Small Town Coffee Time

I grew up in a rather small town. The Dutch Maid grocery store tripled as a gas station and a post office. After morning farm chores were finished, the old men used to gather at the Daylight Donuts-without changing their boots. The smell was an intoxicating mixture of confectionary sugar, burnt coffee and cow dung.

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There were no “salons” or “spas” in my hometown. I had my hair cut by a man named Noel at his shop that still sported a swirling red, blue and white barber pole.

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We waved at everyone driving by-especially if we were on a rural road.
And a newcomer was easily recognized for the lack of the “two-finger-lift-while-still-holding-the-steering-wheel” wave.

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That said, Biceps grew up in a town roughly 4% of the size of my town. They have one hanging stoplight-recently switched from a flashing yellow to a full-on green, yellow and red.

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The video store doubles as the town’s tanning headquarters. And there is still no place with Wi-fi when one certain blogger goes to visit. (me).

I miss my small town-I even miss Bicep’s small town. Just a short drive outside of Tulsa, I find a bit of that flavor once again in Muskogee. Biceps began the Fire Academy today and I decided to accompany him on his adventure.

I packed up the laptop, some snacks and threw on my comfy-but-cute shoes. The only free Wi-fi in Muskogee happens to be at McDonald’s-which is also the only coffee shop open before 10am.

After setting up camp in the corner on a hard plastic bench, I noticed a peculiar amount of gray hairs infiltrating the burger joint. This was their coffee shop.

And they knew I didn’t belong. It might have been that I asked for a ‘tall’ cup of coffee. They felt the need to protect their turf, slowly adding me to their circle, to make sure I was on the up and up.

“What’s a pretty girl doing here all alone at this time of day?,” one asks over his shoulder, as if I was at a bar at 2am.
“You look like Cher,” another states on his way to the bathroom.
“Well, Cowboy, what’re ya doing today?”, the first one asks of his buddy who just walked in. “See that girl over there. She’s working hard.”
“I suppose I ought to head to the library,” Cowboy responds, nodding in my direction. “I have a couple overdue books I ought to pay for. I remember the fines used to be a penny a day. Now, they’re probably a dollar. She is working hard. We shouldn’t bother her.”
“Mh-hm,” said my Cher complimenter.
“We don’t want to bother you while yer working so hard on your laptop,” said another. “But did you know that they threw my newspaper away yesterday when I left it for just a minute?” (I did not see the need for this information.)
“They don’t speak English. So he just bought another one,” said Cowboy.

And on and on it went. I couldn’t quit smiling, laughing and being just a bit nostalgic for home. The only thing missing was cow poop on their boots and donuts in hand.

Fun at the Museum

What do you do when you and your best friend drive for two hours to see an amazing museum and then suddenly realize you’ve forgotten your camera? Instead of coming home with beautiful shots of the perfectly landscaped grounds, the overflowing waterfalls and the priceless works of art, you settle for what your iphone can do.

And you do stupid things like stick out your arms behind marble busts of someone famous while no one is looking.

You take great silhouette’s of your friend’s backside when the opportunity affords itself.

You also coerce aforementioned friend to make kissing faces at the installations.

(This is something I’m sure the artist would have wanted you to do.)

The same friend, if she’s got a good head on her shoulders, will sometimes offer her own artistic interpretation of a large Pinocchio without regard to how she may appear to other museum goers.

Of course, anything that reminds either of you of the other, you must pose next to it…

… and mimic it as best as you can.

But, don’t disregard the strangers around you. They may unknowingly offer their legs to a giant head.

And even though you know your photos will be gritty and not “keepers”, you have the most fun of your life with your BFF-because any time with her is a good time.

Regardless if you come home with fancy photos or not-you have at least fuzzy photos of the fun had by all.

Wine, Brothers and Cowboy Boots

Biceps has had his hands full with either firemen training classes, interviews with fire chiefs, or playing and practicing the drums for a new church. The man is an animal that just won’t quit.

Needless, to say-I’ve had a bit of free time.

Baby brother invited me out for a night on the town and there was no way I was turning this opportunity down.

I actually applied makeup, shaved my legs and did my hair. It was a big night.

He took me to Girouard Winery in downtown Tulsa, of all places. Daniel likes a sweeter wine, I like dry-but of course we shared our samplers with the other.

During the course of our sharing adult beverages, I realized I was an adult. I didn’t have to wear yoga pants 24/7. Jeans are good, too.

As with any wine tour-the history, the grapes, the aromas were aptly described while some of us sober ones paid attention.

And, as with any winery in Oklahoma, most of those participating in the tour had a particular style of footwear.

The night was perfect, the conversation couldn’t have been better and the wine was delicious. The next time brother and I go out, I might even order the cheese plate and really live it up.

I’m just that crazy.

I will rise early and praise You.

My favorite time of the day is the early morning: the quietness of the world is calming to my own heart, the coffee is percolating-reinforcing that my home is my home, and the cats are a little frisky, but not overly frisky. They are just frisky enough to humor me.

My head is clear from yesterday’s worries. I may sit in bed for a few more minutes after Bicep’s has vacated the house, sip on my coffee and spend time with my God.

But, if the sunrise is too ridiculously awesome, I will hurriedly strap on my running shoes and a hoodie to begin my early morning run.

I take each mile to chat with God about someone in my family or in my circle of influence. It keeps my mind off of what I’m doing and helps me to focus on others, instead of myself.

He reminds me during our morning chats that He was around when the Romans built this. And, He was there to watch it crumble.

He was there when the Germans built this. And, He watched it fall.

He’s received millions into His kingdom, but hasn’t forgotten a single one of their names. Nor has He forgotten my name, or the names of those who don’t believe and He desperately wants to know.

He can be in my home, chatting it up with me while I cook dinner, or out on my runs, or when I hide in the closet because I’m frustrated. He never leaves me nor forsakes me.

And, He knows all my dirt and He’s forgiven me. And I have some dirt-just ask around.

He forgave me. Little old, tiny Tulsa girl, me.

He gave himself to be sacrificed in the most horrific way-beaten, flesh torn apart, humiliated, abandoned, and left for dead-so that I can be washed clean and be in His resurrected presence.
And he did this for you, too. And that person you don’t like very much. And that irritating slower-than-snot cashier at the grocery store.

That’s why I will rise early, with joy and praise Him. I can’t imagine living any other way.