Painted Pillow

I have been wanting to try my hand at painting a pillow. I love all the large graphics on pillows I am seeing in the Pottery Barn and Ballard Designs catalogs. I just can't love the price. So I bought an inexpensive plain pillow (I think it was $7). I liked the color because it was plain and reminded me of burlap but without the scratchiness.

Then I had to figure out what I wanted to paint on the pillow. I thought about "&" but I just bought a huge wooden "&" at Marshall's and LOVE it and come on, how many "&"s does one need in the same room?

I also thought about "!" because that kinda fits our family. We are most definitely all about the "!" but I was afraid it would look more like a letter or number.

So I decided on "@". Not only is it visually interesting, it, in this technology day and age, means "at" and if this pillow is on a chair that's where it's "at". So it's factual. 

I printed out "@" from my computer on regular printer paper after spending WAY too long playing with different fonts. I'm indecisive that way. In the end I chose Braggadocio (or was it Wide Latin?). I can't even remember. I made it something like a 600 font size so it would be quite the statement on the pillow. 

I used black fabric paint although I imagine regular black craft paint would work too. I doubt I will be throwing this guy in the wash. 

You can see from the picture above that I had a stencil foam brush out. I didn't use it. I had originally planned on using the stencil method of cutting out the image and then pouncing on the paint. I've done it successfully with several other projects that were flat and hard surfaces. A pillow is neither. 

So I just traced inside the stencil directly onto the pillow with a pen. 

Then I just painted the fabric on with a small paint brush. I wish I had lightly brushed on the paint to give it more of an aged look, but I am still happy with the end result.

Took me way less than an hour (not counting my deliberation over font styles). The pillow is now resting "@" its place on my letter chair. I will tell you about that fun project once I find the pictures.

What would you paint on a pillow? 

Let's Try This Again

It has been over 4 years since I last posted on this site. I started the blog to give myself a regular reason to write. I eventually stopped because it felt self-serving to go on. I felt like I was writing to no one. I needed interaction. I have been following several blogs lately and I see the communities they have formed. That's what I was missing:  you. So pull up a chair and let's talk. I will share what I've learned this week or spray painted or found funny (sometimes that will all be the same thing). But only if you promise to share your thoughts too. Deal?

IT'S ALL COMING BACK!

Through some digging in the back cubby holes of Monte's mind (and Google), Monte was able to find the name of his south Florida version of my Cowboy Bob and Popeye and Janie. It was Skipper Chuck. He had a sidekick that was Gilliganesque that always got a pie in his face by the end of the show. Skipper Chuck (makes you seasick, just saying it, doesn't it?) was on for over 20 years! He introduced Popeye cartoons. No scandal has clouded his name that Monte could find. Perhaps he is fit to lead the support group for formal cartoon introducers in my head? HHmmmmm… If you have your own memories of like personalities--please send them to me. There's always room for more in the group!

CARTOONS

Monte and I were talking with our girls over breakfast last weekend. Trying to teach them a lesson. The phrase, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all" came out of the deep recesses of my subconscious and out of my mouth before I knew it. I heard this phrase more than 47 billion times growing up--by my mom, my dad and Cowboy Bob. Cowboy Bob was a grown man dressed in a brown leather vest, brown belt with a huge buckle, a cowboy hat and boots that hosted "Cowboy Bob's Corral" on Channel 4 out of Indianapolis. He introduced Bugs Bunny cartoons in the afternoon when he wasn't talking with a puppet biscuit named Sourdough (that was always perched on a split rail fence), Cookie the chuckwagon chef that was never seen yet made quite a racket with the pots and pans or Tumbleweed his dog. You can talk with ANYONE my age that grew up in Indiana and they watched Cowboy Bob. There were only 4 stations. In the morning there was "Popeye and Janie". She introduced, you guessed it, Popeye cartoons. My brother Kyle, sent in a crayon created drawing and it got air time on "Popeye and Janie". He woke at 4:00 am to ensure he wouldn't miss it. Remember when there was literally NOTHING on at 4:00 am because TV actually went off the air?? My cousin, Natalie was on "Popeye and Janie" and got to say her name into a microphone. She was wearing one of my hand-me-down outfits and I somehow felt famous too because of it.

Monte and I happily skipped along this long forgotten memory lane. In Florida, Monte watched Captain somebody (I've tried but can't find his name online and Monte can't remember it). But the concept was the same: low budget in studio set with puppets and real kids who get to introduce themselves and show their art work from time to time. These people became very famous in the lives of children. They entertained us, dropped a few golden rules on us and introduced semi-violent, non-educational and politically incorrect cartoons. We watched them before school and after.

McDaniel and Ellie didn't get it. "You mean, you couldn't watch cartoons whenever you wanted?"

"No"

"There wasn't a channel with just cartoons?"

"Nope"

"You got to watch cartoons BEFORE you went to school?"

"Umm, yeah, but don't even ask, we know better now."

Monte and I laughed. What a culturally different world of cartoons our children are growing up with. They actually are LEARNING something when they watch. Other than a few catch phrases and sassy remarks that sent us to our room--Monte and I got nothing. Wait, eating spinach makes you strong--that's something.

When I went to college, I met a girl who actually had Cowboy Bob at her prom (it was a western theme). He showed up drunk and pinched her on the bottom as he whispered a proposition in her ear while she was posing for a picture. Shocked, I called home to tell my mom the sad, disappointing news. As it turns out, Janie had been fighting alcohol-induced charges as well. WHAT?!

Telling Monte of my gruesome discoveries made him nervous of his own beloved Captain (somebody). What if there was a support group somewhere of ex-1970s cartoon introducer personalities? I envisioned a circle of Janies and Cowboy Bobs, Captain (somebodies), Peggys, Bozos, Ranger Rons and possibly a Willy. Academy award hopes were revealed during share time--dreams collectively stifled in a local independently owned station environment. Sidekick grievances were aired through angry tears: "Biscuits don't talk man, they don't talk!"

Quickly the conversation turned and the cartoons themselves became targets: "Seriously, Olive has GOT to move on! Like Popeye and Bluto are the only men in the world?"

"Sometimes I wish I could be like the Road Runner and just run away--far, far away."

"I will go insane if I have to hear Woody Woodpecker's laugh one more time! I swear it!"

So they all in some way or another as cartoon introducer personalities felt the need to medicate themselves which brought them to the imaginary support group in my head. I wonder what they think of the introducerless cartoons of today? Entire networks dedicated to 24 hours a day everyday cartoon viewing? And what of Boomerang? They show some of the very cartoons these personalities once built a career around. I can feel the tension. I can almost hear the dialogue…"If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." Darn you, Cowboy Bob!

I WON!!

Yesterday at 5:00 WRFD 880 am announced that Karmen and Monte were the winners of the best worst disaster date story. It was great since Monte was home (snowed in) to hear it with us and also because it was Valentine's Day. The host announced that they would be opening the lines for people to wish their significant other a Happy Valentine's Day so Monte called. They made a big deal about him being a "celebrity" and wanted to know how the marriage was going since that disaster date happened so early in. It was weird listening to his voice in the living room and hearing his footsteps pacing upstairs. He wished the girls a Happy Valentine's Day and mentioned them by name. They felt famous! It was a great highlight to a day where I felt sick, Monte got the car stuck in the driveway and me in my feverish fog, put the car in 2nd instead of reverse and slammed on the the accelerator. Thank God in heaven that the car was REALLY stuck or I would've taken Monte out (who was in front of the car pushing). His eyes got really wide when he saw the direction the wheels were turning. Happy Valentine's Day, honey! There is never a dull moment at the Hartranft house!

DISASTER DATE

DISASTER DATE

I was listening to talk radio the other night when I heard an advertisement for a contest describing a disastrous date. The winners will receive various books and flowers hoping to help the unlucky couple have better dates in the future. Immediately I had a date in mind. I went to the computer and found the radio's web site and banged out my calamitous story. While trying to submit it I got an error message that said no more than 600 characters were allowed. Not 600 words (which I was WAY over). 600 characters! It took me 2 days of editing and frankly, the scaled down version just wasn't funny anymore. I need background, build-up and characters--lots and lots of characters! So, I need to tell this story in its entirety--I REALLY, REALLY do. No limitations, no counting.

Monte and I had been married less than two months when he turned the big 3-0. I really wanted to do something special for the first birthday as man and wife. With all the expense of the wedding and honeymoon and apartment in Buckhead (Atlanta), money was tight. I turned to the big fat entertainment coupon book that Monte's brother had given us as a wedding present. Sneaking it to work with me in my brief case, I felt it was the ticket to a fabulous, albeit affordable evening out.

Flipping through its pages, I found coupons for a small theater in mid-town not far from my office. I found the theater's schedule online and perused the options. I found a play title that struck me: P.S. Your Cat Is Dead. Now that sounded interesting. The summary explained it was about a man that on New Year's Eve gets dumped by his girlfriend, his apartment is burglarized and his cat dies. It was a comedy. I immediately booked the tickets--I got a two-for-one deal with my handy coupon and was on to the dinner portion of the entertainment book.

Monte loves seafood. But how was I going to satisfy his lobster taste with a burger budget? A half-off coupon for a seafood restaurant downtown! And it wasn't far from the theater. The night was shaping up quite nicely.

The evening of his birthday I drove a surprised Monte into the parking lot of what looked like a small abandoned warehouse. Artsy, I thought to myself staying positive. We walked into the small lobby and decided to stop off at the restrooms before finding our seats. Oddly, their was a long line outside of the men's restroom yet I walked right in the women's. After primping a little, I found Monte STILL in line for the restroom. Shooting looks of "what's up with this?" back and forth between us, I pushed back any thoughts that the night would be less than magical.

The theater had a small stage with seats around three sides only four rows deep. We were thrilled to find our spot on the second row, right smack dab in front of the stage. Monte was impressed, I was elated and thanked God for giving Monte's brother the brilliant idea of gifting us that entertainment book.

We flipped open our programs and Monte pointed to a warning that there would be nudity in the play. WHAT?! That was not on the coupon in the entertainment book, the tickets or the website summary of the play! "What should we do?" I asked as the theater darkened and the play began. I guessed we were staying.

The play was funny with well delivered lines by a decent lead actor. I almost completely forgot all about that nudity warning when I was reminded in a BIG way. A-6"5"-drag-queen-wearing-little-more-than-a-leather-thong-bright-red-lipstick-and-false-eyelashes-way. He had a similarly dressed posse with him that grabbed the lead character, tied him up and promptly removed his pants. Remember: we were on the 2nd row and could see all too well what was unfolding on stage. Jaw droppingly aghast, I turned to Monte to find him anxiously scratching his chest and arm pits with both hands (we later discovered he had broken out in nervous hives).

Hastily, we left the theater exiting out a side door which dumped us out onto a VERY busy street. With no sidewalk, no shoulder and no real option of re-entering that theater in our lifetimes, we had to carefully scoot along a tiny curb with our backs and arms tightly pressed against the building wall to get to the parking lot. I had on a wide-legged pant suit and as each car zoomed by, my pant legs blew around wildly.

Monte itched like a mad man until we got to the restaurant. I was desperate to salvage the evening.

I had to sweet talk the maitre'd (is that how you spell it??) into seating us well before our much later reservation. We were appointed a lovely little man named Lamar as our waiter--very soft-spoken and attentive. Monte enjoyed my dining choice and devoured a 2-pound lobster (thank goodness for that half-off coupon!). Considering the nice ending to a disastrous beginning, I was about to sigh in relief for a pleasing birthday…when…Lamar brought out a complimentary cake complete with a lighted candle for Monte. He got the attention of everyone in the restaurant (surprising for such a slight little guy) and began singing a rendition of Happy Birthday that could only be described as breathy and suggestive. Think Marilyn Monroe's version to President Kennedy but with clapping. All eyes were on Monte, still wearing his plastic lobster bib, melted butter dripping from his dropped chin.

Needless to say, Monte itched uncontrollably the entire way home and I NEVER used that entertainment book again.

NEW LOOK

At the risk of negating everything I just wrote about in my latest post, I have decided to update the look of my blog a bit. A new look for a new year. Also, I hope to add a side bar of links (once I figure that out). I have been able to fix the problem of no one being able to make a comment that wasn't a blogger member. Now, anyone can make a comment and I encourage you to--good and bad. My goal is to get back into practice so that someone will actually hire me to do this again. Thanks for reading!

TRUTH

I can't turn on the TV or radio without being bombarded by false truths. Absolutes that "experts" claim in every subject imaginable. They usually are quite snippy and condescending about it. What happened to humble opinions?

Isn't it amazing how many people claim to know the absolute "truth" in some way or another? It could be in a very big, loud way like an actor who suddenly claims to have reached "Christhood" in a self-centered religion. Or a talk show host who denounces many public opinions as discrimination by being publicly discriminating herself.

These fake "truths" can be quiet, a whispering message we hear inside that is actually a lie. A big fat lie we buy to make ourselves feel better. Isn't that why all those people stand in line for hours to try out for American Idol only to sing like a toad and run, totally shocked, bawling into the arms of their mother who reassures them there is always next year? Okay, Monte and I have discussed this. We are all for encouraging our daughters to pursue their hearts desire--even when the odds are against them. I loved the movie Hoosiers as much as anyone, but as a parent, you pretty much know the ugly truth that your child sings like a toad, don't you? Isn't it our responsibility to support their strengths and steer them into a non-vocally musical career path? Isn't honesty ALWAYS the best policy?

That's the tricky part about truth and lies. The truth can be so painful and ugly and stinky. Lies are so easy and pretty and delicious smelling. And why not? They are wrapped up in shiny paper, dipped in chocolate and sold to us with leather interior, German engineering, hardwood floors, granite countertops, Italian sling-backs, control tops, non-fat half-caff lattes, mango martinis, golf memberships and 52 inches of high definition satellite-beamed entertainment. They are well-read, well-educated, politically correct, environmentally aware, organic lies. Oh, I'm guilty. I've been seduced by the sweet aroma of things I thought would make my life easier or improved in some way. But they always turn out to be an unfulfilled lie. No doubt I am listening intently to some nagging untruth right now and will fall for something, sometime again…and again…and again. That's our plight. We are only human.

Fashion is one of those culprits. I've rejected fashion most of my life (big surprise). It's not the least bit interesting to me (except for shoes). I know it's the career path of some and good for them. I just don't buy the shows on TV or articles in magazines that tell you what you shouldn't and must never wear. Skinny jeans aside (seriously, no one over a size 0 should EVER wear them), why can't people wear what's comfortable for them? As long as they are appropriate, why should we care if we are--gasp--wearing something from last year's winter line? I have sweaters older than my children--wait--older than my marriage. Isn't that what classics are--things that stand the test of time?

My grandfather had a very specific way of dressing. He always wore these light colored jeans and shirts with bands around the waist. He had a few favorites that we could always count on him wearing. They were as comfortable to him as his hugs were to me. When he died, my grandmother took some of his clothes to a woman who wonderfully sewed them into memory bears. My bear sports one of his favorite shirts and those great, light-colored jeans. That bear is so him that I smelled it when I first got it expecting it to fill my nose with the nostalgic smell of PaPa's hair cream and cinnamon. But it didn't. Some things just can't be copied.

Can you imagine if my grandfather tried to "copy" every latest fashion trend? What if every time I visited him he sported a new trouser style: cuffs, no cuffs, pleats, flat front? What if his hair was always in a different style or (ugh!) color? What if (fighting growing older) he got his ear pierced? (that thought freaks me out!) How do you make a memory bear out of a fad? Where's the truth in something that's temporary? He was a constant for me. Neverending, non-changing love. I knew what he believed and believed in how he lived. He wasn't starry-eyed or driven to climb ladders to success. He lived in this world not of it. A farmer that simply cultivated the seeds he planted. And it brought him such joy. It shaped me.

But I still get so confused! You can find false truths in so many things like food: is organic really better? What's up with artificial sweeteners? And baby products: will certain name brand car seats really kill your kids? Are generic diapers any different than their more expensive competitors? And raising children: will spanking actually scar them for life? Will setting enforceable boundaries suffocate their spirit? And the news: are they telling us the real story--or the one they have chosen to believe?

The dictionary defines truth as the true or actual state of a matter; conformity with fact or reality; a verified or indisputable fact; honesty and integrity.

It's hard to find the truth when we think we are hearing it on every channel. I like the phrases INDISPUTABLE FACT and HONESTY and INTEGRITY in truth's definition. Apply those to your life and see where you end up. Finding indisputable truth with integrity is what we're here for. It's bowing your head and asking for help when you have no idea what to do and especially at those times when you believe you do. It's seeking Godly truth versus worldly truth. That's what my grandpa did. And it's worth turning off the TV and radio to find. But that's just my humble opinion.

IT'S ALIVE!

Okay, not that we thought it was dead--yet, but the news we received (from two sources, just to be sure) was such a relief. Our lightning scarred old Sycamore is going to make it! We didn't believe it at first and are still somewhat skeptical but mostly grateful that we won't be watching, or paying for, our tree to be hacked into pieces and then thrown into a chipper. Along with our hearts (stay with me here).

I'm afraid I'm guilty of telling anyone willing to listen the sad saga of possibly losing our tree. But I'm reluctant to take it all back--it doesn't seem true. Yet. There's a country music song about this knocking around in my head begging to be written. Funny, I don't particularly like country music, but I'm convinced one about loving a tree would be an instant classic.

The girls are so happy with the news that it's still on the short list at prayer time. "Thank you God for saving our tree".

We're considering seriously the news the last two tree companies have given us: it will survive. We've decided to wait until Spring and see what really happens, if it grows leaves and/or fungus. One guy said there is a sort of "band" that we can put on the tree to hold up what he calls the leader limbs and keep them from blowing around too much in case they were weakened by the lightning strike. Think underwire bra (I did).

It was also explained to us that there is a lightning rod system that can be put in place on the tree that will ground any future strikes. Think expensive (Monte did).

We went to Indiana last weekend to see my parents. My hometown, Brownstown, sits on the edge of the Hoosier National Forest. I forget how beautiful it is there this time of year. We went on a short hike in a state forest I've been to a million times. I've hiked, attended church pot-lucks, ice skated when the small pond froze and even hosted a boy-girl s'mores party there when I was 14. But for some reason, I've never taken Monte there (he's not so much the "outdoorsy" type). But he loved it. Ellie said in the middle of the hike, "I'm so glad I'm here! I love hiking!" This being the same girl who threw herself on the floor and refused to put on her shoes when I announced we were going.

We found a tree identification path (yes, we are geeks). It was so much fun guessing what tree was what when the leaves were almost gone or so high up we could barely see them. My dad could identify some by the bark. What Monte and I noticed over and over on the dense path was that none of the trees came close to being as big as ours. Not to brag as proud parents can do, but these trees had scrawny trunks with leaves no bigger than our hand. Our Sycamore requires all four of us to hug it completely and consistently drops leaves as big as our face. (I'm telling you, this song is writing itself!) Granted, some of the trees on our hike were probably mere teenagers. I kept singing in my head the line of the song from Pocahontas: "How high does the Sycamore grow? If you cut it down, you'll never know". We're proud to say we DO know and it's standing in our backyard.

I still look out at the tree when the wind is blowing hard and wonder what truly is holding it together. It's scar is still so evident etched in its bark. Then I say a prayer, deeply comforted it's still there. (Does anyone have Kenny Chesney's phone number?)

HALLOWEEN

Halloween is huge at the Hartranft house. It's one of many family traditions that I brought to the marriage. As a child, my family reveled in the creative process of dressing up in homemade, clever costumes. I never owned one of those store-bought plastic boxed costumes. Maybe once or twice my brothers wore a purchased mask, but I don't think I ever did. Halloween was an expression of ingenuity, an outlet for a very creative family. My grandmother still helps us put together our outfits. It's just in our blood. Speaking of blood, my Halloween experience never included any. Halloween wasn't scary at our house. There were no creepy talking skeletons or hands that grab you when you try to sneak a piece of candy from a bowl. We never had a graveyard in our front yard with dry ice. Halloween was full of hobos and gypsies and firemen and cowboys and Raggedy Ann--not a single one of which was gashed open and bleeding profusely.

A few years ago we started dressing up as a family for trick or treat night and using a snapshot for our Christmas card. Monte is such a good sport and friends from all over the country look forward to what he in particular will be donning for our holiday greeting come Christmas time.

Three years ago our Halloween family dress up almost didn't happen. I explain in a story I was inspired to write immediately after the Halloween of 2003:

THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

I recently flew to Atlanta for a friend’s baby shower. No kids, no husband. It was my first flight alone in years. I didn’t check any bags, no car seat to lug around or purse overstuffed with crackers and toys. I read completely uninterrupted on the plane. I was giddy with lightness and solitude.

Later that same day, I called to check in at home. My girlfriend answered the phone. Before I could ask why she was at my house, she informed me that my husband, Monte, was in surgery—an emergency appendectomy. She and her husband were watching our daughters.

“Don’t worry, we’re spending the night”, she said. “Everything will be fine”, she reassured.

Everything wasn’t fine. I wanted to go home. I desperately wanted to go home. Shocked, I was sucked into the organizational details of booking an immediate flight back home to Ohio and arranged for my parents to drive over from out of state to watch our daughters and relieve my friends.

Back at the airport, the whirlwind of calls continued regarding my husband’s condition and final confirmation of plans from friends and family. Two and a half hours after finding out about Monte’s surgery, I was on a plane and with the cell phone turned off, alone with my thoughts. I want to go home. I can’t wait to get home. The same giddiness I felt on the flight to Atlanta was an empty pang of loneliness on the flight back. Why did I need a break from these wonderful people in my family? Why was I so desperate for time by myself? Guilt overwhelmed me. Thoughts of my husband being wheeled into and out of surgery all alone haunted me. His waking up in recovery to no one felt like a punch in the stomach. In between prayers, my mind screamed, I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. It became a chant; almost a cheer and I became filled with eagerness to see all things familiar. My oldest daughter in her ripped pink princess dress-up dress with marker stains all over her hands. My 15-month-old daughter with her squeals and spills as she attempts to communicate and turn wobbly steps into running. And above all my husband with all his disorganized (but always well intended) flaws. I couldn’t wait to rush to his side in the hospital and declare that I would never again leave him or the girls and promise to nurse him back to health to the best of my abilities. I loved him more than ever.

Five days after my husband’s surgery, it was Halloween. As a family, we love to dress up and begin discussing our costumes during the summer. The recovery process was slower than Monte (and I) anticipated and playing nurse on top of playing Mom full-time was talking its toll. I considered (much to the horror of my 4 1/2-year-old) not dressing up this year. But I rallied and finished Monte’s and my own costume just minutes before walking out the door Halloween night. We walked (slowly) to a neighborhood Spooky Supper dressed as the Tin Man (Monte), The Scarecrow (me), Dorothy (my oldest daughter) and The Cowardly Lion (my youngest). I have to admit, considering the time crunch in which they were produced, our costumes turned out terrific.

At the supper, I complained to anyone who’d listen about the extra work I had around the house since Monte’s surgery.

“He can’t lift anything for three weeks! Not the girls and apparently not a finger,” I griped. Someone, attempting to be cute, said, “Well, there’s no place like home!”

I stopped what I was doing, my drink frozen in mid-air. I couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me before. The silly irony of it all! My own life was jumping up and down in front of me but I was too busy telling it to sit down and be quiet to see what a beautiful wonderful gift it was. Like the character I was portraying, I wasn’t using my brain. It was just five days before that I was on a plane worried and homesick longing for the familiar chaos that is my precious life. How soon I forgot the helplessness of being far away. The uncomfortable awkwardness of breaking routine. The need to nurse all things sick back to health.

There’s no place like home. No, REALLY. There’s no place like home. That doesn’t mean I’ll never again want to run from the dirty laundry and temper tantrums for a weekend just for me. I’m already day dreaming of a birthday getaway with my girlfriends next month. But this time I’ll keep Dorothy’s mantra in my head instead of straw (it was in my heart all along anyway). There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. I might as well stick the ruby slippers in my suitcase too—just in case.

Tree Hugger

This past week has been full of beauty and natural wonder and sadness. Walking to school on Monday, we saw a double-rainbow so bright in spots we could barely look at it. It wasn't raining and hadn't rained. A father crossed the street and commented to us that it was scary, "What does it mean?" he asked. This concerned McDaniel. Why would something so beautiful scare a grown up?

Last Thursday around 4:00 p.m., while enjoying a rare moment of quiet on the couch reading, I heard an explosion and the room flooded with a bright white light. A storm had blown in suddenly, forcing us inside from the backyard where we were playing. I sent the girls downstairs to watch TV so I could enjoy some quiet time. It lasted about 1 1/2 minutes.

Quickly, I thought the house or transformer had been struck by lightning (the power in the den and living room only went out) I rushed to check on the girls downstairs. They had heard nothing and were content, watching their show. I mentioned something had been struck by lightning and McDaniel asked if their was a fire. Good question, I thought to myself as I casually excused myself and then ran like the dickens upstairs to check for smoke. As I gawked out the window for any signs of fire and/or destruction, the black sky was momentarily illuminated by lightning that showed me exactly what happened. Our nearly 100-foot Sycamore tree in our backyard (less than 10 feet from our house) had the perfect markings of a lightning strike. It was as if a big ol' grizzly bear (with just one hook instead of multiple claws--work with me here) had clawed its way from the base of the tree up the ENTIRE height of the tree and then down the other side (which we didn't discover until two days later).

I was scared too death. One, what if the tree was unstable and going to fall on the house? Two, what if it was smoldering on the inside and eventually going to burn up the entire neighborhood? And three, four and five, what if the tree was going to FALL on the house?!?!?!

I called Monte who was all the way over on the east side of town getting our station wagon serviced. He didn't answer the first three times I called. When we finally connected, he instructed me and the girls to stay in the basement. By the time he made it home, the storm had blown over and we inspected the tree and took pictures. It was pretty amazing the way no limbs blew off or the fact the tree didn't crack or split. Or explode. From the debris on the ground, it did seem to scare it barkless.

During dinner the storm returned so we rushed back to the basement just in time to watch golf ball size hail destroy my beautiful impatiens that grew in the stair-step flower beds outside our egress window. The girls thought the world was ending. Monte and I were fascinated and glued to the window and forgot about our tree for a short while.

The next days were spent raking up green leaves (do you know how much heavier they are then their pretty red, yellow and brown cousins?) and assessing house, window and car damage. And, of course, taking pictures of our tree. The entire neighborhood and many friends have been by to look at, touch and offer advice for our beloved tree. In the past few days I've become a tree hugger, we all have. You see, it's base when we play tag. It's where we count for Hide and Go Seek and it's first base when we play whiffle ball. On the 4th of July at noon, we can sit in our backyard and not swelter. It's an awesome tree--the tallest on our block--quite possibly our street.

Dennis, the arborist, who strangely reminded me of my paternal grandfather who had a tree farm, broke the news to me yesterday in the back yard. "It has to go, honey," he said gently (I forgave him the remark because he was 75+ and I really appreciated the kindness). It was dying, more than likely fried on the inside with badly damaged thick, high limbs that stretch out over our house and our neighbors. There was too much risk to keep it. Sometimes beautiful things do become scary. Surprising myself, my bottom lip stuck out four blocks and shook wildly.

"I hate it when I have to give bad news," Dennis went on sweetly, giving me time to compose myself.

I kept thinking of the Lorax, half-expecting Dr. Seuss's little orange guy to pop out from behind the tree and say, "Mister! I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues. And I'm asking you, sir, at the top of my lungs…"

But he didn't.

"You don't understand," I said brokenly. "That's base when we play tag. It's where we count for Hide and Go Seek and it's first base when we play whiffle ball. On the 4th of July at noon, we can sit right here and not swelter. I love this tree," I squeaked inaudibly. I felt as if I were also speaking for the previous two owners of the house. Sixty years of memories surrounded this tree. It was here before the house was even built. I wasn't the first to utter love for this tree.

"I know, honey," Dennis comforted and then wrote out an estimate for the Sycamore's removal that made Monte cry.

Dennis told me that Sycamore wood is not good for anything: building or burning. Once chopped up, they will throw it in the dump. Something so tall and massive good for nothing but a tree.

Monte is convinced it took the hit for us, sparing the house the lightning strike. A protector while he was away. That's deserving of a hug, don't you think? And a prayer. We've been praising God--for seeing us through the storm and for his beautiful artistry of double rainbows and big tall Sycamores.

We've promised the girls that we'll plant again and let them help us decide what and where. Isn't there a quote out there somewhere about the closest we can come to immortality is to write a book and plant a tree? Two of my favorite things.

I think I became a tree hugger long before now. Digging through an old bag, I found some of my old poetry. This is from middle school or early high school. Forgive the lack of flow and overly brooding nature of it. Some things just don't change.

Looking into a pond of my childhood
I eagerly seek to find
If all my favorite places to go
Had stood the test of time

The log I used to sit and think on
Isn't there
And the place where wildflowers used to grow
Is bare

Turning around I was sure to find
That real tall tree that I used to climb
The one that stood out among all the other trees
And the one that broke my first bone
I found it right away because
It stood there all alone

Upset, I look down to see the one thing
That is left to remind me of my childhood
They're the rocks I wished could take my problems away
And when thrown across the water would

Looking into a pond of my childhood
I question the person I see
I throw in a rock to get rid of my reflection
And run over to hug my tree