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In June, Dale and I celebrated our 19th wedding anniversary. At the start of our marriage, the approach of our anniversary usually warranted Dale making a trip to Walmart the day before to find that wonderful gift which says “I love you – Made in China.” After several years of Walmart, to his delight, He discovered proflowers.com which not only sends a gift which says “I love you – Grown in Brazil,” but also sends him reminders of the impending date on which he better have something to give to his wife.

This year, I requested the flowers be of more permanent nature and asked him to buy me rosebushes. My stipulations were they must be red, white, or yellow and hard to kill. He looked at the tags, picked out healthy bushes, and brought them home. They were lovely. Three were terrific and he had the right to claim the other two followed the stipulations also. I could not argue too strongly against his claims and am not sure who declared red knockout roses red, for they are definitely hot pink. Taking his colorblindness into consideration, I asked if I could return them.

Relieved to have gift buying over, he agreed. I returned the roses to the greenhouse where he purchased them, but the majority of their roses were gone.  I checked greenhouses, home improvement stores, and (in desperation) Walmart. No roses to be found. I racked my brain for another place to check and thought suddenly of The Land Of the Garden Gnomes.

Every week on my way to and from the Commissary, I drive down a section of Highway 1 that time has forgotten. I love to drive it. It is as if I am transported back in time. It consists of places to buy ammo and bait, used tires, and sketchy food. Out of all of this strangeness I do not think anything amuses me as much as the sight of The Land of The Garden Gnomes.

Stretched out behind a group of disparate buildings and greenhouses is a gravel lot full of every imaginable piece of statuary. I had never stopped nor walked amongst it. So, I knew instantly the kids and I had to take a field trip. To The Land of The Garden Gnomes we went.

We saw all manner of stone shapes, Saints, animals, war figures, cannons, birds, insects, foreign gods, benches, sculptures of people lacking clothing, and fairy creatures. The kids and I wandered for an hour finding one absurd item after the next. I set the kids on the mission of finding the least expensive thing so we could buy it. They chose a small frog.

I spent an hour considering the plentiful choices of rose bushes. Made a list of possibilities to check on the internet and then wandered through the greenhouses and building. The choices inside of the store were almost as amazing as the gravel lot. There was perfume, hats, blankets, flags, clogs, tools, knickknacks, pots, and art.

When the owner realized we were only buying a small frog after looking for two hours, he insisted we return the next day when he would have a “Buy 3 roses, get 1free” special, free ice cream, and a radio station broadcasting out front. I didn’t really believe him for he was a bit of a story teller.

However, the kids were thrilled when we returned the next day and found that it was all true. They ate their free icecream, I bought my roses, and they began to dream of the next trip to The Land of The Garden Gnomes.

Today is school picture day and the kids had a choice to wear their school uniforms or “Sunday’s Best.” They all opted for “Sundays Best.” Josiah’s version of “Sundays Best” could be disputed. However, I’ve learned to be grateful for the days when my sons remember to comb their hair, so I stayed quiet.

Zeke, who is in Kindergarten, insisted on wearing a tie. I attempted to tie a tie for him, but all memory of how to do that fled. So, Zeke went to school with Gabe’s clip-on tie. Gabe wanted to wear a tie too, but I could not find the tie that matched his outfit. It was hidden somewhere in Josiah’s closet and even after dumping all Josiah’s clothes on the floor, I could not locate it. Gabe was forced to do without.

My life would have been much simpler this morning if I had completed the clothes gathering, ironing, form filling, and check writing last night. However, I convinced myself, once again, “if I wake up a few minutes earlier, I will have plenty of time to get it all done.” I believe myself every time and ignore the stack of evidence against me.

Amazingly, they all arrived at school with hair combed, cleaned and pressed clothing, and completed order forms. I was feeling good about my nearly perfect procrastination success as I watched Gabe walk away from the car in a really nice white shirt.

My good feeling evaporated as I began to think of all the items in Gabe’s lunch that could stain his really nice white shirt. (peanut butter, grape jelly, apple sauce, chocolate chips) As I drove home, I worried over the condition his “Sundays Best” would be in by the time school was over. Then, I arrived home and saw Gabe’s forgotten lunchpail on the floor. I’m sure he’d agree with me that it’s for the best.

Regardless of whether or not the Army actually lets someone retire, they require every potential retiree to attend training on how to be a civilian. This training is mandatory and follows the standard operating procedure of all Army training: Conduct training in warm crowded room; Talk in monotone voice; Read off power point slides that are neither updated nor accurate; Spend majority of time explaining how to fill out a form. Civilians would find this standard of training unacceptable and demand it be changed. However, military people have not been trained on how to be a civilian yet, so they just quietly endure.

Dale slogged through his mandatory training with a firm resolve to learn what it took to become a civilian. With excessive quantities of coffee flowing through his veins, he attempted to stay awake and learn something new. It looked dire for days, when suddenly a real live civilian appeared. A well dressed tailor stood at the front and began to explain to the flabbergasted audience how to dress well.

Dale has spent 20 years putting on a uniform according to regulations, but when he changes out of his uniform, he puts on one of two things: jeans and a t-shirt or khakis and a button down shirt. How to dress well has never been his concern. So, he was amazed to learn about thread count, acceptable knots and materials for ties, number of buttons on suit coats, why you need a brown belt and a black belt, and about items strangely termed “accessories for men.”

The tailor informed him that a potential employer will not want to pay him a good salary if he is wearing a cheap suit. Thankfully, Dale was not one of the poor individuals who dared to wear their cheap suits to the class for evaluation. The tailor was a well spoken and forthright man who told the class to spend at least $500 on their suit, and he emphasized very strongly, “the clothes make the man.”

I was considering this point of view as I watched the Chicago Bears new quarterback play last night. When he quarterbacked for another team the last several years, he was really good. We Bears fans entered the season with high hopes with doubts. Bears fans are eternally optimistic and eternally pessimistic all at the same time. As I watched our new quarterback have the worst game of his career, I began to think “it must be the clothes”  No matter how good of a quarterback someone is prior to putting on a Bear’s uniform, once he puts on the uniform, he becomes an awful quarterback. The clothes make the man.

It is 9/11 once again. There are ceremonies at the Pentagon, in New York City, and in Pennsylvania. Some flags are at half staff, but some people forget. Life moves on and we are distracted. So, the leaders of America call us to remembrance.

Remember those who hate us and would kill us for our beliefs. Remember those who mourn a painful loss. Remember those who help us and protect us from danger. Remember those who fight the enemy far away so we can live peacefully here. Remember. Then pray.

Pray for those who hate us and would kill us for our beliefs. Pray for those who mourn a painful loss. Pray for those who help us and protect us from danger. Pray for those who fight the enemy far away so we can live peacefully here.

A Day of Remembrance without a belief in God is a day full of sorrow. A Day of Remembrance with a belief in God is a day full of sorrow, comfort and hope. God helps us endure the Day of Remembrance.

My search for a good hair stylist begins upon arrival at a new location, and it takes me awhile to find one. The search criteria involves not only a good hair cut, but decent price and the tricky bit of feeling comfortable with someone. This hair stylist search was simple only once.

The kids and I lived with my parents while Dale was in Korea and we all got our hair cut by my mom’s friend, Robin. Robin has a little shop next to her house. She is a good hair stylist, economical, friendly, and provides toys for the kids to play with.

Here in Virginia, I searched for 18 months until I found a good stylist. She came to my house, cut all our hair one after the other, and was really nice. I was happy. Her only fault was having a husband who was reassigned to Texas. She moved this summer. Now, I was unhappy.

The stylist did not leave me without a recommendation. She suggested I go to see Simmy. So, this morning I paid Simmy a visit. I told her I needed a color and cut and my eyebrows brought back under control. We Manrys have some serious eyebrows.

Dale was unaware that people trimmed eyebrows until a barber in Iraq went after his. He didn’t think anything worse could happen. Then, the guy lit a cotton swab on fire and burnt the hair out of his ears. He was glad to return to America where they just give you a haircut and leave the rest alone.

Simmy looked me over, considered for a moment, and declared, “Simmy make you beautiful!” My first thought was “fat chance.” Josiah informed me once that the phrase “fat chance” made no sense, but I still say and think it anyway.  Simmy, assuming my stunned silence was confidence in her declaration, got to work.

She died my hair “dark and rich.” In Australia, I once had a stylist dye my hair goth black. The looks of shock on my friends’ faces and the stammered words said it all. I had not wanted to be goth, but I was. Since that time, I had refused to have my hair dyed dark, but there was no stopping Simmy.

She attacked my bushy eyebrows with a vengeance and cut and cut and cut my hair. I have had whispy bangs for years, but Simmy wanted a full bang. She finished by blowing dry and using a straightening iron on my hair. I think the last person who straightened my hair was Judy on the morning of my wedding.

When she finished, I looked in the mirror and laughed. I didn’t recognize myself. I thanked her, paid, and chuckled the whole way home. Then I drove to pick up Zeke. He got into the car and his eyes opened wide at the sight of me. “Why did you get different hair, Mommy?”, he said. I told him Simmy wanted me to have different hair, so now I had different hair.

Because Zeke gets put into the van by the teacher while I’m in the driver’s seat, he hadn’t seen me clearly. So, after he raced through the door into the house, he turned around, looked at me and screamed, “Ahh! You’ve got Dora hair!”

Mugs' New Hairdo