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Tell Me You Love Me

5/14/2015

(BY Maryanne Tuck Grimmett)

With my main man at Mount Rushmore, September 2013

Putting up hay in Greybull, WY, July 2014

Tell me you love me. Not with what you say but with what you do.

Swing by the gas station and fill up my tank so that I don’t have to because you know that pumping gas is practically my least favorite thing ever (first world problems).

When I lock my keys in my car for the fifteenth time, drive forty-five minutes to unlock it. And when you get there, instead of lecturing me on forgetfulness, make me laugh with cheesy pickup lines.

When I finally come out of the bedroom, after thirty minutes of trying on and discarding outfits that no longer fit, pretend you don’t notice that my face is all broken out and just say, “You look so pretty today.”

Go to the store, pick up all the supplies, lock me out of the kitchen, and make me chocolate covered strawberries all by yourself as a sweet surprise.

Within minutes of finishing up a long distance spat over inconsequential things, send me a goofy text message overloaded with inside jokes spelled out in ridiculous emoticons.

Split a candy bar with me and give me the bigger half just because you know your huge sacrifice will crack me up.

Tell me my very first scratch-made chocolate cake is really something, and wait until you’re sure I’m not looking before you throw the rest your slice in the trash.

Thank me for making dinner and then hop up to clear the table and do the dishes before I can get to it.

Take pottery classes, not necessarily because you're just dying to, but so that you know enough to converse about and participate in one of the great loves of my life. And to top it off, actually get good enough to make incredible pieces.

Tell me you love me. Not with what you say but with what you do.

College National Finals Rodeo, Casper, WY, June 2014

Beartooth Mountains, Montana, August 2014

Pottery Class at Appalachian State University. No joke, the boy is quite a potter!

Weirdos

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Them Sexy Post Hole Diggers

5/13/2015

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We’ve had the privilege of living in and even just visiting a lot of different places. But, until recently, I had never been to a small animal auction in Wilbar, North Carolina. I didn’t know what I was missing.

Immediately upon entering the huge barn, I noticed a couple things. First, the snack trailer’s menu posted on the wall, featuring corn dogs, hot dogs, nachos, and Rolaids. (The Rolaids seemed a little pricey to me.) Secondly, my skinny jeans and scarf looked ridiculous in a sea of Carhartt and bibbed overalls. As I sat and shivered, everyone else was warm, snug, and well insulated. In that moment, I would’ve traded my favorite curling iron for a flannel shirt.

But I settled in for a good time, and a good time indeed I had. The animal auction was preceded by a junk sale (their words, not mine). And through this auction, spurred on by fast and hard bidding, tripped a myriad of fascinating articles—everything from Windex to men’s underwear (an 8-pack of Hanes with only one pair missing). As each item was auctioned, a worker held it up for all to see.

And then, to the wonder of us all, the auctioneers pulled out the grand prize, the most coveted item of the night…a barely used post hole digger. And not just any post hole digger. This smokin’ set came with a heavy duty gear box and driveline, a bolt-in replaceable spiral point, high strength tubing, and a collar for additional durability. Yeah.

As can be expected, the entire crowd gasped, reverently and in perfect unison. For a moment, no one dared to speak, until the lady in front of me broke the spell, emphatically proclaiming to the woman next to her, “Them is some sex-xy post hole diggers.” Her friend nodded in vehement agreement, “Mmmmm-hmmm!”

And that’s when I lost it. And that’s when BJ started elbowing me in the ribs. “Stop it!” he hissed, “She’s gonna beat the crap out of you, and then I’ll have to fight her.” His point was duly taken, for she was a substantial woman who could certainly hold her own against any man.

Call me crazy, but in that moment, my very soul filled to the top and bubbled over with joy. To be honest, the small animal auction wasn’t exactly my scene. I would’ve felt more comfortable munching popcorn at the movies with my girlfriends or discussing Jane Austen with fellow English nerds. But I was getting a glimpse of something new, another mini-culture within my own little world. To be sure, it was different. But I’ve come to learn that different is neither better nor worse. It’s just different. And if we’re privileged enough to experience different, we need to be grateful and soak up every moment.

I’ve been reminded so often lately (but still not nearly enough): “Whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.” (James 4:14) This life, this precious life is fragile. Like the heirloom cake platter from my grandma that, so sadly, got broken in one of our moves, this life can shatter in just a moment. It’s also fleeting. It goes from start to finish in a blur, in constant fast forward with no option to pause. And, as simplistic as it sounds, life is final. When it’s done, it’s done. No do-overs, no second chances, no recalls.

So we must live each day like it’s both our first and last, embracing the moments (silly, substantial, or otherwise) with gratitude because we so keenly understand that we aren’t guaranteed any more. This crazy, random, ridiculous, eventful, uneventfullife become precious when we remember that it’s fragile, it’s fleeting, and it’s final.

Sadly, I couldn't talk my husband into buying me a sheep. But I did win the bid on a pair of antique ladder back chairs. When I see them, I smile and remember them sexy post hole diggers and wonder how they’re hanging in there.

North Carolina is full of super cool folks, but this lady right here takes the cake. Vinnie, who still makes and sells quilts at the Ashe County Farmer's Market, turned 98 this year. She rocks.

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Happy Mother's Day (From The One With No Kiddos)

5/10/2015

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My incredible best friend Sandra with Chance, one of her three sweet kids.

My sister and soulmate Melissa with beautiful Marilyn, who first made me an aunt.

As a 31-year-old woman with no children of my own, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to observe you incredible women. All of you. And this is what I see…

Moms of young children, I see you. I see you getting by on three hours of sleep for year-long stretches at a time. I see you never going to the bathroom alone because you’ve always got a toddler with you, and you don’t want to waste an opportune teaching moment (“See Mommy pee? This is how big girls use the potty!”). I’m proud of you, for you are the most selfless and vital creature in all of society. You have the beautiful, overwhelming, underappreciated, amazing task of training tiny human beings to function in this world, and you do it well.

Moms of teenagers, I see you. I see you biting your tongue when your 13-year-old snaps at you in public because you, whether she realizes it or not, are teaching her grace and civility. I see you wearing your old shoes for one more year so that your son can have the cleats he needs. I see you juggling orthodontist appointments, basketball schedules, piano recitals, SAT tests, and social studies fairs. I’m proud of you, for you are holding the world together with a smile on your face and a huge purse full of everyone’s things but yours. You truly make the world go round.

Moms of grown children, I see you. I see you mastering the roles of both mother and friend, both counselor and cheerleader. I see you sharing your precious baby with spouses, in laws, and employers. I see you rejoicing in the long distance phone calls, weekend visits, and every-other-Christmases. I see you magically seeming to know when to hold on and when to let go, when to speak and when to stay silent, when to intervene and when to step back. I’m proud of you for being the North Star that always guides your babies home. You bridge the past and the future by beautifying the present.

Moms who’ve endured the death of a child, I see you. I see you mourning the birthdays and holidays that will never be celebrated. I see you fiercely, beautifully protecting the memory of your child. I see you navigating the world with grace and strength, even though your very soul is crushed and laid bare. I’m proud of you, for you exhibit the strongest evidence in the world of unconditional, unchanging, unending love. You are a phoenix who will rise from the ashes and continue to spin brokenness into beauty.

Moms of wayward children, I see you. I see you loving and serving, even when it’s hard and heartbreaking. I see you believing the best, despite evidence to the contrary. I see you praying, always praying, for God to bless and protect not just the person your child is today, but the person he or she is destined to become. I’m proud of you for choosing forgiveness over bitterness, hope over defeat, and the future over the past. Your gift to the world is perhaps the most necessary of all, that of second chances.

Moms who've miscarried and women who are longing for a baby, I see you. I see you gracefully disregarding your own pain to host other people’s baby showers. I see you fighting back tears but still sincerely celebrating the births of your friends’ children. I see you silently marking the birthdays that would have been or will never be. I’m proud of you for bravely facing down repeated sorrow with the sole, selfless motive of giving the precious gift of life to another person. You, in the midst of personal heartbreak, are the epitome of heroism, strength, and dignity.

And I see you, the ones who, with no children of your own, intentionally invest in other people’s kids. I see you choosing to view not having kids as an opportunity to impart excess support. I see you, rather than hording your time and talents, freely giving them, and with a special capacity for doing so. I see you expending your emotional, spiritual, and physical resources, gladly sharing simply because it’s a pleasure to do so. I’m proud of you, for although you know you have no claim on anyone’s affections or future, you choose to invest anyway, expecting nothing in return. You care deeply and love generously, and you’re thankful for the opportunity to pour a little extra into the children around you.

All of you, I see you. Your kindness, generosity, strength, and beauty do not go unnoticed. It’s a pleasure and a privilege watching you do this thing called love so well. You represent the very best parts of humanity, and the world could use a lot more of you. From me to you...big hugs, high fives, and happy Mother’s Day.

My sister-in-law (and one of the world's best moms) Erica with Bella and Kiersten, two of the great loves of my life.

My mother-in-law Gina, who has always loved me like her own.

My mom, Nora Tuck, the most incredible human being I've ever known.

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That's My Mom

5/10/2015

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Leonora Cruz Tuck. When Iook at my crazy, funny, smiling Mom, sometimes I forget that her childhood and mine were drastically different. Born and raised in the Philippines, she didn’t have electricity or running water. Instead, she washed her clothes by hand and studied by the light of a homemade oil lamp. Not that she complained. In fact, she was grateful, for homework was hard to come by. Unlike in the US, where we have free public education, in the Philippines you pay to go to elementary, middle, and high school. And although she, her parents, and twelve brothers and sisters had plenty of love to go around, they didn’t have a lot of money, and there was just no way they could afford for all of them to go to school. So, they pulled together and worked hard, sacrificing to make their dreams a reality. Even as a young child, my mom took in laundry and worked as a seamstress so that she and her younger brothers and sisters could get an education. That’s my Mom.

Once, on our way to visit our family in Michigan, we made a late night stop at a gas station in Toledo, Ohio. I was waiting in line to pay for snacks and watching through the window as my Mom waltzed across the parking lot. “Son of a Preacher Man” was playing on the radio, and Mom threw open the door, singing as she did. A twenty-something guy happened to walk in right behind her. Assuming it was my Dad or BJ, she immediately backed up against him and starting breaking it down. The guy didn’t miss a beat—he danced right along. After a glance backward revealed it was a complete stranger, Mom just grinned and kept on dancing. I watched in utter amazement as she shared this hilarious moment with a random stranger. Meanwhile, my Dad and BJ were practically convulsing in laughter. When the song ended, she and the guy smiled and went their separate ways. That’s my Mom.

A couple years ago, I ordered a bridesmaid’s dress a size too small, and I stood in front of a mirror trying to magically squeeze myself inside. I sucked in while my sister pulled and my Mom pushed. It still wasn’t happening (not by a long shot). And, to make matters tragic, it was the night before the wedding, and there was just no way to round up a different size. So, Mom did what she always does—she saved the day, by staying up all night and taking apart that dress seam by seam and putting it back together. She labored from dusk to dawn to make that dress a full size bigger, and not even the folks at David’s Bridal would have been able to tell the difference. That’s my Mom.

My sister and I often remark that we wish we had Mom’s energy. Most days, she does Zumba and runs twenty laps up and down the stairs. And THEN she works all day. For as long as I can remember, she’s always been this way. And I suppose it’s a good thing, or she never would’ve survived chasing after five kids and dozens of their friends, all of whom crashed our house on the weekends. She never batted an eye at the piles of teenagers filling up her house. Instead, she threw together vats of chili and flipped mile-high stacks of pancakes, reasoning that it was better for her kids to be at home where she could keep an eye on them, even if it meant entertaining thirty extra kids. That’s my Mom.

Just a couple weeks before we moved to Wyoming, I stopped at a store in Rainelle, WV to pick up some wrapping paper. The cashier took one look at me and paid me one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received when she declared, “You MUST be one of Nora’s girls.” I was proud to respond, “Yes!” My Mom is the kindest, most generous person I’ve ever known. She serves Jesus and others. She is hardworking, resourceful, and loyal. She is smart and spunky, vibrant, beautiful, and strong. She is fun and funny and spontaneous. She is creative and confident and extremely capable. She can shoot a gun, milk a goat, speak two languages, talk to anyone, make strangers laugh, feed a crowd, rock a baseball cap, get any plant to grow, draw, sing, and dance. She is everything I want to be, and then some. That’s my Mom, one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy! I love you, love you, love you!

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Tell Me You Love Me

(BY Maryanne Tuck Grimmett)

Them Sexy Post Hole Diggers

Happy Mother's Day (From The One With No Kiddos)

That's My Mom

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