fraught with danger and peril. Savannah has been attacked by red ants.  Sydney tested (and failed) the siren's call of an alluring rope swing coil dangling like a hypnotic pendulum over the gentle water. And...most terrifying...after a rare flood of the river...Savannah and Lisa came nose-to-extended-nostril with an out-of-place alligator. While Lyle, Lyle Crocodile (also a comfortable city dweller) could, quite plausibly, fit into this "Hundred Acre Wood" setting, my girls, fleet of foot, did not stick around to find out if their new neighbor could sing or not. 

So, imagine my delight when I am dragged to this den of danger and disaster almost every day of my visit.

To their credit, my children know that I am equal parts distractible ("Look! A butterfly!") and manipulable. Lisa assigned me the "important" task of getting a cute picture of their new foster dog, sweet Anne Bonny...left, neglected and abandoned to her own devices...pregnant and frightened...did not fare well on her first crossing of a sea of traffic. She lost an eye and crushed a rear leg for her efforts but saved her puppies.

Anne's four off-spring, treasures, all...found homes easily.

Poor Anne, a beaten and battered-down vessel, is having a tougher time. Her exterior, while not warm and cuddly, does tug, like an incessant wind on the foremast of your heart. Her interior, though? Unfathomable. Anne Bonny, not surprisingly, has trust issues. She is shy and easily startled. Despite her limited vision, she misses nothing and hovers, uncertain of her welcome, in the periphery. 

So...off I tromped...to the terror-filled "The Hundred Acre Wood"... for Anne.

And it was Anne who alerted us to yet another unusual inhabitant.

I've been on the look-out for an armadillo. Savannah would, occasionally, stop-short, alert to the underbrush...sensing its possible presence. "Look for small rabbit ears," my Wyoming-County-raised daughter advised quietly as I scanned the scene. "Does it have a call?" I whispered, ready to engage. "No...it just sort of rustles," she explained. 

Well, we heard a rustle.

"That's gotta be one big armadillo," I observed.

Anne was not having the idiocy of her people and began barking.

Sydney squinted through the briars and the bramble. "There's something over there. I think it's a cow."

I did my own concentrating. Wyoming County sports more cows than people. I backed up slowly. If Anne
could have, she would have clapped. "It's a bull."

The Mosiman women all backed up...slowly.

"He must have swam the river," Savannah said. I felt that reading his resume at this time was not relevant...unless it included that one of his strengths was working with others. We appreciated our surroundings at this moment as, unlike the open fields back home, we were buttressed, every few feet by trees. 

We soon left Ferdinand behind.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I remarked that things couldn't get much worse than that. "Well, there's always the possibility of a feral pig," Savannah mused, ignoring her sister's pointed glare, "If a bull could swim across the river..." 

I scanned the brush...immediately transported to some other well-loved children's classics like "Where the Red Fern Grows" and "Old Yeller." Sydney linked her arm in mine and said, "I doubt Wilbur would have the energy to get off the couch." 

Speaking of couch, it was time to get back to my natural habitat.

Populated with bulls, alligators, and ants, walking in "The Hundred Acre Woods" is no picnic. After this encounter, I was practically a basket-case.

 

Austin Adventures: Part 2

When my girls were home briefly, in January, I told Savannah that the only thing I wanted to do when I visited her and Lisa in Austin the next month was to sit on her couch and do nothing.

Simple.

Easy.

Yet...here I was: Rotating swiftly in a narrow water channel beneath the blue skies of Austin, shrieking with laughter with my daughters in a donut boat, of all things. 

Wasn't even on my Bucket List:  Captain a donut boat.

But...check.

We had woken up that morning with no clear plans.

And had, somehow, landed here.

God bless Texas where the life preservers, fire extinguishers, and first aid kits are casually pointed out, they have you take a picture of a map of the lake, make sure you have an inventory of alcohol, show you how to go forward and reverse in a small round boat before casting you off, waving, and shouting, "Good luck!" No red tape. No regulations. Alarmingly few rules. And. So. Much. Fun.

I, at first, questioned Savannah's decision to book us for an hour. Thirty minutes seemed more than reasonable to me. What if we got bored? I was ready to buy the boat before we had unraveled our way out of the harbor. Driving a round boat is as easy as it sounds. Savannah was happy to relinquish her steering duties to me after we'd crossed the small lake. I just wanted to spin. And spin. And spin. 

We spilled our drinks.

Laughed.

Loudly.

Smeared the complimentary chocolate-covered strawberries all over ourselves and the boat (A wonderful idea but not practical in execution...appreciated, nonetheless).

Laughed.

Sang along to Sydney's playlist (once she wrestled it off her Sleep Sonata channel).

We basked under the Austin sun...bobbed gently on the water like a child's bath-time tub toy...and just enjoyed ourselves and each other.

I had taken a circular route but I hadn't strayed too far from my original goal. I wasn't on a couch but, as I stared up at the brilliantly blue sky and slowly spun, I smiled as I did absolutely nothing.