Makes My Monday: Adulting

Last Friday, Jonathan came home after a 9-week summer internship in Atlanta. After all that hard work I assumed he'd spend this time relaxing before heading back to school in the fall, but I was wrong. On Saturday morning, he got up when his alarm went off at 7:30, showered, ate breakfast, and began studying for his CPA exam. He emerged from his room at lunchtime and dinnertime. The same thing happened on Sunday. He's determined to use these two weeks to get a head start on his test prep.

Three states over in Arkansas, Nicholas, who is a computer engineer, also woke up early Saturday morning. Due to a new program implementation at work, he put in a 9-5 workday. When he called Sunday evening to tell me about it, he said he didn't mind. He likes his coworkers, he likes his job, and they were treated to a catered breakfast and lunch.

And what did Timothy do on Saturday? He did not get up early; in fact, at 10:30 I went in to wake him up. He ate breakfast, made his bed, poked his head in to say hi to Jonathan, then went to work on his Xbox for the rest of the day.

"School starts this Wednesday and I'm running out of time!" he explained.

Somehow, I have a feeling he wasn't just talking about school.

Timothy, always following in his brothers' footsteps

Speak to Me Sunday: Pockets of Grace

Once upon a time I was a woman on a mission. I had exactly five minutes to run into Publix, figure out what to fix for dinner, pray for a short check-out lane, hope for no traffic snarls, pick up the boys, run home . . . the list went on and on. It was one of those days.

Chicken fingers, I decided. Rushing to the deli counter I got there at the same time as another man. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, but I was so busy mentally going over my to-do list that I didn't even acknowledge him.

"Who's next?" asked the Publix attendant.

I looked at the older gentleman standing next to me.

"Oh, you're prettier than I am," he said graciously. "Please, you go."

A laugh just bubbled out of me. I thanked him and placed my order of 15 chicken fingers, remembered that I was picking up the boys from practice, and changed the order to 20 chicken fingers.

The man laughed.

"How do you suppose she keeps her trim figure eating all that?" he asked the Publix attendant.

Later, when I was telling this story to the family during dinner, I had to convince them that A) the man wasn't senile, and B) that he could see just fine thank-you-very-much. Oh, the teasing was all in good fun but, really, the point wasn't what the man said but that he said anything at all.

Mark Twain once said that he could live for two months on a good compliment and, while I don't know about two months, I do know that my stranger's kind words certainly put a spring in my step and changed the course of the rest of my day. I slowed down, I remembered to breathe, I wasn't late for anyone or anything.

And dinner was great.

A moment with a stranger was all it took for time to stand still. There is a visceral beauty in reaching out to others in kindness, warmth and good-will, in sharing a moment, a laugh, a story, or a even a compliment with a stranger, for these little pockets of grace reaffirm the wonderful interconnectedness of humanity.

Boy, Oh Boy

I'm surrounded by boys, and sometimes ...

Sometimes, after spending all day cooking, I wish they would linger over the meal and not wolf everything down in two seconds.

Sometimes, I could do with less wrestling matches in the house.

Sometimes, I'd like someone to go to the mall with me and not act like they're being tortured.

Sometimes, I would like to watch a Saturday afternoon movie instead of basketball, football, or golf.

Sometimes, I get tired of tripping over size 12 sneakers all over the place.

Sometimes, I wish for something pink in my house.

Sometimes, I'd like to walk into a clean boys' bathroom.

And sometimes ...

Sometimes when they sing in the shower, lean over my shoulder to see what I am writing, kneel next to me in church, show me their latest essay, call just to talk, or plant a sloppy kiss on my cheek, then I think ...

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Moody Blues

I woke up this morning

a rainbow overhead

mellow yellow

Venetian red

sunset orange

lucky green

"A color for your day!"

suggested Roy G. Biv

So without further ado ...

I reached up
and picked blue.

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

somewhere in Venice ...

Makes My Monday: Summer Journals

Once upon a time (not too long ago) we held summer school at our kitchen table. As much as I loved the freedom of summer, I also realized that a complete break from academics for a 2-3 month period was not the greatest idea. It was very informal, but at least for an hour in the morning we read, studied, talked about art or history, did a little math (bleck), and kept a journal.

I miss those days, especially when I go back through their summer journals. This morning I found this and had a good laugh. Evidently, summer school continued even though I was in Italy ...

Speak to Me Sunday: The Protection of Saints

Yesterday I mentioned how our son, Jonathan, was involved in an accident on I-75 in downtown Atlanta. The accident totaled his car, the impact knocked his glasses off, the crash sent contents in his car flying everywhere. Here's the rest of the story ...

When the boys started driving, I gave each of them a medal of St. Christopher (the patron saint of travelers) to keep in their car. This was something I learned from my Nonna--who touched the St. Christopher medal on her dashboard and said a quick prayer before driving anywhere--and as a mom it was comforting to share this faith tradition with our sons now that they were venturing off on their own.

So last week our son was involved in an accident, and he wasn't injured. When we went to the tow yard to look at his car and collect his belongings, we couldn't find the St. Christopher medal. Timothy and I climbed all over that car, looking under seats and shining a flashlight into crevices, but no St. Christopher. I was a little disappointed, and yet I knew without a doubt that Jonathan had been under St. Christopher's protection during the accident.

Then, this weekend a good friend pointed out something that I hadn't even realized: Jonathan's accident occurred on July 25 ... the Feast Day of St. Christopher. 

Amen.

Oh, What a Day

Thursday evening Jonathan was involved in a car accident on I-75 downtown Atlanta.

He’s fine. A little shaken up (a wreck in the middle of I-75 is no joke) but not injured. (Thank you, God.) (Thank you St. Christopher medal on the dashboard.)

What wasn’t fine was Jonathan’s 2001 Hyundai Elantra.  

Immediately following the accident Jonathan did everything we had taught him to do: he called 9-11, he called home, and he called our insurance company for a (free) tow. They told them they had someone on the way and should be there shortly.

The police arrived, and within seconds so did another towing company. And while Jonathan was filling out paperwork this tow company loaded up his car and towed it away. He wasn’t given a choice.

Evidently, this tow company has a contract with the city, so they hover like vultures to swoop in to tow your car (for $220) and then stow it in their lot, after which you are charged $25/day until you have it removed.

So Friday morning , Joe and I (and Timothy) drove to  A Tow in south Atlanta while Jonathan, who has one week left of his summer internship, was working. Before I describe our experience, let me describe the place: there were bars on the doors, the receptionist sat behind thick glass (bullet proof?) and passed paperwork through tiny slots, the chairs in the waiting room were covered with mysterious stains, there was no hand soap in the women's bathroom, and Timothy said the urinal in the men’s bathroom had blood on it.

We were there for THREE HOURS. We found Jonathan’s car, took photos of the damage, and removed Jonathan’s things. (Rescued: one Eagles baseball hat.) (Side note: Timothy and I crawled all over the inside of that car, and we could not find the St. Christopher medal.) (Mental note: get another St. Christopher medal for Jonathan.) There was no doubt the car was totaled so we assumed that A Tow would salvage it. Huh. Wouldn’t you know that A Tow doesn’t do salvage anymore—only towing—so in order to remove the vehicle (which was un-drivable) and avoid the $25/day lot fee, we would need to HAVE IT TOWED. Again.

It was so ridiculous. Joe was hopping mad, while Timothy and I tried to smooth things over all while not touching anything in the place.

And they weren’t helpful. Oh, they offered to tow the car (Ha!) but they couldn’t give us any helpful advice as to what salvage yard to call. So Joe, who was still hopping mad, made a flurry of phone calls and arranged for our own tow and we got the hell out of Dodge.

Okay, that’s a tad dramatic, but after three hours in that place we were so done. We followed our tow truck driver, Josh, to Pull-A-Part where they paid us the grand total of $280 for a pile of scrapped metal. Afterwards, we dropped off the van with Jonathan at work, spoke to him for 15 minutes while I poked and prodded to make sure he was really and truly okay (he was), gave him a huge bear hug (or two), and then we started the drive home.

On I-75.

During rush hour traffic.

On a Friday afternoon.