Missing you!
L.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Be All That You Can Be
On my way home from work yesterday, I stopped to visit my local grocer to pick up chili-making essentials in anticipation of a major ice storm and subsequent snow days. The ice storm didn’t come in my part of the state, no snow days were issued, and something went bad wrong with the chili.
But, being the bright-eyed optimist I strive to be, I decided today not to focus on the chili that smells like wet socks, or the fact that I’ve spent the entire day at work. I focused on the young African American girl who made me smile so broadly while I waited in the Oh-My-God-Things-Are-Predicted-To-Fall-Out-Of-The-Sky-So-We-Must-Stock-Up-On-Bread-And-Milk checkout line.
As you know, checkout lanes are lined with magazines featuring celebrities who are too fat, celebrities who are too thin and celebrities who are just right. Oddly enough, not yesterday. I hadn’t noticed that three of the six magazines had a picture of President Obama on front until I heard:
“Daddy, is that President Obama?” a little voice squeaked behind me.
I turned to see a cutie, cutie little face peaking out of a pink and blue stripped tobaggon with a ball on top. She was accompanied by a young man who looked entirely too young to be her father.
“Yes, it is,” Daddy responded.
“How long will he be president?”
“Four years. See every four years we have a presidential election. Obama can run again then,” Daddy explained while tapping his foot and being seemingly annoyed that the line was taking forever (me too, Daddy, me too).
“So he can be president again?” the little girl continued.
“Yes, if he’s reelected. He can serve up to eight years. “
“Can a girl be president?” cutie little girl asked.
“Of course,” Daddy said. There was a slight pause, and Daddy added,
“If she wins.”
L.
But, being the bright-eyed optimist I strive to be, I decided today not to focus on the chili that smells like wet socks, or the fact that I’ve spent the entire day at work. I focused on the young African American girl who made me smile so broadly while I waited in the Oh-My-God-Things-Are-Predicted-To-Fall-Out-Of-The-Sky-So-We-Must-Stock-Up-On-Bread-And-Milk checkout line.
As you know, checkout lanes are lined with magazines featuring celebrities who are too fat, celebrities who are too thin and celebrities who are just right. Oddly enough, not yesterday. I hadn’t noticed that three of the six magazines had a picture of President Obama on front until I heard:
“Daddy, is that President Obama?” a little voice squeaked behind me.
I turned to see a cutie, cutie little face peaking out of a pink and blue stripped tobaggon with a ball on top. She was accompanied by a young man who looked entirely too young to be her father.
“Yes, it is,” Daddy responded.
“How long will he be president?”
“Four years. See every four years we have a presidential election. Obama can run again then,” Daddy explained while tapping his foot and being seemingly annoyed that the line was taking forever (me too, Daddy, me too).
“So he can be president again?” the little girl continued.
“Yes, if he’s reelected. He can serve up to eight years. “
“Can a girl be president?” cutie little girl asked.
“Of course,” Daddy said. There was a slight pause, and Daddy added,
“If she wins.”
L.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Farm
One day,I'm going to write a song called, "The Farm."
Just wait, it will happen.
In 1997, my father died. I was asked what I most wanted to include at the funeral. I couldn't come up with anything. I felt lost--like I should add something to such a meaningful service.
I woke up in the middle of the night the day before the serive with something stuck in my head.
My father should be buried under "Matteson Farm dirt."
The next morning, I approached my mother. I said, "I realize this will sound strange, but Dad needs to be buried under 'farm' dirt."
She said, "OK, Linsley, we'll make that happen."
It came to me in the middle of the night, almost as if Dad had approached me to tell me something no one else would hear or say. So, I said it.
Two days later, he was buried under "farm" dirt with a handful of pecans.
God bless him.
What I didn't know before that day was that long before I was born, my great-grandfather, my father's grandfather had specifically asked to be buried under "Matteson Farm dirt."
In 1999, my grandfather died, and asked, once again, to be buried under dirt from the farm.
Yesterday, I stood up at a funeral and poured dirt from Matteson Farms over my grandmother's casket.
It's a wonderful gesture. To have the ground that sowed your fortune be placed upon your grave.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
I want to be cremated. And please don't pine over a casket for me. Please don't embalm me.
Please place my remains in a beer can and sink them to the bottom of Lake Greeson--from whence we came.
But, in that can, please add a little dirt from Matteson Farms. We should all remember every facet of our lives.
My life goes from Matteson Farms to Lake Greeson to Fayetteville to DC to Little Rock and, no doubt, places far away from here.
But, at the end of the day, I want to be in a place I always loved.
A place people will love long after I've gone. Just place a little farm dirt along with me.
I'm a Matteson. And I need that little bit of "farm" to go with me, too.
L.
Just wait, it will happen.
In 1997, my father died. I was asked what I most wanted to include at the funeral. I couldn't come up with anything. I felt lost--like I should add something to such a meaningful service.
I woke up in the middle of the night the day before the serive with something stuck in my head.
My father should be buried under "Matteson Farm dirt."
The next morning, I approached my mother. I said, "I realize this will sound strange, but Dad needs to be buried under 'farm' dirt."
She said, "OK, Linsley, we'll make that happen."
It came to me in the middle of the night, almost as if Dad had approached me to tell me something no one else would hear or say. So, I said it.
Two days later, he was buried under "farm" dirt with a handful of pecans.
God bless him.
What I didn't know before that day was that long before I was born, my great-grandfather, my father's grandfather had specifically asked to be buried under "Matteson Farm dirt."
In 1999, my grandfather died, and asked, once again, to be buried under dirt from the farm.
Yesterday, I stood up at a funeral and poured dirt from Matteson Farms over my grandmother's casket.
It's a wonderful gesture. To have the ground that sowed your fortune be placed upon your grave.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
I want to be cremated. And please don't pine over a casket for me. Please don't embalm me.
Please place my remains in a beer can and sink them to the bottom of Lake Greeson--from whence we came.
But, in that can, please add a little dirt from Matteson Farms. We should all remember every facet of our lives.
My life goes from Matteson Farms to Lake Greeson to Fayetteville to DC to Little Rock and, no doubt, places far away from here.
But, at the end of the day, I want to be in a place I always loved.
A place people will love long after I've gone. Just place a little farm dirt along with me.
I'm a Matteson. And I need that little bit of "farm" to go with me, too.
L.
Smile. Always Smile.
On Friday my only living grandparent passed away.
I was initially sad, but it wasn't a sad day. She was 92-years-old and had experienced a wonderful, long life. A life filled with two children who adored her, five grandchildren who loved her, and four great-grandchildren who had the opportunity to know her, and she them.
She and I had our disagreements; our distances. But, she was a southern lady through and through.
I last spoke to her on New Year’s Eve. She told me of how she didn’t want my uncle to find her dead because, “he’s seen too much death in his life.”
I couldn’t argue with that. He’d found my father, my grandfather, my great-uncle, all dead. He really had seen “too much death.”
She also told me she was proud of me and my choices. She loved me. She loved Dave. She wanted us all to know that at the end of day she loved us.
For three weeks, I wished she’d said those words 15 years earlier. I wished that I’d had that relationship with her during my childhood.
But, I also knew that only a strong, dying woman, would say those things. She never regretted anything. She lived on her terms; therefore, so did we.
I loved her even though I didn’t do the greatest job expressing it. And she loved me for the same reasons. Since her death, I’ve realized we were much more alike than we were different.
I disliked her for telling the reality of life and for never mixing words. But, as I grow older, I realize that what I liked most about her was that she never made things better than they were. She told you what she thought and never held anything back.
It’s difficult to see it when you’re a child, and maybe even more so when you’re a semi-adult who has lost a parent. But now I see that she was the only person who said what needed to be said even when what needed to be said should have been kept quiet.
She was kind when we were children. Because she knew we needed a kind heart.
She was tough when we were teenagers. Because she knew we needed to know what it meant to love and be a strong woman.
She was hard throughout our lives. Because she’d seen hard times.
She lived to be 92-years-old.
She spent quite a bit of time angry, and she was well-deserving of that anger. She watched my father die. She watched my grandfather die. Yet, she lived.
I pulled away. I lost touch. But, in the end, I saw her; I made my peace; and I will never forget the lessons she taught me:
Always be a strong, vibrant woman. You will be disappointed. You will lose many people you love. But, many people you love, who also love you, will be standing right next to you when you go. And when you go, there can be…
There should be…
A smile.
L.
I was initially sad, but it wasn't a sad day. She was 92-years-old and had experienced a wonderful, long life. A life filled with two children who adored her, five grandchildren who loved her, and four great-grandchildren who had the opportunity to know her, and she them.
She and I had our disagreements; our distances. But, she was a southern lady through and through.
I last spoke to her on New Year’s Eve. She told me of how she didn’t want my uncle to find her dead because, “he’s seen too much death in his life.”
I couldn’t argue with that. He’d found my father, my grandfather, my great-uncle, all dead. He really had seen “too much death.”
She also told me she was proud of me and my choices. She loved me. She loved Dave. She wanted us all to know that at the end of day she loved us.
For three weeks, I wished she’d said those words 15 years earlier. I wished that I’d had that relationship with her during my childhood.
But, I also knew that only a strong, dying woman, would say those things. She never regretted anything. She lived on her terms; therefore, so did we.
I loved her even though I didn’t do the greatest job expressing it. And she loved me for the same reasons. Since her death, I’ve realized we were much more alike than we were different.
I disliked her for telling the reality of life and for never mixing words. But, as I grow older, I realize that what I liked most about her was that she never made things better than they were. She told you what she thought and never held anything back.
It’s difficult to see it when you’re a child, and maybe even more so when you’re a semi-adult who has lost a parent. But now I see that she was the only person who said what needed to be said even when what needed to be said should have been kept quiet.
She was kind when we were children. Because she knew we needed a kind heart.
She was tough when we were teenagers. Because she knew we needed to know what it meant to love and be a strong woman.
She was hard throughout our lives. Because she’d seen hard times.
She lived to be 92-years-old.
She spent quite a bit of time angry, and she was well-deserving of that anger. She watched my father die. She watched my grandfather die. Yet, she lived.
I pulled away. I lost touch. But, in the end, I saw her; I made my peace; and I will never forget the lessons she taught me:
Always be a strong, vibrant woman. You will be disappointed. You will lose many people you love. But, many people you love, who also love you, will be standing right next to you when you go. And when you go, there can be…
There should be…
A smile.
L.
Monday, January 19, 2009
I Miss You
The picture is blurry and about six monts old, but it doesn't diminish the fact that, Turner, I already miss you.
L. 
Monday, January 12, 2009
Hey Good Lookin' Watcha Got Cookin'?
I absolutely love to cook. The outcome of my cooking excursions don't always turn out so great, but I love the process.
Whether it's a recipe I follow line by line measuring like a maniac to create something really tasty, or a random assortment of things I fling from the refrigerator to the stove I love taking an hour (or two, and Rachael Ray you cannot cook your recipes in 30 minutes no matter what you say) to myself.
I love it like I love to mow the lawn. You spend a bit of time doing something and when you're done you can actually see what you've accomplished.
So many times our lives are full of doing things that must be done, and more often than not there's no discernible outcome.
For example, I can take a full Saturday to run errands. I'll go on my daily trip to Walgreens, then it's the weekly stop by the dry cleaners, after that I make the mandatory stop by Stein Mart to see if something is on sale, then it's the grocery store, which as much as I like to cook and eat, I absolutely despise the act of actually purchasing groceries.
When it's all said and done, I know I have shampoo, clean clothes for work, a new shirt and a fridge full of food, but I don't feel like I've done anything but spend money.
Cooking, on the other hand, is good for my soul. I pull out every spice, every pan, every utensil making a crazy-assed mess in the kitchen and in the end, if all turns out well, have a good conversation with a lovely man or a group of friends while eating something delightful to all my senses.
All this leads up to the fact that two weekends ago I made my first cake from scratch. The cake itself was quite yummy. The frosting? Not so much.
Lesson learned. You cannot substitute Hershey's bars for milk chocolate. Even if your local grocer is out of milk chocolate do not think that a few Hershey's bars will create the same flavor.
They don't.
But, if you like Hershey's bars and think you'd like to make a cake that tastes like it's covered with 10 of them. Boy, do I have a recipe for you.
L.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Your Life Was One Long Emergency
Hold the presses! We have an emergency!
It's a milk emergency!
Hide the women and children! Starbucks is perilously low on lattes! Kroger is running out of 2 percent!
L.
It's a milk emergency!
Hide the women and children! Starbucks is perilously low on lattes! Kroger is running out of 2 percent!
L.
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