ole'!

It's Saturday. And I'm posting. What the?

Well it's Cinco De Mayo.  Happy Independence Day to all the Mexicans I know and love!

Once upon a time I thought my children where going to be Mexican, and I decided that it behooved us to celebrate all Mexican holidays. I try to celebrate as many holidays as I can justify. Boxing Day? I'm all over that. We also adopted Chinese holidays when we thought we would have Chinese children. My kids are blond haired blue eyed. We don't really know their definitive heritage. We are calling it Danish so we have an excuse to make lots of aebleskivers.

Anywho. Cinco De Mayo is a good excuse to eat some really good fattening food. No?

Ole'!

And let us not forget Dia de los Muertos. Another good one. It's like Halloween and Memorial Day all in one.

I think American memorial day should be more about remembering our own individual ancestors. Not to take anything away from those who have served our country (both my grandpas are veterans), but I think in general we Americans need to spend more time honoring those who have gone before us. Those who have paved our way. Those grandmas and grandpas who gave us not just a crooked nose, but family names, land, recipes, beliefs and values.

I am but a mere link in this family chain. That thought makes me feel so small, but it also gives me a mantle.  My grandparents are looking down the line. They are rooting for me.

It's good to know I have a team.

Memorial day is May 28th, which is a special day for me. My best friend and cousin who died when we were 18 was born on May 28th.  I will be thinking of her. 

these hands

I don't have pretty hands. It's a fact. I've come to accept it. They have always been wrinkly, like I just got out of the bath, and my nails are often chipped and black from working with silver. I usually hide them in my pockets when I am feeling self conscience.

I tried getting fake nails to glam them up a bit, but they just looked like wrinkly hands with thick plastic ends. I spent the first day of my honeymoon ripping them off.

I inherited my ugly hands from my father, who, in turn, inherited them from my grandmother. My grandmother's name was Vola. Vola Wyatt. She was the pinnacle of our family. She made Christmas happen.

Her hands, her wrinkly hands, kneaded and draped and clipped and cleaned and stirred and smoothed until Christmas, Campbell style, materialized. Then she dialed and served and presented and hugged and made each of her grandkids feel like her favorite. I miss her so much this time of year my chest constricts each time I make one of her recipes or catch myself humming the way she used to hum. And, oh how I miss her hands. If only I could feel her stroke my hair or grasp my arm. If only I could plant one more kiss on her downy cheek.

And now it is up to me. I have to put my hands to work and recreate the type of Christmas I had as a child, the type of Christmas I want Thom to have. They are large gloves to fill.

why i wear cowboy boots

There is a woman who lives in my community that is very highly respected. A few years ago I had occasion to be in contact with her on a daily basis. She was always extremely polite and professional. She had this way about her that was somehow condescending in a very backhanded way. When she said "Please come in" I heard "Shut up, sit down and if you get mud on my carpet I will stab you with the same knife that I used to cut the homemade brownies". So I was a little afraid of this woman and really very intimidated. I felt like a dog with a submissive urination problem. Every time I was around her I clinched every muscle and prayed I didn't soil her sofa.

And then, as these types of women tend to do, she pushed me just a little to far. She found my Achilles heel and she jabbed. She made me second guess my parenting. Even as the mother bear in me was rearing up, she knew just what to say to send me away with my tail between my legs. The whole thing was really quite pathetic.

One morning, as I was doing some shopping downtown and getting myself geared up to spend some time with this woman, a guy ten years my younger whistled at me. I had on old jeans and my cowboy boots. Now I'm all for women's lib and curbing sexual harassment, but I have to say, it felt pretty damn good. It reminded me who I am. I am not some spineless joke of a woman. My ancestors were pioneers, women of the Wild West. Women with guts and moxie. Tough gals. I went to that lady's house that day. I smiled nicely and spoke kind words. But I'm quite sure that what she heard was "Back off sister before I put these boots to good use." She has since subsided into the background of my life. I don't see her around a whole lot, but I am glad we tangled. It reminded me who I am.

I wear my boots all winter long. I wear them with jeans. I wear them with skirts. If you have never put on a pair of cowboy boots, give them a try. They may put a little hitch in your giddy up that will be just the thing you need.

Now, back to my regularly scheduled program of sweet words and nice thoughts.