Chewymom

Tonight, DS16 came out of his bedroom about five minutes after he had gone to bed. He said, “Mom, I just wanted you to know. You are special.”

I wondered why he had felt this need to say that to me, so I questioned him about it. He had been at youth group tonight, and they had watched a movie. I’m not totally clear on what was the main point of the movie, but DS16 was able to tell me that there was a mom in it, and she never believed in Jesus. And basically, he seemed to be expressing to me that I am special to him because I believe in Jesus.

Now, that’s a pretty awesome thing to hear from a 16-year-old son, isn’t it? And might I just add (since I’ve been on a bit of a Down-syndrome-tangent this past week) that although he may have thought that, without his extra chromosome, I’m betting he might not have felt the freedom and urgency to say it to me.

I think I have a pretty awesome kid, don’t you?!?!

It was bedtime, and the house was crazy. Not only that, we had just gotten home from our Wednesday night church activities, which meant even more scrambling and later bedtimes than usual. The doorbell rang, and it was a friend from church bringing DD4’s doll by that she had left at the church. It was very thoughtful of them, especially considering that it was only a Happy Meal doll.

A few more minutes of scrambling around, finding pajamas, putting away backpacks, and “DING-DONG!” the doorbell rang a second time. Let me interject here that first of all, nobody ever uses our front door, so the doorbell ringing in general is a little weird. But for it to ring twice, after dark, within 10 minutes is just very odd. DH looked up from the den as it rang, just in time to see a figure running away from the door. A prank. Still, someone ran and opened the door. A basket of candy and Halloween stuff was sitting on the porch, along with a paper ghost that had BOO written on it. We got BOO’d!!!! We had wanted to be Boo’d.

The past few years, the tradition was to leave a mask and some candy at people’s door. The family would put the mask on their mailbox, letting others know they had already received the treat, and then they were to do the same to two other people. This year it is a ghost. We now need to find two other families who have not yet been BOO’d and do it to them.

Within 10 more minutes, the doorbell rang a third time! Before we could even get our ghost up on our door, we were BOO’d a second time! I think that’s against the rules, but DH posted a ghost on both the front and side doors, and today we are off to BOO four families, instead of two.

We live inside the city limits, so our garbage service is provided by the city. In many ways, this is a very good thing! When we rake our leaves in the fall, we can put them along the curb, and street sweepers will come along and remove them. When branches and twigs accumulate in the yard, we stack them in the alley, and they are removed. We have even had large objects like a broken double oven and a bookshelf removed from our alley, but they were taken by people in old pick-up trucks.

One problem with city garbage service is that there is no competition. The same problem you run into at the DMV. No competition means that they can make the rules and it really doesn’t matter what everone thinks.

Today I happened to be in my kitchen when the trash truck rolled down the alley. I watched in surprise as the truck lifted my yard waste can and dumped the contents into the truck, and then lifted my garbage can and did the same. My understanding was that we had two cans because the things in the cans were picked up by two different trucks. Lawn clippings, leaves, and twigs do not need to be in a landfill along with dirty diapers and pizza boxes. They can be composted, and that was what I had been lead to believe our city was doing. Apparently not.

Which reminds me of a story from when we lived in Atlanta. We used Peach State garbage ( a[private company), and we paid them an extra $1 per month for the privilege of having a little recycle container. I was in my front den one morning when the garbage truck came by. A man hopped out, dumped my recycle bin into my garbage can, and then hoisted the can onto the truck and dumped it. I thought it had to be a one-time thing, but just in case, I was ready with my camera the next week. The same thing happened, and I took pictures. Our whole, very large neighborhood had a contract with Peach State, and finally enough people complained that they stopped charging us money to dump our recycling in with our garbage. I suspect that although they began sending a separate truck, they still combined the things–they just did it out of our sight instead of right in front of our house.

Which makes me wonder–if I am able to complain and make a ruckus about my current garbage issue, will anything be done in this monopoly? And if it is, will it be a real change? Or will they just combine my yard waste with my garbage once they are out of my sight? I think I need to get one of these and just composte my yard waste myself!

Do you remember my post about the beautiful Yellow Crowned Night Herons who have built a nest in the neighbor’s yard? They are still there–there are two nests across the street, and two in the wooded school property diagonal from our house. We are not the only people in our town to have the pleasure of these birds choosing our neighborhood for a nest. Although it is unusual for them to wander far from their habitat (a wildlife refuge nearby), there are several other neighborhoods with nests as well.

In one of these neighborhoods, the residents are actually mad about the herons. And I’ll admit it–they do produce a LOT of poo. Seriously, you would be amazed if you saw the white splatters on the ground. I pity the soul who ever walks under one of these birds at the wrong moment. Anyway, back to this one neighborhood. They have complained that women can’t stroll their babies while the birds are there. Little old ladies don’t like the mess in their yards. And so they decided to do something about it. They called…someone. I don’t even know who. Someone with the city, I guess, and they came out and cut down the branch with the nest in it. They stranded three baby herons, and when someone called the extension to inquire what to do about these babies who were looking for their nest and their mother (who I’m sure was frightened and abandoned them), they were told to shoot them. Yeah, right.

I still don’t know what happened to the babies. The nest was just kicked across the street and left in disarray along the side. The mother is long gone.

And I am SO MAD! We are “inconvenienced” for six weeeks out of the year by having these amazing birds locate a nest in an unusual location. It is very rare that people even get to see these birds, much less have the privilege of them nesting right on their street, and bringing babies into the world, tending them and teaching them to fly! And what is our response?? “Oh! Help! There’s poop! Quick, call the police! Sound the alarm! Kill the birds, dismantle the nest, cut down the tree so maybe they’ll NEVER return!” That is just so callous. And I’m so disgusted.

Welcome to my nice, southern town. We hate birds…especially ones that poopl

We moved to this little town three years ago, and that fall we began faithfully attending the PTA meetings at the elementary school across the street. This seemed to be a wise thing to do, considering that we had two students there. The first meeting began, the PTA president said a few things, and then she called a parent up to the front to give a devotional.

DH and I shot quizzical looks at one another. Having come from Atlanta, the only place we ever heard the word “devotional” was in a church setting. Never in a public school. We ducked our heads and glanced around, waiting for someone to stand up and protest. Our glances were met with smiles and nods of approval.
We sat up a little straighter and listened as the parent read Scripture, spoke, and then closed in prayer. I’m not kidding. Then the meeting continued.

The next meeting, we attended again, and once again someone–a teacher this time–was called upon to present the devotional. DH and I, once again, sheepishly glanced around wondering who was going to storm out of the room. Nothing but smiles of approval once again. We were floored.

The third month, about a week before the PTA meeting, DH got a phone call. “Would you please give the devotional at the next PTA meeting?” the person asked. DH agreed, and this time he stood up at the front, and again nobody protested, nobody stomped out, nobody ranted about separation of church and state. And so, while DH and I miss the cultural diversity we enjoyed in Atlanta, we continue, three years later, to be amazed that our school can “get away” with this, and thankful for our kids’ free Christian education.

And then, DS15 attended a camp last week for people with special needs. This camp is the best thing going. We paid $10 total, and he got to go for 5 hours a day for 5 days. He went bowling, to a movie, to a water park, played putt-putt, and was fed five good meals, among other things. This camp is a service of the Parks and Rec department in our city, and the camp is funded, I suppose, by the city. And on Thursday when I picked him up, he informed me, “I got to pray tonight.” Oh, really? “I prayed, and so did S and so did J.”

“Does somebody pray every night before your dinner?” I asked. He answered that yes, someone does. And then he said, “I prayed that everybody that I love would believe in Jesus.” Pretty good prayer, if you ask me, even if it was prayed at a “public” event!!

On Friday afternoon around 4:45, the doorbell rang. I was expecting a UPS delivery, so I hopped up and walked to the front door. In my house, if it isn’t the 7-year-old next-door neighbor boy at the door, it is big excitement. Everyone, including the dog races to open the door first. Well, one of the kids got to the door first and flung it open and declared, “Mrs. B!”

It was DS7’s teacher standing at the door! She was just leaving school and noticed his lunchbox that he had left behind. Also, I had baked chocolate chip cookies for the class today (DS7 was “friend of the week” and got to bring a snack to share) and several cookies were left. She wanted to deliver those back to us as well. I manged to convince her to keep the cookies.

She went on her way, and I went back to my chair, chuckling. It is funny enough to have all of my kids friends, families, and the teachers know where we live. But it is just wild to me, coming from a very large, lawsuit-paranoid city, to have teachers stopping by the house–and even bringing the whole class, field-trip style, like they did when DS10 broke his arm.

And did I tell you all about the time DS7 got sick at school? I was at home in the early afternoon, and DD3 (then 2 and still willing to nap) was asleep. I couldn’t leave her, so the school secretary signed DS7 out and let him walk home. Or another time, when DS10 had a bad headache at school. Once again, DD3 was asleep, so they let DS10 run home to take an advil and then run back to school.

Anyway, it was a pleasant and funny surprise to have DS7’s teacher pop by our house on her way home. I love our town!!

We moved to a small town in Alabama from a very large city in Georgia. Before I describe my experience the other day at the license and tag office here, let me describe how it worked when we lived in the large city.

When I needed to get my license renewed, I tried to figure out the day it would be least likely to be crowded. There was no such day, so I picked a day, got up early (and by early, I mean 5:00 a.m.), arranged child-care for my kids, and planned to be in line by 7:00 a.m. at the LATEST, since the office opened at 8:30. Upon arriving, I would find the line, 50+ people long, winding along the sidewalk, down the street. Finally at 8:45, some lazy-already-having-a-bad-attitude women would step behind the counter and begin “helping” people. The line would move mostly indoors where there was a Six-Flag-ish contraption I would weave around. If I was smart, I would begin reading a Jane Austin novel, knowing I probably had time to complete the entire book. In reality, I probably carried a Southern Living magazine and got bored with it after ten minutes, after which time I people-watched and sighed in exasperation.

Around noon, my stomach would begin to growl, but I was not about to give up my place in line, only 10 people back. By two o’clock, I would be at the front of the line, getting my mug shot, paying IN CASH ONLY the exhorbitant fee (you can’t believe how many people did NOT know that and had screaming fits after waiting in line for hours!), and walking out with my license. And that was on a good day.

So back to small-town Alabama. At 12:30, I decided to head over to get my license renewed. Nothing special about the day–I just picked it because my license expires later this month, and I was in the area. I pulled into one of the three parking spaces available in the 30-car lot. DD3 and I walked through the security scanner and headed through the doors into the office. There was one person ahead of me, so I stood behind him and waited 2 minutes.

When it was my turn, I verified that all information was correct and handed over my old license. This was actually sad for me. My picture on that one was good, for the first time in my 20 years of driving. I hated to give it up, knowing I will never again have a good license photo. It just isn’t normal.

Sure enough the lady took my picture and gave me my paper copy. (Here in Alabama, we’re not quite up to speed–you still have to wait 2 weeks to get your real license in the mail.) My paper copy does show my picture, however, and I guess I’m happy to report that I’ve joined the ranks of normal people, and I once again have a horrible license photo. It looks like a mug shot. But at least it only took five minutes to get it!

I was back in my car by 12:45, home by 12:50, and curled up in the “biggie chair” with DD3 to munch on my salad while we watched “Barbie’s Princess and the Pauper” for the zillionth time since Christmas Day. I like our tag office, bad picture and all!

In our town there is a peaceful neighborhood with large trees overhanging the streets, lazy front porches, and historic markers in front of many homes, labelling them for who originally owned them and when they were built, most over 100 years ago. On one end of the neighborhood stands the courthouse, City Hall, and the jail. Unfortunately, the yard for the jail is across the road from the jail itself, so when it is time to take the prisoners outdoors for their daily exercise, they must be taken across the street. Occasionally a prisoner gets away and must be chased down by an officer. The prisoners wear bright orange and white striped outfits, making them very easy to spot. The brilliant escapee, as a result, will often strip down to his underwear, so as to hopefully be less noticable as he hops the fences and darts through the alleyways of the nearby neighborhood.

Mr. P., a 40-something man who stands about 5′10″ was sitting in his backyard swing, enjoying the peace and quiet, sipping his coffee and having a glorious time reading his Bible and praying. The tranquility of the moment was broken when a nearly-naked man popped over the fence into his backyard! The two saw each other, and the man leapt back over the fence and ran down the alley.

Mr. P., realizing this was a prison escapee, did what any reasonable man would do–grabbed a shovel and headed out to the alley! He saw the man headed one way, and an officer coming up another way looking for him. “Over here!!” Mr. P. shouted to the officer.

Mr. P. and the officer managed to get on either side of the scantily clad escapee. The prison-breakee looked at the large officer with a gun and then at Mr. P. with his shovel and made the understandable decision to run toward Mr. P. “Hit him!!” yelled the officer. Mr. P. raised his shovel like a bat, cocked it back, and struck the man as he ran by. The man fell to the ground, and the officer grabbed and handcuffed him and took him back to the jail.

And the whole thing became a sermon illustration to our congregation, as Mr. P. is our beloved pastor. (And this really is a true story, although some of the details may not be entirely accurate, as my memory became foggy as I tried not to laugh too loudly in church!)

Or rather, he came to our town–last night!!

Monday night was the annual Christmas parade. Having lived in a big city, where there is no Christmas parade, or any other kind of parade for that matter, I find small town parades to be fascinating! And apparantly our small town is considered by more than just a few of my blog readers to be a rather large-ish town, because there were people from all kinds of tiny surrounding towns in our parade, their own towns being too small to have a parade of their own.

We had our two high school bands, plus three others from surrounding towns. There were definitely more fire trucks than we have in our city–in fact, some of us were wondering what those smaller towns would do if there actually was a fire tonight! “Sorry folks, no fire trucks tonight. You’re on your own. We’re busy driving in the Christmas parade two towns over!” There were boy scout troups, cheerleading groups, dance academies, and a few “Miss Wherever’s” shivering in convertables, with tiaras and perfect princess waves (DD3 kept exclaiming with wonder, “Look, Mommy!! There’s another princess!!!”). There were four red hat societies, which apparently are segregated as there were three white societies and one black one. The black one had better hats. There were several police cars, a hearse, a few wreckers, a truck with antlers and a red balloon nose pulling a boat made to look like a sleigh, and two undecorated cement mixers. A radio station truck, blaring music and with a well-known d.j. on top, hollering to the crowd, a half-dozen church groups with nativity scenes, some masons on speedy go-carts, a few veterans, and my friend’s very own Venison Club. They say that anybody with $20 can drive a car in the parade, and I believe it!

The parade this year was longer than usual, and the temperatures colder than usual. Those of you up north may laugh, but it was getting down near 30 degrees, and we were frozen stiff. Kids grew whiney, toes froze, and even adults were saying, “Enough already! Where’s Santa??” Finally, over an hour after the parade began, the final fire truck rounded the curve and we saw Santa standing on top!! We whooped and hollered and wished him a merry Christmas, as children scrambled to scoop up the candy he tossed. And then it was over.

We walked, along with two other families, two blocks down to enjoy hot chocolate and home-made pound cake and other goodies at the home of another family. It’s our third year straight of watching the parade with them and returning to their home for hot chocolate–I’d say we have quite a tradition going! We warmed our hands and mouths with the drinks, stuffed our faces with sweets, admired the new kitchen (built by the husband and painted by the wife) and visited with friends.

When it was time to leave we drove back down the parade route and almost felt surprised to see the totally empty street, with no evidence of the long parade that had passed through a mere hour before, except for the empty candy wrappers, a few mardi-gras necklaces with attached “Santa doesn’t pay ATM fees” buttons advertising a local bank, and “Jesus is the Reason” tracts strewn along the curbs. Finally we arrived at home, late for our bedtimes on a school night, tired and stiff from the cold, and with full tummies and warm hearts. It was a wonderful evening!

If you’ve been reading on here for a while, you have seen me blog about my small town many times. It is Mayberry. And it is small. And by small, I mean between 50,000-75,000 people. And that’s why I say small is a relative number.

I was poking around recently, finding new blogs to read, and I came across Dandelions and Roses . I read her little bio, and she says she lives outside of a small town of about 6,000. Folks, that isn’t small…that’s TINY! But if some of you are picturing 6,000 when I say “small town,” then I need to correct the record.

I am originally from a large city. Very large. It has suburbs that are significantly larger than the town where I currently reside. I grew up there, moved away and came back for four years as an adult. The second time I lived there, DH’s commute was 45 minutes on a really good day, when there was “no” traffic. Most days it was over an hour, and if there was an accident anywhere within 5 miles of his path, his commute could easily be two hours. With the exception of carpool line, I could go for days and not see anybody I knew. Including neighbors. My children attended an elementary school with over 600 students. Trailers lined the outskirts of the main building, and they were adding an entire wing on one side (but not planning to remove the trailers). The high school near our old house had been on a dual schedule since the early 80’s due to the large number of students. Shopping malls were going up all around us. People with relatively large lots (between 1/2 and one acre) would sell their homes to a developer who would then bulldoze the home and put up two more. And sell them for $700,000 and above, each. I could not walk anywhere–I had to hop into my car for every little errand.

I spent a lot of money in our large city. If I wanted something, I could find anything at all at a dozen stores. Need a new bath towel? Run over to Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Or drive a little farther to Linens and Things. Or hop over to Target. New dishes? Pier One, Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrel all stood ready, within 5 miles of each other. Got the urge for electronics? HiFi Buys, Best Buy, and Circuit City were close by. There was no such thing as delayed gratification.

So, considering that is what I have to compare this town to, it is small. But to someone from a town of 6,000, I’m sure we appear quite large. We have a Walmart and a bookstore. We have a few grocery stores, two pet stores, and a mall. We even have traffic! At times, I’ve had to wait through two lights at 5:00 on the main road. And I’ve even seen up to 10 cars at this one stop sign, waiting for their turn.

I don’t run into people everywhere I go, but I definitely have to consider that possibility when I go out. If I don’t see a friend in the grocery store, I’m likely to pull up next to someone at a stoplight. As I drive around town, I spend a lot of time with my hand up, waving at people I know. Which can be tricky when I am also trying to sip coffee as I drive!

Our houses are known by names. When someone asks where I live, as I describe it, they are likely to say, “Oh, isn’t that the Sims house?” Or, “I remember when John used to practice basketball in that yard, did you buy his parents’ house?” We are only the third owners of our 40+ year old home, so our house goes by two names.

Our town is small enough that we sat near the mayor at a recent event. Not because we were special or anything–just because he was there and sitting near a spot with seven empty spaces. And I know a police officer, which came in handy when I was driving too fast in a school zone, and he waved and then motioned for me to slow down. As I’ve said before, we know several of the doctors well. That came in handy when DD3 poked a bead up her nose, and our ENT friend was willing to come into the surgery center, even though he wasn’t on call that day, and remove the little red bead.

Our town is also small enough that I send my 5th grader out to join the pack of boys that roam the neighborhood on bicycles. In our previous big city, no child of mine would have ventured farther than the block behind us. But here, he can roam fairly freely (he does carry a cell phone) as long as he is home by dark. The 8th grade boys all gather on the elementary school fields to play football on a nice afternoon. My 9th grader, who has Down syndrome, can ride his bike or walk the dog around the block alone, and I don’t fret.

And that is why I call this a small town. To some, it may sound pretty big, but to me it is small. Kind of like a cozy blanket, or a jacket that fits perfectly around your shoulders. Compared to our previous busy, stressful, aloof large city, our town is just a warm, cozy place to live!