A History of Hair: The Long and the Short

Many who have known me in my past ten or so years would have a hard time believing that my hair has ever truly been short. But it has. I offer you compelling photographic proof:

Exhibit A: I am born bald

Rebekah a few days old--and completely bald

Exhibit B: I am one–and still bald

Rebekah as a one year old--and still bald

Exhibits C and D: I begin to grow hair in my second and third years of life.

Rebekah at 2--with the beginnings of hair

Rebekah at 3--she almost has a whole head of hair

Exhibit E: I am bald

Rebekah at 3 1/2--and completely bald

My older sister, then almost five, began her haircutting career with a bang. She cut my hair and her own. No doubt she was excited to debut our ‘do’s at my uncle’s upcoming wedding (2 weeks away).

We were driven off to the barber’s to get our first non-Mom cuts. When we were done, we looked a little better, but still like little boys. I suppose I was lucky–at least they could get mine all even. Anna’s hair was clipped to about half an inch–but still had gashes all about. The only way they could have completely fixed her hair was to shave it all off and start over.

My cousin tells us of looking in her birthday party photos from about 6 months later and asking her mom why there were two little boys at her party with the rest of the girls. Anna remembers being mortified at having to wear a big floppy bow over her head at my uncle’s wedding. I don’t really remember the event that much. I guess it wasn’t that big of a deal to me (or something).

At any rate, I did get over it eventually–and my hair did grow back. It took a year and a half–but I would look like a girl yet again.

Exhibit F: My hair grows back

Rebekah's 5th birthday--she has hair again

Lest you get the wrong impression about my sister’s hair-cutting skills, I will clarify. She and Mom now tie as the most adept hair-cutter’s in our family. Both are highly in demand. I, on the other hand, rank a distant third after almost cutting off my brother John’s ear (never try to cut the hair of a squirrelly eight year old, no matter how hard he begs). Now, I can cut a half-way decent crew, and can operate the clippers with no problem–but it’s probably just as quick to do it yourself.


Simple Sunday: E-mail

Our family has been going through a rough patch as Grandpa’s been in the hospital and now in the nursing home. It’s been stressful for Grandma especially.

But kids and grandkids and great-grandkids have been up and down back and forth since Grandpa’s seizure. And even for those who haven’t been able to go up, e-mail has kept us connected.

I don’t have a picture–but I think an excerpt from Grandma’s latest e-mail will do.

She writes: “Thanks to all of you for all your gifts, prayers, visits, and just generally for being such great kids. I think Im getting spoiled. And I
like it.”

And I’m so thankful for e-mail and how it’s kept us all together.

Simple Sunday

Click on the “Simple Sunday” icon above for more Simple Sunday posts at Life on Sylvan Drive.


Stealing Grace’s Story

Snuggled up in her blanket watching a movie, Grace was loathe to move when she heard the knock at the door. “Come in,” she yelled. She repeated her cry a little later, a little louder, when she heard the second knock. Several minutes later, the doorbell rang and she almost stomped to answer it.

Flinging open the door, she found herself face to face with a state trooper.

Yeah. Embarrassing.

For those who are wondering, you need not be worried. The state trooper was simply issuing my mom a subpoena we have been expecting for a while. If you think of her, please pray that she might have strength to testify boldly and truthfully. And pray that justice would be meted out.


The Sweet Smell of Second Chances

My brother Daniel works in a research greenhouse. This winter, they have dozens of African violets to get rid of. So Daniel brought a couple home for Mom, and one for his girlfriend.

I was admiring them one day and asking how much he paid for them, when he said nothing. “We have, like, 50 more to get rid of.” So I asked him if he could get one for me.

His answer was an unqualified NO. His two reasons were

  1. I keep my house COLD and African violets will completely die at temperatures below 65 degrees.
  2. I don’t exactly have the greatest track record for keeping plants alive–I tend to be gung-ho about projects for a couple of weeks and then just let them go (not the best plan with living things).

I tried to convince him that I could still handle a plant–after all, my bedroom (upstairs) generally stays above 68 degrees and I’ve instituted a planner system that regularly reminds me to take care of my plants. But still, he remained firm.

Imagine my surprise when I picked up the phone this morning to hear: “Light or dark purple?” Actually, I was completely confused. What on earth was he talking about? “African violets. Do you want a light or dark purple one?”

He was getting me a violet! Now sitting on my dresser is a beautiful dark purple African violet–the sweet smell of second chances.


Hobby Lobby with Mommy

She called at 10–when I was (gasp) still in bed. “My picture’s in, would you like to go to Hobby Lobby with me to help me pick out some stuff to go with it?” Sure I’d go, I said, as soon as I got dressed.

She got a gift card from the church as a thank you for the last twelve years teaching Sunday School. Something to use to decorate her “new” house with.

We went and played around with flowers and vases and little statues and this and that. I didn’t feel that useful, actually. I dug about, searched around–kept her looking at different flowers much longer than she probably would have preferred.

After we got everything inside and arranged the way we liked it, I announced that I’d be heading back home. “Thank you,” Mom said. “I don’t have a lot of confidence with that kind of stuff.”

Maybe not. But I have confidence enough for a dozen women. Probably just another example of “fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” Somehow I never got the “timid about taste” gene. I’m not the most genius decorator, I’m not even really THAT artistic. But I’m not afraid to give anything a go.

I trust Mom’s sense of style and her judgment. I’m sure that (even with her lack of confidence) she would have picked out something that would have looked great. But I’m pleased nonetheless that she invited me to share her little shopping trip. Nothing better than Hobby Lobby with Mommy.

Just for the record: No, I do not call my mother “Mommy” (except when I have an opportunity for a bit of assonance.) I call her “Mom”–or “la madre” or “mother” or “mother dear” or “los padres” (when referring to both her and my dad.)


Christmas Traditions

Cousin Matt tagged me weeks ago for this little meme, but I was in a busy stage and haven’t posted my part yet. So, before Christmas fades away from our memory and the new year sets in–I’ll share three Christmas traditions and pass along the invitation to any/all readers to post their own.

First
My family celebrates on Christmas Eve–always. Which means that I always count the days until Christmas to Christmas Eve. I forget that not everyone counts this way and get really confused when they say something like “Christmas is on a Thursday this year.” And they get really confused when I mention that I couldn’t have walked for my graduation on Saturday, December 22–since Christmas was the Monday following.

Second
My mom makes the most spectacular Christmas cookies–and she makes bunches of them. She freezes enough for each person to have two of each kind of cookie on Christmas Eve. And since she makes somewhere around a dozen varieties of Christmas cookies, that means that she sets out something around 200 cookies (2cookies_per_type_per_personx9personsx12types=216cookies) on Christmas Eve. Needless to say, we’re eating them well into the New Year!

Third
After our Christmas Eve revelries (an early dinner followed by Christmas Eve Services at church followed by much conversation followed by gifts), we generally all settle in for a movie or some games. And inevitably, we children are still up when Mom and Dad decide to go to bed. But since the stockings have yet to be stuffed–and Mom is the stuffer–it leaves us in something of a dilemma. Either Mom has to stay up until we’ve all gone to bed, or she has to wake up really early to stuff the stockings. When we were younger, Dad just ordered us to bed so that Mom could stuff stockings. In the past several years, Mom has risen early to stuff stockings. This year, she used a different approach. “Don’t look” she told us as she stuffed our stockings hanging in the next room over. “Now don’t get into them until tomorrow” she reminded us as she went off to bed. And we didn’t–or at least I didn’t.


Making Mom Cry

My family celebrates on Christmas Eve–so yesterday we opened our gifts after the Christmas Eve service at church. The kids all went first–handing around presents to the person whose name we drew before thanksgiving. Then we gave Mom and Dad some of their gifts. Then Mom and Dad handed around their presents for us kids. Then we gave Mom and Dad their final gifts.

Dad opened his box to find…a grill cover. Exciting, I know. But the grill cover also came with a note explaining that we’d bought him a new grill for Christmas.

Mom’s gift was even more mysterious. It was heavy and smallish–and she opened it to find a paving stone and a note. The note said that there were more stones (in the shed and on the patio) and that we owed her some flowers come spring. We were giving her a garden getaway in the little nook between the new house and the old.

Dad wanted to see the other paving stone on the patio, so we all went over to the sliding doors. When we opened the drapes and Mom saw the garden bench sitting there, she started crying.

She and Dad popped out really quickly for a photo op on the new bench–and popped in just as quickly (because it was SUPER COLD out there!)

My mom’s a practical woman–and she’s thoroughly enjoyed the new brooms and earrings that she’s gotten over the years. But this year, it was fun to absolutely overwhelm her with an extravagant gift.

I know it’s a cliche–but when Mom teared up every time she passed the porch last night, I knew that it was true–It’s more blessed to give than to receive.


Third Time’s a Charm

Joshua, Daniel, Grace, and myself traveled to our Grandparents’ over the weekend. Originally, the whole family (sans Anna) had planned to go–but we got ice in Lincoln and the forecast said wind for up north. Dad couldn’t risk getting stuck there–and Dan couldn’t go any other time. So we kids braved the weather alone.

It actually wasn’t that bad going up–dry roads to Seward, wet but not messy to Norfolk, messy in Norfolk, and just starting to get icky from Norfolk to Creighton. The trouble was Grandma and Grandpa’s driveway.

Saturday morning, we got going to leave for the hospital–Grandma and Aunt Ruth and Gracie leading the way in Ruth’s SUV, and the boys and I following in Mom’s Buick. The Buick made it up the driveway all right–but the turn onto the road that goes past their house was too much. Joshua and I got out and pushed–and then ran up the hill to get back in at the top where Daniel had stopped.

Sunday morning, we figured we’d get a bit more of a head start so we could make it around the curve. Unfortunately, we backed into a snowdrift and got stuck. So Joshua got out and pushed us out–and then hiked his way up to the top of the hill where we were waiting for him.

Monday morning, we had better luck–we backed into a little drive, got our head start and raced up the hill (so quickly that the turn seemed just a little bit scary!) Third time’s a charm.

Overall, the trip was good–Grandpa is doing much better than I expected. He recognizes people–even remembered that Daniel has a girlfriend and that she’s pretty. He can feed himself pretty well–especially with the weighted gloves that keep his hands from shaking. He can transfer himself from chair to bed–but needs reminders that he should lift off of the seat handles rather than from his walker.

On Monday, we kids went to PT with Grandpa–where they had him work on a little exercise bike/seated stair stepper. They upped his resistance after a while–a sign that he’s improving. Then he played ball with the PT gal–kicking the ball or tossing it, or reaching across to hit the physical therapist’s hands. He had some trouble with left and right–and it seems like he has a harder time getting his left side to “obey instructions” than his right. But he’s showing definite physical improvement.

While we were at PT, Grandpa started to introduce us to the physical therapist. “These are my sons and daughters” he said–but we corrected him right off: “Grandchildren.” He brushed off the correction easily, “Same difference.” It was a relief to see how well he handled it–it was plain that he knew who we are and had just said the wrong thing. This was especially heartening because with Grandma Menter’s Alzheimer’s, she got so that she didn’t know who any of us were or how exactly we were related to her. Not that she was mean or anything–she just didn’t know who we were. Even Dad, whom she recognized the most, she only called her “relative” since she couldn’t figure out how they were related. When I got home and described the situation with Grandpa to Mom, the scenario took on even more meaning. When Grandpa Menter was living with us in the last years of his Parkinsons (which is what they’re saying Grandpa Cook has too), he would think that Mom was his wife and that we were his children–which would make him very confused when Dad would come home and start kissing “his” wife! What a blessing it is that we aren’t having to deal with such confusion with Grandpa Cook.

Grandpa misses home a great deal–and fusses to be back all the time. The nurses and physical therapists and the like are starting to talk like home might actually be a possibility. What a blessing that would be for him and Grandma–assuming that they could get adequate help for his physical needs so that Grandma wouldn’t have to do it all. Grandpa has learned to appreciate Grandma’s cooking after a couple of weeks of hospital food.

The first week after the seizure was certainly the most difficult–no one knew whether he would ever really recover. Certainly, it seemed he was in his last days. But the second week showed promise–and his improvement in this third week has been marked.

Thank you to everyone who has been praying for the family. We continue to ask for prayers–but pray in thankfulness that God has restored Grandpa Cook, our patriarch, to us for a while longer.


YouthTube Premier

Wednesday evening, I had the pleasure of attending Z-360‘s YouthTUBE premier as a member of the papparazi. I took over 250 pictures and thoroughly enjoyed flashing my bulbs on the kids as they showed off their first ever YouthTube video.

Check it out.

In addition to the “Expensive Love” screening, we also enjoyed a preview of “Fail”, a course on evangelism. The after-party included noshing (well, sort of) eggnog and apple cider, a gingerbread house building/decorating contest, and Christmas carol karaoke.

Unfortunately, the busyness of it almost being Christmas–and going out of town as soon as the ice clears this morning–means that I have not yet been able to get a photo album processed. But it will be coming–probably right after Christmas. Here’s a quick preview:

John and Steve in fancy duds


World Without My Glasses

I don’t really need my glasses around the house. Not when I’m at the computer or reading or puttering. I only need them for my distance vision. So I didn’t have them on when I left for class at 4. By the time I realized I had forgotten them, it was too late to turn back. Welcome to a whole new world.

It was odd, asking a question of a blob on a television screen. It’s always odd doing the teleconferencing thing–but not being able to see makes it even more unusual. Navigating rush hour traffic on two of North Lincoln’s busiest streets was also interesting. I could feel the tiny muscles in my eyes straining to focus.

The library was an adventure. I couldn’t scan the stacks like I usually do–or my head would start spinning with blurry blocks of text. Instead, I had to kneel so that my head was level with whatever shelf I was looking at–so that my eyes could focus on the spines of the books directly in front of me.

I dropped by my parent’s house to ask my brother John about his day at the College of Business Administration’s “Big Red Welcome.” I asked him, teasing, if they had convinced him to join the Business College. He replied, quite seriously, that he thinks they have. I’m excited for him–I think he’ll do great in business. He’s smart, he’s a people person, he’s a go-getter. It’s just that he’s really growing up. Tomorrow he’ll vote in his first ever election–helping to make a decision that’ll shape the destiny of our nation.

I sat down for some pumpkin pie (made by my brother Daniel and his girlfriend Debbie) and my sister Grace began a lament about her civics class. The teacher has switched her teaching style and Grace prefers the old one–in fact, she’s pretty much sure that the old way is the only way she (Grace) can learn. I listened and thought, “External locus of control.” Then I thought, “You’re a nerd.” Then I realized that Gracie is growing up. She’s in high school now–the place where grades start counting. She’s learning our governmental system. She’s learning how to learn on her own (somewhat unwillingly, but oh well.)

The phone rang and we ignored it. The phone wasn’t in its holster anyway. But Joshua bounded up the stairs with the phone to announce a call for Timothy. It was the army recruiter. Tim jumped up and paced towards the school room (soon the piano room)–and then changed his mind and went the opposite direction, into his bedroom. He’s pretty serious about this thing. He’s researched his options. He’s looked into schools. He’s gone over costs and benefits. He’s considered the risks of war. He’s looked into genetic engineering in the military. He’s on the cusp of making his decision. If he decides to join the Army Reserves, he’ll be heading to boot camp next summer.

It seems like just yesterday, they were this:
Tim and Grace as children
and now–he’s talking of joining the military.

I take off my glasses for just a day and the world swirls by, leaving me with a foreign landscape. What happened to yesterday? Where’d it go?

I don’t know–and I can’t waste time trying to figure it out–I’d only end up losing today.