Ohhh, that's how y'all do it?

My grandmother is wonderful and she is very funny.  She has been quite gracious over the years about allowing us to laugh 'with' her.  She laughs a lot and she is perfectly comfortable laughing at herself.  She has taught me about why that is important.

She says funny things.  Often.  She says funny things and we latch onto them, and she has to hear them, repeated with a sarcasm only afforded to family members, for years and years.

A few years ago (I believe it was while playing cards), she said, "Oh, that's how y'all do it?  That's not how we do it.  We . . . . . "

Let me break this down for you.  Here is what it really means.  You poor thing; you do it like that?  Oh, Honey, precious darling, that's not the right way.  Let me tell you the right way to do it and then you'll know.


For instance, 'Oh you play cards like a bunch of morons under water?  Allow me to show how to really play.  There are rules.'

Or 'Sweetie, you actually cook in this kitchen?  I'll bring the correct accoutrement next time, so we can actually cook something.'

Do you get the picture?  She has an understanding of things in a way that little ole us just cannot grasp.  It's that simple.

Well, sometimes a granddaughter must borrow a phrase from her paternal grandmother, and so today I am putting her quip to good use.  Today I will be the one who really gets it and you will be the y'all.  Here goes . . .


Oh, that's how y'all do it?  You put a load of sorted laundry into the washer.  And then you swiftly change them to the dryer, pulling them out just ahead of the finish time to avoid wrinkling.  Then you gently take the fresh, clean clothes and gently place them upon a folding surface, flat and smooth and clear of debris.  And then you immediately set about folding them perfectly, while each clothing item is a morsel of springtime.  Next, of course, you move quickly and efficiently from room to room, lovingly stacking and arranging each loved one's latest cleansed wardrobe items in each photo-worthy closet.  


That's how you do it?  How odd.  How very odd.


That's not how we do it.   We throw a load of clothes into the washer on the way outside to deliver someone to somewhere and the wet laundry in the washer just has to sit at the end of the wash cycle, one moist piece upon the other.  


Next, we remember we need to change over the load to the dryer and we say a word or two that might not be acceptable in mixed company and we dash up the stairs towards the laundry room, barely missing the masses of abandoned items on the stairs.  


Then we transfer the clothes into the dryer, though a few smaller pieces fall out and land on the floor.  (We'll deal with them later, when we decide whether they are dirty and need to go into the washer or if the are clean and need to find their way to the dryer.)  


We forget about the lonely load by then, dismissing the finishing bell as some 'strange noise' we cannot explain.  


The clothes then spend some good, quality time inside the dryer.  The wrinkles set in while everyone in there gets to know each other better.  


Next, some someone, some desperate someone, in search of the one item that will make their outfit complete; pulls open the dryer door with the strength of the Jolly Green Giant and sticks a head into the dryer well to fetch said item.  At this point, a few more pieces from the load take their place in the floor.  Someone will deal with that later, this someone dreams.


Someone else comes along - someone attempting to be helpful - finds the long-left load in the dryer and lovingly wraps both arms around the wrinkled mess and whisks it away to the safety of the big white chair in Mama and Daddy's room.  

While upon the white chair, some of the laundry that is clean falls close to some of the clothes that were dirty, and there is a melding, a joining together, of these two very different animals.  It confuses us and so we walk away.

That's how WE do it!

And now for a word about yesterday's WHAT IS IT? photo contest.

The mystery photo looked like this:

And it was actually part of this:

There was no random drawing this morning between the correct answers - there were many guesses but only one was right!  Amy H. is the winner!  Yay!  Amy, would you like the photo session or  the accordian mini-album?

Thanks for playing, friends!

Keep stuffing your pockets, a love letter to my children.

When I was a Kindergarten teacher, I used to revel in what I found in my pockets each night when I got home.  Funny thing was that many times I didn't even recall how an object got there!  I would find colored beans we used for teaching Math, there would always be a few rocks, usually I found a note or two, many times I found partial pieces of candy, always some rocks and sometimes I found things I couldn't actually identify! I often thought then that I should photograph the pocket innards each day to produce a cool coffee table book.

Now I find myself emptying pockets again.  Every now and then,  Emma or Molly has a bit of something in a pocket, but that's rare.  Every single day, though, I find a museum worthy load of "stuff" in Harry's pockets.  Every day!  I find pieces of the earth in various forms.  I always find the wrapper from his snack.  Sometimes I find money, and on the good days I do return it to him.  I find parts of games or bits of plastic that fell off of one riding toy or another.  I find little notes with a few words on them.  And I ALWAYS find candy wrappers.  The oddest thing about the candy wrappers is that I'm never sure where those pieces of candy came from.  He giggles when I ask, and then the next day I find more of them.

When I'm on top of things in the housekeeping part of the mother job (this would not be every day) I remember to check the pockets BEFORE I wash the clothes, but that is rare - very rare.  I can sometimes remember to get the stuff out when I'm transferring from the washer to the dryer, and the wet drippy items are tons of fun to retrieve.  My usual routine, though, is to wait until I'm folding the clothes to find the goodies.  Lots of times I have a good time, wondering where he got the objects, what he might have been doing or saying when he stuck the stuff in his pocket.  That's what I used to do at the end of a long day, while I was unpacking all of the bags, purses, Kroger sacks, and small suitcases that the girls would pack during the day.  I would wonder, "Why did Molly pick up one item from each room of the house to put in one bag?" or "Wonder what Emma was playing when she put the baby doll in the bag and then added a glitter dispenser, a washcloth and a bedroom slipper?"  Sometimes that parental investigation can be fun.

The other day I pulled the pocket dwellers out of Harry's pockets on the way to the dryer.  They were wet and drippy and kind of gross.  I was frustrated about all of the mess and that I can't ever remember to empty them at the start of the whole routine.  I was probably muttering to myself, muttering about how I'm always cleaning someone's mess.  Then I stopped.  I stopped cold.

The face of my sweet friend, Barbara, appeared in my mind.  On Saturday, Barbara buried her twenty eight year old son.  And then I kept thinking.  I kept thinking about all of the people I know who have said goodbye to their children way before it was time, way before those children were through stuffing things and experiences and fun and living into their pockets.  I thought about the children I've known and I thought about the ones I've heard about.

And then I thought about a coffee table book again and about how very interesting and sweet this one would be.  This one would tell the stories of the days of my sweet child, just like all the rest of them.  They might all be stuffing their pockets with different treasures, but it would be fun to see and to wonder about what those little minds were doing and thinking and saying when they decided to tuck something safely into a pocket.  It would be a record, a record of the treasures that are special to our children.

And I thought about how those friends who have lost their children would give their lives to 'have to' clean the junk out of the pockets of their sweet children.  I thought about what a privilege it is to be the one to see the stuff; nobody else gets to find it, to wonder about it all, to touch little pieces of days spent at school or with friends or poking around in the dirt in the back yard.  I get to do that, and I thank God for that.  I wish I could give that ability back to the people who lost their pocket-stuffers.  I wish I could.

I vowed to enjoy those little pieces of my son, to laugh when I find the strange, unidentifiable parts of his day.  I said a prayer for Barbara and for all of the rest of the folks who had to say goodbye too early, and I prayed that I always get to unpack the pockets.

Keep the pockets stuffed, my little Bear.  Keep coming back home and I'll look for your treasures or your trash.  I don't mind.  Bring the little pieces of your days and keep living.  You and your sisters and all of your friends and the ones just like you all over the world - the ones who are lucky enough to have a roof over your heads and the ones that pray for something small to eat - all of you, just keep adventuring and experiencing and keep coming home.  YOU are the treasures in our pockets.