French Fry War

 Driving at night with tired kids can create some very interesting story material. That's what I tell myself when I'm in the middle of an episode. "If you don't stop that, I'm going to write about you in my next article!" This works on one of the kids. "Mom, you wouldn't!!!" She declares, as if I'm about to broadcast her bra size. "Oh, you know I will!"
 This change in conversation is usually enough to diffuse the situation, no matter how grave it might be. Well, something happened on our last trip, and I was so tired that I forgot about my secret weapon...
      To start things off, I just need to give a little background. A very dear friend offered to be my driver. I'm certain that he had NO idea what he was getting himself in to, or he would not have so eagerly arrived at my house Friday morning. I had casually mentioned that I needed a truck, forgetting that he had one.
Sometimes you say things without thinking. (That is pretty much 99 percent of the time with me.) And that was definately one of those times.
My grandparents had a house full of amazing treasures that had been in storage for several years. My aunt and uncle sent me an invitation a few weeks back. "All grandchildren are invited to come and select from the items." This meant that I'd need a vehicle large enough for my kids and some material items. I don't own a vehicle that meets that criteria. Being that I talk freely about my challenges in life, I mentioned this to someone who wanted to solve this problem for me. "Hey, I can drive you."
"Are you sure you want to do that. I still have three kids."
"Oh, it'll be fun. I'd like to get to know your kids better anyway."
Four hours, with 3 kids, in a vehicle, the day after Thanksgiving. Fun? That's not the word I'd use.

Early Friday morning, I packed my 3 children in the backseat of this truck, and we headed up north. The girls slept for about the first twenty minutes. This was not planned. Although I had considered adding Benadryl to their cereal at breakfast. But that didn't work. "We're not hungry." was thrown out at me. This, of course, meant that some time during the two hour drive we'd be hearing, "I'm starving. When are we gonna be there? Can we stop and get something to eat?"  Luckily, they were tired from being up late the previous night; so at 9am, when we piled in the truck, they reached for a pillow and gladly closed their eyes.
However, I was prepared for thier pleas with a few responses....
"No, we are not stopping for food."
"We are going to eat with our family."
"Your aunt and uncle have lunch waiting for us."
"I've made my famous sweet potato souflee which, incidentally, my feet are resting in right now."

I must say I was disappointed that I never got to use any of my pre-planned responses because my friend had packed some homemade Cracker Jacks, which he tossed to the backseat before any one could start whining.

The party was great. We ate. We played. We visited. Then we packed everyone back into the truck, along with enough heirloom items to furnish an 1,800 square foot apartment, and headed out of the neighborhood and turned onto Georgia 400-south.

The kids were tired and quickly folded themselves into the backseat, each of them looking for a place to lay their head down.

Once the vehicle started down the dark highway, my body began to relax as I reflected on the day. The hum of the tires on the road, combined with some nice background music lulled me into a trance-like state, which by the way, is one of my favorite states of being.

"Can you please STOP moving your legs!" came from the back seat, in a shrill tone, sharp enough to shatter the lenses in my glasses.

I took a deep breath, hoping that the situation would resolve itself. I watched a multitude of golden lights flicker outside the window, sighed and relaxed into my seat.

"Get your feet off of me!"
"My feet aren't on you, I was just re-arranging myself. Chill out!"

I waited, prayed, and shoved my feet further into the left over sweet-potato souflee.

"Who's hungry?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"I am!"came in perfect unison, as if it was scripted.

"We're going through the drive-through. Go ahead and think about what you want. You have two options: a burger or chicken sandwich, I'm not ordering drinks cause we've got water."

Soft whispers floated up towards the cab of the truck which told me they were seriously hungry. As well pulled up to the drive-thru window, I called out each of my kid's names followed by, "Whadda want, chicken or a burger?" Once I got an answer, I added, "What do you want on it?"

The first one, "Lettuce, tomato, pickles, ketchup, mayo."
Second kid, "Lettuce and mayo. No pickles."
"Please don't list off what you DON"T want, just tell me what you DO want."
Third kid, "Chicken with maynaisse and lettuce."

"Let's add one large fry, they can share 'em." Little did I know I was ordering a box of weapons.

The driver opened up the first sandwich, called out the ingredients, "Lettuce, pickle, ketchup....." And waited for someone to say, "Mine. That's mine!" before passing it back. The first sandwich got passed to the back, the second one went, and then we came to the third one, "Chicken and lettuce."

A giant hush came over the truck as if someone had died.

"I ordered mayonnaise." She said, which sounded a whole lot like something Moses might have said to a crowd of non-believers.

The driver looked at me, I looked back at him, then we both looked at the kid holding the mayonaissless sandwich.

"I'll go back in. Does anybody need anything else?"
"Ketchup. For the fries."

"Ketchup and mayonnaise. Be right back."

We pulled out of the parking lot, kids chewing, everyone with the right condiments. It was all very good. I patted the driver on the arm and thanked him for his sympathetic gesture towards a child in need of mayonnaise.

We turned up the music and settled in to the amazing voices of the Brother's Gibbs.

"The seat is hurting my back. Can you turn down the music." I cringed. How can a kid want the music turned down? This is just wrong.

"The music cannot be hurting your back." I insisted.

"I do have speakers just behind the seat, and they vibrate quite a bit. I'll turn it down."
"Thank you." I stated, hoping that my appreciation would come through in my tone.

"Would you please stop squirming. I'm trying to sleep."

Bulbs and Bricks

Bulbs and Bricks by Kathy T. Camp

Bold bricks, made from mixture

Of moist earth

Formed, shaped for strength

To hold out the cold and keep in the heat

To shelter shivering souls

And wrap them in its protection.

While still moist, yet firm to the touch,

Strong hands gently moved the bricks

Clasping both sides, with thumb

And three fingers,

A seemingly insignificant impression

Is left on the surface.

The aged bricks, worn by wind, rain

Falling branches, hail and maybe even gunfire

Still have strength remaining.

Stack two,

Side by side,

And they will shelter

Lavender, yellow and red

Blooms

In their later years.

The fingerprints

From years past

Are revealed to the builders.

The brick radiates a warmth

And proudly displays the small

Round shapes left by

The man who touched

Her in her youth.

As the printmaker

Reaches for the brick

The tips of his fingers

Rest perfectly

Around the waist

Of the weathered brick.

He gently lifts her,

Dusts her off, notices

A few chips on the edges

But states, “The mixture used

For this brick is the strongest type.

It will withstand many more years

Of pressure. Placed with another strong

Brick, it will make a home

For these six beautiful bulbs.”

The rain falls.

The bulbs soak

And slumber

Till spring.

Hope Is

Hope is

July 31, 2010

You just rode away

On your black horse.

I sat in a chair with my hand

On my heart- that smiled-

Because touching your face

Holding your hand,

Wrapping myself around you

And hearing you say

“I love you with all that I am.”

Built something inside of me

That makes me stronger today

Than I was yesterday.

It shows me that God hears

My silent cries for help and

Proves that Hope is something

That we can see, and touch and smell.

Because when you arrived tonight,

You brought me my dreams.

And when you drove away,

They stayed with me- like a flower

Stays on the stem

Even when the wind is weeping

And the rain is screaming.

A Shakespeare Moment by Kathy T. Camp

A Shakespeare Moment

By Kathy T. Camp

           A man throws the ball. The little blonde-headed boy dashes across the green grass to catch a little white ball, as if catching it will save someone’s life. He reaches, jumps, stretches and grabs it in his glove-- the smile that emerges lights up my whole yard.

“Wow! That was incredible!” I say.

“O.K. Now run back a little. Get back a little further.”

The man throws the ball. The little blonde boy looks up, moving forward just a little, then stares at it long and hard. The ball drops in his glove. It’s as if his eyes are a magnet that brings the ball right into his leather-covered hand.

I hear the screen door slam and a little girl comes running outside holding a small paperback book.

“Mama, listen to this! I’m reading Romeo and Juliet.” She says while galloping towards me. When she stops, she adds, “Shakespeare’s good!” She begins thumbing through the book.

“I’m looking for the right page. O.K. Here it is. Listen to this. It  is soooo good!” She states.

She starts off with Benvolio’s line,

 In love? She pauses, Out.

 Of love?

Out of her favour, where I am in love.

Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,

Should be so tyrrr..annous and rough in proof.

She continues for a minute, not looking up from her book.

Then she pauses and checks to see if I’m paying attention.

 “Listen to this line!”

“I am, sweetie. I’m listening!” I glance over at her father who’s still tossing balls to our son.

Here's much to do with hate, but more with love:

Why then, O’ brawling love! O’ loving hate!

O’ any thing, of nothing first created!

O’ heavy lightness! serious vanity!

Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!

Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!

Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!—

This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

Dost thou not laugh?

- No, coz; I rather weep.

She looks up at me and states her opinion. “This is awesome!”

            Her brother hollers, “I didn’t understand it. What’s it about?”

She gives him a one sentence summary. “It’s about how bad love is!”

            Her father glances at me and says, “Yea, it’s about how bad it is.”

            The son runs, catching the flying white ball.

The daughter, stands beside me, reciting the lines again. I interrupt her.

“What’s your favorite line?”

She begins, “O heavy lightness! serious vanity!

Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!

Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!”

She continues her reading, with lots of passion. Her face changes with each line, indicating a deep understanding of what she is seamlessly reciting. A grin breaks across my face and something inside of me swells to the point that I feel as if I am going weep.

“Watch this one!” the father states.

I see our son diving towards us, getting a little too close to the cement driveway, but he catches the ball and stops just short of a skint knee.

“Zebbie, that was great!” I exclaim.

He gets up and runs back again.

“O.K. I’m throwing it left.”

            The boy runs left, staring at the ball, jumping horizontal at just the right moment, and makes a catch that would make the cover of Sports Illustrated. I look at his dad. His smile is so big it looks like his cheeks are going to pop.

            He’s having his Shakespeare moment while I’m having mine… and we both know it.

Dropped Dreams by Kathy T. Camp

You tell me 'be strong'

and I'm not sure what that means

Because I know what weakness means.

And I am all of that.

The deep holes- that I try

till fill with flowers and music

and stars, and sometimes

just tears, when nothing else will work,

keep me honest.

When I am weak,

I fall to my knees and hold

my chest to my legs

and let out the weakness,

while I pray to God

to hold me.

I think my strength

has been vaporized,

and this is a good thing,

because vapor goes into a million pieces,

just like my dreams.

They broke up

and fell around me into

small pieces.

Some of them I stepped on

and helped grind them into dust

where they returned to 

rubble. 

Some of them

were pretty, so I picked

them up and put them into 

my little draw string bag.

I am careful what I place

in my dream bag.

It is pointless to 

put dreams into a bag

that are from 

faraway fairy lands. 

I look at my dreams now

and hold them a while

in my tender hands

to see if their sharp edges

will cut me.

I know that some of those

dropped dreams

are meant to be picked up again

But they first must lay

next to rough stones and

be bathed in days of soft rain

to rub off the jagged edges.

When the pieces reflect

the light of some faraway

starlight or even a dim waning moon,

they will catch my eye

and I will, while wearing white gloves,

pick up the pieces.

If they still glow,

long after sun has gone,

Then, I will gently open

my little draw string bag

and place them next to my

other revived dreams

and pray that God breathes

His life into the dust that I carry

next to my heart.

Time Warp Image