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Continue reading My Little Victory Garden: Entry 8 – My Veggies Are Talking!

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Continue reading My Little Victory Garden: Entry 8 – My Veggies Are Talking!
Blame my parents.
It’s easy to blame parents these days. For example, have you seen how many kids have cell phones? They were all bought in the spirit of “convenience.” When I was a kid, there were no cell phones, so my parents bought me a motorcycle.
The motorcycle was also purchased in the spirit of convenience. I was about to be fourteen with two much younger siblings at home. It was going to be so much easier for me to put my ballet and tap shoes in a little backpack and head to dance class on my Honda CB 125 than it was to load up the previous items along with two other little people. At least that’s what I’ve heard. So, one day I drove my motorcycle down to the Chickasha Bank, took my written test, and hopped on my motorcycle. I drove it in front of the bowling alley and passed Taco Mayo. I made a right hand turn and circled the Braum’s and turned left from the center lane back into the bank parking lot. Voila! I had a motorcycle license.
Now along with the convenience of me getting to drive myself where I needed to go, was the inconvenience (to my parents) of me driving where I didn’t need to go. There’s too many place to list, but let’s just make a note that no other sibling was allowed to have a motorcycle after me. Sorry for ruining that guys.
In the fall of 2010, my husband and I decided to take the motorcycle course offered by our local Harley Davidson dealership. Let’s just say it was quite a bit more involved than the experience I had at fourteen. We spent an entire weekend studying the state laws and then spent Saturday and Sunday driving Buells around the dealership parking lot under the scrutiny of our peers and two instructors. After completing the one hundred question test (we both made 100’s) we had one obstacle left: the driving test. Late on a Sunday afternoon, the participants went through the maneuvers described and then demonstrated by our instructors. They held clipboards and scored us with an unknown rubric. At the end of the weekend, the scores were calculated and we were escorted into a little room to hear the results. Greg and I were the only married couple in there, so they said we could go in together if we wanted. It was devastating….for Greg. He learned that I was number one in the class, and he was number two.

In October one used Harley Davidson was purchased. I had to be the passenger, but I
knew how to work this deal. Whenever we were at a stop sign and we would pull out into the road, I would ask, “Are you sure you’re in first?” This was really the only suggestion I ever made, but I made it a lot.
Today, I picked up my very own Harley Davidson. I don’t have any tattoos and don’t have any plans to get any. My hair is short, so it looks absolutely terrible when I take off my helmet at my destination. (Today it was Pizza Hut…not really a HOG hang out, but it was open and we were hungry). I wear jeans with my Harley boots which seems a lot safer than the swimsuit, concert t-shirt and flip flops I used to ride around in at Fort Cobb Lake. I am a confident, safe rider, and a woman who knows she can do anything she sets her mind to.
Blame my parents.
Today I’m providing a photo or two from one of my gardener friends, Alice Woodrome. I’m also sharing a poem written by a family friend, Marvellena Scott, for her husband, Kermit. Both of these guest contributors clearly have the wisdom and beauty of more years of life and love behind them than I. I’m so glad to share their work with you today. Happy Silent Sunday ~ Kelly

Together Still
by Marvellena Scott
Let me hold your hand as we go downhill,
We’ve shared our strength and we share it still.
It hasn’t been easy to make the climb,
But the way was eased by your hand in mine. Continue reading Silent Sunday: Poetry and Flowers
Now that I live in a metropolitan area I have adapted to the magic of the business lunch. “Hey, let me buy you lunch sometime and we’ll talk about that.” Recently my schedule called for three breakfast meetings, four lunch meetings and a couple of dinner things.
Lunch was altogether different at the barber shop. I recall watching the clock, growing hungry and for a lull that would allow us to go eat. Since my family rarely ate outside the home, walking across the street to Woody’s Café loomed as a Saturday treat. Over the years I passed the hamburger-and-fries stage and grew to anticipate a cheeseburger with onion rings.
One day I ordered with Mom. (She was the Saturday help, extra barber, and that’s another story to be told later.) Anyway, she ordered a chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and corn. And I learned to love cottage cheese with peaches. Taking my break from the shoe shine chair and eating at the café was a welcomed relief. The food was a much anticipated treat. For an extra dose of relaxation after, mpo888 offers a fun way to unwind and enjoy a little more downtime.
To this day one of my small habits is to seek out a rural diner/café/restaurant. One where there are family pictures on the wall, a sports schedule for the local high school team, out-dated décor and pictures with horses. Continue reading Barbershop Theology, Part 3: Table or Booth?
It’s depressing to write this, but I will turn 30 later this year.
You would think at this point in my life, I’d be past the all the irrational behavior associated with one of my sports teams losing. You would think I’d leave behind the rage, the despondent face, and the shutdown of all normal neuron activity. You would think I could count to ten, take a deep breath, or at the very least keep some perspective. You’d be wrong.
Three full decades into life and I can’t keep myself from reverting back to child-like behavior when I’m met with massive sports disappointment.

The other night my hockey team, the Calgary Flames, was officially eliminated from playoff contention. As I sat there watching the game online, I began muttering to myself incessantly. Let’s just say it’s a good thing I was alone, because my soliloquies weren’t exactly meant for the ears of children. I know that’s awful. I know it is, but it was like a reflex. As the night went on, and it became increasingly clear that my team would be making tee times, my anger turned to sadness. I took off my t-shirt with the team insignia emblazoned across the chest and folded it neatly while whispering, “So close. I just want one more game.” When times are desperate I’ve also been known to don a hard hat with my team’s logo and the inscription: Hardest Working Fan. (There’s nothing more mature than a grown man sitting alone, wearing a hard hat, wallowing in self-pity). I slid the hard hat back onto a shelf, and then proceeded to check the standings over and over and over again. I stared at the point totals like a mathematical equation I just couldn’t solve. I let out a long sigh, and then said, “Thanks for a good run boys.” I said that out loud as if I was in their locker room expecting one of the players to embrace me. In the moment, none of this lunacy seemed odd or weird or the least bit desperate. But it is! I know it, and I still can’t stop it!
Of course I had my share of temper tantrums as a kid. On Thanksgiving Day in 1993, Leon Lett decided to ruin my life by fumbling a ball in the snow to set up a Dolphin’s game winning field goal. With my Cowboys defeated, I was inconsolable. I ran to my room, sobbing, and refused to come out for hours. I wasn’t just crying, I was wailing. I remember shaking and seething in my bed just as vividly as I remember the look on my parents faces. You know that, we’re-mortified-by-this-and-no-longer-proud-of-you look? Yep, that’s the one. Sure it was embarrassing, but in my defense I was just a kid.
Now fast forward to the present day. Has my maturity level evolved? Recent events point to no.
Continue reading Maturity? That’s Asking A Lot!