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Christmas Decorating

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I’ve been woefully absent from the ‘Dish for a couple weeks. I’ve been to a whirlwind of Thanksgiving get-togethers the past several days and am now enjoying a down day nestled away from the dreary late fall weather.

A few weeks ago I began my Christmas decorating early. Admittedly, I committed sacrilege in my families opinion, with pre-Thanksgiving yuletide decor. My younger sister even commented “you weren’t raised that way”, much to my chagrin…

We’ve been experiencing unusually cold, winter like temperatures for this time of year and already have had our first snow in Southern Indiana. The weather coupled with my husband’s military deployment spurred my early decorating, as I try to find my holiday spirit in his absence.

In years past, the weekend following Thanksgiving found us at the Christmas tree farm choosing a fresh fir. This year, I opted for a small flocked, pre-lit tree up on a table. Curious little baby girl hands are into everything these days and I took that into consideration.

I’m not one to go “all out” decorating for any holiday, as my style is more clean and low-key. Clutter causes this girl serious anxiety to be honest. I love decorating “tablescapes” and prefer that to be a focal point in the home with small pops of Christmas color and decorations elsewhere. Buffalo plaid is super popular this year, but I opted for a more classic tartan plaid and passed on being trendy.

We have a formal living room as you enter our home and a second living area upstairs—I decorated both. I also added some red accents in my sitting area off the kitchen that overlooks our lake. I spend a lot of time in my gray reading chair and wanted some cheer there as well.

My baby girl just turned ten months and will be celebrating her first Christmas. Of course I had to buy her her first stocking. Pottery Barn had some great personalized options and I opted for the clean look of ivory velvet.

I also purchased some LED glimmer strings from Pier1 and placed in oversized jars with bulb ornaments for her to look at. She loves when we turn the lights on each day, and I try to make an event of it. It’s never too early to inspire some Christmas wonder.

Love
L.N.

Veteran’s Day 2019: Reflections from My Circle

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I’ve always believed that I inherited my gift for words and love of reading from my mother. We share the same affinity for expressing ourselves through writing. As Veteran’s Day approached, I kindly asked her to share a story about my grandfather D. Dale Wooledge. His courageous service during World War II has always been a point of family pride. The following is my mother’s story, and at heart, his story:

“From my early childhood, I’ve always known that my father was in the army and was sent to Germany towards the end of World War II. But like many other veterans, he did not tell much of his story until he was an old man.

I had a very rosy view of my dad as a soldier.  Dad had a chest with his army memorabilia. We kids excitedly sorted through the photos of army mates and smiling girls, uniform pieces and souvenirs. There were even a few medals.  Most fascinating was an armadillo shell he saved from his basic training in Texas. (We don’t have armadillos in South Dakota, so it was very exotic to us.) But Dad never seemed too interested in talking about the things in that chest.

Dad always talked about his time in Europe as if it were one big adventure.  He spoke of being in Holland, Belgium, Italy and finally Berlin, a long way from home for a South Dakota farm boy. He joked about kissing German girls who thought American soldiers were a great catch. He told me, “If I’d brought home one of those girls, you would have been a little German girl” (or Dutch, or Italian, as the story changed frequently). I had this picture of my dad romping through Europe with his friends, women sitting on his lap, handing out cigarettes and chocolates as they passed through the liberated towns. 

  • Mathilde from Holland
  • Pictured with an unknown woman

Dad never actually talked about being a soldier. I knew he was trained as a tank driver, but he often told how the army discovered that he was the only one in his company who knew how to type, so they made him company clerk. He implied that this assignment kept him safely behind the battle front.

It wasn’t until Dad was in his late seventies that he began to share his war experiences. He finally told how he was sent to Europe just in time for the Battle of the Bulge. That he was a tank driver in a reconnaissance unit that went ahead of the troops to scout enemy positions. His unit was trapped across enemy lines, facing almost certain death or capture. They continued to fight and held on until they were finally rescued by General Patton’s troops.

Dad described how a sharp shooter’s bullet went right between him and a friend, narrowly missing them. And how one of his best friends was killed by a sharp shooter’s bullet the very next week. It turns out that he was not made company clerk until the very end of the war, and only for a short time.

Dad believed that God had His hand on him, even as a wild young man. He was on guard duty one night, and foolishly leaned his gun against a tree, feeling pretty safe with the war winding down. Then he heard a rustling in the bushes, and someone saying, “GI Joe! GI Joe!” He grabbed his gun and called out for whoever was there to show themselves. Out came three German soldiers with their hands up.  He said they were exhausted, and knew they were on the losing side and wanted to surrender. Dad ended the story by saying, “Any one of those guys could have shot me from the bushes in the dark. I didn’t even know they were there. But God protected me for some reason. I just hope I have lived my life in a way to please God. There were so many who never made it home, and I know how blessed I am.”

Every veteran has stories to tell, good and bad. Things they regret and things they are proud of. Whether they choose to share their stories or take them to their graves, every veteran deserves our gratitude for risking their life for our freedom.”

Desmond Dale Wooledge
1924-2012

Love,
L.N.

On Perdido Key

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Back in Indiana today from ten rejuvenating days in Perdido Key. The island is a long-time favorite of mine for it’s stunning white sand, turquoise waters and super low-key atmosphere. And while I like exploring new places, my heart belongs to Perdido Key and I try to visit twice yearly for some biannual beach bliss.

My first visit to the area was nearly 20-years ago, when my mother and I spent an afternoon at the aptly named Perdido Key State Park. I fell in love with the area which is seemingly less developed and lacking the throngs of beach-goers that hit Gulf Shores, Fort Walton, Destin, PCB and other nearby hot spots. While there is a slowly growing number of high-rise condos, it is as yet untouched by mini-golf courses, go-kart tracks or department store sized beach outfitters offering tacky souvenirs. If you’re a ocean-lover like me and want to spend the better part of the day by unfettered beach beauty, then Perdido Key is your jam.

Perdido Key is flanked on the eastern edge by Johnson Beach National Seashore. A National Park’s Pass or Military I.D. will gain free entry and the dune views of the gulf on the south shore and the Big Lagoon on the north shore are outstanding. There is also a canoe/kayak launch that offers paddlers easy access to the Big Lagoon if you’re into that sort of thing. My husband and I did take our kayaks down a couple years ago and had a blast.

Nearby Pensacola is home to a large naval air station and some world-famous fly-boys—the Blue Angels. The Naval Aviation Museum is definitely worth a visit any day of the week, and the Blue Angels practice most Tuesdays and Wednesdays from March through November on-site.

On a past trip to the Naval Aviation Museum

When we do decide to get away from the beach for a few hours, the iconic Flora-bama is located on the island at the state line. The Flora-bama Yacht Club is always a pick for good eats and we went for a Halloween seafood dinner.

We followed our meal with a short drive over to Orange Beach on the north side of Bayou Saint John for a visit to Pleasure Island Tiki Bar—it seemed like an appropriate choice, as my daugher was costumed as a hula girl. The bar has live-music most evenings, draws a good crowd and is a fun little beach-themed watering hole.

As I wind down on this post, I find myself rehashing my favorite moments once again and waxing a wanderlust for my next seaside retreat.

  • My little hula girl
  • Beach baby, beach baby, under the sun

Love,
L.N.

A Grand Sea Couplet

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Is there anything as grand as the sand?
Is there anything as grand as the sea?

Is there anything as grand as cerulean waters?
Is there anything as grand as the brine?

Is there anything as grand as a seashore sky?
Is there anything as grand … or more?

You, my dear, are more grand than the sand.
You are more grand than the sky.

You are more grand, my sweet little one.
You are more grand than the ‘shore.

You are more grand, than briny blue waters.
You are more grand to me.

And when I take your tiny hand, and rock you like the waves …
I softly say you are more grand, can’t you see…

Love,
L.N.

Bob Marley, Bloody Mary and the Skeletons in My Closet

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Every family has folklore, or a few skeletons in the closet, destined to make their way out. With Halloween on the doorstep, I thought I’d dish a few. And I just want to say right now, “Bob Marley is mistaken.”

Now, I’m sure you’re scratching your head right now, wondering where in the h-e-two hockey sticks I might be going with this, prattling on about family secrets and the reggae king … and heads might roll a little more (pun intended) when I tell you I’m related to the folklore legend Bloody Mary, said to appear in a mirror if you chant her name, and also Mary, Queen of Scots—famously beheaded.

But first, let me take you back to the beginning. A couple years ago when my mother purchased DNA kits for Christmas, I was elated. I hopefully looked to the ancestry.com website and my results to compile a longer paternal tree and verify or discredit a few family stories.

Growing up, I remember mention of my roots in America linked to a passenger on the Mayflower—this remains unverified and I have no knowledge of where this legend might come from.

Other notable ancestors of family lore include two Mary’s. Mary, Queen of Scots, famously beheaded after a plan to assassinate her cousin Queen Elizabeth I, and Mary the I of England—also known as Bloody Mary. After diving into my DNA results and the ancestry.com database, these legends have been verified.

Upon tracing my father’s lineage to a Sarah Stafford and ultimately to Henry Percy, 2nd Earl of Northumberland, an English nobleman and military commander during the War of Roses, I discovered a definitive link to the English royal family. Henry’s mother, Elizabeth Mortimer, was the daughter of Lady Philippa Mortimer, granddaughter to King Edward III.

The House of Lancaster descended from Edward’s third son, John Gaunt. While, the House of Tudor descended from John Beaufort, one of the illegitimate children of John of Gaunt.

The most notorious Tudor royal was the portly and amorous Henry VIII. Henry VIII sired two daughters who both became queens. Queen Mary I, also known as Bloody Mary, was daughter of Henry’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Queen Elizabeth I—cousin to the aforementioned Mary, Queen of Scots—was conceived from Henry’s third marriage to Anne Boleyn.

Before I bore you too much longer with my genealogy and relation to the two Mary’s, I’ll move back to Bob Marley and the juicier dish. I’ve always been a history nerd, consider myself a wordsmith and have a deep affinity for music. When I put the three interests together, I often find myself singing silly songs and revising lyrics to more appropriately describe what might have happened in any given instance.

  • Image by Ueli Frey
  • Image by Sten Rüdrich

You’ll be shocked to know (insert sarcasm) that I am in no way related to Marley, but have a deeper family secret than a distant link to a royal apparition who school girls summon in the mirror for Halloween entertainment. A known relative—in a not so distant time and a not so distant place—shot a sheriff. The sheriff died, but I just want to say, the deputy did survive, just not unscathed.

I do not know very many details surrounding the “affair” leading to the untimely death of a sheriff, and I do not have news clippings from the original incident to share. However, a story ran by the Olney Daily Mail in 2002 briefly chronicles the happening. A letter to the editor suggests there was in fact a different chain of events culminating in the death of a sheriff and ALSO the shooting of a deputy … cue the miscued lyrics…

So, there you have it, my family’s biggest skeleton, just in time for Halloween… “He shot the sheriff, AND he shot the deputy…”

Love,
L.N.

Image attribution:
By Unknown – Reproduced in Bill Ellis, Lucifer Ascending: The Occult in Folklore and Popular Culture (University of Kentucky, 2004). ISBN 0-8131-2289-9, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2321965

By Ueli Frey – http://www.drjazz.ch/album/bobmarley.html, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1899036

By Sten Rüdrich – Own work, CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=563034

A Bite of Humble Pie

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I anxiously scanned charges on my bank app in disbelief. Damn, I thought, my husband’s bank card must have been swiped through a skimmer. Three large charges—much larger than the commissary snack purchases appearing every few days—glared back at me. I futilely tried to make sense of the foreign words detailing them.

I took a quick screenshot, circled the amounts in a vivid red and quickly sent my husband a picture message. “Are these charges legitimate”? “No, I don’t think so”… he messaged back a short while later.

I found myself immediately fretting about the money and the headache I faced disputing fraudulent charges from halfway around the globe.

I will forever be a “financial worrier”. As a young child, my mother supported our family of four on a meager secretary’s salary, while my dad attended medical school in California. We often relied on the kindness of family, friends and church members who lovingly gave boxes of hand-me-down clothes, food and housewares.

It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I finally felt like we had reached a middle class lifestyle. My husband and I live comfortably, but the nervousness I felt regarding money growing up “poor” has remained.

On a phone call later that afternoon I inquired again about the charges. My husband recanted, “yes, those charges are right, I made a couple of ATM transactions,” he said. I instantly wondered why he needed that much money, as he is on an overseas military deployment. Frustration slowly began to creep in. “He should know we are on a budget,” I vexed to myself. I recently took a hiatus from my art director career and admittedly fear relying on just his income, even though the numbers easily balance in our favor each month. I became angry.

Then he began sharing about the migrant workers he encountered pumping gas, cleaning bathrooms, and making a meager wage. He described the elderly men from places like the Philippines, India and Bangladesh working humble jobs in the more affluent middle-eastern nations. He went on to say, “I pulled out extra money so that I am able to tip well…I want to help them.” At that moment my heart began to beat a little faster, my ire dissipated. I was left only with love for my husband, his golden heart, and a big bite of humble pie for getting angry.

You see, my husband—who necessitates no accolades for HIS sacrifice and the hardships of a deployment—only ever wants to give more. He is the guy who buys your coffee if you’re lucky enough to pull up behind him in the Starbucks drive-through. He is the guy who walked down the street to buy me breakfast when I didn’t care for the menu at the vegetarian restaurant he chose. I thought he had gone to the restroom—I watched as his food grew cold before he returned. He handed me a bag with some strips of bacon, but I definitely ate humble pie that day too. And later, at that same cafe, he flagged our waitress over and discreetly motioned to the people whose breakfast he’d like to buy…a single mother, a young family, an elderly couple…

After spending a few years as a military girlfriend and now wife, I believe there are two types of people who join the armed forces—those with the heart of a warrior and those with the heart of a servant. My husband has the latter, and it is one of the things I love most … he undeniably has the better heart in our marriage and I guess that’s a bite of humble pie I can bear to swallow.

“And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.”
—Hebrews 13:16

Love,
L.N.