A Guest Post by Noodle12

Noodle12 wants to be a writer. Correct that. Noodle12 is a writer. He spends almost all of his free time reading, writing, and drawing. He has started several books and has ideas for even more. His current interest is fantasy. The settings for his books are completely made up worlds. The names of places and characters are completely made up words. He makes detailed maps of the places in his stories and detailed biographies and illustrations of all of his main characters. As an outsider looking in, I can see how alive these worlds are to him and how much thought he has given them. As one who struggles with writing and one whose drawing never progressed beyond stick figures, I am amazed with his vocabulary, his ability to develop a plot, and his skill at drawing. As detailed and alive as these worlds obviously are to him, most of his writing to date has been full of dialogue and action and lacking in description of either setting or characters.

I ran across a book called Description & Setting and thought it might be helpful to him. He has been working through some of the exercises. One of the most recent he completed was to use descriptive writing techniques to focus on the past. He wrote a piece on his great-grandmother, Gigi.

I asked him if I could share it on here as a way to preserve his memory of Gigi and so that others could read it. He agreed. So without any further interruption by me, here is Noodle12's guest post.

The Most Beautiful Woman in the World

I walk up the wet cement driveway past the garage towards the door of my grand- and great-grandmothers' house. We (me, my parents, and my little brother) just call them Nana and Gigi.

I open the squeaky glass door and knock on the big red one behind it. A few seconds later, a wrinkled, veiny hand with slightly yellowed fingernails peels back the white lacy curtain of the side window. An olive green eye peers out. The hand and eye quickly withdraw and there is a soft click of the lock before the door swings open.

I have barely enough time to set down my bags before I am crushed against Gigi's soft belly by a warm embrace.

"Cameron!", Gigi exclaims. "Oooh, it's so good to see you," and she squeezes harder.

As she leads me away to the living room, she proceeds to inform me about her (and mine) favorite television cartoon. "Look, Tom and Jerry just came on!" she announces.


Later, as I am unpacking, I overhear the following conversation:

"Hand me the remote, please." (That's Nana)

"What?!" (That's Gigi)

"Hand me the remote," Nana says a little louder.

"What?!"

"The remote. Hand me the remote!"

"Sit on the commode?!!"

"No Mama, I said -"

"What's the use of sittin' on the commode if you don't have to use it?!"

I don't pay much attention to this misunderstanding; that kind of conversation is commonplace with Gigi.


Late that night while everyone else sleeps, there is one light still on in the house. Inside that room, the stakes are rising.

I lay down two cards in the "trash pile", an eight and a jack, both spades. The remaining three cards in my hand are the king of hearts and two fives, one clubs and the other spades.

I draw two red-backed cards from the deck. The first one is the king of diamonds, the second is the five of hearts. Nice. That makes a full house.

I must not have a good "poker face" because Gigi gives me a suspicious look.

I lay down my hand face up on the comforter of the bed, breaking into a wide grin while announcing, "Full House."

Gigi lays down her hand and says slowly, to emphasize my utter destruction, "Four Aces."

One of her cheery little smiles breaks onto her face, kind of what you would imagine Santa's smile is like. Her smiles are one of those things you do not fully appreciate until after its gone.

From a purely neutral viewpoint, Gigi is not the most attractive person alive, but to her six year-old great-grandson, she's the most beautiful woman in the world.

No Going Home Again

We (my brother, sister, and I) recently put my mother's house up for sale. The estate issues are coming to a close and it seemed like the time had come to deal with the house. As our good fortune would have it, the folks who looked at the house the second day it was on the market made us an offer. We will be closing on the house this Friday. Part of me feels blessed that it went so quickly and smoothly especially in light of our country's current economic climate. Another part of me is saddened by the thought that my mother's house will no longer be there for me. Even though we are coming up on a year since my mother's death and she had not really lived in the house much over her two year illness, the existence of the house, with her things still in it, comforted me through many of the hardships of the last few years. It was always the hope of my mom coming home that kept all of us going.

This past weekend we all met at the house to clean it out. I was dreading the experience. I knew that at the end of the day, I would walk out of that house - it empty of any evidence that my mother or grandmother had lived there for 21 years. It would never be mine to return to again. I was prepared to deal with how tough saying goodbye would be. What caught me off guard was the rush of feelings and memories that flooded me on the drive down. I recalled specific memories of going home again at different stages of my life.

There was the young college girl driving the old, but reliable clunker home from Atlanta. She would have rather been spending Spring Break with her friends, but could not stand to hear the disappointment in her parents' voices when she suggested not coming home between quarters.

There was the young woman with her new husband. They are driving a two-seater convertible from Buffalo. She doesn't have a care in the world. Her whole life is yet to be determined. Everything and anything is still possible.

There was the young mother driving the mini-van with the family buckled inside. The van is filled with music and singing and laughter. The kids are so excited about seeing Nana and Gigi. The young mother anticipates how much she will enjoy seeing her mother and grandmother interact with her children.

There is the older mother driving the mini-van filled to the brim with kids. She is nervous and worried and stressed. She is home for only weeks with her Ethiopian children who speak very little English. She is driving down to help her mother recover from surgery. She can't believe the timing of things. She doubts she can keep it all together. She manages somehow albeit, not always with the grace and composure she should.

There is the new (older) mother who is two weeks postpartum, hoping she gets home in time to meet one of her mother's last requests - to hold her new grandson. This is the same mother who at three weeks postpartum drives down again to sit in a hospice room with her dying mother and her newborn. She is overwhelmed with the similarities of their situations. Both helpless. Both in need of so much attention and love. She is aware of the paradox too - one taking his first breaths of life, the other taking her final breaths of life. This is the same mother who at four weeks postpartum drives down again to attend her mother's funeral.

As these memories followed one behind the other, I was overcome with emotion. I turned up the music, the kids sang and talked and laughed. I put on my sunglasses and let the tears roll down my cheeks. I couldn't help but feel the passage of time as swift and one-way. It reminds me of lyrics from two songs that played in the car that morning.

One is John Mayer's "Stop This Train":

Stop this train
I wanna get off
And go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But honestly, won't someone stop this train?

Don't know how else to say it
Don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own

And Anna Nalick's "Breathe (2 am)":

'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button, girl.
So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe... just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe


I had a good cry and felt much better. The rest of day went well. My aunt and uncle, my brother, my sister and her husband, as well as my family set about the task at hand. We talked and joked and reminisced as we worked. We got everything done. The time to leave was upon me.

The leaving was as difficult as I had anticipated. Noodle12 and I made one last walk through the house. As we did so, we opened every closet and cabinet hoping for some bit of their things that we might have missed. Some reason to stay. There was nothing. We had been thorough. The only evidence of this having been their home, was the smell of my grandmother's perfume that still permeated her now empty closet. As the smell enveloped us, smiles flashed across our faces followed by the sting of tears in our eyes. It was so hard to force ourselves out of the front door, to hear the final click of the lock, to know "our" house key lay on the counter in the kitchen, and to know there will be no going home again.

Every Fourth Sunday

This past Sunday at our Friends Meeting, the First Day School youth group prepared food to take to a local park to feed the hungry. It is part of the Food Not Bombs effort that feeds the hungry in our closest "Big City" every Sunday afternoon at 1 pm. This was the first time my family participated. Everyone who shows up for a meal is given a number and are served according to that order. No one is turned away. However, if you have one of the last numbers, it is more likely than not that very little food is left on the table as you make your way through the line.

The food preparation portion the effort energized all the kids. The physical act of serving food to the hungry was not embraced by all of them. My boys were a bit reticent about serving food at the park. They all hung back and watched as their sisters and the other youth stepped up to the table to serve food to the many, many folks who had shown up for a meal. As you can imagine, many of those in need of a good, full meal were a bit off putting visually. It was obvious that many were homeless and had not had access to a hot shower in days. Many were suffering from the lack of even the most basic medical or dental care. Others were struggling with mental health issues.

As Noodle12 and Politician10 watched from the background, they slowly warmed up to the idea of stepping up to the tables to serve the food they had prepared. First cautiously and then more enthusiastically, they began spooning food on to plates and engaging in conversation with the folks holding their plates out. There were many "please and thank you"s, many sincere and friendly questions asked of my children, and much smiling and laughter from both sides of the table. The day was a pleasant sunny spring day. Music played in the background. Some folks danced. Men played chess. The distinction between those serving and those being served was not always clear. The overall atmosphere bordered on festive.

I knew for my adopted children, this would be an experience that I was not sure how they would handle. All of them spent their early years chronically undernourished. Politician10 often tells me of the grass and tree bark they would eat just to get something into their stomach to quell their severe hunger pains. I was a bit worried about the memories this encounter might bring to the surface for them. On the other hand, I believe they have a unrealistic impression of America. They have known since they day they got here, that hunger is no longer a concern for them. There is more food than they could possibly eat. They mistakenly assume this is true for all Americans. They have been unaware that people can and are also hungry in America. Throughout the afternoon they showed no outward signs that they had made the connection between their early experiences with hunger and what they were witnessing on this particular Sunday afternoon.

As the afternoon wrapped up and the last few folks made it through the line, I felt Politician10 tug at my shirt sleeve. He whispered, "Momma the last people through the line are a man with children and there just isn't enough food for them. What can we do?" I glanced over to see a young father with three young children probably close to the ages my Ethiopian children were when they came to us. I watched as the last bits of food were being portioned out between their four plates. Where plates had been piled with food earlier in the day, these plates had small heaps of food that did not even cover the bottom of the plates. I reached for my purse only to realize that I had left it in the car. I suggested that Politician10 speak to his father about how to handle the situation. Politician10 and his father decided they would offer him some money. They approached him and remarked to him that they had noticed that he and his children had not gotten much food. They asked him if he would accept some money so that he could buy more food for himself and his children. The man smiled and said, "Yes, that would be most appreciated."

I have no idea if Politician10 saw the similar circumstances between this man and his Ethiopian father. I have no idea if Politician10 saw his and his sisters' plight in the faces of these three young children. I can only suspect that he did. I know I did. I also know that he wasted no time in taking action. Although none of my children articulated this, I believe they learned in that hour or so that people are people. They saw and experienced the inherent dignity and worth in every person. They have all asked when we will be going back to do this again. My answer is as often as we can and certainly every Fourth Sunday with the First Day School youth group.

Long Time No Blog

Six months is a long time between posts. All is well here, we've just been busy and, honestly, I was suffering from a lack of inspiration to blog. The lack of inspiration is most likely due to the lack of a full nights sleep since the Nugget was born -- not that I'm complaining. I just forgot about all that sleep loss when you have a baby. A few times I've said, "I should blog about that", but mostly I've just thought I should blog and then stared at the screen with nothing happening.

It is a chilly, rainy March Saturday and the Nugget has finally started to crawl which means he has transformed from chronic FussBucket over his frustration with his lack of mobility to Mr. Happy Baby overnight. The change in his disposition has been remarkable now that he is master of his locomotion. This also means he is not constantly demanding to be picked up and taken to his next desired location. This means I am suddenly finding myself with free arms and free time.

So here's a funny recently provided by SonicBoom5 who is now SonicBoom6. For her birthday she asked for a doctor's kit. In the kit, was a clipboard with a pad of paper for filling out patient information. Most of us have had the flu over the past two weeks and she has been doctoring us. She usually fills out the patient profile by asking us for our names, age, etc. One day I was picking up pieces to the kit, when I glanced at the clipboard. I had not realized that one of the lines to be filled in on the patient profile was "Sex". As I looked through all of the sheets, I noticed she had placed a number in the "Sex" blank. Politician10 had a 0. Lashes8 had a 0. Everybody had a 0 except for me. That blank on mine had a 3. She happened into the room and starting looking at them with me. We started talking about them and I asked her a few questions including what the numbers meant. She said, "You know the number of times you have had sex. Once for Noodle, once for Lashes, and once for The Nugget."