Memorial Day

Yesterday was Memorial Day.  The unofficial kick-off to another scorching summer here in South Florida.  People enjoyed the day outside: swimming, boating, and grilling.  The pool at our complex was full of soggy, loud children flaring foam noodles around and their even louder Hispanic parents singing along to the Spanish music on blaring a thumping boom box. There was food, laughter, music, and just all around good times had by all.  When I was a kid, I do not recall swimming or grilling on Memorial Day--that was usually reserved for the 4th of July or Labor Day.  In fact, my Memorial Day was vastly different.

My mother lost her father to a heart attack on June 15, 1991.  He was only 62 years old.  I was 5 years old and visiting Lebanon for the first time with my Dad and little brother.  My Papa passed away early into our trip overseas.  Since my brother and I were young and because my parents wanted to perserve our happiness a little while longer, they did not tell us about his death until we returned to the United States.  By then my Papa had been buried for close to a month.

The first thing I asked for when my Mom picked us up from the airport was Nana and Papa.  I was acccustomed to seeing my grandparents every day. As you can imagine, my little heart broke when my Mom told me I couldn't see Papa anymore.  Ever since then, Memorial Day was dedicated to my Papa.  He was a veteran and a hardcore patriot. 

My fondest memory of my Papa is of him teaching us how to properly fold the American flag.  Every single day without fail he proudly raised his American flag on a flag pole that stood strong in my grandparent's front yard.  Each evening after supper, he would go outside and take the flag down.  He made sure the flag never flew at night or in the rain, and it NEVER, EVER touched the ground.  To this day when I see a tattered flag flying above a random parking lot I cringe. Don't they know you shouldn't fly a destroyed American flag?  If I see an American flag getting soaked in the rain, I get annoyed.  Obviously, not everyone has/had a Papa as good as mine

Memorial Day as a kid meant visiting Papa's grave.  My Mom and Nana would have already made an arrangment of fake, red flowers to clip to the top of Papa's grave.  We would empty the cement vases on each side of his stone and replace them with fresh flowers.  Every Memorial Day, my Papa's grave was beautiful, proud, and patriotic just like him.

Now we live in Florida which means I am unable to visit the Oklahoma grave where my Papa, and now my Nana, rest.  I pray that a distant relative or another kind soul replaces the old flowers with something fresh each Memorial Day.  Either way, I think of my Papa and his old school values.  I am thankful he had the chance to pass them on to me.

Product of My Raising

I was born in Native America, where the buffalo roam and country singers are manufactured.  Oklahoma is an area that isn’t too easy to classify since it seems to sit in the middle of the country or limbo.  No one really knows whether to refer to Oklahoma a southern or mid-western state.  That age old question is right up there with the chicken and the egg.  Whatever you may believe, I know that I was raised with a Southern state of mind with some minor Native American influences. 

I wasn’t raised with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I definitely didn’t want for nothing.  We lived in a house without wheels and always had shiny, new toys to destroy.  My brother and I were wild kids who spent entire summer days outside selling watered-down lemonade, wearing out our bike tires, and collecting bugs to top the mud pie we made especially for our mean neighbor.   Although we never had the guts to serve that mean old lady mud pie, we were fearless children who learned many lessons the hard way and had the boo-boos and scrapped knees to prove it.

Unlike most Southern households, religion did not play a huge role in our lives.  We knew about God and believed in Him.  Like any other snot-nose kid we knew the words to ‘Jesus loves me’ and ‘He’s got the whole world in His hands’.  We said our prayers at night and when I was alone I had conversations with my deceased grandfather.  We may not have understood what people meant when they spoke about the wrath of God, but we were well aware of the wrath of our own father or the scorn of our mother when we did something terribly wrong.   We learned to be seen and not heard.  We were taught to say ma’am and sir to every person who looked old enough to drive a car.  We smiled politely and always said thank you.  In other words, my parents taught us how to be respectful, polite little humans.

Today, I still use ma’am and sir when answering or speaking to anyone.  I open doors for others.  I offer a helping hand, because it is the right thing to do, not because I expect something in return.

The Native American influences come from neighbors, friends, and the Union School system.  Schools in Oklahoma teach students more about Indian tribes than anything else.  And why shouldn’t they when Oklahoma has approximately 19 different Indian tribes .  As always, the school sticks strictly to the boooooring facts and dates—you know textbook stuff.  Needless to say, most of that information is gone with the wind, but that doesn’t matter.  I learned the essentials from my Native American friend Summer.  Summer and her older sister lived around the corner from me in a small reddish house.  The sisters had light copper skin, and dark, straight locks that Summer usually wore back in a long braid.  Summer’s father was a large man who I at the time swore must have starred as the Chief in Peter Pan.  He wore his hair the same way as Summer, in a long braid down his back, and always had boots on his enormous feet.  He was a stern man with few words, but taught his daughters many lessons about the land.  Summer taught me those lessons on long summer days when it was too hot to do anything but lay under a shade tree.  She taught me how to catch bees without getting stung, and how to listen to the ground for footsteps.   The most valuable lesson Summer taught me was about respecting and loving the Earth.  I remember walking the neighborhood with Summer and  picking up trash out of ditches and yards.  She would get so upset about the scattered trash that you would have thought her puppy ran away. As a six-year old I did not completely understand how she felt, but today that memory is one I cherish. The love Summer displayed for the Earth has never left me.  Her passion for sunshine, nature, and animals is something I know I will carry forever in my heart.

So even though I am still trying to figure out who I am, I can say with confidence that I am a product of my raising.

Finding Sarah

The previous blog post was my failed attempt at gracefully diving head first into the blogging world, but somewhere along the way I clumsily tripped resulting in a belly-busting flop.   Story of my life, really.

I guess when starting a blog one should properly introduce oneself.  I’m Sarah.  I’m 26 years old and I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.  To be honest, I don’t even know what I want for dinner tonight.  I’m just a small town girl living in...Miami.  As if finding myself in tiny town wasn’t difficult enough, now I am just one of the masses in a mega metropolitan. GREAT!

Other than basic facts about myself, the sad truth is that I don’t really know who I am.  That part I need to figure out.  I need to figure out how to figure it out.    And so it seems my blog is born. 

Mira, Mira!

Life is pretty hilarious. Hilarious in that one minute you are belly-laughing and the next you’re crying your eyes out all over the same thing.

Never, ever in a million years did I imagine myself in South Florida.  I laugh when it's Christmas and I am wearing a sun dress, contemplating lying out by the pool as I watch a flock of parrots fly by my window.  I cry when I want to go 1.5 miles to the grocery store and it takes 45 minutes to get through traffic and park just for a gallon of milk.

When I lived in Mississippi I came up with a list called 'What I've Learned Living in the South".

I guess it is time to come up with one for Miami...so here goes nothing...

What I’ve Learned Living WAY DOWN SOUTH in MIAMI...

--Welcome to Northern Cuba or Northern South America...you are in the closest country to the United States.
--Middle fingers are used more than blinkers while driving.
--I-95 is hell on Earth. 
--"MIRA MIRA MIRA"...
--Everyone has a Hispanic accent...even the red-headed white guy in Wranglers. Don't try to make sense of it.
--Southern charm and hospitality doesn't travel this far south.
--Love bugs don't either.
--Without ever stepping foot out of your vehicle you can buy a cold bottle of water, fresh flowers, churros, or a solar charged dancing flower for your car's dashboard.  Talk about conveniences.
--Expensive phone+expensive car+ expensive nights out = probably still lives with parents at age 30.
--Miami is one giant breeding ground for shopping centers.  They are like bunnies that just keep multiplying.  Each shopping center will more than likely contain the following: a nail salon, a Subway, a self-serve yogurt shop, and a barber shop.
--Zombies do exist.
--Wal*Mart can close and lock its doors…at 10pm to be exact. Who knew?!

To be continued….