The Big Idea

The Big Idea

By Allison Adams 06-12-11 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 02-13-11

I had a garage sale once.

It was early in our marriage and my husband, The Minimalist, thought we had accumulated too much stuff.

On his way to and from work he passed by the occasional homemade “Garage Sale” sign posted in a yard and he decided if it was good enough for the Joneses (and the Smiths, and the Millers, and the Browns), then it was good enough for us, and he hatched a Big Idea.

“We need to have a garage sale, like the Jones, the Smiths, the Millers, and the Browns”, he declared one morning as I was feeling my way around the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee and a couple of diaper wipes.

And even though it was very early and all of my neurons weren’t firing I knew, of course, that by “we” need to have a garage sale, he really meant “me”.

“Think of all the money we’ll make!” he said as he grabbed his briefcase and headed out the door for work. (Now, that time he meant “we”.)

I rolled my eyes and followed him out the door with a baby on my hip, took her noodley little arm in my hand and waved it bye-bye while my enterprising husband backed his car out of our carport.

Then he stopped and hollered out of the driver’s side window, “We can use our garage sale profit to go on a vacation!”

Hold up. A vacation?

Nothing lights a fire beneath a stay-at-home mom with two children under the age of three, who has nowhere to go, and no reason to dress in anything nicer than sweatpants and an Enfamil-stained t-shirt accessorized with a burp rag permanently draped over one shoulder, than the promise of a vacation.

For two weeks in advance of the sale I worked diligently in between feedings, diaper changes, playtime, naptime, and even late into the night in order to sort through, select, and price our superfluous household items in time for the big day.

The promise of a vacation looming in my foggy brain even had me culling through our closet filled with We-Will-Never-Use-This-Thing wedding presents to add to the kitty.

I spent hours making eye-catching signs using poster board and Magic Markers. My lettering was big, bold, and perfectly centered.

I purchased an ad in the local newspaper.

I swept clean and hosed down the floor of our carport.

Under the cover of darkness on the night before the sale I carried our only card table to the carport and set it up.

Upon it I carefully displayed our trash-to-treasures, among them – a few out-of-fashion pocketbooks, a roll of red floral wallpaper, a set of 3 placemats (hand woven in Guatemala), a never-been-opened Este Lauder Bonus Gift, numerous coffee mugs advertizing anything from Penzoil to Piggly Wiggly, a healthy supply of bamboo chopsticks (still in their paper wrappers) from Wong’s House of Noodles, and the unusual candlestick holders (at least that’s what I think they were) that my mother-in-law’s bridge partner presented to us on the occasion of our wedding.

Sure that there would be a throng of shoppers that I couldn’t handle by myself I recruited a friend to help me control the cash and carry on the day of the sale.

I even hired a babysitter to watch my rug rats while I managed my event.

Cars began lining our street before sunrise on the morning of the sale.

When I could keep the buyers at bay no more, I pulled on my sweatpants and t-shirt over my pajamas and went to work.

By noon I realized I still hadn’t brushed my teeth, but I had sold the above mentioned items along with an arrangement of artificial flowers covered in a thin layer of dust, a broken boom box, a Richard Simmons exercise tape (which I paired with an exercise bike), a coil of clothesline, box full of cassette tapes, and a Christmas ornament that played “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer”.

By 2PM I had pulled down my garage sale signs, folded-up my card table, dragged my worn-out body and bad breath inside and counted our profit: $68.90.

And THAT, Bill Adams, is why “we” will NEVER have another garage sale.

Don't Shoot!

Don’t Shoot!

By Allison Adams 05-29-11 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 05-30-11

Just once I’d like to be able to lift, aim, and focus my camera to take a picture of my kids without them scattering like ball bearings hitting a marble floor.

“Take cover! She’s got a camera!”

For heaven’s sake, people! It’s a Canon; not a cannon!

All I want is a couple of cheesy shots of my cherubs to slide beneath the magnets on the refrigerator door.

In the early days, even before my children knew exactly I what I was doing with the contraption that hung around my neck, I was usually out of film. Or, out of batteries. And they were always out of focus.

There was no such thing as a “candid” shot. No, sir.

Every photo was painstakingly directed, and then I spent an inordinate amount of time checking to see that I had all the photographic accoutrements (film, batteries), and then it took me a little longer to make sure I could keep the moving targets in focus.

Oh, the blood, sweat, and tears that went into the annual Christmas card family photo …

By the time I got my first digital camera my children were on to me and my quest to capture the moment, so I rarely got a chance because it was almost impossible give chase while I held the thing at arm’s length, all the while trying to keep the subject matter framed within the tiny screen on the back of the camera.

Autofocus was of no use to me in those situations.

If they really thought about it, my children would realize my photographs are harmless. I mean, anymore it’s not like I actually ever print the photos I take. They live perpetually inside my camera, stored on that little thingamajig the size of a postage stamp.

Someday though, maybe I’ll get my pictures off of that doohickey. Then maybe I’ll have prints made of the pictures I really like.

I’ll use photo-friendly glue sticks to adhere them onto decorative acid-free archival paper. I’ll sort through a selection of paper-punchers that create an array of themed shapes with which to adorn the page in the photo album.

I’ll write a little blurb about the picture, like where it was taken and who’s in it … except that I really won’t because the photos of my kids set against a scenic background turn out to be shots of scenery and a hint of a couple of nondescript body parts.

“Oh, THAT’S a picture of my children on our recent hike. See? The shadow right over there is the back of my daughter’s head. She spotted me with my camera and slipped behind that tree. And look! There’s my son – that speck in the upper right-hand corner is his left heel. He is quite a runner!”

When I finally realized that the only thing me and my camera were really good for was clearing a room or the wilderness, I became indebted to anyone who happened to snap a shot of my children and share it with me.

The fact of the matter is that if it weren’t for those who shoot and share (or shoot and sell), I’d have no photographs of my son’s teenaged years.

My son has even managed to slyly sabotage his likeness in professional photographs.

Recently, I parted with a nice chunk of change when I ordered a professionally photographed group shot of his whole graduating class, taken on the steps in front of the school.

When I received the photo in the mail I was so excited to have such a wonderful keepsake of this important milestone that it took me several minutes to finally find my son in the picture – lying face down on the pavement … like he was waiting for the police to show up with their chalk.

I am not making this up.

You better believe THAT one’s on the refrigerator.

Don't Blink

What in the world just happened?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I gave birth to a ten-pound baby boy who came into the world clutching a Matchbox car in one tiny fist, and a couple of passies in the other?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I toted him around in something that resembled a miniature hammock with a shoulder strap, wishing I’d invented that contraption because it made it almost effortless to wrap and balance my Big Bundle of Baby Boy across my torso while simultaneously keeping both hands free to push a grocery cart, shuffle coupons, pluck one toddler from the top shelf of the cereal aisle and another one out of the dairy case?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I dropped-off my Baby Boy at Kindergarten and into the arms of Another Woman who couldn’t possibly take my place in his eyes for six whole hours, only to pick him up at the end of the day and listen to him babble on and on about Mrs. Conley’s amazing wonderfulness?

It feels like it was just yesterday that I stood on the sidelines of the soccer field watching my Little Athlete, dressed in a soccer jersey that hung down to his knees and shorts that very nearly covered his shin guards, which were so large they looked like they were wearing him instead of the other way around.

And wasn’t it also then that I concluded it was highly unlikely that he’d ever amount to much of a soccer player unless Mid-Field Mud Mucker or Defensive Dirt Digger became key positions on the team lineup?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I routinely spent several extra moments sitting in the car in the parking lot when I arrived at the grocery store, deciphering my Hungry Helper’s chicken-scratched, creatively spelled (curip, napcines, gaderad) shopping list?

And wasn’t it also then when I concluded I could never possibly have enough items on-hand from his favorite food group (Sugar and Preservatives) to satisfy the appetite of my Walking Garbage Disposal, for whom my kitchen pantry was the center of his universe.

Wasn’t it just yesterday when I realized that “I dunno” really was the most reasonable explanation my Mischievious Monkey could offer for having spent the better part of his afternoon cutting down a backyard sapling, duct-taping it to two skateboards, and sending flying down our driveway into the street?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I finally accepted the fact that the pungent aroma of a teenaged boy’s bedroom is indescribable, unavoidable, and impenetrable, no matter how many cans of Lysol one unleashes within?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that my Cute Camper declared that for the rest of the summer he’d be living in the wilderness in his pup tent in the back yard as long as he could have access to our electricity, running water, and the kitchen?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that Nascar Nate finally earned his driver’s license, and then had the nerve to turn to me to announce that all these years I made him nervous every time I got behind the steering wheel?

Was that my Handsome Baby Boy wearing a tuxedo and escorting a beautiful date to the prom last Saturday night?

Is that really his high school graduation robe stuffed inside his backpack?

I should never have blinked.

The Holiday

The Holiday

By Allison Adams, 04-17-11 – Submitted to The Greeneville Sun 04-18-11

“Mom? Why are you slapping together a pile of turkey sandwiches at 8 o’clock in the morning when we’re just about ready to hit the road?”

“Why don’t you have a seat there, and I’ll tell you a little story while I work on these sandwiches.”

“Why don’t we just pretend I never saw the whole thing?”

“Once upon a time families used to ‘road trip’ a little differently than they do today.”

“You mean like how they used to travel together in covered wagons?”

“No – like how they traveled together in station wagons.”

“You’d never catch me riding in something that lame.”

“The premier model station wagons often had decorative wooden paneling along the sides.”

“Hideous.”

“Luxurious. And road-tripping families would pick-up a commemorative decal for every city or state they visited, and they’d decorate the windows of their station wagon with their decal collection to show everyone where they’d traveled to – a little like placing a stick pin in different cities on a map.”

“Tacky.”

“Trendy. And road-tripping families of long ago made traveling an adventure!”

“How so?”

“Well, daddies would study road atlases for the scenic routes, and mommies would make sure to pack plenty of things to entertain the kiddos.”

“Like a portable video player and an iPod?”

“Like crayons, coloring books, activity books, playing cards, dolls, … things like that. Why, I remember once being in the ‘way back’ of my family’s station wagon with my doll and some scissors, and somewhere between Arizona and California I cut-off all of her hair!”

“Wait a minute. You were sitting in the ‘way back’ while the car was moving -without a seat belt?”

“Well, things were different back then – cars didn’t have seat belts.”

“Whoa! And your parents let you have scissors while you were bouncing around?”

“That’s right, son. No seat belts, and sharp objects. It was a wild and crazy time! And listen to this – in the absence of a rest stop, parents often made their own. They’d pull off the highway whenever they needed to, and produce a little plastic travel potty, and let the kids relieve their bladders!”

“No. Way.”

“Yes - way. Families traveling with small children came prepared for anything! Oh – and families played car games like ‘Name the state capitols’, ‘Cow Poker’, ‘License Plate Bingo’, or ‘Punch Bug’…”

“Boring.”

“… and there would be singing, and laughing …”

“Lame.”

“… and we’d almost always travel with a spare can of gasoline, just in case the scenic route of our road trip took us through a remote area with no gas stations.”

“NOW you’re talking! You’d sit in your station wagon with a full can of gasoline?

“Sometime, yes.”

“Awesome! That’s so … combustible!”

“There’s more. Families also packed food to eat along their journey.”

“No way! Why didn’t they just stop at McDonalds or Wendy’s?”

“Fast food joints weren’t on every corner then, like they are today. People were more practical, more frugal. Long ago, families didn’t automatically spend money for the sake of simple convenience.”

“Because they were poor?”

“Because they were resourceful. Families would pack a picnic lunch, or supper, or both – to eat along the way on their road trip. Sometimes they’d pull over on a scenic overlook and spread out a picnic blanket and enjoy a good stretch and a nice break. Sometimes families would eat their picnic as they drove – driving straight through the night to reach their destination, and avoiding the need and expense of a motel room.”

“What did they have against a Holiday Inn?”

“Once upon a time, the holiday was as much about the journey as it was about the destination.”

“Wait just a minute. Is that why you’re making turkey sandwiches at 8 o’clock in the morning right before we pull out on a road trip?”

“Yes, dear. I’m making the best of the situation – and your daddy and I are sick and tired of fast food.”

“Please don’t make me sing songs or play ‘Cow Poker’.”

“All right, dear.”

“And can we bring along something combustible – just to add to the excitement?”

“Certainly. I’m packing the bean dip.”

Put Me In, Coach!

Put Me In, Coach!

By Allison Adams 03-06-11 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 03-06-11

It was an unusually warm winter night and even though we hadn’t yet replaced our window screens we decided to open a ground floor window – just about 18” – just large enough to allow the warm breeze to come inside, and allow our pup to be able to use the open window as a doggy-door to the deck.

We weren’t counting on the bird.

My son sounded the alarm - “Hey, mom – I meant to tell ya’ that there’s a bird flying around the living room.”

It was indeed an alarming report. Now, I love birds, but not if they’re flying around loose inside my house.

This was one of those times you think – golly, I wish I had one of those big butterfly nets.

I didn’t have one of those, so I grabbed the next best thing – a broom – and stepped into the living room to assess the situation.

That was when I realized that my son – who is normally a very bright individual – didn’t know the difference between a bird, and a bat.

A BIG BAT.

A big, nocturnal, placental, flying mammal with forelimbs modified to form wings.

A big one of THOSE was flying around loose in my living room.

I flung open the doors that lead from our living room to our deck, and I figured as the bat flit from one end of the room to the other I could use the broom to swat it out the back door.

Simple enough.

I positioned myself in the middle of the room, raised the business end of the room in the air, got a good look at the rabid Pterodactyl and its erratic flight … and yelled for my husband to help me.

(A good coach positions himself along the sidelines where he can see the action, but not interfere with the game.)

Safely tucked away in the front hall, but with a clear view of the so-called “playing field”, he hollered out to me - “What’s your game plan?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I hollered back in between swats, and while ducking to avoid the rabid, dive-bombing, 747-With-Fangs.

(A good coach makes careful observations and strategic changes to a game plan in order to improve the chances for success. Sometimes this means delivering harsh criticism to a player during the height of the action.)

“That’s a pitiful swing! You’re NEVER gonna connect! You’re too slow –waaaaay too slow! Awwwwe – look at that! It flew right by ya’! You’ve got to ANTICIPATE! ANTICIPATE!”

I have to admit I was a little distracted by the thought that I might become the victim of Foaming Barking Disease if that Rabies-Infested-Winged-Buffalo became tangled in my hair as it darted back and forth, and up and down, in between my wild attempts to swat it out the back door.

(A good coach eagerly offers a player helpful tips on proper use of equipment.)

“Choke up on the broom! Choke up! Keep your right elbow up! Close your grip! Bend your knees a little – NOOOOOOO! THAT’S TOO MUCH! Now – open your stance … and don’t forget to follow-thru!”

I tried to incorporate his helpful instructions, all the while keeping my eye on the Bat-That-Ate-Tokyo.

Maybe it was getting tired – after all it had been flitting from one wall to the next, non-stop, for what seemed like an eternity – but eventually it started flying lower …

“KEEP YOUR EYE ON THE BAT! ANTICIPATE! ANTICIPATE!” hollered my helpful husband, from out of harm’s way, in another room.

… and I choked up on the broom, kept my right elbow up, closed my grip, bent my knees – just a little, opened my stance, ANTICIPATED, and took another swing with perfect follow-thru … and swatted that Rabid Beast out the back door.

(A good coach rewards a successful player.)

“WOOHOO! THAT’S what I’m talkin’ about! Way to connect! OUT’A THE PARK! See? Huh? I told ya’ – didn’t I? YEAH, baby! AWESOME!”

He swatted me on my fanny, said “Way to go, champ!”, and headed into the dugout – er, I mean, the kitchen.

He’s really just a coach at heart.

It's Not You, It's Me

Its Not You, Its Me

By Allison Adams 02-06-11 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 02-07-11

Dear Jan,

We’ve had wonderful relationship for a long, long time. We’ve seen each other regularly for over a decade, and throughout those years you have been my confidant and my trusted advisor.

I can’t think of too many things in my life that I’ve put before you. There have even been times when I neglected some real important things – like a friend’s wedding, or a doctor’s appointment, or my daughter’s piano recital – just so I could be at your disposal.

I’ve even dragged my feverish, pitiful self up and out of my own sickbed because I couldn’t bear to miss our time together.

I realized how just serious I was about our relationship when I voluntarily cut my family’s annual beach vacation short just so I could get back in time to see you.

Our dates together have always been “inked” on my calendar.

Your work phone, cell phone, and home phone numbers have occupied the top three spots on my speed dial list.

I the words of the Supremes: “Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough, ain’t no river wide enough to keep me from getting to you, baybay.”

Our relationship is deeply rooted, but the truth is I’ve grown weary … of my regular root touch-ups.

I don’t know how to tell you this except to say that I’ve come to a different place in my life. I’ve changed my mind about something that will affect our future together: I’ve decided to embrace my gray hair.

That’s right - you heard me: I’m not fooling anyone anymore.

I know you’re sensitive enough to have seen this coming. I’ve been dropping some serious hints for about two years, but every time I said something about giving-in to my gray hair, you tried to brush me off.

You said I wasn’t ready.

You said I’d be sorry.

You even went so far as to say that I was your “cash cow” – but I knew you meant it lovingly.

Moo.

Well my mind’s made up - I’m afraid you no longer own my head.

No more secrets, Jan. Now everyone will know what once only my hairdresser knew.

I’m ready to parade around publicly beneath my pale, pigment-less pelt.

Hi-Ho, Silverness!

Oh – I know it’s not going to be nice-n-easy. The months ahead will be extremely awkward for me: Vanity, thy name is Allison.

I'm well aware that people will look at my transitional tresses and wonder why I haven’t bothered to glance into a mirror.

They'll wonder why I’ve obviously missed several critical hair appointments.

They'll even wonder if I’ve totally lost … your telephone number.

But I will not turn back. I have made up my mind.

I just want you to understand that its not you, its me.

You’ve been wonderful, really. I couldn’t possible have asked for more from you. What began as a rescue mission from my self-inflicted over-the-counter hair color debacle back in Y2K, quickly blossomed into a decade of standing appointments so you could carefully, chemically enhance my natural hair color every three and a half weeks – come H-E-Double Hockey Sticks or high water.

And as long you maintained my mane no one knew that beneath that carefully concocted hair color I was naturally “granny gray”.

Until now.

Dear Jan, after you’ve had some time to allow all of this to sink in, I hope you’ll agree that we can still be friends.

After all, we’ve come so far together … and I’ll still need you to cut and style my lackluster locks.

We just can’t go back to the way we were. Those days are gone.

(If you have an opening next Tuesday I could really use a trim.)

Your truly,

Yours Truly

Density

Density

By Allison Adams 09-15-07, Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 09-18-07

I really try to avoid dabbling in my kids’ homework.

You see – I began to struggle a little once my children passed the point of being required to memorize Dolch sight words, multiplication tables, and state capitals.

Oh, I still ask the usual generic homework questions (Do you have any? Have you finished it?), but my confidence as a competent study partner was shattered once each of my children reached the sixth grade.

I’m pretty sure it was their math homework that shut me up. Their graphing calculators confused me – way too many options.

I’m a plus and minus gal. I don’t do decimals.

My point is this: I know my homework-helping limits. It is very … limited. So, mostly I try to express my genuine concern about my kids’ homework situation without actually becoming directly involved - unless I can use flash cards.

Recently though, during routine questioning, I lost my cool. Then I lost my perspective.

“Have you finished your homework?”

“Uh-huh.”

“All of it?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sure?”

That’s when I got the Look.

“Don’t give me that Look, mister!”

“Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to look at you.”

That little remark ignited my mood and before I knew it I was flaming with a false sense of self-confidence.

“Well,” I said, “it sure didn’t take you long to finish.”

“I only had six problems.”

Six problems. Problems? That meant math. Darn! Probably algebra! Please, oh please, let there be flash cards.

“Well, mister – march yourself upstairs and bring me your flash cards.”

“Flash cards? Jeeze, mom. We don’t use flash cards. We use a formula.”

Formula? Problems with a formula? Uh oh. Where was my husband when I needed him? He could solve a math problem while blindfolded, at twenty paces, with one hand tied behind his back.

I kept pushing.

“Let me see your work.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious, mister.”

He flashed me The Look. I get The Look several times a day so it usually didn’t really faze me. I pressed forward.

“I’ll wait here while you get it.”

In a few moments he returned and handed me several worksheets stapled together. I felt him Looking at me as I rifled through the papers.

As I suspected, I found the stuff on the worksheets undecipherable.

“Do you need me to explain it to you, mom?”

Oh. Oh. Oh. How DARE he! I turned around and unleashed The Look.

“Thank you, but no. Just give me a minute to familiarize myself with the way your teacher has presented the problem to you to solve.”

I thought that sounded pretty good, but I was in Deep Doodie and he knew it. With no flash cards to fall back on, I would have to rely on The Bluff.

“Ahhhhh. Here we go.” I said confidently. “Uh huh. I see.”

I continued to stare at the pages.

“Now, son, you know I’m just doing my job – just trying to help you.”

“Right, mom.”

“If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care if you finished anything.”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay then,” I said, trying to slip out of my charade, “This looks fine. I mean – the ones I’ve checked here – uh, you know – they look fine. You may have a little adjustment to do on this one here, uh, thingy. The others, uh – well, I guess your math teacher will just have to check it and deliver the final grade.”

“My math teacher? Mom, that’s science homework.”

Uh-oh.

“See mom - based on the information in those problems, we had to find the given and unknown values so we could determine the volume, mass, and density.”

(Well I know a little something about density.)

If you need me, I’ll be sitting on the stool in the corner … wearing the cone hat.