Home is Where the Carharts Are

Since it's my first day home for Christmas, and since it's 10am and no one else is awake in the house, and since I've already made a trip into the booming metropolis of Ada, Ohio and it made me feel all warm and fuzzy and nostalgic, I've decided to blog. About my trip to McDonalds.

Not a McDonalds in some remote, exotic location. The one in Ada, Ohio. That's Hardin County, for those who are a little rusty on their Ohio geography.

I flew in from Quito last night. This morning I was awake at 7:20, even though my alarm was set for 9am. It was still dark out. This threw me off. I had forgotten how late it gets light in the winter, after two years of living on the equator. Anyway, I had promised to mail some documents for a friend via express mail, so I got up and got ready to go out.

I stepped outside in my winter coat (which I hadn't seen for two years) and reveled in the crispy, almost-hurty feel of breathing in air which has been chilled to about 10 degrees Farenheit. Somehow air that cold seems fresh and clean; as if just breathing it might have some sort of ancient medicinal purpose.

Ok, in all honesty, breathing cold air is only romantic for about 2 or 3 days. Then it returns to just breathing cold air. But we may as well appreciate the romance while it lasts, right?

Anywho, I hopped in the trusty old Pontiac Aztec and headed for Ada. After an uneventful and quite pleasant experience at the Ada Post Office, I got back in the car to drive, quite literally, across the street into the McDonald's parking lot. After several years of walking most places, this seemed very silly to me. But it seemed rude to continue taking a "post office parking space" (of which there are only 3) instead of driving into Ronald's (quite spacious and mostly empty) lot. So I moved. But I digress. What I actually wanted to say came after I had seated myself in a booth with my sausage biscuit with egg and cheese, my delicious-and-horribly-bad-for-you hashbrown, and my orange juice.

[sidenote: they forgot to put the cheese on my biscuit, so when I pointed it out and asked if they would mind fixing it for me, the lady was polite and apologized TWO TIMES for the mistake!! I almost fainted. God bless America's somewhat over-inflated value of the customer always being right.]

There I was in my booth. Daylight had finally arrived for us in the far northern arctic regions. The sun was shining with all its might, and though it was succeeding in making the day sparkle, it wasn't really warming things up much. From my booth I had a view of the post office and a church across the street. An American flag snapped in the cold winter wind. Greenery and bows decked the church. I watched pickup after pickup drive past on Ada's main drag.

Back in the warmth of the restaurant, I eavesdropped on the conversation of an older man with his son and grandson. The older two men were wearing baseball caps (as were literally ever other adult man I saw while I was there) and they were chatting and enjoying their three-generational breakfast together.

Approximately 50% of the people I saw this morning were wearing at least one item of clothing made by Carhart. This is noteworthy to me, because just last week in the lunchroom at school, I had a conversation with some of my friends about Carharts. There was much confusion in the largely non-agrarian crew.

Just like the time I had to explain to friends what 4-H is; or the time when I struggled to convince a friend that I wasn't actually from a town or city (she insisted that EVERYONE had to be from SOMEWHERE; and her perspective of "somewhere" was within some city limit); or the time when I guessed "volunteer crop" instead of "weed" as the answer for the clue "a plant that grows where you didn't want it to be" in a game of CatchPhrase, I again found myself thankful for my rural upbringing.

People call us lots of things: hicks, rednecks, hayseeds, provincial, to mention some of the kinder ones. But I'll tell you what; farmers are some of the best, hardest working people you'll ever meet anywhere. I know- I've been looking.

Six Years

Today is the 6th anniversary of my mom's death. Suck.

I don't use the work "suck" very often. But I think the way I feel about today merits the term.

In any case, six years is an interesting milestone for me. You'd think five was more significant. But here's why six is bigger in my mind.

I remember the sixth day after Mom died. Remember it clearly; it's one of those memories that, for whatever reason- your state of mind or maybe the barometric pressure that day- gets locked into your brain.

Exhausted. That was me. Physically, emotionally, spiritually spent. If you've ever gone through the death of someone really close, you understand. Picking out flowers for the casket. Hugging twenty thousand people. Crying until I was concerned that my sodium level was going to get critically low. Saying, "Thank-you" and "I'm hanging' in there" until my lips were about to fall off. Worrying about how my sister, brother, and dad were REALLY doing. Wishing people would stop saying the word "condolences".

Seriously? Does anyone even know what a condolence IS? Not me. For some reason, this word really got under my skin in the midst of my foggy-brained, shredded-heart torpor.

But I digress. I was ex. haust. ed. I remember thinking to myself, "It's only been six days. I've only survived six days without her. NOT EVEN A WEEK!! I can't do this. I mean, I can; I will have to. But I don't want to. What will it be like in six weeks? If I make it that long, will it hurt less? Will I be able to breathe right again? Maybe in six months? Well, at least in six years it'll be better. SURELY it'll be better by then. Six years is...forever. Forever without Mom."

I look back at that internal monologue and smile. I was really right. And really wrong. It's better. Still hard to breathe some days, but better. But six years...even six years without Mom...isn't forever.

Know what IS forever? Eternity. I can't even speak when I think how thankful I am for Christ's work on the cross; the act of love that means I won't be forever without Mom.

And so. Mom died at Christmas time. Yes, it makes for a hard season. But what better time to remember to be thankful for that baby? To be thankful for all He gave up to come. And for all He sacrificed so that we could come.

The Magic of Christmas

I remember one cold, December morning, before the sun had thought about rising, my dad came up to the bedroom that I shared with my sister in the attic. He woke me up and asked me if I wanted to see something really pretty. I nodded my still-fuzzy head. Really pretty is good.

Dad scooped me up and carried me down stairs (ducking, as usual, so we didn't hit our heads on the door frame), through the blindingly-bright kitchen (where mom, clad in her housecoat and slippers was groggily fixing some tea) and into the living room.

It was dark but for the beautiful Christmas tree, twinkling cheerfully from the other side of the room. Even though I had helped decorate the tree just the night before, my 3 or 4 year old brain had totally forgotten the tree overnight. Resting there, safe in Dad's arms, I stared in silence; awed by the simple beauty.

I remember how the branches threw pointy, scratchy shadows on the ceiling. I remember the fresh piny scent. I remember the riot of colors; lights and tinsel and ornaments made of pipe-cleaners and glue and love. I remember feeling safe and secure, leaning on Morning-Dad, who smelled like toothpaste and aftershave; hearing Morning-Mom in the kitchen, still a good twenty minutes from being really awake; knowing Josh and Britt were sleeping in their beds. And soaking in the joy of the season- Baby Jesus would be born soon!

I remember the magic of Christmas.