Jumping for joy

It was thirty-six years ago this month that my parents, six siblings and I arrived in Colorado by station wagon from Minnesota in search of a new life, one that might keep my parents' rocky marriage together. I was a preteen and pretty excited -- and scared -- about the new venture. The house my parents purchased in advance wasn't yet ready, so we stayed a week or so in one of the log cabin motels dotting the highway of the tiny mountain town we'd call home.

Across the highway from our cabin was the motel office, and outside the office was the motel's coin-operated trampoline. The trampoline itself wasn't operated by coin; it was the length of the jumper's turn that was dictated by quarter. For 25 cents, a kid could jump to his or her heart's content ... for about three minutes. Then the timer would ding and the next one up would plop in his or her quarter and jump for joy. Bouncing past the bell would result in jeers from the others in line; when there were no other kids in line, the motel owner or his progeny (not much older than my siblings and me) would come outside and menacingly enforce the rules.

Despite the limited access to quarters for a family with seven kids -- and a fear of the crabby motel owner and his kids -- it was the beginning of my love affair with the "tramp," as the trampoline became affectionately called by those lucky enough to become well acquainted with it. When our time at the cabin was up, we reluctantly bid farewell to the motel tramp ... and rejoiced upon seeing the tramp nestled in the ground in the backyard of our new neighbor.

It took us a while in our new digs to feel comfortable enough with our neighbor -- a family of five that included three awesomely hip teens that made me shrink in their presence -- to knock on their sliding door and ask for permission to jump. It was okay to do so, our new friends living near the tramp house assured us, as long as the resident teens weren't jumping themselves. For several months, my siblings and I encouraged our friends to do the asking, as we were the new kids in town and figured we were less likely to get a "yes" from the tramp owners.

We soon learned that regardless of who initiated the request, permission flowed freely and the neighboring tramp was ours to enjoy for hours on end. My new friend and I bonded as we bounced, competing against one another in seat wars, back wars, games of add-on. We'd acquiesce to the older siblings when they showed up -- including our older sisters who had become best buds as well -- as they were much more fluent in trampe-eze. Even my older sister, just as new to the sport as I was, had quickly become a pro, flying through the air with the greatest of ease, performing front flips, back flips, swan dives and one-and-a-halfs.

I longed to be as good as the older kids. I'd peek out the window and watch the resident teens expertly enjoy their trampoline, then put some of their moves into play when it was my turn. Little by little I mastered the front flip, back flip, swan dive and, finally, after a few terrifying turns, the satisfying slam of my stomach on the mat when I successfully managed the derring-do of a one-and-a-half. Double flips soon followed. Never before had I felt so in command of graceful moves, a graceful body.

In hopes of maintaining neighborly relations, my dad eventually purchased a trampoline for our own yard. No longer would seven rug rats be knocking on the neighbor's sliding door, begging to jump. We were thrilled to have our own tramp, but it wasn't the same. It was new and stiff and didn't bounce as easily and as high as the in-ground beauty next door. But we and our friends jumped ferociously, purposefully in hopes of breaking it in, all the while doing our best to ignore the screaming and crying and fighting we could hear through the windows, evidence that it was Mom and Dad's marriage that had been broken, irreparably.

After the divorce, my dad got custody of the tramp. Custody of the kids was a far less desirable affair for him, so with few kids in residence and even fewer visiting, the tramp was never fully broken in. It was eventually sold, and we kids moved on, grew up, never dared to look back.

Except that the lure of the tramp couldn't be forgotten. Luckily Jim -- who also had frequented the coin-operated trampoline in town, long before I ever knew him -- fondly recalled the joy of jumping as much as I did. So together we purchased a trampoline for our daughters.

The girls and their friends spent many a summer day bouncing away and several summer nights attempting sleepovers on the tramp, usually ending in mid-night scrambles into the house because of scary neighborhood noises or dampness from the dew soaking their sleeping bags.

My daughters had their own versions of bouncing bliss that included front flips, seat wars, add-on and a game I never really understood dubbed the Uncle David Game, concocted during an extended visit from my brother. The girls never mastered the swan dive or the one-and-a-half -- at least not that I ever saw. Not because they weren't capable but because I had become an overprotective mom and although I wanted them to experience the incomparable joy of jumping, I worried endlessly that one poorly executed flip would break their neck resulting in certain death or at least paralysis, so I limited the tricks they were allowed.

I myself wasn't allowed to do much jumping on the new tramp either, not out of fear of a broken neck but out of fear of how my bladder may perform, battered and bruised as it had become by three pregnancies in rapid succession. So I'd jump carefully only now and then, do a few knees, seats, backs, a stomach here and there. Sometimes I'd even engage in a seat war with the girls.

But never again did I do a flip -- front, back or otherwise. Never again have I felt as in command of graceful moves, a graceful body as I did thirty-six summers ago when I very first mastered the tramp.

Today's question:

When have you felt the most graceful?

Wanted: Crazy, quirky confessions

The cover of the May 2010 Reader's Digest beckoned me: "Normal or Nuts?" it screamed. "Your habits, quirks, and fears explained." I immediately had to read the article because I think I have a lot of weird habits, quirks and fears and I hoped the article would prove there are folks with far weirder habits, quirks and fears than mine.

Unfortunately, it didn't. Despite the intro comment that "... it's a sure bet that your nutty quirk -- the one you think is freakishly unusual -- is shared by plenty of other people ...", the habits highlighted by the readers were pretty darn normal, if you ask me. There was fear of speaking in public, flying in an airplane, loving one child more than another, talking to oneself, being depressed about layoffs at work, blah, blah, boring blah.

Okay, yeah, there were two truly weird obsessions highlighted in the article: One in which the person didn't like to have his or her feet touch the ground ... except for when they're in motion; and another in which the person pulls out stray arm hairs to ensure all the arm hair is the same length. Yep, those two are weird.

But I was hoping for some enlightenment, actually, hoping for some companionship when it comes to the quirks that make me feel like I'm crazy. Comments from my daughters such as as "You're so weird, Mom" are a regular occurrence, and after years of trying to fit in, I've come to accept that I don't really fit in much of anywhere in any way. I follow the beat of a different drummer, a lone drummer, one that plays a song not many understand. Or so I think. But maybe I'm wrong.

Which is why I'm coming to you all. Because Reader's Digest couldn't help me out, I'm hoping you can. I'd like to propose that today we all fess up to one or two of our quirkiest quirks, our craziest thoughts, words and deeds that we think we're alone in conducting. Then we'll see what the consensus is. Are we all weird? Are we all crazy? Or are we just quirky enough to be charming ... and interesting.

So I'll go first. Then I'd like you all to comment with something that similarly worrisome to you, that you think you may be the only one in the world doing. Nothing too dark, nothing too revealing, nothing so bat-crap crazy that I block you from commenting ever again ... just something that you wonder if others do as well -- or if others think that's just too far outside the spectrum of normal human behavior.

We'll comment back and forth and together we'll see what happens. Who knows? Could be crazy, could be quirky, could be an utterly idiotic thing to ask of my readers. We'll see ...

So here I go with mine:

I absolutely must cover my neck with the covers in bed each night, regardless of how hot the weather may be. If my neck is exposed, I fear a vampire will claim the fleshy space between my head and my body. It has nothing to do with Twilight or True Blood; it goes farther back than that. I've done it since I was a kid ... a kid who grew up unable to take my eyes off the TV when Barnabas Collins had his way with the women and more in the original serial called Dark Shadows. The show was kind of sexy (to a kid, at least), definitely scary ... and obviously quite scarring, as you can tell by my neck-covering obsession more than 40 years later!

Now you tell me: crazy or quirky? And, what crazy or quirky confession do you have to share so we can all weigh in on your obsession?

Today's question:

See above ...!

**Oh my! In researching to verify what year Dark Shadows ran on ABC, I found on Wikipedia that Johnny Depp will play Barnabas Collins in the 2011 movie from Tim Burton. Aack! The neck-covering continues!

Wheat, chaff and baby teeth

As I mentioned yesterday, Jim and I spent Saturday with three of Jim's five siblings plus a couple nieces and nephews clearing out the storage shed that held everything from the last apartment Jim's mom lived in, her last home and the place she resided when a stroke unexpectedly ripped her from her life and plopped her down in a hospital bed to wait out her days.

My mother-in-law was always a fastidious housekeeper, a truly tidy grandma. But the unexpectedness of the emergency medical situation meant she never had the chance to tie up her life belongings into beribboned bundles or to even discard such things as drawers full of hair-color conditioner tubes and expired grocery coupons. Which meant her kids had a lot of stuff to go through, a lot of work to do paring her possessions into piles to pass along to her children and grandchildren, honoring her by not pitching it all into the charity bin.

To be honest, it was a relatively quick task as Jim's mom lived a spare and simple life. And, as Granny prided herself on being ever the educator, the task indeed taught me a few lessons about getting my own things and my own life in order so my kids and grandkids have an easier time separating the wheat from the chaff once I'm gone.

Here are a few of those lessons:

Keep a notebook or journal -- placed in a prominent spot -- detailing which possessions you'd like to go to whom. There were thankfully no arguments over my mother-in-law's goods, but we all could only guess what her desire may be ... and I'm pretty sure we missed the mark on at least a few. A will may be the answer, but how many wills go so far as to say which kid gets the red afghan versus the white or the flowered teapot versus the striped?

Always label photos with the names of those in the pictures and the date. As we perused the hundreds of photos, we were at a loss again and again without Granny around to let us know which baby belonged to whom and why one wacky woman wore the getup featuring what appeared appeared to be a bikini-clad sumo wrestler.

Minimize the mementos from your children's early years. Mother's Day gifts made in preschool, unidentifiable art-class and woodshop projects and every scrap of sentimentality have their place, but it's a very limited place. Save only those that really tug at the heart strings, not every crayon-scribbled, glitter-pocked piece of paper.

Speaking of paper, get rid of (most of) it. There's no need to save every single greeting card, every single receipt, every single recipe that one may have intended to try but never did. A paper shredder -- of which we found an unused one in Granny's possession -- comes in handy for such things.

Same goes for toiletry samples and hotel freebies. As Jim and his siblings chuckled about the blue tube after blue tube of the Clairol conditioning cream that comes with the hair color but is far too much for any normal woman to use as directed on the tube, I had to fess up that I have a handful, okay a basketful, of the very same conditioning cream tubes in my own bathroom cabinet. I'll be pitching those ... soon.

Thank you for these lessons and more, Granny. I'll do my best to soon institute them in my life, my home, my piles of stuff. I'll do it in honor of you -- and to nip in the bud the giggles, grins and guffaws sure to come from my daughters if they were to one day discover the Ziploc baggie I have filled with baby teeth individually wrapped in tissues, all deftly pulled from under pillows by this grandma formerly known as the Tooth Fairy.

Today's question:

Which of the "lessons" from above are you most in need of instituting in your life?

Common scents

Seems that White Castle fast-food restaurant chain, the king of mini burgers, has created a steam-grilled-on-a-bed-of-onions-scented candle in honor of its self-proclaimed National Hamburger Month. Crazy, I say. What's even crazier is that the candles sold out in 48 hours -- although the chain thought it had created enough for a two-month supply.

The candles were for a good cause -- to raise money for Autism Speaks -- but I just can't imagine having the scent of fast-food burgers wafting through my house.

I can, though, think of a few other non-traditional candle scents I'd be more than happy to light up.

For example, where some folks may get off on smelling burgers, I would definitely savor a candle that perfectly replicated the scent of garlic sauteeing to savory goodness in preparation for a scrumptious Italian dish. I would enjoy that smell any time, but it would come in particularly handy on those soup-and-sandwich nights, those oh-so-boring meals that stretch the budget but tax the taste buds.

Another food flavor I could savor the scent of would be onions ... yep, just plain ol' freshly cut onions. I love that smell as it brings back memories of young love. Weird, I know. But when Jim and I first started dating, we worked at Sonic -- the OLD Sonic Drive-Ins, not the new ones that sprouted up in the past 10-15 years (often on the same sites of the old Sonics that were torn down decades ago!). He was the manager, I was the car hop. Back in the day, Sonic offered freshly made onion rings, which meant one of the duties of the staff was to slice fresh onions then run the rings through a four-bucket process: water, then flour, then milk, then cornmeal. The battered up rings were then placed on racks for drying a bit while waiting for hungry customers to order them. I can't even count the number of nights Jim and I spent getting to know one another better, conversing as we dipped, dunked and dusted onions. Thirty years later, I still feel the flush of young love each time I slice an onion.

The ultimate food-flavored candle would be one of strong coffee brewing. I love, love, love highly-caffeinated coffee but usually don't touch the stuff after noon or it wreaks havoc on my brain and body come bedtime. But wouldn't it be truly wonderful to light up a coffee-scented candle come mid-afternoon? I think so.

Why stop there, though? No need to focus only on food scents. Already on the market are floral and spice and rain and forest candles, but the one scent I would relish on a regular basis is that of books! I have lots and lots of books, but it's definitely not enough to make me feel like I'm sitting between the shelves at the library, or even the bookstore. A calming sensation comes over me just by writing of such things; imagine the peace I'd find with one of those lit in this room and that. Plus, it'd give a whole new -- positive! -- meaning to burning books.

Last but not least, my candle collection would be made complete with a New Baby-scented candle. You know the smell I'm talking about. The one that envelops little rosy-cheeked bundles of joy, wrapped tightly in their receiving blankets and smelling like pure, unadulterated love, a scent that makes you want to nestle him under your chin, close your eyes and inhale his goodness. That is a candle I can see selling out in 48 hours. That is a candle that would surely help me on the days I really, really, really want to give my Bubby a big ol' grandma bear hug.

Of course, a baby-scented candle would need to be sold in a set, the second candle being that oh-so familiar Poopy Diaper scent. Just to bring me -- and other rapturous grandmas -- back to reality.

No photo needed for that one, right?

Today's question:

What scent would you love to have in a candle?

Enunciate the love

Bubby has no problem showing his best bud Ro-Ro how much he loves him!I recently read "Just Let Me Lie Down: Necessary Terms For The Half-Insane Working Mom" by Kristin van Ogtrop, which I received free for participation in the SV Moms Group Book Club. (SV Moms Group is the umbrella group under which I write for the Rocky Mountain Moms Group occasionally.)

Kristin van Ogtrop is the editor of Real Simple magazine, which means she's a high-power working gal. In her book, she has lots to say about balancing work and life issues, or at least coming to terms with the fact that balance is an elusive thing for most working mothers. A lot of what she has to say is interesting, most of it's witty, tiny bits of it left me scratching my head.

One tiny bit that stood out as a head-scratcher for me is a comment van Ogtrop made about saying "I love you." The context is that it's a chapter in which she talks about the strangeness of realizing she may possibly love a coworker. Love as in motherly love, friendly love, not some sordid office romance type of love. First she confesses, "I am not a big 'I love you' person," then a few paragraphs later she says this:

"Many people who rise to leadership positions do so in part because they can control their emotions (see Emotional tourniquet, p. 63). Sometimes I think the only reason I have been hired to run a magazine is because I'm able to remember to keep a box of tissues in my office and I can usually remain dry-eyed while others around me burst into tears. I'm sure there are individuals I work with who pity my children, raised as they are by a woman who appears to have no emotions but the occasional flash of anger. To those colleagues: I assure you, I do tell my children and my husband that I love them. At least every once in a while."

It's those last couple sentences that caught my attention. I'm sure van Ogtrop isn't dead serious about the "every once in a while" part, but it made me consider how often the "I love you"s are thrown around in my family.

I come from a family where "I love you" was rarely said; my dad still says it only in third person ("Your dad loves ya"). I wanted things to be different in the family Jim and I created, and it is. We say "I love you" all the time, possibly so often that it has lost its oomph.

It started off when the girls were little that after bedtime prayers there'd be "Goodnight, I love you." Then, when they left the house it'd be "Have fun. Be safe. I love you!" Now it's the last thing we say at the end of telephone calls: "I love you. Bye!"

Even Bubby -- who, as a typical 22-month-old, still has a relatively limited word reportoire -- has learned the phrase. As we wrapped up our most recent Skyping conversation, he said "Bye!" followed by a mumbled "ahwhuhwhoo." Translation from Megan: "That's his 'I love you.'"

"Ahwhuhwhoo"s notwithstanding, most of our family phone calls are now end with what sounds much like "love-ya-bye!" as we all lead busy lives and rush to get off the phone so we can move along to the other dire matters that fill our days.

And I don't like that. Sure, the sentiment is still there, but this is an instance in which it's not just the thought that counts. It's the saying it like you mean it that counts.

So going forward (gotta love that corporate phrase left over from corporate days) I plan to enunciate, to say it like I mean it. Because I do mean it. More than anything else in my life. I love my girls, my husband, my Bubby.

And my readers.

I love you!

Bye!

Extra special bonus because I love you guys: I received two copies of "Just Let Me Lie Down" by Kristin van Ogtrop to give away. Enter to win one in the Back Room.

Today's question:

In an average day, how many times do you say "I love you"?

My answer: Probably five or six times.

Signs, signs, everywhere signs

My little GeminiRaise your hand if you're worried about the astrological sign under which your grandchild was born. Okay, since not everyone who visits Grandma's Briefs is a grandparent, what about those of you with children ... does your child's astrological sign make any difference to you?

By the lack of hands I see waving in the air, I'll have to assume I'm weird. I'm weird because when Megan was pregnant, I did worry about the sign under which Bubby would be born.

Well, I suppose worry isn't the correct word. I wouldn't put it in the category of my worries about his and Megan's health and welfare during and after the pregnancy. It's more like I was concerned ... and a little bummed ... and a little hopeful that Bubby would arrive a few days late just to bump him into the next sign.

Because, you see, Bubby's a Gemini and -- I apologize if this offends anyone -- I've never gotten along well with Geminis. I'm a Cancer, the sign right next door to Gemini, the one I was hoping Bubby would hold out for.

Long, long ago, for my 16th birthday to be exact, my mom bought me Linda Goodman's "Sun Signs." Like most teen girls, I was quite interested in astrological signs and how well my friends, enemies and potential beaus matched up with the traits ascribed to their signs. Most of the time, Ms. Goodman was correct -- and seemingly continues to be correct -- in her assertions. Jim (Pisces), Brianna (Leo), Megan (Sagittarius) and Andrea (Cancer) fit the descriptions to a T.

And I, a Cancer, completely and totally fit the description: I'm quiet, moody, retreat to my shell when I sense danger, artistic (in writing, nothing else really), fiercely dedicated to hearth and home.

Then there's the Geminis, of which I've met plenty: talkative, active, impulsive, fleeting, and -- the one trait I've seen quite often in the Geminis I know -- someone who lies about anything and everything embellishes their tales, usually for no clear reason at all.

Suffice it to say, I didn't want Bubby to be a Gemini. But he is. So I recently reviewed -- in the very same copy my mom gifted me decades ago -- the traits under Ms. Goodman's title "The Gemini Child" and found a few interesting tidbits. Right off the bat was a mention that parents should seriously consider using one of those animal-like harnesses for their Gemini child because he'll be all over the place in public and difficult to keep safe. Funny thing is that when Megan was planning the recent trip she and Bubby made to visit us in the mountains, she actually mentioned considering getting one, just to be safe. She ended up not getting one, mostly because Bubby's quite timid and stays right by her side no matter where they go. (Bonus point for Bubby as that's a Cancer trait.)

Another trait Ms. Goodman mentions is that Geminis often are ambidextrous. This is interesting because Bubby favors using his left hand for nearly everything, always has. But there's no one else in his immediate family that's left-handed. The closest leftie is Nick, my nephew and Megan's cousin (is that Bubby's second cousin?). Get this: Nick is a Gemini! Like Nick, Bubby uses his right hand occasionally, but chooses the left nine times out of 10.

Another trait of the Gemini child is "there's usually a marked ability to mimic others." This I find amusing because for a while there I worried that Bubby would never speak normal words -- only because he was mimicking the gibberish in which his mom and dad spoke to him. For some unknown reason, Megan and Preston related to their little one by making him grin and giggle in response to their wacky sounds (which usually sounded much like the "ca-CAAH" goofiness from the goofy guy in the movie "Evolution"). Bubby loved those silly sounds ... and mimicked them to no end.

What I found most interesting about the Gemini traits Goodman lists, though, is that other than the two above, Bubby fits very few of them. But when I flip forward a few pages and read about "The Cancer Child," he hits quite a few right on the head: "His emotions are rich, colorful and varied." "They're funny little creatures with droll expressions and eyes that almost talk by themselves." "You may wish you could predict when he's going to get ... that faraway look in his eye as he listens to the curious music every Moon child hears." "He can get mighty weepy when he's ignored or treated harshly."

If you ask me, I think the doctor may have been a little off in the due date he gave Megan because it seems more and more that Bubby was destined to be a Cancer, not a Gemini. Which is great! Maybe he can overcome any of the negative Gemini traits he may have inherited due to an early arrival. (Again, my apologies to any Gemini readers -- it's nothing personal!)

Although, as all mothers and grandmothers know, no matter what he is, no matter what traits he possesses, I will truly love him with all my heart, all my soul, always and forever.

But let me just say right now that if Bubby ever grows up to be a big ol' liar/embellisher, this Cancer Grandma will surely be having some mighty serious words with that Gemini child!

Today's question:

What sign are you and do you fit the description?

This post was linked to Grandparent's Say It Saturday.

The color purple ... and pink ... and yellow

Jim and the girls and I have attended the same church for many years, so it's the go-to place for Easter and other Christian holidays (as well as most Sundays in between). Easter Sunday usually means lots of pink, yellow and purple outfits will be in display, worn by little girls in frilly finery, moms and grandmas donning Easter bonnets. Even Dads and Grandpas sheepishly sport pastel shirts and ties, succumbing to threats subtle pressure from their wives.

That's what we usually see at Easter service.

At yesterday's Easter service, there was no sea of pastel, no Easter bonnets. It didn't seem that many of the outfits were even new. In fact, lots of folks were wearing worn jeans or khakis -- fairly typical of a regular Sunday, but not Easter, the Sunday of all Sundays.

It was odd. And a little sad. It underscored the fact that new Easter outfits weren't in the cards for anyone this year, not just my family. Despite the optimism sparked by recent unemployment numbers, it seems economic recovery has yet to become reality, at least to the degree that we all felt new outfits were a priority.

I know, I know. New Easter outfits aren't really all that important. We all still sang just as loudly, still exchanged customary Easter greetings, and appreciated the trumpets, Easter lillies and C & E crowd not typical of regular Sunday services.

But like so many other traditions of Easter that have fallen by the wayside, traditions I wrote about here, I missed the pastels, the bonnets, the little girls twirling in their fancy dresses and white patent leather shoes.

Easter just didn't seem as Easter-y as usual.

If nothing else, though, I keep telling myself -- and this is the optimist in me struggling to keep its head above water -- at least I didn't stick out like sore thumb this year. As I worshipped in my dark clothing, I fit right in, I looked much like everyone else. This year it didn't matter that I prefer basic black (dark gray this time, to be exact) to frilly fuschia, Pepto-Bismol pink or buttercup yellow.

Worthy of a hallelujah? Probably not. But the way things have been of late, I'm taking comfort where I can get it.

And I'm thinking that -- if our financial picture gets a little rosier in the next year -- I just might buy a rose-colored outfit to match, for next year's Easter service. In honor of things looking better, I think that maybe, I just might be able to do pastel.

And a bonnet? No bonnet for me, thank you very much. I truly cannot do that. Nope, no matter how sunny things get, you won't catch me in a bonnet -- for Easter or otherwise. Pink I can consider doing. A bonnet? No way!

And to that I can give a hearty "Hallelujah!"

Plus an adamant "Amen!"

Today's question:

If you could wear only one color of clothing for the rest of your days, what color would you choose?

My answer: Black. I'm not a depressed/depressing kind of person; I just prefer black.