Our family tree

"You can tell a lot about a person by the way they....." I've heard this claim often and each time the statement has a different ending. As for my family, I would say, "You can tell a lot about my family by the way we decorate our Christmas tree."

In our house, each ornament represents a special moment in time and as we decorate the branches of our tree each year, we take a walk down memory lane and we are reminded of how truly blessed we are.

The small white teddy bears and little, red drummer boys represent my childhood. I remember when my mother bought them and I love knowing that she picked them out and touched them as she decorated our family tree. 

Hickory Dickory Dock, Humpty Dumpty and The Old Woman in the Shoe were gifts from my wonderful aunt. My pretty, fifth grade teacher put my name in glitter on a blue ball and our dear, next door neighbor did the same on a bright, red bird. I've proudly put these ornaments on my tree since I was a little girl.

I love imaging my husband carefully making the ornament with his black and white picture in the center of a tin can top when he was a little boy. I saw how carefully he made the bulb for our daughter's first Christmas. The other ornaments in his honor show he loves cooking, football, boating, crabs and the Chesapeake Bay. And, Santa surfing on a remote control represents his ability to flip from American Pickers, to Storage Wars, to a football game in a matter of minutes.

The Brownie Girl Scout, dancer, soccer player and cheerleader represent my daughter. The beautiful angel holding her trumpet shows her love for playing music in the band even today. The collection of Barbies denotes her favorite childhood past time. And, Pokey Little Puppy reminds us of how she likes to take in life at her own slow pace. 

Harry Potter riding on his Quidditch stick reminds us of my son who has read the books time and time again. The car keys represent the year he got his driver's license. Other ornaments show he prefers Coke to Pepsi and that he's famous for trying really hard not to drop Santa's cookies on the way to the fireplace. The many Curious George ornaments represent his everlasting curiosity. 

Each ornament tells a story. For instance, Johnny Quest. I had a crush on him as a kid. There was just something about his blond hair. And then there's Scarlett O'Hara. She represents my southern roots and our shared philosophy, "I'll think about it tomorrow."

The ball picturing George Bailey and his wife Mary reminds us that it truly is "A Wonderful Life." And, the family photo in Angelo's Italian Restaurant in New York City is a special reminder of one of our favorite nights of the year.

We added ornaments to our tree this year from two special friends... a dog house featuring a precious picture of our new dog Buddy and a glimmering, handmade bulb with the logo of the company my son will go to work for upon his graduation. 

If you need to know who we are, just look at our tree. Each ornament tells a little bit about each one of us and of the special friends and family we love at Christmas time and all the whole year through.

Wishing you a happy holiday season filled with all the special memories you share with your family and friends.

Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum!

It's all in a word

One of the most interesting essay questions I recall from my daughter's college application days was, "What is your favorite word and why?" When she said her favorite word was "paste," I encouraged her to move on. However, the question stuck with me and I've often found myself pondering, what is my favorite word and why?

Over the years, many beautiful words have come to mind... believe, love, dream, faith, hope...but it wasn't until last week in a hotel parking lot in a small town in North Carolina that I finally discovered my favorite word and why.

When our family dog died in March, I vowed I would never get another dog. After all, no dog could ever be as good as our precious girl. Not to mention, I was finally free to travel without worrying about who would take care of her. I could leave the house without counting the number of hours I had been out. And, at last, I could get a good night's sleep without a care of getting up to let her out.

However, my freedom came with a price. Sure, I didn't have any worries about a dog but I began to realize I didn't have any of the joy that comes from one either.

When I left the house, a dog wasn't there to look at me sadly as if to say, "Please don't leave me. I need you." When I came home, a dog wasn't there to excitedly greet me and seem to say, "Where have you been? You've been gone so long. I've missed you so much."

A dog wasn't there to say to me, "I adore you. You look beautiful even without your makeup on and I just love that 10 year old sweatshirt you're wearing." Or, "Wow, that meatloaf was excellent. You're a great cook. You're just the best at everything." The unconditional love and devotion from a dog was gone.

Fortunately, my husband was feeling the same way and the search began. I knew I didn't want a puppy and hoped to find a rescue dog. For months, I combed rescue websites until finally,  I found the one. She was with a rescue group in North Carolina and I would pick her up on my way home from visiting my family in the south.

But things don't always work out like we plan. The day before I left home, the foster mother called to say my dog had gone to another family who had inquired about her first. I was crushed. Just in case, I packed the crate in the back of my car hoping the adoption wouldn't work out.

As I sat on my sister's front porch in South Carolina, my cell phone rang. It was the foster mom. I anxiously answered thinking I was getting my girl after all. But, no. She was calling about a new rescue. The perfect weight, the perfect color, the perfect age, the perfect breed but it was a boy. She asked me to open my heart to a boy and sent pictures in an email. As soon as I saw his picture, I felt attached.

I headed north on Friday to a small town in North Carolina to meet the little guy. The foster mom met me at the Holiday Inn Express 40 minutes off of my route toward home. When he hopped down from her car, he immediately came to me and sat down. Our connection was instant.

From the very first moment, I knew this dog was meant for us. Our bond was obvious. And that's when the foster mom said, "I believe in providence." I should have known the meaning of the word. After all, I was born in Providence Hospital. I knew it meant something close to another wonderful word, serendipity. And it did.

Merriam-Webster defines providence as: a) divine guidance or care b) capitalized- God conceived as the power sustaining and guiding human destiny.

From the time he jumped in my car and crawled into his crate, he gazed at me as if to say, "We were meant to be together. Thanks for finding me." I have found the perfect dog and along the way I've discovered my favorite word and why. I believe in Providence.

We were meant to be.

Worth the wait

My brother has a way of making his opinion sound more like fact. So, when he called the night my labor pains were getting close to ten minutes apart and said, "You need to get to the hospital. You won't have any problems, you have wide hips," I believed him.

Armed with that promising thought, my husband and I anxiously headed to the hospital for the arrival of our first baby. For the first time, wide hips sounded like a good idea. 

We checked into the hospital around 9:00 on a Friday night. I figured I'd be holding my new baby by midnight. But, hours passed.  I labored and labored. We waited and waited. By morning the doctor said, this baby's not budging and I was rolled into the operating room for a c-section. How could this happen? I had wide hips.

Little did I know that this waiting game was a sign of things to come. We would spend years waiting for our daughter. Time after time, my husband and I paced back and forth while our son sat quietly as we waited for our daughter to come down stairs to go somewhere. Anywhere. Every time.

She simply doesn't like to hurry. And while it may be one of her most frustrating habits, it is also one of her most wonderful qualities.

You can't accuse her of not taking time to stop and smell the roses. She stops. Smells them. Admires them. Compares them to other flowers and then takes pictures of them. She takes time to appreciate things most people don't even notice... a bunny under a tree, a squirrel eating a nut, a little girl with a cute haircut, a duck bobbing along in the water, a group of toddlers walking in a line holding onto a rope. I know. I have the pictures to prove it.

When she lived in New York City, she texted pictures of the Empire State Building to me every few days as if she were seeing it for the first time. She took her lunch to Central Park and sat on her favorite rock to enjoy a sunny day. She walked 22 blocks to and from work everyday to take in the city even in the pouring rain.

She looks up as she walks so she doesn't miss a thing. She notices the most ordinary things and helps you to see them as extraordinary. She embodies the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Life is a journey, not a destination."

Today she celebrates her 24th birthday. No doubt she will take her time to delight in everything that comes her way... a cupcake with a candle in it, a birthday card with a funny message, a child she sees joyously swinging on the playground, a cute dog hanging its head out of a car window, an inch worm. And no doubt, her radiant smile and unmistakable laugh will show all who cross her path that she is happy, appreciative and worth waiting for.

Happy Birthday to my wonderful, pokey little daughter! Thank you for helping me see everything from Paris to bunnies through your eyes.

Hold on! Look at this cute, little bunny!

Trick or treat, bah humbug

The memory of "Tall Betsy" haunted me for years. At night when I closed my eyes, I would see her bobbing towards me just like she did that Halloween night when I was four-years-old. The tallest, scariest ghost I had ever seen. Well, the only ghost I had ever seen.

In reality, "Tall Betsy" was the ghost my older brother created using a broom, a pillow, a sheet and some string. It was a Halloween prank he had learned from our grandmother.

Some folks love Halloween and the pranks, decorations, and candy that goes with it. Others do not. I fall in the "do not" category. Maybe it was "Tall Betsy's" fault but I simply never got into the holiday.

I thought that would change when I had children of my own and I could get caught up in their excitement. But it didn't. At least not in the beginning.

My first real Halloween experience as a mom came when my daughter was three-years-old. She wanted to be a fairy princess. I found the perfect costume complete with a white gown and sparkling crown. My husband and I were more excited than she was. "Get your crown! It's time to go trick or treating," we called. "No," she said adamantly, "I don't want to wear it." No amount of convincing could persuade her to wear the crown.

It was cold that year so she became just a little girl in a blue coat with something white hanging down from underneath.

The following year, she wanted to be a witch. My husband and I waited patiently for her class to come filing out of the building for the pre-school Halloween parade. Out came Batman followed by Cinderella and Snow White. Where was our little witch? And then we saw her. She was no witch at all. She was wearing the dress she had worn to school. Seems she didn't want to participate in the Halloween parade. Seems she felt a lot like I did about Halloween.

But when it came to my son, it was a different story. Through him, I gradually gained an appreciation for the holiday. At three-years-old, he wanted to be Barney the Purple Dinosaur. On Halloween night, dressed in his purple dinosaur costume, he took off running to the first house on the hill. I will never forget the sight of his tail swishing back and forth as he ran.

He continued to run joyously from house to house all the way to the end of the street. I didn't mind carrying him home since his feet were hurting from wearing Barney slippers instead of his tennis shoes. He was happy and so was I.

Even after he gave up Trick-or-treating, he still had the Halloween spirit. With the help and encouragement of his father (not mine), he put together a delightful prank, a table with a bowl full of candy and a secret hole in the bottom. When kids grabbed the candy, he grabbed their hands from under the table. It was the best prank I had seen since "Tall Betsy."

In his senior year of high school, my son convinced me to carve pumpkins. Until that year, my children had only been allowed to paint their pumpkins and even that wasn't an annual event. I actually enjoyed the entire process and proudly displayed the first jack-o-lantern I had ever carved on the front steps alongside son's. (pictured below)

By the time I got a glimmer of happiness out of Halloween, it was over. My son went off to college. These days my only concern is how much candy to buy to have just enough so I won't eat what's left in the bowl.

Now when October 31st rolls around, I'm simply reminded that I no longer have children in the house to enjoy it ... or not.

Missing my children on Halloween!

Lessons one quote at a time

I love quotes. I love them on a sign. I love them on a frame. I love them on a pillow... on a boat and on a mote. You get the picture. Thinking back to my recent time alone in London, I find quotes help me best explain this first time experience.

"Do one thing everyday that scares you." - Eleanor Roosevelt

When my husband said we could extend our trip abroad as long as I was willing to spend three days in the middle of the week alone in London while he traveled to Germany on business, I quickly responded, "Sure! I can do that."

Over the next few weeks, my confidence crumbled. I lay awake at night fretting about the trip. Looking back, I'm happy that I didn't allow my fear to get in the way. While one scary thing a day may be a bit much, doing something outside of your comfort zone every once in a while is a good reminder that you can do whatever you put your mind to.

Repeat!

"Keep Calm and Carry On" - One of three morale boosting posters designed in 1939 by Britain's Ministry of Information after the outbreak of the war. Although posters with this sentiment were printed, they were never posted. Fortunately for me, the posters were discovered years later and "Keep Calm and Carry On," is now printed on just about everything, everywhere you go in London.

My first morning alone, I anxiously got in the shower and thoughts of the day ahead ran wildly through my head. What will I do? Where will I go? How will I get there? By the time I turned off the water, I was in full-on panic mode. That's when I pulled back the shower curtain and had my Janet Leigh in "Psycho" moment.  Someone was standing in the doorway. I jumped and screamed.

Turns out, it was just my night shirt on the back of the door. I laughed out loud (somewhat odd when alone) and said to myself, keep calm and carry on. My new mantra came in handy over the next few days, when I got caught in the rain without an umbrella, when I thought I had lost my special locket, and when I took the train in the wrong direction.  I kept calm and carried on. Thanks London for the constant reminder.

Lead us to a place, guide us with your grace
to a place where we'll be safe.

"Sanctuary, sanctuary." - Quasimodo, Hunchback of Notre Dame

My most treasured memory of my time alone was the day I spent at the National Gallery but more importantly where I found myself afterward. For hours, I admired the artwork of famous artists like Van Gogh, Rembrandt and Monet. I thoroughly enjoyed the company of my hand-held audio guide that I held to my ear to learn about the famous pieces of art.

Much to my dismay, my new friend "audio guide" wasn't allowed to leave with me as I stepped outside at the end of my visit. Standing on the beautiful Trafalgar Square, my old pal panic returned. I had no idea where to go next. With a couple of hours to spare before I headed to the theater, I felt lost. 

I kept calm and carried on across the street. People were walking into a church and I followed. Inside, people were sitting quietly and I joined in. I felt a sudden calm and a sense of welcome. Suddenly, I wasn't alone or lost at all. Looking around, I saw six other single women who had found sanctuary in this beautiful church.

When I returned home, I looked up the church in my trusty guidebook. Seems I was sitting in one of London's best loved and most welcoming churches, St Martin-of-the-Fields. Since 1914, the church has been a welcome sight for the homeless. It certainly welcomed me.

 Connection to home.

E.T. phone home - E.T.

Each night I felt like the wrinkled, little Extra Terrestrial chanting, "E.T. phone home, E.T. phone home." I anxiously counted back five hours. Ten o'clock PM meant 5:00 PM Eastern Standard Time. That meant they were home. My son and my daughter both patiently listened to my daily play by play. It felt good to speak out loud and share my experiences of the day. They were my connection to home and I will be forever grateful for their encouragement and support.

We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face...we must do that which we think we cannot." - Eleanor Roosevelt

Well said Mrs Roosevelt. Thanks to my solo trip, I'd like to quote Huggies Pull-Ups, "I'm a big kid now."

I'm a big kid now!

Where did my bees go?

When I was trying to decide the title of my blog, I wanted to include bees.  Bees in my bonnet that is. The things that annoy me... the daily irritants that get on my nerves.

The interesting thing is, now that I have a place to air my grievances, I'm having trouble finding something to gripe about.  Sure, I get annoyed at the people standing in my way in the aisles of the grocery store. Don't they have any spacial awareness? And, no, I don't want to see anyone's barefoot on a car dashboard. I hate feet. And, yes, it bugs me when I have to cross into oncoming traffic to go around a cyclist on a two lane road.  Why bike ride on a two lane road at 5:00 in the afternoon? That solid yellow line means something to me.

But, these little things just don't seem to be bothering me as much lately. It has been a while since that day I felt the need to ram my cart into the girl who was wandering aimlessly through Target while talking on her phone keeping me from getting by.

Perhaps by giving myself a place to share what irritates me, I have cured myself of being annoyed. Now when I hear other people complaining, I want to counsel them to let it go. Life is too short to get bothered by things we cannot control.

I'm keeping the word "bees" in the title. It just has a nice ring to it. Not to mention, the picture of the little bee my son added to the title is so cute.

And, I imagine I'll be back in touch with my complaining side before I know it. But for now, I'm enjoying not bee-ing annoyed.

Where's my bonnet?

Ode to a dog

As a child, I had big plans to write a book. Problem was, I didn't know what to write about. I went to my mother for help. She suggested I write about a dog.   Problem was, I couldn't get started because I couldn't think of a title. She thought of one for me, "Ode to a Dog."

I carefully printed the title at the top of the clean, white, lined page of my composition notebook. Problem was, I didn't have a dog so I didn't know what to write.  I'm not sure what ever became of that composition notebook. 

My mother was practically perfect in every way; however, she wouldn't let me have a dog no matter how much I pleaded for one. She knew who would ultimately be responsible for a dog....she would.  I got a turtle instead.

History repeated itself when I became a mother. My children also begged for a dog. For years, I stood firm and tried to give them substitutions for a one much like my mother had given me the turtle.

I gave my son a stuffed dog that barked and my daughter got one of those gross chia-pets that you water and green clover grows out of it. They still begged for a dog but I knew who would be responsible for it...I would.  

For my daughter's 9th birthday, we caved.  We arrived at the breeder's house and from the bottom of the pile of puppies, she pulled out the tiny, buff-colored runt.  She was so small she could fit in my husband's coat pocket.  

We took her home and quickly became smitten with our sweet girl.  She ran and played and cuddled. She was a wonderful dog.  Not once did she growl or snip.  She was practically perfect in every way except at an early age she went blind. 

Amazingly, she adapted quite well.  She got around just fine.  She could find me no matter where I was in the house.  At night, she courageously jumped out of one of the kid's beds and found her way to mine.  She was a brave little dog.  

She had a sense when one of us needed her. Problem was, at times, she just didn't know who needed her most. She would sit beside one of us and then jump down and find her way to the lap of another. She shared her love and concern with all of us.  

I became very attached to her.  Since she was such a special girl, I had a hard time going away and leaving her behind. I vowed once she was gone, that's when I would go to Europe with my husband.  

We lost our little gal in March.  She was 13.  Life without her has been an adjustment.  But, my husband and I were finally able to plan our trip to Europe. The daunting part of the trip came when he had to leave me in London while he traveled to Germany for business.

I was left alone in a country I had never seen before and I needed to be brave.  I thought of my sweet girl who would jump off the bed to find me.  If she could take a flying leap without the ability to see, surely I could find my way around London seeing the sights all on my own for three days.  

Walking around the city, I didn't feel alone. My sweet dog was with me every step of the way. I kept her picture in a locket around my neck. 

When my husband told me the day we were departing for the trip, I smiled. Our journey began on September 13... it would have been my little gal's 14th birthday.  Alas, Ode To A Dog. 

Sightseeing together in spirit!

Miscommunication and the missing check book

My husband is a word man.  He says what he means in as few words as possible.  Here's the problem: I hear his words, jumble them up in my brain and respond to what I think he said. Needless to say, this causes problems.  Our brains simply work differently.  The trick is to find the humor in it.

Several years ago, we decided to make some home improvements.  We opened a bank account that was devoted specifically for the project.  We had one check book that we passed back and forth between us to make purchases or to pay contractors.  Everything was fine until the check book went missing.  We blamed each other for losing it.

One day after hours of Christmas shopping, I called him to meet me for lunch at the mall.   We talked for the better part of our lunch hour about the whereabouts of the missing check book.  We took turns reminding each other about when it was used last (by the other person).

Fortunately, the lunch meeting was not completely lost on the missing check book.  We enjoyed the last few minutes chatting about the holidays and the gifts we were getting for our family.   I quickly forgot all about the missing check book.  My mind had moved on.

After lunch, he drove me to my car that was parked at the opposite end of the mall. At the time, I drove a blue Ford Taurus wagon.  I loved that Taurus wagon. Even though it was a station wagon, I thought it was stylish and pretty.   I felt good in it.  I found my keys in my purse and got out of his car.  The check book was far from my thoughts.

"Look good in your car, now," he said.

I quickly responded, "Oh, I always look good in my car."

He smiled, "I meant for the check book."

Me "looking good" in my car.

Final thought: If you're missing your check book, look in the pocket of your husband's raincoat.  That's where we found ours.

A change of heart

I was a chubby kid.  In my mind, I was fat.  My sister tried to make me feel better by saying, "You're not fat.  You're pleasantly plump." Oddly, that didn't help much.

Throughout childhood, my best friends were my cousins.  They were thin.  We spent hours playing together and most of the time we got along swimmingly.  But, once in a while, after we had spent too much time together, things would turn ugly.

In typical childhood fashion, we would resort to name calling.  They would call me, "fatty," and I would put my hands on my hips and  retaliate by yelling, "Well, I'd rather be fat than so skinny I'd blow away in the wind."

Yep, that was a clever rebuttal but secretly I wanted to be the "skinny" one in the name calling game.

Fatty and two skinnies

I grew up and remained one of the bigger girls.  My sister and I have often laughed about the fact that we both jumped from a size 6X to an 11.  My dad liked to say, "You're just a big girl," as if that big bone theory made it all better.

As I approached my 50th birthday, I also approached a number on the scale I hadn't seen since I was an expectant mother.   I had to make a change.  I started exercising for the first time in my life. Surprisingly, I started to understand what people meant by that annoying comment, "Exercising makes you feel better."   I actually feel better physically and mentally.

These days my cousins and I laugh about the good old days and compliment each other's hair styles and outfits.  Gone are the insults of our youth.  Yet, I am reminded of the name calling game every year about this time when the county fair comes to town.

I go to the fair every year.   I love it.   I love the mother cow and her two-day old calf, the lopped-eared bunnies, the prize winning jams and cakes, the pig races, the blue ribbon quilts, the fried foods, and laughing hysterically on the Tilt-A-Whirl with my children.

Simply put, I love everything about the fair except one thing... the clown in the dunking booth.  You know the one.  He hurls insults at people as they walk by so they will stop and try to knock him into the water by hitting a target with a baseball.  Every year, I try to sneak around the crowd so he can't see me.  I fear his name calling.

The only time I have ever stopped anywhere near him was when my husband took a try at him and quickly dropped him in the water with one swift pitch.  I watched proudly from afar so I wouldn't catch one of his insults.

This year, I went to the fair with my children.  We enjoyed all the things I love.  We petted the animals in Old McDonald's Farm, we perused the homemade quilts and baked goods, we ate deep fried Oreos, and we laughed hysterically on the Tilt-A-Whirl.  But as we were leaving, we had to walk by the dreaded dunking booth.

And that's when I heard him yell in his horrible, annoying voice, "Hey skinny."

Who me? Was he talking to me?

I slowed my pace a little and turned my head slightly toward him and he yelled again, "Yea, I'm talking to you, skinny." I walked on by and turned to my daughter and she confirmed, "He was talking to you."

I've had a change of heart about that game.  I may just spend the next year working on my pitching skills.  Turns out, the best compliment I've ever received was actually an insult from my new best friend, the clown in the dunking booth at the fair.

I like you now.

Birthday of a blog

When I was 10-years old, the thought of turning 52-years-old never entered my mind.  The following year, the idea became a mild obsession.

Apparently, it is common for girls to believe they will die at the same age as their mothers.  My mother died at age 51 when I was 11 years old.  In my mind, I would do the same.  I was wrong.  Today is my 52nd birthday.

I’ve lived my life much like my mother.    I grew up, I went to college, I got a job, I got married, and then I left the working world to raise my children full time.   Now, my children are grown and suddenly I have lost my purpose.  My daily life has changed.

I am no longer needed as their chauffeur, clothes shopper, cook, laundry coordinator, teacher conference representative, appointment setter or birthday party planner.   At 52, I am faced with finding a new job, a new purpose.  And since I didn’t get the chance to see what my mother would have done, I am left without a road map.

So I ask myself, what am I good at?

I’ve been known to tell a good story.  They sound very Forrest Gumpy since they usually start with, “my mama always said.”

I am also good at offering advice to my children, husband and friends.  Once a friend even compared me to the Dalhi Lama.  (Most fun compliment ever.)

Additionally, I am proficient at complaining.  The heat, the cold, the wait, the attitude, someone driving too slow, someone driving too fast, texting habits, bad food…  complaining is my specialty. 

And finally, I am a good writer.  Of letters that is… the old-fashioned ones that are hand delivered by the mailman.  

My family and friends have often encouraged me to write a book.  I have appreciated the suggestion since they must believe I have a reason to write one but it’s far too intimidating.  Since writing a book is out, they have encouraged me to write a blog.

Therefore, to commemorate the day I thought I would never see, I am stepping out of my box and starting a blog filled with what I do best...  looking at life and putting in my two cents; sharing the morals of “my” stories; and complaining about the things that bother me most (aka, bees in my bonnet). Happy Birthday blog!

Oh yes, I have another talent … the EtchASketch.

Me stepping out of my box

A promise is a promise

My favorite little dolls as a kid were called “Little Kiddles.”  They were to me what Polly Pockets were to my daughter.  They were about two inches tall and made of rubber.

I only had two… Lola the sailor girl who came with a white, rubber sailor hat and her own red and yellow sail boat.  The other was a little brown-haired girl whose name I cannot remember who drove a cute, yellow convertible.   

Lola and her little friend had such fun.  They would try to fit in the little brown-haired girl's car for a day of shopping.  Or, cram in Lola's sailboat for a day on the water.   Lola always sported her sweet sailor hat when she would take a sail on her boat. 

One day, my brother asked me to borrow Lola’s hat.  He had a school assignment to transform an egg into any type of character he desired.  He chose a sailor.  Lola’s hat would make his “sailor egg” complete. 

Being the selfish child that I was, I said no.  He begged and begged but I still said, no.  He promised he wouldn’t lose it.  I still said, no.  Finally, my mother convinced me to let him borrow the hat.   In other words, she made me let him use it.

That was the last I ever saw Lola’s hat.  She became just a sailor girl on a boat with no sassy hat.

About the same time, my mother bought a little bag of bee patches to cover a hole in one of my shirts.  She often used patches to cover holes in my clothes since I was quite particular about what I would wear.  It was much easier to patch a shirt that I loved than try to find a new shirt I would be willing to wear.

She didn’t use the last bee patch in the bag.  I asked her if I could have it.  She replied, “No, you might lose it.”  I begged her to give me the patch much like my brother had begged me for Lola’s hat.

I promised I would never lose it.  She finally relented and handed over the patch.  Days passed and I never figured out what to do with the patch so I put it in my jewelry box for safekeeping. 

Years passed and I never used the bee patch.  Instead, I simply kept it in my jewelry box. 

Today, everyday when I open my jewelry box I see the patch.  I never lost it as my mother predicted.  I promised I wouldn’t. 

As I raised my children, I made promises only when I knew I would keep them.  In our house, a promise is a promise.  I often say, when I’m gone, my daughter gets my jewelry and my son can have the bee patch.  I think that’s fair.

Most valuable bee patch

Moral of the story: Keep your promises and your childhood treasures.