There's no easy way to address this so I'm just going to jump right in there.
I have a serious problem. I'm checking out my facebook and see that one of my friends has posted a video of a penguin head slapping another penguin so that the penuin falls and ends up in the icy water. And I laugh. That's not my problem. Everyone loves a bit of slapstick.
This is my problem. As I watched it again, I began to wonder if it was a real video or if it was fake. That in itself isn't a problem. I sure many people probably wondered the same thing.
Here's my problem, where I seem to deviate from the norm. I spent the next few minutes (I refuse to reveal just how many minutes in order to save some of my dignity) searching the internet for evidence of the validity of the video. I googled and regoogled, and I snoped and searched until I was fairly satisfied that it was indeed a doctored video. Awe. That felt good.
Then I watched it again--the original video clip. This time I focused on the movement of the penguin's flipper. The flipper seemed to bend at an odd angle that didn't quite seem natural, and then I found myself on a zoocam with live feed into the penguin habitat to see if the flipper movement of the penguin on the video could possibly be natural.
Oh, yes. I definitely have a problem.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
My Mom
Following are the general thoughts and comments I delivered at my mom's funeral on April 18. They are most likely not in the order I gave them that day or even exactly what I said that day.
Thank you for joining our family today to celebrate the life of my mom, Carolyn Mathis.
I want to say a special "Thank you" to my sisters for the countless hours that they put into caring for my mom, for the nights they spent away from their families. My mom taught them well.
My comments today are loosely entitled "Making Memories." This phrase is one of my mom's favorite phrases. She employed it often during our childhood, many times when what was happening was unpleasant. She would pipe up, "We're making memories." She used it often with me as she tried to do something with my curly hair. As you can she her attempts to tame it failed.
Many of you know my mom in many different capacities. You know her as a friend, a co-worker, a Sunday school teacher, church member. I want to tell you a few things about my mom that you may not know.
In our family she was the best back scratcher. She was a patient stick-shift teacher. According to her local grandchildren she was a talking phone book with better and more accurate information than "Ask Jeeves." She was a champion giblet gravy maker. She was the worst voice mail message leaver.
A couple of years ago on Easter Sunday, mom left me a message. It went something like this (read in slow, sombre monotone): "Rhonda, Michael, Daniel, Andrew, Susanna, This is Grandma Carolyn. I just called to say Happy Easter." When the message started I just knew someone had die because of the tone of her voice.
Papa Farley called her Cat and after his death, my sister, Theresa kept the nickname alive. Cat is an ironic nickname for my mom because she had an almost unhealthy fear of cats. I think that was a result of her brother, Ronnie, tossing a cat onto her head.
She wasn't a gourmet cook, but her stewed potatoes, fried okra and fried squash couldn't be beat.
To her grandchildren she was Grandma Carolyn, and sometimes Graham Cracker.
Twenty years ago, she began setting aside a portion of her vacation time each year to keep my kids during the summer. I was the envy of all of my friends. I thought that was what all grandmas did.
When our family vacationed at Lake Lure my mom with have evening lessons with the kids complete with activity pages, prizes and a dollar for someone to win.
I am convinced that Black Friday is a successful retail event solely based on the efforts of my mom. She started the tradition in our family of getting up before 4 a.m. to begin our shopping. It was breakfast at the Waffle House with deer hunters, shop, snack shop, shop, lunch, shop, shop and a stop by Krispy Kreme on the way home.
It really is a miracle that my sisters and I didn't think we had a long lost relative named "Clarance." Every time we shopped my mom said, "Look for the clarance." (Clearance.)
My mom wasn't a seamstress. She could sew on a button, but I doubt she could sew a straigth seam, but she could spot shotty workmanship in a garmet a mile away. I can't recall how many times she made us put down something we wanted to buy because the seams weren't straight or the cut wasn't right or the stripes didn't match.
If there was an award for the most words ever read in the Gaffney Ledger, I think my mom would win. In fact, according to my dad, this was probably one of the most puzzling things about my mom. If she went out of town, someone saved all the Ledgers for her while she was gone. Upon her return she would spent hours reading them all.
The video showed my mom fishing. I'm not so sure she liked fishing all that much, but she did like to reel them in. Most of all she liked spending time on the pontoon with daddy. In fact that is probably the best marital advice my mom ever gave me--spending the time with her husband, being there with him.
You probably didn't know that for almost two years my mom ran a roadside breakfast stand. Every morning my mom would meet her great-granddaughter, Alyssa, at the end of her driveway with a breakfast to go--a granola bar, egg sandwich, piece of pizza--all delivered with love. Alyssa said after she started eating breakfast at school, Grandma Carolyn and Papa Jerry would sit on the porch and wave to her as she went up the road to school.
She was a pen pal. When her granddaughter Heidi moved away from home to go to Wofford, my mom started a once a week letter campaign to Heidi. Until just a few weeks ago, she wrote Heidi one letter a week for seven years. The letter were clippings or just bits of news, but she didn't want Heidi's mailbox to go week without something in it.
My mom was a hero. One afternoon years ago, we were driving down Colonial Avenue. Smoke was coming from the eaves of a house. My mom stopped the car and went to the door. No one came to the door, but the door was open. My mom went in and came out with a baby that was crying in its crib. The mom and stepped next door to a neighbors house and the kitchen had caught on fire.
My mom married into a singing family, but never thought of herself as a singer. If the person beside her sang soprano, that's what she sang. If she sat in the alto section, she sang alto. I took get delight as a teenager by standing beside her in choir and jumping around to different parts. It would drive her crazy. But my mom was a faithful choir member, and she learned to sing.
When my mom went to the hospital in January, I drove down for a few days to stay with her. Everyone who came to her room got a "Have a blessed day" as they went out.
Our mom poured herself out for her family, and we are so full and so rich and so blessed because of it. So many people have said over the past few days, "Carolyn was a special lady" or "She was such a good person." And she was, but the reason these statements can be made about my mom is because she allowed Jesus to be big in her.
When my dad had to choose a scripture for the prayer card, he went to my mom's Bible and looked through it. He came back with Psalm 100: "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord...."
Mrs. Allison my mom's neighbor of 45 years stopped by the week and one of the things she said was, "Please don't let those joyful noises on that porch stop."
You see, I think for my mom spending time with her family, loving on them, pouring out for them, was one of the ways she worshipped the Lord.
(There were many things I forgot to say that day, and many things that these thoughts prompted us to think about. I'm sure there will be more to come.)
Thank you for joining our family today to celebrate the life of my mom, Carolyn Mathis.
I want to say a special "Thank you" to my sisters for the countless hours that they put into caring for my mom, for the nights they spent away from their families. My mom taught them well.
My comments today are loosely entitled "Making Memories." This phrase is one of my mom's favorite phrases. She employed it often during our childhood, many times when what was happening was unpleasant. She would pipe up, "We're making memories." She used it often with me as she tried to do something with my curly hair. As you can she her attempts to tame it failed.
Many of you know my mom in many different capacities. You know her as a friend, a co-worker, a Sunday school teacher, church member. I want to tell you a few things about my mom that you may not know.
In our family she was the best back scratcher. She was a patient stick-shift teacher. According to her local grandchildren she was a talking phone book with better and more accurate information than "Ask Jeeves." She was a champion giblet gravy maker. She was the worst voice mail message leaver.
A couple of years ago on Easter Sunday, mom left me a message. It went something like this (read in slow, sombre monotone): "Rhonda, Michael, Daniel, Andrew, Susanna, This is Grandma Carolyn. I just called to say Happy Easter." When the message started I just knew someone had die because of the tone of her voice.
Papa Farley called her Cat and after his death, my sister, Theresa kept the nickname alive. Cat is an ironic nickname for my mom because she had an almost unhealthy fear of cats. I think that was a result of her brother, Ronnie, tossing a cat onto her head.
She wasn't a gourmet cook, but her stewed potatoes, fried okra and fried squash couldn't be beat.
To her grandchildren she was Grandma Carolyn, and sometimes Graham Cracker.
Twenty years ago, she began setting aside a portion of her vacation time each year to keep my kids during the summer. I was the envy of all of my friends. I thought that was what all grandmas did.
When our family vacationed at Lake Lure my mom with have evening lessons with the kids complete with activity pages, prizes and a dollar for someone to win.
I am convinced that Black Friday is a successful retail event solely based on the efforts of my mom. She started the tradition in our family of getting up before 4 a.m. to begin our shopping. It was breakfast at the Waffle House with deer hunters, shop, snack shop, shop, lunch, shop, shop and a stop by Krispy Kreme on the way home.
It really is a miracle that my sisters and I didn't think we had a long lost relative named "Clarance." Every time we shopped my mom said, "Look for the clarance." (Clearance.)
My mom wasn't a seamstress. She could sew on a button, but I doubt she could sew a straigth seam, but she could spot shotty workmanship in a garmet a mile away. I can't recall how many times she made us put down something we wanted to buy because the seams weren't straight or the cut wasn't right or the stripes didn't match.
If there was an award for the most words ever read in the Gaffney Ledger, I think my mom would win. In fact, according to my dad, this was probably one of the most puzzling things about my mom. If she went out of town, someone saved all the Ledgers for her while she was gone. Upon her return she would spent hours reading them all.
The video showed my mom fishing. I'm not so sure she liked fishing all that much, but she did like to reel them in. Most of all she liked spending time on the pontoon with daddy. In fact that is probably the best marital advice my mom ever gave me--spending the time with her husband, being there with him.
You probably didn't know that for almost two years my mom ran a roadside breakfast stand. Every morning my mom would meet her great-granddaughter, Alyssa, at the end of her driveway with a breakfast to go--a granola bar, egg sandwich, piece of pizza--all delivered with love. Alyssa said after she started eating breakfast at school, Grandma Carolyn and Papa Jerry would sit on the porch and wave to her as she went up the road to school.
She was a pen pal. When her granddaughter Heidi moved away from home to go to Wofford, my mom started a once a week letter campaign to Heidi. Until just a few weeks ago, she wrote Heidi one letter a week for seven years. The letter were clippings or just bits of news, but she didn't want Heidi's mailbox to go week without something in it.
My mom was a hero. One afternoon years ago, we were driving down Colonial Avenue. Smoke was coming from the eaves of a house. My mom stopped the car and went to the door. No one came to the door, but the door was open. My mom went in and came out with a baby that was crying in its crib. The mom and stepped next door to a neighbors house and the kitchen had caught on fire.
My mom married into a singing family, but never thought of herself as a singer. If the person beside her sang soprano, that's what she sang. If she sat in the alto section, she sang alto. I took get delight as a teenager by standing beside her in choir and jumping around to different parts. It would drive her crazy. But my mom was a faithful choir member, and she learned to sing.
When my mom went to the hospital in January, I drove down for a few days to stay with her. Everyone who came to her room got a "Have a blessed day" as they went out.
Our mom poured herself out for her family, and we are so full and so rich and so blessed because of it. So many people have said over the past few days, "Carolyn was a special lady" or "She was such a good person." And she was, but the reason these statements can be made about my mom is because she allowed Jesus to be big in her.
When my dad had to choose a scripture for the prayer card, he went to my mom's Bible and looked through it. He came back with Psalm 100: "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord...."
Mrs. Allison my mom's neighbor of 45 years stopped by the week and one of the things she said was, "Please don't let those joyful noises on that porch stop."
You see, I think for my mom spending time with her family, loving on them, pouring out for them, was one of the ways she worshipped the Lord.
(There were many things I forgot to say that day, and many things that these thoughts prompted us to think about. I'm sure there will be more to come.)
Saturday, April 24, 2010
A Blur
The past few months have been a blur. On Jan. 18, my mom was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer. On April 15 at 9:47 EST, she went to be with Jesus from her home in South Carolina. She was surrounded by some family members, friends and three hospice nurses. My dad led the charge of singing my mom into glory.
Since January, I have spent parts of 26 days away from home. I say parts because some of those days were travel days where I left my home at 7 a.m. or returned home in the evening. I logged over 7,500 miles on my van and now have a permanent love/hate relationship with 285 around Atlanta. (I know. I'm just joining millions of others.)
I have read more about breast cancer than I ever really wanted to know, performed nursing/care giver tasks that I never imagined I'd be called on to do, and consumed so many Foosh Mints that I may be caffeinated for the rest of the year.
To say that the past 90+ days or so that I've been preoccupied would be a gross understatement. Yet, in my preoccupation God has showed up in miraculous and wonderful ways--and He did it like always using His people--a perfectly timed email or phone call, a hug, a cake, tears shed together.
I'm still processing my experience and have no illusions about this being a quick return to normalcy. In fact, returning to normalcy seems kind of lame right now.
More later.
Since January, I have spent parts of 26 days away from home. I say parts because some of those days were travel days where I left my home at 7 a.m. or returned home in the evening. I logged over 7,500 miles on my van and now have a permanent love/hate relationship with 285 around Atlanta. (I know. I'm just joining millions of others.)
I have read more about breast cancer than I ever really wanted to know, performed nursing/care giver tasks that I never imagined I'd be called on to do, and consumed so many Foosh Mints that I may be caffeinated for the rest of the year.
To say that the past 90+ days or so that I've been preoccupied would be a gross understatement. Yet, in my preoccupation God has showed up in miraculous and wonderful ways--and He did it like always using His people--a perfectly timed email or phone call, a hug, a cake, tears shed together.
I'm still processing my experience and have no illusions about this being a quick return to normalcy. In fact, returning to normalcy seems kind of lame right now.
More later.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The 2010 Purge
The Fraziers are in purge mode. Yesterday, I posted on Facebook about donating Michael's circa 80s silk jacket to Goodwill, and it caused a storm of comments that I usually only see when I post about food. I run with an interesting virtual crowd to say the least.
When it comes to purging clothes, I'm pretty good. The items I struggle with have sentimental value--like the t-shirt I got when I attend "College Day" at Lee. Or the Noah's Ark vest that my sister gave me and that one ridiculously small black skirt that I keep telling myself that I will be able to get back into one day. Just so you know, I kept the skirt.
Michael holds on a bit longer thus the silk jacket and a couple of suits that he hadn't worn in 14 years. I really see clothes these days--based on style and quality--as a disposable commodity. Of course, I'm not a fashionista either. My basic wardrobe consists of several pairs of black slacks and a variety of tops to really mix it up. I realized yesterday while cleaning the closet that Michael and I have almost exactly the same number of shoes. Is that typical? I don't think so.
We aren't really hoarders, but it has been interesting to note the things we have kept. It seems we're suckers for chargers and all things cable and cord. We also keep manuals and instructions. I found the manual for the first cell phone I ever had from '98ish. And I found I could track the kids' Christmas presents because for some strange reason I have kept the paperwork that came with the Fisher Price Pirate's Island and Shark Boat, not to mention the Fisher Price color changing flashlight, grill and Lego instructions. It was a funny and telling moment. The sad thing is I had already started a pile of cards and instructions for the things we got this year for Christmas--including the tags that came on the Crocs--I kid you not. You will be glad to know they (the Croc paperwork) is now in the trash. We also keep maps. I think we could track every camping/hiking trip we've ever been on. Wierd, I know. Those have been set aside for their own special purge session. You never know when state parks won't be providing those handy trail guides.
So the whole house is on notice. If it's not nailed down, its reason for being in our house is being questioned. This process will probably take several months because we do have other things to do. When I find something else that is not too embarrassing I'll be sure to share. Maybe.
When it comes to purging clothes, I'm pretty good. The items I struggle with have sentimental value--like the t-shirt I got when I attend "College Day" at Lee. Or the Noah's Ark vest that my sister gave me and that one ridiculously small black skirt that I keep telling myself that I will be able to get back into one day. Just so you know, I kept the skirt.
Michael holds on a bit longer thus the silk jacket and a couple of suits that he hadn't worn in 14 years. I really see clothes these days--based on style and quality--as a disposable commodity. Of course, I'm not a fashionista either. My basic wardrobe consists of several pairs of black slacks and a variety of tops to really mix it up. I realized yesterday while cleaning the closet that Michael and I have almost exactly the same number of shoes. Is that typical? I don't think so.
We aren't really hoarders, but it has been interesting to note the things we have kept. It seems we're suckers for chargers and all things cable and cord. We also keep manuals and instructions. I found the manual for the first cell phone I ever had from '98ish. And I found I could track the kids' Christmas presents because for some strange reason I have kept the paperwork that came with the Fisher Price Pirate's Island and Shark Boat, not to mention the Fisher Price color changing flashlight, grill and Lego instructions. It was a funny and telling moment. The sad thing is I had already started a pile of cards and instructions for the things we got this year for Christmas--including the tags that came on the Crocs--I kid you not. You will be glad to know they (the Croc paperwork) is now in the trash. We also keep maps. I think we could track every camping/hiking trip we've ever been on. Wierd, I know. Those have been set aside for their own special purge session. You never know when state parks won't be providing those handy trail guides.
So the whole house is on notice. If it's not nailed down, its reason for being in our house is being questioned. This process will probably take several months because we do have other things to do. When I find something else that is not too embarrassing I'll be sure to share. Maybe.
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