Here we are, one week away from the wedding. A year in the making and honestly, twenty four years in the imagination. Hayley Rae is getting married. This little girl of mine, the one that was sometimes Snow White, sometimes the Witch and sometimes, Girl. This little girl that loved spinny dresses and holding the hand of Grandma Snow that had the pretty ring on it.
And now, she has a pretty ring of her own and a stunning spinny dress. She has her prince, her hero, her Curly.
She has asked me many times if I will cry. And I always say no. Cry that she has her happiness. Cry that she has the partner she wants for always. Cry that she was fortunate enough to have known that it was worth putting in the work and that it will always be worth it. Of course I will cry.
Her dad and I have been asked so many times if this marriage is a good thing, if we approve of the guy, if we are happy with the match. Yes, is the short answer. This marriage is a good thing. We approve of the guy. We are happy with the match. We feel very fortunate that Hayley has Brett. Brett is a good man. He will take care of her and she, him. They have learned and will continue to learn what partnership is. They will be support for each other, cheerleading and coaching and even being the irrational fan on the sidelines pulling at their hair and cursing the play. They will see each other through the shitty days and weeks and months because they know this isn't something they get to walk away from.
One week away from Hayley Rae White becoming Hayley Rae Vanderpool. One week away from our family getting officially bigger though Brett has been one of us for years. One week away from a couple hundred folks that really love these two coming together to celebrate. And still so many more that had too many miles to travel to be there. And others that will be there in the love of everyone else.
Enjoy this wedding week! Enjoy the flood of congratulations and good natured jokes. Enjoy the busyness of last minute preps, the frenzy of the set up, the short quiet moment before the I "I do".
Friday, November 3, 2017
Monday, August 7, 2017
Hair brained Ideas
Perhaps the title to a collection of short stories based on my life Hair brained Ideas would certainly be accurate. I can't think of too many ideas that I have had that have been sound and reasonable but where's the fun in that, right!
On Monday, I announced that I had another hair brained idea. I never actually announced the previous idea so I'm going to do some self promoting here and tell you about both.
On May 7, 2016 I purchased my Aunt Jo's rug loom, fabric and supplies. With the help of my cousins Helen, Rob and Judy and the supervision of Aunt Jo, Danny and I moved this 80 year old (at least) loom from Cedar Rapids to West Des Moines. Then it sat in the garage until the basement was ready for it. Then it sat in the basement assembled but shrouded in cardboard because there were too many kitties in the house. Then the basement bedroom was vacated and in it went. It was reassembled and between the Internet and books, I figured out how to warp it. With 333 individual warps, it was incredibly time consuming to get it all together but here I am, 15 months later with 11 completed rugs and going strong!
The second hair brained idea came to me a few weeks ago after being introduced to some pretty great face products. I have been in the drugstore face product business for a few years and have read my fair share of labels. And by read, I mean mispronounce chemical and synthetically produced product names. It got very discouraging. Now, I would like to consider myself a tree hugger, but I am a lazy blade of grass hugger at best, but the idea of letting all that stuff seep into my body through my biggest organ was a little (a lot) disconcerting.
So a friend of mine posts on facebook about this One Drop Wonder. Cold pressed hedgeballs is what it is, but ask me and I will tell you that it is a magic elixir. I use it on my face, of course, but have also put it on cuts that then heal faster and my itchy spot on my inner arm went away completely overnight. I was intrigued and now folks, I am hooked. So it only seemed logical that I become a sales representative of the company that makes such a product...
So if you have been keeping track and I haven't, these are hair brained ideas numbers 847 and 848. The first hair brained idea I ever had was to marry a boot private first class at the age of twenty. Since that one turned out so well, I figure I am just going to keep at em. I hope you will join me on these two new adventures.
#847 Loomies A Jo Snow Rug Creation loomiesrugs@gmail.com
#848 Pureanne at Limelight by Alcone pureannewhite@gmail.com
Because we only go around once, we ought to find what makes us happy, what allows us to create and what gives us the outlets to make the positive changes in our world.
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| Go Maroons! |
Thursday, June 15, 2017
Congratulations Brett
Tomorrow morning, the Des Moines Police Department will graduate a new class of officers. I believe there are thirteen well trained people ready to take the oath to serve and protect the citizens of this city.
Over the past fourteen years, I have had the great honor to know many people that have taken this oath. They are now dear friends, one is family. And in November, one that takes the oath tomorrow becomes family.
For the past two years, I have watched and waited with Brett and Hayley as Brett went through what I am sure felt like endless application processes. Danny took the same path many years ago and we could sympathize with Brett and Hayley as they felt like they were spinning the wheels of their future. I especially sympathized with Hayley as she took on the same role I held as Danny applied and I cheered his progress, consoled his wounded pride when he was rejected and damned the departments that turned him down. Hayley moved across the state with Brett as he pursued his dreams. They ended up back in central Iowa where their dreams finally came to be.
Tomorrow Brett graduates from the Des Moines Police Academy and Danny and I could not be prouder of him. Having inside knowledge, we know how hard he worked and how well he did. We know that even though he may feel like "White's future son in law" Brett has made a name for himself through his hard work, his strength and most importantly, his character.
In recent years, it has sometimes felt like the public's perception of law enforcement officers was waning. The media did an excellent job of making police look like the enemy. The silent majority became silent no longer as cities found themselves in the middle of officer ambushes. Officers found themselves knee deep in flowers, donuts, pizzas, cold drinks and warm hugs. And the men and women that were filling out applications, doing sit ups, running miles, taking tests, talking to hiring boards and psychiatrists and polygraph administrators, waiting for the next call, waiting to hear back if they passed the test, made the grade had the points. Waiting to hear if precertified, former military, college graduated, female, minority all had the advantage. Some putting their lives on hold for two years to finally get the call that they, upon completion of the academy, will be Des Moines Police Officers. Brett is one of those. And if you are a citizen of Des Moines, let me tell you how fortunate you are to have another outstanding officer take to your streets.
Brett is kind and intelligent. He is not full of himself. He is not prideful. He is hard working and patient. He has put down roots in this community and is invested in its success. Brett is really nice, the kind of guy that old ladies will swoon over and young kids will want to talk to. He is the kind of man that I like knowing will respond to a call. He has the ability to talk people through a situation but also has the ability to stop a situation from escalating. He is smart enough to know that he doesn't know it all, not even close and he will, through his FTO, his fellow officers, superiors and future father in law, keep learning.
Congratulations Brett! We love you and are proud of this and all your accomplishments!
Over the past fourteen years, I have had the great honor to know many people that have taken this oath. They are now dear friends, one is family. And in November, one that takes the oath tomorrow becomes family.
For the past two years, I have watched and waited with Brett and Hayley as Brett went through what I am sure felt like endless application processes. Danny took the same path many years ago and we could sympathize with Brett and Hayley as they felt like they were spinning the wheels of their future. I especially sympathized with Hayley as she took on the same role I held as Danny applied and I cheered his progress, consoled his wounded pride when he was rejected and damned the departments that turned him down. Hayley moved across the state with Brett as he pursued his dreams. They ended up back in central Iowa where their dreams finally came to be.
Tomorrow Brett graduates from the Des Moines Police Academy and Danny and I could not be prouder of him. Having inside knowledge, we know how hard he worked and how well he did. We know that even though he may feel like "White's future son in law" Brett has made a name for himself through his hard work, his strength and most importantly, his character.
In recent years, it has sometimes felt like the public's perception of law enforcement officers was waning. The media did an excellent job of making police look like the enemy. The silent majority became silent no longer as cities found themselves in the middle of officer ambushes. Officers found themselves knee deep in flowers, donuts, pizzas, cold drinks and warm hugs. And the men and women that were filling out applications, doing sit ups, running miles, taking tests, talking to hiring boards and psychiatrists and polygraph administrators, waiting for the next call, waiting to hear back if they passed the test, made the grade had the points. Waiting to hear if precertified, former military, college graduated, female, minority all had the advantage. Some putting their lives on hold for two years to finally get the call that they, upon completion of the academy, will be Des Moines Police Officers. Brett is one of those. And if you are a citizen of Des Moines, let me tell you how fortunate you are to have another outstanding officer take to your streets.
Brett is kind and intelligent. He is not full of himself. He is not prideful. He is hard working and patient. He has put down roots in this community and is invested in its success. Brett is really nice, the kind of guy that old ladies will swoon over and young kids will want to talk to. He is the kind of man that I like knowing will respond to a call. He has the ability to talk people through a situation but also has the ability to stop a situation from escalating. He is smart enough to know that he doesn't know it all, not even close and he will, through his FTO, his fellow officers, superiors and future father in law, keep learning.
Congratulations Brett! We love you and are proud of this and all your accomplishments!
Sunday, April 16, 2017
Back on it
I left Facebook for Lent and by and large, stayed away. I snuck on a couple of times to wish and later, congratulate the ever wonderful Danny White but didn't look at one status, not even my own while doing so. I had hoped that by not being on Facebook, a place that often becomes a hate infested cesspool of ignorance and intolerance, I would find a little more peace in my day. I would refrain from posting my own ignorance and intolerance and would refrain from judging others on theirs. I would stop playing over and over someone's comment in my mind, trying to decide if it was passive aggressive, innocent or if they were just a complete moron. I had hoped that I would spare my feelings when I realized that someone had unfriended me. I had hoped that I would not become so disillusioned with the world.
I did find more peace in my day. I found that my fingers and wrist did not ache as much from using my phone. I read two books and four months worth of National Geographic. I was not bombarded with negative even though I continued to read the news, I only read the news, no comments. Danny shared all the important items like vacation photos, house buying, test passing, diploma receiving and job acquiring. I still received text messages and Snapchats so I always knew what Emmitt was up to.
And this morning, before I jumped back on, I debated. What would I lose and what would I gain by deleting this account. What I would lose was the daily contact with people I love dearly that live too far away for a phone call. I would lose all the photos of faces that I love. I would lose seeing the milestones, the babies, the puppies, the heartbreaks, the healing. I don't want to lose those connections.
Moving forward I have to be my filter. I have to pick what is necessary. For me that means no more biased news, a lot more yoga with baby goats. No more bashing (even Tom Brady). No more all encompassing derogatory statuses, comments or shares. I am not going to change opinions with my opinion, I just alienate people or will be alienated by them.
I can't be responsible for the way you feel and you are not responsible for the way I feel. Posting passive aggressive memes directed at people that probably don't even follow me (but haven't unfriended me yet) is really not the way for me to unpack my emotional baggage. It's time I grow up. From here on out it's a lot of Snoopy, Pistols photos and long, rambling posts about the hi jinks of Hattie. If that doesn't interest you, and honestly, I can see why it wouldn't, save us the hassle and press the button. No feelings hurt, I probably wouldn't even know.
I am learning how to have more peace in my life. And it starts with me. That reminds me of a song.
I did find more peace in my day. I found that my fingers and wrist did not ache as much from using my phone. I read two books and four months worth of National Geographic. I was not bombarded with negative even though I continued to read the news, I only read the news, no comments. Danny shared all the important items like vacation photos, house buying, test passing, diploma receiving and job acquiring. I still received text messages and Snapchats so I always knew what Emmitt was up to.
And this morning, before I jumped back on, I debated. What would I lose and what would I gain by deleting this account. What I would lose was the daily contact with people I love dearly that live too far away for a phone call. I would lose all the photos of faces that I love. I would lose seeing the milestones, the babies, the puppies, the heartbreaks, the healing. I don't want to lose those connections.
Moving forward I have to be my filter. I have to pick what is necessary. For me that means no more biased news, a lot more yoga with baby goats. No more bashing (even Tom Brady). No more all encompassing derogatory statuses, comments or shares. I am not going to change opinions with my opinion, I just alienate people or will be alienated by them.
I can't be responsible for the way you feel and you are not responsible for the way I feel. Posting passive aggressive memes directed at people that probably don't even follow me (but haven't unfriended me yet) is really not the way for me to unpack my emotional baggage. It's time I grow up. From here on out it's a lot of Snoopy, Pistols photos and long, rambling posts about the hi jinks of Hattie. If that doesn't interest you, and honestly, I can see why it wouldn't, save us the hassle and press the button. No feelings hurt, I probably wouldn't even know.
I am learning how to have more peace in my life. And it starts with me. That reminds me of a song.
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
1941 Park Ave
As for me, I think I just wanted it sold because I don't believe I can ever go home again and why should I expect to? I spent my entire adult life leaving home. I have no call or claim to Park Avenue. My initial feeling was to sell it outright. But my children, who are wiser and perhaps, kinder than me, pointed out that by keeping the house in the family, my siblings could go home again and that may something they need. Our conversation reminded me of one I had had with my own mom shortly before her childhood home was sold to be torn down. She told me that she always wanted to be able to go home. And she wouldn't be able to any longer. Her expression was filled with sorrow. I guess I don't want to be responsible for that feeling in someone else.
When my dad first told me that he had transferred the house to two of my siblings so the the house could stay in the family, I thought two things. First, its funny how he is being so delicate with his words like he is breaking bad news. I think he was expecting me to be upset or hurt. He explained how he wanted us to still gather for Christmas and cook outs. Second, I remembered the way going out to Grandma Martin's didn't feel the same after the extended family started renting her house out to the grandchildren. It was full of someone else's stuff. It wasn't bad or wrong, just different. And even now, with my nephew renting 1941, it doesn't feel like going home. I call before I come over and I knock before I come in. Our family photos are down and his Packer posters and Game of Thrones banners are up. I cannot rummage through the Christmas cards or refrigerator. I am a visitor in a house that was once my home.
My pull to Park Avenue is gone. I have let it go. I suppose it went in the Coral Sea as well. It is time for me to collect my spoils and go home. It is time for new voices to swear as they begin the transformation into making it their home. It is time for someone else to stub their toe on the corner, sleep at the register, tell themselves that the nightly creaks are just that and not the boogie man coming up the stairs.
The new voices will be familiar voices as one of the family would like to buy it and make it their own. A grand undertaking as 1941 is nearly 100 years old and though the bones are solid, needs much elbow grease, as he so eloquently stated.
I was going to take a set of door knobs from 1941. Almost all of the doors have glass knobs on them, including the front door and the inside of the attic door. When I was little they were made of diamonds. Now they are just made of memories. I had always wanted a knob, my part of my past. But as I was driving to Cedar Rapids this past Saturday, I made the decision to not take a pair. They belong to 1941, not to me. I walked around the house alone. I took my time in the work room, remembering the smell of gun oil and saw dust and model paint. I sat on the landing like I used to when my mom would have circle at our house and she would use the luncheon trays. You know those little glass plates that had the raised circle for the cup to rest in. I have those luncheon sets now in my basement just waiting for grandkids to use with chocolate milk and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I stood in my old bedroom remembering the years that I covered one wall with aluminum foil. The bedroom where I decided to become a tortured writer, the bedroom that heard too many songs from The Doors. I dug around the mostly cleaned out attic and hauled home two big boxes of old records. I did not open the old garment bags though, in fear of bats. I went through drawers searching for letters and photos that came from me. My mom saved everything and my dad saved nearly everything. I found a few letters from my years in Germany and many school photos of my gang. It was in the rummage of drawers that I found two sets of glass door knobs. I don't know where they came from because all the doors were accounted for. I took a set. I don't know if they originated from 1941, I guess that really doesn't matter. I took them just the same.
There is a lot to sort through when a parent dies. Especially the surviving parent. Not just the physical stuff, but the emotional stuff as well. Now that someone has declared the desire to own 1941, I am ready to be through the house. I am eager to get it cleaned out. It is how I process the letting go, I suppose. Whereas most of my siblings can go through the house any time they like, I have to schedule it in. I have weather and weekends to work around. I am ready to be through the house. I am ready to take my fondness of 1941, romanticize it and tuck it away in my heart. I think this is the last that I will grieve for for a very long time. This house, this home.
When my dad first told me that he had transferred the house to two of my siblings so the the house could stay in the family, I thought two things. First, its funny how he is being so delicate with his words like he is breaking bad news. I think he was expecting me to be upset or hurt. He explained how he wanted us to still gather for Christmas and cook outs. Second, I remembered the way going out to Grandma Martin's didn't feel the same after the extended family started renting her house out to the grandchildren. It was full of someone else's stuff. It wasn't bad or wrong, just different. And even now, with my nephew renting 1941, it doesn't feel like going home. I call before I come over and I knock before I come in. Our family photos are down and his Packer posters and Game of Thrones banners are up. I cannot rummage through the Christmas cards or refrigerator. I am a visitor in a house that was once my home.
My pull to Park Avenue is gone. I have let it go. I suppose it went in the Coral Sea as well. It is time for me to collect my spoils and go home. It is time for new voices to swear as they begin the transformation into making it their home. It is time for someone else to stub their toe on the corner, sleep at the register, tell themselves that the nightly creaks are just that and not the boogie man coming up the stairs.
The new voices will be familiar voices as one of the family would like to buy it and make it their own. A grand undertaking as 1941 is nearly 100 years old and though the bones are solid, needs much elbow grease, as he so eloquently stated.
I was going to take a set of door knobs from 1941. Almost all of the doors have glass knobs on them, including the front door and the inside of the attic door. When I was little they were made of diamonds. Now they are just made of memories. I had always wanted a knob, my part of my past. But as I was driving to Cedar Rapids this past Saturday, I made the decision to not take a pair. They belong to 1941, not to me. I walked around the house alone. I took my time in the work room, remembering the smell of gun oil and saw dust and model paint. I sat on the landing like I used to when my mom would have circle at our house and she would use the luncheon trays. You know those little glass plates that had the raised circle for the cup to rest in. I have those luncheon sets now in my basement just waiting for grandkids to use with chocolate milk and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I stood in my old bedroom remembering the years that I covered one wall with aluminum foil. The bedroom where I decided to become a tortured writer, the bedroom that heard too many songs from The Doors. I dug around the mostly cleaned out attic and hauled home two big boxes of old records. I did not open the old garment bags though, in fear of bats. I went through drawers searching for letters and photos that came from me. My mom saved everything and my dad saved nearly everything. I found a few letters from my years in Germany and many school photos of my gang. It was in the rummage of drawers that I found two sets of glass door knobs. I don't know where they came from because all the doors were accounted for. I took a set. I don't know if they originated from 1941, I guess that really doesn't matter. I took them just the same.
There is a lot to sort through when a parent dies. Especially the surviving parent. Not just the physical stuff, but the emotional stuff as well. Now that someone has declared the desire to own 1941, I am ready to be through the house. I am eager to get it cleaned out. It is how I process the letting go, I suppose. Whereas most of my siblings can go through the house any time they like, I have to schedule it in. I have weather and weekends to work around. I am ready to be through the house. I am ready to take my fondness of 1941, romanticize it and tuck it away in my heart. I think this is the last that I will grieve for for a very long time. This house, this home.
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