Picking up sticks, Part II-A texting-based, documented journey of one woman's cry for help

 

Pick up sticks (and other stupid games)

 Advice to newlyweds:  Think poker. Don't reveal all your cards. Guard your expression.  Communicate as LITTLE as possible. Trust me, cherubs. My 35 years of marriage have served me well and left me with a lifetime of regret. My husband ruthlessly reads my tells and exploits my weaknesses. He seamlessly slips into teacher speak, using my own language against me. Last Sunday, the day the Lord SPECIFICALLY told me to rest, Brad, with a suspicious air of innocuous innocence, asked, "Would you prefer raking rocks or picking up sticks?" Was there a paper option?  I stared angrily at my husband. But who was to blame here? I'd weaponized him myself...sharing the educator's strategy of asking questions that could not be easily answered with a "yes" or "no." 

So, that was how it came to be, that poor little Amy Mosiman, just seeking a bit of serene solitude after a grueling work week ("Were you getting up at 3 am to drive 2 1/2 hours to cut concrete floors on your knees?" Brad inquired. I scoffed. "Puh-leeze...try teaching a 9-year-old hoarding a contraband Pop-tart in his desk with one eye on an analog clock that he can't read (EXCEPT pertaining to recess, lunch, and gym times) how to multiply a mixed fraction by a whole number.") was led outside (like a sheep to slaughter) for an over-view of the "little" tasks that we would "quickly" complete. Zip. Zip. Behold...the zillion sticks littering our lawn. "Do you remember that I just got my nails done?" I said, showing my husband. He paused to admire them and then handed me some gloves. "We should clean out that brush pile," he mused, observing the remnants of gigantic branches brought down during a winter storm. "Remember I recently hurt my hand dancing the Do-see-do," I cautioned. He studied a dead tree. "While we're at it..." (I sighed), "...we should probably grab the chain saw and remove it before it falls on its own and we're forced to deal with it." Zip. Zip. With the trained eye of a tree surgeon, I inspected our patient. "Looks pretty sturdy to me," I pronounced, "I'm not ready to call it yet. Plus...isn't it a good wind break?" "But first," he said, "we need to unpack the shed to get the lawn mower out so we can measure the blades."

I stopped. Stunned. What happened to picking up a few sticks? 

"I read that mowing too soon weakens the roots of our new-born baby grass," I shouted, clearly desperate. "It also leaves our lawn vulnerable to rapid weed growth." Brad was already wrestling the shed door open. "Why can't we just Google the size of the blades?" I pleaded, reasonably. "That's a great idea," Brad said cheerfully as we heaved our fire pit up and off the wheelbarrow that straddled the lawn mower like we were playing a weird version of Jenga. I chipped my first nail here. I rolled out the human-propelled lawn mower after removing the 40 five and ten gallon bucket pails that Brad collects like baseball cards. Hoping to avoid the inevitable, I quickly Googled. "21 inches," I reported. "Great," Brad said, wrestling 2 x 4s carefully out of the shed. Apparently we'd switched from Jenga to Kerplunk. "Let's just make sure." I watched, baffled, as he laid them out on the driveway in an overlapping quadrilateral pattern. He extended a gallant hand to me like Prince Charming and invited me to "Stand here," as he then drove the lawn mower up onto his mini-lift. I held my breath, waiting for either myself (or the lawn mower) to be catapulted magnificently into the air like a circus performer. I may have actually gnawed one of my own nails at this point. 

Measuring tape in hand, my husband crawled beneath the lawn mower. It was here that my Christian faith was tested as I prayed. Did I pray for his safety or that my trials would come to a quick end? The world will never know. "Great news," he yelled from beneath the bone-crushing machine. "You were right! Twenty-one inches!" 

We hadn't picked up a SINGLE stick yet.

When flying to Austin at Easter-time, what do you pack? Plane chocolate!

Practically every community thinks it is home to the best chocolatier. Poor deluded honeys. Wake up, Willie Wonka! Without a doubt, Oliver's Chocolate makes the BEST chocolate ever. And it's not bragging if it's true. 

I grew up with Oliver's in my Easter basket which means my daughters have always associated Oliver's with Resurrection Sunday. Their move to the West Coast was made even more bittersweet; separated, as they were, from their favorite chocolate. Rest assured though, friends, not a year has gone by that Savannah and Sydney have not been visited by the Easter Bunny with some Oliver's Chocolate in hand (paw).

But, over the past few years, further challenges have arisen. Our darling friend, Lisa...my daughter-in-love and soon, in-law, is Jewish. Obviously, Jesus has no problem with this. He's Jewish too, after-all. But we were unsure where Lisa stood, theologically, regarding the more frou-frou aspects of the holiday. What a relief to discover, when it comes to chocolate bunnies, she's quick to convert!

That leaves our newest member, Douglas. "Is he going to find this childish?" Brad wondered as we systematically filed through the piles of shelved Oliver's chocolate Easter molds like a cocoa-based card catalog. I quirked an eyebrow at my husband. Was he being serious? Then I realized that he and I have never experienced Douglas together. Is it possible that Douglas parent-trapped us...trotting out two different Douglases (Dougli?) for two different occasions? I had experienced the fun-loving, occasionally goofy, always warm, welcoming, and helpful Douglas. Did my husband meet that guy OR did Douglas slip into his more solemn suit of maturity with just a splash of reticent resolve? "Douglas will love this," I assured my husband as we made our final, agonizing, chocolate-buying decisions.

I lugged my suitcase filled with securely-wrapped chocolate, packages of venison, containers of horse radish, and several options of butter lamb varieties (smooth AND fluffy) 1,600 miles, praying that the forecasted 90 degree weather wouldn't result in my immediately making a gross, putrid, melting mess in Texas. Fortunately, we arrived in one piece.

Plan in place, I explained the rules to the group and handed out their accompanying worksheets.
Savannah, Sydney, and Joan were immediately on board and eager to either (a) get going or (b) get it over with. Lisa and Douglas seemed a bit more trepidatious.  "What if I don't recognize my spirit bunny?" Lisa asked fearfully as I explained that, should you find a hidden chocolate, you couldn't claim it unless it was your chocolate. "Oh, you'll know," Savannah waved her off, rushing off to begin the bunny hunt. Douglas breathed a sigh of relief as his bunny immediately drew him in. "A weight-lifting rabbit," he announced, holding his trophy aloft triumphantly. "He's no dumb-bell," I whispered to Sydney, who smiled sweetly at her fiancee. EVERYONE found Lisa's chocolate and gently tried nudging her in the right direction as she tried (and failed) to claim all the other hidden treats. "A horse," she shouted happily, when she finally found her spirit bunny, "It's perfect!" Joan found her bike-riding bunny with no trouble which left Savannah and Sydney fighting over the rat and the toad. For some unfathomable reason, neither one wanted to receive the rodent. 

Herein lies the genius that is Brad Mosiman. I quickly and easily found chocolate representations for Joan, Douglas, and Lisa based on their interests, passions, and hobbies. But Brad digs deeper. And this year I got a peek behind the curtain as he searched relentlessly for an image that reflected a memorable part of Savannah and Sydney's childhood. Lisa and Douglas were, understandably, baffled by Savannah and Sydney's spirit animals so, of course, it was storytime. Time for Douglas to catch a glimpse of the young girl who, each spring, would be driven to desperation as she fervently embarked on the heartbreakingly sisphean task of transporting countless toads to safety as they emerge from hibernation and head to their breeding grounds, blanketing the roads at dusk for days. 

Savannah's story is "toad-ally" traumatic as well...year's ago, our house was on the receiving end of a rat invasion when our new neighbor left our back field farrow. The resulting wilderness that grew right up to our property expelled a biblical plague of ants, snakes, and rodents. Our basement was over-run. Co-existence came in the form of our knocking on the door leading downstairs and loudly announcing our intentions to descend. Eventually, this led to our house-guests rushing out to enthusiastically greet our arrival. They no longer fled from the lights being turned on but began to view it as a stage spot-light with which to perform. We fought back, ineffectually, with live traps but eventually ramped up with bb guns and a horrifying incident with a pick-ax. Collateral damage, Savannah was rendered, paralyzed with horrific fear, when, in the midst of doing laundry, her hand encountered a gray ball of sticky fluff...let's just say it wasn't a dust bunny or dryer lint. Savannah recently suffered flashbacks when a family of cute, cartoon mice temporarily took up residence with her and Lisa a few months back. "If you can survive raccoon-sized rats, then you can handle this," Brad said, encouraging. Savannah's mouse motel was only open for a few weeks as, one by one, they were gently evicted. 

All were silent as I finished my stories. Now I was nervous. Would Douglas, Joan, and Lisa feel short-changed that their bunnies lacked the depth of thought and background that surrounded Savannah and Sydney's selections? Eyes wide, Lisa hugged her gift. "I'm happy with my horse," she said while Joan and Douglas nodded in quiet agreement. I understood. It was a lot to take in. We Mosimans give new meaning to the idea of "chocolate therapy."  I will spare you the horror that Lisa and Douglas experienced when we then whipped out the hammer and destroyed our chocolate masterpieces...a symbolic breaking down so that we can, once again, focus on re-building. 

 

San Antonio: One person's trash is another's treasure

"Why don't we live here?" we exclaimed, enjoying our stroll along San Antonio's beautiful River Walk. Austin was kicking our Western New York rears, welcome-wagon-wise. "Ya know," our Texas insider confided, "most people (not me, of course) think San Antonio houses the trashier element of the population." 

We were shocked. San Antonio was delightful. A gem. 

Turns out this cubic zirconiam of cities has no problem with the opinions proclaimed by the over-inflated ego of its neighbor, Austin. In fact, one of its own ad campaigns sought to "Keep San Antonio Lame" in an effort to keep Austin-excess out. Traffic is not as terrifying in San Antonio...although someone did thoughtfully leave a step-ladder in the middle of the freeway.  Housing does not require multiple organ donations. The city features turtle races, a toilet seat art museum, AND the world's biggest cowboy boots. Who is going to turn their nose up at THAT?!?

We were only going to be in San Antonio for a few hours so we stuck to the River Walk. Flowers, fountains, statues, sculptures, and mosaics lined the paths curving along the gentle river. Bridges and spiral staircases invited exploration. Unique shops and restaurants slowed our steps. I inadvertently foiled Savannah's wish to ride the little tour boat through the canal-like waterway but we did manage to catch snippets of San Antonio's history and cultural tid-bits. "Did he say Ghostbusters?" I asked. Savannah pointed to the building behind us. "He said that that building there, The Tower Life Building, was the inspiration for the big, final battle in the movie." Huh. We took the obligatory picture but this fun-fact could not be verified based on my hard-core five minutes of research. 

Our only qualm that we detected during our brief, but again, delightful visit, was that San Antonio appeared to be a carry-in/carry-out city. "Are there NO trash receptacles in this city?" I asked, looking to dispose of my mozzarella-stuffed pretzel bites container.  "Throw it over the fence into this park," Joan suggested. "I can't do that!" I protested. "No. Look," she grinned, "The sign says Fine for Littering." "Never-mind," I sighed, getting back in the car, "Let's take the trash back to Austin."

 

"Where are we going today?" "You don't remember?" "No." "We're going to the Alamo."

 

The Mosiman women typically don't do well at historic sites. Savannah and I were once kicked out of Lincoln's museum (by an uptight Brad Mosiman) for (a) Savannah's chronic hiccuping and (b) my subsequent giggling. I was off to a rough start when I googled "Fun facts about the Alamo." Turns out...there is NOTHING fluffy (aside from the flashy tail of the cute Alamo squirrel) and fun-related surrounding the four-foot wide walls that memorialize American myth and mettle. There is a lot of controversy caught up in the concrete construction "Uh...limestone, actually," corrected a succinct staff member. Well-trained, they could yell "Don't touch the walls" in fourteen different languages. Had they been around in 1836, we might have experienced a different outcome...or at least, adopted another memorable catch-phrase. 

The Alamo is an interesting and eerie place. It is impossible to distance yourself from the bloodshed, fear, and stubborn resolution that ricocheted off these walls with even deadlier accuracy than Santa Anna's artillery. The magnificent trees that stand sentinel on the grounds are the only remaining witnesses yet they wisely remain silent as colorful perspectives change with each passing season. I definitely embrace the principle of the blind men and the elephant when it comes to history. I also anticipate the infallibility of the human race. But I am also careful to try NOT to judge historical events through my 2023 lens and attempt to account
for the culture that existed at that time.  

"What are you EVEN talking about here?" interrupted Savannah, "You refused to buy a t-shirt quoting Davy Crockett because you said there was no way that a backwoods frontiersman from Tennessee who, during his three terms in the House of Representatives (who never managed to pass a single piece of legislation) would have actually used the word may when he supposedly said, "You may all go to hell and I will go to Texas. Plus you swore that he would have incorporated a y'all in there somewhere." "That was more of a protest against exploitative commercialism," I protested, "and I was only telling you." "And the tour group of thirty National Guard personnel behind us," Joan said, "but, to be fair, they were dressed in fatigues so you may not have noticed them." "No," corrected Savannah, "we were with them when Mom declared that the long barracks was just a glorified grocery store." "That was printed on the sign," I argued, "I was just reading aloud!"

"You didn't seem all that delighted over by your little 3-D model tour display," I spat venomously, pivoting on Joan. She nodded. "I was just a little annoyed that, even though there was a GIANT sign saying Don't touch the model, the presenter touched every single inch of it," Joan admitted. 

"Soon they'll be done measuring the moisture," I reassured her, "and, soon, after their 400 million dollars in proposed renovations, we'll be able to touch EVERYTHING to our hearts desire." "This building is the poster-child for patch-up jobs," Joan exclaimed, "starting with that guy in 1744 who was going to make the church and bell tower three stories and then beat his lover's husband to death instead." I smiled. "We really have learned a lot. Before this, I never knew that there were so many types of limestone. The Alamo sports FIVE!" 

"I'm going to have my own t-shirt made," I said as we meandered off the Alamo grounds. "What will it say?" Savannah asked suspiciously. "Remember to NOT TOUCH the Alamo!"

Fighting for equal whipped cream rights: Not all heroes wear crepes

"I think they like you better than us," I whispered at Savannah in the brightly-lit crêperie that was tucked delicately into a nook in Austin's prime pedestrian shopping center. And by "shopping," I don't mean Target's fun bargain bins. "Does this say fifty-five dollars?" I asked, squinting at the bottom of the small, birthday-cake-sized, candle I'd just sniffed. I set it down like an undetonated bomb and carefully walked away. "Can we go back to the long-horned cattle-shaped slide?" I asked. "That was just the one time," Savannah reminded me gently, "The sign said it was for ages 4 to 11." She promised to let me sit on the giant armadillo again before suggesting crepes.

"Why do you think they like Savannah better?" Joan said frowning. "Look at her little accent leaf-y thing perched magnificently atop her whipped cream cloud like the proud flag of a conquering nation," I explained. "Yeah?" Savannah murmured, mystified. "And her cream is crafted to resemble the crisp slopes of the frickin' Swiss Alps," I pointed out, "while our's resembles a glob of starchy mashed 'tatoes slapped onto a metal cafeteria tray at a medium security prison in Indiana.  And our accent-y leaf-y thing looks like it was ripped off a low-rent mall bush three days ago."

"You're just imagining things," Joan scolded me, surreptitiously tucking her leaf with the brown, curling edges out of sight, under her napkin. "She gets like this whenever her eyes are bigger than her tummy," Savannah declared, embarrassed as our table groaned beneath the weight of our sweet and savory crepe orders. "You told me earlier that she gets cranky when she's hungry," Joan said. "That, too." Savannah agreed, "We walk a fine line of emotional balance with my mother."  She watched as, despite my indignation of being unfairly represented, vis-à-vis, whipped cream disbursement and accent leaf placement, I valiantly attempted to summit all three sweet peaks. Savannah, calmly and patiently, talked me down from the edge. We bid "adieu" to our crepe cafe so I could return to the armadillo where, as she promised, Savannah and I perched majestically like accent-y leafs atop a whipped cream cloud. 

 

Texas: NOT the land of brotherly love "But Mom," Savannah said, trying to defend her newly adopted state, "translated, Texas means friendship." "No, it doesn't, Savannah," I corrected her, "It means yew tree."

Despite what Lisa says, I am NOT a high maintenance girl...

...(picking out Easter candy for me in anticipation of my arrival)

Lisa:  What does your mom like?

Savannah:  We'll never find it. She loves a Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunny.

Lisa: (finding the Russell Stover product mother-lode immediately) Here's some!

Savannah: (wary of the high that accompanies false hope and unrealistic expectations...she is MY daughter, after all) Those aren't the right ones.

Lisa:  But...they're Russell Stover.

Savannah:  Those are eggs. She likes the rabbits.

Lisa: (Pawing through several thousand options of Russell Stover products before realizing there isn't a rabbit in the bunch. This is where she makes the critical...but understandable (and frankly, adorable) mistake of thinking I'm a woman of compromise. Let us not mistake my unflinching loyalty and principles for "high maintenance," people. Harken back to those dark times when Jif was in short supply...happily eager to replace it with the generic version, were you?) We'll just get her a Russell Stover egg.

Savannah: (staring at Lisa like she'd sprouted another head) My mother would rather have nothing if she can't have a Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunny.

Lisa: (thinking but not saying, "That's ridiculous," methodically begins the process that so many before her have tried and failed:  The What-About THIS One?) But...(holding up an egg)...this one has marshmallow...

Savannah:  No.

Lisa:  (holding up another one) What about THIS one? It's a raspberry-creme marshmallow egg!

Savannah shook her head.

Lisa:  Coconut?

Savannah: Nope

Lisa: (voice rising) Caramel? Chocolate caramel? Dark chocolate? Sea salt?

Worn out and exasperated, Lisa gamely tried another tactic. "Is there any other Easter candy that your mother likes?"

Savannah:  (bristling a bit at Lisa's tone) She likes yellow marshmallow Peep rabbits.

Lisa:  (finding the entire aisle of Peeps) Here's some!

~~~~~~~ONE HOUR LATER~~~~~~~~~~

Lisa:  What about blue?

Savannah: Nope.

Lisa:  Here are some yellow chicks.

Savannah shook her head.

Lisa: Purple? Funfetti? Watermelon? Oh! Oh! Oh! They have Pepsi-flavored Peeps...

Savannah:  No.

~~~~~~~ONE HOUR LATER~~~~~~~~~~

The girls exit the store with their purchase of extra-strength Tylenol.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, no. I am NOT high maintenance. In fact, I would contend that my specific interests make it VERY
easy to please me...no guess work AT ALL. And when it comes to high maintenance regarding fashion attire and make-up, I am not a froo-froo girl at all. Let's just say I'm more pug than poodle. But I am pretty malleable when Sydney decides to unfrump my frocks and decorate my digits. I usually only get my nails done with Sydney...I am not great with unfamiliar environments, making decisions when selecting from a color palette of 5,000 shades of the same pink, decoding even slight accents, and letting people I don't know touch me. 

("Yeah, Amy," snorted Lisa, "You're not high maintenance, AT ALL.")

Savannah was enlisted to drive us. Our first salon was tucked securely behind the high salvage yard gates featured in "Breaking Bad." We bravely ventured in and were told by the two operators standing in the empty shop that they could not accommodate us today. "Take the cannolis," I muttered, backing up slowly.

We found a spot in the busy parking lot of our next location. I opened the car door cautiously, smiling at the woman parked next to us. "You good?" I asked, making sure she wasn't going to open her door at the same time. She snarled at me. "I don't know WHY you had to park so close to me," she snapped. Ahead of me, Savannah ducked down (to, one, avoid possible gun-fire and, two, check the lines). She shrugged, baffled, but snagged me safely away from the antichrist of asphalt who was sporting a "Don't California Up My Texas" bumper sticker on the back of her vehicle as a warm welcome banner. HOW-DY!

Sydney and I were immediately separated in the salon. My anxiety ratcheted as I failed, again and again, to anticipate which foot needed to be cheese-grated next. I was handed the accordion comprised of marketable fingernails but when I chose one of the 5,000 shades of pink, I was told (I think) that it was the wrong color. "Code PINK," Sydney texted to her sister, who was sitting in the waiting area, keeping a wary eye on "Don't Mess with Texas's Parking Spots." Savannah wiggled her way in next to me and assumed her complicated role of nail emissary/emotional support human. "That's pretty," Savannah said as my stylist picked out the correct shade of pink. I startled out of my self-induced coma. I don't think Savannah has ever uttered that phrase unless it was directed toward a dog. Feeling pretty poodly, I did some quick research on the bumper sticker to discover it was also a delightfully inclusive song. Bad enough that they were mad at California but, my, it takes an unreasonably ugly turn at the end. "Don't New York it either." What the Zac Ephron does THAT mean? My salon nail stylist wrestled me out of my chair (after WWE massaging my injured do-si-do hand..."Tell her," hissed Savannah as my body contorted with pain. "Isn't ouch a universally-understood word?" I gritted back.) and forced me bodily to sit in front of a weird table. My daughters looked at me in confusion as the stylist, in disgust, arranged me bodily, stuffing my hands and feet into medieval stocks built into the table. It turned out to be a wind table. The notoriety  quickly wore off. "Can't I just blow on my fingernails and they take three bucks off the bill?" I wondered. Nope.

Pulling out of the parking lot, Savannah asked if it were safe to go. "Kind of," I said, doubtfully as we drew alongside a large, questionable vehicle sporting a bullet hole. "I think that's known as a Texas welcome mat," I said. Welcome to Texas.