Grumpy cat and snakes

Posted on July 29, 2013 by sherryrossman

Another facebook post rolls by and I wonder if anyone reads beyond its headline. I only have five minutes to sift through the myriad messages; the 400 emails in my inbox are calling me as the facebook photos, comments, and jokes roll by and there’s always the ones who journal their days walk for the public feed: “I tied my shoe and ate lunch and blew my nose and am so addicted to this that I will recount every move I make”.

I laugh at another grumpy cat post and hit “like.”

And here comes the political stuff. The anti-this and so-and-so said that – likes and comments pour out with passion and I wonder how many people know how to have a real conversation anymore, beyond pointing the finger and virtual unfriending. The surface of life barely gets touched and I snicker when I think of the reaction I would get if I posted pictures of my Dad’s gun shop. Conversation? Probably not. Maybe ~~inaccurate~~ statistics, a few “likes” and the possibility of being blocked by others. I bet I’d hear something about Hitler.

Should I tell them about the snakes?

After all, it would be first-hand information, and after watching one of the news stations ~~pulverize~~ talk about the Heroes 19 story, we could all use some truth.

I was raised with cactus and javelinas, cowboys, dirt, and…..snakes. I hate snakes, especially rattlesnakes. I know, God created them and they have some purpose (like being satan’s first choice of disguise in the garden), but I still hate them. They slither, blend in with perfectly good trees and sticks that kids may play with – and they can kill.

Sometimes they would find their way into our yard, the wood pile (Mom has since graduated to a pellet stove), and porch. Occasionally the cats would corner one for my Dad who would come in for the kill (Remember, gunshop). Boom and that devil became part of the landscaping.

The porch was a different story. Cement porch, brick house. If you know guns (and you should if you have one), you shouldn’t use them if there’s a chance for ricochet. So here are three little kids who run around outside and there’s that nasty rattlesnake coiled up on the porch.

My Dad grabs a shovel and he and the snake waltz back and forth; jab, rattle – jump, jab, rattle – jump, until the snake gets it from the makeshift guillotine.

The back door step was a pallet and sometimes we’d see the head of (satan) a snake peeking through the top, waiting for it’s latest human victim.

Boom.

And the family is safe again.

This is one peek into the life of a family that needed a gun. Don’t worry – we were responsible – if the snake was non-venomous, it got to live. But we also knew this wasn’t the type of story that people heard on the news. And if it was – it would probably be full of politically correct holes.

Kind of like those quotes on facebook that tell 1/1,243th of the story.

If I don’t remember the whole story, men who get paid $1 million to hold a gun in front of a camera may try to tell me that guns are evil in the “real” world and snakes are people too.

I’ll stick with grumpy cat.

Do you have your own story that needs told? Tell us in the comments.

Old folks and shorts

Posted on July 22, 2013 by sherryrossman

When I started working at the retirement resort I thought I would get a lot of reading done. Yep. It was a “transition” job, in between none and no prospects. It has ended up being one of the best learning experiences for me – and humbling as well. The swing shift has always been my favorite because I get several hours of talking with people – a good social time for a mother who hears the words “poo-poo” and “no!” way too often – and several hours of solitude where I can read and write. The idea’s for my children’s books took root in the wee hours of darkness when I got so bored I thought I would dredge my green writing skills from the depths of my “no way is that possible” files. While I was etching out these stories, a few real ones played out in the fire lit lobby.

The residents who brought me endless laughter were Cliff and Paul. Cliff was a very classy man who liked to discuss politics and business. Respect followed him. His knowledge stopped at fashion when he donned the brighter than life green pleated shorts every summer. The contrast between his shorts and his pale legs was enough for any resident with failing vision to spot him in the clubhouse, the park, the sun…

Paul liked to talk about people and what screw-ups they were. All gossip was said with a grin – nothing was edited or glossed over for propriety’s sake. His world was black and white, including his t-shirts that illustrated his sarcasm.

Cliff and Paul liked to chit chat at my reception desk, often competing with each other for attention. If they were 50 years younger, I’m sure they would have approached each other from opposite sides of the tracks with tires spinning and a date for a fight.

But since life had weighed their legs heavy and stride slow, they decided a standing contest was in order. Standing contest. Whoever could stand up the longest won.

They started with grins and square (ish) shoulders, insults and jokes were thrown back and forth. I could see the energy waning as Paul leaned a shoulder against the supply closet. Cliff rested half a green-encased gluteus maximous on my desk. Shoulders slouched and trembles took over until Cliff announced his need to check on his apartment. Paul gloated as he collapsed onto his walker. It’s always the scrappy ones.

Donna and Odell taught me that passions never fade. They were best friends who always graced me with an evening of the latest gossip, dinner menu’s and stories of their youth. Donna laughed about her hair turning white in her 20’s and Odell told me about the wagon she traveled in as a child. They also loved to hang out in the lobby whenever the firefighters came to assist a paramedic team. Smiles as wide as the ambulance, eyes roaming over boots and logos. I’m sure I saw them drool over a tall mustached uniform more than once.

I could go on, but I won’t close without mentioning Bernita. She taught me that as long as a person is living and breathing, they have a purpose. She got locked into a prison of Alzheimer’s disease, forgetting the simplest tasks like dressing herself and asking for something as basic as a drink of water. But when someone needed encouragement, God’s word rolled off her tongue, as smooth as satin. One of her favorites:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future”. Jeremiah 29:11

So despite my thoughts on having a job instead of a career, I learned that life flows with a force strong and lovely in the old as well as the young, in the healthy, in the sick, and with those who wear shorts that could be seen from the moon.

God doesn’t abandon His people. He works with you in whatever season you’re walking through. Bernita taught me that.

Learned something awesome when you thought you were stuck? Tell us in the comments.

Memories in perpective

Posted on July 15, 2013 by sherryrossman

There was this rock shelf down at the creek where the bones of mice rested. My friend, Mike, and I could play for hours going through these bones, making up stories, wondering if the mouse captor was lurking behind the cat claw bushes, waiting for us…
It was the type of graveyard where kids can play without bringing home nightmares.

Around the corner and down the dry creek bed was our rope swing, frayed and hovering over nothing but rocks and sand. Oh, how we loved to swing. We saw the frayed bits as a sign of a loved thing — danger was a word we left home with our parents.

Dream, swing, run and play, these things that filled the childhood treasure chest.

As I outgrew the bone cave and understood frayed as may break and let you fall onto the rocks I found that girls made good friends too and who didn’t want to look like Molly Ringwald?

Leah invited a few of us friends to her place for a party. Her life was gloriously mysterious. Leaving the traditional life behind, her family lived in their RV, spending three weeks in a Thousand Trails campground to move to another local camp until they reached their maximum stay. Back and forth, from a valley to a park, all under the Arizona sun. It was on one of their Thousand Trails rounds that we had our party.

It was hot.

It was amazing. We got ready in their tiny bathroom area, poofing our hair to 80’s standards and venturing out with kids of the road. The recreation room was stuffed with chaos. Noise, play and the kind of games that could produce a bloody nose or two.

Bounce, bang and none stayed down for long.

It was awesome.

Leah wore an outfit that could have been in Pretty in Pink. It was a thrift store find which disappointed me only because I knew it was the only one. I’d have to check out Sprouse Rietz for some pink fashion when I got some birthday money.

Back home again to a house of bricks, secure in the ground. Until the forest called…

Kindling works best when it’s nice and dry, and cooking over it makes for the best food in the world. It was cowboy camping with my family with no bathrooms but the shadows of juniper trees. The pine scent that inspired millions of air fresheners filled the blue skies of summers and I never felt dirty until we got home and I permeated the space around me with the perfume of campfire.

I brought my skills inside and built a fire in our woodstove that some people find primitive. It made for cozy holidays and reminders of the ancients who brought us this far.

Ramble and vroom we went in my grandparents motor home to get a taste of comfy camping.

The black and white TV played my grandpa’s favorite Ernest movies and I slept on a bed that has no home but the landscapes of America. Carrots and potatoes were peeled in the campgrounds, McDonald’s a chicken nugget feast when we were in between destinations.

It was always world class travel when I got to see bits and pieces of America.

Time to do some stitching.

I could sew a beautiful quilt out of all the ragged bits of fun I’ve had or I could just write a book. So here I am, putting in scraps of truth into a bit of fiction that penetrates deep with the life experience of me and those warriors of rope swings and RV’s. It digs deep into the bloodline of America, passing from the fingerprints of all of us into one giant quilt of a story.

What do you do with your memories? Do you paint them, teach about them? Tell us in the comments.

Heroes 19

Posted on July 8, 2013 by sherryrossman

My sweet Chloe paused throughout the day to ask more questions about the 19 firefighters who died trying to protect a small town from devastation.

“Mommy, were they Daddies?”

When it’s so dry that it rains more ash and smoke than moisture it can be hard to breathe, and harder to make a child understand the things that come in tragic waves. Small children feel it like a shadow monster breathing on their neck.

“Do the Mommies have to be firefighters now?”

“No, Sweetie, they don’t, but they do need lots of prayer.”

The wind is indecisive and many dangers come with it, scattering unexpected weapons this way and that. The trees can’t rest from the pelting of it.

The wind brings rumors that the Westboro Baptist Church is on its way to spread more fire to our parched community. These church members are the ones who misrepresent all who follow Him. They pelt the living with lies and signs that hate until many are deceived into thinking that the name, Christian, means bible-thumping, close-minded terror.

They draw attention away from the truth.

People who drench the world with ash and smoke in His name are not the real deal. It may look like rain, be represented as rain, but it’s only the nasty stuff that gets stuck in your face and forced down your lungs. The real stuff may not always happen when we want it to but when it comes to drench a parched land, nothing is better or truer or more needed.

What God does is extraordinary love. He lays down His life for those who would love Him and then, with each generation, He raises up heroes.

Heroes who face monsters so others don’t have to. Heroes who walk into waves of fire to protect friends and strangers, mommas, daddies, and little ones from living nightmares.

The sky is bright – burning skin and trying to chase us into the shade. We stand to welcome home the heroes 19.

“Why don’t they just hold them so we can see them, Mommy? Why do they have to be in cars with policemen around them?”

She doesn’t remember it’s miserable hot. This is my little one – my verdant Chloe who doesn’t stop asking questions until she understands. Her desire to get it makes me all kinds of proud.

” Do you remember how the Bible says:

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. (John 15:13)

-These men did that and more. They gave their lives for friends and for people they didn’t even know.”

Her eyes widen to take it in and she stands in red-cheeked silence to honor them with all she has.

She hears the truth of it, as much as a 5-year-old can.

In all of the world’s brokenness, there still walks men who would die so that Greater Love can heal it.

To donate to the families of firefighters click on the link below.

http://www.100club.org/web/100CLUB/Home/100CLUB/Default.aspx?hkey=bd7f5ced-a992-4f74-887b-201013fead48

Harriet Tubman

Posted on June 3, 2013 by sherryrossman

I could almost feel the snow flakes lilting over the audience.
3D glasses and my favorite little girl made for a snapshot of wonder inside the theater when the world outside was living inside lines drawn by control freaks.
I was 5 again with Chloe and wanted nothing more than to stick out my tongue and catch a snowflake. I could see it, sense it, but a few hours later we were back outside dreaming of fantasies and legends left behind in the darkened room.

How soon we forget that we do live in a world of fantasy, but not how the dictionary defines it.

Fantasy: noun. The faculty or activity of imagining things that are impossible or improbable.

In comes my latest research read – a book on Harriet Tubman.

If your memories of history class are dulled by forgotten dates and blank spaces, take one day to know Harriet Tubman.
She was a slave, a hero, Moses and the stuff of legends.
Her story is absolute truth and full of events you now find only in fantasy books.

And the Bible. It’s amazing how we can read something so much that we forget the main point.

A vital part of The Underground Railroad, Harriet Tubman escorted approximately

Wikipedia

300 slaves to freedom. Every time she journeyed to collect a new group of slaves she knowingly risked her life.

When she was a child, she received a blow to the head which caused narcolepsy. She would, without warning, fall into a deep sleep, unable to be awakened until her body said so.

Here’s where God turns tragedy into miracles.

When she was “out” she claimed that she had visions of places she had never seen before, but later came upon in real life. These places she would find when escorting people out of slavery – she recognized them from her dreams and would know where to lead her group to freedom.

How many times have I wished I knew which direction to go? Yep, a bold sign in 3D would be the ticket.

“Miracles only happen in the Bible.” How many times have we heard (or thought) this?

Well, Harriet Tubman came long after The Bible was written. A skeptic? Here is a good, free ebook on her life, along with plenty of documentation about her gifts: Get it here.

I think she saw the extraordinary for at least one reason – she dedicated her life entirely to following God’s voice. No worries about saving up for a comfortable retirement or an epic vacation – just walking each day with God. When she had a vision, an inkling, a prophetic dream, she didn’t rush to the mirror to find “crazy” in her eyes, or find the civil war version of Dr. Phil – she followed God’s instructions. Not her own American dream, but that of her brothers and sisters.

What a country this would be if we could flip our “Me” theme to a God theme. The story of others, brothers, sisters, the neighbors, our families, that tear – streaked face in the grocery line. We could put aside ourselves, discover our mission, and clearly see the God-sign say:“GO.”

Do you have your own miracle-story? Share it with us in the comments.

The story of us

Posted on March 11, 2013 by sherryrossman

Stories that breathe – ghosts of family legacies, the mishaps, failures and the champions of our past are the myriad steps to a life well-lived for those big eyed-pink cheeked souls sitting around our dinner table.

Chloe loves to run; the destination not necessesarily tangible. Mud puddles, my mom’s place in the country, sidewalks and fiercely windy days have been pounded by 5 year old feet. When I see her face, I know she is feeling the joy of doing something that has been designed into her precious soul.

On a family outing to the park, we split up to race each other home. Noah and John went one way; stroller and straight paths, Chloe and I went another direction on foot and ready to win. Our path was a little more challenging, and Chloe slowed to a walk half-way into our race.

“Your Papa won a trophy in high school. He was the fastest runner in the state of Arizona.”

Before I finished the sentence, she grew wings. We won. She just needed to know that she had the blood of a champion.

My great uncle wrote a family history with the good and the bad; everything tied up in an honest bow. There were stories of the warriors, the civil war cousins – one who camped on the other’s lawn, and then there were the details that sent prickles up my spine; the artists and writers and those in medicine whose passions trickled down the line more than a hundred years later.

What do we see when we look back?

Failures, victories, heroes and villains. One step forward, two steps back until a leap of faith makes a hero.

I tell Chloe about her Papa, and how he had his own struggles, but had feet like wings. He had little education but worked hard and found his final job working with N.A.S.A. He tried and failed, and tried again and again until his work literally reached the stars.

Family histories are a lifeline. We must tell our stories to our children, so when they need that extra push, all they have to do is reach back and grab the baton. We propel them forward by running our race hard enough to reach them, even when we have passed into the land of spirits.

Traveling with the Birds

Posted on February 12, 2013 by sherryrossman

Childhood summers were often spent with my grandparents, touring the roads of the western United States. Sometimes my brothers joined us and away we went, walking through the Redwood forest, looking for Ewoks and Storm Troopers; playing in the endless ocean or roasting marshmallows to the tune of crickets and busy highways that embraced America.

It was on these youthful adventures where bluegrass/gospel music rooted inside, becoming threads of fond memories. I might have made fun of that genre of music back on the playground where everything was separated by “cool” and “uncool”, but inside, I was reliving the inner slideshow back by the campfire, listening to my grandparents harmonize their way into hearts of their grandchildren.

America. I can still smell the ocean where I first saw starfish, watching them for hours. I visited swap meets where people sold cool stuff like ballet shoes, antiques and books. And, of course, there was McDonalds. “The steering wheel automatically turns into McDonalds, no matter how tightly I hold it”, my Grandpa would say. A giant grin would creep across his face as he spoiled us with endless boxes of chicken nuggets with honey mustard sauce; a child’s gourmet meal.

One memory made when dining under the golden arches was the meeting of the Birds. Not the tweeting kind, but those that shared the same surname as my Grandparents. By the time we had finished our Egg McMuffins, and absorbed the smell of coffee into our clothes, we were invited to park the motor home in any Bird driveway available on our travels. After all, if we went back far enough, we could be related. And what says family like those named after the creatures that travel freely and sing love songs to America?

Back home, my brothers and I would enjoy the Arizona sunsets once again on My Grandparents front porch, shelling pecans and getting bit by mosquitoes before they became harbingers of this or that disease.

My grandparents may make their way into the pages of my book, singing their love of our country into the restless hearts of my characters. If you read about Earl and Geneva, sit down and enjoy the legacy they leave. They will be singing, “I’ll fly away” and watching a family in search of what they already know: Faith in America.