Giftwrap

My family roots are in the wheatfields of Kansas. It wasn't until I had moved away to the west coast that I realized how deep those roots were. Many years ago, as I flew across Kansas on my way home for Christmas, my heart clutched as I gazed from the window onto those fields. Home. I grew up in the suburbs of Kansas City, but I claim those wheatfields as my own. I was lucky enough to have spent several weeks each summer with my grandparents in the heartland, listening to farm reports, Tradio and playing cards in front of the water cooler. I've always said that wheat is what put me through school, and I'm thankful to my granddad and uncles-the farmers that helped make that college education possible.

I am blessed to have known my grandparents, both sides of the family as well as my great grandparents on my dad's side. They were farmers, carpenters, policemen, nurses as well as piano teachers, school teachers and anything else they could find that would help put food on the table. They survived the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, the Polio epidemic, droughts, floods and learned how to make do with what they had. These people helped shape me into the person I am today, with their sense of family, values and most especially their incredible ability to scrimp, save and reuse gift wrap. Yes. Giftwrap.

My grandmothers were the savers of all things, from the cotton that used to be wedged into aspirin bottles to plastic bags, newspapers and of course National Geographic magazines. But what I really remember, was the saving of the wrapping paper and boxes. I will never forget the reminders, Save the wrapping paper! Save the bows!

Some family members had perfected the art of removing wrapping paper to create a large reusable sheet for next year by opening one end and sliding the box out. We called it cheating, since the suspense of undoing each piece of tape was denied to those of us that had wrapped the surprise and were wanting that anticipation to last just a little bit longer as each piece was carefully peeled back.

You could expect to see that giftwrap for years, shrinking in size as the rips and tears from undoing the tape were trimmed off. As we got older, it would seem that we delighted in balling up the paper to keep from ever having to see it again, much to my grandmas dismay. As I think about that now, I'm a bit nostalgic and disappointed that we didn't do a better job of helping recycle and reuse.

Last night I had on my favorite Christmas CD's, was wrapping Christmas gifts with dinner in the oven. My kitchen was a warm, happy place with family milling about, laughing, talking about nothing and everything. I opened a new roll of wrapping paper and had flipped the paper over to measure the paper to the box, and noticed on the grid the following words: Giftwrap is 100% recyclable. I began smiling and thinking to myself, yeah, my grandmas were WAY ahead of you on that one.

Merry Christmas to all, Happy New Year and much peace, health and blessings are wished your way.

A shiny blue dress

Hello blog-it's been awhile. I can't really blame my lack of writing on being too busy, too many commitments or the myriad of excuses one tries to think up to explain a lack of activity. I guess my mind has been elsewhere and in honor of a dear friend that asked me to please start again, here I am.

My daughter needed a formal dress for her sorority recruitment attire. It's required, along with a number of caveats to ensure the dresses look appropriate for the event. I took her shopping and was aghast at the expense we would have to incur for the hated shiny blue dress. There just seems to be something wrong with spending what I consider a hefty sum for something they will wear once a year and most consider the bane of the day. So I decided, as I stood there looking at our bank account that wouldn't support the expense, that I would make the dress.

My mother is an accomplished seamstress. All through my grade school years, my sister and I wore many a frock that she created. She did tailoring for people although she says didn't really like it; she enjoyed the creative process of creating a garment, not correcting the bad mistakes or poor fit of constructed garments.  For all of my Type A personality traits, believe it or not, I also greatly enjoy the creative process, with one little blip on the radar. I'm a perfectionist.

I'd like to think I was in my zone when I began, measuring twice, cutting once, using the pattern to determine changes my daughter needed for a custom fit. I filled the bobbin with thread, threaded the needle and I was ready to start! It brought memories of sewing with my mother, and I could hear her gentle reminders as I sewed, stitched and started making mistakes. I should confess, it's been awhile since I so proudly sewed those Halloween costumes for my kiddos. I'm fairly certain that was the last time I actually constructed a garment.

I've forgotten some of the basic rules of sewing. As a result, I have ripped out every seam in that dress at least once and restitched them, correcting the mistakes that make me slap my forehead and shout 'doh!'. I've cried, yelled, thrown the dress across the room and now, finally, I have a completed dress that makes her happy. In the end, this saga was about being able to show her how much I love her, as every stitch is made with love. It was a way for me to create something for her, that she could be proud of, a symbol of my commitment to her. Maybe the seams that don't match are a life lesson about roads that don't always lead where we think they will. The belt I created to cover those imperfections are like a mothers love, like we used to kiss away the pains of a boo-boo. They are still there, just less noticeable.

Being Content

I'm working on a new resolution. I've left out the word 'year' because this might take me awhile. I'm working on being content. I've had to really put some thought into what that means. For me, it's a whole new idea.

I'm a salesperson through and through and if I've got something to sell, I will try. I've sold candy, nice little "dust me's", bedding, tabletop, sporting goods, advertising, shoes and clothes just for starters. The list is quite long as is the number of companies I've had the privledge to be associated with and work for. I'm always trying to figure out how to be better than before. How can I improve workflow? How can I do this job better than the person before me. I think about how to make where I'm working the best it can be. I've quit jobs, been fired and laid off. I've taken my passion and used it to the best of my ability, including when I was unemployed and looking for a job. I consider myself lucky to find the current position I hold given the current state of the ecomony, the unemployment situation and being unable to relocate. The other day somebody asked me how things were going and I said, I'm content. But then I wondered, am I really?

I had a discussion with one of my work collegues the other day, regarding being content and what society has determined as being successful. From early in our lives, society tells us to always keep reaching for the stars, improve, do more, and so on. So at what point do we decide we have done all we can do, and are content with where things stand? Retirement? I was recently told that I have a habit of always looking for the greener grass. And you know, I do. After a lifetime of being taught to never settle, always strive for being the best, I work hard to be the best at whatever I've set out to do. Once I've met that goal, I begin to wonder what the next goal in life should be.

So I'm working at being content. Content in the security of my job. Content with my house, my car, my yard, my place in society. Content to watch my children grow and mature into adults. Content to not live my life through them. I will keep you posted on this resolution.

Boots

I'm the daughter of a small town girl and country boy. Sounds like the words to a Journey song, but it's true.  My grandparents continued to live in their homes up until the time they left this world, and I visited them often. Often enough to identify with small towns and feeling like I had the legitimate claim to being a sometimes country girl. At times, I thought I wanted to live there. It just seemed like life was more fun, more simple and there were more freedoms.

Over the years, being "country" comes in and out of fashion and one of the things I love the most? Cowboy boots. Western cowboy boots, to be specific. As I was pulling off my boots the other day, I reflected on how much I love wearing them. When I wear my boots, I feel like I could take on the world. I walk like I have somewhere to go and you can hear me all the way down the hall. I've got western cowboy boots, riding boots and another pair of boots that look less western but still have a pointy toe and heel. I love wearing all of them. Some days I can't wear my boots because I don't feel up to the challenge of strutting my stuff that day.

I started wearing cowboy boots in college. Guess where I got them? Sears! My dad and I both got cowboy boots there, as I had a great employee discount. The annual Barn Party that all sorority and fraternities hosted meant that one had to have cowboy boots and a hat. The local country and western bars, both for the 18yrs olds and the 21 clubs, were the perfect place for my jeans and boots. My dad still has those boots, calls 'em his Roebucks, but I have no idea when I got rid of that first pair. Probably during the disco phase when I needed the room in my closet for my scrunchy disco boots that I folded my jeans into.

My teenage son decided to dress as a cowboy for a Halloween party and requested a pair of boots to complete his outfit. I declined to make that purchase for him, as I wasn't convinced he really wanted to commit to the boots. I bought the hat and lent my bandanna, but no boots. Not yet. Boots mean you're serious about your style.