Frontier Airlines was having a screaming deal on plane tickets from Phoenix to San Francisco as 2015 approached. A friend of mine alerted me to the $20.15 tickets and I immediately checked the dates they were available. Then I checked the Edmonton Oilers schedule and the stars aligned for my die-hard-Oiler-fan husband. The cheap ticket and the Oilers playing the Sharks in San Jose all landed the day before his 48th birthday! (Yes, the return ticket was a bit more, but STILL!)
Rick was swimming in a sea of turquoise in the Shark tank for sure! But, seeing it was Rickey’s birthday and he flew in to watch his team, the Oilers pulled out a win in a shootout…. just for Rick. It was picture perfect. (In case you are not familiar with the Edmonton Oilers, they are a come back team. Rick has told me this for years. We are still waiting for them to come back. How many first round draft picks will they get before they come back? We don’t know. Jesus may come back first.)
Lasagna and black forest cake were awaiting Rick’s return on his actual birthday. He told me this was the best birthday gift I have ever given him……. (to send him away from me for his birthday)…. hmmmmm. I think there is oil in his blood.
It was a sad day for me when my eldest daughter decided to donate her beautiful long blonde hair. Yes, it was selfish of me, but there…. I said it. I was sad. I was also proud that she thought of others… and started a trend in our family three years ago.
I was glad when my youngest daughter decided to donate her beautiful long dark brown hair. Yes, it was selfish of me, but there…. I said it. I was glad. I was the one who had to comb through it and watch her overly dramatic face when I hit tangles. I was also proud that she thought of others… and kept the trend in our family going.
It was a HAPPY day for me when my eldest son decided to donate his beautiful long blonde hair. Yes, it was selfish of me, but there…. I said it. I was HAPPY. I was also proud that he thought of others… and continued a trend in our family last night!
I’m not quite sure how I feel about three of my four children being able to donate their hair….. I’m thankful that son #2 told me he would never grow his hair that long. Thank you, Keeve!
On a side note, we researched the companies where you can send your chopped off ponytails for donations. There are some shady companies out there who sell the hair you send them. Do your research before you mail your hair!
When you grow up, you assume your life is the normal life of all the other kids in the world. When you get older, you realize just how non-normal your growing up actually was, well, compared to all the other non-normal lives you learn about as time goes on. Confused yet?
All that to say, I grew up thinking everyone dreams in color. I do. Of course I’m not the weird one, am I? Thanks to the internet, I have discovered that more than 80% of people dream in color. Not so weird after all, thankyouverymuch. Yet another fact caused me to pause and consider my abnormalness once again…. 95-99% of people forget their dreams. What? Almost every night I have vivid dreams and can tell the tales of them the next day. My children take great pleasure in asking me what I dreamt last night and then rolling on the floor holding their sides due to laughter induced dream tales. Some dreams have stuck with me for years… for 24 years, in one case… like it was yesterday. Some are so real that I write them down to ponder later.
While we were away at Christmas I had this great dream (that my children loved) about my husband wanting to redo the greenhouse (that we don’t have) on the back of the house (that we don’t live in). He was all inspired and wanted to show me his plans, but he insisted the best view was from the neighbor’s back driveway. The only glitch was that he was naked and I wasn’t walking outside with him. I’m the modest one in the family, for goodness sakes alive, even in my dreams. So he talked me into driving over to the neighbor’s back driveway in our station wagon with tasteful “wood” paneling on the sides. He drove me over there and proceeded to do a 13 point turn in the little driveway until the car was facing our greenhouse (sideways on the driveway.) But the inevitable happened and he backed up too far and we went down into the ditch and got stuck. I told him I would climb out the window and go call AAA but he yelled, “You cannot call Triple A, I’m naked!” And that was the end. I did not find deep meaning in that dream. I pray we never own that house or car! But it WAS funny!
Sixteen years ago, after watching Father of the Bride 2, my husband decided we should move from Spruce Grove, Alberta to Phoenix, Arizona to be near my parents. I whole heartily agreed. We put the house on the market and prayed for a quick sale, it was winter after all. Then I had a dream about a lady coming to buy our house. I awoke quite relieved and explained in detail what she looked like to my husband. For ten long months, our house sat on the market and many people came to see it. Every time I opened the front door, if it wasn’t the lady in my dream, I was disappointed. Phoenix was calling my name, after all. Finally one day she came. I recognized her. And she did buy our house. Truly, I think God gave me the picture of her as a sign of hope that there was someone coming. It gave me a measure of assurance.
When I found myself in the Edmonton, Alberta airport last month, surrounded by snow and folks wearing parkas, I decided on a book purchase instead of a trip out of doors. Don’t get me wrong. I love Edmonton. Three of my favorite people were born there. But there was snow. My flimsy nylon traveling sweat suit kept me behind the thick windows. Never have I purchased a book in an airport…. I didn’t have high hopes. But my brain needed stimulation and there were four blank hours staring me in the face. At the overpriced shop, I came upon this gem:
On first perusal of the contents, I realized that the entire book was written in letters. I reminisced with heartwarming thoughts of one of my favorite children’s books The Jolly Postman and Other People’s Letters.
Oh was I in for a treat. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society ended up being historical (my FAV!) set in France and England just after WWII. The story involves a writer and all of the unique and utterly unbelievable people with whom she corresponds. I cuddled with every jot and tittle. Now I yearn to travel to Guernsey to see the steep shores and the stone houses and the green countryside. The creativity dreamed up for these folks in horrible times was amusing and very well written. My interest was held until the last page was turned.
Then tonight, my heart skipped a beat or two when I discovered this:
2013… NEXT YEAR the movie will appear on the big screen for me to love all over again. Mom, we’ll have to go on opening day just like we did for The Help!
Yes, my first baby girl! Larisa! Distinctly I remember the day I took her to Walmart and had this photo shoot done. We lived near Edmonton, Alberta… where the weather can be less than congenial at times. And Larisa’s blonde hair could be limp in minutes… so I brought the curling iron and hairspray INTO Walmart for final touches. I found an outlet in the middle of the children’s clothing section and she sat in the cart while I fixed the golden curls to perfection. She posed up a storm…. like a true beauty queen. I didn’t even do any coaching… she had the moves even at two year old!
When Daddy got home that night, for some reason I decided to tape record Larisa telling Daddy about the Walmart photo shoot. We still have it. It is PRECIOUS! Her little scratchy voice saying, “Affer Mommy do the curlen iron in Wamart, da laby take my pichers. Den I went like dis.. and like dis… and like dis….” And she re-enacted the entire posing scene. A cherished family memory for us.
A week later when we took Daddy into Walmart to help us choose the three photos that were included in the cheapest package…. he stared at each one of the 15… then uttered the unthinkable words for Mr. Wallet, “We will take them all.” Unbelievable.
We may have a re-enactment of that extravagant purchase when Larisa’s senior pictures arrive!!! Please stand by.
Tonight we spent the evening visiting with fine Canadian friends that we lived life with up in Northern Alberta in the early 90s. I haven’t written much about our Northern escapades in a while. Quite a few memories were reborn in my mind tonight…. quality fodder for blogging. Good times! I love love love reconnecting with friends where it seems like NO time has gone by…. except for our husband’s higher foreheads and a few more smiling lines for us girls. We chatted and laughed and got caught up on 17 years of information in seven hours.
When we lived together in Fort Vermilion, Alberta our first children were born within four months of each other. We shared many meals and phone calls in those early parenting years. Hard to believe we both have four kids now. And my 17-year-old daughter LOVED being introduced to a “stranger” and told that she had changed her diapers. :o) Keepin’ ’em humble. That’s my job as the mom.
We’ve matured over the years, but one constant remained… God is good. All the time. Hard times come and go. But God is good. All the time. Amen.
Years back, my husband was stationed WAY up north in Alberta, Canada, flying Cessna 206s and a Britten Norman Islander in and out of remote Indian reservations along the Peace River. Back in the good ol’ days, I was allowed to go flying with him if there was an empty seat in the plane. I flew as much as possible and relished almost every minute of it. One such enjoyable day started with a call from my pilot down at the airport, “I’m flying the chief and councilmen into Margaret Lake fishing lodge in the Islander. Get our fishing poles and we can fish all day while they are in meetings.” He flew for a Native Indian band and flying the chief was a big deal… fishing just made it that much more sweet! With poles in hand, I met him on the ramp.
I flew right seat and was happily viewing the extremely flat scenery on the 40 minute flight when I noticed something odd. My pilot was not moving his head, but his eyes were roving to and fro…. searching for something. In my mic I asked, “What are you doing?” Not that the men could hear a word he said with the roar of the engines, but he quietly answered, “Look for two lakes next to each other. I can’t find them.” Ah. Lost… with the chief in the back. Being a bit sarcastic, I suggested, “Ask them where it is. They’ll know!” No response from Mr. Roving Eye. We eventually spotted the lakes and landed somewhat without incident. The strip was usually 2,000 feet of solid dirt with a few grass patches, but for this occassion it was 2,000 feet of solid mud and a few grass patches. Several moccasins had to have mud wiped off of them after de-planing.
Being a supreme fishing queen, the anticipation of the day made my little casting heart beat with glee. I assumed we would fish for several hours alone where the river ran into the lake. How romantic! Just me and my pilot. Not so. Seems the chief and his posse were supremely into fishing as well. Their “meetings” were all hooked up and reeled in after the first hour. They joined us on the banks in amongst the pine trees. Unbeknownst to me, it turned out to be one of the best fishing days of my life. I couldn’t throw the hook in without snagging a pike or a trout. My pilot was genuinely happy for me…. in the beginning. He was not experiencing the best fishing day of his life. In fact, he couldn’t catch anything! He snagged trees, lost hooks and finally just stood near me to take the hooks out of the mouths of the fish I kept pulling from the cool water.
The chief and councilmen noticed my supreme fishing ability (and probably my pilot’s too!) They casually cast closer and closer to where I stood next to my haul on the bank at my feet. The chief asked what I was using for bait. Another wanted to see my lure. Was I using weights? Was I reeling quickly? Where were the blinking fish hiding?
Wanting to keep his place of employment with these men, my pilot started giving my fish to them. One at a time. Two at a time. Saving face is what I summed it up to be. The brave Indians would now be returning home with booty from the fishing lodge…. and my pilot would still be their pilot.
When we were all snug back in the plane, right before take-off, I heard one of the men comment under his breath, “Next time I’m bringing my woman.” HAHA! We dropped off each of them at their reservations with my fish in their hands and we returned to the hangar. One of the other pilots asked if we had trouble finding the lakes. “Nope!” I replied, making no eye contact with Mr. Roving Eye. Then he asked how the fishing was. “Not bad! Want to see my fish?” and I proudly held up the one fish my pilot let me bring home for dinner.
The moral of the story is: Give a man a fish and you’ll feed him for a day. Give many men many fish and you’ll be able to keep feeding yourself.
Not that I’m a man basher… I just find it humorous how men need to display the image that they always know where they are. I mean, really, who cares? I also find it funny how when you ask men for directions, they ALWAYS give them… whether they know what they’re talking about or not. It’s the same phobia in reverse.
Back in the day, I went flying with Rick when he was taking some of the band leaders and chiefs from several Indian reservations to a fishing lodge in Northern Alberta. There was an empty seat so Rick phoned home and told me to high tail it down to the airport and bring our fishing poles. Sweet! I am the supreme fishing queen. We had been up in the air about 40 minutes when I noticed that Rick’s head was aimed straight ahead but his eyes were roaming to and fro, obviously looking for the fishing lodge. We both had on headsets, so I said to him, “Why don’t you ask the guys in the back where it is?” But NO! He told me to look for two lakes that were very close together. It’s not quite as obvious when the passenger looks for the destination. We did find it, and the chiefs never knew their pilot had any difficulty locating their fishing hole. And I caught ALL the fish that day but Rick gave most of them to the chiefs so they wouldn’t return empty handed. Some even asked what bait I was using. I heard this comment from the back of the plane, “Next time I’m bringing my woman.”
Our Destination: Dawson Creek, BC
Another time we were driving with Rick’s mom and sister from Valleyview, Alberta straight west to Dawson Creek, BC. Usually I navigate with my map close at hand, but this was Rick’s territory and I wasn’t even paying attention to where we were going. Captain, my Captian, was in charge at the helm.
A bit of back information: I had recently finished a Geography of Canada course and the professor had done post graduate work on the Peace River region. Being in Geo./Can class, we heard all about the landscape, erosion, river patterns, alluvial fans, etc. I had never been to Peace River, AB, but in my head, I knew what it looked like.
Back to the heading west story. About an hour outside of Valleyview, we came off of a high plain and dropped into a river valley… that looked exactly like my brain’s picture of Peace River. But Peace River was an hour straight north of Valleyview, so that couldn’t have been it. Well, it was. Not long after I commented about how much this area looked the place Dr. Tracie had described, we passed the sign, Welcome to Peace River. Cool! It was just as I pictured! But… uncool…. we were not heading west… and hadn’t been for an hour. I mentioned to Rick that we could just ask the gas station attendant how to get to Dawson Creek. But NO! Rick informed the van full of women that we would be stopping for gas, but no one was to leave the vehicle. Of course, us three ladies were giggling to ourselves. When Rick got out to pump the gas, his mom opened her window and yelled, “We’re LOST!” which threw us all into hysterics.
A rare sight for sure from our Phoenix, Arizona backyard. We’ve had a cold snap of late, it was 38F yesterday morning when I awoke. Freezing for here! These were the temperatures we moved AWAY from. I’m not trying to illicit sympathy from those in frigid winter conditions. I’ve heard our cousins in Winnipeg haven’t had school this week, as the city is covered in ice.
I remember those days in northern Alberta when I would scrape the ice off the kitchen window in the morning in order to view the thermometer on the porch…. hoping for -37C… and no school! I always hated -35C and -36C… it just wasn’t fair.
One cold school day when I was teaching kindergarten in LaCrete, Alberta, I left for school in freezing weather. During the day, the sun came out, warmed things up and the meltdown started. By the time I came home, however, it had dropped below freezing again. I arrived home to find our screen door covered in ice. Using the snow shovel, I pounded on the ice until I broke through and could open the door.
I told that little story to say that I DON”T MISS IT AT ALL. :o I’m sorry if you live under a sheet of ice at the moment. Know that you are welcome in sunny Arizona!
The life of a pilot’s wife seems to invoke visions of grandeur in the minds of those who have never been a pilot’s wife. I’m here today to disprove inaccurate information and lay the truth out for all to witness. First of all, just have a looksie at the harsh weather conditions we were faced with for three years! I’m a California girl and that’s a parka with fox fur trim, moose hide mitts (made by Rick’s grandma, Googum) and Sorels! I’d never tried on boots that came in two parts until we moved to Fort Vermilion, Alberta. Luckily they came in hot pink! I guess that the weather was not due to being a pilot’s wife… it was due to a newbie pilot putting in his ‘time’ in the North before heading to bluer skies in warmer climates.
Just a few glimpses into the strange happenings of a pilot’s family are indeed overdue.
Glimpse #1. We were driving our 1971 Toyota Corona Deluxe late at night when the dash lights cut out. Rick yelled, “The instrument panel is offline!” I yelled back, “Luckily we’re safe on the ground!” Made me wonder if he thought he was flying a plane…. they don’t have to pay quite as close attention when they’re up in the air… hmmmmm.
Glimpse #2. It was the middle of the night and I was stirred from blissful sleep as Rick sat up in bed and yelled, “More left power!” I replied, “Roger that,” and he laid back down having never woken up at all. :o) I wonder what would have happened if I yelled, “Man overboard?”
Glimpse #3. Anytime you call a pilot for an address or a name they always spell it in the phonetic alphabet. Over the years I’ve gotten used to it, but it was a surprise for others when Rick said we lived on Yankee Uniform Charlie Charlie Alpha Street. I’ve still not figured out the numbers… niner, niner… whatever. I just add er to the end of all of them. Oner, Twoer, Threeer. (mockful, I realize.)
Glimpse #4. We needed a new washing machine and were sitting together, husband and wife, reading washer reviews online. I would suggest a model. He would say, “18 cycles! How many did our old washer have?” “12” “Why do we need 6 more? Our clothes were clean with 12.” I explained that the new and improved cycles were for specific washing cycles that would be useful. He didn’t get it. This went on and on for about an hour. Finally I lovingly explained, “When you buy an airplane, do you want me sitting there saying, ‘Ailerons? How many ailerons did your last plane have? Did you use both of them?’ ” And he let me pick out my washing machine all by myself. You gotta talk to a pilot in pilot smack.
Glimpse #5. I asked Rick to put in a load of laundry. We have a new fangled LG frontloader that lights up like a cockpit when you hit the magic button. I heard the laundry basket hit the floor. The door opened. Loading. Door closed. And then there was silence for about four minutes. He eventually hollered, “I’m not checked out on this machine.” WHAT? There’s only 5 buttons on the washer. How many are in the cockpit? Laundry Flight Training followed.
Glimpse #6. Important Terms to Know: Gas is for cars. Fuel is for planes. We saw a bumper sticker that said, “I love the smell of Jet A early in the morning.” Rick chuckled. I didn’t get it. Jet fuel stinks. My pilot tried to explain that it is such a familiar smell that means good times are coming. I guess it’s like the smell of the glue gun?? The sunscreen??? The movie popcorn????
And no, I don’t get to fly with him in his current job, something to do with insurance. No frequent flyer miles here. No jump seat privileges. It’s a glamorous life, for sure!
Welcome to My Sister's Jar. The story behind the blog lies in the original post on Feb. 2, 2008. Type "giddy moments" into the search box to find it.
I'm a homeschool mom who loves to speak and write, encouraging moms to press-on in motherhood. Two of my books are available NOW! Laughing in the Midst of Mothering and Laughing in the Midst of Marriage. See them at www.LindaCrosby.com or www.cbd.com.
I have four children, one of whom is adopted from Colombia, so there are LOTS of adoption tidbits here.
~~~~~~ Linda Ann Crosby
My Sister's Jar 