In Training

During October my co-worker and I spent two weeks away from our regular jobs. A vacation? Hardly the word I would choose. We were in training. Boot camp so to speak. Learning and implementing a new accounting system for our school district. 

I do a lot of accounting work. It’s my job. I even enjoy it most of the time. There’s something about making the numbers balance that gives my heart a tiny thrill  (I know – doesn’t take much). Working on the computer is a nice thing too. I do it every day. Work, home, wherever I am. I can’t imagine being away from my keyboard. But…

This training was NOT fun, nor could it be described as pleasant. While Deana and I sat at the training table for two weeks, we didn’t do our regular work. But then, no one else did it either. It just kept piling up until even glancing toward my desk became painful. I would get there early in the morning, stay late at night and even worked a few evenings just to keep some semblance of order with the stacks of paper. Pretty much unsuccessful. Thank goodness for my friend Tammy who came to sit at my desk those weeks and answer phones. I'm sure anybody walking into the office thought all those piles were hers.

So, not only did the regular work not get accomplished, but we were hit with so much new information, new procedures, new methodology in every one of those days lasting into perpetuity, we were brain-fried by lunchtime. Try to imagine how it felt by 5:00 because I can’t figure out how to describe it.

And there we sat, ten days of torture. Now I need to make one thing VERY clear. Our trainers, Jeanne and Lynette were wonderful. It’s not their fault we had to cram so much into 10 days. And they have my utmost admiration. This is what they do – all the time – not just for two weeks. After training us they were gone to someplace else to train for two weeks. I have no idea what their paychecks say, but it’s not enough.

So we learned our new accounting system (sort of), got most of our data input (right or wrong) and sent out our first payroll under the new system. Worst payroll of my career.  Everybody got paid and mostly the right amounts, but the stress it cost me could not possibly have been worth it. 

But, now it’s over, we’re sailing along with a few hiccups here and there. Ever notice how when you get the hiccups it’s usually one after another after another until your gut aches?  Drink a glass of water or get scared – that’s how to stop them. The water didn’t work as well as the being scared part.

When I finally made it through these ten days of torment, I had a strange thought. I think all of life is a training ground. Whatever circumstance we find ourselves in at the moment is simply preparation for what is to come. All our thoughts, dreams, hopes and experiences are part of the master plan for our lives, always readying us for what is to come. The Master Artist has the blueprints all drawn out. Everything has a reason and a purpose.

So if this is true, let’s all mire ourselves into the training put before us, get all we can grab from it and learn everything we can. Sometimes it’s seems easier to stick my head under the covers and ‘skip this lesson’ but in reality that would only make me farther behind. Remember in high school when the teacher assigned a research paper due in a month or six weeks? How many of us went home that very night and starting working on it? OK – I always was one of the weird ones. But really – think about it- many of our experiences aren’t fun or pleasant. But when you’re through, you’re through. The building blocks stack higher and higher, just like the papers on my desk and soon you’re ready to tackle whatever lies ahead in the strength of what you left behind.  

Go ahead, dive in head first, the deep end in the coldest part. No point in sticking your toe in first. And remember – there’s usually someone around somewhere nearby who’s already been through that training program in some fashion or another. I bet they won’t let you sink. 

Grandma's House

Long time – no blog post. I am sorry about that. You know those times when life just kind of throws more at you than you can efficiently manage? Been there this last month.

A while back my cousin Kiley posted a picture on facebook (that’s it to the right) that immediately let loose a flood of memories that just wouldn’t let up. It was a picture of the house where my grandparent’s lived on their farm in the Kansas Flint Hills. No one lives there now and dilapidation has accomplished its evil deed, but that makes no difference to the memories. As a child I knew its every corner, every hiding place, where I could go to be alone and even where I didn’t want to go. Like the dark scary store room that had a garment bag with Halloween costumes in it! When I close my eyes, in my dreams at night, that’s what I see, that old house the way it looked back then.

That house – and the one my other grandparents lived in not far away, made a big impression on me. They were places where so many wonderful memories were made. The memories haven’t faded. It’s only the wood, plaster and mortar that fail. But a home isn’t made with boards and nails. A home is made with love and memories and it stands forever. As does my grandparents’ home.

I chose to set all my books in the Kansas Flint Hills because I have so many experiences of this area always close at hand. It is a little known fact (unless you recognized it) that my book ‘Shades of Summer’ is set in that very house (with a few fictional add-ins.)  Yes, when I read those words it’s like visiting Grandma’s house all over again.  It’s why Annie’s story is my favorite of them all.

One of the comments on Kiley’s facebook post that day was directed to my sister, asking if that’s the house where she grew up. The answer, for me, my siblings and my cousins is an adamant ‘Yes!’ We all did a fair share of our growing up there, in Grandma’s kitchen with a bottle of Pepsi, ice cream from the big chest freezer in the bedroom and the much sought after colorful metal cups. So for Tim, Jill, Brad, Tyler, Kiley, Brenda, Ryan and Erik: we may have done our growing up in different times and in different ways but we all have this in common. We were blessed with the greatest grandparents imaginable, a wonderful place to spur our imaginations, and now we have this in common, a bond for life that will never shatter. Grandma’s house. Enough said. 

Unexpected Treasures

     Don’t you think the best moments in life are the ones that come as sweet surprises? You know the ones, those where you’re not expecting what comes your way, those that make the smiles all the more enjoyable.  

     Can I describe one of those moments? It’s part of another story, but I want to share that too. A few weeks ago, Labor Day I think, I decided to tackle the task of bagging up the rest of the movies from Randon’s collection. You’ll recall we gave away nearly 300 movies last spring through the school. They went into classrooms, daycares and homes of children where all could be enjoyed. The amount was staggering but even more so when you considered the ones we still had at home.

This second round,  I bagged nearly 200 movies. If you’re getting a visual of this movie collection let me remind you that the movies I gathered for give-away don’t count the ones I kept either because I like them a lot or for the sentimental value of how important they were to Randon. It doesn’t count the ones I donated to the church library.  It doesn’t count the ones his brothers chose to keep. It doesn’t count the ones that had to be thrown away simply because they had been viewed so many times they no longer worked. I don’t know how many movies Randon had, but my best guess is about 600. No – it wasn’t too many. He loved his movies and we loved indulging him.

     As I bagged movies I also made piles of cassette tapes, audio CDs and computer games. Lots of them. Again, the school was the recipient. Staff gleaned what they wanted for their classrooms or homes then the rest were offered to parents and students at parent teacher conferences. Thanks to all my friends who took movies, etc. You have no idea how important it is to me that people who knew Randon are now enjoying the things he loved so much. It is so much more meaningful to me than having them in the hands of strangers. Special thanks to those who made donations to Randon’s memorial fund for the school library. His legacy will continue to the benefit of Bennington students for many years to come.

     The treasure. OK, I’m getting there.  I have to say that as I’ve gradually tackled this unenviable task of sorting and distributing Randon’s possessions, I’ve found many treasures. Most of them wouldn’t mean a thing to anyone else but they mean everything to me. I’ll cherish them and the memories they bring. But the treasure I found this day did not belong to Randon.

     One of the stacks I made was blank cassette tapes. My kids all played with cassette recorders when they were young so there were several of these tapes lying around.   I thought to throw them away but decided at the last minute I should listen to them to see if anything was still recorded on them.  I waded through preschool songs, unintelligible gibberish and long minutes of nothingness. Yeah, we don’t need these things.

     Then I found it. I didn’t recognize what it was at first but finally figured out I was listening to Nolan making an audio recording of the Inspector Gadget movie. I‘m estimating he was about seven at the time. Why he wanted to record Inspector Gadget, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. What was special about it was the voices in the background. I can hear all three of them, Ty, Randon and Nolan talking to each other, enjoying the movie, laughing about it and having a good time. Every now and then Nolan seems to pick up the microphone and sing a little song about Inspector Gadget or super heroes or Wonder Woman, all very cute and obviously off the cuff.  I was enchanted by this recording.  For a short while it was like having my boys be little again. I enjoyed their young voices, the interaction between them and the memories that came flooding into my thoughts. I knew I would save this tape.

     Then Inspector Gadget ended and the tape went silent. Just as I was about to turn it off, I hear Nolan’s voice again. He announced himself as singing “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” Well, of course I had to hear that. The only problem  was he didn’t know most of the words. But that didn’t stop him. He bravely pushed forward making up the words as he went along.

Using the tune of “The Bear Went Over the Mountain,” his song began like this:

"The devil went down to Georgia

The devil went down to Georgia

The devil went down to Georgia

And this is what he did"

     I was then regaled with a description of a fiddle tournament between a devil with a golden fiddle and a boy who seemed suspiciously like my son.  The rendition came complete with sound effects of the fiddle “music .”

     By this time I was laughing so hard I had tears coming from my eyes.  Nolan’s little song was SOOOO much more entertaining than the version by Charlie Daniels. I could have listened to it forever. Then the ending. It caught and held my heart in a way I haven’t experienced for a long time.   It went like this:

"So I won that devil’s soul and I put it in a bag.

I took it home to my Mom and dad

I told them I won it in a fiddle tournament.

They didn’t say any words to me but they gave me 400 hugs and 400 kisses . 400 love hugs."

     I wish you could hear the pride in his voice as he sings his little song. I wish I could go back to that day so many years ago and give my little boy 400 love hugs and 400 kisses. I want him to know I love him 400 hugs and kisses worth even if he doesn’t win a fiddle tournament. Even if his singing voice came from the Luginsland family. Even if he’s all grown up now.  The song I would sing back to him? “I don’t care if you’re eighty, you’ll always be my baby.”

    And now, I have this treasure on an obscure cassette tape I almost threw away.  Who knows what other treasures await me as I continue to sort through Randon’s possessions.  I’m looking forward to Christmas. Guess what? There is a whole box (big box) of Randon’s Christmas books and movies in the basement. Lots of Christmas movies. And you all thought I was out of movies by now…. 

If You Could Meet Anyone...

You’ve all heard the question. If you could meet anyone you want, past or present, who would it be? I’ve actually thought about this. No, it wouldn’t be a movie star or even the president – um, we won’t go there just now. Some of you won’t get it, but I’ve always known my celebrity of choice would be an author. Which author is a little more vague. I’ve given myself the privilege in answering this question in two parts. If the person I would choose to meet was from the past, that would not only be a very weird and eerie sort of meeting, but I know who it would be. Laura Ingalls Wilder. She is my absolute hero. I have always wanted to ask her if Eliza Jane ever forgave her for writing the words “Lazy Lousy Lizzy Jane.”  A close second would be Jane Austen or Charlotte Bronte. Wouldn’t it be cool to tell Jane that Mr. Darcy uttered one of the most romantic lines in all of history (you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love… I love… I love you. And I never wish to be parted from you from this day on) (sigh!) or to ask Charlotte why she made Mr. Rochester an unattractive man. Oh, I always wished he was handsome!  How romantic for the handsome man who could have any woman to fall in love with plain Jane, the governess, no less. I’d also tell Charlotte to never let that “Villette” book see the light of day. Oh Charlotte, it’s really awful.

Sorry – I digress. Choosing a real live now-time author to meet is a much harder choice. My favorite author changes from day to day. It’s usually whoever wrote the last book I read. Anyway, meeting someone who writes the books I’m reading doesn’t seem all that special. I feel like I already know them from what they write. So, I decided that the author I would choose to meet is Randon’s favorite author, John Erickson. Oh, the things I would tell that man about how Randon dearly loved Hank, how he read every book aloud to me, how we had to stop and discuss things of epic nature such as Hank ‘hiney skiing’ or getting outsmarted by Pete the cat. I’d tell him how we had to start over at the beginning of a chapter if we didn’t get it read in one sitting, how Drover’s “Oh, my leg” always made him laugh and how Randon would sing (a tune and everything) each and every song Hank ever made up. John Erickson has no idea what an impact he made on Randon’s life, or mine for that matter. After being told when he was a baby that Randon couldn’t learn to read, I never failed to find delight in hearing him read to me about Hank’s adventures.

As many of you know, my family recently donated all Randon’s Hank books and memorabilia to the Bennington School library where they can be enjoyed by Bennington children for many years to come. I wrote a note to John Erickson telling him about Randon’s Hank shelves and the epidemic of ‘Hank checkouts’ that has overtaken our school. I thanked him for writing the books and providing so much enjoyment to so many people. That was that, or so I thought.

This afternoon my phone rang. The caller ID said “Anonymous Caller.” I never answer anonymous calls. I started to ignore it then something told me I should answer. I have learned never to ignore that still small voice that has proven to be so much wiser than my louder, logical one. I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is John Erickson.”

He said it in such a normal tone of voice, like it was everyday I receive a phone call from the man I had tagged as my top pick on my “Wish to Meet” list. He told me he had received my letter and wanted to contact me, just to express his sympathies to my family and thank us for the Hank donation to our library. I visited with Mr. Erickson and his wife Kristine for over 30 minutes and had the most enjoyable conversation. We talked about Randon and Hank of course, but we also talked about where he lives, where I live, the weather, college football, ranching and farming. It was like I was talking to someone I had known for years. He gave me his telephone number and email address and asked me to stay in contact with him.

Oh, I’m loving it. And then he asked me the question that made me swoon. “How is it that you write so well?” (Oh, be still my wildly beating heart!)

My eloquent and well thought out response:  “Um….huh?”

He continues to flatter me. “Your letter was beautifully written. You’re a writer aren’t you?”

Again, my way with words takes over. “Uh, well….”

“The way a person writes a letter is a wonderful indicator of their writing abilities on a creative level. May I send you a complimentary autographed copy of my book on story crafting?”

“Well, ok.”

I admit it. He had me wrapped around his little finger at this point. Yes, I suppose I’ll just have to let him send me his book. I guess I’ll even let him autograph it for me if that’s what he wants to do.  And when I get it I’ll probably even read it. Devour it, more like. Put it at the top of my list of what to grab when the house is on fire.

What a kind-hearted couple. Instead of feeling like I’ve had a dream-come-true call from a celebrity, I feel like I have two new friends. Two friends who are reaching out to me to encourage and strengthen me along the way.

As my friend Dawn said, “You know Randon is saying "My Mom's the Bomb!"

Here’s what I’m saying. “John Erickson, you’re the bomb!”

Read a Hank the Cowdog book. I guarantee you’ll laugh out loud. I know a really great school library where you can find a whole bunch of them!

1,001 NOT allowed

I had a new experience lately – writing short-short stories. By definition that means 1,000 words or less. Yeah, me, Miss Descriptive as in I can’t even write an email less than 1,000 words much less an entire story. But was it ever fun!

I decided to enter a contest sponsored by ‘Family Fiction,’ a digital magazine pertaining to authors, books and movies for people seeking family centered entertainment. The rules are that I must write a short-short story with some element of romance.  Once that is done and I submit it along with my entry fee, it goes to a team of volunteer readers, three of them I think. These readers classify the story as either “acceptable” or “unacceptable” as to the content. That means I couldn’t use any bad words or have any ‘racy’ scenes. Not really a problem for me. These readers also rate the story from 1 to 5. I don’t know the ratings. If the story is classified as acceptable by all three readers it then goes to the internet link where it can be accessed by the public. That’s where you all come in.

See those 3 links in the upper right corner there, just above my Pinterest link? It’s that easy. Click on a link, read the story and rate me with either a thumbs-up or thumbs-down vote. You decide – I’ll never know unless you tell me. I really would appreciate your thumbs-up vote, though!  Here’s what happens. The contest deadline is August 31 so between now and then people will still be entering and the list of stories will be growing.  The stories stay there to be voted on until September 30. The 200 stories with the most thumbs-up go on to the next (3^rd level) of the contest.

There are 5 levels in all and lots of cool stuff for winners but right now my focus is on level two and getting those thumbs-up votes. My friends might vote for me twice but it’s not allowed. Everybody gets one vote per story. So here’s what I’m asking. Vote thumbs-up for one or all of my stories. When you go to the link to read them there is a link at the end of the story where you can send it on to YOUR friends. Please do, if you’ve got any friends that enjoy this kind of thing.   Thanks! 

If you’ve made it this far you now get to hear about my experiences writing these stories. One of them started out as a 4500 word story that I had to cut word by painful word down to 1000. Ouch. One of them I made up in a conscious effort to write a 1000 word story. It came out to 1800 words. More painful cutting. The third, I dreamed it one night, wrote it a few days later, cut the 1200 words down to 1000 and done. So – can you guess which is which is which? I’ll tell you if you guess right.  Email me at ksucindy(at)excite(dot)com.

Send me an email or leave a comment and tell me what you think of the stories. Love to hear from you and any of your friends you forward the stories or the blog post to. By the way, this blog is just 553 words. I’m getting better at this!

4th Fanatics: What if?

Every year around mid-June, a strange phenomena occurs at my house. It's called obsession and it has something to do with fireworks. Shooting them, sorting them, selling them, buying them, displaying them - life at the Regnier's is all about fireworks. So some of you that understand this behavior are already asking, "So is this a problem?" Well, yes, kind of. You see, I don't share it. I live with it, I listen to it, it consumes my life for two weeks out of the year but I just don't get it. It amazes me that people get so much joy out of blowing up a little piece of cardboard wrapped around explosive.
Party pooper? Yeah, I've been called that and worse. I don't know the difference between artillery and missiles. I don't know why a square box that makes colored sparks is called a cake. I don't understand the lingo such as brick, case, package, unit. I can't fathom the fascination of it.
OK - I'm as patriotic as the next person and I can remember enjoying fireworks when I was a kid. It's just that the kids in my house never seem to grow up when it comes to fireworks. I love the fact that my husband puts hours upon hours into putting on the annual community fireworks event in Bennington that brings so much enjoyment to so many. I  like it that he runs the fireworks stand in our garage to enable us to present "Celebration in the Skies". I even kind of enjoy watching a firework or two, especially if it's purple.
So, I've come to the conclusion that my aversion to fireworks is not really an aversion to fireworks at all. It's simply a by-product of summer heat. Anyone who knows me knows I don't tolerate heat well and that is a definite understatement. I get headachy, my stomach hurts, I think I'm going to melt and that's after the first five minutes. After ten minutes I turn into nothing but a pile of grouchies and sweat. Heat and I do not get along and guess what the weather in Kansas is like nearly every July 4th?
I had one of those "What-if" moments this 4th of July (the morning our air conditioning broke) while I was sitting outside trying to look like I was doing something productive for the fireworks stand. (BTW, thank you Steve, for coming to fix our a/c so quickly. I was ready to move to Alaska. Steve was my hero of the day!)
Back to the what-if. Imagine with me for a moment what our celebration of Independence Day might be like if our forefathers had signed the Declaration of Independence, oh, say in mid-January. We could have sledding parties instead of backyard barbecues. We could watch football games on TV instead of scorching at a baseball field. Hey, maybe we could even have a fireworks display where we all sit around in our parkas covered up with blankets as we oooh and ahhh at the sky. Furthermore, we wouldn't even have to wait till 10:00 at night. We could have our fireworks show at 7:30 then get home at a decent hour. Just think how much more enjoyable the fireworks stand would be if you could come inside a nice warm garage, maybe about 30 degrees, to shop in 'climate controlled' comfort. We could even serve hot chocolate and coffee in case someone was wimpy about the 'cold.'
So what were they thinking, Patrick Henry and John Hancock and the others? It would have been so easy to just schedule their big moment about 6 months earlier. Who's to say it might have even aided their cause. Oh, I do wish someone had suggested it back in 1776.
But, I guess our forefathers had something else in mind. Our independence and our freedom. We as Americans should grasp this and hang onto it with all we're worth no matter what time of year it is. Fly your flag, support our troops, thank God we live in a country blessed beyond what we can fathom. The signers of the Declaration of Independence laid a foundation for freedom we should never take for granted. Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord. Psalm 33:12
OK - so they didn't think of quite everything, but they sure got the important stuff right. Be proud to be an American!

Oh Brother.... Part Two

My sister, Jill Thompson is guest blogging. Her subject, same as me - our brother Tim. I shared the big sister's perspective. Now enjoy this one from the little sister. cr

 Oh Brother (Part 2)

     My sister is a writer. She is a really good writer. She’s been writing amazing poems for years. My favorite was one she wrote and read to me on my wedding day, nearly 14 years ago. She has also authored several books and has her own “writer’s blog”. She recently posted a blog titled, “Oh, Brother…” If I were asked to pick which blog is my favorite, this one is it. She described my brother and many memories they shared while growing up. Several of the instances she mentioned brought back clear and vivid memories, while others surprised me and some things I didn’t know at all. I realized that the two of them have a relationship of their own. While I share that relationship, I have my own different relationship with each of them. Of course, since my sister is the oldest and I’m the youngest – it creates a very different perspective. This has prompted me to write my own “Oh, Brother…” blog. Because my sister is a writer, and I’m not, I hope she will forgive me for a bit of plagiarism.
      I’ve heard of sibling rivalry. I’ve experienced it. Because my brother is over four years older than me, we weren’t exactly rivals. He had all those years of experience before I came along. He had practiced “pestering” my older sister for years – and I was often targeted with teasing and fighting too. He told me there was no such thing as Santa Claus. He laughed at my hairy legs. He teased me the first time I wore panty hose. He told me my cat was trapped in a can – which actually filled my face with green smoke when I tore it open. Worst of all he’d sometimes say I was adopted. Of course I dished it out too. After all, I learned by watching him and my sister “fight”. I snickered at him while he got ready for dates. I snooped in his closet and his room. I busted him in the face. I’m sure if I asked him, he could recall many more things. Fonder memories include the times when he was my savior. At an age where I was a gangly girl, a couple of boys decided to pick on me and another girl, by splattering us with pieces of watermelon. Once my brother learned what happened, those bullies found themselves covered with sticky watermelon splats! He also often broke my show steers to lead, and took the bulk of load when it came to taking care of the livestock. Of course that gave him the right to name his 4-H pigs after me too. As I started an inventory of memories for writing this blog, what actually struck me most weren’t the times we fought or even the times of sentiment. The countless memories dropped into the list are the things he taught me, and the times he championed me. He spent countless hours with me in the back yard pitching softballs or helping me shoot free throws. He quizzed me on my multiplication tables so that I was the first one in my class to the top of the rocket. When I started tennis lessons, he took me to the courts for practice – even when he’d been working 70 hours a week during wheat harvest. He is the one responsible for instilling a competitive drive in me. His example and his pep talks are what has helped me continue to set goals and have the confidence to meet them. Of course all those years growing up with my brother do have sentiment. “Crashing” with him on the divan while we watched television – often MASH episodes - is one of the fondest thoughts that comes to mind. Of course it wasn’t long before we’d be arguing about who should get up to change the channels. It was also my big brother who bought me one of my all-time most treasured Christmas presents – a pair of Calvin Klein jeans – when I was at that awkward age of fourteen. In my sister’s blog, she wrote that nowadays, we don’t fight anymore. I guess my brother and I have been known to continue to fight, but it doesn’t have the heat it once did. My brother is still one of the first I call with good news and he is still one of my biggest supporters. His influence made me strong and made me tough. How could I not be tough? After all, he must have football-tackled me nearly two thousand times through the years.(Not to mention the karate move that gave me a concussion)