In Loving Memory of
Ella Belle Camden Devine
October 21, 1914 to April 4, 1986
I remember going to church with my Granny Devine almost every Sunday when I was a little girl. She had her special row and pew where she always sat – four rows back from the front, piano side. It was always taken for granted that this was where Granny would sit.
I also remember her using the hymnal as a back support during the sermon. Her back was swayed from many years of hard work, but I can vividly remember her back bending in the opposite direction as she slid the hard book behind the small of her back. How did that little book help her back? At the tender age of 8, I had no doubt that this little ritual helped
Granny’s back pain. She told me it helped and that was all I needed to know.
Blind faith – I had that with my Granny when I was little. I thought she was the greatest woman on earth. She could cook a feast for 12 in her tiny kitchen, whip up new curtains on her sewing machine, and leap small buildings in a single bound. There was nothing that Granny couldn’t do in my eyes. If I hadn’t seen her for a few days, Granny would always say, “I haven’t seen ya in a month of Sundays!” Reading the Sunday comic strips was always a favorite ritual between us, and almost every time I would leave her home, I could count on her saying, “I’ll see ya in the funny papers.”
She made me a leather coat when I was eight or nine. It was three-quarter length, hanging almost to my ankles, and made of the softest leather I had ever felt. I have no idea where the leather came from, but I do know that Granny took it to Cricketeer to sew because the machines were more heavy duty. She also made my sister a coat, so me and Amy matched.
I remember the year that Mom and Dad got us three kid’s new bedroom furniture for Christmas. We all got twin beds with a nightstand and dresser. Actually, Amy and I shared a dresser, but we also shared a room at that time, so I guess it didn’t matter. I was just glad that I didn’t have share a bed with my little sister anymore. Although she is three years younger than me, she could lick like a mule.
That Christmas Eve, after finishing up rituals at Granny’s house, we headed home to wait on Santa. I should have known something special was going to happen because Granny came home with us. That was something she never did on Christmas Eve, but this year she did, and we were thrilled. What we kids didn’t know was that while we were cooking, eating, and unwrapping presents at Granny’s house, our new bedroom furniture was being delivered, unloaded and assembled in our rooms. When we got home that night, we were so surprised!
My bed was a four-poster twin with tall slender posts. Of course, Amy and Brent’s bed were just like mine. But what was different were the new bedclothes and curtains. Amy and I had a pink flowery pattern with ruffles at the bottom of the bed spread and more ruffles around the pillow shams. The curtains were simple and straight, and they were the same pink flowery pattern. Brent’s bedclothes were some type of colonial theme – soldiers, trucks, I’m not sure I really remember mainly because I never went into my brother’s room.
I learned later in life that Santa didn’t bring the wonderful bedclothes for our new beds. Granny had made each and every one, with a little help from my Aunt Ginny Ann. This in itself is amazing when I think back on it, because this was not the only thing Granny had made for us that year.
We each had new jammies, lovingly hand sewn, with coordinating robes, and crocheted house slippers to match. When did Granny have time to do all this? She must have spent the biggest part of her “down time” from Cricketeer laboriously working over her sewing machine to make wonderful surprises for her grandkids.
Granny was always doing a different kind of craft, or sewing another new pattern. I guess this is where I developed my love for crafts. Granny taught me how to crochet when I was ten; I am sure this was something she learned to regret. “No, you’re not holding the hook right. Hold it this way. Now you’ve got the yarn too lose. Don’t pull so hard.”
Crocheting has never been a very strong area of mine, but I have managed to make several family members their own Afghans throughout the years. Whether these Afghans have ever seen the light of day, I’m not sure, but they were a labor of love learned from my wonderful grandmother.
She also taught me how to do embroidery and needlework. I learned this more quickly and actually had fun during the learning process. I think Granny was relieved when I took to needlework, because she steered me away from crocheting after that. Needlework is a hobby that I still enjoy and most of my immediate family has one of my original works.
There is probably not a day that goes by when I don’t think about my Granny Devine. She was such an amazing woman and she is missed by more than just her family. My oldest daughters were only two and three years old when Granny died, and they don’t have many memories of her except for photographs and my remembrances. The only regret I have is that Granny never got to meet my youngest daughter or my wonderful husband. I’m sure they would have loved her just as much as I did and still do.
Miss you Granny – see you in the funny papers.
© Bobbi Rightmyer, May 2004
Thursday, May 6, 2004
Tuesday, March 2, 2004
The Birds Are Back in Town
As we near the end of winter and the beginning of spring, the parade of birds in my backyard have multiplied ten-fold. Actually, most birds never left—many of them make the wildlife of our backyard their permanent homes—but the migratory birds are beginning to make the first re-appearance. This year I am hoping to attract some bluebirds and some purple martins. Mosquitoes are the favored diet of the purple martin.
Mourning doves—as a group—are my favorite songbirds. Lucky for me, the mourning doves are year ‘round inhabitants to our area. During the spring they nest and raise their young in the pine trees that line our property. They pick a nice firm pine bough, throw a few pine needles on it and proceed to set up house. We have lost plenty of dove eggs because the wind really whips through our pine trees. Fortunately, the doves appear to have more than one brood each season. When I woke up this morning, there were at least 15 pairs of doves scratching for food in the bird feeding station. Their gray feathers were all sleeked back, and they all moved with a little hop and skip. Whenever one of the birds “spooks” at a noise, they all lift off in a sea of blue feathers; that sleek gray color turns into a sea of blue when the birds are in flight. Later the same day I checked the bird feeding station again, and all those doves were still there—roosting on the ground!
During the summer and fall, the doves patrol the garden edges, as well as flower bed borders. They prefer foraging the perimeter of a feeding area instead of plowing right to the middle. It is also during the summer that doves like to roost on the overhead power lines. It is not uncommon to come home from work late and find 40 to 50 birds quietly lining the power lines. Listening to the soft “coo” of the doves is a wonderful way to lower your blood pressure after a hard day’s work.
If mourning doves are my favorite musical bird, then the Cardinal is the most beautiful. Male or female, there is something about those red feathers that just makes you want to smile, especially during the winter, when the trees are bare. Cardinals are the first birds out in the morning and among the last ones seen at night. The male Cardinal always watches out for the female—who said chivalry is dead? Cardinals mate for life and you can always tell which two belong together. The female is able to forage for seeds while her mate is standing guard. This year I have been able to count eight pair of Cardinals in my backyard at one time.
Chick-a-dees, finches and wrens love thistles seeds and you can usually find them waving above the garden as they cling to a thistle flower or seed head. I purposely don’t clean up my gardens in fall and winter because they are so beneficial for the wildlife. I keep a special thistle feeder in the bird feeding station just for these birds. It is really fun to watch a finch hang upside down from a feeder to eat thistle seeds.
Of course, I have to mention my resident Blue Jay—he is so loud, he is hard to forget. Late afternoons are when Mr. Blue Jay makes his appearance—he must not be a morning person. He is great at running all other birds away from the feeding station. He usually starts on the Redbud tree in the side yard. Chirp, chirp, chirp! His cry is loud enough to wake the cats inside my house. After he has scared the other birds off, he heads to the feast. I have learned over the years that the Blue Jays prefer cracked corn and sunflower seeds, but he has to test every feeder, just in case someone changed the menu. The Blue Jay really is a beautiful bird, but I just can’t get past his rude behavior.
There is a red-tailed hawk that patrols the farm next to our home. He is a beautiful thing when he is soaring through the air! He makes his home in the fencerow bordering the property line; daily I see him sweep down through the bare tree branches. With the farmland next door to us and the brush piles I’ve created in the backyard, he has his choice of all types of food. I try not to think about the fact he may be eating the rabbits that burrow in our yard. Mice—he can eat all the mice and rats he can find. Talk about a natural exterminator.
About three weeks ago, I came home from work and as I pulled into the driveway, there was a young red-tailed hawk sitting on the ivy-covered utility pole anchor cable in my front flowerbed. I go so excited I stopped the car half in the road and half in our driveway. The care must have startled him, because he took flight and I watched until he was just a little speck on the horizon. Baby hawks—I love it! More hawks means less mice and voles.
This winter I have been reading up on birds in our area, trying to identify some of the other feather friends who fly in to visit, and I’ve been recording observations of the bird antics in my backyard. Birds are sometimes hard to photograph, but I have managed to get many shots from the windows. A zoom lens helps, but I usually end up with pictures of blurred birds or bare tree branches. I will sometimes only get three or four good pictures out of an entire roll of film. Keith is much better than me at photography; his photos are accompanying this article.
So, grab the kids, head outside and enjoy the last fleeting days of winter. Spring will be here soon enough, with Summer not far behind. Take these last few days to enjoy the cold crispness of the winter air. And while you’re bundled up, go watch the birds, take a few pictures, and thank God for the beautiful day.
© Bobbi Rightmyer, March 2004
Mourning doves—as a group—are my favorite songbirds. Lucky for me, the mourning doves are year ‘round inhabitants to our area. During the spring they nest and raise their young in the pine trees that line our property. They pick a nice firm pine bough, throw a few pine needles on it and proceed to set up house. We have lost plenty of dove eggs because the wind really whips through our pine trees. Fortunately, the doves appear to have more than one brood each season. When I woke up this morning, there were at least 15 pairs of doves scratching for food in the bird feeding station. Their gray feathers were all sleeked back, and they all moved with a little hop and skip. Whenever one of the birds “spooks” at a noise, they all lift off in a sea of blue feathers; that sleek gray color turns into a sea of blue when the birds are in flight. Later the same day I checked the bird feeding station again, and all those doves were still there—roosting on the ground!
During the summer and fall, the doves patrol the garden edges, as well as flower bed borders. They prefer foraging the perimeter of a feeding area instead of plowing right to the middle. It is also during the summer that doves like to roost on the overhead power lines. It is not uncommon to come home from work late and find 40 to 50 birds quietly lining the power lines. Listening to the soft “coo” of the doves is a wonderful way to lower your blood pressure after a hard day’s work.
If mourning doves are my favorite musical bird, then the Cardinal is the most beautiful. Male or female, there is something about those red feathers that just makes you want to smile, especially during the winter, when the trees are bare. Cardinals are the first birds out in the morning and among the last ones seen at night. The male Cardinal always watches out for the female—who said chivalry is dead? Cardinals mate for life and you can always tell which two belong together. The female is able to forage for seeds while her mate is standing guard. This year I have been able to count eight pair of Cardinals in my backyard at one time.
Chick-a-dees, finches and wrens love thistles seeds and you can usually find them waving above the garden as they cling to a thistle flower or seed head. I purposely don’t clean up my gardens in fall and winter because they are so beneficial for the wildlife. I keep a special thistle feeder in the bird feeding station just for these birds. It is really fun to watch a finch hang upside down from a feeder to eat thistle seeds.
Of course, I have to mention my resident Blue Jay—he is so loud, he is hard to forget. Late afternoons are when Mr. Blue Jay makes his appearance—he must not be a morning person. He is great at running all other birds away from the feeding station. He usually starts on the Redbud tree in the side yard. Chirp, chirp, chirp! His cry is loud enough to wake the cats inside my house. After he has scared the other birds off, he heads to the feast. I have learned over the years that the Blue Jays prefer cracked corn and sunflower seeds, but he has to test every feeder, just in case someone changed the menu. The Blue Jay really is a beautiful bird, but I just can’t get past his rude behavior.
There is a red-tailed hawk that patrols the farm next to our home. He is a beautiful thing when he is soaring through the air! He makes his home in the fencerow bordering the property line; daily I see him sweep down through the bare tree branches. With the farmland next door to us and the brush piles I’ve created in the backyard, he has his choice of all types of food. I try not to think about the fact he may be eating the rabbits that burrow in our yard. Mice—he can eat all the mice and rats he can find. Talk about a natural exterminator.
About three weeks ago, I came home from work and as I pulled into the driveway, there was a young red-tailed hawk sitting on the ivy-covered utility pole anchor cable in my front flowerbed. I go so excited I stopped the car half in the road and half in our driveway. The care must have startled him, because he took flight and I watched until he was just a little speck on the horizon. Baby hawks—I love it! More hawks means less mice and voles.
This winter I have been reading up on birds in our area, trying to identify some of the other feather friends who fly in to visit, and I’ve been recording observations of the bird antics in my backyard. Birds are sometimes hard to photograph, but I have managed to get many shots from the windows. A zoom lens helps, but I usually end up with pictures of blurred birds or bare tree branches. I will sometimes only get three or four good pictures out of an entire roll of film. Keith is much better than me at photography; his photos are accompanying this article.
So, grab the kids, head outside and enjoy the last fleeting days of winter. Spring will be here soon enough, with Summer not far behind. Take these last few days to enjoy the cold crispness of the winter air. And while you’re bundled up, go watch the birds, take a few pictures, and thank God for the beautiful day.
© Bobbi Rightmyer, March 2004
Wednesday, January 8, 2003
My Little Bookworm
MY LITTLE BOOKWORM
By Bobbi Rightmyer
January 2003
When I was in the third grade, I was bit by the reading bug. I used to make countless trips to the school library, and even helped as a library aide just to be closer to the books. I had a hug appetite for reading, and I rarely went anywhere without a book in hand. A Wrinkle in time, The Narnia Chronicles, The Wizard of Oz, and Little Women, these were the staples of my reading itinerary as a child. As I’ve grown, my reading tastes have grown with me: from romance novels to horror to science fiction to historical fiction, each and every book has 100 pages to hook me before I give up on it. If I’m not hooked on the plot line after 100 pages, then I’m probably never going to enjoy the book.
When Amber and Marie were younger, I used to dream they would have my hunger for reading. I would read them bedtime stories, buy them books as gifts, and let them see me reading for fun. I’ve learned the hard way that if a child is not interested in something, the worst thing a parent can do is force the issue. The more I tried to get the girls to read for fun, the more they turned away from books completely. It was still “ok” for me to read to them, but they wanted nothing to do with reading themselves. As a single parent this really bothered me, because I knew their father was definitely not a reader. I didn’t want my girls to miss out on all the wonderful worlds books can open for a person.
When Christine was born, I again had high hopes that she would be a reader; after all, she had two parents who enjoyed reading instead of just one. So I began reading to her just like I did the older girls. Christine loved books and would carry one with her everywhere. She would sit engrossed in the story whenever I would read to her, and I could see her brain trying to picture the words in her mind. But when Christine started school, she had lots of trouble learning to read.
I couldn’t understand what the problem was; Amber and Marie learned to read without a problem. What was wrong with my last little girl? So, we worked with her at home, and with her teacher at school, but Christine was still having trouble sounding out words. Instead, she would memorize the words. When she would come to a word she didn’t know, you could see her mentally going through the file cabinet in her brain looking for the word. This continued all through kindergarten, first and second grades. Even though she was an excellent student, our whole family struggled with her “reading problem”.
The, when Christine entered third grade, something magical happened. For some unknown reason, at the beginning of third grade, Christine clicked with reading. Ill never forget the day she came racing home from the bus stop and yelled, “Mom, I read my library book all by myself!” That was it, from that point on, my bubbly, bouncy last child began her love affair with books.
Today, Christine is in the fifth grade and her appetite for books grows each day. Her room is full of books, from books she owns to books from the school library AND books from the public library. We make one, sometimes two trips to the Mercer County Public Library every week so she can check out enough books to get her through for several days. She has her own library bag that she and her best friends, Brooke and Levi Lewis, made one afternoon and she keeps her library card hooked to her bag for safe keeping; she keeps my card hooked there, too. Because of our trips to the library, Brooke and Levi have also become bookworms and this really excites me. I love to see kids reading.
I notice Christine’s taste in books changing every day. She started out just reading small chapter books, but now she has branched out to certain topics or authors. For example, she read a book by Beverly Cleary over this past summer, and since then she has been trying to read all the books by Ms. Cleary. She recently read a book about a cat, which she fell in love with, and then she found out there were three more books about the same cat. Of course, she had to find all three and read them. Christine has always read the comic strips her MaMaw saves for her every Sunday, so right now she is into comics. Garfield, Calvin and Hobbs, The Peanuts Gang and Pogo, these are just a few of the comic collections that she searches for in libraries and bookstores.
One of Christine’s newest interests is a series of books by a new author writing under the pen name, Lemony Snicket. His books, A Series of Unfortunate Events, have been climbing their way up the bestsellers’ lists for months. There is much controversy about these books because the main characters are three orphans who are moved around to different homes in every book. There is a mean villain out to steal the children’s inheritance, and because of him, nothing good ever happens to the children. Many objectors to the books say they are bad because nothing good happens, but I see the books in a different light. I see three children who persevere and never give up, even when things are going very bad for them, like in The Bad Beginning, the very first book of the series I also see an author who is trying to introduce vocabulary words to a new group of eager readers. Several times in each book the author will use an unusual word, but then he goes on to explain what the word means. I can see Christine’s vocabulary improving just from the mini lessons in these books.
Today, my youngest daughter is never anywhere without a book. She reads on the bus every morning and every afternoon; she even reads as she’s walking home from the bus top. She reads in the car, and if it happens to be dark, she has her own book light just so she can continue to read. She even reads at school before the morning bell rings, in between classes, and after she has finished her work. I now have a child who spends more time reading than she does watching television and that makes me very happy.
Now, if you'll excuse me, Christine is anxious to get to the library before they close.
© Bobbi Rightmyer, January 2003
By Bobbi Rightmyer
January 2003
When I was in the third grade, I was bit by the reading bug. I used to make countless trips to the school library, and even helped as a library aide just to be closer to the books. I had a hug appetite for reading, and I rarely went anywhere without a book in hand. A Wrinkle in time, The Narnia Chronicles, The Wizard of Oz, and Little Women, these were the staples of my reading itinerary as a child. As I’ve grown, my reading tastes have grown with me: from romance novels to horror to science fiction to historical fiction, each and every book has 100 pages to hook me before I give up on it. If I’m not hooked on the plot line after 100 pages, then I’m probably never going to enjoy the book.
When Amber and Marie were younger, I used to dream they would have my hunger for reading. I would read them bedtime stories, buy them books as gifts, and let them see me reading for fun. I’ve learned the hard way that if a child is not interested in something, the worst thing a parent can do is force the issue. The more I tried to get the girls to read for fun, the more they turned away from books completely. It was still “ok” for me to read to them, but they wanted nothing to do with reading themselves. As a single parent this really bothered me, because I knew their father was definitely not a reader. I didn’t want my girls to miss out on all the wonderful worlds books can open for a person.
When Christine was born, I again had high hopes that she would be a reader; after all, she had two parents who enjoyed reading instead of just one. So I began reading to her just like I did the older girls. Christine loved books and would carry one with her everywhere. She would sit engrossed in the story whenever I would read to her, and I could see her brain trying to picture the words in her mind. But when Christine started school, she had lots of trouble learning to read.
I couldn’t understand what the problem was; Amber and Marie learned to read without a problem. What was wrong with my last little girl? So, we worked with her at home, and with her teacher at school, but Christine was still having trouble sounding out words. Instead, she would memorize the words. When she would come to a word she didn’t know, you could see her mentally going through the file cabinet in her brain looking for the word. This continued all through kindergarten, first and second grades. Even though she was an excellent student, our whole family struggled with her “reading problem”.
The, when Christine entered third grade, something magical happened. For some unknown reason, at the beginning of third grade, Christine clicked with reading. Ill never forget the day she came racing home from the bus stop and yelled, “Mom, I read my library book all by myself!” That was it, from that point on, my bubbly, bouncy last child began her love affair with books.
Today, Christine is in the fifth grade and her appetite for books grows each day. Her room is full of books, from books she owns to books from the school library AND books from the public library. We make one, sometimes two trips to the Mercer County Public Library every week so she can check out enough books to get her through for several days. She has her own library bag that she and her best friends, Brooke and Levi Lewis, made one afternoon and she keeps her library card hooked to her bag for safe keeping; she keeps my card hooked there, too. Because of our trips to the library, Brooke and Levi have also become bookworms and this really excites me. I love to see kids reading.
I notice Christine’s taste in books changing every day. She started out just reading small chapter books, but now she has branched out to certain topics or authors. For example, she read a book by Beverly Cleary over this past summer, and since then she has been trying to read all the books by Ms. Cleary. She recently read a book about a cat, which she fell in love with, and then she found out there were three more books about the same cat. Of course, she had to find all three and read them. Christine has always read the comic strips her MaMaw saves for her every Sunday, so right now she is into comics. Garfield, Calvin and Hobbs, The Peanuts Gang and Pogo, these are just a few of the comic collections that she searches for in libraries and bookstores.
One of Christine’s newest interests is a series of books by a new author writing under the pen name, Lemony Snicket. His books, A Series of Unfortunate Events, have been climbing their way up the bestsellers’ lists for months. There is much controversy about these books because the main characters are three orphans who are moved around to different homes in every book. There is a mean villain out to steal the children’s inheritance, and because of him, nothing good ever happens to the children. Many objectors to the books say they are bad because nothing good happens, but I see the books in a different light. I see three children who persevere and never give up, even when things are going very bad for them, like in The Bad Beginning, the very first book of the series I also see an author who is trying to introduce vocabulary words to a new group of eager readers. Several times in each book the author will use an unusual word, but then he goes on to explain what the word means. I can see Christine’s vocabulary improving just from the mini lessons in these books.
Today, my youngest daughter is never anywhere without a book. She reads on the bus every morning and every afternoon; she even reads as she’s walking home from the bus top. She reads in the car, and if it happens to be dark, she has her own book light just so she can continue to read. She even reads at school before the morning bell rings, in between classes, and after she has finished her work. I now have a child who spends more time reading than she does watching television and that makes me very happy.
Now, if you'll excuse me, Christine is anxious to get to the library before they close.
© Bobbi Rightmyer, January 2003
Monday, December 2, 2002
Santa Claus' Last Stand
I am sure every family has unique ways of celebrating the Christmas season. Going to the holiday parade, hanging of the greens, or just eating a delicious meal together, every family has their own exclusive way to celebrate Christmas with their immediate family. My family is just like everyone else, and we have many Christmas rituals that have become traditions and it does not seem like Christmas without them.
I know it may seem like we are rushing the season, but we have always put our Christmas tree up on Thanksgiving Day. We look forward to setting up the tree and decorating with all the lights and ornaments. Last year my husband added a special feature to our tree—a revolving tree stand. Now, not only do we have many colorful lights and hundreds of wonderful ornaments, but the tree slowly turns so every side is visible. The first time I saw the tree all lit up, I wasn’t sure if I was excited or just nauseous with motion sickness, but after a few minutes, it began to grow on me. One major advantage to the revolving tree is more of my precious ornaments can be seen.
Our Christmas traditions have grown into the non-stop, hurry-hurry, rush-rush of one huge meal after another and then the outrageous amount of gifts there are to open. It seems we have become so trained to try and make our holiday season as picture perfect as possible that we have forgotten to slow down and just enjoy the season.
My children have always been my motivation when it came to the holiday seasons. I’m guilty of trying to make my children’s Christmas’ as perfect as possible. I always had to make sure I had just the right gift and that I had spent equal amounts of money on each child, which can be really hard if there, is a big age difference in your children. Now that I have two grown daughters and a ten-year-old, my enthusiasm to have the “perfect Christmas” is starting to fade. I am beginning to have a greater appreciation for a more simple type of celebration. Is it because I’m getting older, or is it because my children are getting older?
This Christmas will revolve around that inevitable question…”Momma is Santa Claus real?” I don’t think there is a parent out there who has not felt that pang of sadness when their children stop believing in Santa. Although my brain tells me that Christine has stopped believing in Santa, my heart has a hard time accepting. I hate to see this tiny bit of childhood fantasy come to an end. Christmas is truly for children but I am going to miss playing “Santa” every year. ZI am going to miss making sure there are just enough crumbs left on Santa’s plate so the girls think he got full. Or, meticulously wrapping each and every gift from Santa, all in the same type of paper with the same types of bows. Or, putting on bright red lipstick and kissing each girl on the cheek every Christmas Eve, just so they will think Santa cam in to kiss them.
This year, it will be just me, my hubby and Christine to open gifts on Christmas morning. I am not going to make an issue of Santa, I’ll just do like I did with the big girls, and I’ll ignore it. I never had the Santa “talk” with Amber or Marie, and I probably won’t with Christine. They have all three asked me, at one time or another, if “I” believed in Santa and my answer was always “YES”. I firmly believe that when a child wants to stop believing, he or she will, but they should not be forced to give up the fantasy before they are ready. So, until Christine is ready to truly stop believing, we will still open gifts on Christmas morning. In all honesty, my husband can’t wait until Christine decides she wants to open up ALL her gifts on Christmas Eve, just like her sisters. Then we can stop getting up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning. Now that is one tradition I won’t miss!
© Bobbi Rightmyer, December 2002
I know it may seem like we are rushing the season, but we have always put our Christmas tree up on Thanksgiving Day. We look forward to setting up the tree and decorating with all the lights and ornaments. Last year my husband added a special feature to our tree—a revolving tree stand. Now, not only do we have many colorful lights and hundreds of wonderful ornaments, but the tree slowly turns so every side is visible. The first time I saw the tree all lit up, I wasn’t sure if I was excited or just nauseous with motion sickness, but after a few minutes, it began to grow on me. One major advantage to the revolving tree is more of my precious ornaments can be seen.
Our Christmas traditions have grown into the non-stop, hurry-hurry, rush-rush of one huge meal after another and then the outrageous amount of gifts there are to open. It seems we have become so trained to try and make our holiday season as picture perfect as possible that we have forgotten to slow down and just enjoy the season.
My children have always been my motivation when it came to the holiday seasons. I’m guilty of trying to make my children’s Christmas’ as perfect as possible. I always had to make sure I had just the right gift and that I had spent equal amounts of money on each child, which can be really hard if there, is a big age difference in your children. Now that I have two grown daughters and a ten-year-old, my enthusiasm to have the “perfect Christmas” is starting to fade. I am beginning to have a greater appreciation for a more simple type of celebration. Is it because I’m getting older, or is it because my children are getting older?
This Christmas will revolve around that inevitable question…”Momma is Santa Claus real?” I don’t think there is a parent out there who has not felt that pang of sadness when their children stop believing in Santa. Although my brain tells me that Christine has stopped believing in Santa, my heart has a hard time accepting. I hate to see this tiny bit of childhood fantasy come to an end. Christmas is truly for children but I am going to miss playing “Santa” every year. ZI am going to miss making sure there are just enough crumbs left on Santa’s plate so the girls think he got full. Or, meticulously wrapping each and every gift from Santa, all in the same type of paper with the same types of bows. Or, putting on bright red lipstick and kissing each girl on the cheek every Christmas Eve, just so they will think Santa cam in to kiss them.
This year, it will be just me, my hubby and Christine to open gifts on Christmas morning. I am not going to make an issue of Santa, I’ll just do like I did with the big girls, and I’ll ignore it. I never had the Santa “talk” with Amber or Marie, and I probably won’t with Christine. They have all three asked me, at one time or another, if “I” believed in Santa and my answer was always “YES”. I firmly believe that when a child wants to stop believing, he or she will, but they should not be forced to give up the fantasy before they are ready. So, until Christine is ready to truly stop believing, we will still open gifts on Christmas morning. In all honesty, my husband can’t wait until Christine decides she wants to open up ALL her gifts on Christmas Eve, just like her sisters. Then we can stop getting up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning. Now that is one tradition I won’t miss!
© Bobbi Rightmyer, December 2002
Saturday, June 8, 2002
The Lessons of a Child
All our lives we have been taught to learn from the examples set forth by my elders. We learn by reaping the benefits of life by following the rules imposed on us by our parents. We learn by fostering information and lessons from our school teachers. We learn from the patience and unconditional love shown us by our grandparents. We also learn by following examples of faith observed by our religious leaders. But how many times do we learn from someone younger, like a child? My life recently entered a new phase of education, and the teacher. . ? My nine-year-old daughter, Christine.
Raising children has been the hardest job I have ever tried to tackle. Being responsible for molding and shaping the life of another human being is a taunting task, and there have been many, many times when I have felt like a failure. There have also been many other times when I have been in awe of the lessons my children have learned. As a parent, I want what every other parent wants, for my children to be happy, healthy, and to have all the advantages life has to offer. As my oldest two daughters reach adulthood, I look back and realize I didn’t do such a bad job after all.
The oldest, Amber, choosing not to pursue a college career, is a happy, hardworking member of our society. She is following her own dreams, even though they were not my dreams for her. She is her own woman and she has learned to support herself by following the examples of the adults in her life. My middle daughter, Marie, is preparing to graduate high school, and as an honor student, again my hopes are high that she will continue her education. But like her older sister, Marie is her own woman and she will not be pushed into a preordained mold. At this writing, she is still undecided about her plans for the future, but I rest assured knowing she has the skills and intelligence to following her own plan for the future.
As for my youngest daughter, Christine has had a much more relaxed upbringing in comparison to her sisters. When Amber was born she brought with her all my insecurities of being a first time parent. Everything had to be Dr. Spock perfect, so I placed undo pressure on her to be perfect. When Marie was born, I threw Dr. Spock out the window because I was doing good just to keep two children clean and feed. By the time Christine arrived, I had already lived through every possible scenario of childhood. I learned it doesn’t matter how early my child walked or talked, or what kind of clothes they wore, or if their face and hands were clean 100 percent of the time. By the time children reach adulthood, none of their childhood accomplishments matter. When I see Christine doing something that is against the norm, I have learned to ask myself, “Will it matter in ten years?” If the answer is no, then I don’t force my opinion on her. Like her sisters, she is growing into her own person.
As for me, Christine has taught me that it is possible to teach an old dog new tricks. I have always considered myself a religious person, even though my church attendance has been sporadic throughout the years. My oldest daughters have adopted my relaxed ideas on religion, but not Christine. She has embraced religion with a passion I haven’t seen since my Granny Devine was alive. Christine is active in every aspect of church life from choir to GA’s (Girls in Action) to the recent Easter pageant. She was so excited about her role in the pageant and her enthusiasm spread to her father and myself.
The Sunday morning Christine accepted Jesus as her personal savior, my heart swelled with pride. Her subsequent baptism on Easter Sunday was a testament of her faith and belief, but it was also an awakening for me. Through her simple act of believing in Christ, I realized I had been taking my faith for granted. Although Christine has a long way to go before she reaches adulthood, I now know this road will be paved, not only with her experiences, but also with the lessons we teach each other.
And as Christine so plainly stated, her name contains the greatest name of all. . .Christ.
© Bobbi Rightmyer, June 2002
Raising children has been the hardest job I have ever tried to tackle. Being responsible for molding and shaping the life of another human being is a taunting task, and there have been many, many times when I have felt like a failure. There have also been many other times when I have been in awe of the lessons my children have learned. As a parent, I want what every other parent wants, for my children to be happy, healthy, and to have all the advantages life has to offer. As my oldest two daughters reach adulthood, I look back and realize I didn’t do such a bad job after all.
The oldest, Amber, choosing not to pursue a college career, is a happy, hardworking member of our society. She is following her own dreams, even though they were not my dreams for her. She is her own woman and she has learned to support herself by following the examples of the adults in her life. My middle daughter, Marie, is preparing to graduate high school, and as an honor student, again my hopes are high that she will continue her education. But like her older sister, Marie is her own woman and she will not be pushed into a preordained mold. At this writing, she is still undecided about her plans for the future, but I rest assured knowing she has the skills and intelligence to following her own plan for the future.
As for my youngest daughter, Christine has had a much more relaxed upbringing in comparison to her sisters. When Amber was born she brought with her all my insecurities of being a first time parent. Everything had to be Dr. Spock perfect, so I placed undo pressure on her to be perfect. When Marie was born, I threw Dr. Spock out the window because I was doing good just to keep two children clean and feed. By the time Christine arrived, I had already lived through every possible scenario of childhood. I learned it doesn’t matter how early my child walked or talked, or what kind of clothes they wore, or if their face and hands were clean 100 percent of the time. By the time children reach adulthood, none of their childhood accomplishments matter. When I see Christine doing something that is against the norm, I have learned to ask myself, “Will it matter in ten years?” If the answer is no, then I don’t force my opinion on her. Like her sisters, she is growing into her own person.
As for me, Christine has taught me that it is possible to teach an old dog new tricks. I have always considered myself a religious person, even though my church attendance has been sporadic throughout the years. My oldest daughters have adopted my relaxed ideas on religion, but not Christine. She has embraced religion with a passion I haven’t seen since my Granny Devine was alive. Christine is active in every aspect of church life from choir to GA’s (Girls in Action) to the recent Easter pageant. She was so excited about her role in the pageant and her enthusiasm spread to her father and myself.
The Sunday morning Christine accepted Jesus as her personal savior, my heart swelled with pride. Her subsequent baptism on Easter Sunday was a testament of her faith and belief, but it was also an awakening for me. Through her simple act of believing in Christ, I realized I had been taking my faith for granted. Although Christine has a long way to go before she reaches adulthood, I now know this road will be paved, not only with her experiences, but also with the lessons we teach each other.
And as Christine so plainly stated, her name contains the greatest name of all. . .Christ.
© Bobbi Rightmyer, June 2002
Wednesday, May 8, 2002
Recording the Past
As I contemplate my role as a mother, I can’t help but see the role of “mother” as a basically, thankless role. While I sit home moaning and groaning because my “big” girls don’t visit as often as I like, I realize my kids learned by my example. My kids don’t visit because I don’t visit. This realization hit me like a lightning bolt on a clear, blue day. Do my mother and my mother-in-law sit at home wondering about the same things I do? As the lightning bolt sliced through my heart, I understood that, yeah, most mothers have the same complaint when it comes to their grown children … why don’t they visit more often?
I look back and the majority of what I remember about my childhood are the happy times. With three children of my own, I know there were many, many bad times growing up, but for some reason, we seem to suppress the bad in favor of the good. Maybe it has something to do with the way our pasts are recorded for prosperity. Have you ever taken a really close look at an old photograph and ever wondered, “What’s going on in that person’s life right now?” Try it some time; you’ll have a new appreciation for the people of your past.
Like me, my mother keeps her photographs, newspaper clippings, and other mementos of her past in a wide array of places. Boxes, dresser drawers, you name it and there is probably a little stash of memorabilia carefully tucked away. As I look through these treasures, I suddenly see a pattern to all this information. Every picture, every newspaper clipping, every little scrap of paper or ribbon, everything had to do with a happy memory from the past. To a stranger, all these happy recordings of our past would show my family as the perfect little family. But these recordings don’t show the whole truth. Where are the bad times? Where are the bad memories? Because of some unknown force, the only things my mother saved were things that correlated with the happy times of our childhood.
At home, alone with all my own boxes and drawers of keepsakes, I realized all my children’s scrapbooks contain happy memories. There are no bad times recorded, only the good remembrances. But that wasn’t the only thing I noticed, I also realized that photographs belonging to my grandparents showed a different kind of life. As I continued to stare at these faded reflections of the past, I realized my ancestors were just like me, in that they recorded many good memories. But what struck me as odd, were these pictures also recorded the bad times. Floods, tornados, fires; all types of destruction, even death, were recorded along with the birthdays and weddings. Looking at these pictorial scenes, you can see people who have suffered bad right along with the good.
When did our generation stop acknowledging the bad stuff in our lives? When did we decide it was okay for our children to grow up remembering all the good things? Right now there are probably hundreds to thousands of news stories and photographs flooding every type of communication media, and they all concern one thing: the crises in the Middle East. But as we sit at home, watching the war unfold, how many of us are saving pictures or clipping newspaper stories of the terror overseas? How many of us are writing down thoughts and ideas we have concerning the war, so that our children will have some idea of how we are feeling during with worldwide conflict? I know there is not enough, and that has to change so our children don’t grow up with a warped sense of their history.
Where would our society be without The Diary of Anne Frank, or all the hundreds of other books about Holocaust survivors? Where would our national pride be without all the immerging news coverage of the attack on Pearl Harbor or the Korean War? And where would our democratic arrogance be without the traumatic coverage of the Vietnam War? Our national pride has slowly been on the rise since the first Gulf War, and with the events of September 11, 2001, Americans have really stepped up to the plate.
I have always kept scrapbooks and journals for all three of my children, as well as myself. I noticed that for the past few years my keepsake skills have decreased dramatically as my life has become busier. With renewed energy I told myself I would do better; that was Mother’s Day 2001. As an avid reader of TIME and Newsweek, as well as the entertainment section of the USA Today, last year I began cutting an occasional article about whatever was happening in the world, good as well as bad. I tried to make a concentrated effort to record my feelings on the Middle East Crisis, and of course, the horrors of September 11. So far, I think I’ve done a pretty good job, although it has been hard to actually write down my feelings about the bad things in the world. Hopefully, my grandchildren will have a better understanding of the aftermath of September 11.
If you don’t already keep a personal journal or some type of scrapbook, it’s never too late to start. Mother’s Day is coming up; make sure you visit your Mom. But not just because it’s a holiday; we all just need to visit more often, period. We need to talk with our relatives and record it for our future generations. Whenever my mother or mother-in-law make some little comment about something that happened in the past, I try to remember and write it down in my journal. Hopefully, my future generations will be able to piece together a historically accurate account of their past, the good along with the bad.
Happy Mother’s Day to my Moms: Brenda Devine Sallee and Christine Holtzclaw Rightmyer.
© Bobbi Rightmyer, May 2002
I look back and the majority of what I remember about my childhood are the happy times. With three children of my own, I know there were many, many bad times growing up, but for some reason, we seem to suppress the bad in favor of the good. Maybe it has something to do with the way our pasts are recorded for prosperity. Have you ever taken a really close look at an old photograph and ever wondered, “What’s going on in that person’s life right now?” Try it some time; you’ll have a new appreciation for the people of your past.
Like me, my mother keeps her photographs, newspaper clippings, and other mementos of her past in a wide array of places. Boxes, dresser drawers, you name it and there is probably a little stash of memorabilia carefully tucked away. As I look through these treasures, I suddenly see a pattern to all this information. Every picture, every newspaper clipping, every little scrap of paper or ribbon, everything had to do with a happy memory from the past. To a stranger, all these happy recordings of our past would show my family as the perfect little family. But these recordings don’t show the whole truth. Where are the bad times? Where are the bad memories? Because of some unknown force, the only things my mother saved were things that correlated with the happy times of our childhood.
At home, alone with all my own boxes and drawers of keepsakes, I realized all my children’s scrapbooks contain happy memories. There are no bad times recorded, only the good remembrances. But that wasn’t the only thing I noticed, I also realized that photographs belonging to my grandparents showed a different kind of life. As I continued to stare at these faded reflections of the past, I realized my ancestors were just like me, in that they recorded many good memories. But what struck me as odd, were these pictures also recorded the bad times. Floods, tornados, fires; all types of destruction, even death, were recorded along with the birthdays and weddings. Looking at these pictorial scenes, you can see people who have suffered bad right along with the good.
When did our generation stop acknowledging the bad stuff in our lives? When did we decide it was okay for our children to grow up remembering all the good things? Right now there are probably hundreds to thousands of news stories and photographs flooding every type of communication media, and they all concern one thing: the crises in the Middle East. But as we sit at home, watching the war unfold, how many of us are saving pictures or clipping newspaper stories of the terror overseas? How many of us are writing down thoughts and ideas we have concerning the war, so that our children will have some idea of how we are feeling during with worldwide conflict? I know there is not enough, and that has to change so our children don’t grow up with a warped sense of their history.
Where would our society be without The Diary of Anne Frank, or all the hundreds of other books about Holocaust survivors? Where would our national pride be without all the immerging news coverage of the attack on Pearl Harbor or the Korean War? And where would our democratic arrogance be without the traumatic coverage of the Vietnam War? Our national pride has slowly been on the rise since the first Gulf War, and with the events of September 11, 2001, Americans have really stepped up to the plate.
I have always kept scrapbooks and journals for all three of my children, as well as myself. I noticed that for the past few years my keepsake skills have decreased dramatically as my life has become busier. With renewed energy I told myself I would do better; that was Mother’s Day 2001. As an avid reader of TIME and Newsweek, as well as the entertainment section of the USA Today, last year I began cutting an occasional article about whatever was happening in the world, good as well as bad. I tried to make a concentrated effort to record my feelings on the Middle East Crisis, and of course, the horrors of September 11. So far, I think I’ve done a pretty good job, although it has been hard to actually write down my feelings about the bad things in the world. Hopefully, my grandchildren will have a better understanding of the aftermath of September 11.
If you don’t already keep a personal journal or some type of scrapbook, it’s never too late to start. Mother’s Day is coming up; make sure you visit your Mom. But not just because it’s a holiday; we all just need to visit more often, period. We need to talk with our relatives and record it for our future generations. Whenever my mother or mother-in-law make some little comment about something that happened in the past, I try to remember and write it down in my journal. Hopefully, my future generations will be able to piece together a historically accurate account of their past, the good along with the bad.
Happy Mother’s Day to my Moms: Brenda Devine Sallee and Christine Holtzclaw Rightmyer.
© Bobbi Rightmyer, May 2002
Wednesday, December 12, 2001
All I Want For Christmas
Hunting for the perfect Christmas present can sometimes be a hug ordeal. Running from store to store, checking sale ads, even surfing the web, sometimes that one special item simply eludes us—or we may have no idea what the certain item is.
There have been numerous times when my children have asked for a Christmas present and I have no idea what it is, much less where I can go to buy it—or the item is so popular every store you go to is sold out. Last year it was Color Game Boy. At the end of summer, you could find them everywhere and in every color. By Thanksgiving they were no where to be found, and after searching town after town, I ended up settling for the only color I could find, which, of course was not the preferred color. Remember Furby? The first Christmas of Furby was a futile search, and by the time I found one for the next Christmas, Furby was a thing of the past. What about Cabbage Patch Kids? For two years I hunted high and low for the perfect doll--now you can find them anywhere, but their popularity has died down.
Okay, so you manage to fulfill the lists of all your little elves, but how, where do you hide your stash until the big day? Obviously, I am not sneaky enough, or my kids have extraordinary skills as spies, because they always seem to find at least one of their presents early. Last year I finally found what I think is the perfect hiding place, and I could tell you where it is, but then I would have to kill you.
Now, I am a wonderful snoop—you were wondering where my kids got it? My Granny Devine used to call my “Nosey Rosy”, but try as I might; I never had any luck finding my parents hiding places. Sure, I was great at peeling the tape off presents left u under the tree, and then carefully concealing the fact that I had opened them, but I could never find the hiding spot.
In 1971, I was nine-years-old and I still believed in Santa—actually, I have never stopped believing. This particular Christmas, Santa gave us kid’s new bedroom furniture. My sister and I got matching twin beds with a dresser and nightstand to use in our shared bedroom. My brother got the same for his room. This furniture was set up and waiting in our rooms when we came home from Granny Devine’s house on Christmas Eve. We also each had a beautiful new bedspread with curtains to match. This was a big deal for me, because up to this point, my sister and I shared a full size bed. Now I had a bed of my own. I thought Santa was full of magic that year, but I kept wondering why Granny Devine came home with us that night, because this was something she never did. It was years later I learned Granny had made the bedspread and curtains, and she wanted to be there to see our faces. I’m sure she was happy with our excitement. In addition to the bedspread and curtains, she had also made each of us a bathrobe and crotched my sister and me a pair of house slippers.
It is better to give than to receive—how many times have we heard, or said, that very thing? Of course, as children, we wanted everything in sight—the latest toy or game or doll. As adults, our priorities change, especially after we have children of our own, after all, Christmas is for children.
Still, everyone has memories of that special Christmas when we wanted, and probably received, one special item we dreamed about for months. For me, it was the Christmas of 1973 and I was 11-years-old, not yet a teenager, but definitely not a child, or at least that is what I thought. This particular year I asked for roller skates like the older kids had, a stuffed turtle with a denim shell, and the brand new Hudson Brothers album. The Hudson Brothers has a Saturday morning television show I was absolutely in love with. I never missed an episode, even going so far as to tape the shows on my audio tape recorder. What I wouldn’t have give if VCR technology was available back then. Anyway, that Christmas I did receive everything I asked for, but I am sure my parents had a hard time finding the Hudson Brothers album; after all, they weren’t a very popular band. Believe it or not, I still have that album after 30 years. My own kids think I’m crazy.
Over the years I have received many wonderful gifts, but as I get older, I get more joy out of give the perfect gift, especially to my children. I remember hunting for He-Man and She-Ra items, Teddy Roping, talking Big Bird, Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony and Barney. I have shopped for the latest CDs from Korn, Nine-Inch Nails, and Nirvana, as well as Britney Spears and Aaron Carter. Every year presents from “Mom and Dad” are wrapped in a wide variety of papers, but gifts from “Santa” are all wrapped in the same identical paper, lovingly wrapped by elves.
We all know Christmas is not all about presents, but when you have children, gifts play a major role in the holidays. Even though you try to teach your children that it is better to give than to receive, it is hard for them to see past all the commercialization. Let’s face it, at Christmas time; advertisements are aimed straight for our kids.
Christmas will take on a new meaning in 2001, because of the War on Terror still raging over seas. This year children will still be receiving that one special gift, but maybe they will receive something even more precious. Even though it will not fit in a Christmas stocking, we are all blessed with the preservation of America’s freedom and the unification of the American people.
Merry Christmas and God bless us all.
© Bobbi Rightmyer, December 2001
There have been numerous times when my children have asked for a Christmas present and I have no idea what it is, much less where I can go to buy it—or the item is so popular every store you go to is sold out. Last year it was Color Game Boy. At the end of summer, you could find them everywhere and in every color. By Thanksgiving they were no where to be found, and after searching town after town, I ended up settling for the only color I could find, which, of course was not the preferred color. Remember Furby? The first Christmas of Furby was a futile search, and by the time I found one for the next Christmas, Furby was a thing of the past. What about Cabbage Patch Kids? For two years I hunted high and low for the perfect doll--now you can find them anywhere, but their popularity has died down.
Okay, so you manage to fulfill the lists of all your little elves, but how, where do you hide your stash until the big day? Obviously, I am not sneaky enough, or my kids have extraordinary skills as spies, because they always seem to find at least one of their presents early. Last year I finally found what I think is the perfect hiding place, and I could tell you where it is, but then I would have to kill you.
Now, I am a wonderful snoop—you were wondering where my kids got it? My Granny Devine used to call my “Nosey Rosy”, but try as I might; I never had any luck finding my parents hiding places. Sure, I was great at peeling the tape off presents left u under the tree, and then carefully concealing the fact that I had opened them, but I could never find the hiding spot.
In 1971, I was nine-years-old and I still believed in Santa—actually, I have never stopped believing. This particular Christmas, Santa gave us kid’s new bedroom furniture. My sister and I got matching twin beds with a dresser and nightstand to use in our shared bedroom. My brother got the same for his room. This furniture was set up and waiting in our rooms when we came home from Granny Devine’s house on Christmas Eve. We also each had a beautiful new bedspread with curtains to match. This was a big deal for me, because up to this point, my sister and I shared a full size bed. Now I had a bed of my own. I thought Santa was full of magic that year, but I kept wondering why Granny Devine came home with us that night, because this was something she never did. It was years later I learned Granny had made the bedspread and curtains, and she wanted to be there to see our faces. I’m sure she was happy with our excitement. In addition to the bedspread and curtains, she had also made each of us a bathrobe and crotched my sister and me a pair of house slippers.
It is better to give than to receive—how many times have we heard, or said, that very thing? Of course, as children, we wanted everything in sight—the latest toy or game or doll. As adults, our priorities change, especially after we have children of our own, after all, Christmas is for children.
Still, everyone has memories of that special Christmas when we wanted, and probably received, one special item we dreamed about for months. For me, it was the Christmas of 1973 and I was 11-years-old, not yet a teenager, but definitely not a child, or at least that is what I thought. This particular year I asked for roller skates like the older kids had, a stuffed turtle with a denim shell, and the brand new Hudson Brothers album. The Hudson Brothers has a Saturday morning television show I was absolutely in love with. I never missed an episode, even going so far as to tape the shows on my audio tape recorder. What I wouldn’t have give if VCR technology was available back then. Anyway, that Christmas I did receive everything I asked for, but I am sure my parents had a hard time finding the Hudson Brothers album; after all, they weren’t a very popular band. Believe it or not, I still have that album after 30 years. My own kids think I’m crazy.
Over the years I have received many wonderful gifts, but as I get older, I get more joy out of give the perfect gift, especially to my children. I remember hunting for He-Man and She-Ra items, Teddy Roping, talking Big Bird, Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony and Barney. I have shopped for the latest CDs from Korn, Nine-Inch Nails, and Nirvana, as well as Britney Spears and Aaron Carter. Every year presents from “Mom and Dad” are wrapped in a wide variety of papers, but gifts from “Santa” are all wrapped in the same identical paper, lovingly wrapped by elves.
We all know Christmas is not all about presents, but when you have children, gifts play a major role in the holidays. Even though you try to teach your children that it is better to give than to receive, it is hard for them to see past all the commercialization. Let’s face it, at Christmas time; advertisements are aimed straight for our kids.
Christmas will take on a new meaning in 2001, because of the War on Terror still raging over seas. This year children will still be receiving that one special gift, but maybe they will receive something even more precious. Even though it will not fit in a Christmas stocking, we are all blessed with the preservation of America’s freedom and the unification of the American people.
Merry Christmas and God bless us all.
© Bobbi Rightmyer, December 2001
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