Last Saturday, I got the best haircut I have had in years. I went to Pop’s and Omar’s at around 1030 in the morning. There were 3 barbers working and about 6 guys in line in front of me. I ended up waiting for almost an hour before my turn came. The barber really took his time with the clippers and scissors. I didn’t think I had enough hair to keep him busy for very long, but I guess I was wrong. After he was done cutting my hair, he used the straight razor to clean up around the ears and on the neck. That was really nice. After that, he then trimmed my eyebrows. I know that my bushy brows can scare children, so everyone in the office appreciated that touch. Finally, he picked up what appeared to be a surgical clamp with some gauze on the end. After lighting the gauze, he burned the fuzz off my ears! I was in shock.
I have had many encounters with fire. I remember one time when Jeff and Rayford (our cousin) burned down the barn while I was in it. Also, the highlight of every family Christmas celebration for my mother’s side of the family included a fun little game called fireball. Joey and I almost burned down someone’s dock setting off fireworks one time. I could go on and on, but you will notice that none of these encounters included a barber.
I guess about the only thing left is for the barber to start plucking my nose hairs.
(This post was not pre-approved by the Editor prior to posting!)
When spring arrives the innate urge to plant something in the ground can be overwhelming for a gardener. The back left corner of my yard seems a perfect spot for my vegetable garden. Last fall, with Dale gone and my focus of painting and organizing the house, I knew it was not wise to prepare a bed for spring planting. If I wait for Dale to return, he can help me and if I do it correctly, my garden will be more fruitful next spring. But this spring is here and I am truly my Mother’s daughter in planting without preparation. My Mother had a terrific garden in Minnesota, but it was a hodgepodge that lacked a cohesive plan. She would buy a plant or be given a plant and say, “I have to plant it somewhere” and so she would. Because of her house renovation this winter, her new garage is now where her garden was and her plants have been dug out and scattered amongst friends and neighbors. She gets to start her garden anew and has asked a friend to help her with the plan. I know if my husband returns for his two week break to find me with a rototiller, he will be a bit irritated. I have told him that he does not have a to do list and that he may sleep for the entire two weeks. So, I must accept the fact that a rototiller is detrimental to our marriage. I have decided to instead focus on the existing flower beds. I have planted various things at most of the houses I have lived in and have hated only one garden. Our house in Australia was a professionally landscaped garden that was drought tolerant. It was full of spiky things and spiders and overrun with weeds that I would battle all summer long. I loved only the camellias that bloomed when it was cool. After I moved into this house, I asked the previous owner to walk the garden with me and tell me what was planted where. My Mother followed along with a piece of paper making a rough sketch. The previous owner has planted many trees, shrubs, plants and bulbs. I have planted many of these same plants in various places we have lived, but never saw them mature. I really feel it is a gift that I am able to enjoy the 28 years of care that he put into this garden. I know I need to make an accurate sketch, track the amount of sun, choose a color palate, amend the soil, coordinate bloom times, research the best place to purchase plants, etc. Yesterday, I went into the home improvement store to buy a pair of loppers to battle the wisteria. “I’ll just look around a minute,” I thought. “Oh, pincushion flower…I love pincushion flower.” Oh well, “I have to plant it somewhere”.
We attended the neighborhood Easter Egg hunt today. Spring is taking off with the forsythia, quince, pear trees, and magnolias in bloom. It felt like Easter should be arriving soon. In Australia, I had to constantly tell myself that the holidays were still in the same month. Because the seasons are opposite, the holidays never felt like they were at the correct time. When you live 39 years in the Northern hemisphere having Easter in Autumn, the 4th of July in winter, and Christmas in summer is difficult to get used to. Easter Egg hunts were a major part of Dale’s childhood memories. His Mama was a children’s pastor for years and they would hard boil and dye countless eggs for the church’s Easter Egg hunt. Dale will have to comment with the number of eggs they dyed each year. He told me the number once, but all I can remember thinking is…”how can you possibly boil that many eggs?” I love hard boiled eggs, but am hopeless at cooking them. I know it is supposed to be a simple cooking task, but for some reason I only occasionally do it correctly. The Manrys would have a massive egg hunt at the church and eat hard boiled eggs for a week. I, however, grew up with the tradition of hunting for my Easter Basket. My Mom would hide our baskets throughout the house and we would wake up Easter morning and search for them. We would attend sunrise service and then the church would host a pancake breakfast that the men would cook. When we returned home, we would continue searching for our baskets. One year, my Mom hid mine in an old cigar box that was piled up with a bunch of junk stacked next to the steps. That one took a long time to find. I know I am getting old because instead of always wanting to celebrate holidays differently, I am now quite nostalgic for traditions of my past. I want to wave palm branches on Palm Sunday, I want to attend Good Friday Service and contemplate Christ’s death on the cross, I want to wake up for Easter Sunrise Service and stand outside singing the praises of the resurrection. I want to hear the same passages read on those days year after year because they are the most significant reminders of why we follow Christ. I admit that Easter Egg and basket hunts are not as important as the other celebrations of Easter, but I find them fun none the less. In a combination of traditions, our kids usually attend both an Egg hunt and an Easter morning basket hunt. The egg hunt for years was provided courtesy of Army mandatory fun. Some units still hold Egg hunts and Christmas parties. In Australia, we attended the egg hunt on the grounds of the American Embassy. The challenge during that hunt was avoiding the magpies that would swoop down, crack the plastic egg, steal the lolly and fly away. Being Australian magpies, they thought of it as a lolly not a candy. Todays Easter Egg Hunt had separate areas for different age children, a large decorated white chair with an Easter Bunny sitting in it for pictures, and a table of cupcakes that someone cleverly made look like baskets using a piece of red licorice. I considered it fairly self explanatory, but it did not stop a kindly woman from attempting to inform the crowd about what to do. She of course could not be heard over the wind and the children, but she was not deterred. Zeke ran about jumping over various eggs and picking up others at random. Josiah was trying to determine why Zeke was jumping over the eggs. I told him that it was impossible to figure out the thought process of a 3 year old in the midst of an egg hunt.
Josiah participated in the school wide Math Olympics on Friday. I was disappointed to discover that it did not involve a whiteboard, markers and a large time clock. Josiah was a part of the reasoning team which solved word problems. They all took several series of tests. He came in 3rd place. I asked him who beat him and he replied, “some other kid who looked like a nerd.” I guess that’s to be expected.
While in Dahuk with Glenn, Gee took us to Ineshke to see the waterfalls. According to Gee, Saddam had these falls created for his own private resort. Once again, Saddam had all of the original inhabitants of the area removed before building his resort. The area today is rundown and neglected.
While I was in Dahuk, I had the pleasure of meeting Gee’s family. Gee’s real name is Ghufran. He is originally from Dahuk. In 1986, he ended up in Nashville, Tennessee. While in Nashville, he met Ravin, who also happened to be from Dahuk. They were later married and now have 4 children: Mateen (son - 13); Avahi (daughter - 11); Ragur (son - 8); and Vajin (son - 5). The kids are Americans through and through.
Gee calls me Boss. I told Gabe this, and now Gabe likes to call me Boss every now and then. When Gee was working in Mosul, I had promised him that I would move him to the Dahuk office at some point. When that finally happened, he moved his family from Tennessee to Dahuk. I kept promising to get back up to Dahuk to visit his family, so Gee kept telling his kids that Boss was going to visit. When I finally made good on my promise, I had a blast with the Barzanis. As I was leaving, Ragur, the 8-year old, said “Bye, Boss”. I think Ragur and Gabe could be good friends!
