annie blog

How I Met My Valentine
I’m walking down memory lane today. Would you like to join me?
Let’s start with a picture. Here we are. This was taken the second time we met.

Wow. Don’t we look young?

I love to know how people, couples, met. It is always so interesting — even if it’s “well, we were best friends first” or “we met at RUF” or “we were high school sweethearts”. Awww. That is all very nice.

Our story was a bit different.

I met Jon at the interviews for a college scholarship. It was the scholarship for this university. So, even getting an interview for it was a big deal. I think that there were like 12 students interviewing for 5 scholarships. After the interview, all of the parents and students then had a luncheon with all of the big wigs at the university (the members of the scholarship committee) in one of the ballrooms. At the luncheon there were 12 tables, one student per table with his or her family and 3 or so members of the scholarship committee. Only at our table, it was my mother and father and me and Jon — because he had forgotten to invite his family. Whoever assigned the seating put him with us.

It was a nice luncheon. All of my nervousness for the day was just about over, and I was starting to enjoy myself and actually begin to take in everything that was happening when the conversation at the table turned to politics. Specifically, the Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas hearings. (How’s that for dating myself?) Oh my. I should mention here that my dear father is a yellow-dog democrat. And, he has a way of just saying whatever it is that he is thinking. So he gave his version of what he thought about the hearings. When my father makes statements about politics, they are in the same tone of voice and manner of speaking as he would use to talk about the weather. I don’t think that he dreamed that anyone would challenge him. Did I mention that Jon is a conservative? Shall we say a red-blooded Elephant Republican? Before we knew it, a very spirited debate was raging at our table. My mother was kicking my Dad under the table to try to get him to be quiet and eyeing me with a “Oh, my goodness, can you believe that he is talking about this?!!!” kind of look. Meanwhile, Jon was toeing the line against my Dad and not giving in an inch. The scholarship committee members were looking very interested and a little amused at the turn of events at our table. I remember that their eyes sort of went from my Dad to Jon and then back to my Dad — kind of like spectators at a tennis match. Finally, after much debate and points and counterpoints between Jon and my Dad, they at last decided to agree to disagree.

Later, on the way back to Alabama, my Mom was giving her ideas about the happenings of the day, and she said that she didn’t know who else would be getting the scholarship, but that she was pretty sure that I would get it, “and that little Jonathan, too. He definitely will.” Even my Dad agreed that while Jon was, of course, completely mistaken about politics, that he was a very nice young man.

Isn’t it weird that I met my husband at the very same time as my parents?

Later, that spring, we both did receive the scholarship (my mother was right) and were invited back for an awards luncheon. That’s where the above picture was taken.

It still seems like yesterday to me.

So, thank you, unknown person who sat Jon at my table. Thank you.

And, Jon, thank you for forgetting to invite your parents.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

How I Met My Valentine
I’m walking down memory lane today. Would you like to join me?
Let’s start with a picture. Here we are. This was taken the second time we met.

Wow. Don’t we look young?

I love to know how people, couples, met. It is always so interesting — even if it’s “well, we were best friends first” or “we met at RUF” or “we were high school sweethearts”. Awww. That is all very nice.

Our story was a bit different.

I met Jon at the interviews for a college scholarship. It was the scholarship for this university. So, even getting an interview for it was a big deal. I think that there were like 12 students interviewing for 5 scholarships. After the interview, all of the parents and students then had a luncheon with all of the big wigs at the university (the members of the scholarship committee) in one of the ballrooms. At the luncheon there were 12 tables, one student per table with his or her family and 3 or so members of the scholarship committee. Only at our table, it was my mother and father and me and Jon — because he had forgotten to invite his family. Whoever assigned the seating put him with us.

It was a nice luncheon. All of my nervousness for the day was just about over, and I was starting to enjoy myself and actually begin to take in everything that was happening when the conversation at the table turned to politics. Specifically, the Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas hearings. (How’s that for dating myself?) Oh my. I should mention here that my dear father is a yellow-dog democrat. And, he has a way of just saying whatever it is that he is thinking. So he gave his version of what he thought about the hearings. When my father makes statements about politics, they are in the same tone of voice and manner of speaking as he would use to talk about the weather. I don’t think that he dreamed that anyone would challenge him. Did I mention that Jon is a conservative? Shall we say a red-blooded Elephant Republican? Before we knew it, a very spirited debate was raging at our table. My mother was kicking my Dad under the table to try to get him to be quiet and eyeing me with a “Oh, my goodness, can you believe that he is talking about this?!!!” kind of look. Meanwhile, Jon was toeing the line against my Dad and not giving in an inch. The scholarship committee members were looking very interested and a little amused at the turn of events at our table. I remember that their eyes sort of went from my Dad to Jon and then back to my Dad — kind of like spectators at a tennis match. Finally, after much debate and points and counterpoints between Jon and my Dad, they at last decided to agree to disagree.

Later, on the way back to Alabama, my Mom was giving her ideas about the happenings of the day, and she said that she didn’t know who else would be getting the scholarship, but that she was pretty sure that I would get it, “and that little Jonathan, too. He definitely will.” Even my Dad agreed that while Jon was, of course, completely mistaken about politics, that he was a very nice young man.

Isn’t it weird that I met my husband at the very same time as my parents?

Later, that spring, we both did receive the scholarship (my mother was right) and were invited back for an awards luncheon. That’s where the above picture was taken.

It still seems like yesterday to me.

So, thank you, unknown person who sat Jon at my table. Thank you.

And, Jon, thank you for forgetting to invite your parents.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

The Mystery of the Permanent Marker
These pesky sons of mine. Seriously, I should write a book about all of the things they do. I’m sure the tale of my three year old vacuuming up my hair while it was still attached to my head would be oh so thrilling. Or what about the time my 3 year old and 18 month old conspired to crack a dozen eggs on the couch? Then there was the time that the coffee table was decorated with chocolate syrup. I could seriously go on for days. But I won’t because I have to tell you about the permanent marker incident.

The other day, I was talking to my mom on the phone and not paying attention to my 4 year old. After we finished talking, I put the phone down and saw, with great alarm, the cap of a permanent marker on the kitchen window sill. So, I immediately launched a search for the marker. I found it quickly and then started looking for the drawings — I was sure that they would be in the absolute worst place. Had the sofa been marked on? No. Had the walls? No. What about the floor? No. Not my quilt in the bedroom? No.

I searched everywhere and found nothing. That was weird but great. So, I counted myself very blessed and happily went about my day.

Later in the day, I saw my Northern Flicker outside on the birdfeeder. So, I quickly grabbed up my binoculars to get a better look. And, lo and behold, I found out where the marker had been applied. Where? You probably guessed it — the dear boy had colored in the lenses of the binoculars. That rascal.

All permanent markers are hereby banished from the premises because I know that next time it won’t be so easy.

The Mystery of the Permanent Marker
These pesky sons of mine. Seriously, I should write a book about all of the things they do. I’m sure the tale of my three year old vacuuming up my hair while it was still attached to my head would be oh so thrilling. Or what about the time my 3 year old and 18 month old conspired to crack a dozen eggs on the couch? Then there was the time that the coffee table was decorated with chocolate syrup. I could seriously go on for days. But I won’t because I have to tell you about the permanent marker incident.

The other day, I was talking to my mom on the phone and not paying attention to my 4 year old. After we finished talking, I put the phone down and saw, with great alarm, the cap of a permanent marker on the kitchen window sill. So, I immediately launched a search for the marker. I found it quickly and then started looking for the drawings — I was sure that they would be in the absolute worst place. Had the sofa been marked on? No. Had the walls? No. What about the floor? No. Not my quilt in the bedroom? No.

I searched everywhere and found nothing. That was weird but great. So, I counted myself very blessed and happily went about my day.

Later in the day, I saw my Northern Flicker outside on the birdfeeder. So, I quickly grabbed up my binoculars to get a better look. And, lo and behold, I found out where the marker had been applied. Where? You probably guessed it — the dear boy had colored in the lenses of the binoculars. That rascal.

All permanent markers are hereby banished from the premises because I know that next time it won’t be so easy.

The Mystery of the Permanent Marker
These pesky sons of mine. Seriously, I should write a book about all of the things they do. I’m sure the tale of my three year old vacuuming up my hair while it was still attached to my head would be oh so thrilling. Or what about the time my 3 year old and 18 month old conspired to crack a dozen eggs on the couch? Then there was the time that the coffee table was decorated with chocolate syrup. I could seriously go on for days. But I won’t because I have to tell you about the permanent marker incident.

The other day, I was talking to my mom on the phone and not paying attention to my 4 year old. After we finished talking, I put the phone down and saw, with great alarm, the cap of a permanent marker on the kitchen window sill. So, I immediately launched a search for the marker. I found it quickly and then started looking for the drawings — I was sure that they would be in the absolute worst place. Had the sofa been marked on? No. Had the walls? No. What about the floor? No. Not my quilt in the bedroom? No.

I searched everywhere and found nothing. That was weird but great. So, I counted myself very blessed and happily went about my day.

Later in the day, I saw my Northern Flicker outside on the birdfeeder. So, I quickly grabbed up my binoculars to get a better look. And, lo and behold, I found out where the marker had been applied. Where? You probably guessed it — the dear boy had colored in the lenses of the binoculars. That rascal.

All permanent markers are hereby banished from the premises because I know that next time it won’t be so easy.

Pancake Day…
is today. Here is info on how to get some free pancakes and help out a charity at the same time.

Pancake Day…
is today. Here is info on how to get some free pancakes and help out a charity at the same time.

Pancake Day…
is today. Here is info on how to get some free pancakes and help out a charity at the same time.

The Perk About Not Knowing Your ABCs
My youngest doesn’t know his alphabet. I’d bet that he doesn’t even know one letter. Now, I know that this isn’t all that unusual, in the wider scope of things. But in the narrow scope of his siblings, well, it’s kind of a remarkable thing. My oldest learned his letters — I don’t know when. All I know was that he was reading the Velveteen Rabbit at three and a half. My second oldest thought that reading was what big boys *did*. So he was motivated to seek me out to teach him the alphabet when he was 18 months old. My 3rd son learned his letters sometime, I don’t know when. Bless him, I remember so little of his toddler years. When teachers and other professionals try to get his developmental history from me, I just shrug and try to keep it vague. But, my baby, he’s going to learn it soon. Do you know why? Because one of my favorite artists, Charley Harper, will be featured in this book.

Wow! I’m so excited.

The Perk About Not Knowing Your ABCs
My youngest doesn’t know his alphabet. I’d bet that he doesn’t even know one letter. Now, I know that this isn’t all that unusual, in the wider scope of things. But in the narrow scope of his siblings, well, it’s kind of a remarkable thing. My oldest learned his letters — I don’t know when. All I know was that he was reading the Velveteen Rabbit at three and a half. My second oldest thought that reading was what big boys *did*. So he was motivated to seek me out to teach him the alphabet when he was 18 months old. My 3rd son learned his letters sometime, I don’t know when. Bless him, I remember so little of his toddler years. When teachers and other professionals try to get his developmental history from me, I just shrug and try to keep it vague. But, my baby, he’s going to learn it soon. Do you know why? Because one of my favorite artists, Charley Harper, will be featured in this book.

Wow! I’m so excited.