service with a smile

I have a little wooden chair. It's blue, with a blue and yellow pad on it. It looks a little .... beat up. But I bought it at a yard sale, hoping to fix it up and use it for a photo shoot for Gracelyn, my niece (see photos below).

Anyway, I don't need anything fancy. Just something yellow, and something that would cover the wood and dark blue paint. So I headed to WalMart. I scanned the paint aisle looking for just the right product, but I had questions. The brand of paint I wanted didn't exactly just come out and say whether it was flat, semi-gloss, or something else.

I've learned to loathe customer service, or the lack thereof. It seems like you either get unresponsive "help", or you get a bunch of sales pitches that you're not interested in. Salespeople are either too eager and pushy, or simply uncaring.

But not Mr. I-Care-About-Your-Yellow-Passion-Paint Guy. Nooo. After I told him my concerns about the paint I had chosen, he took the can from me, and said "May I please see your paint sample?"

I handed it to him.

"I want the Yellow Passion color."

He nodded his approval, and began studying the paint can along with the color swatch.

"Well," he said with shaking fingers, "Looks like you'll need a little different can if you want the semi-gloss."

"Okay," I said. "Which one would I need? And where would I find it?"

He smiled, and said, "Oh, you don't need to worry about that. I have your color swatch. I'll get the paint. You just come back in about five minutes and it'll all be ready for ya'."

There was no condemnation for being less than a paint expert. No unwillingness to help me. No sighing. No attempt to sell me a bigger, more expensive can. Just servanthood. A desire to help me get the exact color and shine that I wanted out of that little can of paint. And he was willing to put one foot in front of the other and do the work for me, while I finished the rest of my shopping.

The two amazing things about this experience?

1. I was at WalMart. Need I say more?

2.  He was old. His gait was slow, his eyes were failing, and his hands shook. But he took the time to let me know  that I was the only person in that store at that moment. I was the one that mattered, who was in need.

I found myself wanting to follow him around instead of finish my shopping, but thought that might make him feel a little awkward. So I wheeled my cart around, gathered the rest of my items, then came back just as the paint was done in the paint stirrer.

He took it out of the machine, opened the can, and dipped a piece of paper in the paint. Then he swiped it across the top of the can, took out a purple blow dryer (*Snort!), and blow dried it so that none of it would get on my blue tanktop.

He set it on the counter, and slid it towards me. Then he handed me a paint stick to stir it with once I got home, smiled at me, and said, "There you are, little lady. Have a great day."

"Thank you," I replied, thinking that I could indeed mark this day in my journal as "great."

Not only did I get my yellow passion, semi-gloss paint. But I got it with a smile.

God bless that old man at the WalMart paint counter, and all that follow his example across America.

the gift of goosebumps

Last night, I sat in my purple, frayed lawn chair as I watched Andrew pitch a seven inning game. The sun was out, the mountains in the background were unbelievably beautiful, and my son was having an awesome game. I didn't think it could get any better.

It was the first warm game of the season. But if you've ever experienced Colorado weather, you know it can change in a flash.

The weather remained calm, the wind kept its distance, and it seemed everyone was having the time of their lives. But then the sun went behind the mountains. It was still pleasant enough, and to most folks, it was a relief from the glaring sunshine.

But I shivered and slipped my fleece jacket on, and wondered if I'd eventually need the other three jackets or the wool blanket that I faithfully bring to each game. If the wind picked up, or clouds began to roll over the top of the mountains, I would eventually don each and every winter good I brought, and wish for more.

I continued watching the game.

"Who would have ever thought I should have brought a jacket?" I heard a shaky voice behind me say.

I turned to see an old lady sitting four bleachers up. I'd never seen her before. I later came to realize that she was likely our catcher's grandmother. She was quite thin, with stark white hair. Even though it was warm when she arrived, she wore a long sleeve sweat suit and tennis shoes.

I knew then that we possessed a common trait - the inability to stay warm.

I stole another glance at her. Her body was arched over, arms and legs crossed to keep the warmth in. Her smile was broad, revealing a road map of wrinkles as she watched her grandson catch my son's pitches.

I smiled too. But my smile quickly turned upside down and I felt a pang of guilt. After all, I was sitting comfortably with my jacket butttoned up to my neck, two jackets resting on the back of my chair, and a wool blanket under my toosh. Not to mention my husbands jacket lying on the ground next to me.

I'm too shy, I thought.

Chicken!

I ignored the accusation and went on watching the game. The wind picked up a bit. I shivered, and again I remembered the lady behind me.

I stole another glance at her.

Still hunched over. Still cold. Still smiling.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I hate being cold, and I knew it happened just as easily to her as it does to me. Everyone else seemed warm and comfortable. I was the only one who knew how she felt. And I was the only one who could help her.

I pryed my sorry, shy tooshy off the purple, tattered lawn chair, and grabbed a jacket that I was sure would completely cover her. I slowly made my way up the bleachers, trying to stay out of people's view of the game. I wrapped the jacket around her shoulders, and said, "I can't stand to see you over here shivering when I have all those jackets just sitting there waiting to be used."

I made sure the jacket was snug.

She smiled at me, and the lines in the map grew deeper.

"Thank you so much. I should have thought to bring something for myself."

"Well, you're new here," I assured her. "I've learned to come prepared, even when the weather is beautiful."

She seemed happy with that response, and even happier that she could sit and watch the game, goosebump free.

I, however, was not goosebump free - a gift given to me not by the weather, but by her pricelss look of gratefulness.

How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in your life you will have been all of these. ~George Washington Carver

You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

first shave

I remember my first shave.

No, I do not have a mustache. Although, I know women who do.

I mean my first leg shave. I was young (but hairy). My father's nickname is Hair Bag, and well ... you draw the conclusion.

The day was a scorcher (yes, we have those in Colorado). My brother's and I went to the pool for an afternoon swim. They were decked out in their manly trousers, with uber hairy legs and arms. I was decked out my turquoise one-piece - with uber hairy legs and arms. It was straight. It was black. And it was long.


Still, I was just a little girl, at the age of eleven. What did I care about shaving legs?


None at all, until that day.


Peer pressure and relentless teasing will do strange things to pubescent kids. Some go so far as to get wild piercings or not eat, putting their health and the sanity of their parents at risk. Fortunately, the only thing at risk here was some wiry leg hair, and my pride.


Later that day, I asked my mom if I could shave. I didn't have a razor, and even if I did, I'd be afraid I'd cut myself and then she'd be mad at me when I bled all over the carpet and didn't ask for permission. Mom liked us to ask permission for everything. Even if we wanted to eat a few snack crackers.


Still, Mom was pretty observant. She knew my father was half monkey and that I had inadvertently inherited the trait, even though my chromosomes cried for different circumstances. She agreed to let me shave, if I promised I'd be careful, clean the razor, and keep up the shaving once I started.


"It's gross when people have already started shaving their legs and don't keep up with the task," she scolded me like I had already committed the offense.


No problem, Mom. I think the man jokes were enough to keep me shaving every day until the day I die.


My first shave consisted of opening a pack of new razor blades, and inserting it into the old fashioned razor. With fear and trepidation, I ran the new razor across my scrawny, hair infested legs.


Oooouuuuuchhhh!!!


With more fear and trepidation (and wisdom), I lathered up my scrawny, less hair infested legs and proceeded. One hot water heater of water later, I began to look like a model (or so I hoped). Silky, smooth, white skin came shining through. Afterwards, I dabbed some of Mom's Johnson & Johnson baby lotion on.


I was a new creature.


One that couldn't be laughed at and referred to as an ape. One that was just like her peers, which so often becomes an adolescent's goal.


I guess for men, it's different. Having ugly, wiry hair is cool.

Studly.

Bursting with testosterone.

It  means you've reached the pinnacle of manhood. In womanhood, it means that you've reached the pinnacle of cooeyness.


I'll be the first to say that Andrew does indeed have a (slight) need to shave. And he didn't shave because of any teasing, or peer pressure. No, he shaved out of a pure desire to be a studly man. Like his dad, his new brother-in-law, and his brother-in-law to be.


You may have gathered that from the sparkle in his eyes.




Even so ... whatever you do, son, don't care too much about what other people think. Care what God thinks about you. Be a God pleaser, not a man pleaser. The kids at the pool, they only care about making you look small so that they can look big. God cares about what's best for you.


Perhaps the hard school of knocks is the only way a kid can learn these things. But if you can at all learn a thing or two from your mom, let this be one of them.

Colossians 1:-9-14


For this reason we also, since the day we heard it, do not cease to pray for you, and to ask that you may be filled with the knowledge of His will in all wisdom and spiritual understanding; that you may walk worthy of the Lord, fully pleasing Him, being fruitful in every good work and increasing in the knowledge of God; strengthened with all might, according to His glorious power, for all patience and longsuffering with joy; giving thanks to the Father who has qualified us to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in the light. He has delivered us from the power of darkness and conveyed us into the kingdom of the Son of His love, in whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins.


~Brenda, the clean shaven mama on the Prairie

Prairie Playtime!

Much Prairie Playtime took place yesterday, but not only is it playtime for the little ones ... it's playtime for me ... with my new camera.

Mwaaaahhahahahahhahahaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm in the process of trying to resize the photos so that they show up better here on Prairie Tales (and trying to figure a way to get them looking as good here as they do on my computer). But until then, I couldn't wait to show you my top three favorite photos I took yesterday at our big family gathering for Ashlee's birthday.

Niece Kylie, looking gorgeous as always ...

Niece Meghan, aka gypsy girl.

"Did you get a new camera, Mom?"

And a few snapshots of Ashlee (and my niece Emily), on her 19th (GULP!) birthday.

Love, love, love that girl!!



Happy Birthday, sweetie!!!

~Brenda

Confident Clerk

I ran to the market to get a few supplies to last me until Friday, aka grocery day. Milk, bag of chips, hair spray, donuts. You know, all the really important stuff you can't live without. Jessie also needed cough medicine.

I went through the self check out lane. It means you are less likely to have to speak with people, and I'm shy. Remember?

I scanned the chips, donuts, and milk. Next was the cough syrup.

"Please show your ID to the attendant," the computer blared at me.

Blank stare.

Then I remembered that cough syrup is being used by some hoodlums to create a certain drug. I want to say it's meth, but I don't know for sure.

Anyway, I began fishing for my ID.

I didn't even get my wallet out before the attendant rushed up to save me the trouble.

"That's ok, miss. You're good to go."

Another blank stare.

Good to go??!

"What? I don't even look as though I could be in the neighborhood of 18?" I wanted to ask. I could have stopped him and asked what it was that brought him to this conclusion. But I didn't. He was young. And I am not - apparently. Good to know.

I came home and told Jessie about it in my best "can you believe it" voice. Her only response was to slowly twiddle a few gray hairs, suggesting they may have been the cause of said clerk's confidence in age determination.

Perhaps Miss Clairol and I should become acquainted.

Perhaps Confident Clerk will offer to walk me out to my car next time (they do that for old folk).

Does a Miss Clairol purchase require ID? Any drugs that are being manufactured from that? If so, do they make you look younger?

~Brenda <----middle aged, and learning to be ok with that