soccer mom-ing (it's not so bad)

it's week five of our first soccer season. i'm coaching the herd-aged group with andrew and patrick, bless his heart, is coaching dom's u12 team.

i figured soccer mom-ing was the last hurdle to leap in my effort to lose all my coolness by age 36. i figured next i'd need some high-waisted jeans with pleats, a perm, and a fanny pack to complete my fall from edgy grace.

but the thing is, it's no big deal (this is how we do!) because i'm actually really bad at this soccer mom thing.

see, i don't bring stuff.

i bring a blanket the week after torrential downpours and make us all sit on the frozen ground. i make sure we all stay seated until the moisture has seeped through the fleece blanket into our jeans. and that's about it. no juice boxes. no generator-powered mini heaters, no coolers with three-course snack meals, no game devices, no iPads. nada...

i also don't drive a minivan (yet).

nothing against minivans. seriously, i watch your videos behind you in drive-through lines with envy, dreaming of the day i can spin wreck it ralph on a continuous loop as we drive through harrisonburg.

so when i open our door, things aren't neat and organized.

no, when i open the door to our truck, all hell breaks loose.

soccer balls come flying out, followed by unsecured children, last week's mcnugget fragments, a couple missing library books and one moldy blanket.

and i don't cheer like a maniac for my sons' teams.

well, i'm coaching one son.

and i'm even bad at that because i find myself cheering for the other kindergartners, too.

i think it's so adorable when they score that i make these bewildered five-year olds high five me on their way back to their own coach. i keep the other team guessing, i suppose.

and when my own kids score, i just about burst my titanium-lined aneurysm with sheer joy.

 it's a beautiful, beautiful thing to watch a young soccer player get turf toe a few feet from the goal and stumble their way into the net.

and when it's time for me to cheer on boy wonder, well, i can't.

i suffer from this stress induced ibs awesomeness, so if i actually kept my eyes open everytime the ball got near my goalkeeper, i'd be chained to the outhouse.

 so mostly i cheer him on when the ball is on the other side of the field and i make andrew give me the play-by-play when the other team makes it into goal territory.

they say it only gets better with time, too.

maybe next season i'll be all the more legit with the minivan, the snack cooler and the folding camp chair brigade claiming my spot two hours before the game even starts...(god, i hate those people...)

maybe.

...happy happy happy...

what i did that day (10.15.14)

when i woke up: 

5:25 a.m.

morning:

it was a typical wednesday morning, minus the breakfast because we were mostly out.

funny how that happens, isn't it? one minute, you've got full boxes of cereal. turn around, and it's gone.

 mostly you find out it's gone the moment you're trying to feed four kids their favorite cereal, too.

the drive to take the boys to school was rainy. in fact, it rained most of the day. but that's okay. it actually worked with how the day, or the morning, went.

i drove the 40 minutes into harrisonburg. i punched the code into the door lock. i walked the 14 steps to the second floor newsroom.

and then i packed every trace of myself from that place into two boxes (holy crap, how can i shove that much stuff into one tiny desk?)...

and i left.

the story is longer than i care to work through here, but it was necessary and it was liberating and terrifying all at the same time.

i've never walked off a job like that. i've never had to.

but this one?

 i had to.

it was pouring rain while i waited outside for my boss and after a few minutes, i figured it was starting to look like something out of a cheesy romance flick (which is hilarious if you had any clue of the stature/nature of the guy i was waiting on) so i got in my truck and i left.

i drove off.

(i eventually wrote him an email explaining and saying goodbye. i don't think i'll ever check that work email again...there's nothing that management could possibly say that would make that situation better. and i doubt they'd say anything to make it better anyway.)

i picked up coffee from the martin's grocery store on the way home. i struggled with the urge to tell everyone i met that i'd just walked off the world's most racist/sexist/backwards job on the planet.

 i also wanted to tell them to try to jelly donuts in the bakery because they smelled ah-may-zing.

donuts, ya'll.

afternoon:

using what was left of a chicken i roasted yesterday (why does cold, next-day chicken always look so much weirder than straight-from-the-oven chicken?), i made a chicken noodle soup for patrick, the girls and me.

 true to form, the girls told me it looked yucky and they wanted to eat powdered donuts instead.

given the strange place i was in, i shrugged and gave them their powdered donuts. (pls don't judge.)

i picked up about 100 tiny child socks off the floor and paced around. unsure of whether now was the time to start preparing for the next phase of life or whether it was time to watch funny cat videos on Vine.

cat fails prevailed.

we picked the boys up from school and somewhere in there it dawned on me that this would be my new reality. i'd now have the freedom to pick my boys up whenever i wanted. holy cow.

evening:

patrick made us all pancakes, despite being short one egg and overdoing the vanilla a bit. i didn't mind the vanilla and just because i could, i sprayed the whipped cream extra high on mine. i also popped open the small maple leaf container of maple syrup that my brother made. my mom brought it to me this summer. i thought about my mom and my dad--knowing today was his day off.

i wondered where they ate for dinner. they always eat awesome dinners out.

i put the girls to bed and played a little sudoku on my tablet. i won't tell you how many times i used the cheat button because it was a lot. i swear the "easy" level on my app is programmed by demons.

netflix isn't working down here now as i type this, so that means i'll probably have to actually write the last few chapters of book two instead of watching the first season of Vikings for, like, the 90th time. i might have a thing for rollo now that you mention it...

mostly i'll think of how scared i was this morning when i woke up. how scared i was packing my things into those boxes.

and how not scared i am anymore.

when i went to bed: 

???

ninja gnome confession: i water the office plants with your coffee creamer

mostly, i want you to know that the amount of your expensive creamer i dump in the office plant has a direct correlation to how long you hold me hostage chastising me in all your pompous a#$ery for never having watched "shane" in my free time.

i love watching the internal dialogue of whether or not you really drank that much half & half in three days or not play out on your face.

i should feel remorse, but mostly i feel like my english breakfast tea tastes way better when i have my very own, evil secret to keep all to myself.

you'll recover, of course. and buy new creamer. but your plant? it's not looking so great...

oh yeah, i wrote a book

i got so wrapped up in all the things these past two weeks that i forgot to properly celebrate the fact that the huge adventure i promise myself in my birthday post (read it here) actually happened. my first book went live last sunday and i kind of just want to hold it, and pet it, and name it george.

except it's an ebook and i can't hold it. and there's a girl on the cover, so i'm sure i'd have to go with georgina.

but you get what i'm chuckin' at. book one dropped this month just like i said it would. it's free over at Barnes & Noble and hopefully, Amazon will price match that soon. enjoy the freeness. i love free books.

as hannibal liked to say, i love it when a plan comes together.

a-team, y'all....a-team.

...happy happy happy...

missing: her garden is gone

joy's house is about two miles away from mine and i think if i were to count up the times i've driven by it, twice a day, to and from work, it'd be in the hundreds now.

i loved her garden. in may it was bursting and overflowing with green and color and i saw her out there a few times. bent at the waist, digging, pulling and tending...her long blond hair in a ponytail.

she went missing on september 7 and for a few days, she was all over the news. here one day, shopping with her husband at a local garage sale...gone that night without a trace. keys left behind. purse on the counter.

our newspaper covered the story a few days into it, but really, our hometown is out of the coverage area so after the initial reports and a few updates, there hasn't been much to say.

i saw a few "missing" posters around town hung up in shop windows. eventually, they turned into advisories for fisherman, kayakers and hikers to be on the lookout when they used the shenandoah river. the sheriff never came out and said it, but it's slowly gone from search to recovery.

but nobody mentions joyce much in the news now because a college student in charlottesville went missing around the same time and they caught then man and now they're linking him to another murder of a college student a few years back. it's bigger news, i suppose, than the mysterious end to the quiet life of a 51-year old mother and garden lover.

and now, her garden is gone.

i drove by this weekend and it's been taken down and raked. nothing is left in her tiny plot of plants.

gone, too, are the missing posters and the river advisories.

must be that the smaller, sad news is harder for us to take.  harder for us to hang on to. nothing for us to grasp when the news cycle comes back 'round with the latest catastrophes and car crashes and workplace shootings.

i still drive by joyce's house every day, to and from work, and i think about her.

i catch glimpses of the river behind her house and i can't help but think of where the authorities assume she ended up.

i wish her story wasn't so easy to forget.

more than anything, though, i wish joyce was still around to tend to her cold-weather vegetables.

this is a story about tom the cat

It's pretty rare that I receive feedback from readers when I write most stories. Oh, people still call and rail at reporters and write to the editor, but I just don't write those types of stories. Not necessarily on purpose (but maybe so, just a little bit), but when you're the general assignment reporter who covers two of the most peaceful, idyllic towns on the eastern seaboard, you don't do a lot of stories that generate a lot of notice.

But this story....oh, have mercy.

I came to work today and had five voicemails waiting for me. I've had three messages since then, too. (These are huge numbers for me, people!)  Everyone wants a copy of the book. Everyone wants to support John Barr.

I'm hoping once you read the story from Saturday's paper, you'll understand why.

Photo by Michael Reilly, DNR. 8/30/14

BRIDGEWATER — A lifelong composer and musician, Bridgewater resident John Barr did what he’s always done — combining a number of elements to create a beautiful composition.

Except this time, instead of notes and chords, Barr blended words and pictures into a tale of famed Bridgewater feline, Tom the Cat.

In “Tom the Cat of Oakdale Park,” Barr, 75, captured the story of a feral cat living in one of Bridgewater’s parks and the many friends Tom made between 2008 and 2011.

“My wife, Ann, and I would walk the park every night and we would see this cat all the time, so we started feeding it,” Barr said. “Well, eventually, Tom would follow us on our walks like a dog. He’d wait for us every night. This went on for a few years.”

Tom — the Barrs gave him his name — ingratiated himself to a number of nearby homeowners. Soon many people in the area were feeding the cat, whose age and origin remain a mystery.
Folks also began leaving bedding out so he would have a warm place to sleep in the winter.

According to Barr, Tom even lived with a widow for about a year after her husband died.

“Every night, Tom would go to their front door and wait for Mr. Stark so they could go on their evening walks,” he said.  “After Mr. Stark passed away, Tom sort of adopted his widow Le [Lelia] and would stay indoors with her to keep her company.”

Mrs. Stark eventually moved and Tom was in need of a new home.

Anna Barr, whom everyone knew as Ann, suggested that she and her husband adopt the cat.
The decision came just after she had received a lung cancer diagnosis.

“As Ann’s health deteriorated and she got more and more sick, keeping Tom at home with our other cat Tigger wasn’t working out,” John Barr said. “I eventually found some friends in Augusta County who owned a farm and they agreed to take him in.”

Barr said that was probably the last piece of good news his wife got that year. She passed away on Jan. 29, 2012, just as Tom the Cat was making himself comfortable in his new home, barn and all.

While months and now years have passed, Barr never forgot about the long hours he and his wife spent walking with that orange tabby cat. He remembers telling his wife at one point that they ought to turn their stories with Tom into a children’s book.

Ann Barr was a longtime elementary school teacher who worked with children who had difficulty with reading.

“She always said that she loved children, but she especially loved the naughty ones and the ones who had the most trouble,” her husband recalled.

In a discussion with his son, Johnny, this past year, father and son agreed to go on the journey together of writing and illustrating a children’s book in Ann’s honor.

“My son’s a fantastic artist and majored in art when he went to school here at Bridgewater College,” said John Barr, who taught music and music theory for 34 years at the college. “He agreed to illustrate the book and I set to writing it with the help and encouragement of a couple of Ann’s friends.”

One of those friends was Bly Brown, branch manager at the North River Library in Bridgewater.
“Ann was a natural storyteller and I’d heard about Tom the Cat many times in my visits with the Barrs,” Brown said.

As John Barr wrote drafts of Tom’s story, Brown would edit and offer advice on story structure and pacing in children’s literature.

This summer, Barr delivered his finished product to a local print shop and the book “Tom the Cat of Oakdale Park” was published this month.

Brown thinks Ann would approve of the effort her husband undertook to tell the story they shared together.

“I almost want to tear up thinking about her,” Brown said, her voice breaking. “Ann would be so elated. She would have been John’s biggest cheerleader and would have wanted it done for their two grandsons. I know Ann’s been there with him the whole time saying ‘you can do this, my darling.’”

To Brown, the book is almost as much about the couple’s love for each other and their community as it is about a cat.

“It’s a simple book with a simple story, but the vision behind it is about a couple with a rich legacy of education and love for everyone around them.”

“Tom the Cat of Oakdale Park” is available at North River Library for checkout.  Brown keeps a couple of copies handy, as well, in case anyone wants to buy a $20 copy.

For Barr, though, it wasn’t about making it to the top of a bestseller list. It was about honoring his late wife.

“I’ve enjoyed this project. It’s a memory for me and one way to keep our life together alive,” Barr said. “We thought we would have had more time together, but I can’t complain about 46 wonderful years. You have to take what you can get and make the best of it.”

And as for Tom, he’s still living in Augusta County with two feline friends, Maxwell and Mariah, to keep him company.

“I think life turned out pretty good for ol’ Tom,” Barr said.

Mr. Roper Rides A Bull

I covered the older adults day at the fair yesterday and was getting frustrated after wandering around the grounds looking for someone (anyone!) who appeared to be old and enjoying themselves. 

I was shooed away by a couple of older ladies in big straw hats as they took in the crop museum in one of the barns. They were too busy, they said.

I was a little dejected, honestly. I was on my way to the FFA food booth the console myself with a friend twinkie when I heard a pretty loud commotion from one of the midway tents. I wandered up and saw this older gent seated on the mechanical bull getting tossed this way and that, whooping it up. 

There it was. I had my story.

Richard looks so much like Mr. Roper from Three's Company that he used to get into clubs and bars free in Branson, Missouri in the 80s when he and his wife would take the bus tours. He won a hula hoop contest in his 60s, beating out all manner of child and adult alike. 

He even told me he'd just taken his wife on the Ferris Wheel.

"We get to the top of the thing and you know what I say to her?" He asks me, accentuating the punchline with a squeeze of my arm. "I tell her 'put out or get out!' Looks like she didn't get out , right?"

I took a portion of the story that ran in today's paper and a couple of the photos I took that didn't run and shared them here. I figure everyone should meet Mr. Robinson.

HARRISONBURG — Richard Robinson Sr. of Lacey Spring had a crowd of onlookers gathered before the mechanical bull began moving.

Robinson, 76, gripped the rope by his knees and gave his wife of 60 years, Charlotte, a wink.

“He’s nothing but a recycled teenager,” Charlotte, 75, said, shaking her head. “You should have seen him during his Elvis impersonator days.”

With a whir, the bull began its spinning and bucking and Robinson held tight, lasting a total of 20 seconds before sailing off. He landed safely on the inflated mats, and gave his wife a thumbs-up.

The Robinsons attended the Rockingham County Fair on Thursday as part of Older Adults Day, where folks 60 and older paid just $2 at the gate.

“Older Adults Day is a long-standing tradition at the fair,” said Jeff Ishee, the fair’s general manager. “It’s always well-attended and makes for a fun day.”

For Robinson, it’s all about the adventure. Having seen a mechanical bull on television before, he always thought he’d like to try it someday.

“I have four grandchildren and six great-grandchildren,” he said. “I’m running out of good stories to tell them, so I have to stay interesting. I never back down from an adventure. I’m always on the lookout for a good time.”

“It’s never dull with Richard,” Charlotte said. “He’s the church clown, believe it or not.”

As Robinson sat tying his shoes on, the ride operator wrote his name on the record board. As of noon Thursday, he held the record for the 50 and older group.

“I’m going to keep swinging by here to check on this,” he said motioning to the board. “I get a free T-shirt to prove I won. How many people my age will have one of those?”

story 50: the obituary

it's all about quality, not quantity when it comes to your writing. when it comes to stories in your personal archive.

i get it.

but i still peek at the numbers and yesterday, i'd hit story 49. that's 49 stories in the six weeks i've been at the paper and that meant that today, i would write story 50.

i walked into work knowing what story 50 would be, but i was wrong.

story 50 turned out to be an obituary.

i've never written an obituary before.

i've written about quilting bees, eagle scouts, domesticated reindeer, pool tournaments where the age requirement was 80 years or older, and wheelchair rugby.

but never an obit.

i suddenly felt like i held someone's memory in my trembling, unlearned hands.

 sure, loved ones had their own memories, but the average reader who thumbed through each page of the newspaper over coffee? what memories would i leave with the reader who had never met the deceased but was suddenly sharing breakfast with a memory in newsprint?

suddenly it seemed the task was a tiger in the corner, coiled and ready to strike if i wrote a wrong word or bungled a detail. it would be a broken heart if i failed to capture this man's essence.

i was scared to make phone calls and talk to the people who loved him. the people who'd known him most of his 94 years.

but i made a few calls.

and it turns out, the people i called really wanted to talk about him.

they wanted to talk about his love of the mennonite church. his love of amateur radio and of reporting the weather. his love of his wife and children. of his community. of the three generations of people he'd inspired.

and suddenly, sitting at my computer with pages of notes and dates and milestones, the story just sort of wrote itself. the journey he took. his years as a conscientious objector during the second world war. his years as an early weatherman before the national weather service had its act together.

his years pastoring his many flocks.

suddenly this man's life was vivid and full of color in front of me and i couldn't type fast enough. suddenly i wished i had an infinite number of newspaper pages to fill with his fulfilled dreams and passions.

suddenly story 50 became my favorite story and suddenly, when the fear and the anxiety had gone, it was hard to say goodbye to the man behind story 50.

he does your hair (a letter to my girls)

dear ken and roo,

there's something i think you should know.

every day when i come home from work, i find your hair in lop-sided, uneven ponytails--sometimes using kid-sized elastics and sometimes using the huge ponytail elastics meant for my big ol' head. (those are funny days.)

you know what that means, don't you?

that means that every day, when the humidity sets in and your milk-and-sweat-soaked hair starts to plaster to your face, your daddy stands you between his knees with a tiny, fragile rubber band poised precariously between his enormous thumb and forefinger and he does your hair.

every single day--he performs this awkward ritual with a sense of  love and wonder and accomplishment and almost always with mixed, comical results.

your daddy does your hair for you.

i just thought you should know.

love you always,

mama

major dental work (a letter about boy wonder's trip to the dentist tomorrow)

(no, this is not a REAL letter to my darling baby boy. i honestly did tell him he'd be fine because he will. this is more a letter to my younger self. like the me who had two root canals at 31. she could have used this advice.)


dear boy wonder,

i know you're nervous about getting a couple teeth pulled tomorrow, but whatever you do, don't worry.

you're going to be just fine! 

how do i know?

well, i don't, but that's just what you tell people before they go to the dentist.

you'll be fine!

truth be told, i always found that the people who say "you'll be fine" when you mention the need to have major dental work never had major dental work...because people who have had major dental work tend to make the sign of the cross and dart across the street in case your impacted wisdom teeth are contagious.

(in your case, you have a couple bullied baby molars that can't get past the mean, grown-up adult molars, so really, YOU'LL BE FINE!)

i promise.

i do have a couple tips for you, though.

ready?

1. don't sing along to the music in your ipod.

it complicates things. a lot. i know the laughing gas they give you grants instant madonna-like singing abilities, but this isn't madison square garden and you don't have giant, cone boobies. you're just making it worse by singing the chorus of "vogue" while the dentist is untangling that molar root from your jawbone.

2. try not to swallow. at all. ever.

whatever you do, don't accidentally try to swallow the little spit-sucking vacuum. it all goes to hell if you do and they might never get your cheek out of the hose.

 i'm kidding. but seriously, try not to swallow the vacuum.

3. if you're dentist is a chatty, you have my permission to ignore him. 

that never made sense to me. how am i supposed to answer how my summer's going if there's half a yard of rubber sheeting bound to my gums with a thin hair elastic?

on top of that, you've just instructed me to be perfectly still for the next 90 minutes and in the next breath you're asking me if i'd read the latest shades of grey spinoff. NO!

and finally,

4. when it's over, smile. (but not too soon after surgery.) 

the bloody cottonwads might fall out and that's just gross.

i'm kidding, but i'm sort of not.

nobody likes to see big, gaping bloody pits of ooze and sometimes if you try to smile or talk too soon after major dental work, you spray bits of gum and blood everywhere and it's hard to concentrate and stay supportive when i really want to puke. so keep your gummy bits in your mouth and you'll have all the jell-o you can handle in no time at all.

if you find that you're being really, super funny, make sure your dad busts out the ol' camera phone and puts that on the youtubes. those videos of kids talking like space aliens on mushrooms are the best ever. right up there with the skateboarders who smash their nads on staircase railings.

remember what i said earlier? you'll be fine!

be brave and don't swallow the vacuum hose.

love you always,
mama