The Girl With The Voice

I found Birdie, as a baby, floating in a basket in the Missouri River floodwaters. That's the tale I have stirred up over the past 17 years. In reality, Birdie arrived in Room 5 of the St. Louis Jewish Hospital after some inducement and 12 hours of labor. From the start, she owned my heart. Her loud squalls in the cold delivery room hinted of her spirit. Birdie grew into a child who could holler; then into a girl who could chatter, chatter, chatter; and finally, into a teen who could sing. This week Birdie's solo performance of Sarah Barielle's Gravity kicked off the high school's spring concert. As her beautiful soprano wrapped around the lyrics and filled the gym with music, I experienced my Birdie with fresh eyes and ears. Dressed in concert black, a slight young woman stood on steady feet. With her posture, her eyes and her voice, she reached to her audience. Once again, she owned me.

Royalty Vs. Tornadoes

A perfect storm would whisk away William and Kate, along with Queen Elizabeth. Then Prince Charles would be king. With Charles at the helm, maybe England will be dull enough that t.v. programs like NBC's Today Show will quit gushing over royalty that 13 colonies dumped more than 200 years ago. I woke up this morning to the Today Show's nauseating speculation about if the queen, as the grandmother, will cry at the wedding. A news bulletin streaming at the bottom announced that 128 people died in Alabama tornadoes, with other deaths in Georgia, Mississippi and Tennessee. That bothered me. I flipped to the CBS Morning Show. It was binging on royals. Fox stayed away from royals but didn't have much to say about the southern storms. Even  CNN and the Weather Channel failed me. So I called Sis in Georgia and Mom in Tennessee. Sis and her family spent the night in the basement, while a tornado took out chunks of a nearby town. Never one to overstate things, Mom said, "It was a bad night." A tornado passed within 10 miles of her house. People died in a nearby town, brick homes were lifted off foundations and concrete buildings destroyed. Also, winds snatched cows from pastures. Towns to the south suffered even worse. With all the chit-chat about tornadoes and flying cows, I forgot to ask Sis and Mom what they planned to wear to watch the broadcast of Will and Kate's royal wedding. I especially wanted to know if they decided between wide-brimmed, ribboned hats or feather fascinators for their hair. While storm debris and dead cows in the road separate us, it would be good if we matched for important occasions. Tomorrow, at 4 a.m., the Today Show begins its wedding day coverage. Maybe by Saturday, the morning shows will focus on the storms, in between bits and pieces about the honeymoon.

Certified: Obama Was Born

Double Certified: "Birthers" are nuts.
This morning, President Barack Obama released his birth certificate to the public. It shows that he was born in Hawaii on Aug. 4, 1961, at 7:24 p.m. Honolulu's Kapiolani Maternity and Gynecological Hospital hosted the event. Both mom and delivery doctor signed the certificate. While the "birthers" are probably disappointed, this doesn't have to end the journey to discredit Obama's right to be president. With his birthplace firmly established as Hawaii, "birthers" can challenge Hawaii's status as a state. After all, it's an island, a bunch of islands, surely that's a loophole on the path to statehood. For "birthers," the prize gets better: If Hawaii is not a state, not only is Obama's citizenship more suspect, but four known Democratics get booted--two U.S. senators and two members of the House of Representatives. Once Hawaii is given the heave-ho, it's on to Kansas, the birthplace of Obama's mother. "Birthers" won't need to carve Kansas out of the U.S. The state is so Republican that it challenges the whole notion of evolutionary progress. Given a little nut-driven nudge, Kansas may simply revoke Ann Dunham Stanley Obama's birth certificate; after all, she gave birth to a Democrat.

Mom, Replaced

I've been replaced. Daisy has a new mom according to her Facebook profile. I'm o.k. with it. After all, I lived through 24 long hours of childbirth. Really, getting dumped is no big deal, especially if I don't think too hard about green mashed potatoes. Toddler Daisy would eat mashed potatoes only if they were green, so we ate dyed potatoes. And there's no shame in being known as the-woman-formerly-called-mom when I recall the lap full of toddler pee I enjoyed on a flight from Atlanta to St. Louis. Turns out a full can of soda will go somewhere. So will a powdered sugar donut and red juice--that pink combo spewed from Daisy's lips to the back seat of the car. Equally colorful were the screams of third grader Daisy as she dragged her school backpack on the sidewalk enraged that I wouldn't carry it home. She earned a backpack with a hole and I confirmed my certainty that never, ever, would I carry her stuff. New mom might would of. But would she have pulled Daisy out of a piano lesson because the teacher turned out to be dragon lady? Perhaps, as I like to think Daisy picks her moms well. I hope new mom sews. Daisy hates to shop, just like old mom, so stuff gets made for her. That might be something for new mom to ponder. But yes, I'm good with the whole time-for-a-new-mom thing. Except I'm not. Our shared history of Daisy moments and Daisy idiosyncracies makes her mine forever. And, in spite of my nuttiness (the mole dance etc...) Daisy is turning out fine. So take note sorority big sis, I will fight you for the right to be Daisy's mom. Especially today.

No Shelter Here

The St. Louis tornado has me thinking unkind thoughts about Fredericktown, MO. Three days before our big tornado hit a few miles north of the house, Big Guy, Birdie and I were driving home from college visits in Arkansas. At 7:45 p.m., a monster storm of wind and rain hit Fredericktown as we were driving past. Rain and wind shook and smacked our car as the radio broadcast tornado warnings. It was too dark to see anything except sheets of rain lit up by the headlights. To find shelter better than the car, we stopped at a convenience store just off the interstate. As we prepared to dash inside, an employee turned off the outside light and locked the door. That's how I knew it was 7:45, I looked at the clock in the car. We drove into Fredericktown and found another convenience store. For a few minutes, we waited out the storm by the gas pumps. Big Guy, being practical, filled the tank. The storm grew increasingly violent and then the electricity died. We decided it would be safer inside the store. We made it in the front door, only to be told that with the power off, they were locking the doors and we needed to leave. The store employees didn't kick us out, but they made it plain that we should go. After a few minutes, the storm lessened and we left. But I don't have kind thoughts about Fredericktown. The city claims natural beauty and historic splendor. That's not what I saw.

Earth Day and Easter

Thinking about Earth Day reminds me that there are other ways to view the world than with the U.S. smack in the center. Years ago, Aussi Girl Scout Mom gave me an upside down map of the world. It hangs on the kitchen wall. In this map, Mexico sits on top of the U.S., while Canada lays below. The map makes it much easier to see that Australia is shaped remarkably similarly to the U.S., if we declared our country to be an island, and dumped Canada and Mexico. Aussi GS Mom and her family returned to Australia seven years ago. We keep in touch, but I miss her day-to-day upside down perspective on things, like Easter. As she explained Australian holidays to a bunch of squirmy, 10-year-old Girl Scouts, she talked about celebrating Easter in the fall. Gonna-get-it-right Girl raised her hand and, very politely, informed Aussi GS Mom that in Our Country, we believe Jesus died and rose from the dead just once. And that was in the spring. I'm not sure Gonna-get-it-right Girl understood why her perspective on Easter sent Aussi GS Mom and I into a laughing fit. Believe in it or not, Easter happens only once each year. So does Earth Day. Both remind me that God created us and our planet. Let's take care of that gift, and each other, like every day was Earth Day and every Sunday was Easter.

The Pizza At Hendrix College

I evaluate colleges by pizza. Other factors figure in, but the quality and quantity of pizza served in the dining hall matters. That's either every good news or very bad news for Hendrix College in Conway, AR. The pizza served in the school's dining hall is fabulous: Homemade, plentiful and gourmet. The chef offers favorites like pepperoni and also introduces specialty pizzas on a regular basis--mac 'n cheese with ham last Tuesday, another day it was chocolate chip with cheese. If a student wants special toppings on his/her pizza, the chef will make it as long as the student and friends commit to eating all of it. In other words, Hendrix offers fantasy pizzaland, which makes me question if the Hendrix experience is tough enough. I talked to a Hendrix student, Near-Grad Girl, not about pizza, but about her soon-to-start life after college. I asked if she was graduating college with much debt. Near-Grad Girl isn't, as she received a modest scholarship and her parents paid the rest. I asked if any of her fellow graduates were worried about debt. She told me that money issues aren't something Hendrix students discuss. We also talked about Hendrix's Odyssey program. It helps students make themselves into better people and the world into a better place. As part of her odyssey, Near-Grad Girl taught English at an orphanage in Cambodia. She volunteered that she didn't want to go to Africa, as it seems that everyone does service in Africa. With her odyssey complete and her time at Hendrix close to done, Near-Grad Girl is interviewing with an internet magazine based in California. She definitely plans to move there. I predict a future filled with equal shares of soggy and burned pizza. It's hard not to fall in love with Hendrix. The campus is beautiful, gifted professors lead mind-engaging classes and at least some of the students really want to change the world. I don't know what to think about the pizza. If Birdie picks Hendrix, there will be no dining out when I come to visit. The pizza's darn good and I've earned the right to a huge slice of it.

Arkansas Razorbacks

Woooooooo. Pig. Sooie! Students at the University of Arkansas will perform the Razorback hog call for random strangers, in a dorm hallway, at 1 p.m. The call is not a timid whisper, hoping piglets will come running; it's a three-part crescendo of sound, complete with hand motions, designed to motivate wild razorbacks to defend their turf. Big Guy, Birdie and I were impressed that two guys could make so much noise, with so much enthusiasm, without even one door on the hall cracking open. Everyone else may have been in class or asleep. Or random Razorback Calls aren't that unusual. In Birdie's search for a college, the spectacular hog call nudges Arkansas a bit higher on my list. Not that I'm the one attending college as Birdie likes to remind. Another point in the Razorback school's favor: It wants Birdie. We spent a lot of time on campus meeting with faculty and touring facilities. Even Birdie's near nod-off in a warm office midway through the conversation didn't deter anyone's enthusiasm for making her feel welcome. Should Birdie choose Arkansas, I'm confident she'll figure how to pick classes around her napping schedule. Better yet, she will learn to call hogs and I will get a Razorback Mama t-shirt.

Bright Purple

Our Slave Called Robin

I can't let the 150th anniversary of the start of the Civil War pass without acknowledging that my ancestors owned human beings. My great-times-10 grandfather John Hutchins, born in 1640, designated in his will that a slave named "Robin" be given to his grandson Richard. "Robin" didn't come with a last name and there's no record of what Richard did with the gift. I hope Robin was young enough to live long enough to be owned by Richard's son Strangeman Hutchins. In 1782, Strangeman, a Quaker, did the right thing. He freed his 12 slaves. I don't have a photo of Strangeman, but I like to think there was some sort of resemblance between him and his great grandson David, pictured above. As a 17-year-old, David Hutchins Jr. enlisted in the Union Army. During the next three years, he fought at the battles of Richmond, KY; Chickasaw Bluffs, MS; Arkansas Post; Thompson's Hill; Champion Hill; Black River; Siege of Vicksburg; Jackson, MS; Alexandra, LA; and the siege of Blakeley, AL. At 21, David left the army, married and joined the Quaker Church. He struggled to rid himself of the war, suffering through continuing nightmares of being consumed by a threshing machine and of carrying a wounded soldier who died in his arms. The Hutchins didn't do right by Robin. But eventually, they did right for Robin's children's children.

Union Widow

For many a George who went to war, there was a Maria left behind. Maria bid her husband George farewell on June 2, 1862. She never saw him again. George joined the Union Army and died less than three months later. His death wasn't Maria's only worry. Their son Simon, 21, also served in the Union Army. Simon didn't come home when George died. He was fighting, most likely somewhere in Missouri. Simon survived having a horse shot out from under him, but he contracted tuberculosis in the Army camps. He lived a long life, but never again enjoyed good health. As a widow, Maria raised a three-year-old, a seven-year-old and a 12-year-old. In between the time when Simon left home and George followed, she  buried her 10-year-old daughter Anna Maria. It was at least the third time Maria buried a child. With youngsters tugging at her skirts, a son already at war and a child's death, it's hard to imagine that Maria willingly sent George into harm's way. But she didn't have a choice. She didn't have a vote. Perhaps the war wouldn't have lasted so long or cost so many lives, if women had a voice at the table. North and South, they were the ones left widowed. They were the ones damaged sons came home to.

Union Soldier

My guess is that a $25 signing bonus ultimately persuaded Indiana farmer George Ostheimer to join the Union Army. George and his wife Maria were Bavarian immigrants. In 1844, they arrived in the U.S. with four children, a daughter having died at sea. In 17 years, they moved three times and Maria gave birth to five more children. With tackling a new language, packing, unpacking, clearing ground, and burying at least two little ones, neither George nor Maria probably had much time to ponder the moral question of if one human being should own another. Not, I think, that they would have supported slavery. After all, they didn't come to the U.S. to be owned by anyone. For whatever reason, George, at age 52, enlisted as a private in Company A, 16th Indiana Infantry, on June 2, 1862. On August 30, 1862, on a battlefield at Richmond, KY, Confederate General Bragg with a seasoned force easily defeated a hastily assembled group of 6,500 raw Indiana recruits led by Major General William Nelson. The Confederates captured 4,000 soldiers. They killed at least 1,200 including my great, great, great grandfather George.  I wonder what George thought about as he died--Bavaria? Maria? His dead children? His living children? The $25? The Civil War was fought to end the ownership of people.  Only George knows why he joined the Union Army. Only Maria knows if his sacrifice was worth leaving her a widow. I'm left wanting to go to Richmond, to walk the ground where my kin died for a greater cause.

To Feel Like Paris

I stuffed Tequila into a big purse and hauled her in the store yesterday. She would have been content to wait in the car, or somewhat happy to be left at home, but I wanted to feel like Paris Hilton. I've seen lots of photos where Paris hauls around her chihuahua in a jeweled pooch-pouched purse. I think her purebred is about half the size of my mixed pedigree, but I used a really big purse. In its former life, it  snuck popcorn and sodas into movie theatres. Big Guy helped me stuff Tequila into the purse. She didn't understand the concept, I'm not sure Big Guy did either. Once I had her squished inside, with her head poking out, Tequila traveled well. Except when she wanted out. At one point, I was carrying the dog in my arms with the empty dog purse dangling from one shoulder. I haven't seen photos of Paris caught in that situation. Tequila also shed more than I anticipated. Even with Tequila secured in the purse, loose blonde dog hairs covered the outside of the purse as well as my shirt. And I think I inhaled a few stray strands. Paris doesn't seem to have that problem. Although maybe being a blonde makes it easier to wear blonde dog hair. Tequila also got kind of heavy to cart around, but I knew better than to ask Big Guy to carry her. I have never seen photos of Paris breaking a sweat as she dog-carts. And while her dog weighs less than Tequila, all of the jewels adorning her dog bag probably evens out to about Tequila-weight. Clearly Paris knows what she's doing and has built up dog-hauling muscle. At the end of my adventure, I didn't feel much like Paris, and Tequila seemed a bit grumpy. Clearly I need to take a step back in my effort to channel Paris. Next time, I will leave Tequila in the car and cart the other tequila in my former movie bag. It's a start.

Enough Said

If Big Guy hadn't parked the car in the garage, I wouldn't have backed it out of the garage.

Cockroach Fight

We bought our first house on a Friday; Big Guy lost his job the next Monday. My paycheck wasn't enough to cover the mortgage, which set the stage for the great cockroach fight on Tuesday. I opened a fresh gallon of milk and poured two glasses, one for myself and one for Big Guy. That's when we noticed a big cockroach swimming in his glass of milk. My glass was cockroach-free. Big Guy, who really likes his milk, might not have been so upset if the roach was in my glass, but it was in his, and he wanted justice.  Big Guy's plan was to take the milk back to the grocery store, explain to the manager that the milk had come loaded with a live cockroach and demand a fresh gallon. I begged him not to. In a small town, I didn't want to be known as the wife of the crazy guy. I didn't believe the roach could have survived pastuerization. And, I pointed out, this roach was kicking around the milk like a healthy one, if healthy and roach can be used in the same sentence. Most likely, I reasoned, the roach had come in with the moving boxes, fallen into the glass and floated to the top as I poured the milk. Big Guy wouldn't budge on his theory and I stuck fast to mine. In the end, we poured out the milk. Even if I was right about the roach starting out in the glass, I wasn't going to drink that milk. And, as much as Big Guy wanted to blame the milk, he knew his theory stood on shaky ground. We never would have argued about the roach-laced milk if we weren't worried about paying our bills. That is what I would like Congress to understand as it tussles with the President and contemplates shutting down the federal government. Members of Congress will still get paid, but a lot of hard-working federal employees won't. The moral of this story: Check the glass before pouring the milk. If you pour the milk and don't like what you see, throw it out as quickly as possible, on election day.

Two-Daughter Family

When I realized Daisy sold globs of lipstick on Post-it notes to Birdie for 25 cents, I admired Daisy's ingenuity and wondered if Birdie's 25 cents came directly from my purse. I decided both girls needed to find something more productive to do. That's the way I feel about a British study. It surveyed 2,000 families and concluded that the happiest ones are those with two daughters. I applaud the study on its smartness, but I think the researchers could find something else to occupy their statistical skills. Of course, our two-daughter family is happy. When newborn Birdie joined our family, young Daisy stuffed her diapers down the toilet, twice. And as for the white towel etched with blue marker, four-year-old Birdie coolly ratted out Daisy, who knew nothing about it. Birdie knew everything about it. Sisterly piano duets died a quick death. Playing the piano with a perfectionist isn't any more fun than playing the piano with a quitter. Hogging the t.v. reared its ugly head as did borrowing clothes without asking. And then there are times when they start each other laughing. That's real sweet unless Big Guy or I is trying to lay down some law. The British study mentioned increased cooperation on chores and children who are easier to reason with. That's where the study descends into total hogwash. Those researchers haven't tried to get Birdie or Daisy to accept the peaceful coexistence of spiders, pick up their shoes or bring in the trash cans. As for boys. I wish I had one. A son could solve a spider crisis.

High School Reunion

I have never been to a high school reunion. When my family moved in February of my senior year, I switched schools to one I barely remember. I don't receive invitations to its reunion and sometimes have trouble recalling its name. I don't dwell on my lack of opportunity to get together with people I liked/didn't like/never thought about, but occassionally I wonder what I'm missing. I satisfied my curiosity last Friday. I attended the annual April Fool's Day reunion of former employees of the American Soybean Association. I don't usually go to the event, but I realized this year marks the 20th anniversary of my heave-ho from the good ship Soybean. (The organization was floundering, and it was jump or get pushed for many of us. I was pushed.) When my invite to the get-together arrived, I pushed it around the kitchen table for the better part of a week, sort of like I would if it were a high school reunion and I'd forgotten to lose 20 pounds. The afternoon of the event, I mentally committed to go. As soon as Big Guy walked in the door from work, I began preparing to leave. Then the calendar caught my eye--I was one day early. I am so not reunion material. I waited another 24 hours and once again I was reunion bound. Only I went to the wrong place. I called home; Birdie read the address; I finally arrived at the right place on the right date. Once there, I had a good time. I discovered the passage of time mellows everything, especially me. It helped that the obnoxious ones weren't there. Not that I remember who they are/were. So thanks, Great Scott, Timekeeper, Econ Guy and LA Girl for getting me there. Birthday Girl, CiCi, 9 Lives and A3G: I won't let another 20 years go by. Now I have my heart set on a prom. I never did one of those, either. I want the long dress, the corsage, the limo and Big Guy in a tux.

Lily Bloom

Yes, Harry Went To Rhodes

Upfront, the admissions counselor at Rhodes College said, "Don't send us a Harry Potter essay." I swallowed my disappointment. That was my plan for getting into Rhodes. Then I remembered, Birdie is looking at colleges. Not me. My role is to help pay for college and to announce my visits. At first, I thought the Rhodes admissions counselor was a little tough on Rhodes stone-faced resemblance to Hogwarts Academy. Then Birdie and I stepped into the dining hall. Students fling their backpacks onto the entrance hall floor, then compete elbow-to-elbow for access to pizza, pasta, hamburgers and weird vegan stuff. While I know not everything vegan is weird, that day, I saw weird. Once the students have lunch in their grasp, they sit at long wooden tables in a high-domed chamber just like Harry and his buds. Acquiring lunch is crazy, collisions happen, and lunch trays hit the floor. For the excitement alone, I'd go to Rhodes. Birdie would, too, although she claims more scholarly reasons. Only two days before our visit, Rhodes announced two new majors: Environmental Science and Environmental Studies. The biology professor who met with Biride helped craft the new program. What she said about it was dead-on to what Birdie may want. I figured some sort of wizard magic was at-play like if Birdie thought she wanted a college major that let her design bikinis and other beach fashion-wear for kitties, Rhodes would have read her mind and offered it. Now that I think it through, our whole visit had a strong touch of magic. Birdie's first love is to sing. We met with the head of Rhodes choral music department. And guess what? The choir need sopranos. A shortage of sopranos simply never happens. At Rhodes College, science, singing and lunch as a contact sport collide. That's plenty good enough to keep this magic place on the Birdie short-list.