Today is our 34th Wedding Anniversary!

 

The Art of Painting Pictures

The little girl hurt. She thought she could hear her daddy's voice. She wanted to tell him about her pain, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't talk and tell him that her throat hurt. She opened her eyes, and saw the sheets of her bed and thought it strange that a hospital would have red sheets.

Her mother in the waiting room didn't have the luxury of her daughter's confusion. When she saw the nurse running through the hall, she knew instantly what the red soaked nurse's uniform meant. Something had gone wrong. She knew, as only a mother could, that the red blood splashed over the front of the nurse's clothing was that of her child. 

It was a simple procedure, a tonsillectomy. Children had them all the time. The little girl, 7 years old, had suffered repeated bouts of bronchitis, and the family physician had said the young girl's tonsils were bad and needed to be removed. It would be an adventure, the mother had told her daughter, and the 7-year-old listened to her mother's words and believed them.

Instead, when the physician finally came and found the woman, his own eyes laced with concern, he told her they were trying to stop the child's bleeding and doing everything they could. He shook his head, patted her hand and walked back to be with his patient. 

The mother stood there by herself. Her husband, lulled by the routine nature of the surgery, had gone to work that day. The mother dazed and in disbelief, waited until they came to take her to her daughter's bedside in recovery. 

The little girl looked small and fragile. The mother thought her heart would break. The little girl moved in and out of consciousness, only vaguely aware of her surroundings those first two days in recovery 

The mother left that first night exhausted, and came back early the next day. She stayed at her daughter's bedside, leaving only long enough to shower, change and occasionally sleep. The child, once reunited with her mother, felt the comfortable safety that she always felt in her mother's presence, never once understanding how close she had come to death. 

The child never saw, never felt the fear behind her mother's smile, she heard only her mother's comforting voice, talking of things they would do when the girl was better. The mother's words were strong, and the picture painted in the little girl's head so clear, that not for even the tiniest of moments did the little girl think it would be otherwise. 

Slowly the little girl recovered. The surgery, the hospital were just a bad memory for the girl, nothing more. 

As the daughter grew, again and again, as life presented each new difficulty, she would come to her mother, listening intently as her mother found ways to paint a picture of a positive outcome, no matter how serious the problem. 

When the girl grew into womanhood and the problems became larger, the mother's words continued to create positive pictures. Even when the young woman didn't believe, her mother's words were so powerful, so filled with detail that the young woman moved forward on faith alone at the sound of her mother's words. 

It happened when the young woman lost her own baby daughter. The mother drew the picture of another baby, this one healthy framed in the young woman's arms and it was so. 

It happened when the young woman, in the midst of a broken heart and marriage, listened as the mother painted the picture of another love, a perfect partner for the young woman, and this too became so. And so it went, the mother teaching the daughter how to paint the pictures in her mind.

It would come as no surprise that the mother, who for years had been painting pictures in the mind, now put those pictures on canvas, sharing her talent with friends, family — charming even strangers with her work. 

And the daughter, who had not inherited her mother's artistic talents, found her own way to create pictures, creating them with words. 

Though many women have had an impact on my life, none more so than my own mother. It has been her strong words that have propelled me through the rough times (tonsillectomies and all) and helped me soar through the good. 

This tribute is written for you, Momma — for your wit, wisdom and warmth and most of all, for teaching me to paint pictures. I love you.

🎕 Happy Mother's Day, Momma.  🎕

Note: This post first published 13 March 2008 and republished in honor of Mother's Day. 2023.

© 13 March 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder

Happy Birthday, Fly Killer

 

I’ve created a killer, a fly killer, that is. A few weeks ago, in the natural course of an energetic four-year running in and out, a quick thinking fly managed to breach our inner sanctum. Quick thinking yes, but maybe not so quick moving. After my own thwarted attempts at swatting the little pest, the grandson begged me to let him try. 

So I handed over the white fly swatter. And what do ya know? Deadeye managed to do in a few well-aimed swats, what Grandma had not. He killed that darn fly. 

 “I’m really quick, right Maw?” 

 “Yes, you are.” 

 “You couldn’t get him, could you Maw?”

 “Nope, I could not.” 

 “We don’t like flies, do we Maw?”

 “No, we do not.” 

 “Hey, are you goin’ to tell PaPa Al, that I’m quick?” 

 “Yes, I am.” 

 A few weeks later, when one of the deceased fly’s buddies made it in through the opened screen door, the grandson was not pleased when I managed to shoo the fly back outside. 

 “But, I wanted to kill him,” grumped the peanut gallery. 

 My explanation of a win-win philosophy was lost on a four-year old who thought I was just mucking up his chance at another fly victory. Later, as we played outside, the little guy got his chance when a hapless fly landed on one of our outside toys. Deadeye, took aim, and swatted the fly with his BARE hands, and put another notch in his fly killing belt. After a brief discussion about why it was good policy to wash one’s hands after such a heroic act, I said, 

 “Hey, I’m going to have to start calling you Fly Killer. Yep, I’m going to call you, Fly Killer Snyder.” 

 Silence, as the two of us walked the length of the stone driveway.

 Then, “Its okay, Maw. You can call me Fly Killer if you want.” 

 A few more steps, a quick kick of the stones, and then my buddy looked straight up at me and said, 

“I kinda like that name.” 

 Glad to oblige, kiddo. Glad to oblige.

Happy Birthday to FKA Fly Killer Snyder.  I love you, sweet boy. I don't know where the time has gone. 

Originally published 6 Oct 2008.

© 6 October 2008 and 10 May 2023, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Happy Birthday, Mikey Boy!

 

Ah, Michael, you are the child who is so unlike me. Sometimes I have looked at you in awe, wondering how it is that I have produced such a child. By the age of two, it was obvious that you had outstripped me in mechanical genius, when you took it upon yourself to replace a dead battery in the toy train engine, that had finally, blessedly gone silent after weeks of constant use. You opened up the battery compartment of the toy, took out the old battery, went to the drawer where we kept batteries, pulled out the right size battery, put it in the correct way, closed up the battery compartment, and went toddling away with that pleased smile I’ve come to know so well and the train engine running, pressed noisily up to your ear. I watched the whole thing in shock. I, a woman who barely knew what a straight edge screwdriver was, had produced this child.

I remember one particularly trying day, when I had gotten out late from class. I had to pick your brother up at day care, you at preschool and your sister at elementary school. Nothing was going right. We were finally on our way, racing across town to get to the elementary school when we were stopped at a railroad crossing waiting for an approaching train. You had been begging me to turn the radio on, which I finally had done. Now, you were tugging at my sleeve asking me to turn the radio off. 

 “But, Mikey,” I said with all the exasperation I was feeling, “you just asked me to turn it on!” 

“Mommy, just listen.” 

 So, I turned off the radio, and did just that. Wrapped in the cocoon of our car, you and I sat listening in companionable silence to the clickety clack of the train. You with that silly precious grin pasted all over your face, and me suddenly engulfed by your pure sense of joy. 

There are so many little slices of the world that I would have missed, my son, had you not been there to show me. Today is your birthday, Michael. I celebrate it not only for you, but for what having you has brought to my life. Happy Birthday, Mikey Boy!

Love, Momma

Originally published,  10 May 2009.

© 10 May 2009, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder

May and Busy Times

 So ...  May is a busy month in my family.  You have Mother's Day.  Followed by a lot of birthdays.  There is my Sister's birthday.  There is my Son's birthday.  Two Grandchildren were born in May.  Our cute curly haired red headed Great Grandson made his appearance three year's ago in May. (Wow, how is that even possible?) And finally, there is the guy who brought this startling revelation into my life: I am wildly attracted to tall red haired men, with sparkling blue eyes and a ready smile.  (Even when there hair turns white.) That guy, well it's his birthday this month, too.  

All of which is to say I'm busy and I won't be writing much this month.  However, I thought in honor of today's birthday boys, I would resurrect an older post I had written for each, a loooong time ago.  The next two posts are for them. 

(Also, my allergies this year are way over the top, making me officially cranky,  or as my husband would say, crankier.  High level crankiness does not make for good writing.)

© 10 May 2023, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder

Happy Siblings Day - (In 13 Slides)

  

Wordless Wednesday: A Daughter, Some Flowers, Lots of Real Smiles

 

© 4 April 2023, Teresa L. Snyder, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged