School days

My pre-school days and school days kind of all run together since I don't really have a good separating point. I remember the summer before I was going to start Kindergarten because I had to get shots, for one thing, but I also remember going with my mom to the school I was going to attend, Richpond, to pick up papers of some sort I suppose. I don't remember much about that trip except that the school seemed enormous (it's not... I've been back since then). Before school started, though, and I'm not really sure when or why it all came about, my parents thought better of sending me to public school. I vaguely remember them discussing the possibility of homeschooling, but hey, I was 5 years old... I wasn't really concerned. The shots were over, I got to go shopping afterward, life was grand.

Anyway, my folks kept me out of public school and homeschooled me themselves that year... and for the next 4-and-a-half-ish years. That's why I don't really have a good separating point on before school and after school, since there weren't any huge changes in my life. The first year my folks pretty much built their own curriculum out of stuff they found at the Parent Teacher Store. After Kindergarten, they began using the A Beka Book curriculum, which worked out quite well for me.

My memories of the whole homeschool situation involve no hard-and-fast start or stop time, popcorn during classes, and breaks whenever the phone rang or my granddad stopped in for a visit. Other memories involve knowing without a doubt that school was going to happen every day, no questions asked (except for planned breaks and holidays), that what was supposed to be covered in a day would be covered in a day without fail, and that my mother had very high standards and goals that she expected me to meet... period. If the curriculum said we were supposed to find the Virgin Islands on a particular map, we would find them on that map... no other map would suffice. If the curriculum said we should go over every single multiplication table 14 times a day, we did (ok, it was never really 14...). I only remember one occasion when I was sick and was not permitted a "sick day" until I literally nodded off with my head on the table (Benadryl will do that to ya). I don't want to make my mom out to be cruel or anything along those lines, but she was definitely a driving force in my academic successes and every success I've had since those homeschool days is due in part to her great influence (and stubbornness... hehe).

In 1996, Old Union School opened. I was going to be starting 5th grade and was (supposedly) old enough to make my own decision, so my parents left it completely up to me as to whether I wanted to go there or keep homeschooling. My folks (my dad especially) were avid supporters of the school and my dad was one of the few who helped it get started, even serving as the school board's chairman for a few years. There were 5 students starting out, 3 girls near my age (2 of whom I knew from church, 1 of whom I had at least heard of from a sister church), and a boy and a girl who were younger (who I also knew from church). The 2 teachers were women who had been my Sunday School and/or VBS teachers and I had known both of them since I was born. I decided to continue homeschooling. I don't really remember much about my decision... I do remember that my mom had some questions and some uneasy feelings about me switching to OUS, although I don't recall anything specific now.

So, we started another year of homeschooling and went until October, when I decided that I wanted to go to OUS after all. My first day there was Halloween, October 31, 1996. I was 11 and I made the 6th student. As it turns out, my not-so-sure-about-this start would turn into the next 7 years of my life... and I graduated from Old Union in 2004, in a class of 2... I was the valedictorian, in case you were wondering.

I had a lot of good days at OUS, but unfortunately in some ways the bad outweighed the good, and my overall memory of my time spent there has a dark cloud over it. At this time, the school is a completely different place than it was when I was there, but I'm afraid some of the things which were such a frustration to me and my family while I was there still persist. I support the school's mission and I think the one-to-one teaching that they're able to have there is great. David and I support and will continue to support the school, but I doubt our children will ever be students there. This isn't written in stone and I know that it very well could end up happening, but as of right now, I can't see ever feeling totally comfortable with sending them there. Our children will most likely be homeschooled.

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I had happy childhood years and was always a fairly laid-back, easygoing child (as far as I can remember, at least). I was pretty much a loner, usually playing alone, and a lot like an only child since my only sister, Stacy, is nearly 15 years older than me.

I don't want it to sound like we had our own little family life separate from my sister and she wasn't included or anything along those lines. I adored her and wanted to be in her shadow (or drawing on her carpet with a highlighter) as much as possible. And I was, actually. I vaguely remember her living at home, but I don't ever remember her really acting like she minded me being around. I remember her getting ready for dates or to go out with friends and how she looked when she came out of her room all dressed and made up and hair fixed. I remember always noticing her clothes and particularly the way her perfume smelled. I still remember it actually and I think it was Calvin Klein... Eternity, maybe? That doesn't sound right, but it was one of those.

I think she graduated from high school in '88, so that means she started at WKU when I was nearly 4 years old. She stayed there only a short time, though, before transferring to EKU to be closer to her then boyfriend (now husband), Stephen, who was at UK. I remember vividly leaving her in a bleak-looking dorm room and driving 3 hours back to Bowling Green... and I was sad. Turns out, so was she, and she ended up transferring to UK shortly thereafter... only to transfer back to WKU after Stephen graduated from UK and moved back to Bowling Green. They got married at some point during all that.

Another early memory for me is the birth of my oldest cousin, Caleb (a cousin older than him has come along since then, but she doesn't enter the story until later). Up to that point, I had been the baby of the family and I do have some memories of always being the only one at my grandparents' house. I was thrilled at the prospect of a cousin and I remember going to see him at the hospital. I remember holding his squirmy screaming self and loving him to pieces. I still do.

The only other definitely-pre-school memory I have is going every afternoon with my mom on her newspaper route. I was obviously very clingy to my mother and actually chose to go with her on that route rather than to stay home with my sister. Granted, I did end up staying home on some days and I stayed with my great-grandmother on other days, but most of the time, I went on that awful route. Most days I ended up asleep in the backseat. I remember one day, I had the bright idea that I was going to wear panty hose under a pair of shorts I had been playing in all day. And for some reason I decided that I could just dispense with the underwear... it seemed kinda pointless after all. So, at some point during the route, my hosiery got uncomfortable and I removed it. I figured I'd be more comfortable and able to rest easier, but all it did for me in the long run was make me paranoid. Every time I'd doze off, one of mom's customers would come up to the car window for something and I was just convinced that some old codger would be able to see my tush.

This seems enough for now... more later!

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My story

I have no idea why, but I've had a lot of trouble writing lately. It's something I've always done and have always taken refuge in. Anytime I've tried to write in the recent past, though, my thoughts just don't come together. There are tons of things on my mind and there are plenty of times that something crosses my mind and I think, I should jot that down and write about it later... but it either never happens or when I try I can't get my thoughts organized. So, I've decided to take a little different slant on the whole blogging deal. I've wanted to write about my life for a long time... all the things that have shaped me, my triumphs, my mess-ups, the stuff that has made me... well, me (up to this point, at least). I'm not conceited enough to think that anybody out there will be particularly fascinated with my life and I'm certainly not interested in "talking myself up"... it's just something I want to do.

So, all that being said... read it if you want, or don't. Be interested, or don't be. I do plan on being as brutally honest about myself as I can without invading my own privacy or making other people uncomfortable. If you have been in my life in any capacity, you may just find yourself here. Other than these vague things, I've set no ground rules. So, if you choose to go with me, enjoy the ride... if not, seeya later, alligator.

Installment Numero Uno

I was born on a Friday. October 18, 1985 at the Medical Center in Bowling Green. I don't remember the particulars, but I think I was somewhere around the same size my own son was when he was born and that I arrived around the time Sesame Street came on when I was little. This is how my mom explained it to me... 5 PM in the adult-time-telling world. From the pictures I've seen, I was little and wrinkly and red and the doc held me by my feet. I had my mama and my daddy and one big sister, Stacy, who is nearly 15 years older than me. I've been told that I was brought home to a small farmhouse in the middle of a couple of corn fields in the Richpond vicinity. My folks rented this house from Jason Young, who continues to farm land in Richpond. We moved from that house before I turned 1 year old, I believe... and I have no recollection of it whatsoever.

My family moved from there to the place that would become home to me. This house sits on land that has been in my family for many years and is situated just up the road from my grandparents' house. At least one field separates that house from its 3 nearest neighbors and the view from the back porch is nothing but farmland. This scene is one that I hope I'll never forget... woods to the west, pond straight ahead, and nothing but pasture beyond that. The prettiest sight in the world.

The house itself is small and old, its original structure consisting only of the present-day den, master bedroom, and part of the kitchen. That part of the house is over 100 years old and still has the original barn wood walls beneath the drywall that covers it now. It was in a constant state of renovation throughout my entire life (and apparently many years before my life) until sometime soon after I graduated from high school. The rest of the kitchen was added before my lifetime as was the master bath and possibly a second bedroom. What was a long front porch was also closed in to make a third (and very narrow) bedroom. After my family moved in, they added a small bathroom to my sister bedroom (the 2nd one). The narrow room was mine, as you might have guessed, although I used it for little else than playing. When my sister went off to college, I got her room and we completely re-did it from the floor up and the walls out when I was 12.

Throughout the years, they updated the master bedroom (and slept in the living room floor on air mattresses for an entire summer), closing in 2 unnecessary doors, taking out a closet, somehow chopping through a wall to make what used to be my room an office and walk-in closet. They also tore up the carpet to expose the original hardwood and tore off some old wallboard or paneling to reveal the backside of the beautiful old chimney, which remains part of the decor of that room.

Later, they re-vamped the kitchen, removing the old blue cabinets and replacing them with hardwood, tearing up the old repetitive pentagonal (I think) linoleum and replacing it with something much nicer, and adding a utility room and patio in the back. All of this was attended to by a random builder my parents found somehow whose name was Rob Woodard, I believe. And some part of it involved a whole being cut in our kitchen floor (maybe for running pipelines or something), and Rob being in that hole laying flat on his back looking up... sorda coffin-like. Too weird. Anyway, he was at our house A LOT and we all got really comfortable with him being there... and there's really no telling what he saw and heard.

The biggest project, though, was the den. The floor slanted badly (which made the room impossible for dancing, according to my grandmother). The walls were covered in horrible brown paneling, and there were 5... count 'em 5... doors in the room. Granted, the aforementioned unnecessary doors accounted for 2 of them and they were nicely sealed up from the other side, but there were still these random doors that couldn't be opened in our den. So we ripped off the paneling, wallboard, wallpaper, pasteboard, NEWSPAPER, and I can't even remember what all and finally got down to those original barn wood walls I mentioned earlier. It had to add a good inch to the room. They ripped up the floor and somehow built up the joists or something to even things up. Then we drywalled, put up the finishing woodwork, carpeted, and the whole shebang. This whole process happened in 2 different instances somehow, but a big part of it involved our living room being sealed off from the rest of the house with plastic in some attempt to keep dust out of everything and ALL of the living room furniture being in the kitchen INCLUDING the piano. It was insane to say the least. All of this fun was attended to by the Hunton gang... including Mr. Johnathan, who was then most definitely a Mexican and is now most definitely Guatemalan. Either way, he speaks Spanish.

All of this adds up to the house that it is now, which is no longer my home, but still I place I dearly love.

So there's a bit about the house I grew up in... which I think is plenty for the first part. Especially considering it's 1:30 in the morning... ugh, horrible habit I've gotten into.

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A thing I like

I read this today and I think it's amazing... it's the May 30th entry in Streams in the Desert, which was compiled by Mrs. Charles E. Cowman.

And no man could learn that song but the hundred and forty and four thousand, which were redeemed from the earth (Rev. 14:3).

There are songs which can only be learned in the valley. No art can teach them; no rules of voice can make them perfectly sung. Their music is in the heart. They are songs of memory, of personal experience. They bring out their burden from the shadow of the past; they mount on the wings of yesterday.
Saint John says that even in heaven there will be a song that can only be fully sung by the sons of earth--the strain of redemption. Doubtless it is a song of triumph, a hymn of victory to the Christ who made us free. But the sense of triumph must come from the memory of the chain.
No angel, no archangel can sing it so sweetly as I can. To sing it as I sing it, they much pass through my exile, and this they cannot do. None can learn it but the children of the cross.
And so, my soul, thou art receiving a music lesson from thy Father. Thou art being educated for the choir invisible. There are parts of the symphony that none can take but thee.
There are chords too minor for the angels. There may be heights in the symphony which are beyong the scale--heights which angels alone can reach; but there are depths which belong to thee, and can only be touched by thee.
Thy Father is training thee for the part the angels cannot sing; and the school is sorrow. I have heard many say that He sends sorry to prove thee; nay, He sends sorrow to educate thee, to train thee for the choir invisible.
In the night He is preparing thy song. In the valley He is tuning thy voice. In the cloud He is deepening thy chords. In the rain He is sweetening thy melody. In the cold He is moulding thy expressing. In the transition from hope to fear He is perfecting thy lights.
Despise not thy school of sorrow, O my soul; it will give thee a unique part in the universal song. -George Matheson

Is the midnight closing round you?
Are the shadows dark and long?
Ask Him to come close beside you,
And He'll give you a new, sweet song.
He'll give it and sing it with you;
And when weakness lets it down,
He'll take up the broken cadence,
And blend it with His own.

And many a rapturous minstrel
Among those sons of light,
Will say of His sweetest music
"I learned it in the night."
And many a rolling anthem,
That fills the Father's home,
Sobbed out its first rehearsal,
In the shade of a darkened room.

---
I highly, HIGHLY recommend this devotional book. There are many revised versions, but I have the original with only the simple scripture references, thoughts on that reference by various people, and a short poem by Mrs. Cowman (I linked to the exact version I have above if anyone's interested). It's been downright amazing how God has used each day's entry to apply directly to something going on in my life.

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a poem I just wrote + some thoughts

I raise you, my Lord,
my Salvation, my Rock,
I raise you, the One who was slain.
It was my sin, those nails,
My sin, those scars,
My sin, that caused you such pain.

I raise you, my Lord,
my Redeemer, my Prince,
I raise you, oh, Conqueror of grave.
It was my soul you loved,
my soul, you died,
it was my soul that you came to save.

I raise you, my Lord,
on the wings of my prayer.
I raise you, oh, my Mighty Tower.
For the height and the breadth,
extents I can't understand,
The width and the depth of Love's power.

I raise you, my Lord,
in my weakest of ways,
I raise you in the midst of my sin.
The petition of my heart,
the plea of my soul,
O Lord, let me raise you again.


It's been a good day and I'm thankful.

I wonder and, all too often, worry about what lies ahead for me and my family. I spend far too much time considering the "what ifs" and working myself into a panic over things that don't even exist in the here and now. But sometimes, just sometimes, when I can get even an inkling of the closeness I should always have with my Lord, He gives me the sweetest clarity of mind and the sweetest overflowing of that peace that He placed in my soul... and I'm able, if only for a moment, to really feel the control that He has over everything.

If I knew there was a mansion next door with a swimming pool and big fluffy feather beds and some kind of nice spa bathtub with warm towels all the time... and cheesecake and pizza... and every other luxury you can imagine... and this mansion was open for me to use 24/7 anytime I felt like it... why wouldn't I just move in? There's a higher plane of living. And it's just there for the taking and there are 10,000 charms there... things better than pizza and spa bathtubs. How foolish of me that I should refuse to move into that mansion!

The length of my life here should be of no concern to me, only how I live for whatever length of time God grants me. I have a great, wonderful, powerful, awesome, enormous God who is
worthy of more praise than my mortal body is capable of giving Him. But I should fill up every nano-second of every day with willingness to do whatever it is that would glorify Him most and look forward to the day when He's going to make me like Jesus, so I can finally FINALLY give Him the praise He's worthy of FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY!

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Most Fridays

Here's a story/memoir I wrote to be turned in to a cultural arts for the Homemakers group I'm a member of:

Most Fridays

There are a million and one different stories I could tell about my childhood. I was a busy child, always interested in many things, with parents who took the time to nurture those interests, so there is far too much to tell without writing a novel or series of novels. I spent time inside closed off in my room playing and listening to music; I spent time outside under my pine-tree playhouse inventing a rope and pulley system to hold my tea kettle over my imaginary campfire. Every day was full of excitement for me as I had the entire world as my own personal tea party, but I think the day I grew to look forward to most back then was Friday. Friday was the day that Pa and Jojo were home.

Before he retired, my grandfather (the aforementioned “Pa”) was a dentist with his own practice. Hygienists came and went, but, at least during my lifetime, my grandmother (Jojo) was his ever-present assistant, finishing his sentences and interrupting his stories each and every day over whoever the patient might be. Every day, that is, except Friday. On Fridays she finished his sentences and interrupted his stories at home because that was their day off and the day that I got to spend with them. Not every Friday was a big adventure. Sure there were times that we would venture into town and once we even went all the way to Nashville to visit Opryland. Most Fridays, though, we stayed within spitting distance of home. And that’s how I preferred it.

In the summertime, I spent a big part of my Fridays outside swinging on the tree swing or wading in “the branch,” a small creek that runs through my grandparents’ land. Some days I would explore the barn loft on the lookout for any new batches of kittens, which I knew I’d never be able to catch but sought after regardless. When I wasn’t or couldn’t be outside, there were always plenty of movies to watch or clothes to play dress up in. It didn’t matter if it was hot or cold, rainy or sunny; there was always something to do. Best of all, though, there was always something to learn. I guess most of the time then, I didn’t realize I was learning things I would hold so dear now, but these are the things that mean the most.

Some things that I learned no one had to teach me. I became well-acquainted with red clay mud stains and their tendency to stick around. I learned that the solidity of the topmost layer on the floor of the barn stall is no indicator of the layers that lie below. In a couple of cases gravity was my teacher as I went sailing off the side of a round hay bale or as I picked myself up from the creek bed having been the season’s unfortunate first and last rider of a grape vine. Once was enough to teach me that when you jump out of a tree your shorts don’t always follow in an intact fashion. When I got older, I found out that the left pedal on a tractor works in no way like a brake (and made it out alive, thankfully) and that riding a tobacco setter gives you a funny one-legged sunburn. There are other lessons that I learned simply by watching and following suit. For one thing, crumbled cornbread in a glass of milk is about the best dessert in the world and hulling green beans isn’t actually as fascinating as it looks.

The lessons I learned affected every sense of my body. I learned that there is nothing more beautiful than a white-board fence row full of bearded iris and that when the afternoon sun hits an herb garden, it smells like a three-course meal. I learned that you can sink up in freshly plowed soil about six inches and the feeling of it between your toes is one of the best feelings in the world. A sound that I grew to love after Pa pointed it out to me was the sound of the old peahen, Big Bird, calling his name: “Cliff-ooord, Cliff-oord!” Maybe, though… just maybe the most affected of my senses was my sense of taste. Jojo’s kitchen held such culinary masterpieces as macaroni ‘n’ cheese made with milk and butter and Velveeta as well as holy little wonders called “drop dumplins.” Be still, my heart!

In the end, though, the sweetest lessons I learned were those that I will forever associate directly with my grandparents themselves. You see, if I had never spent those days with Pa and Jojo, I might have never known that it’s okay for a grandmother to go down a slip ‘n’ slide in her underwear. I might have never learned how to make peanut butter cookies with the criss-cross shape on top or how to crochet. I wouldn’t have known that my grandfather’s favorite poem is “Jenny Kissed Me” or that we share a favorite hymn: “Sweet Hour of Prayer.” I would have never been forced to hug my cousin when we were so mad at each other we would have rather died (a practice which doesn’t seem quite so heinous now since I do actually still love the guy after all). I would have completely missed those lessons on making trips to the feed mill or to Baldock’s Lumber because, sure, we needed some ground feed or nails, but not nearly as much as we needed that Coke and Snickers. And I know that I certainly might need to know someday how to shop for and purchase a bushhog, which I most decidedly would not know had I not skipped the last half of my last day of high school to accompany my grandparents to Ben and Elmer’s. These are all important life lessons and just think what the consequences might be had I not been so blessed to have experienced them all.

Pa and Jojo have a comfortable home filled with wonderful treasures and surrounded by hundreds of beautiful blooming things. They have a decent-sized farm, a few barns, and a nice herd of cattle. I’m sure some people would look at all they have and all they’ve accomplished and ask me what of theirs I’d most like to have someday. I’ve been blessed to have such people in my life and to share them with my sister, 6 cousins, 2 nephews and a niece, and now my own son. I have little pieces of them and their lives scattered all through me. So I think could answer that question very simply: I couldn’t ask them for any more than they’ve already given me.

-Megan Carter

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