Sentimental Reminiscing

Christmas was everything I had hoped it would be, and I hope it was for all of you as well. We cheated this year though, and went to one of the Resorts for Christmas Brunch with the kids. Now near rum-dumb exhaustion from all the prep work, my hubby and I are off to spend a week in Laughlin Nevada just the two of us. After that gluttony of delicious food, a nap is sounding more palpable, then a 5 hour drive across the desert. But will be worth it, getting away from the day to day schedule, phones, and housework.

My favorite gift this year, came from my baby. It was three pieces of torn scratch paper, taped half hazard together, with a little poem he wrote me. When he was a toddler, for approximately 3 years, his favorite book for me to read him was, I love you forever. For mommies of young children I highly recommend it. Every time I would read Riley this book, my eyes would fill with tears, my throat would constrict, threatening to reduce me to sobs, and I would struggle to make my way thru it. He would have me read it to him over and over, just to watch me choke up, fascinated with his mommy crying. (Should I be scared?)

The gist of it was a mother telling her son every night, I’ll like for always, I’ll love you forever, as long as I’m living my baby you’ll be. The story moved throughout the young boys life, until he was a full grown man. Towards the end of the book, when the young mans mother was sick, he helped her to bed, and told her; “I’ll like you for always, I’ll love you forever, as long as I’m living, my mommy you’ll be.” Get the book, I’m butchering it here!

Back to my point, the little message Riley left me on these scraps of paper were, “ To Mom, from Riley. I will like you forever, I will love you forever, as long as I’m living, my mommy you’ll be.” That’s it, that’s all he wrote. And I will cherish these scraps of paper forever. Actually, I intend on framing them, so that when the Principal calls me within the next month, with Riley’s latest stunt, I can look at his message to me, and not see his stunt, as anything more then childhood exuberance misplaced. Hopefully…

Kevin, the hubby, has something to say now. Hope everyone has a wonderful week this week, and I’ll catch up with you in the New Year!

Love,

3T

By the time you reading this, 3T and I will be in our favorite
haunt--Laughlin, Nev.
For those of you who have never heard of this gem, it’s a quarter-century
old gambling town in the southeast corner of Nevada, just across from
Arizona, where the Colorado River and the high desert mountains provide
wonderful scenery if you’re lucky to get a riverside room in one of about
eight hotels that line the river banks. You don’t even have to be a gambler
to enjoy Laughlin’s treasures. If you’re a movie buff who likes your glass,
the Riverside hotel-casino, the first one built on what was once just empty
desert, offers a splendid multiplex where you can buy alcoholic beverages
and sip while you rock in comfortable chairs before a big screen with
superb sound. If your an outdoorsperson, you can mount a jet ski and
cruises up and down the river, darting around the cruise boats that also
are available to people, like us, who aren’t necessarily young enough any
more to play on these skis. And shoppers ought to find a nice way to pass
the time in the Outlet Mall right on the strip, although it could stand to
have a few more designer names like the big outlet mall in Palm Springs.
Before I moved to Phoenix, I lived in Philly, where Atlantic City was the
closest gaming town. It is by the filthy Atlantic Ocean, so if you could
close your eyes to the dirty water and keep the smell from getting to you,
walking along the rocky beach was ok. But beyond the boardwalk in AC was a
nightmare: The city is a giant ghetto, and the merchants who populated the
main thoroughfare that parallels the beachfront is an ugly, rundown
collection of liquor joints, aging adult books stores, and altogether
unsightly storefronts.
What a difference Laughlin offers!
It’s 90 miles south of Vegas, and while Vegas offers far more casinos,
better restaurants and an altogether far more garish scene, Laughlin offers
an almost restful place to gamble. No 5-mile hikes (or so it seems) from
one casino to another. No pricey meals to purchase. No Guatemalans snapping
cards offering call girls in your face as you walk down the main street.
Laughlin is quite the opposite: The best way to enter the casinos is from
the back, because they all front the river and offer a pleasant stroll as
you take a breather from the tables.
But most of all, Laughlin offers me and my bride a chance to escape
completely. We park our van and never get back in it until we’re ready to
leave. We can stay in the hotel if we want to and just have fun with each
other. And when we do decide to gamble, the places are friendly with
friendly people--far from the noisy and sometimes even scary gambling dens
you find in Vegas.
And while the weather will be chilly this trip because it’s December, we
won’t be freezing or cursing the snow. We’ll just be hopping from one place
to the next, or just hopping in bed.
So have a happy holiday week, everyone.
I know 3T and I will.

3T on Santas (the hubby Kevin) Lap.

I’m off to defile and violate Santa, in 20 different ways! (A few of which I’ve only read about) hehehehehe....

Love,

3T

My ass is dragging, but I am just about done. Wrapping, and one box to ship to Washington state, for my siblings Christmas with my parents, that will actually take place on New Years, this year.  A lot of the hustle and bustle will wind down after a food shopping trip, and we can exhale, and relax. Hopefully to breathe in the meaning of Christmas with our family.

I want to wish everyone who may stop by here, a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! I wish you good health, an abundance of love, and prosperity for the coming New Year. Blogging has been a hobby that has come to hold so much more then I ever anticipated. So many good hearted, kind and caring people, that have come to mean a great deal to me.

Blogging started out as just a place to put a diary, express myself, comment on other blogs, and improve on writing, both creatively and grammatically. Never would I have anticipated coming to know so many people, that I would call dear and special friends. But as I get ready to start 2006, there are many of you out there I would love to give a great big hug to, and thank you for sharing the gift of your friendship, the gift of part of your lives. So many that I have rejoiced in the good things in your lives, and gone to my knees in prayer over concerns. So many of you that have expressed your concern and prayers for me and mine. I love all of you, and wish the utmost best for each of you.

My husband sent me a letter that expressed the thoughts going thru his head and heart when he thought about this Christmas, that yes I’m going to share. (With his permission of course) He brought up a toy that he remembers receiving as a young child, that for some reason held a special significance for him. Which had me thinking about my childhood Christmases, remembering fondly a gift I had asked “Santa” to bring two Christmases in a row, when I finally received it. It was with complete delight that I opened a typewriter, the Christmas of my 10th year. And to this day, the thought of that Christmas remains special to me.

What I would love to hear from readers: Can you remember a childhood Christmas, that you received a gift that to this day makes your heart smile? And why? (If you can remember.) The wonder of Christmas through a child’s eyes, nothing beats it for me!  Thinking about that one childhood Christmas with my parents, brother and sister, the love, the laughter, and yes all the gifts wrapped under the tree, enveloped my spirit with peace and joy. Two emotions I haven’t allowed myself to wallow in much during this busy time of year. It had me saying a little prayer, that I can capture these feelings and give them to my own children this Christmas.

As an adult, married mother of three, with a “To Do” list that would rival Santa’s, it’s easy to get completely caught up in the To Do, that I nearly forget to just relax and enjoy. Allow for my kids to see calm and my love for them, not my back end as I go from one activity to another. All these thoughts brought on, just by dwelling on that childhood Christmas of my own. So as the Christmas Season winds to a climax, I’m going to remember that typewriter, and allow myself to just luxuriate in my own kids’ excitement and joy.

After my husbands letter, if you have a moment, leave me a comment telling of your childhood Christmas gift, that symbolizes and embodies the Christmas joy of childhood for you.
Love,

3T

Dearest:
Since I only have four more chances to write these letters this year, I
thought I ought to devote some of them to holiday themes.
Like you, Christmas for me brings a mixed bag of thoughts. Along with just
the seasonal stress of trying to figure out gifts, then buying them, then
getting them to where they are supposed to go, I think about Christmases
past and how I spent all but one before moving to Arizona in Buffalo with
my family.
I try not to romanticize those visits, and in doing so remember how I would
spend the whole week there, often snowbound and sometimes wishing that I
had not carved out the entire week to be there. You can only play so much
Scrabble or cards, I would sometimes think to myself, and the chaos of the
house sometimes got to me, making me wish I was back in my apartment where
things were at least orderly.
But that was when I was older. I find it hard to remember what Christmases
were like when I was young. I seem to recall there were a few times when my
father was either on strike or laid off, and how he and my mom would try to
shelter us from the knowledge of their truly profound struggle not just to
survive but also to create a little Christmas joy around the house.
I can’t ever remember my mother being daunted by the challenge.
I can’t remember whether it was one of those such Christmases when I got a
toy that I remember to this day. It was a black and white “Dick Tracy car,”
maybe about 18 or so inches long. It didn’t do a whole lot, but came with
some plastic accessories and had a siren. Beyond one of those prepacked
mesh stockings with a bunch of candy and little toys, this was the only
gift I got that year from my parents.
It was all they could afford, I think.
I wish I could figure out completely why I remember that car so much. I
know there were at least two other siblings on earth, and possibly the
fourth--I was that young. But there are entire series of Christmases that I
can’t remember a damn thing as far as gifts are concerned.
But that car is still there in my mind..
As I drove to work today, incredibly I began thinking of that Dick Tracy
Car again, and again I wondered why it keeps coming back into my mind
almost every Christmas.
And then I wondered: Do I remember this one particular gift because God
wants me to? Does he want me to remember
this gift because it shows that one never knows the impact one gift might
have on someone, and that is especially true of gifts one gives a child?
Does he want me to remember it because it symbolizes how much my parents
struggled to give their then young children something to make a bleak
Christmas a little merry?
I still am not sure exactly why, but I am tending to think this is the
reason God wants me to remember that car--as a kind of gateway to the
recognition of all their sacrifices for me.
So what’s this all have to do with us? I believe that being married to you
means that giving to you is no seasonal affair: It’s an everyday activity.
And when you look at us, no matter where you are, I hope that you will
always see me as someone who gives everything he has to you--most
importantly, his heart and soul. Without reservation. With no regret.
That is the way I approach life with you and marriage to you--as a lifetime
of giving my all to make you feel happy, secure and deeply loved.
And you won’t need a toy car to remind you.
I love you, my wife
with all my heart.

From 3rd grade on, I became my parents’ headache, and dare I say it, their embarassment? I would venture to say that I had a mild case of ADD at the least, or back then what was known as hyperactivity. Gaining all of my height at an early age, I didn’t quite gain control of my lanky limbs for a few years after recieving them. A tomboy at heart, I loved to play with the boys. Cowboys and Indians, kickball, softball, wrestling. Anything rough and tumble. The problem with this was I was constantly falling on my face, or my knees. And promptly running home in tears.

Our cops and robbers game started for something to do as all the neighborhood kids were locked out of their homes while our moms toiled away in the kitchen on our turkey feasts. We were all starving and bored, but, armed with our imaginations, managed to come up with a rousing running game of cops and robbers up and down the street, hiding behind cars to keep from getting “shot” by the space guns that meant you were dead.

We were playing cops and robbers, although I was not in posession of one of the space guns that actually shot these plastic round disks at the enemy. A few of the boys on the opposite team had them. But I had my super duper long legs that when I wasn’t tripping and stumbling seemed to carry me pretty fast. We were having a lot of fun, and basically knew we had to kill half hour more before our Thanksgiving dinner would be served.

Of course that’s when it happened. I was running away from a particularly fast little boy who had his sights on shooting me between the eyes with his space gun. Boys are strategic little fighters when they have to be. I was running full tilt away from him, ducking and running behind a car, when another little boy surprised me coming from behind the car in front of me. As I was running so fast I went to duck a little more from his shot, diving into the cement sidewalk, mouth first.

It took me a few minutes laying there to realize what had happened. When I lifted my head, looking at the sidewalk there was my blood and my permanent front teeth crumbled in pieces on the sidewalk. I know I had tears in my eyes, but managed to make it to the front door of my house before bursting into full throttle hysteria. Just in time to see the turkey, coming out of the oven no less. Trying to calm me down with a washrag and ice cubes, my parents, used to my many mishaps, pulled out the phone book trying to find a dentist to deal with my “emergency” one hour prior to when most people were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner.

The pain from my exposed half teeth were starting to throb from exposure. I know dad had to call quite a few dentists before he was able to convince one to come in on Thanksgiving Day, but his powers of persuasion were magical as usual. After X-Rays, and some pain shots, and listening to my fathers and my stomach growling from starvation, he got to work, and managed to cap them off with a couple of plastic caps. As I was so young, putting permanent caps wasn’t a good idea, as I don’t think he was sure if there was nerve damage or not.

The next morning starts as soon as the sun begins to rise. Dad, who is the one that does the bulk of the camp set-up, is usually the first one up. By the time the rest of us crawl out of the sleeping bags there is a roaring fire, and a big pot of coffee staying heated on it. Coffee is never stronger then when it is sitting on a rock next to the fire. After a hearty breakfast of bacon,eggs, hash browns and sausage gravy it’s time to saddle up the horses. This usually takes a good hour between saddling them up, and adjusting the kids’ stir-ups to fit their legs. Saddle bags are packed with waters, pops and snacks.

It usually takes dad a few minutes to get his ride Zach to settle down, before we can hit the trails. Dad’s horse, and I mean dads horse exclusively is an Arab Morgan. He has the large size of a Morgan and the speed of an Arab. Zach knows he is dads and dads alone, but still gets feisty whenever we are gearing up for a ride. It takes a few minutes of this huge horse dancing around, and testing dad on who is boss. Zach has all of us afraid to be near him at that moment. All of us except for dad. I think part of Dads love for Zach is due to the huge horses strong will.

Mabel Ann rides along side of Dad. She also has a horse that likes the lead, but usually Zach will win out. The kids, Robby and Janelle are always put on the most docile of horses. Janelle rides Rambo, the most obedient of the horses. Rambo is a paint, and holds his head high, as if he knows he is the chosen one for the kids.  Robby gets to ride one of Mabel Ann’s horses that is thoroughly trained and obedient as well.

I usually always take the back end of the trail ride, with the two kids between Dad, Mabel Ann and myself, on Caper.. When I first purchased Caper, he was a beautiful muscular registered thoroughbred. I remember when I bought him, I had come out to take a look at a Tennessee Walker, when I looked over my shoulder and saw Caper prancing around a corral. Dad and I looked at each other, and then back at this beautiful copper colored giant. Caper is 17 hands high, with a shiny coat, and both of us fell in love with him. The Tennessee Walker was half the price of Caper, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. We wanted Caper in the pasture with the rest of dads horses. Got to hand it to my X, who took the news of the expensive Caper in stride.

By the time we were on this particular ride, Caper had changed quite a bit. Washington winters with all of its rain, can mean the horses may not hit the trails for a good 7 months out of the year. This year was one of those years. The previous year we had taken the horses to The Trails End, an indoor arena, to compete in barrel races and games. It was an informal get together at the Trails End, usually with beginners or two to three year riders. Time restraints and a new owner of the Trails End, had made winter riding impossible this year.

And Caper looked it. Once we bought him, Caper’s personality came shining thru. It took a few months for Dad to catch on that Caper was bullying and stealing the other horses breakfast and dinner. Caper put on a large amount of weight between the long winter, not being exercised sufficiently, and eating more then his share. Not dangerously overweight, but not the shining example of horse flesh I had originally purchased. His thoroughbred days on the racing track would have ended, had that been his purpose. Caper was now like a big lazy child, who didn’t want to do the long hikes into the mountains.

A few day rides had shown he like to drag his feet, making him and his huge self stumble often on the trails. My horse had psyched me out. Now when I rode him, part of me was always ready for all 17 hands of horse to go tumbling to the ground. I wasn’t necessarily fearful, just ready. This ride would have me fearful. I enjoy riding very much, but to the experienced equestrian, I would be seen as nothing more then a novice. Mabel Ann had never quite warmed up to me, and part of it I think was due to the fact, that she saw me as an amateur trying to play with the big kids. If those were her thoughts, she was 100% correct. But not being proficient, has never stopped me from enjoying trail rides completely.

Horses were my father’s passion while I was growing up, and more so the
older we got. Dad loves all things horses, and took great joy in learning
how to care for all of the needs of his horses. He went to Ferrier school,
and learned how to shoe and immunize his horses and what to look for, in
case of illness. He went as far as learning how to make his own horse
shoes(going to blacksmithing school) with the hot oven horse shoe thingy
majigee.(Yes, I wasn’t as avid a horse lover as him, and wanted nothing to
do with hot ovens, open fire OR in the kitchen) He was a horse person, and
if you were to he loved you, no questions asked. His Western wear clothing
betrayed his Cowboy Status from the get go. Even his “formal wear” was
Western Flair and Western style. I don’t believe I have ever seen my father
in any other shoes then cowboy boots in my entire life. At all of his
children’s weddings, his tux was always Western Cut with shiny new cowboy
boots! At last count I know he had in his closet well over 40 pairs of
cowboy boots that he takes in regularly to re-heel, all polished regularly
to a high shine. His cowboy hats don’t quite number that high, but there
are quite a few of them for him to pick from each morning. Dad is a cowboy,
but always a well dressed and groomed cowboy, bless his heart!

He could talk horse talk for hours and never get bored with it. Every
given opportunity was spent taking the horses out to Capital Forest in
Olympia, for day trips. If he got a good group of days off (three or
more), we were packing up and headed to outside of Randle WA for Horse
Camp. Horse Camp, had a different flavor to it then going out to a
campsite, pitching a tent where there was running water, bathrooms and
sometimes showers. We would spend three hours in a caravan headed for the
mountains up past Randle WA into Weyerhaeuser land.

This particular trip, included dad, mom, my son Robby, my girlfriend’s
daughter Janelle, myself, the X and my baby girl Tayler. We were meeting
some Randle residents and setting up camp with them. Mabel Ann gave new
meaning to horse person. Raised there in Randle, owner of a huge ranch as a
young adult, she was the epitome of a cowgirl. Competed, cared for her own
horses and as knowledgeable as dad was about all things horse, if not more
so. She rode like a pro, a complete natural on the back of any horse.

Our campsite had no running water, no bathrooms in any form, nothing that
bespoke of civilized society.We truly were out in Bum F*ck Egypt, packing
in this trip three horses. Mabel Ann brought two or three horses as well.
Water needed to be packed in, and obviously in great quantities. For
keeping horses watered, as well as drinking water, water for cooking and
clean-up. Now add all the food you may need for 3 to 4 days ( for humans
and horses), camping equipment, sleeping gear and tents. Clothing was the
least amount packed, but needed to be done wisely. We leaned always toward
cold weather, but had some hot weather clothing in case the sun decided to
pop out, which it did fairly often, even if it didn’t stick around all day.

This was the reason for the caravan. Every vehicle was loaded to the brim
with supplies and people. The drive up was a fairly slow one as dad led the
way, pulling the horse trailer. We would stop about every hour to stretch,
check on the horses and move on. My favorite stop was always when we hit
Randle. There right at the turn off sat the Big Bottom Tavern. A small tiny
hick town, it was basically the only tavern, with a couple of gas stations,
one grocery store, and not much else.

But stop at The Big Bottom we did. Dad knew most of the people in the Big
Bottom and they would chat him up for a good hour, while we all ate, had a
drink, and played some pull tabs. I loved the feel of this tiny little
redneck tavern, and as dad was well liked. We were always treated to a
friendly atmosphere. Part of the attraction of the Big Bottom admittedly
was that this was going to be our last taste of running water and flushing
toilets. Unless we managed to come up with an excuse to drive back into
town for “supplies,” making the necessary pit stop at The Big Bottom.

Then it was back in the vehicles and to the boonies we went. Part of the
road was nothing more then gravel logging roads made by the tractors of
Weyerhaeuser. On a pretty day, you could count on eating dust for an hour
as you followed the caravan. Bottled water helped turn it to mud in your
mouth, but kept you hydrated anyway. By the time we got there everyone had
a thin coating of dust over their faces, clothes and in your hair. Except
for dad, who led the caravan, keeping the dust behind him. (Daddy is a wise
man!)