I've Done It Again...

Yesterday the three of us (me, Sound Man, Kiddo) were lounging around the living room after a busy day at church. Kiddo had just put some food down for Jonathan (who is Jonathan, you ask? Well, here's a hint:)

...and we were eating lunch. I had gotten a little chilly and had my Mimmie's afghan (do y'all call crocheted blankets "afghans" or is that just a Southern thing?) on my lap. When I finished my lunch (yummy leftover homemade pizza that the three of us had a blast making Saturday night...post coming later this week) I got up to take my plate or whatever it was in the kitchen.

What happened next is kind of a blur. I'm sure you know where this is going if you've read my blog for any length of time. I stepped around the recliner where I had been sitting, and the next thing I knew I was flat face down on the floor. I lay there for a minute, not sure exactly what happened, and wondering if I was bleeding because there was liquid smeared on the floor and my arms.

Sound Man said one second I was there, the next I wasn't. I had landed on our concrete floor and from the crashing sound that came afterwards, had broken every dish in a five house radius. He jumped up to check on me and said when I wasn't moving it scared him. The first thing he said was, "What hurts?"

Well, for one thing, it wasn't blood on me and the floor, it was Diet Coke. I had one in my hand and evidently it splattered all over the place when I fell. Second, I was lying so still because I was trying to figure out what in blue blazes had just happened. So, my response to Sound Man's question was a very dignified, "I have no idea what happened!" He probably thought it was my brain that hurt.

He said my feet got tangled up in the afghan and then to add to that, I stepped on Jonathan's bowl, which made me lose my balance. How BOTH of my feet ended out from under me is still a mystery to both of us.

I'm okay, save for a few bruises on my left side. Evidently I didn't fall completely flat. And I'm really, really sore. Even more sore than when I had my infamous Atlanta fall. The only real casualty (besides the Diet Coke...sniff sniff) was one of my cheap but pretty Walmart special "Holiday Time" white bowls that came 4 for $5. Not a whole kitchen of dishes like I originally thought, just the one bowl I had been carrying. Dang it. They probably won't sell those this year. Oh, well. Better a pretty bowl than my pretty face. Whatever that means.

My status on Facebook today says, "Heathahlee has done it again. I need to be a professional faller downer."

Fo' realz.

Falling Down Revisited

I have sooooo much going on right now - edjumakating my Kiddo, carting Momma back and forth for radiation, working on Worship Team stuff (we're recording ANOTHER CD on September 12th! WOOT WOOT!), etc, etc, that I have had no time to get a battery for my camera. That's my excuse for not getting a post up with pics and I'm sticking to it. So, in light of that, I will do what everyone does in blogland and repost an earlier post. This one makes me laugh every time I read it. And since today while I was in rehearsal with some of my favorite peeps in the world, we started talking about our Atlanta trips and I was reminded once again about...well, I'll let you read about it....

May 8, 2008

I have mentioned many times about my trip to Atlanta (or, as Scarlett O'Hara says, "AtLANta") where I fell in the parking lot of North Point Community Church. I've put off explaining it for long enough. You deserve the story. Maybe. Anyway, here goes...

A year ago, we (meaning a bunch of friends from my church and I) were on our way out of one of the sessions of the Thirsty '07 conference being held at North Point. It was the absolute best conference I've ever been to. Such a place for soul rest. Time to drink in the beauty of Jesus. Worship led by the likes of David Crowder, Matt Redman, and my fav-o-rite of all favorites, Chris Tomlin. So as we were leaving that place of worship, rest, and healing, I noticed that part of the parking lot had been cordoned off by little orange traffic cones. They looked a lot like these:

Heading for the vans, we stepped off the sidewalk very close to the traffic cones. I, obviously, a little too close. After seeing the traffic cones and subconsciously telling myself, "Stay away from those things...they are there to let us know not to go near them," I suddenly feel something wrapping itself around my foot. At first, I thought it was my purse, which tends to get in my way (that is another post in and of itself). Then, when I realized it wasn't my bag, I thought, "What in the world? I need to get away from this thing." Then, it was as if time stopped. I realized I had tripped on one of the neon orange traffic cones that were there to keep people off of them. And I began to fall.

I fell forever. I tried to right myself, but just couldn't get my feet right. I kept falling. I noticed the blue of the sky and the green of the trees. I fell some more. I recited the Gettysburg Address. Twice. Ten minutes later (okay, it was really just seven) when I finally landed on the asphalt of the parking lot, I was laughing so hard at myself that all my friends were standing over me wondering if I was okay (and laughing their heads off once they realized I was okay). I was fine, my foot was just a little scraped. And my pride was more than a little bruised.

So there you go. Full disclosure. I feel cleansed.

I have no idea what happened to the little orange traffic cone. It was probably helped back to its post by its little neon buddies. After they finished laughing at it.

My Foot Hurts

I can't imagine why. I was only outside spray painting some things. Well, there might have been this bee. Actually, there was a bee. But he wasn't bothering me. In fact, he was kind of on his last leg, and I felt sorry for him. So I let him be. Bee. Whatever. So I kept on spraying my merry way when one of Bee's buddies evidently thought I was the cause of Bee's demise. Boy, was he wrong. But how do you explain that to a bug with a stinger in his rear? "Excuse me, Mr. Other Bee. I'm sorry for your friend, but I am not at fault. In fact, I allowed your friend to stay in close proximity to me, even though I am deathly afraid of being stung by your kind. So if you wouldn't mind, please stop buzzing me and go see how you might aid your friend."

Yeah. That didn't happen. This insane Other Bee started buzzing all around me like he was mad and I was the cause of it. So I did my best dance moves (otherwise known as flailing of arms and legs) to try to rid myself of him. He wasn't so easily swayed, so he returned, even madder than before. So, what'd I do? I very calmly said, "Mr. Other Bee, I asked you nicely...." Yeah. That didn't happen either. I promptly dropped my spray painted thingie and split, so fast my left foot came flying out of my flip-flop. Now, lest you think this was some graceful run, I do have to paint the real picture. After my foot left its home, I lost my balance, reliving Atlanta all over again in the time left after my life flashed before my eyes. I fell. I mean I felllllllllllll. No, that's not quite accurate. I was in the act of falling, thinking I would surely land on the grass between the driveway and the patio...then thinking I would surely land on the grill...it was like I was in a video game, watching things fly past my head when I know I was supposed to actually land on them...then I wondering how much farther I could fall when FINALLY I smacked into the side of the house. Fully upright, I might add. So, technically, I did not fall. But I did hurt my foot.

Trying to come up with a solution for this not to happen again, I have decided to put some of these around outside, you know, just in case I ever decide to come near a dying bee again. Oh, wait, these didn't help last time...

Oh, well...at least this time it was the other foot.

Editor's note: I cannot stop giggling. I have thought about this all day long, and while telling my husband about it the exact same words that described my Atlanta fall kept coming to mind..."When am I gonna land?" I am just too graceful for my own good.

The Flora and Fauna of Tasmania

I said that to my small group last night and my husband said, "The who and the what?" Flora means the plants of an area or region, and fauna means the animals of an area or region. As in, the flora and fauna of Mississippi include kudzu and possums.

Spending two months in one place, more or less, gave me the awesome opportunity to see the wildlife as well as the plant life in Tasmania. Of course, on the car trip from Launceston to Sheffield I expected to see kangaroos hopping all over the place. Uh, yeah. They don't do that. Well, I'm sure they could, given the right circumstances. But as I looked out my window I wondered if I would get to see the animals made so famous by the Land Down Under. It wouldn't take me long before I was introduced to some of them.

One morning not long after I arrived in Sheffield I awoke to a cacophony of noise very close to Heather's home. I found Heather and asked her what in the world that was, and she informed me that it was a kookaburra, and they did that most every morning. As much as I tried, I never got a good picture of a kookaburra. I either was too far away or didn't have my camera. One day I was visiting someone and suddenly a plump bird plopped down in the tree just outside the glass door of the living room. It was the elusive kookaburra, and I hadn't brought my camera for some unknown reason. The nice lady I was visiting offered to take a picture with her camera and send me the photo, but I never received it. Oh, well, that's what the 'net is for. Make sure you listen to the sound it makes, too.

On to pictures I do have. I called this post the "Flora" yada, yada, yada, but I really only have one picture of actual "flora." But it's a good one. The flora, not the picture. This is a Wattle Tree. It is widespread in Australia and one type of Wattle is the floral emblem of Australia.

Now to the "fauna." One of the major highlights of the summer was the trip to Trowunna Wildlife Park at Mole Creek. They pride themselves on Tasmanian Devil conservation, even more now than when I was there. There is a contagious cancer the Devils are contracting and it is killing thousands of Devils. It hurts my heart to think these little unique creatures may go the way of the Tasmanian Tiger.

Okay, off that depressing thought. I know what you're thinking. Or at least what you did think when I mentioned Tasmanian Devils. This is what you thought...

Go ahead, admit it. It's okay. Not many people know what a real Tasmanian Devil looks like, much less sounds like. And believe me, you don't forget what it really sounds like when you hear it.

It's amazing to think that such an awful sound can come from such a cute animal. Okay, maybe not so cute, but still. It is considered the "cleanup crew" of the Tasmanian bush. It eats roadkill, and how. I watched it eat every bit of pieces of meat...fur, bones, everything. I hope you're not eating as you're reading this. But they really are very needed animals in Tasmania.

Okay, on to "cuter" animals. These little dudes that Stephanie and I are holding are wombats. They are so cute, but I had never even heard of wombats before my trip.

We then moved on to the Kangaroo area. These are Gray Kangaroos, and some even had little joeys peeping out from their pouches. Too, too cute.

Here are some wallabies. These were not at the wildlife park, but this was a good spot to put them in. Notice the brown mud on my knees. That's because I fell halfway down the hill trying to feed the wallabies at Cradle Mountain. Sigh...it never ends.

Do you see how close that wallaby is to my face? He was seriously wanting my carrot sticks, and he was scaring me! He kept getting closer and closer until I had to throw the whole bag away to get him off of me.

Okay, back to the wildlife park. This is the one I had been waiting for. My entire life. No, really! Now, koalas are no longer living in Tasmania, having been hunted to extinction on the island in the 19th century, so this is one non-Tasmanian-native. If you look closely you can see the baby attached to the momma koala. I was about to die from the cuteness.

I don't even know how to introduce this next picture. My face is lit up with so much joy, I'm sure my face hurt after this day was over. I had always, always wanted to hold a real, live, koala. I got my wish.

I've had people ask me if this is a real koala. Uh, yes. Why would I hold a fake one? Oh, wait, I do later on. But that's another post.

If I had to choose one picture to capture my summer, this would be it. Pretty fitting, if I do say so myself.

Five-Nine-Oh-Nine

Today would have been my Grandaddy's 99th birthday. When anyone would ask Grandaddy when his birthday was, he'd give them the same answer, "Five Nine Oh Nine," meaning May 9th, 1909. It's hard for me to fathom that had he lived this long, he'd be a year from being a century old.



He passed away in November 1995, just a few months after my sweet hubby and I were married. Even now, 12 1/2 years later, I still miss him so much. Grandaddy and I had a special relationship. I think it may have to do with the fact that he ran over me with a lawn mower. I know, I know, it sounds so awful, and it was, but it really was an accident. Come to think of it, I now believe THAT is when my falling down began. I was five years old, swinging on a post on our back porch, which was about four feet tall, just as my Grandaddy was mowing with the riding lawn mower right up beside the porch. You guessed it, down I fell, right in front of the mower. He didn't have time to stop. I was cut pretty badly, but my wounds didn't compare to the heart wound my Grandaddy suffered by hurting one of his precious grandchildren.

I have so many memories of my sweet Grandaddy. Of his always being tan from working in his garden, the bane of all us grandkids' existence in the summertime (I HATED having purple fingernails from shellin' peas!). Of his sitting at his CB radio, listening to the chatter and joining in if he heard someone he knew. His CB handle was "Mr. President" and Mimmie's was "First Lady." They had a plaque on the wall that said so. I also remember that his CB radio wasn't the only radio he would man. Every time one of us would go out for the evening he would head to his post beside his scanner (the kind that picks up police and fire dispatches), listening for the calamity that he was convinced would befall us one day, and he did not want to be caught off guard.

My sister and I would often laugh at his overprotectiveness. One night as we were headed to the Orpheum to see Harry Connick, Jr, Grandaddy noticed that Carlyn's dress had a "hole" in back. He asked her if she was sure she didn't want to wear a sweater to cover that up. We laughed and shook our heads.

Since Grandaddy lived with us, I got a little impatient with him from time to time. Once, when I was in college, I was preparing to head back to school, and Grandaddy said something to me about making some tea cakes for him. Tea cakes are basically sugar cookies, with just a little bit of fluff to them to make them sooooo good. I loved tea cakes, but I just didn't want to waste the time at home to make them. I told him I really had to get back to school, so I couldn't right then but next time I was home I'd make them. He looked so disappointed I tried to shove my guilt far enough down that it didn't slow down my plans. I dutifully kissed him goodbye and hopped in Bonnie Blue, my '86 Corolla. I got about a mile down the road when the thought popped in my head that I wouldn't have my Grandaddy forever, and I better make sure I make the most of every moment I had with him. Needless to say, I turned ol' Bonnie around and surprised the heck out of my Grandaddy. I cannot tell you how glad I am that I turned around. I wish I had done that a hundred more times.

I have one more precious memory of him that I want to share. A few months before I married my sweet hubby I noticed Grandaddy's wedding ring in Momma's jewelry box. His fingers had gotten so swollen he had to take it off, and my mother was keeping it with her jewelry so it wouldn't get lost. I don't know why I had this thought, but one night as Grandaddy sat in his recliner I sat down in front of him and asked him if it would be okay if I gave my fiance' the same ring that Mimmie had given him more than sixty years before. He had come to love and respect my sweet fiance' as a man that he trusted to take care of me. He agreed with tears in his eyes, and by the end of the conversation we were both crying. That is probably the most precious memory I have of my Grandaddy. Him sitting in his comfortable old recliner, tears rolling down his cheeks, and me, sitting at his feet, holding his hand, crying the same amount of tears that are now spilling over as I type this.

I know that after suffering the agony of lung cancer, heaven was that much sweeter for my Grandaddy. I am so very thankful that I will once again see both of my grandparents one day, but there are days, like today, that I cry for missing them so much. I wish they could have met my son and my nephew.

Had he met them, I'm convinced Grandaddy would have never given his scanner a moment's peace.

Happy birthday, Grandaddy. I love you more.

Falling Down Atlanta

Since yestderday's post and tomorrow's post were/will be on the serious side, I'll slip in today and put a little levity on the board. I have mentioned many times about my trip to Atlanta (or, as Scarlett O'Hara says, "AtLANta") where I fell in the parking lot of North Point Community Church. I've put off explaining it for long enough. You deserve the story. Maybe. Anyway, here goes...

A year ago, we (meaning a bunch of friends from my church and I) were on our way out of one of the sessions of the Thirsty '07 conference being held at North Point. It was the absolute best conference I've ever been to. Such a place for soul rest. Time to drink in the beauty of Jesus. Worship led by the likes of David Crowder, Matt Redman, and my fav-o-rite of all favorites, Chris Tomlin. So as we were leaving that place of worship, rest, and healing, I noticed that part of the parking lot had been cordoned off by little orange traffic cones. They looked a lot like these:

Heading for the vans, we stepped off the sidewalk very close to the traffic cones. I, obviously, a little too close. After seeing the traffic cones and subconsciously telling myself, "Stay away from those things...they are there to let us know not to go near them," I suddenly feel something wrapping itself around my foot. At first, I thought it was my purse, which tends to get in my way (that is another post in and of itself). Then, when I realized it wasn't my bag, I thought, "What in the world? I need to get away from this thing." Then, it was as if time stopped. I realized I had tripped on one of the neon orange traffic cones that were there to keep people off of them. And I began to fall.

I fell forever. I tried to right myself, but just couldn't get my feet right. I kept falling. I noticed the blue of the sky and the green of the trees. I fell some more. I recited the Gettysburg Address. Twice. Ten minutes later (okay, it was really just seven) when I finally landed on the asphalt of the parking lot, I was laughing so hard at myself that all my friends were standing over me wondering if I was okay (and laughing their heads off once they realized I was okay). I was fine, my foot was just a little scraped. And my pride was more than a little bruised.

So there you go. Full disclosure. I feel cleansed.

I have no idea what happened to the little orange traffic cone. It was probably helped back to its post by its little neon buddies. After they finished laughing at it.

I have this habit...

Okay, the banner at the top is the finished product so far. We might tweak it a little more in our spare time in between baseball games and choir practice and band practice and church and praise team and Wednesday practice and spending quality time with each other. So, yeah, next decade maybe.

Sowehneeways (Nacho, remember?), when my sweet hubby was tweaking it this morning he called me, chuckling over the phone, and told me to pull the site up. When I did, the finished product had been enhanced with lovely orange traffic cones. I laughed my tail off. I told you a few days ago that I'd explain my habit of falling down a lot. Here you go.

First, I have to tell you how it all began. Plastic heels. Yep. Most of my friends think it started in Atlanta a year ago. I've kept my secret well, I think. I can't remember the times I've fallen before 6th grade, so it must have been the plastic heels. See, 6th grade graduation was coming up and since I was feeling all grown up, I felt like I needed a pair of heels to wear for graduation. Now, being the clumsy 12 year old I was, I had no business wearing heels, no matter what they were made of. But I must have begged and begged and begged Momma for the white molded plastic heels from K-mart. It didn't matter that I clomped like a horse with a bad shoe. It didn't matter that they had no strap at the ankle to hold them on my clumsy feet. I was maturing into a teenager, dang it, and I needed me some heels.

I decided that for church the Wednesday night before graduation I'd wear my plastic heels, since I was about to be all grown up and stuff. I did fine, clomping around the church's fellowship hall during Wednesday night supper, until I had to take my dishes back to the kitchen. I made it all the way to the hallway between the kitchen serving window and fellowship hall with my dishes before my plastic heels, which by this point had become decidedly perspiratory, decided they wanted to get out from under my 12 year-old clumsy self. Down I went, dishes and all. Oh, it made such a horrible racket. From the plastic heels smacking the concrete, the dishes clattering out of my hands, and the silverware clanging off the dishes, I made a racket. Thankfully, there weren't that many people in the hallway getting their suppers. Just a few, "Are you okay?"s from kind people. Totally embarrassed, I quickly gathered my dishes, put the cursed plastic heels back on and went to sit with my Momma, who was blessedly unaware of what had just happened.

Needless to say, when 6th grade graduation rolled around, I crossed the stage not wearing my molded plastic, white heels. No, my better judgement (or, more likely my wise mother) got the best of me and I wore some very practical, if not fashionable, sandals. Low, low sandals. With pantyhose. Obviously my better judgement has its limits.

More about my dangerous habit later...