No Football Colors Allowed in this Establishment

Along our journey, we learned to take care of mom, yet we still managed to accomplish everything we wanted to do. We made friends everywhere we went, and typically with the staff. One of the stops on our Braveheart tour was Stirling. We overnighted at a B&B in the center of town.
We visited the castle, Jeff made me stand on the exact spot where Mary Stuart was crowned, so that he could memorialize my imagined nobility for posterity. We also visited an amazing house in town, a preserved medieval home which I loved!
We found dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant, begrudgingly served to us by a staff with a highbrow and a chastising scowl, in punishment, I’m sure, for not having arranged reservations two months prior. This treatment despite the fact that the place was empty but for ourselves and one other table, they must have also been crude Americans unaccustomed to late night dinners.
Following dinner, mom plead exhaustion and we saw her safely back to our B&B, then went off to explore what nightlife there was to be found in Stirling, Scotland. Jeff and I found a pub, aptly named the Settle Inn. It was a small, ancient structure, which seemed to list a bit towards the right, giving the impression that it had been there long before civilization…just our kind of place. We “settled in” up at the bar and struck up a conversation with Jim, the owner, and his patron friends, Val and Stewsie.
This friendship began with my rather foolish bravado in trying out the local cider brew, apparently it is not for the genteel set. After coughing and sputtering, I asked to try the more American version, Woodchuck. After tasting both I decided upon a glass of the “boring stuff”. They all found this hilariously funny and I don’t believe we paid for another glass all night.
As it happens, there was a rival Football match (soccer game to us yanks) that day between the two favored teams, The Celtics vs The Rangers. And there was a particular group of fans in the back who had spent the day enjoying the game, getting “pissed” in the process. So rowdy were they, in fact, that the owner personally administered several dire threats of ousting, humiliation and various other imprecations should they not curtail their profanity and savagery, for the benefit of the newly come American Guests in the house. To their credit, they did as ordered with each threat administered, however, the decibel would rise every so often, inciting another round of threats and admonitions.
At the point that the conversation turned towards a debate of the attributes and weaknesses of both Football teams, I found myself distracted and idle and wandered off to the retro jukebox, located halfway between the front room, and the new addition to the back of the bar. The music which had thus far been inflicted on us from the idleness of the unpaid machine was not at all inspiring, and I felt it necessary to “turn it up”.
Flipping through the offerings, Lynard Skynard, Beatles, Rolling Stones, CCR, REM, I made a few selections, can’t now remember what they were, but they must have been appreciated as all of a sudden, I found myself surrounded by a group of large, muscle -bound Scots, each bearing different variances of the same besotted drunken grin, thus dispelling any anxiety I may have otherwise experienced.
“What’ll it be lass?”
“Och the Stones, Gimme Shelter…Beatles, Long & Winding Road, excellent choices hen!”
“Sirs, is there no local music in this machine? What would you choose?” I asked in exasperation, Scottish culture was on my list. I wanted to live it up in spades!
“Oh darlin, ye’re doin’ just fine!” I took this to mean they appreciated my taste in music and I should continue choosing songs that I like.
At this point, it occurred to me that my loving and protective Gentlemen of a husband could not actually see me through this throng of Scottish behemoths. Himself also realized that he must come reconnoiter, thus to determine whether I was in good hands, as it were, or being handled, as it weren’t. It must have been a very intimidating march for him, not knowing if he would be required to protect my safety and honor against a dozen rough Scots.
My intrepid husband not missing a beat, however, hiked up his Ex Officio travel trousers and marched up to face the music, at the music box. The crowd of Scotts immediately parts, as the red sea, yet they all threw their arms around him in welcome. “Oh no mate, no harm intended! Your lady has great taste in tunes, we want her to choose our music!” I could see the relief on Jeff’s face as he realizes that he now does not need to factor in a trip to whatever passes for an urgent care facility in Stirling and we carry on choosing music, and Jeff event interjects with some of his favorite Dave Matthews hits and everyone is happy.
As our conversation continued with Jim, Val and Stewsie, inevitably the question arose as to where in the US were we from. Once our new friends learned that I was born and raised in WV, the three of them broke out into a verse of Country Roads by John Denver, incidentally, one of my favorites. I’m at a pub, in Central Scotland, and complete strangers are singing of my “home far away”. I totally cried. A lot

The Settle Inn

.

A Mothers Day Tribute to my Mom

Mother’s Day always creeps up on me, kind of like Kudzu. I know its coming, I see it coming, and then all of a sudden its in your backyard and you’re like “Well Shit, what do I do now?” Leading up to the day, my thoughts are cluttered with mundanities (yeah, I just made up a new word) such as, how do I absolve myself for not getting the card mailed out in time? What kind of a card to I buy for my Stepmom. Who are all the Mom’s in my world that I need to call or message? Will I get to sleep in since its Mothers day? But then its here, staring me right in the face. And after the preoccupation with all the rubbish subsides, I am left facing a Mothers Day without my mom. Never would have thought this would be the case this early in my life. We always think our parents are going to live forever. Especially my Mom. She was Mom and Dad for the majority of my life. If something in the house needed fixing, she fixed it. If I needed a warm lap and a soft hand to dry my tears, she was it.

When I got married, she was beautifully dressed in her burgundy suit, makeup smeared all down her face as she beamed a smile the size of Texas and cried like a baby. A mere 4 hours after the ceremony she took my somewhat shellshocked new husband aside and berated him “Son, you know Cancer just runs in our family, so if you want to have a family, you know you really need to get started”. Yeah, because that’s what a man wants to hear just as he leaves for his Honeymoon. It was understood in no uncertain terms that Mom expected grandchildren and now was the time.

Well, I had to finish school, and then we wanted to pay down some debt, then we did some traveling. One thing after another and we were facing our 5th Wedding Anniversary, still happily plugging along sans children. This anniversary occurred 4 months into Mom’s Chemo treatments. I very strongly tried to convince my husband that I could not possibly imagine having a child without my mom in my life, therefore we need to get started now! And while he was sympathetic to my dillemma, he was also more sensible than me in realizing that my time and attention would be needed further on down the road, and pregnancy would strictly limit the amount of involvement I would have with my Mother, and this time was already fleeting.

Towards the end of my Mom’s fight with Cancer, and during one of her more lucid moments, she made an observation that led me down the path to this writing. I will always vividly recall her tearfully acknowledging that she would never get to meet her Grandchildren. What does one say to this. I believe I just gave her a wobbly smile and hugged her, while I choked back my own tears.

Knowing how important Grandchildren were to my mom, I am always on the verge of tears just watching them grow and learn. Rowan looks so much like my mom’s baby pictures, and Liam looks nothing at all like my mom, he most resembles his dad and my father-in- law. Mom would be just as tickled with that. Because Mom’s only child also resembled that child’s father. So this would all just make sense to her. And she would be tickled pink with Liam’s academics and his artistic and engineering skills, and very proud of his pixie nose that he could have gotten from no other than my ain self! She would be over the moon about Rowan’s oh-so-very Wallace temperament, not to mention the perfect little blonde curls that would wrap around every one of Mom’s fingers.

So when I tuck my kids in at night I think about my Mom. And I tell them stories about Grandmama Wallace. Her name has changed comically over the years. From Gamma Waddat, to Gamma Walrus, to Gammamma Wallace. This past Friday night, while tucking Liam into bed, I told him again, that which I tell him every night, “You’re my pride and joy, kid”. Only this night I added that I only wish that his Grandmama Wallace and his Pops (my Dad) could still be with us to see what a fine young man he has become. And that I would bet they are watching him from Heaven with pride in their hearts and overwhelming love for their Grandson. Liam told me, very matter of factly that he likes to think he sees them watching him throughout his day. Now, I think my heart skipped a beat here. And I asked him if he ever sees them. He told me “I think so”. Could be that he’s trying to say the thing that will most please his Mom, or is there more to it? I would love to think that he sees his grandparents and great-aunts and great-uncles watching over him and protecting him.

Now that I’ve almost decimated an entire box of tissues, I think I’ll flip this around with one last story, one of my favorites about my discussions with Liam about Mom. A few years ago, while tucking him in, I was telling Liam how his Grandmama Wallace would have adored him, loved him so much and would have been so proud of him. He reflected on this for a moment, and then informed me that he did not like Grandmama Wallace. My curiosity was at a peak here when I asked him why. “Because she’s too dead”. Now, you would think that as soggy as I become when thinking of my Mom, I would have turned into a weeping puddle on the floor at this moment. Quite the opposite, I started giggling in desperate hysterics, then began cackling, then devolved into full shrieking and snorting over this most clever observation of my young son. Just now, thinking of this, I still smile and fight the hysterical giggles.

People always told me that you need to tell your loved ones every chance you get, how much you love them, what they mean to you. I would say I probably took this for granted, and unfortunately still do to a certain degree. However, having been there, the time for those words is now. A challenge to every one who may be reading this. Call your mom and just tell her you Love her. Doesn’t even have to be today, just because Hallmark says its a special day. Do it, but do it soon. Now lets get back to fun and frivolity. I like that better.

Cemetary Scandal – And Happy Early Memorial Day

***Cemetery Scandal

In advance of Memorial Day, I always begin to turn my mind back to all of my beloved who have passed on far too soon. My Mom and Dad, Aunt Judy, Uncle Bill, Uncle Jack, all of my Grandparents. The list is just too long. So I was going to hold this story for Memorial Day but it is speaking to me right now. I hope you enjoy.

Growing up in Charleston WV, one of my great joys was going “up home” on the weekends. My mom would load me up into the car, and we’d spend the weekend at my aunts house in Fayetteville. My aunt and uncle had a beautiful sprawling piece property with a farm. Horses; ducks; chickens; dogs; cats, etc. These weekends were most prized because our usual adventures included dirt bikes, treehouse construction, riding around in town in Uncle Jack’s vintage MG convertible, or on the rare and highly anticipated occasions, getting to fly in his Cessna!

However, sometimes on these weekends we, my cousins and I, would get roped into one of the ladies’ cemetary outings. My mom and aunts loved to go ‘up t’the cemetary’ on a fine Saturday or Sunday afternoon. They would meander through all graves of Wallaces and Dempsey’s and Henley’s past and tell stories. Great stories, funny stories, sad stories, this was the continuation of a family tradition started generations ago. My ancestors would actually make a festival of cemetary visits, bringing along their instruments and picking out some old tunes and hymns.

My young cousins and I, these being little boys, 2 and 3 years younger than myself, were not impressed with these excursions. At 4; 5 and 7, we just did not have the appreciation for the treasure of stories that we could have been learning. Instead, we entertained ourselves by climbing on every headstone we could reach, we would hold our nose, leap off into the air shoulting “GEROMINO!” as though we were a pack of paratroopers descending onto the beaches of Normandy. As we were taught this behavior by none other than Uncle Jack himself, whom held the utmost admiration, respect and trust of the entire assemblage, the ladies looked on this with patient approval. Looking back I only hope that there were no bereaving family members present as we practiced these irreverant gymnastics and trampled over their loved ones final resting places.

On one such trip, Aunt Dot came along. She was my great aunt, and the matriarch of the family at the time. Aunt Dot did not feel that leaping off of headstones was becoming for us young Dempsey descendents, therefore she undertook to our supervision. To this end, she lined us all up single file on the left hand side of the street and instructed us to “call cadence”, as she demonstrated: “Left…Left…Left, Right, Left…” Now, being the eldest of the three children, and by far the most mature, I felt it my responsibility to set a good example for the little boys. I knew this song!! I could really be a hero here. So when Aunt Dot took a breath for the second verse, I chimed in to the melody. “Left…Left…Left, Right, Left…My boots are heavy my pants are tight, my balls are swinging from left to right!” Apparently, I had learned this ditty from one of the street urchins down the street from my home. Both my cousins, clearly awestruck at my superior intellect, were proving to be quick studies of their own and began to chime in for the 3rd verse.

My marching abruptly ceased as I realized, in shock, that Aunt Dot had dissappeared into thin air. I had glanced up, in order to bask in her approval for my invaluable assistance in keeping my little cousins safe farm harm, only to realize we had been abondoned. On the street. In a pile of flailing limbs. With my halt, the other two had crashed into me and we all went down. We blinked in confusion, searching for our earstwhile babysitter. Looking further afield I discovered my elderly Aunt Dot, running at full clip towards my mother and aunts, arms flapping yelling “Jean!!!”, punctuated by dire imprecations against my mothers ill bred offspring.

Looking back on this moment, I can feel my heart hitting the bottom of my stomach. I did not know what, precisely, I had done, however, if Aunt Dot was mad enough to abandon us to our own fate, this did not bode well for my immediate future. One did NOT anger a Wallace gal. Knowing that if I did not make haste towards my mother, I would be much the worse for it, I charged ahead, prepared to meet my maker. As I grew closer to the crowd, realized something wonderful. My mom and aunts were not mad at all. Instead, with an innate sense of intuition, bred into me by these same ladies, it occurred to me that they were all fighting to keep themselves composed. They were on the verge of hysterics! Oh, the relief!!

So it was that after this episode my little cousins and I were shooed off to go in search of gravestones to leap off from, with a warning to “For God Sakes, Be Careful”, as my mom and her sisters collectively attempted to soothe Aunt Dot’s wounded virtue. After which, we all ajourned to my aunts house for some homemade pound cake.

Looking back, I would now much rather I had stayed put with the aunts and minded all of their stories to commit to memory. But then again, if I had, I would not have this story to share, which even today, brings tears to my eyes and joy to my heart.

Geromino!!!

 

 

National Grammar Day / A bheil Gaidhlig agad?

Apparently today is National Grammar Day.  It is also National Pancake Day; And also Shrove Tuesday, aka Fat Tuesday, aka Mardi Gras.  I don’t know much about Pancakes or Mardi Gras. But the Grammar celebration certainly captured my interest. 

Growing up in the mountains, one encounters some interesting speech patterns; colloquialisms; pronunciations and grammar.  One of the gifts my mother gave me, which I will be forever grateful for, is speech.  Now, I claim no expertise at grammar, after all, I still have trouble with “who/whom” and “either/or, neither/nor”.  However, my mother never allowed me to speak improperly.  I clearly remember being yelled out every time I answered the phone.  “THIS IS SHE!!!” she would shout after I would rebelliously answer “this is her”, just to irritate my mother.  However, I had much better sense than to throw down an “aint” or any double negatives in my mother’s presence.  And to this day, making $.50 into “fitty cent” drives me up the wall!

In honor of National Grammar Day, I’ve decided to share a bit more fun from our trip to Scotland.  In this scene we find the three of us trudging our way through Customs in Glasgow Scotland.  Although mom was a stickler for grammar, she did not have much an ear for linguistics, especially surprising in light of the fact that we were off to the “motherland” and this should have been just like coming home to us Wallace’s!

A bheil Gaidhlig agad?

We arrived in Glasgow on a mostly sunny day.   Now, those who have not had the pleasure of speaking with Glaswegians, it is an adventure of its own.  Their version of the Scottish dialect is very difficult to decipher to us “Outlanders”.  In fact, voice recognition software must past the Glaswegian test before being released to the English speaking world.  We arrived bright and early in the morning and were compelled to first pass through Customs.  Mom was up first:

“Fere d’ye Fae?” asked the nice chap, rolling his rrrr’s in a lovely unintelligilble Glaswegian-ese

“Yessir”, mom answered hesitantly

“Mom, he wants to know where you’re coming from”, I offered, trying to move this along

“Oh, uh WV, you know, the Scots settled in WV and My Daddy was a freemason…erm…yes sir, Charlotte international Airport…from the United States??” – note this would later in the trip, become a drinking game for Jeff and I.

“D’ye hae ony alc’yol or t’baccy wi’ ye?”

“Uh, Delta?”

“Mom, he wants to know if you’ve got any liquor or smokes with you”. 

“Oh yes!  I mean no alcohol, just 2 boxes of cigarettes”

“Ha! Weel lass, ye cooda hae three!”, again, rolling his rrr’s along with his eyes

“Um, you too!” she offered in response

“Mom, he means you could have brought in 3 cartons, one per person”, Jeff explained rolling his ears heavenward hoping for relief.

So began our adventures in translating the Scottish version of English for mom, which we did for the entire 10 days.  Had the opportunity to practice my Scottish Gaelic with several different accommodating local folk along the way.  It is an amazing language, nothing like ours, and it was an awesome opportunity. 

I highly recommend when traveling, learn a bit of the native tongue.  Even if it is only a tiny bit.  We had an entire conversation in a pub, resulting in a new friend, all built around my own tentative “Ciamar a tha thu” How are you?”  And I promise that I can turn an American man to mush just by asking for 2 tickets to Port Righ Scotland.  Try it out and let me know how it works! 

Slainte! 

“Oceanfront Property in Arizona”

As the title brings with it strains of a George Strait song, I have similar doubts about a recent vacation. I had to go out to AZ for a couple of business meetings last week, and then Jeff met up with me, a day later than planned, this is a different tale altogether, and we spent the remaining days enjoying Beautiful Scottsdale and adventuring in breathtaking Sedona. The sandstone formations are absolutely majestic and so inspiring. On many different levels

Jeff wanted to fit in some hiking and I wished to tour some of the local vortexes.  Now, I don’t preclaim any talent in metaphysics; new ageism; etc.  What is a vortex? Well I couldn’t quite get much detail in answer to this question beyond a vague description of an energy source of healing, were there is good stuff swirling around above the sandstone and blesses you with its stuff.  That’s about all I got.  But when in Rome do as the Hippies do.  Also they do say vortexes promote spiritual healing, so sure, I was all in. 

We found a trail that appealed to both our wishes and commenced, starting at the aiport mesa parking lot.  We then hiked down to the trailof the Airport Mesa loop, then climbed up to the summitt of the vortex itself.  hiked up to nearly the top fo the rock.  I got as far as the first ledge before my height fright kicked in, Jeff, however, kept right on climbing and summitted the peak.  He observied a certain tibetan worthy, who was engaged in some singing and chanting of some sort.  I hoped this gentlemen didn’t close his eyes and lose his balance, that might be painful.  Well, realizing my chakras really needed some work, I decided to take advantage of all of the good energy this particular vortex had to offer.  By this point we had moved off of the rock itself, when Jeff located a trail that would have taken us around the base of another.  Jeff had no problem navigating this narrow ledge.  I was not so fortunate.  While tiptoeing out onto the ledge of the cliff surrounding the vortex, I first made the mistake of looking down past my feet, realizing that I could not see the bottom of the desert floor.  Not good.  Though I went bravely onward.  Three steps in, I found myself on the verge of a sneeze, I know this is a shock. Holding my nose, I began frantically searching around for a handrail and a tissue, finding neither. The last thing I recall was an explosive sneeze and a plunge off the cliff to my certain death.

As I began to come back to myself, I began debate whether I was in Heaven or in Purgatory.  Not being Catholic myself, this seems much easier to envision than the Other place.  So I begain to take inventory.  I realized that my nose was on fire, possible from the jumping cactus I had fallen into.  Also, I landed flat on my rear end, and thus due to all this pain, deduced that I must be in purgatory.  I’ll admit to slight surprise at the fact that the torments of Purgatory would be isolated to the nose and arse specifically. I then observed that the demons sent after me strongly resembled scorpion, tarantula and jackrabbit, so I set off to find out how long I must bide in Purgatory before claiming my eternal Reward.

The first structure I happened upon housed a meditation garden which was presided over by a nice chap who sported bright shiny stainless steel through both nose and chin and dreadlocks precariously bound by a festive bandana.  “I say, sir, can you please tell me how long I shall find myself in this particular Purgatory and what I may do to get me back on my journey?” (after all, I’ve read enough business books to know I must take ownership of my fate).  He promptly assessed that my aura was awry, then collected his Tibetan Healing Bowls to assist in cleansing me of my affliction. After some patchouli-scented chanting and yodeling, young Joachin informed me, in answer to my question, that I was not dead after all, though I had some work to do. He researched my past life regression and then with a look of profound disapproval, informed me that one of my former selves had run afoul of the local Apache, many generations ago.  He would not tell me my exact crimes, just noted that the Apache parents, still use my name to this day to frighten their naughty children.  Thus, due to my prior (and numerous) misdeeds, he sentenced me to the following penance  1) stay out of their casinos 2) purchase 1000 carbon credits from Al Gore and 3) recycle Kleenexes and toilet paper forevermore and finally bring Young Joachin a pound of hemp from the chap at the crystal store next door.  I was not certain of the virtue of this final penance, but in order to keep my spiritual house in order I thought I’d better comply.

My life is blessedly full and fulfilling.  I have the joy of being able to do what I love and love what I do.  And one of my favorite philosophies of life is “never let the facts get in the way of a good story”.  As you see here, I live this bit of wisdom every chance I get.  And know that although I may not be the most brave and intrepid badass chick on the planet, by Golly I’ll tell it my way and make a “new” memory for posterity.

I hope you enjoy this foolishness as much as I loved dreaming it.

 

Still having trouble getting ‘What’s Time to a Hog’? and Dreams Really Do Come True!

So today is my baby girl’s 2nd Birthday. And as happy as I am, as blessed as I am, and as proud as a mom can be, I also can’t help thinking of those who are not able to share this day with us. It was my mom’s greatest wish to have a granddaughter. And she meant business. She pulled Jeff aside on our WEDDING DAY and whispered in his ear “Son, you know Cancer runs rampant in our family. If you’re going to have children you should get started”. “Jean!” he answered “Its my wedding day for crying out loud!!!” and so it started. This wish of hers was second only to her lifelong wish of taking me to Scotland to search out our family history. Below is an excerpt from my book that I have been working on. If you are still struggling to understand Hoggtime, hopefully this will help:

A Dream come true:
In June 2004 we took my mother on a trip to Scotland. It was a dream come true for all of us. One month after our return, my mother was diagnosed with Stage 4 Small Cell Lung Cancer. She was given a year to a year and a half to live. She died on July 14, 2005. That one year’s time was a gift from God, though it did not seem so at the time. At times I questioned my sanity; I questioned my fortitude and my strength. At times I laughed, other times I cried and occasionally I threw things. But I sure told my mom I loved her. And every chance I got I took her mind back to that amazing trip to Scotland.

It was Christmas 2003 when we sprung this trip on her. We handed her but two gifts. Sometimes mom could be very opinionated, and this was one of those occasions, as she helpfully pointed out that two gifts were not very plentiful. We made her open the gifts in a certain order. The first was a Christmas ornament we had purchased from St Paul’s Cathedral in London, from our first trip to Europe in 2002. “Oh, a Christmas ornament. I don’t have a Christmas tree”, she offered in appreciation.

Shifting from one foot to the other in anticipation, I rolled my eyes “Well we’ll get you one next year mom, open the next one.”
She delicately removed the wrapping on the 2nd gift and revealed it to be a AAA travel guide to Scotland. “Oh a book.” she explained, again with even less enthusiasm.
“Well Mom,” I went on to explain, “we’re giving this to you so that you can choose the places you would like to go visit in Scotland when we go on our trip.”
She looked up at me with promise and determination glittering from her green eyes and said “And we will go one day baby, I promise”.
“No mom,” I explained, “we are going. This year!” Removing her glasses she pierced me with those green eyes as she asked “when are you guys going?”
“No mom, we are All going…this year. You, me, Jeff. We just need to pick a date and decide where we want to go. That’s what your book is for!” Stunned, mom cried for a few minutes, hugged both Jeff and I, I cried and we began to design our dream vacation.

You see, this whole thing came about in the Heathrow Airport, of all places, a year earlier as we were returning from England. In what has now become a tradition, I had picked up a travel guide for planning our next trip, and we both decided that Scotland would be our next trip. I turned sadly to my husband, “Jeff”, I explained, “I can’t go to Scotland without Mom”. “Then lets take her!”, he replied enthusiastically.
You see, growing up, it was explained to me many times over that we are direct descendants of William Wallace. Yes! I knew who William Wallace long before Mel Gibson even started practicing his Highlander accent! Imagine my surprise to learn that Sir William actually had no children. So much for direct descendants, however, I will still proudly claim some distant kinship, long shot though it may be. My mom also promised that she was going to take me to Scotland someday and we would tour all of the battlefields and scour the countryside following his steps taken in pursuit of that ever elusive FREEEEEDOMMMMM! This was why I insisted that I could not go without my mom there with me. So when I explained this to my long suffering husband, his response was “Well then lets take her with us!”. “What?”, I blinked. “You would do this? Travel. In Europe. With MY MOTHER!”.

“Sure” was his casual response. I was stunned. I had become accustomed to dealing with her over the course of my life, however, my mother was not the easiest to be around. She had very sensitive feelings and internalized absolutely everything one said, to a maddening degree. Now my husband Jeff, on the other hand, doesn’t have much of a filter. And he is logical, logical sometimes to a fault. He pretty much shoots from the hip and calls it like he sees it. At this point in the bookstore I am imagining sitting in a car with these two individuals, as different as night and day. One crying and insisting “nothing’s wrong!” sob. sniff, after some imagined insult. The other saying “Jean, it is your choice to take this personally or just understand the intent behind the words. What’s it going to be?” However, even with this daunting premonition, I simply knocked through my trepidations and imagined the thrill this would be for my mom. A lifetime dream come true.
“Lets do it!”. We both said.

And so it came to pass. We left in early June and I have come to call this trip the “Braveheart Tour”, only because we basically followed William Wallce all around Scotland, with some other highlights thrown in. It was an amazing trip, Mom was on her best behavior…mostly. Jeff was on his best behavior…mostly. And I just ate it all up.

What’s Time to a Hog? As I said, mom was diagnosed with Cancer one month after we returned. We almost postponed the trip, the money; the time; I had just received a promotion, blah blah blah. THE TIME IS NOW!

So What’s With the Name?

Hoggtime, admittedly, a strange name.  And not even spelled correctly!  “What’s Time to a Hog?”  I heard this question so many times growing up.  I never understood where it came from but I always understood the subtlety.  It would go something like this:  One of the aunts would declare, “The State Fair starts tomorrow, we’re going to drive up and check it out.” Invariably someone would respond thus “You know that’s a 2 hour drive?”.  The response: “Well what’s time to a hog?”  Now this is powerful stuff.  This was before we all had smartphones and iPads.  The message is that we are taking a drive with a loved one through the beautiful “Country Roads” that John Denver paints for us so beautifully.  What better way to spend my time.  The journey is just as important as the destination. 

I finally learned where this wacky query came from in 2005, I was 31 years old, my Mother was in the final stages of Lung Cancer and I had moved up to her home to help her and spend as much time with her as I could.  My Aunt Judy made a comment, I can’t even remember now what exactly it was and answered her own question with “Well, what’s Time to a Hog?”  My husband was understandably confused by this question and cocked his head in perplexity.  Aunt Judy grinned at Aunt Pat and myself and proceeded to explain.  My husband Jeff and I both leaned forward with great anticipation of this revelation.  This had never been explained to me before, this was a BIG moment!

One bright sunny spring morning, a farmer was taking his two hogs to market.  His truck had broken down, so he tied one of the hogs to the truck and tied the other to a tether and walked the first hog to the market, dropped him off with the butcher.  Then he trudged back to collect the second hog, walked the same steps back to the market.  The butcher asked the farmer why he brought them in one at a time, pointing out the time he could have saved, had he just brought them together.  The farmer removed his hat, scratched his head, and with a puzzled look asked the butcher, “What’s Time to a Hog?”.

Really?  Is this it?! Ok, so the joke is totally corny and I was a bit underwhelmed.  And but for Aunt Judy’s delivery, which was priceless, I would have groaned out loud.  But the punch line is the message. 

This message is also beautifully captured by the poet Kalidasa, who penned the following in Sanskrit. 

Look To This Day

by  Kalidasa

Look to this day: For it is life, the very life of life. In its brief course Lie all the verities and realities of your existence. The bliss of growth, The glory of action, The splendour of achievement Are but experiences of time.
For yesterday is but a dream And tomorrow is only a vision; And today well-lived, makes Yesterday a dream of happiness And every tomorrow a vision of hope. Look well therefore to this day; Such is the salutation to the ever-new dawn!

This is incredibly powerful stuff.  I was blessed to be raised by the most amazing women.  Sadly 2 of them are now in eternal peace, and the remaining two are still keeping us all straight.  Today is the day, the time is now.  Don’t wait for “someday”.  Carpe Diem and Rock on!

 

Inspiration

My first post is a tribute to my inspiration:
I have to give credit where credit is due, or if I am a complete failure at this, the blame will be assigned to the following. 1) My dear friend April who first time out of the chute wrote like a dozen books in one year. Seriously check them out on Amazon, “Blood Ties that Bind”. She is incredible. 2) My amazing sister Robin who was so industrious as to begin tracing and chronicling our family and she’s so cool she went way over the top and researched my mom’s family, which is yet one more reason she has earned my eternal love and gratitude and 3) a newfound friend, wife of a colleague who has a blog of her own which I have very much enjoyed reading http://abrokenvagina.com/about/. I recommend my mommy friends check this out, but to you gents, it may be a bit too much “oversharing” for you. Her blog is very honest, raw and painful, but also a humorous look at the miracle of life which had a few hiccups along the way. I especially dig the post about Zombies vs Leprechauns. Priceless. She is a first class hero and I have tons of admiration for her mission of education and support. Unlike Mary Catherine, my mission is not so lofty, it is to fill my selfish creative need, provide an outlet for my Type A frustration for how “the design process” works. It will be filled with sarcasm; snarky comments, and all of the dry discourse you may expect from me. I’ll try very hard to stay away from political commentary, I leave that to the experts, though I can’t promise to avoid it entirely (i.e. sarcasm; snarky comments). Hopefully you will allow me the luxury of deviating into other territories, such as a hilarious trip to WV where my children tramped around in my own stomping grounds for the first time and met some very important folks. And other similar episodes as well. I am very open to constructive criticism, having never done this before, I don’t claim to have it all figured out and to write the next best seller. But hey, let me know if you like it or hate it. Any feedback is good feedback 🙂