Friday nights in Texas usually means football in the fall. On the cusp of spring, it’s baseball. Winter one day, spring the next.
A chill in the air vies for attention letting us know “I’m not done with you yet.”
Play Ball!
Tag: Texas
Return
Perhaps she came home to die.
A Broken Wing
Saturday. Or was it Sunday? I made my way back to the car to park it in the garage, accidentally leaving my purse in the front seat, forgetting to bring it in after unpacking groceries. Near the driveway, I see a few butterflies fluttering on thinned out stalks of butterfly weed stripped clean save for some blooms on top. Can’t bear to trim them. There are still monarchs coming through once in a while, although I’ve mostly seen queen butterflies this year.
A monarch! I grab my phone to snap a picture. If only it will land on a bit of butterfly weed. “Come on, sweetie,” I coax, but what’s that sound? It isn’t a regular insect mini-helicopter buzz. Monarchs are silent.
I follow its dizzying loops as it sweeps down and stops for a sip of nectar. There it is. A broken wing. Up it goes, fluttering up high, then down, and up again. The broken wing works hard to keep it in flight. That sound. It’s the wing pushing against air. I must capture this image.
And then my phone rings. Be interruptible. A bit of advice I learned from an ELA consultant years ago. The monarch stops, wings open. Poor thing.
“Hi, Mom…”
Off goes the monarch. I’ll never see it again.
This afternoon, I park the car outside of the garage again when I arrive from work. Gym day. I’ll be leaving soon, so there’s no sense driving it in for the day. The butterfly weed is busy. Three, or is it four, queens? Is there a monarch in the mix? The queens happily flutter when I spot it.
Broken winged monarch dances, twirls, dips, then stops for a sip.
Quick, be quick! I shush myself and take a closer look.
Still going strong, this broken-winged beauty. Despite the struggle, there’s life left to live, life’s sweet nectar worth drinking.
Reminds me of my extended family. We’ve been dealing with too many broken wings lately, yet there’s still plenty of nectar that needs sipping.
I snap a picture and for whatever reason, the Soundtrack of Life cues Mr. Mister.
"So take these broken wings
And learn to fly again
Learn to live so free
And when we hear the voices sing
The book of love will open up and let us in..."
Texas Bluebonnets & Pie
There’s a pie baking in the oven. Nothing fancy. Not even homemade. It’s a frozen Marie Callender’s Razzleberry pie, a family favorite. Hubster planned on baking an apple pie for Easter Sunday dessert.
Are you set on apple pie or are you open to suggestions? Are you making it or buying it? I sent him a message yesterday while he shopped for today’s lunch. E and his roommate are joining us. I holler at S. to ask to get her opinion.
“Umm, isn’t that more of a fall dessert? I will not eat it. Ask him to do something with berries. Berries are good right now, apples, not so much. But I’ll eat ice cream.”
Coconut cream, he replies.
Okay. Not arguing. She won’t eat that either, but most of us will.
We have lunch and make our way to take pictures in the bluebonnets. Some families are good about taking pictures in them every year. We like the idea of traditions, but sometimes we can’t keep up. Like the one year the rattlesnakes were bad and I didn’t want to chance it. Other years, they weren’t as showy. Then 2020, when bluebonnet pictures were the last thing on people’s minds for fear of getting sick. We skipped them. Not in the mood. Attended Easter service online. One year, the Texas Snowpocalypse ruined them. Followed by another freeze. Then one of those, we’ll get to it, we’ll get to it, but we never got to it.
In the meantime, the kids have grown. E has his own apartment. S. is in high school. It’s been a while. Was it actually ten years? Really? I look at social media posts and I think it’s correct. Wow. Ten years of putting it off.
We had lunch and headed out. It’s the sweet spot of the season. They’re popping and in a week or so they’ll go to seed. There will be some places where they’ll last a little longer, but soon they will make way for other flowers to have their turn. There’s no sense in driving out to find the perfect place when there are plenty nearby. We take our Chihuahua mix, Reeses, and Dipper, our newest addition.
Family pictures are hard enough. Add two dogs, one being five months old, along with zooming cars on the highway, and we remember why it was such a chore. We got a few good shots with many bad ones, but that’s where the fun lives. The outtakes of those bad photos are where memories seared themselves into our souls.
The pie is cooling. If we cut into it too soon, the filling oozes out. We can wait though. The kids took the dogs to a dog park and just returned. My Polaroid camera sits next to my laptop. I have 5 pictures left to take. One came out over-exposed, but E. is keeping it anyway. That’s how pictures turned out back in the day. You’d take what you could get, saving film for important moments, we explain. Special moments. Memory making moments.
Taking time to document days like this, in picture-words, brings life to seemingly mundane days. It’s in the mundane where life happens. In the ordinary where we experience the extraordinary. We take slices out of our lives and savor them. Some days, we slice right in. Others, we need to wait, that’s what makes it good.
I like pie! I hear E. announce as a seven year old. We pick up where we leave off. Go back to the bluebonnets to take pictures. Pick up those moments we somehow allowed to escape us, bringing the pieces back together.
There is pie with ice cream, ready to eat. And a new set of bluebonnet pictures, documenting the changes in between.
Seven Things People Don’t Understand
Inspired by today’s WordPress prompt: What is something people don’t understand?
How to fold a fitted sheet. My mom taught me. Martha Stewart would be proud.
Just because you’re a native Texan doesn’t mean you ride horses or own western boots, and most definitely not both at the same time.
How long it takes to process a library book.
You can judge the quality of a Tex-Mex restaurant by its salsa, rice, or margaritas.
Air pods are the worst type of earbuds because they’re designed to fall out and get lost.
Teaching.
How to properly use signal lights. And stop signs.
Total Eclipse of the Sun
In two weeks, we’ll be in total darkness. For a little over three minutes, nine seconds, where we live. Partial begins at 12:18 p.m. Full eclipse starts at 1:36:21 and will end at 1:39:27. At 2:58, it ends.
Hubby couldn’t be more happy. He has been anticipating this event for years. He wasn’t able to snag a camping site at Enchanted Rock, to his dismay. Eclipse glasses have been acquired. Plans changed. He’s biking to a nearby park. E. already ordered neon colored plastic framed viewing glasses oozing with 80s vibes. They’re hanging out together that day.
Geekdom at its finest because nerds beget nerds.
Some school districts in the path have canceled school. Ours did not. I’ll be at work, participating from there. Most likely helping wrangle kids so they don’t wander off campus. Or actually look at it. Without their eclipse glasses. I’m sure many of our staff will call in sick, leaving the rest of us to deal with covering classes.
The Texas Department of Transportation estimates high traffic, suggesting against people parking on the sides of roads. Avoid scheduling appointments. Don’t use binoculars or telescopes even if you have eclipse watching glasses. Have a full tank of gas. Refrain from wearing eclipse glasses while driving. The weather, so far, should be clear.
Campus principals are responsible for making a plan. We got that plan today. I wonder how often it will change?
Until then, my husband and oldest will be hanging out, enjoying the show. I’ll be at work, S. will be at school, and we’ll be outside participating for about three minutes.
This song repeats in my head every time my husband mentions it. I’ll work on a playlist to gift him to mark the occasion.
Besides Rocket Man, Weird Science, and She Blinded Me With Science, share your favorite eclipse watching songs.
Halfway Points
Where you look back
look forward
turn around
or press on?
50/50
right in the middle
red cherry Popsicle
split in half
on a hot summer day
an age proudly proclaimed
by a child
inching closer
to the next birthday
I'm ten and a half!
two quarters,
one for me,
one for you,
when one could
get you a full sized
candy bar
a marching band show
sandwiched
between two time clock
quarters
under Friday night lights
of a high school football game,
drum major
on the fifty yard line
telling the band what to do
a small town in Texas
where Mom pulls over
to let you drive
the rest of the way home
after running errands
because you don't yet have
a license
pit stops for stretching
cramped legs
letting the kids run around
four more hours until
we get to Grandma's
roads don't seem to end
in Texas
a mid-lifer
assuming one lives to 100
contemplating
what-iffing
if-only-ing
I should-ve...
Stop!
you're did what you
knew best to do
Halfway
the sweet-spot
of living
Favorite Things
Inspired by Tammy’s post, here are my top five things I’d bring to a Favorite Things Party to share around a fire.
Archer and Olive notebooks. I even researched paper weight on the quest for the perfect notebook. Trying different brands, this one is my favorite. Size B5, but currently working in an A5 and A6. Definitely a splurge, but worth it.
Sanders Dark Chocolate Sea Salt Caramels. My kids claim to dislike dark chocolate. I bought a tub at Costco several years ago, not worried they’d eat them. Of course, on the occasion I wanted one, I found the jar more than halfway empty. When I buy them, I take them to work. There’s a cabinet in my office for teachers where I keep a stash of chocolate for them. Non-dark chocolate eaters have converted to the dark (chocolate) side. I imagine these will make delicious adult-level s’mores to pair with a nice glass of red wine.
Corral boots. I’m a native Texan and I only got my first pair of boots two years ago on a trip to Ft. Worth. These are comfortable enough to wear all day. Surprisingly, they don’t make my legs or feet sweat when I wear them through hot summer days. I like wearing them with shorts or dresses. Sugar skulls are a bonus.
Palmer’s lip balm. I have it everywhere: my purse, work bag, nightstand, desk drawer. It’s oval shaped and slides on well with no stickiness.
Stickers! I’m a child of the 80s and had a sticker collection. I bought a kids sticker subscription from Pipsticks for my daughter’s tenth birthday. I promised a full year. When the year ended, I kept it for myself. I plan to cancel, but I get fun snail mail once a month in shiny holographic envelopes. What’s not to love? I re-purposed the envelopes and used the stickers to make buttons I give away to kids at school. You can have your sticker and wear it, too. Anyone want to trade?
Crane Flies
“D-A-A-A-A-D!”
She knows better than to holler for me. I won’t budge.
“There’s a BUG in my bathroom and I can’t get ready! They’re all over the place. Help me now, please!”
“It’s just a mayfly, they’re harmless…”
“But they’re ugly, I want it out. Ahhhh, there’s another one, where are they coming from?”
On it goes, back and forth. He gets to her bathroom and they’ve magically disappeared.
“I can deal with insects, outside, where they belong, but inside? They’re awful,” she exclaims.
I’ve been sweeping dead ones that bounce in when we open the front or back doors. They flit and bounce around, looking like they want to come inside. I try to move them aside, but some sneak in regardless. Occasionally, I’ll catch one and put it back out, but two more sneak in.
I mis-identified these insects. They’re called crane flies. We’re in the sweet spot of crane fly season. Resembling Texas-sized mosquitoes, they’re harmless and tickle your arm if they get close. They seem to hover, rather than fly, unsure of knowing whether they want to befriend or scare us. I don’t care much if they come inside, but if I can keep them out in favor of calmer mornings, I shoo them away, letting them live their happy little fluttery crane fly lives outdoors.
Barn Dance
Dancing the Cotton-Eyed Joe was my favorite, not because I could do the simple line dance without tripping over my feet or because I liked country music. It was my favorite because I got to freely holler–BULL-SHIT!–at the top of my lungs without cowering at my little silent angel self who sat on my right shoulder coaching me into possible sainthood.
My little devil self who sat on my left shoulder jabbed her pointed little tail and pitchfork into me in time to the music. And she made me laugh. And told me it was okay to let loose and have a good time.
Little angel self firmly kept little devil self in check that wouldn’t allow her to go past that dance. No beer. No wine coolers. No running around with the wrong crowd after hours. I mingled with some of them, but veered off in a different direction once my dose of fun expired. When the clock neared midnight. Well, 10:30 or 11:00, and long before I had half a chance to lose a golden slipper that resembled a knock off penny loafer, here came my ride. Usually my mom, I saw her car’s headlights coming up the driveway.
First one to get picked up, unless my friend T was allowed out of the house. Her parents were worse than mine. She wasn’t here tonight so there I go, embarrassed at being the one to leave first.
I have to go!
I say goodbye to my friends and the music, just as the fun gains momentum and my confidence started taking off. I look wistfully behind my shoulder heading toward the car, wondering about the stories I’ll hear Monday morning.
Nerds Beget Nerds 