Oh my lands, boys and girls, another year come
and gone! We would like to wish you all a heartfelt Merry Christmas, and a Peaceful and
Happy New Year. Once again we’d like to
share our family year in review. Yes, 2012
has been another rollercoaster kind of year, but I really am trying to just enjoy
the ride. Still, when I stand in the
yard, put my arms in the air and scream, the neighbors call the cops. Oh well.
So before we begin, and you might
already have noticed… The-letter-this-year-is-5-pages. I’m sorry! I tried to trim it! Really! By the way, do you know these things
began in ‘95? Yup. And every year they’ve gotten longer. Oops.
My idea this year was to give individual
updates on each of us as I thought this might lend to less bewilderment as to
what I’m talking about. But all things Willson tend to blend together, and
bewilderment is a way of life here so you’ll just have to do your best to figure
it out as you go. And if you actually do managed to figure it out, let me
know, too!
Buc~A~Buc Farm is still chugging along. We still have the Labradors, a multitude of
foster kittens, a few goats, many chickens, rabbits, and now ducks. The ducks began as a great egg adventure and
spiraled as all things here do. We’ve
had many Buc~A~Buc related adventures but to spare going into page SIX, I’ll
tell just one.
It begins on the edge of a duck pond
outside Grammie’s foot doctor’s office. And
here’s where we shall pause for a note about Grammie’s foot doctor. On good days GFD is just a check-up
appointment where I simply wheel her in, help her into a lounge chair, and
leave. For these check-ups they basically
rub her feet while she chats it up with everyone in the office. They have a lovely visit and I head out the
door with my cell phone. When she’s
done, she calls me. She is happy to get
rid of me and I am more than happy to leave as I believe this to be the most
ghastly place on the planet. The walls there
are adorned with graphic photos of every kind of most horrid foot sore and
disease known to man. Yeah. Needless to
say, while in there, I keep my eyes to the floor and don’t look up. EVER.
I have more than once grumped about the
decor to the doctor, an exceedingly pleasant chubby lady about the same age as
me. She laughs with genuine delight and
assures me, “Honeychild, EVERYONE hates them pictures!” She goes on to explain she leaves them up to
“put the fear of God” in her patients.
All I know is I am now completely Obsessive Compulsive about my feet. Anyway, I leave Grammie in the House O’ Piggy
Toe Horrors and bolt for the door. The
Duck Pond is calling my name.
So I’m strolling around the pond minding
my own business trying to release the ghastly feet images from my brainy when I
spy at the bottom of a very steep bank, perched on the very edge of a screen
jutting out over the water - an egg. I looked at that egg for a long time,
calculating my chance of survival, until finally my brain kicked in and I
walked away. Three seconds later I was back, and as a lunching Hispanic family
looked on, I began my crab crawl down the side of the bank. The bank that now
seemed more like a cliff. So I actually make it to the bottom in this mass of
weeds and rocks hoping there are no sna…
no sna… no STINKING SNAKES and I reach for the egg. By now a few members
of the aforementioned family have stood up for a better view. I stretch as far
as I can but just my fingertips barely touch the egg… and push it a bit closer
to falling off and into the water. By now the entire family and several more folks
have lined the rim of the bank. I consider waving. I scootch a little further
out onto the screen which miraculously holds me, and finally get one finger on
the egg and roll it back towards me. SUCCESS! I scramble back up the bank, egg
in hand, and can’t help but notice the disappointed looks of my audience as
they shuffle back to their picnic tables.
This tale goes on forever but I’ll try
to wrap it up. The duck egg hatched and Rebekah named him “George Number One.”
He was placed under a broody hen and raised as her own. He quickly became too big for his
"mother" and so it came time to introduce him to the other ducks. So
I took him out to the back yard, called the other ducks, and put him down.
Other Ducks: COUSIN!!!
Welcome!
George #1: MUTANTS!!!!
AAAAIIIIIGGGHHHHH!!!!
He then ran to the nearest
chickens because, well... that's what he thought he was.
Chickens: AAAAIIIIIGGGHHHHH!!!!
The ducks are attacking! The ducks are attacking!
So then the roosters came running which set off the guineas which set off
the goats which set off the dogs, which set off every dog in the neighborhood
plus a few horses and the neighbors cows.
By the time I caught George again there was a veritable riot going on. (My
neighbors just love me. ~cough~) As
I write this, George still prefers the chickens - who have reluctantly accepted
him as just some harmless weirdo I guess.
The other ducks seem to feel the same way.
Grammie fled back to the (real) farm
last winter but does come to visit for periods of time when she has a lapse in judgment.
I go to the farm each week to visit and play cards, and for our Thursday
adventure of doctors and errands. And when I say adventure, I mean chapters for
my book. They are all long stories, too
long to include here… but they are just too good to leave out, so I’ll share one. And no, I’m not making this up.
After
one of her doctor appointments Grammie, Rebekah, and I headed over to
Safeway. Mostly because Grammie had received intel Brittany was
stopping there to buy some milk. Now,
you have to understand what a double whammy this is. A grandchild
ACCOMPANIED by two great grandchildren. Seriously, this was just too far off the
Grammie happy scale to ignore. So…
essentially we went to Safeway to stalk Brittany. As it turns out,
Brit had wisely already left the building. Anyway, as I pulled the
car up to the entrance, one of the employees was pushing a long row of grocery
carts back into the store. I recognized him as the special needs
fellow we’ve often seen working there. I’ll call him Bob.
Rebekah
got out of the car and headed in to get Grammie her scootie chair just like
she’s done a hundred times before. She found one, hopped on, and began to
head out the door. And that’s when the excitement began. As she started
out the door, she caught Bob’s attention. As it turns out, Bob considers all
things scootie his job. He immediately abandoned the carts he was
pushing (which were now completely blocking traffic) and RAN towards
Rebekah who took one look and froze mid doorway. Bob orders her off the
scootie, but since Rebekah is much like Bob, this does not
compute and she remained frozen in place, giant blue eyes a poppin’.
And
then things really began to spiral. Flinging the car door open
Grammie got in on the act. One does not mess with Grammie’s scootie
and most definitely not with her grandchild.
Waving her cane in the air, she ordered Bob to leave Rebekah alone and
let her bring the cart.
But
Bob was having none of it. He was determined. Abandoning the
idea of absconding with Rebekah’s scootie cart, he now jumped on the one behind
her. Speeding out the “in” door, he eventually got it pointed toward
Grammie, only to park it several feet from her. “Bring it
closer! I can’t walk over
there! What are you doing?!” Grammie fusses.
So,
Bob backs it up… and drives it in several large circles but still gets no
closer. He does this at least three or four times and with each loop Grammie
is getting more and more agitated. She’s now gotten half out of the
car and is waving her cane at him. Bob takes one look and bolts with
the scootie.
Grammie
is now practically cross eyed. “You bring that back here!” she yells, still
waving her cane. And Bob turns and starts toward her. And he’s going
fast. And he’s not slowing down. Now Grammie is waving her cane and
shouting STOP in every form of the word she can think of. And so am I! But Bob is not
stopping. Nor is he slowing down. In fact he is gaining
speed. Ramming speed. WHAMO!!! He slams right into the side of
my car door. It bounced but fortunately didn’t hit Grammie, who by the way
is now so mad she doesn’t know which end is up. “Look what you
did! You ran into our car!” Bob now freaks completely, backs up and
zooms away.
Anyway, the story is not over. Nope. Not even close. I am
still behind the wheel of the car with my jaw hanging open as we have just reached a level
of crazy that astounds even me. Rebekah is still
on the scootie chair stuck between the opening and closing doors. Grammie has
still yet to get her scootie, and the long row of grocery carts Bob was
originally pushing are still stretched from the parking lot to the store,
traffic having now made a new path up and around. Rebekah finally achieves
forward momentum and drives the scootie up to Grammie who finally gets on and
they proceed into the store. I close my mouth and park the car but by the
time I get inside, Grammie and Rebekah are nowhere to be seen. But, I do
see Bob. He is seated on his scootie beside some folks in shirts and ties,
obviously managers. He is looking desperately unhappy not to mention
wigged out. So, I go over and say, look, everything is
okay. Don’t worry about it. I explain my daughter and Bob
are similar and I understand how these things happen.
As
I’m talking, these folks are just staring at me, saying nothing. So
I go on to say to them Bob should probably have a little more
supervision. Things could have been much worse had he actually run into
Grammie and not just the car (leaving three marks on the door, by the
way). Everyone continues to just stare, still saying nothing. I’m a
bit taken aback that no one is responding whatsoever, but finally leave them
with, “Okay, well, I really think you folks need to get some help outside
for Bob.” And I go off in search of Grammie and Rebekah.
But
as I’m looking for them, I’m beginning to get a bit steamed. I mean…
really. Not even an apology? I’ve three dings in my door,
a freaked out daughter, and a grumpy Grammie to deal with for the rest of the
day and they can’t even summon a response? So. I finally
find Grammie and Rebekah. They are fine. I leave them and I
walk up to the front of the store. By now I’m indignant. I’m
going to send in one of those little cards! Ha! So I go up to customer
service and I notice the folks behind the counter aren’t dressed the same as
the folks I talked to earlier. That’s because the folks I talked
to WEREN’T SAFEWAY EMPLOYEES! Nope. Apparently they were just
some random strangers, possibly bank employees or something.
So,
I’m now talking to the actual manager who is very kind. We talk about Bob
and his possessiveness re the scooties and, yes, perhaps someone needs to keep
more of an eye on him. As we continue to talk another employee comes up. He’s
practically dancing, so we stop and turn to him. And he says, and
I’m not making this up, “WE GOTTA SHUT THE PUMPS DOWN!!! NOW!!!” Both the manager and
I are equally stunned. So, I look back at him and say, “Well… I’ll leave
you to it then!” And they both RUN. Yes, RUN towards…. I
guess the gas pump shut off switch. I go get Grammie and Rebekah and
hustle them out of the store and parking lot, expecting a mushroom cloud at any
moment. I decide to cross Safeway off future Grammie errand lists.
Gregg has so far managed to
hang on to a job, transferring multiple times to avoid layoffs. He leads our
family through the good and bad and helps me remember God has it all under
control. THAT’S GOOD! He manages to
laugh through most of the insanity here and remains the Voice O’ Reason. How I
ever ended up with this man I will never know. I thank God for him every single
day.
He also provides
his own brand of humor, which it seems Ben shares.
Gregg: Do you think you’re going to make it to the picnic?
Me: Yeah, I
think I’ll be okay. (I’d been sick in bed for weeks.)
Gregg: Are we talking a plague o’ locust o’er the
land “okay?”
Me: No, I’m sure I can do it. …I’m just a little grumpy.
Gregg/Ben: Same thing!
Me. I had a different kind of year, with an
ambulance trip, short hospital stay, and five weeks in bed. THANK YOU to my
friends and the folks at HOPE who brought meal after meal for my family (and
didn’t believe me when I said I was “fine”). Docs never really found out what was wrong
(plenty) but I have been told to slow down and de-stress.
And so… I joined
a gym. The first stop was the locker room. Can you say MOOOON(s) Over Culpeper?
Ladies, here’s a heads up. Just because you can’t see ‘cause you’re not wearing your glasses doesn’t mean the
rest of us are blind, too - though we might be soon. Have ya heard of a towel? I realize they don’t go ‘round most of us,
but try. Just try.
Anyway, I went to my first aqua "de-stress" class
which is taught by “Gordon” who looks to be somewhere in his twenties. The poor
child teaches this class to a horde of old ladies that look, and are pretty
much shaped, like me. In swimsuits. He
will probably go blind from the horror of it all by the time he’s 30. ANYWAY,
this particular class is all about relaxation and breeeathing. And, so, I did
my best, but about 20 minutes in realized my lips were tingling, I was light
headed, and perhaps I was about to drown. Apparently I was hyperventilating. So,
I opted to just breathe like I usually do, missing the point of the class, but remaining conscious. So. You know. Baby
steps. After class, not feeling any more relaxed than before, I went to the
locker room to check my phone just in
case. There were eight messages from Ben. All bad. Twenty minutes later I am
breaking land speed records trying to get him to the ER whilst Rebekah melts
down in the back seat. Ben is fine but it for sure was not a fun day. In any
event I continue with my class. It doesn’t seem to be helping but I don’t want
to tell poor Gordon as he tries so hard.
Actually the class must at least be working for him as I’ve never seen a more calm and relaxed looking guy in my
life. Of course my family only joined
the gym a month ago. Likely by February he’ll be a babbling idiot.
Actually, the best and most helpful
therapy I’ve received at the gym thus far comes from my friend Lee who simply
shouts intermittently, “Cindy! Face UP!”
as I float in the pool. So that’s been helpful. Mostly Lee and I go to the gym
together. Basically so we can help each other in and out of the various
machines we attempt, and also to confer which arm means we’re having a heart
attack and if we should go to the ER or just IHOP.
Speaking of which, I’m still trying to
lose weight, but in
the interim my sister Connie tried to get me into some SPANX (like a girdle
only worse) this year on one of my visits to her clothing outlet - I mean
closet. Connie has a will of iron and was DETERMINED I try them. Twenty minutes
later, red faced and sweating, I finally got them OFF. At the final tug they
shot across the room at such velocity they'd have killed at twenty paces. Her
dog is still afraid of me. She invited
me back recently to try on more clothes and it was not lost on me the SPANX (and
dog) were conspicuously missing.
In other news, I
have a blog now, mostly about chickens and farm stuff and peddling abandoned
cats, but some are my regular stories if you’d like to check it out. Also
Buc~A~Buc videos are posted on YouTube under Cindy Lou Willson or search
Chickens4Lu. We also have a facebook
page under Buc~A~Buc Farm.
Rebekah is now, hold on to your
hats, 21. If she had wings she’d be the
spitting image of Tinkerbelle. She loves her new kitten, going to dances,
volunteering at Sunday School, her job at ChicFilA, and her cell phone. J
She is much like
me in her love for critters, and since anything with fur, feathers, or a pulse eventually finds
their way here, life in RebekahLand is good. As I type this we’re in the middle
of a kitten fiasco. Plus she has a new bunny “Delilah” who we were told was a girl and didn’t find out otherwise
until s(he) moved in with “DAISY” who immediately
became with child(ren). Delilah is now named Snowball Muffin Baby (because
in RebekahWorld this is a much more MANLY name). The new rule from now on is Mama pulls up the skirts of every
animal entering the premises BEFORE they go into general
population.
Depending on her
mood, Rebekah can be a great help to me around the house, but it has to be her
idea and she doesn’t always want to help with what I want her to help me with.
For example, here’s a recent conversation:
Rebekah: I want to do laundry.
Me: Do NOT do laundry.
Rebekah: I helpa you.
Me: Help clean the kitchen!
Rebekah: I want to do the laundry.
Mama: Okay. JUST towels.
And NO BLEACH.
Rebekah: How about my clothes?
Me: JUST TOWELS!
Rebekah. I put your shirt in, okay?
Me: NO!
JUST TOWELS! Take my shirt out!
Rebekah: I already closed the lid! (Auto lock, cannot get open until machine is
OFF for at least ten minutes.)
Me: ~Sigh~
~Five minutes later. ~
Me: Why do I smell bleach?
Rebekah: I helpa you.
Elisabeth is 19 and in her second year of college. She loves school and has
made many good friends. Her roommate
Morgan has pretty much become her keeper, making sure she doesn’t lose her
wallet (again), her keys (again), her phone (again), etc. She also has a car
now (unless she lost it) - Gregg’s old Toyota which needs oil as often as it
needs gas. Still, it gets her where she needs to go and she seems very happy to
have it. She’s majoring in elementary education
and minoring in music. She loves
traveling to various schools for “observation,” adores the children, and looks
forward to when she will actually have the opportunity to teach. She
participates in several choirs, including an audition only group. She still plays the piano and we are very
much looking forward to having the house filled with Christmas music when she
comes home.
Her big adventure this year (and
likely of her lifetime) was the opportunity to travel to France thanks to my
incredibly sweet and generous friend Brigitte. Besides paying her airfare (and
all other expenses) Brigitte took Elisabeth into her home and treated her like
a princess. What a gift! Elisabeth
experienced a lot of “firsts” while in France, including… are you ready? Take a breath! Navigating an
airport and riding on an airplane by herself; riding on the (French) metro; espresso coffee
and real French cheese; saw the Eiffel Tower; toured Paris by bus, went to Notre
Dame Cathedral and Sainte Chappelle; rode in a boat on the Seine River; went to a Flower Market and a fancy French Mall;
ate ‘weird’ food (and a lot of really good food); ordered at a McDonalds Kiosk;
went to Paris Disney, and stayed in a fancy hotel; ate at a fancy French
Restaurant; learned to speak and understand a little bit of French; traveled to
the French countryside and stayed in a 17th century remodeled farm cottage with
a spiral staircase with 6 inch wide steps!; went to a very cool Zoo where you could get
really close to the animals; saw a movie (in English with French subtitles); used
euros; toured the Louvre, the castle and grounds of Versailles, and different
castles (chateaus) in the country; and lived in a beautiful house with a pool
and kitties and ate real homemade French food, and was gifted with real French
perfume. And she took LITERALLY thousands of pictures. All of these firsts of course came with wonderful
stories and memories. What an experience!
Ben turned
16 this year and since it was a milestone birthday, we really wanted to give
him a party. He’s had ONE birthday party
in his life - when he was four at Chuck E Cheezes. I finally was able to get him to agree to a party.
He would invite his friends and we’d have music and cake downstairs with a nice
bonfire out in the yard. We also thought
we’d set some Tiki Torches around. Now, I’ve
never owned a Tiki Torch in my life, but… whatever. I went to Wal-Mart, picked out five, and
brought them home. Ben assured me they
were all inclusive and nothing more had to be bought to make them work - until
one hour and ten minutes before the guests were to arrive when he informed me
in fact we needed FUEL. So I jump in the car thinking… 30 minutes there, 30
minutes back, 5 mins to buy the fuel. I
can DO this! As I’m pulling away Ben runs up and says, “Wait! Take this with you so you know what to
buy!” And he hands me this canister
object which I toss in the seat beside me and zoom out the driveway. I then arrive in the Wal-Mart parking lot,
grab the canister, and walk as fast as I can toward the store. At this point, I finally take the time to actually
look at what I’m carrying in my hand.
And I realize… I am hustling toward Wal-Mart whilst holding out to my
side… a black tube with a big white FUZE attached.
I’m writing you from my prison
cell… JUST kidding. But I have to say, if “I” saw some determined
looking woman striding toward Wal-Mart like Wile E. Coyote with a can of Acme
explosives, I’d be breaking my phone to call Homeland Security or at least
looking for an armed local. Thankfully I
was able to get it back to the car without event.
Having put the can back in the car, I
continued on to get the fuel. I couldn’t find it so asked the teenaged boy
behind the counter for help. I have never seen such a lethargic child in my
life. In slow motion he finally directed me to the fuel which I scooped up and
headed back to his line… behind a lady who is buying sand. “What kind of sand
do you sell?” she asks. And I already know I’m going to be late. The teen looks
at her blankly for a few seconds and then slowly pulls out some enormous book
and starts to page through it - from the front. “It’s probably in alphabetical
order,” I offer, but he ignores me and continues to page through. We (there are now folks behind me) all heave
a sigh of relief when he finally makes it to the S’s. He proceeds to show her a
picture of a bag of sand. She asks if he has any other KIND of sand. He stares
at her, and back at the book, and back at her again, and then starts paging
through again. The crowd in line begins to murmur and I begin to think I got
rid of that Acme can a bit too early. Eventually the woman and checker have an
epiphany and conclude sand is sand. She doesn’t buy any. I dump my arm load of fuel
bottles on the counter and the checker looks up and asks if I remember what the
price was. I don’t know. He reaches for his book.
Besides turning the big sixteen, Ben
is in eleventh grade and is 6’2. He enjoys
acting in a local drama group, hanging out with his friends, working out, and
as always his beagle Sammy. Like his
dad, he rides the tide of insanity around here with a sense of humor and a
sometimes annoying grasp of reason. J Having said that he does have a thing for laser pointers (you’ll put your eye out!!!)
and playing guitar on roof tops. These
are some of the things I find out l-a-t-e-r.
Gregg’s mom - Grandmar - has oft times
lamented not being included in the Christmas letter. This is simply because she
is NORMAL. Normal people don’t make my letters. You have to achieve a certain
level of crazy and she’s just not there yet. I imagine if she ever moved in
with us she’d get there pretty darn quick, but right now she’s fairly sane. I
will say one thing. The woman cannot whisper. At all. She thinks she can, but
she cannot. It is hilarious. She just switches to a raspy voice that’s still
full volume, but sounds like Batman. Hey. Maybe she IS Batman. Now THAT would
make the Christmas letter.
Well, that about wraps it up for this
year, boys and girls. I think this one
is long enough, don’t you? All that’s
left to say is the most important…
Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth peace, good will toward men!
Merry Christmas!
Love, Gregg, Cindy, Rebekah, Elisabeth, and Ben
