I Finally Did It! (A happy/sad/embarrassing story of procrastination)

Dearest Snow,
How can I ever thank you? I'm forever in your debt!

If you hadn't kept us home bound for four delicious days, we would have missed the hot chocolate.
We would have missed the finger numbing fun of readjusting the plastic bags over our sneakers as we plodded around the yard.
And we would have missed seeing this face.

Thanks!

You provided us a ton of fun, but there's something else, something more amazing that particularly compelled me to write. It's a little humiliating, so don't tell anyone. Ready?

Snow, if you hadn't come to visit, the couch in my bedroom would still look like this.


And often like this.

See, after two days of hot chocolate and oatmeal cookies warm from the oven, of tromps through our neighborhood and gazing at the moon on the breast of you, I began to get bored.
A nice kind of bored. The kind that comes with mysterious urges to do useful things.
Things like organizing the linen closet and cleaning out the junk drawer in the kitchen.
And when I finished all that stuff, the couch called to me.

[Readers, remember the couch? I'm embarrassed to remind you that back in August, I wrote a post titled Unfinished Business in which I shared how I'd found the flowery couch for $25 at a garage sale back in the spring of 2008. I planned to slipcover it in red denim for my bedroom and got as far as finishing the pillows. Then I took a long look at the frame, took a second long look at the 17 yards of red denim, and decided I should really start a blog. That was three years ago! In my August post, I preached on how good it feels to finish unfinished projects, and challenged my readers to whip me with a wet noodle if I didn't finish the couch project by August 18.
Nobody whipped me. Y'all are way too nice.]

Snow, if it weren't for you, this would have never happened!

Yey!
You helped me remember how good it feels to face something I've been avoiding.
It feels GREAT!
It makes me wonder what other things I could cross of my list.
I think I'm going to make this a late resolution for 2011: When I pick up a To Do list, find the item I want to do least, and take care of it first.
So thank you, Snow!
Love, Becky

Readers, I wonder if I can do it. I don't usually suffer from a tendency to procrastinate when it comes to my work, but in other parts of my life? Oh yeah. (You should see the attic. Maybe on another snowy day...no, it would take a snowy week!)

Do you fight the urge to procrastinate? What helps you face what you want to avoid?

Have a great Tuesday, y'all!
Love, Becky

Thanks to Phototrope for the first photo, licensed through creative commons.

Meet Our New Addition!

Isn't she a sweet girl?
Libby looks so dainty and demure in that photo, but don't let her fool you.

Innocent she's not.
That's a look that says, "Yes, I will wear this ridiculous bow to give you a false sense of ownership, but just wait. You shall look into my eyes and I shall hypnotize you. Serve me, human."

Yes, Libby. We will obey.

Here she is, hypnotizing Tanner. (After he got his first full snort of her behind. Some pictures are best not shown.)


After the introductions were over, Libby commanded Tanner to play Jingle Bells.

He did his best.

Then she made Tanner watch while she played chess.


The pieces are wonderfully rolly on a hardwood floor.


Playing so hard tuckers them out, so they take lots of naps.


Libby loves, loves, loves to sleep.
Especially if it's on top of people.

Sam loves it.
Me? I'm not so sure.
She slept on my back one night. That was weird.

She probably sleeps so much because of all the running she does. And the hopping.


And the leaping tall buildings.

Zombie eyes!
Look away!
She won't come down until we make her a landing pad of pillows.
(I guess she does have us trained.)

Libby also trains us to dangle string.

It's just about her favorite thing.

Tanner tried it too...


But then he got distracted by Libby's zombie eyes again.

Maybe she's hypnotizing herself.

He just doesn't get her fascination with boxes.


He investigated, but there wasn't anything edible in there.

No hummus. No bones. Not even a stale tortilla.
Why bother.


The whole box business was very tiring, so it was nap time again.

At least I think that's what she's doing. Of course, it could be some kind of trick.

You know, I suddenly feel a strange compulsion to go buy string.
Maybe I'll stop at the U-Haul place and pick up some extra boxes while I'm out.


Have a delightful weekend, y'all!
Before you scoot, tell me, are you a cat person? Dog lover? I'd love to hear about the pets at your house.
Love, Becky

Happy New Year, Paul Bunyan

How did you welcome in the new year?
We lit a fire and stood around it in the freezing cold, watching the flames flicker, the dog snap at flying sparks, and Sam pile on the logs. Now that he is 12, he was finally allowed to fulfill his life long ambition to swing an axe, so we had a winter's worth of kindling stacked up. (Probably three bonfires worth-- remember, this is South Carolina.)

The family loved it at first. We roasted a couple marshmallows, poked at the fire, enjoyed the smell of the smoke and the quiet of the night. But eventually the grandparents got cold, Ben and Sarah got bored, and Sam got spooked by a ghostly voice from the tree house up the hill, leaving Todd and me all by our lonesome, fireside.

It was kind of nice.
We were quiet at first.
In some ways, it's been a really tough year.
We were glad to throw our worries of 2010 into the flames.
The car accident. The health scare that turned out to be nothing, but petrified us for a while. The wandering on my part, wondering what God might hold for me in the future. What to do, where to put my energy.

We talked a little but we didn't need to say much. Each of us knew what the other was thinking, doing. Tossing into the flames all the balled up, pent up worries and struggles of 2010. Sending them into the fire, to turn to ash, then settle at the bottom or let the wind lift them into the night, away from us, into the sky.

It was a good way to start 2011. Letting go of the worries and disappointments and fears of the past, freeing my hands for whatever life gives me in this new year.
I'm so thankful for new beginnings. Aren't you?
And I'm thankful for dear friends like you, both online and across the street, who share this crazy, wondrous life with me.

I wish you only God's best for 2011!

Much love, Becky

Autumn at Hopeful Dog Vineyard

Welcome to Autumn at Hopeful Dog Vineyard.
In case you're new around here, we don't really have a vineyard. Just this row of muscadines lining our backyard.

And here's the hopeful dog.

He's hoping you have a treat for him in your pocket.
A cracker, maybe? Anything?

Back to the vineyard.
I wouldn't have thought much was going on back there now.
After all, we've picked the grapes. We ate a few bowlfuls and washed and stomped the rest. Then we put the juice up to ferment until bottling time next summer.
The leaves are turning and dropping, and the only grapes left are becoming raisins in the sun.

But The Hopeful Dog has taken to stashing his trash under the grapevines up the hill, so yesterday I took a garbage bag with me and went trash collecting. There was a lot to gather: a bag of beef jerky he stole from Ben, a plastic peanut butter jar he nabbed off the kitchen counter, an old container of Parmesan cheese he swiped from our spaghetti dinner last week.
But after I collected it all, I turned my attention to the grapes.
What a shock!
The vine was busy doing things.

Who would have thought that at the same time that some leaves were bleeding out their colors, shriveling into papery bat wings...


some branches would refuse to quit, sending out a tender shoot to look for the sun,

unfurling baby leaves with its last breath.

While inches away, higher on the vine, a cluster of grapes refuses to fall.

I understand the grapes.

My leaves might turn speckled, then brittle and brown, but I wouldn't want to let go. I'd hold on.


Like the tiny tendrils gripping the guide wire, winding themselves in tight coils around it.
If I were a branch on the master vine, that's what I'd probably do.

"Go for the sun!" the vine would say, but I'd wave my hands around, reaching for something to hold to steady me. A safe spot. Security.

I'd wind myself tight around the Master Vine.
Can't I just live this way?

Do I have to let go?

The vine says nothing.

It just stands there in its beautiful twistedness, and holds up the branches.
It feeds them, and in its woundedness, it gives them life.

I touch the knots, run my fingers over the woody scabs.
Is there life under dry bark?
I know there is because I've seen what the Vine does each Spring.
I remember. Beneath the gnarled wrapping, green life surges.
It's waiting for the right time, the right season.
Somehow it knows.


I am the Real Vine and my Father is the Farmer. He cuts off every branch of me that doesn't bear grapes. And every branch that is grape-bearing he prunes back so it will bear even more. You are already pruned back by the message I have spoken.

Live in me. Make your home in me just as I do in you. In the same way that a branch can't bear grapes by itself but only by being joined to the vine, you can't bear fruit unless you are joined with me.

I am the Vine, you are the branches. When you're joined with me and I with you, the relation intimate and organic, the harvest is sure to be abundant. Separated, you can't produce a thing. Anyone who separates from me is deadwood, gathered up and thrown on the bonfire. But if you make yourselves at home with me and my words are at home in you, you can be sure that whatever you ask will be listened to and acted upon. This is how my Father shows who he is—when you produce grapes, when you mature as my disciples.

I've loved you the way my Father has loved me. Make yourselves at home in my love.
John 15: 1-9 The Message

I wish you a wonder-full Wednesday, y'all!
Love, Becky

Hope and Grapes

It's my birthday! Care to join me in throwing the day's work to the wind?
We could sit out in the sun by the grapevines and eat muscadines 'til we're sick. They're ripe now, filling our backyard with their musky, peppery scent.
When my grape farmer gets back in town (he's off again, earning points for another suitcase,) it'll be time for the harvest. Time to wash the feet and start stomping. Got a kerchief for your hair and your best Italian accent? It's I Love Lucy all over again. Or, if you don't feel like wrestling, we could just hang out and watch the fruit flies. They're busy planning their annual convention in my kitchen once the brewing starts.

I can hardly believe it's been six years since the mailman brought us three tubes of sticks from Ty Ty, Georgia.
I couldn't figure it out. Why in the world did my husband buy mail order twigs?
"They're not twigs," he said, unwrapping them with such care you'd have thought they were artifacts from Mesopotamia. "They're grapes. Remember? I'm going to plant a few vines in the backyard.

A few vines. Right.
He's a Ramsey. When it comes to the garden, there are never a few of anything.

See what I mean?
If you love muscadines and live nearby, come on over! We've got plenty to share.

At first I didn't get his enthusiasm for the grape, but now I do.
Muscadine grapes are more than just a grape with a mucous-y texture, a fruit that rolls around in your mouth like a skin covered eyeball.
Grapes are all about hope.
(And no, I haven't had a little too much of the pressed grape already. Stick with me and I'll get to my point.)

Last Christmas, the kids made him a sign.

The Hopeful Dog Vineyard. It's the title Todd prints on the labels for his homemade muscadine wine, named after a hopeful dog we know and love.
This goofball.

This dog is hopeful, if nothing else.
Hopeful that we'll drop a crumb. Hopeful that he can trick three people into feeding him dinner, one after the other. Hopeful that some kid will leave the bread on the counter, so he can sneak it out the dog door, eat up every morsel, and leave the plastic bag to crop up in a photograph.
(See it there on the left?)

I'm still not sure that the image a hopeful dog is appetizing enough to belong on the label, but the concept of hope definitely needs to be on there somewhere.
Grapes are all about hope.

If hope really means holding to a wish for something, expecting that it will come true, grapes are the poster fruit for hope.
Need an explanation?
Allow me to let you peek into a conversation my husband and I had the hot, sweaty day he constructed the trellis and planted the grapes.
Being my helpful self, I stayed in the air conditioning. When he was done I brought him some tea.

"Not to tell you what to do," I said, "But wouldn't it have been easier to put them where it's flat instead of going up the hill?"
Todd breathed deeply, as if restraining himself from clobbering me, and wiped the sweat off his face.
"You might think that," he said, "But that's what's so great about grapes. They thrive on adversity, on the water rolling down the hill in a hard storm, on the wind whipping through. Think of the vineyards back in France. Can you think of a single one that's on flat land?"
"There was that one in Perignat."
"Exception to the rule!" he countered. "If that farmer had had a hill, he would have planted it there. Didn't you look at the millions of vineyards we drove past? Don't you remember how the grapes were planted in the worst places possible--steep hills, the worst soil, under piles of rocks? Grapes are amazing! If they have to struggle, they bear more fruit. They just keep on doing what they do, through everything. But make them comfortable and all you get is leaves!"


Okay. So now I'm ready for Barbara Walters.
If she ever asks me the question: If you were a fruit, which one would you be? I know what I'd answer.

Have a grape! And a wonder-full day.
Love, Becky

Unfinished Business

Sometimes when you see the same thing every day, you stop noticing it anymore.
Like how sweet a boy looks conked out on a dog pillow.

Or how goofy a dog looks when he's trying to make you love him again after he's stolen the peanut butter off the counter, sneaked it out the dog door, and hidden out under the grapevines, licking out every last bit of goodness with his alarmingly long tongue.


Or how gorgeous muscadine grapes look as they get big and juicy in your backyard.

Wait a second.
Flip back to that first pic.


Yep, that's the one.
Talk about not noticing things anymore. How embarrassing!
See that couch? If you've been around here for a while, you may remember that I found it two and a half years ago at a yard sale. Back then it was all blue and flowery, but the moment I laid eyes on it, I heard the angels sing. See, we have an itsy bitsy television in our bedroom, and for some reason my kids always ended up in there to watch movies and plant popcorn kernels between our sheets. A comfy couch would get them out of our bed. Plus, it was only $25!

Two seconds after we lugged it through the door, I downed a pot of coffee for strength and began hopping all over it, measuring and sketching and calculating how I'd make the slipcover. Twenty-one yards would be enough. I sped to the fabric store and returned with red denim.

For the next day and a half, I turned my dining room into a sweat shop, hunched over my sewing machine, turning out pillow slipcovers. I'd done this before with the couch in the den, so I kind of knew what I was doing.
Finally it came time to tackle the couch itself, the reupholstery part. The part I dread.

The couch in the den had straight, easy arms. This one had rolled arms, arms that whispered I'm too hard. You can't do it. Who do you think you are, Martha Stewart?
I stared at the couch and drew things and measured some more.
I struggled and gave myself brain cramps and a Medusa hairdo, and finally decided just to sleep on it. Maybe the solution would come to me. Maybe I'd feel braver tomorrow.

When I woke the next morning, I took a long look at my couch.
Then I decided to start a blog.
It's two and a half years later and I'm still loving my blog. Unfortunately, however, the couch still looks like this.

I've grown so used to the look that I hardly even see it anymore.

Does this ever happen to you?
You get attracted by a new project, and you dive in full force. Then you get to the part that feels strange and scary, and you abandon it for something more comfortable. Something that looks easier or more fun. Like making a skirt for your dog or a dress for your daughter. Starting a blog or a novel. Or just rearranging your silverware drawer.

Pretty soon you forget about what you've left undone. That is, until your parents come to visit and you catch them looking funny at it, running their fingers along the cardboard strip that's stapled on the outside, wondering if you did that on purpose.

You meant to get back to the couch. You really did. It's just that there are always other things to tackle. Other things that seem more doable and fun.

Do you do this in your inner life too?
I'm guilty.
Maybe someone's hurt us or we've hurt someone else. Maybe there's a weakness we know we need to work on, something we've done or haven't done and we regret it. But instead of dealing with it head on, we move on to other things, things that are easier and suck out less emotional energy. We'll get back to it another day. We'll tackle it when we're not so tired, when we have more time.
Soon, we don't even think about it anymore.

Today I'm praying that God will reveal to me all my unfinished business. (Not in one fell swoop, mind you! That vision would surely send me galloping back to bed, squeezing shut my eyeballs and burying myself under pillows for a week!)
One issue at a time, please, God!

I know that God will do it if I ask. After all,
He reveals deep and hidden things; he knows what lies in darkness, and light dwells with him.
Daniel 2: 21 NIV

And God won't just leave me there, quaking at my mammoth To Do list.
He'll work with me all the way.
For I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength.
Philippians 4: 13, New Living Translation
Thank goodness! Thank God!

What about you?
Do you have unfinished business, DIY and otherwise? What gives you strength to get back to the list?

I've found that sometimes accountability can help, so here goes:
I'm determined to fix that couch before school starts, so I hereby promise you a photo of a finished couch by August 16!
Fifty lashes with a wet noodle for me if I don't post it!

Have a wonder-full Monday, y'all!
Love, Becky

The Perils of Loving a Tomato Picking Dog

My dog picks tomatoes.
I wish I were joking but I'm not.
The first time we found a tomato on our bedroom floor, pocked with doggy teeth marks, we were such proud parents. Did you see what Our Smart Doggy did? He even picked a ripe one! What an amazing pooch, copying us like that!

As we gushed on about his intelligence, Tanner just ducked his head in embarrassment, the same way he does when we catch him stealing crackers off the counter, or when we discover he's spent the afternoon hiding out with a highlighter, turning his entire snout day-glo yellow. He stared at the ground and scratched a paw at the floor, as if to say, "Who, me?"

But as the summer progressed and the tomatoes grew even more delicious and fewer in number, I began to get annoyed. Tomatoes began showing up daily in random places in my house. Another tomato ruined? I began to resent all the Resolve I had to spray when Slobber Dog lost self control and mauled his homemade spaghetti sauce all over the carpet.
This resentment felt faintly familiar.

I pondered it a moment and a light bulb flashed. Yes! This was just like the time he learned to open doors with his doggy paws! We were so proud, at first. That dog had watched us and copied the flick of our hands on the french doors. Wasn't that amazing? We clapped and petted and invited neighbors over to watch. We even took video and posted it on youtube. But then he started letting himself in during a dinner party, grinning at us and waiting for applause. What happened, he seemed to say as I locked him in the den. Why doesn't Mommy let me climb my 90 pound body onto the people's laps? They love me! Everyone does!

I had to feel a little sorry for Slobber Dog. He was just doing what comes naturally.

Yes, Tanner is a master copier. When anybody hugs, he'll cry and bark until we help him stand on his hind legs and join in. (Yes I know, it's a little silly looking. Don't tell anyone.) And that's not the worst of it. We have to keep him inside whenever Todd has to plant anything or else that dog will follow at his heels, digging polka dot holes all over our backyard.

We even planted our tomatoes on an old coffee table, just to keep Tanner out of the dirt.
See?

So how does he pick them? I am still trying to figure it out.
He's a different species, obviously, with no nimble fingers to grasp the fruit, to twist it gently until it falls into his palm. I'm guessing he adapts by using what God gave him, those yards of flexible jowling made for cradling birds, the extra facial skin my middle child calls his glibber.

I've hidden outside with the video camera, hoping to get the heist on tape, but no such luck. I just get hot and sweaty and attacked by bugs, while Tanner stays cool in the AC and watches me from the window. Smart dog.

I guess that's the danger inherent in our natural tendency to imitate. I see it in my kids as well. They may copy my friendliness with the grocery store clerk, but they'll also copy what I say when somebody cuts me off in traffic.
And it's no different with grown ups, I'm afraid.
I'll hang out with my friend Susie, and before you know it I'll have picked up the generous way she listens, making you feel like you're the most important person in the world. Suddenly I've picked up "Hugs to you," typing in her sign off as if I thought of it myself.

But then I'll spend a few moments around negativity, and I'll hear it coming out of my own mouth. What? I didn't want to copy that!
Negativity has no part of the imitation I want to live. I'm a Christian, literally a "little Christ." (Now that's a daunting title, don't you think?! It makes me want to stay locked in the house with my mouth taped shut! ) I want to do what Ephesians instructs:

Be imitators of God, therefore, as dearly loved children and live a life of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.
Ephesians 5:1-2

Live a life of love.
It seems impossible, too big, too ambitious in this world. God is a different species of being. God is so much bigger and greater and full of love than anything I can think of. I'm puny and small and human and weak. I can try my best, but how can I even come close to imitating God?

I can use what God gave me: God in human form, Jesus, the living example. I can study Christ's life and do my best to imitate His love. I can pray for help. And when I fail in my journey, I can cling to grace and try again.

Now, if I can just share the love with my tomato stealing dog. Maybe a short fence around the coffee table garden? As if it doesn't look ridiculous enough!

What helps you in your journey to imitate The One?
And while you're at it, any ideas on tomato crime prevention?

Have a great Wednesday, y'all!
Love, Becky
PS. Here's the video of Tanner showing off. And just so you know, I don't usually talk like a high pitched Snow White. It's my mommy's-got-a-treat-for-you voice. Enjoy!

It's a Dog Party!

Photo from Go Dog. Go! via www.archinect.com
If only the dogs at my party would have been content with checkers and banjo picking!

I hadn't even planned on throwing a dog party, but it happened on Wednesday.
Tanner and I went for a walk, and look who followed us home.

Two friendly dogs wandering the neighborhood. They both had collars and tags, so we invited them into our backyard until their parents could come pick them up.
Our party guests refused to tell me their names so I called this one Sassy...


and this guy Chow Chow.


So what did we do at the party?
There was much sniffing.


And a considerable amount of running around.


Tanner wanted to show his friends the tree house, but he kept confusing things by going down the ladder.


Finally he gave up and went in by himself. (Excuse the unflattering shot.)


Soon the others followed.


After a while, I served refreshments.

Tanner was rude and ate everyone's food. He also hogged the water dish.
I should really send him to cotillion.

After a while, the party took a nasty turn.
It started to rain. The three big dogs got soaking wet and started eyeing the blueberry garden.
Remember it? The twelve bushes Todd planted in the mud pit of anguish and pain?

The clumpy dirt looked so inviting to our guests. Plus, it had all sorts of fun rubbery things sticking out everywhere. Chewy hose-y things that would be delightful to yank.

Mean Old Mommy had to guard the mud pit and yell not so nice things at the guests every time one of them dared to stick in a paw. (So that Mean Old Daddy wouldn't come home from work and have a conniption fit.) So much for Mommy getting any work done that day.

That's okay. The guests didn't mind the party rules too much. But they did beg to bring the celebration indoors.


I mean they really begged.

No way, kiddos.
Now where are their parents? Shouldn't the party be over by now?

Luckily Sam came home from school right when Mommy was starting to come unglued. I mean, she was a bit tired of blueberry guarding and dog sitting.


Mommy wasn't the only one getting grouchy.
Sassy's youthful enthusiasm was starting to get on Tanner's nerves.

There were a few warning yips and snarls.
I think he was just jealous that Sassy was so good at playing fetch. She even understood the part about giving the ball back, which Tanner chooses not to do.
But all in all, a good time was had by everyone.
And after the party was over, there was much of this.

Tanner was zonked.

Apparently Sassy wasn't. Guess who came back yesterday.

Have a great weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky