December 8, 2008 By 8 Comments
Phil and I are celebrating 10 years of marriage this month (and going on 15 years since we met in that traffic jam and shared our first kiss.)
We booked a murder mystery weekend at the Rawhide Ranch in Nashville, IN (the famous Brown County.) We went two days early. I’m so glad we did, on Thursday we had the entire ranch to ourselves.
I woke before the sun came up, made coffee and waited…to capture this:
And because I can’t resist fences:
Late Friday night some other guests arrived early, but they weren’t seen by us as they dropped their bags off and left only to return after we’d went to sleep. Saturday was the big day. Horseback riding and then a murder mystery dinner.
You know me, right? I took all kinds of photos of the horses, but not one single shot of the murder mystery. Priorities.
Here’s a couple of my favorites.
After the horseback ride with the snow gently falling, we went back to the ranch, warmed up, changed into our black tie outfits and attended a charity auction in Paris for our murder mystery dinner. And Phil was the murderer!
The weekend ended way too soon. We had a great time and made a great friend (Shoutout to Derek–property manager of Rawhide Ranch, fellow photographer, and host extraordinaire!)
November 26, 2008 By Leave a Comment
Written when Phil was 8 months old, on Phil’s mom’s seventeenth birthday (she was the baby of 7.)
I’m told my little dare-devil of a husband used to climb to the top of the stairs and jump all the way down. That’s what this poem’s about.
Grandma’s Angel
Darling you need loving
Like the grass needs the dew
You’re our precious Baby
We all love You
Your Mama says I’m spoiling
The one she loves so dear
You can’t spoil an Angel
She has nothing to fear
On all fours you go creeping
Like a quiet little mouse
While you’re flushing the torlet toilet
And flooding the house
I clean up your mess
And then go take a peep
Stair steps are a challenge
For your fat little feet
I dash up the steps
And I catch you on high
I know you’re Grandma’s Angel
But you’re too young to fly.
by Lillian Schalk
For the sweetest little Angel
Phillip Gale Pendergrass
Age 8 months. August 7, 1969
This was too cute to pass up!
More about Grandma Schalk here.
November 24, 2008 By 2 Comments
I didn’t know Grandma Schalk wrote poetry.
Poetry isn’t usually my cup of tea, but the poem I want to share today (and I’ll be sharing one tomorrow about Phil) have nearly done me in. I’ve cried more tears over these two poems than I care to admit.
Grandma Schalk would have celebrated her 93rd year on this earth December 13th. God called her home on Phil’s birthday.
There were seven Schalk children. Betty, Martin, Frank, Glinda, Lloyd, Denny, and Marilyn (Phil’s mom.)
Today I want to talk about Denny. (excerpt from Meet the Family)
Born with Down’s Syndrome and expected to die around age eleven, he’s now in his sixties and ornery as ever.Denny loves people and loves visitors. He’s also a collector. Of everything. Pens especially but other things aren’t out of consideration…McDonald’s Happy Meal boxes, fries still at the bottom, Hotwheels cars, my hair clips, checkbooks, handkerchiefs, combs, and whatever else strikes his fancy. Coming to visit means Denny’ll be bringing out the best of the best to show off. You can’t look for too long, he thinks you’re stealing back what rightfully belongs to you. He doesn’t talk, just grunts, but believe you me, it is clear what Denny is saying.
Typically, Denny’ll bring out something, show it to me and Grandma, who is blind mind you, will say, “What’s that there. My check register? Denny! Give that back.” She’ll walk over and try to get it back, but Denny’s adamant, it is his. After awhile, Grandma tires of trying to pry the check register out of Denny’s hands and calls to Lloyd, who hops up and yanks it out of Denny’s hand. Denny then pouts and sulks until he gets pie.
He makes faces at us all the time, probably because we play along and make them back. He loves hugs from everyone who visits and steals your cool stuff, takes it to his room, puts it on top of a piece of paper and sits to look at it. We usually bring Denny a stuffed animal or other kid’s toy to avoid being robbed blind.
Denny couldn’t come to the funeral home, he wouldn’t have understood. As the pastor delivered the eulogy, it was mostly okay. Grandma lived a long, happy life. There’s nothing wrong with dying in your sleep when you’re almost 93. But then this poem was read and I can’t shake the emotion.
Grandma wrote this for Denny when he was a baby. He’s 62 now.
Special Darling by Lillian Schalk
They say I must let you go little darling,
You can only bring heartache to me.
You’re not like the rest of the children,
For you are retarded you see.
You don’t speak or play like the others.
And I know you will never be free
To grow up and be someone special.
My sweetheart, you’re special to me.
Friends don’t know how much they hurt me,
When they say I must let you go.
Send you to a home and forget you,
And start living my life over anew.
This world is a cruel place, darling,
When parents won’t look after their own.
You have a mother who loves you,
And will always keep you at home.
I will always take care of you sweetheart,
And do the very best I can.
Our Father in Heaven is helping
To care for my little man.
There was a luncheon at the house after Grandma’s funeral. I took Denny a Daisy from the arrangement on Grandma’s casket. He put it on the floor between the Pokemon cards Zane gave him and the picture I helped him draw the day before.
November 4, 2008 By 4 Comments
Zane’s 9th and Phil’s Surprise 40th Birthdays
I’m tackling blogging today. Kind of.
- I forgot to post pictures of Zane’s birthday party in October. I tried to post last week and blogger was being a butt. So now, lucky Tackle It readers, you get to see the fruits of my labor.
- Saturday, we had a surprise 40th birthday party for Phil and it went over great! He didn’t even suspect at all! However, the day I made the food for the party he came home from work early and so I had to hide it in the garage fridge. And the house smelled so we had to eat some of it. And the day before the party, his boss called him off because work was slow. So I was STRESSED. It was worth it, but I promise, I won’t ever do that again!
Indiana Jones Cake
(I made it! Can you believe it??)
First time ever without the fedora
Sarah, Zane and Jacob 
Zane reading the card Jacob made him
My goofball
Phil and his cowboy boot slippers
Complete with horse shoes on the bottom
And 40 pair of underwear for his 40th Birthday
And 40 pair of underwear for his 40th Birthday
And (as if you didn’t know) today is election day.
So I voted.
You should, too.
Wear your pretty little dress and thigh-highs, okay?
So I voted.
You should, too.
Wear your pretty little dress and thigh-highs, okay?
You can see all of my tackles here.
October 6, 2008 By 8 Comments
I need to do this today. I had originally intended to post all the CRAP that’s happening, but what’s the point? I sent an email to one of my bloggy friends and then realized that even though there’s so much wrong, there’s also a lot that’s right.
So.
- My husband loves me and I love him. Today, that’s a big deal. When so many other couples are divorcing or are complacent and uncaring, I am grateful for Phil. What you see is what you get with us, I talk about him all the time because he’s so much a part of me. I’m not sure I would have the strength to go on without him. Y’know that song Johnny and June? Well, not just the song, but the Johnny and June love story? (“…and when you’re gone, I wanna go too, like Johnny and June…”) Yeah, that’s us minus singing careers. It was rough in the beginning, but it’s always been stronger than we’re able to explain.
- My son. He’ll be nine on Saturday. Nine! Goodness how did that much time go by? He’s turning into his father (which pleases me to no end.) He’s such a good kid. Sensitive to people’s needs, caring, loving, funny–man is the kid funny. For example, yesterday he says, “When you see RIP on a tombstone, it’s Rest In Peace. If a Lego guy died, it would have to be Rest In Pieces.”
- Our health, I mean, aside from bumps, sprains, bruises and such, we’re pretty healthy people. Phil’s got high blood pressure, I’ve got this (as of yet unfixed) hypothyroidism but those are totally treatable and minor in comparison to things I don’t want to talk about.
- We have families who love us.
- We still have our home.
- Phil still has a job.
- We’ve got the best friends anyone could ask for.
- There’s food on the table and clothes on our backs.
- We’re able to give a little each month to our little girl in Peru through Compassion International.
We’re really not that bad off. And I need to remind myself because I’m sure I’m in the midst of a big ole rootin’ tootin’ spiritual battle. I’ve walked in this fire before, I remember what it feels like to try to continue walking with those unhealed blisters on the bottom of my feet. It’s not fun, but I understand it’s a part of walking with Christ.
Feet are important this time, I’m trying to figure it all out.
Feet walk, run, jump, play, bend, twist. Feet are the foundation of our walk.
Any other valuable foot notes? 
Pun totally intended.
September 9, 2008 By 5 Comments
Want this button?
Last month’s topic was Recreational Companionship and I posted about our canoe/camping trip last year. It just so happens that Marriage Monday this month came during our now annual camping/canoe trip. This month we’re delving into Why Romance Matters.
Are you kidding me? Along with communication, romance has to be one of the key ingredients to our marriage.
Stop. Get those images of flowers, chocolates, and expensive restaurants out of your head. You’re at MY blog and we play by MY rules here. That is not what romance looks like for us.
I do not want to have my hair done, my nails polished (except my toes,) and I don’t want to wear a dress. Or heels. Or God-forbid, pantyhose. ICK. I don’t want to make reservations, eat at fancy restaurants, or go see movies. I don’t want chocolate (okay, I really do, but not in the romance way that everyone thinks.) And I’ll take my wine in a plastic cup by the campfire.
Webster’s says romance is a love affair. I like that definition. Let me show you
what our love affair looks like.
Sunrises like this. Steaming cup of coffee in hand. Warm fire toasting our knees. Owls hooting, birds singing, raccoons full from getting into things overnight.
The smell of a campfire. All over us. Our hair. Our clothes. Our tent. Knowing that we’ll be cooking something else over the fire and that it will be delicious. Except for the bottoms of the biscuits in the dutch oven–because I burn those every time.
Playing together.
Fishing together.
Exploring together.
Helping each other.
Romance to us is spending time together, cultivating our family, being together in God’s nature and enjoying things we seem to forget to enjoy when we’re at home with all the stuff, the clutter, the things that need to be done.
August 23, 2008 By 4 Comments
When Phil came home from work the other night, the dogs greated him and he petted them and talked to them. Then he hugged our son and talked with him. So I said, “Where’s my love? How come the dogs get love before me?”
“If you’d wag your behind and lick me when I came home from work, I’d pay attention to you first,” he joked.
So I think I’ll try that Monday.
August 7, 2008 By 16 Comments
August 07, 1994.
Exactly-to the day-14 years ago.
The air conditioning in my pickup was broke and it was smoldering hot.
I had stayed the weekend in Indianapolis with my friend Jane oblivious to the fact that the Brickyard was witnessing it’s largest crowd of NASCAR fans ever. Still today, there isn’t a race that has had as many fans in attendance as the first Brickyard 400. Now the Allstate 400 because somebody has to pay to change the name of things near and dear to people like me. Just like Wrigley Field will always be Wrigley Field to me no matter who throws their money at it. Oh. Sorry. My’bad.
I don’t follow NASCAR. I know some drivers. I’m friends with a mother and daughter who own a team. But I’m not a fanatic. (Waving to the die-hards, I know you’re out there!) I know #3 and I get teary-eyed thinking of him and Dale Jr. and the whole story surrounding them. I’m not a Jeff Gordon fan (sorry) and I go to my brother’s Daytona party and get in the pot to pick the winning driver every year. I could be a NASCAR fan. I really could.
I didn’t know it was the Brickyard 400 weekend in 1994.
I’m SO glad I didn’t know.
Afternoon. Sunday, August 7, 1994.
Exactly 14 years ago, Jane I and decided to drive home in my pickup with no air conditioning–but a working CB radio.
I’ve had CB radio’s since I was a little girl listening to Teddy Bear on the radio and playing with my daddy’s set up in the living room. Oh hell, I still cry when I listen to Teddy Bear. I’m listening to it now. Excuse me for a minute.
Then there’s my own Convoy story complete with C.W. Macall singing one of my favorite songs. And Alabama singing Roll ‘On. I cry when I hear that one too. Excuse me again I have to listen to that now.
When my fourth grade teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I told her “the first female truck driver.”
“Wouldn’t you rather be the first female president? You can be anything you want to be.”
“Nope. I wanna be a truck driver.”
I’m redneck to the core despite my northern upbringing.
God rectified his mistake of planting me outside of Chicago by uprooting me this fateful day.
Jane and I were on I-65 heading north for our 3 hour drive home. Except we weren’t driving. We were stopped in traffic. A dead stop. With no air conditioning. On the hottest day of the year. So I turned on the CB. Because I’m like that.
“Break one-nine.”
“Go ahead sweetheart.”
“I wanna get home, I don’t have a-c. Are we going to be in this mess forever? Should I just jump off and take the backroads?”
“The Brickyard was this weekend little lady, wherever you go you’re gonna hit traffic. Might as well stay here. It clears up after a bit.”
Jane decided to get in the driver’s seat. I shucked my shoes and stuck my pretty little toes out the window. The CB chatter was annoying so we turned it off and sang to the radio. We moved a little and then got going good only to come to another dead stop. I turned on the CB again and this time listened to some trucker telling jokes. He was flirting with another girl, too. We moved up a little and I saw her talking into her CB and I hit Jane’s arm.”Look at her! Her hair looks like a Q-tip!”
“She’s ug–uh–gly.”
“Well, he’s probably eight hundred pounds, buck-toothed–if he has teeth, and uglier than her. They probably belong together.”
She got off that exit. I hope she didn’t hear us. Her windows were rolled up. She probably didn’t. I didn’t think about that then. When I was sure she was out of range, I said, “Hawkeye, did you see that girl you were flirting with?”
“Aw hell, darlin, I don’t need to see her. Ugly girls need love too.”
I turned to Jane. “Hide the CB. Give me your purse. He’s got to be butt-ugly to say that.”
And I was one to know. I waitressed midnights at a truck stop. Told you I was redneck. You didn’t believe me, did you? You’re starting to now, though, huh?
Hawkeye told her what kind of truck he was driving. A maroon Prime, Inc truck with a “shiney hiney.” As we came up on it I tried my best to look like I didn’t have a CB and I wasn’t Mickey. I looked up into his window.
“Holy Shit!” I said. His window was up. I know he didn’t hear me. “Jane, look, it’s the Marlboro Man!” (and no. I didn’t steal that from Ree. But she got all popular and now it looks like I stole it. But you can ask Jane.)
And there he was. All decked out in his western shirt and his black cowboy hat. Dayum. Over the CB in my pickup I hear, “Holy Shit, huh? Well you’re not too damn bad yourself.”
I screamed. I swear I did. “He read my lips!! Oh.my.God. He read my lips!”
I composed myself for three seconds to answer him. And fake screamed to Jane. Who was leaning over in the seat to see him and telling me how cute he was. We talked for the next two or three hours, we were getting close to the exit for home and Hawkeye said, “Why don’t you follow me to Chicago. I got a load to pick up there and we can talk a little more.”
I looked over at Jane. Jane who always drove when I was too drunk. Jane who fished me out of potentially bad situations. Jane who was my only conscious at that time in my life. Jane said, “Sure. Y’never know. It might be fate.”
Stop for a dramatic pause. And my heart coming out of my throat and butterflies tripping on acid in my stomach.
“Okay. But we’re not getting out of this pickup,” I said, all of a sudden developing some weird maternal instinct. “We’ll stay in the truck and he can stand and talk to us. I don’t want to meet with some serial rapist or something.” Jane nodded in agreement. “But he is cute,” I added in my dream-like trance.
We ended up staying in Chicago for five hours. Five hours! We didn’t have cell phones or pagers and we didn’t see a pay phone. Really, even if I saw a pay phone what would I say? “Mom, I’m in Chicago with a truck driver I met on the CB and he’s really cute and…” Sure. I was twenty-two and old enough, but I did move back home after my divorce.
Oh, you really don’t want to hear that story–Jane’s fiance is still one of my ex-husband’s best friends. Yep. If I hadn’t have met and married and divorced Dingbat, Jane and I wouldn’t have been in Indy that day because my ex and I set Jane and her fiance up. They’re still married by the way. So for all the heartache Dingbat caused me, I thank him because I met my soulmate. Sorry. Did I get distracted again?
Sunset. Getting late August 7, 1994.
Jane had moved to the passenger seat and I was in the driver’s seat of my pickup talking to Hawkeye.
For hours.
Jane was asleep, or so I thought.
She sat bolt upright out of the blue, scared the life right out of me, looked at Hawkeye and said, “Would you just kiss her and get it over with?”
Hawkeye took off his cowboy hat, put it on the top of my pickup, and looked at me. He leaned in, grabbed the back of my neck ever so gently with his right hand and cradled my cheek with his left and kissed me.
What a delicious kiss.
I remember thinking, “I wonder what it’s like to live in Missouri?”
He backed up and stared at me again, “You’re eyes changed colors. They were just hazel a minute ago, now they’re green!”
Today. August 7, 2008
Some things never change. Jane and I are still as close as we’ve ever been. The air conditioning in the car I have now doesn’t work. Jeff Gordon is still winning races. It’s still hot in August. Hawkeye still drives a truck.
And my eyes still change color when I kiss my cowboy.
I love you baby.
This is my first entry ever for Scribbit’s Write-Away Contest.
