Welcome to the World!

The 10th of December is always a unique day for us as we remember our youngest daughters birthday. It's been a long time since I told the story that surrounded her coming into our lives, so, since I have my own blog, and I can do what I want, I think I'll record it here. 

In 1985, life took us out of the military and into civilian life which included a move from the west coast to 22 miles west of New York City. That meant we had the opportunity to get acquainted with the New Jersey culture and it was an interesting transition.  

There were no such things as personal computers, cell phones, Facetime, email, texting ...even cordless phones were yet to be invented. All calls were made after a certain hour at night and timed because every minute was costing you, so keeping in touch was more challenging, and we relied on maps and yellow phone books to find what we needed. And we had done it before, but NJ...

NJ culture was a different one than we had ever experienced. For example, we've lived in a lot of places, but NJ is the only place I ever heard people screaming from the front of the grocery store to the back telling each other to "drop dead!" I actually got rammed by someones "carriage" because I wasn't going fast enough. No lie. I was extremely pregnant at the time and had my 2 year old daughter in my own "carriage".  

It was challenging living there. Trying to get to know people, understand the intensity of their behavior, and even decipher what they were saying when they talked.  We're laid back SoCal natives and we just didn't get it.

So when the time came for #2 to come into this world, we were faced with several issues. My handsome half flew for People Express Airlines at the time, which required him to be gone a fair amount, and we had not been able to plug into a community of people. That's a nice way of saying we didn't have any friends. Pathetic, I know...

But I thought I still had some time to work out the logistics of this new baby's arrival. #1 was a couple of weeks early. I shouldn't have been taken by surprise when #2 decided to make her entrance even earlier! 

I was faced with some real conundrums when at 9:00 am on December 10,1985 I had to ask myself "Has my water actually broken?" Only the first of the puzzles to be be solved that day.

So while I thought on that, I made breakfast for my daughter, picked up the hand set with the curly cord on the brown kitchen phone, and called the doc.

 
He said I should come in. I agreed to after doing a little pick up and figuring out child care. To which he replied "come in now, or I'm no longer responsible for you." Yeah. I wasn't kidding about the intensity of that New Jersey culture!
 
First call was to People Express to get a message to my husband. Of course, he was flying and at the time was cruising along at 35,000 feet. Company scheduling wasn't thrilled with playing go between, until I calmly said the words "I'm in labor". Then they couldn't do enough to help me out!

Then I called California to see if my mother in law was OK with coming east a little early. She was already packed. Bless her!! Brother in law made sure she was able to make a quick flight change in Denver that got her to NJ in record time.

After that came the whole transportation/child care issue. What to do...

I called the church which we had only been attending a short time, and the assistant pastor agreed to come and pick me up. Then I called another young woman in the church who agreed to watch my older daughter until her dad could get home and pick her up... at some point!

 Bound Brook Presbyterian Church

Bound Brook New Jersey

At this point, I still wasn't sure if my water had broken, but kept moving forward. 

The pastor carefully delivered us to Somerset Medical Center and the last time I saw my oldest daughter that day, she was sitting on the floor with one of New Jersey's finest in the lobby of the hospital sharing her bag of fruit loops. To say that it was a bizarre experience would be putting it lightly, I suppose.  

Somerset Medical Center

I don' t know these fine men, but one of their older brothers enjoyed sharing 

fruit loops with my 2 year old.

Eventually, handsome landed in Newark and the passengers were held back so that he could exit the airplane first. When they were told he was on his way to the hospital because his wife was in labor, he actually got an ovation from a B-727 full of passengers. Then he proceeded to drive at the speed of sound to the hospital, fearful that he wouldn't make it. 

On arriving, he found me standing in front of the nursery windows and still VERY pregnant. The relief didn't last long for him, because as soon as he got there, I made him turn around and go home. I had forgotten the camera. He made it back and baby girl was born at 3:00 that afternoon. 

Only 6 hours after the adventure began. 

Handsome began the day in Florida, his mom was in northern California, and I was in New Jersey. By that night, we were all in the same state and our oldest got to bed on time. Amazing and absolutely by God's grace.

Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly 

beyond all that we ask or think,

according to the power that works within us,

to Him be the glory in the church

and in Christ Jesus to all generations

forever and ever. 

Amen.

Eph. 3:20-21 




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Resurrection Upcycle  




 

New Life

Any time someone asks me where I'm from, I have to pause a bit before I answer. My handsome half doesn't have a problem answering, but I always feel as if I need to give a bit of explanation.

We're both SoCal kids. Thats where we were born and bred and even though our home state is a hot mess right now, I still claim it as my own. I've lived a lot of places, but have always answered "I live in --- but I'm FROM Southern California." We spent several years in various locales, and right now, we live in Ohio. But I'm not from here. No offense to the native buckeyes, but I'll always prefer sand between my toes all year round over experiencing the change of  seasons.

I always find it interesting that people claim to love the seasons in cold climates.  Basically, there are only two seasons where I live. Snow and road construction. One is bitterly cold and the other is pretty humid. Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining about the weather here. Just an observation in the context of preferring  the life and climate of a different location. And of course, the mindset. I don't think like a mid westerner, or like the natives of any of the other places we've lived for that matter. 

But one thing I've been able to experience from life spent outside of my home-place is a vivid appreciation for new life. Everything is pretty much dead and brown in October, and things don't get green again until late April. That's where we are right now. The new life all around me right now is stunning. 

 

 I'm not much of a purple person, except in the yard. It's all purples and blues and I love it.

 

 

 

Even the tacky yard art is fun outside in the spring!

This kind of new growth never really caught my attention when I lived in the southwest, because it looked this way all year round. But experiencing a real winter showed me what I had been missing. 

New life.

It's like getting a gift every spring. Even after the most bitter cold in winter, eventually we see this.

 

"Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!"

2 Corinthians 9:15

Beautiful rich colors.

 

"A woman named Lydia, from the city of Thyatira, a seller of purple fabrics, a worshiper of God, was listening; and the Lord opened her heart to respond..." 

Acts 16:14

   

And wildlife we haven't seen for months re-emerge. 

"But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him shall never thirst; but the water that I will give him will become in him a well of water 

springing up to eternal life." 

John 4:14

 

"Do not be worried about your life, as to what you will eat or what you will drink; nor for your body as to what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they?" 

Matthew 6:25-26

  

"For we know that if the earthly tent which is our house is torn down, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."

2 Corinthians 5:1

The purples and blues and whites will continue to cycle through our space for the next several weeks. I'll get used to being warm and seeing the bright colors outside the windows. But I'll never cease to be thankful for the vivid reminders all of this new growth affords. Thanks for stopping by.

"Therefore if anyone is in Christ, 

he is a new creature; 

the old things passed away; 

behold, new things have come."

2 Corinthians 5:17

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Saying Goodbye to a Friend

My dad was kind of a renaissance man, and liked to do a little bit of a lot of different kinds of things. He loved working with his hands, wasn't afraid to try anything, he loved music but also camping and doing other boy stuff. I think he came by that flexible mindset from his mother. 

My Grandma Genevieve was widowed at a young age, and managed to not only raise 6 children on her own but also ran the family business for a time after Grampa died. She was a tiny little woman that went through breast cancer twice (back when treatments were nothing short of barbaric) and finally pancreatic cancer which ultimately took her from us.  She was carrying her 7th child at the time of her husbands unexpected death, and while she lost that child,  she went on to see 29 grandchildren, and countless great grand children as well. 

 

Genevieve with my oldest daughter. She went on to be classically trained on
Gramma's piano, and plays beautifully today.

One of her God given talents was music. Specifically playing the piano. She always had one in her house, and played it all the time. I remember realizing as a child that she never had any music in front of her, but played "by ear" and did so beautifully even with hands that were twisted by arthritis.

Over the years, for one reason or another, several of her pianos passed through our home. One in particular was an upright grand that someone had upholstered with vinyl. I'd love to know what it looked like under that abomination!! As that one passed through my parents front door on it's way to a new home with one of my friends, the young men moving it dropped it onto one of my mom's prized Camilla bushes. oops. Piano 1 / Camilla bush 0, but the piano lived on! I replaced the bush, but it was never quite the same.

In the early 80's, I was blessed to receive one of her pianos. I think a move motivated her to get rid of this one, and I believe it was the last one she owned. She always picked them up used, and usually, slapped some white paint on them as soon as she got them through the door. This is a 1952 Gulbraunsen cottage height or spinet. It's small, and was really a great size for us as we knew several moves would be in our future and we never knew how much room we would have to house it. 

Daughter #1 before lessons started

Daughter #2 making her mark



Following Gramma's lead, I suppose, we had a friend refinish it soon after it arrived, and it went back to it's original light wood. The only thing missing was the decal which had to be sacrificed when it was stripped. He did a beautiful job, and the style that was all the rage when it was built is now solidly back in vogue as "Mid Century Modern". I didn't really care what it looked like. I just loved it's beautiful rich sound and the soft touch it afforded. It was perfect for Gramma's crippled hands, and our children and I have thoroughly enjoyed it for 35 years. 



It's been moved a lot. I don't know it's history before Gramma took possession, but we've moved it 8 times from coast to coast. It's also been played literally countless hours. For years in our home, there were 3 of us playing it, and sometimes it got a little frustrating to get some piano time. Our oldest daughter took lessons for 12 years, the youngest studied for a few years but then turned to vocal music. I'm just a hack, not nearly as talented as they are, but I have always enjoyed messing with it. 

Daughter #1 passing the time while she waited for her date to pick her up. It was the first time they went out, and he is now one of our favorite son in laws!

Our second daughter played for awhile, but she went on to be classically trained in voice. They weren't twins, but dressed as twins for a special high school event.

A famous duet.



This piano has enjoyed everything from the most talented at it's keys to little people that can barely reach it literally banging out their very own melody. It's had sticky keys from sticky fingers, pennies pushed through the crevices between the keys, babies playing with the pedals, and has been the place of honor for the lamp and the anniversary clock that handsome brought home from Japan, and the ever increasing collection of grandchildren's pictures. We never named it, but it's been an old friend, for sure.

The 3 Amigos. The oldest grandsons

The short people always enjoyed it.

Sticky keys weren't unusual

The fourth generation getting ready for lessons!



And now the time has come to say farewell to this piece of family history. We're taking our first definitive step toward downsizing, and I'm a little sad. There have been periods when the piano was played constantly, and other times when it sat silent for months at a time. But the next move it's making is out our front door to it's new home with another young family.  

And now a talented new family is enjoying my Gramma's wonderful gift.



I think Gramma would be happy to know that her precious gift has provided so many years of music in our family, and that it's legacy will continue.  

...When the trumpeters and the singers were to make themselves heard with one voice to praise and to glorify the Lord, 

and when they lifted up their voice accompanied by trumpets and cymbals and instruments of music, 

and when they praised the Lord saying, 

"He indeed is good for His lovingkindness is everlasting,"...

2 Chronicles 5:13 

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The Bootlegger

When little brother, Bunns, was born, it became evident to my folks that it was time to build on to the house. Bunns was bunked with me, and the novelty of it wore off the very first morning he was there when he chose to wake me from a sound sleep by dropping a glass baby bottle on my head. The new space didn't happen immediately, but eventually a second story took shape above the garage. It housed a family room, and a bedroom which big brother inhabited, so that little brother could move out of mine and into his old one. 

Our neighborhood was made up of ranch style houses and so any sounds that emanated from this new second story carried well. It provided a source of continuous entertainment to the neighbors as mom and dad engaged in  whatever happened to be on television. They both knew how to laugh, and just listening to them usually brought others  to laughter too. The folks never held back, and so their personalities made them quite the story tellers as well.

I grew up hearing tomes about their own upbringing, family facts and traditions, experiences, etc., and I heard the stories so often that I admit I quit listening early on. A story would come up that I had heard so often, I could probably tell it myself without a script and so I would tune out. Now, I wish I had not only listened better, but also recorded them and their words. They experienced some amazing things; from the story about dad scaling the face of George Washington on Mt. Rushmore with friends to retrieve a baseball cap that had blown away and caught on Georges nose, to their time in France while dad served in the Army. 

But one story that mom told again just recently on a day unclouded by an ongoing battle against dementia, had to do with her own dad. 

I never met my Grandpa Draut. He died before any of us were born, and I can't help but believe that I really missed out on not knowing him. My dad's father died when my dad was 14, and so I never enjoyed a living grandfather. But my dad took to the man that would become his father in law almost immediately after meeting him. I think he really needed a good man in his young life and God gave him Joseph Draut. 

My own dad was famous for nicknames which were always rooted in affection for the one being tagged. He often called me "barge bottom", or "flutter butt", which were both hysterical because I was such a skinny kid, and "Sarah heartburn". I trusted him and never took offense. He was a good guy who loved me without limits. 

He called my Grandpa Draut "Colonel". And evidently, Grandpa was always so honored. Little did he know that dad spelled his nickname a bit differently. "Kernel".  Like the center of a nut. 

These were the type of stories I grew up hearing. But I did a little math recently in connection to the one my mom told about her dad and was shocked at the result. Joseph Draut, worked in the oil fields in Long Beach, CA after moving his family west from Kansas.  He loved his new state and much to their chagrin, drug his transplanted family all over the place at every opportunity to explore their new home. They always lived hand to mouth, and one of his past times before leaving Kansas was brewing his own beer in the cellar. Mom tells of hearing the jugs explode on occasion when they weren't sealed properly, and how they grew up drinking beer with meals.

Not only did my venerable grandfather brew his own suds, he also used it to supplement the family income as he sold it out the back door during Prohibition.  I realized the Kernel was a bootlegger!! How many people can make that claim!? Priceless!

Listening to my folks tell their stories gave me reason to laugh especially when they went from the ridiculous to the sublime. And they're a part of what makes me who I am. Evidently, the granddaughter of a bootlegger. 

Honor your father and your mother, 

that your days may be prolonged in the land which the Lord your God gives you.

Ex. 20:12

"The Kernel"

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