Blue moon – the sound evokes such mystery and magic.

We’ve all heard the saying, once in a blue moon.

But, what does it mean?

It’s really so simple – and has nothing to do with the moon’s color –

two full moons in the same month –

a contrast between calendar months and lunar months –

occurring every 2.7 years –

with energy 12 times more powerful than a regular full moon –

Friday July 31’s blue moon – occurs at exactly 6:43 am – let the power and blue moon magic happen within you…

In my young days I loved –

playing with cars and trucks – making roads in dirt

running – matter of fact I ran faster than everyone else (yes, boys too)

playing Red Rover – I could always break through clasped arms

swinging – all the way to the sky

climbing on monkey bars – to hang from my knees

climbing trees – the closer to the sky the better

dipping in ice cold springs to cool off on a sweltering summer day

swinging over the creek – I’ll never forget my Dad shimmying up the tree to attach it (cigar hanging out of his mouth)

exploring the creek all the way to the waterfall (it seemed so far away)

hiding in the corn crib to read books – I could be anything, anyone, anywhere

playing in the gully – we pretended it was our home

riding my bike – wind fanning my hair out behind me as I rode down the humungous hill by my house (Mom reminded me that if only one car came by all day, and it hit me I’d still be dead) Thanks Mom.

playing basketball (half court of course)

running track (long jump and short dashes were my favorite)

Yet, I also loved –

playing with Barbie dolls

playing dress up with my Grandma’s clothes and hats

“fixing” my Grandma’s hair (she once let me cut it )

cutting out paper dolls and clothes for them from a Sears catalog

dressing up and smelling sumptuous – never prissy… still not.

I refuse to conform – so, denim or lace? How about both?

I suppose I’m a bit of an enigma. I refuse to be defined by labels.

I am purely me.

I wasn’t blessed with sisters by birth – but, by rather rewarded with an abundance of sisters by love, by choice, and by heart. You all know who you are – some of you I grew up with, and others I met along the way. While we don’t always agree on everything – we don’t have to;  that’s what keeps life interesting; we do respect one another and we do agree on the importance of having strong women around us in our lives – on surrounding ourselves with other women who support and love us for who and what we are. Sisters with whom we share the laughter and tears of life. Sisters steadfast and strong – none of us perfect, but fighting the daily struggles without complaint and moving the only direction we can – forward. We are not obligated to one another, but rather inextricably bound by some unseen force. So, thank you to each and every one of you for loving me and helping me surpass the me I was yesterday. Thank you for
providing an invisible net of love, support, and acceptance. I’m afraid to name names – I don’t want to unintentionally leave someone out, so, as I said before – if I’m talking about you – you certainly know it, and I love you.

Parent, child, sister, wife, cousin, teacher, grandmother, friend – all me – yet none completely me.

What me do you see? Do you see the real me? Do any of us reveal our true selves?

Are we afraid to show others who we really are? Take time to know me.

Do you see the me I am? Or, the me you’d rather see?

Do we all disguise ourselves – letting others only see what we want to show?

Take time to see me as I am. Do we really need  approval and acceptance?

Do we honestly require that others find us sufficient?

I think not – I’m pretty much me – all the time – the sweet and the not so sweet –

if you see me as something I’m not – maybe it’s in how you look – rather than what I am.

I’m me – some good, some not so good – never intentionally bad,

but rather trying to get the most out of this phenomenon we call life.

Loving life, the people in it, and the world as I chose to see it, always looking

on the bright side, with my head held high, expecting the best; some say

I look through rose colored glasses. I say, just the way I’m made –

an eternal optimist. It’s the only way I can be; I would have it no other way.

Only in this teacher’s lunchbox would you find:

2 – AAA batteries

1 – AA battery

toothpaste, but no toothbrush

2 Tazo China Green Tips teabags

2 Constant Comment teabags

double sided tape in applicator

Command adhesive hooks (3)

a paring knife in its sharpener

another paring knife I found outside the school in the parking lot

4 plastic forks

3 plastic spoons

a mushed Ritz Crackerfuls

a bandaid

2 more plastic spoons – one broken

packet of Welch’s fruit punch fruit snacks

3 plastic knives

a package of citrus scent Wet Ones

an envelope of Starbucks iced coffee mix

and, various assorted napkins (are they clean? It’s hard to tell at this point)

Sadly, there’s no lunch, there’s only

Treasures found in a most unlikely place – treasures that only a teacher can understand.

How can you help your spouse when you’re lost in your own needs? When our two sons died, in 1982 and in 1985, my first husband and I were so caught up in grief that we couldn’t see the hurt in each other. I was sad beyond belief and at the time, all I knew was that I hurt on a level that is unfathomable to most. I felt like darkness was swallowing me everyday, all day, that I could drown in it, but I needed to deal with my agony because I had someone else who depended on me. This devastation could have made me collapse – it had a weight and power of its own. I could either succumb to tremendous misery, or I could keep putting one foot in front of the other. Will was almost 2 in 1982 and almost 5 in 1985, and needed me present for him. So, I talked to whomever would listen, and did what I could to work through some of my anguish. I kept stolidly moving forward and not collapsing under the weight of my sadness. My grief was compounded  in August 1985 when my father died unexpectedly. Mark on the other hand, didn’t talk about anything. He only criticized me at Christmas when I mentioned that I missed my Dad. We were lost to one another and never found our way back. I don’t know if he thought he was being brave for Will and me, or if it was just his way of coping with his feelings. I do know, that facing our heartbreak in such different ways was the beginning of the end of our marriage. I don’t think either of us was right or wrong, only that we handled heartbreak differently. I know it’s easy to look back on this difficult time now and be dispassionate. But, why couldn’t we have talked to one another – opened up and shared our pain?

As I was feeding my Mom her supper – trying not to feed her too fast, wiping her mouth and her nose  (which runs when she eats) – I couldn’t help but wonder – how many times she did this for me. With what tenderness and love did she feed me and try to get it just right?

Then I’d give her a drink, guiding the straw to her mouth, trying to leave it there as long as she was drinking, and I wondered to myself – when did I become the Mom to my Mom? Does she know how much I love her? So, I hugged her close and whispered in her ear that I love her, hoping to give just a bit of comfort in the otherwise bewildering existence  she now finds herself.

Who knew you had a number? You who now sport parallel yellow lines down your center, and crisp white boundaries down each edge.

You had no lines, and only crumbled edges when I learned to drive on you. Everyone drove down the middle since the edges crumbled away – maybe because you were gravel dredged from creeks in Stewart County, and pressed into hot asphalt.

When I drove on you in my youth, you were Jones Mill Road –  never highway 141.

It was driving on you that I first felt the urge to go fast and then faster. There was a short straight stretch where sometimes I would see how fast I could go before I had to slow down for the curves. 90-95 was about the best I could do. While traveling at such high rates of speed in my Mom’s station wagon, I dreamed that I could be a race car driver, or maybe that I was a race car driver. This is probably something we’d best keep to ourselves…