Grandmas and Trains, Part I

Part 1
We have lived in downtown Villa Rica for three years now....and that has been pretty much three years of bliss. One of the first things I noticed, when we were contemplating putting an offer on this house, was the fact that there's a railroad track running right through the middle of town. Several people asked me if the train would bother me. I would smile and say, "Never!" I am inexplicably linked to many trains in my memory, and they are all good ones. Starting with MawMaw. I had the privilege of two wonderful Grandmothers when I was growing up. They were as different as night and day, but both of them left an indelible place on my heart. I miss them and often get a little misty, wondering if they can see the lives that now blossom because of them. 

MawMaw was my Daddy's mother. She grew up in the South, very, very poor. For most of her life, she had the uncertainty of not knowing for sure if she was going to make it through. She married young, a man who turned out to be less than stellar, a man who neglected his family, drank away the moon, and basically abandoned his post, but they still managed to have eight children together. She would say to me, "You know, I loved that man." She worked in the fields doing manual labor to keep food on the table. My Daddy was the eighth child. When I got pregnant with our third son, Jesse, MawMaw called me up and fussed at me....that I'd end up "an old cow like her, having a baby every other year" (her words). I said to her, "MawMaw, if you had had only seven kids, you wouldn't have had my Daddy and he is the best one and I know you are proud of him." We got off the phone, but she called me back a couple of days later and apologized to me for her harsh words. She remarked that she had never thought about it that way. We had a good laugh and told how much we loved each other. She died peacefully, a coffee cup in her hand and a smile on her face, in her recliner, the very next day. Did she know she was about to leave this world? I don't know. She has blessed me all of my life, even in her sometimes blustery ways, and even though she's not here anymore.

She had an ancient house in downtown Smyrna, more of a shack than a house. I remember it vividly. It had an attic upstairs, where us kids would sleep if we stayed over. There were these impossibly steep stairs, with a room to either side. It was a little spooky, with a hole in the wall going to the nether parts of the house. I was always nervous about that hole, dreaming of the big rats and ghosts that surely lived in there. We would hunker up with our cousins (I had dozens of those), telling stories and playing card games. MawMaw had an old chamber pot, in case you had to go to the restroom in the night. It was a toss-up between negotiating those stairs in the pitch dark and dealing with the pot. Usually you just tried to wait until morning. But the scariest part of sleeping in the attic was the midnight train. The tracks were right next door, and when one came through, the house shook, the windows rattled, and you were certain it had jumped the tracks and was coming through the middle of the house. I remember having that feeling you have in the midst of a scary movie -- a mix of fear, horror and delight. Then relief that you didn't die. 

The railroad tracks next door were a source of immense curiosity to us kids. We would walk on them, lay pennies on them so the train would flatten them (despite well-meaning aunts who would tell us that we would derail the train if we did that), and cross over them to the shopping center that was on the other side. We would scrounge for Coke bottles and take them up to the grocery store, where they'd give us a nickel for every bottle we brought in. We'd then trudge down the road to G.B.'s Diner, which was also right on the tracks, and get triple scoops of ice cream for fifteen cents. The fella would give us gigantic scoops, almost more than the cone would hold. As an adult, I wonder if the guy was feeling sorry for us poor, barefoot urchins who were covered with dirt and sweat from all the playing we had done that day. Either way, those are sweet memories and simple pleasures I will never forget. Our cousin, Joe, was particularly brazen about the trains. He became a legend when he hopped one of them and took off to worlds unknown. My Aunt Ellen whipped out of the yard with her car, sped down Atlanta Road and pulled right onto the tracks and stood on top of her car to make the train stop. It did! What a sassy gal. Thank God for sassy gals.

Men and this economy....

Thinking this morning about what the economy and maybe our culture in general has done to men....

Men need respect as much as they need air..... because if they don't have it, they pretty much wish they were dead. They go into tread-water mode and lose all incentive and traction when they don't have it. As women, we go into hyper-survival mode, in a sense more practical and pragmatic when these things happen. The men tend to squat on their haunches, look into the distance and fog up as much as possible. If the women are not wise, they will completely take over, bowling their man right over, frustrated and angry at his seeming inactivity. He does the things that are opposite to his recovery. She does precisely the things that cause him to stay in his frozen state. Why should he try to compete with this megawatt woman who is suddenly full of spit and fire, who seems to know exactly what they should do? His manhood gets threatened by everything he can see. He insulates himself by going under water, immersing himself into another world where he can't see the real world or hear the yapping of his wife. He is drowning but he doesn't know it, or maybe he doesn't care.

He needs respect, a lot of it. He needs to know he's still a man, despite the accusations repeating incessantly in his head. He needs good, solid work with his hands.

 I see it all around, in this tanked economy, where good men don't have work, where credentials matter more than actual work ethic, where all the rules have changed, where you are rewarded by the government if you just roll over and quit trying. 

I don't know the answers to fixing it. If I did, I could write a book and make a million dollars.

The Funny Farm

When we bought our 1904 Queen Anne Victorian home a few years back, the former owner told us all about the pecans. He said that on many years he made enough from pecan sales to pay his taxes (!) Hurrah! So I have watched these pecan trees, researched about what to do with them, asked the old folks how to properly harvest them, etc. But -- the former owner also warned us about the squirrels. When we were in the process of buying the house, we kept hearing this odd, high-pitched squeal which seemed to be coming from above. We wondered if it was some kind of alarm that had gone haywire. It certainly sounded like an alarm, and put my teeth on edge every time we came onto the property. When Ken's cousin, an old-house-specialist, inspected the property, he went straight up into the attic and turned the noise off. Come to find out, they were "chirpers" that were made to chase off squirrels. For the first time, everything seemed peaceful at the house and I didn't feel like I was in the middle of a Psycho movie. I was very happy to be shed of that noise.

Time has gone by. We moved into the house, unloaded all the boxes, got to painting and decorating... with no evidence of squirrels, much. Our cats killed a few baby ones, but I wasn't hearing anybody squirreling around in the attic. Until yesterday. Now the pecans are in full regalia, starting to plop down on the roof and yard....every time I cross the yard I get several large pocketfuls. And the squirrels know it too. Yesterday, with the weather getting chilly, they knew they better set up camp. So as I am doing my morning reading, I heard the sound of boards being moved. I am not joking. I thought my neighbor across the street was jostling something out of his truck. But no -- it was above my head in the study. Sounded for all the world like boards being moved. We already exorcised all the ghosts and demons, so I knew it had to be the squirrels. This morning, I heard more noise. This time, it sounded like they were digging up there. There is nothing to dig into except insulation. So I guess they've moved the floor boards, dug into the insulation and are now building their condo. 

I got online to find out how to get rid of squirrels. There are several options:
  1) Trap them and relocate them. This means that the squirrels actually have to walk into your trap, supposedly baited with the best peanut butter you can find. This does not work. Apparently, the squirrels are smarter than us and know not to go in there. I was told today, as well, that it is not legal to relocate squirrels. Citizen's arrest?

  2) Shoot them with a pellet gun. We live right in town, with neighbors on all sides. I don't think they'd like it if they look over and I've got a gun sighted in their vicinity. One of the neighbors told me recently that the former owner of this house was visited by the police for nearly whizzing somebody while he was shooting at squirrels. A little morning exercises might do me some good though. I guess it depends on how insane I get about the Visitors in the Attic. Citizen's arrest?

3) Hire some bozos who charge a gozillion dollars to come up and seal up our house and trap the squirrels, relocating them legally. Don't have a gozillion dollars and don't have a whole lot of faith in bozos. 

4) Turn the chirpers back on. Watch Mama finally wind up in the psych ward.

5) Put the cats in the attic. Now I'm kinda likin' that option. I bet they would too. But, then again, ASPCA might be on our tail if they found out. Citizen's arrest?

So since I don't have those formerly mentioned dollars and our options are limited....I guess you'll see me in the papers soon. Hopefully somebody will bail me out.
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Raw Exposure!

The walls that we surround ourselves with.... are they really safe? I have always struggled with fear, for some reason. I have examined that at length, and I now know a lot about fear. For one, my MawMaw and my Daddy have also struggled with fear....and we are like three peas in a pod. Very similar in personality. We are (or were) fractious, fun people who love life and people and all the drama. We're a little bit hypochondriac in our natures, a little over-the-top in our Greek-tragedy-lives, and just love a party. We also fail in our self-control and our tongues, are forgetful, sometimes insensitive to others' needs, and basically undisciplined. We love life. But we fear the loss of it or the fact that yes, we are having a party, but the wolf just might be at the door.

A few years ago, quite a few, I had three bouncing baby boys... we were so busy it was dizzying, but I was loving our life. I would look at those blonde heads and get all misty, I loved them so much. I would often think of Ken's Mom, who died when he was 2-1/2 years old and his baby brother, Kirk, was 5 months old. I would think of the sadness of that, and all that she missed. Ken's grandparents had lost their only child through that, and they were still, all these years later, inconsolable. You never get over those things, really, until heaven. I thought it was horribly sad that Ken never knew anything about his mother. It was as if she vanished into thin air. When I met him, he had no memory of ever seeing a picture of her or even of anyone talking to him about her. 

Somewhere in there, a seed was planted in my brain. My tendency to fear was watered and grew into something irrational. At the time, I had a mystical view of God. I had almost a "second sight" attitude about God.... that we could discern God's will by listening for His voice. That could come through a thought, a "sign," something I read, or maybe just the breeze coming through. I thoroughly believed in the Scriptures, but also thought that God spoke His will through other means. It was sometimes a torment to me, because I would worry that I would miss God's Best if I did not discern what His perfect will was. I would pray, read the Word, pray some more, listening for His voice. I would beg Him to tell me what His will was in different situations. Sometimes I thought I knew, but often I was afraid that I was just going to miss out on His will. I thought it was that mysterious. It was as if He were holding out some unobtainable key, like a carrot, just beyond my reach. But I firmly believed that this was how He operated. Many of the teachings I had been under during my life alluded to this. 

Because of this worldview and because of the (not) handling of Ken's mother's death, I started to have a niggling fear of what would happen if I died with these three little boys to take care of. It started small, then began to grow. Yes, it was irrational. Yes, it might make no sense to anyone else. But to me, it was very real. I began to pray about it, asking God if I were safe. I also was having some physical issues with my stomach that the doctors did not seem to be able to diagnose. (Eventually it was determined that my gallbladder was ill, but in the HMO we were in, it was beneficial to them to keep passing me around rather than test for it.) Meanwhile, I began to worry that I was going to die. Then really worry. Then I began to feel, when I would pray and ask God for a word, that He was telling me that I was about to die soon. This engulfed me with panic and despair. It grew some more. Ken was working night shift and would leave at about 10:30 at night. I would beg him, many nights, not to leave. I knew that he had to go, but I would beg him anyway. The boys would be in bed, and I would lie awake, reading my Bible and praying, getting no relief. I took to taking big swigs of Benadryl so that I could go to sleep and forget about my fears. I would look at my boys playing during the day and become overwhelmed that I was not going to get to see them grow up. 

This was not something that I felt I could talk to people about. They would think I was crazy! And, in some sense, I was. I began casting about, looking for a resource to help me make sense of this. I would be in the grocery store or at church, and would look at other women and think, "Wow.... that must be nice to just go about your life and be normal, to not be afraid." No one really knew how nuts I was going on the inside. I began to talk to Ken about it. Along with this and the physical symptoms I was having, he was so tender to me....it was something God used to bind Ken and I to one another in ways that had not happened before. I began to understand that my husband really, really loved me. His patience and kindness through this still overwhelms me. 

Finally, after months, maybe almost a year of this, I was at my wit's end. I was so sick of living this way and being frozen in limbo, I felt like I might as well die. I was not suicidal yet, but I was at the point of despair where something had to change. I remember the day very clearly. Ken got home that morning at about 8:30 a.m. When he walked in, I told him that I was going to have to find someone to help me with my fear. I could not live this way anymore. I told him that if I didn't get help, he was going to have to put me in the loony bin or something. I was not coping, I was not able to do what I needed to do for the boys or him, and that I was going to try to find some counseling. He asked me what I wanted him to do. I told him to go ahead and go to sleep and that I would wake him up if I needed him. He hugged me for a long time and trawled upstairs to sleep.

I got out the phone book and started calling agencies and ministries. If I had truly been suicidal, I'd have been in trouble. Most of them tried to book me several weeks out. I would tell them, "No! I need help today. You don't understand." But they didn't understand. I didn't want to talk to anyone that I actually knew, because I was afraid they would, again, think I was nuts. After numerous attempts and calls, I finally called Reach Out ministries in Chattanooga. I talked to a wonderful lady there and she recommended I call a fellow in Atlanta, a speaker and counselor whom I had actually heard on numerous occasions. She thought that he could help me. Providentially, when I called his ministry, his secretary said that he had just happened to pop in, but that he only had about 30 minutes before he had to catch a plane. He graciously got on the phone with me and said that he had twenty minutes to talk to me. He could hear the boys making noise all around and asked me to lock myself in the bedroom so I could talk to him. 

I told him my story, from stem to stern (I still wonder if he caught his flight).... he took time to pray before we started. Then he said to me, "This is not nearly as complicated as you might think. Ultimately, fear is sin." He then explained to me that, no matter what happened, even the worst case scenario -- that I indeed might die, that it was imperative that I aggressively give these boys and Ken to the Lord, that I trust God with anything that happens, and that I surrender everything to Him. Meanwhile, I had been trusting these internal "words" from God that I was going to die soon. I needed to rebuke that, to quit listening for some ethereal sign, and to rest in God's providence. He had me pray there with him on the phone, doing those givings and surrenderings, and also confessing my sin of fear. I saw, for the first time, that in some sense I had been setting myself up as God -- prophetess and priestess -- with my all-discerning ear. My fear had grown from a little whisper into a roaring monster, and where I thought I was listening to God, Satan was taking me right down the primrose path. Satan doesn't act like a red beast with a pitchfork like we think. He imitates our ideas of God, whispering, wooing, beckoning....in ways we never imagine. Whereas Satan couldn't get me to cheat on my husband or become an alcoholic or steal candy from babies (hmmmm, maybe it is possible I have done that), he was rendering me ineffective and bound by a simple fear of death, all the while tricking me into thinking he was God. 

I felt like virtual chains were falling off my body and my soul. I was free for the first time in a long time. Some of you have known what I am talking about, be it the day you received salvation or the unbinding of some sin.... but it is palpable, inexplicable. In some sense, now, I see my life as the time before that day and the time after that day. Before that day, I saw God as my personal genie. According to the mystical whim of this God, my life was going good or bad. His will was usually indiscernable, but I was mightily trying to figure it out. What He did for me was according to how well I was working and doing what I was supposed to do. If I'm being honest, I was viewing God as my personal puppet. If I do this, then God will do that. Put this ingredient in, you get that cake. Truth is, God is God. He is not my puppet, He is not my genie. He is not Santa Claus or the fairy godmother. He does what He wants. He has His plans and His plans for me and His people. He loves me and is working all things out for my good and my salvation. Even if it seems bad on this side. Ouch, that is hard to believe. But it is true.

I began to live in a simpler way. I began to rebuke those whisperings and notions. Anything smacking of second sight was sent away. It was a drier, more desert-like place at first. Over time I saw that the Word was clearer, sermons more applicable, prayer more distinct. I could trust the Scriptures, live free, enjoy life without questioning all the undercurrents. God's will was His business and I did not have to figure out what it was in order to get in on it. A few months later, the Lord blessed my womb with another baby, a precious girl. Her middle name is Hope because that's what I was experiencing. I felt that God was showing me the fleshed-out version of Jeremiah 29:11 - "For I know the plans I have for you, plans to give you a hope and a future...." That child, Elizabeth Hope, was pure joy for me as I rested in His plans.

There's an old saying, by St. Augustine (I think) that says, "Love God, then do what you want." At first that sounds like heresy or debauchery. But it's not. It's pretty true. If you only look at the "do what you want" you could miss the "Love God" part. Loving God is what informs the rest of my life. Where my heart wants to worry and fuss and fear, I need to rest in God and in His providence. He can take care of it. And I now know, after all these many years, that He does indeed love me and that I am the apple of His eye. My life, my actions, my deeds, are lived in gratefulness to Him for redeeming me.... not in fear of what might happen if I mess up. 

Big ambitions

I love babies and kids. In a serious way. That's all I ever really wanted to do -- to have a houseful of them, be creative and love my husband forever. There are people who would be disappointed in my lack of ambition. What they don't know is that I set out to change the world. Any mother does that....she changes the world, whether she means to or not. 

I am thankful that all four of our children grew up around a boatload of cousins and friends and babies....and they always have loved babies as well. God loves children. Don't people know that? Jesus fussed at the disciples for shooing the kids away. Any time you read scriptures about the subject of children, the womb, and seed....He's got something important to say about it. God's view of children, throughout, is that they are a blessing. Today's preeminent view is that they are a curse and a burden. They are not. They are our hope and our future. 

Ken and I have always looked forward to the advent of grandchildren. Through many trials and struggles, we now have two grandbabies on the way, one due in March, one in April. We are trying to contain our excitement (well, not too hard) and trying not to be a nuisance to our children. I have a little pair of old, old, old baby overalls that were used by some of our children and my sister, Melanie's, children. I have them hanging under the window. Every time I see them, I pray for those precious little ones being nurtured in their Mamas' wombs and for their Mamas and the Papas too.  God sees those little ones being knit in there and He knows them intimately. It is beyond miraculous what He does to make a person. 

Happy days as we wait, listen to the little heartbeats chugging like freight trains, see images on a screen, pray for them again and again...and again.

I'm kinda likin' this empty nest....

My husband thinks he's on vacation. Yes, he wakes up with the chickens (5 a.m.), exercises, reads his Bible, showers and leaves for work. The man should have been a Marine. He keeps telling me that it feels like we're waking up in a Bed and Breakfast. Funny thing, I can't ever get him to stay in a B&B when we go on our annual anniversary trip. We did that a couple of times and it didn't turn out so well for him. One time, there were some, well, very creepy people who were the owners and we felt a little uncomfortable sleeping in the room below them. Not explaining anything more about that. Then another time, we stayed in a beautiful Victorian B&B and found ourselves eating breakfast with a whole table of vocal and opinionated people from the opposite political persuasion. I found that fun and interesting, but I looked over at Ken and his eggs didn't seem to be digesting very well. He's a very tough dude, but doesn't in actuality like confrontation of any kind. Not to say that he hasn't had a few confrontations in his lifetime. He's had a few....and I'm going to tell you, if you happen to be a part of said confrontation.... not good. Because you are not going to win (unless you are me, of course).  This reminds me of an epic confrontation that happened to our family one year at Six Flags....

We had been waiting in line for some river ride for over two hours. It was hot, everybody was tired, but we were almost there. Our whole family was in line and about to go up a set of stairs to the landing where you got on the boats. Just then, two twenty-something-year-old-looking thugs jumped in front of us in line. I panicked, but then acted like I didn't see them. Not Ken. He leans across the two dudes, pushes them back with his well-muscled arm, and says, "Come on Rosie. Come on kids" as we file past the miscreants. Not leaving well enough alone, Ken announces to the crowd, in a very (very) loud voice, "I don't know about you people, but these guys just broke in line. I've been waiting two hours. My family and I aren't putting up with this." He turned and smiled at them while several more people filed past the criminals. They still were able to slip in front of a family, a few people back. I was  in shock at the amazing audacity of my husband to stand up to these guys. 

We got on the boat and had our (very fun) ride. When we hauled our soaking-wet selves out of the boat, park security was waiting for us. They asked us if we wanted to press charges against those creeps....because they had assaulted us. We were going, "What?!" And then Jesse pipes up and says, "Oh yeah, they threw a handful of money when we got on the boat....and it cut a place in my head." Sure enough, he had a little slice in his head that was bleeding slightly. I couldn't believe he hadn't said a word until then...

We ended up not pressing charges but asked security if they would throw those guys out so we wouldn't have to worry about them for the rest of the day. Jesse was grinning and enjoying his five minutes of notoriety. We were assured that they would be thrown out. 

I am still in shock. Sometimes I think we might die from some random confrontation like this someday, but I can bet it'd take about 30 rounds to get Ken Norton down.....