Monday, December 14, 2015

And I thought "Up in Smoke" was just an expression...

Poetic justice. That oft-spoken phrase, is often a fact of life. And my life, usually lived like a Greek tragedy or at least a redneck siren song, seems to see it fairly often.

I'm not bitter about this story I'm about to tell. It's just one of those things that can happen when you are self-employed. I have to say, God has been merciful to me and as far as I know, this was the only time someone did me wrong when they went to pay me for a job. I've had virtually hundreds of other jobs where I was paid. Even if it was late, I've always gotten paid what I quoted. Except this day...

This one started with a strangely-located house. It was being built close to the road, with another home almost right behind it. The neighborhood had average-to-lower priced homes. But this one was a palace, compared to the others. It was quaint, one-of-a-kind, with beautiful and unique siding. The hand-crafted front door was flanked by real gas-burning lanterns. When I first saw the house, it was not finished, but it also had to be one of the most resplendent domiciles I'd ever seen. The master bathroom was reminiscent of a Roman bath....a shower that seemed to be 20 x 6 feet, with showerheads coming out from every angle. Tile and marble with custom designs. A massive soaking tub in the middle of the room. A bank of cabinets on either side of the gargantuan territory, one slew of 'em for him, one pile of 'em for her. The bathroom alone was about the size of our first house, and certainly cost more than that little shanty did. 

The job that she wanted me to do included whitewashing two giant antique doors for the master suite that she had had shipped from Paris or somewhere on another shore. I was a little nervous about it because they seemed awfully statuesque and important, you know, coming from France and all. I wasn't sure how long it would take, but I knew it wouldn't be more than a day, so I gave her my day-rate price, plus materials. 

The day arrived for me to work on the doors. I brought my paints and muscles and started the job. These doors were massive, maybe eight feet high. Simply gorgeous. I was having a great time, humming away, when I heard two dogs barking and fighting in the basement. Except they weren't dogs. They were the owners of the house. I don't know that I have ever heard two people go at it that unashamedly in my entire life. I waited for a gun to go off but it never did. Some time went by. The lady came upstairs and asked me if I would also paint a medallion, way up on the ceiling of her (quite high) foyer, after I got through with the doors. I said okay and proceeded to precariously hang off the top step of my ladder to get the deed done. I cleaned up and got ready to leave. She put a check in my hand for 1/3 of what I quoted her for the doors (not even mentioning the materials or the extra medallion that I painted). She said that she didn't have any more money for me and that her husband was mad at her for hiring me in the first place (hence the fight down in the bowels of the house?) I asked her when she could pay the rest and she said there would be no "rest." That was it. Take it or leave it. Wow. 

All I could think was two thoughts: well, at least she paid me something. And, man, I better not tell Ken. I quickly cashed the check and pondered the mysteries of life, money and people with eyes too big for their stomachs. 

Time went by. A good deal of time. I got a call for a large faux finish job around the corner from the palace. As my daughter and I rounded the curve in the road, we saw what was left of it: a stone foundation and black soot and ashes from where it had burnt to the ground. All that splendid stuff, up in smoke. When we asked our new client about what had happened, she said that the owners had burned it down themselves and they were now in jail for arson. Oh. My. Word.

There's really not enough words for that. But suffice it to say, that foundation has been sitting there like a sad, scalded soul for many years. I very recently listed a house down the road from it and saw that someone had started rebuilding it. With the same house plan. So my guess is that they've paid their debt to society and are starting over. I don't know. I hope that somewhere over these last pages of time and through the difficulties of consequences, they found peace and that they were able to stay together. 'Cause that's some redneck Greek tragedy right there. 

Sunday, December 13, 2015

The God of Christmas

We live in a media-sodden time, where we are saturated with the latest news and technology. Every kind of entertainment imaginable is at our fingertips. Tonight I'm thinking about the season we are in -- Christmas and the coming New Year. We are bombarded with twin messages of perpetual hope and terrorists blowing up cities. We see all sorts of beautiful, meaningful videos of people doing compassionate things for others. In the next, we are getting locked and loaded to prepare for the coming apocalypse and civil war. 

It seems to be our nature to live like pendulums, swinging from one extreme to another. There is good, bad, ugly, and everything in between. Some decry God, because there is so much evil in the world. The next group denies the fact that man can be evil -- and says we're all just victims of varying stripes. I see people that sugar-coat themselves in cloaks of seeming goodness, and then we discover that they are living dual lives that completely oppose what they say with their mouths. Then still others that don't even try to disguise their basest instincts and simply live like wild hedonists.

When I talk to people along my way, I am frequently told that they are Christians. They go to church, they said a magic prayer when they were 8, walked an aisle. They say they're doing pretty good, so they guess God will let them in when they show up at the pearly gates. They haven't murdered anyone, they try to be a good citizen, pay their taxes, take their turn at grocery aisles. 

Is this all there is? 

When I read the Scriptures, this is not what I observe. I see traitors, adulterers, cheaters, frauds, murderers and some really bad folk, along with a few amazing ones. And such were some of us. God apparently doesn't discriminate about who He has included in that hallowed tome. He puts all of them in there, really embarrassing ones too. If you dig deep, though, there's reasons for it and a larger message than is usually seen at first glance. It just kills me when people pick random verses out to prove a point. You need to embrace the whole book, to really understand. 

And that's what I've been thinking about, these last few weeks of holiday stress, coupled with sickness and too much work piled up. Under these circumstances, my icky self shows itself in new, delightful ways. Hurried, sick, overstretched, over-committed, under-funded, unattended house and laundry... then somebody lobs several containers of Christmas decorations on the living room rug. I can see dog hair floating through the air (she's chewing herself to pieces) and nobody's told my hormones to quit throwing gasoline on the fire. I go from sweating bullets to freezing in ten minute increments. Night and day. So what comes to the surface? All my sweet sugar thoughts of perpetual hope. Now I really am lying. 

Nope. This is when I see and experience the enduring goodness of God. Because He knows what the heart, my heart, is capable of. I am a sinner. A cracked miscreant who came here yelling and screaming and still wants to default to that same modus operandi. I think I'm pretty good, until I muse upon those infamous ten commandments. In some fashion or another, I've broken most of those, if not all. So is my scale tipping just enough that my good outweighs my bad? Really? I want to think so. In the end I know that even my thoughts have cracks in them. 

But this is hope: He came in the form of a sinless baby, child, man. He was God and man, all wrapped up in one. Perfection. God humbled Himself and became a man, and then gave His life as payment, redemption, for the sins of His people. So now I'm not standing in my own stead or my own limp imitation of perfection. He's standing in for me. His life, His death, His resurrection. I trusted Him when I was a child, and I'm never going to be perfect this side of heaven. I mess up, well, all the time. That doesn't excuse it. I don't live my life excusing my behavior or my sin because I've got a pass. But I do live my life now in a place of gratefulness....knowing that any good that I do, He is doing it through and in spite of, me. That's what the Christmas baby is really about.


Sunday, December 6, 2015

A Moment in Time

I have heard it said that the most important words in any visit or meeting are done in the last few minutes. I believe this might be true. 

With the flurry that is the holidays, there are meetings, parties, visits.... it's a stressful, fun, hectic time. Depression often emerges. We think of our relatives who are no longer here. Poignant times that we can't re-live. Or bad times that we don't want to re-live but can't help but rewind in our mind. Then there's always the weight of finding the money to buy gifts and all the compulsory trinkets (and foods) that go along with the season. And the worst part: syncing schedules with everybody else to actually make an event happen.

One such occurrence transpired this weekend for us -- our Norton family Christmas party. It used to be a simple affair, Christmas day. Everybody brought food and gifts. And my side, the Slates, was always on Christmas Eve. But now there are multiple marriages and grandchildren that have bloomed from the tree. This year we did the Nortons way early, December 5th, so that there might be a possibility of half of us getting there. After much wrangling, it happened. My sister-in-law worked her fingers to the bone to arrange it and get most of the food there. We all arrived in our Ugly Sweaters. There were those few minutes that occur at any party, where there is some awkwardness as we reacquaint and pass around hugs and greetings. Then the food happens and everyone begins to loosen. The presents are opened, children are bouncing gleefully about. Cake and coffee later, people are shedding their sweaters and their inhibitions. The conversations begin to relax, the walls start coming down. We quit caring what anyone else thinks and start being ourselves again. There comes that special moment when joy begins seeping through the room. The place is buzzing with numerous conversations and I sense an overarching sense of gratefulness, a letting go of self and a receiving of each other. Yes, here we are. Warts, spare tires lopping over our belts, wrinkles, love handles, pimples, gray hairs, forgetfulness, babies crying, old and young all mixed together. Wasn't it yesterday that my babies were the ones needing diapers and a nap? And now I'm one of the older ones, needing a minute to readjust my joints when I first stand up. 

We visit heartily for a good while, then suddenly the announcement is made that we have to clean up and leave, because another party is coming behind us. The whole gang whips the place into shape in a few minutes and then we all start hugging and kissing our goodbyes. If there's something to say, you have to say it quick. There's a general consensus of not wanting it to end. It took us a lot of planning, buying, driving, and arranging to make this happen. But in the end, it's actually only a brief window of clarity and warmth that hangs over the group. A summary of all the buzz and tinsel that conspired to get us here. Sometimes in this life, that's all we get. A brief window. 

It's in these times that I try to force my ever-moving mouth closed and look around in awe at those that God put in my life. Savor it. Savor them. Let go of stupid, petty thoughts and hurts. Really hug them, no holding back. Tell them what I would tell them if I never got to see them again. I don't always do that. But I should. 

In the end, much of my running about, my work and livelihood, doesn't produce those kinds of precious moments. But the fact is, I still have to work, try, produce, clean, show up, make or save money somehow...I don't have the option of just coasting or just enjoying. But if I don't stop and relish the moment and the people, stop and listen, stop and love....then all the other things don't mean a thing. Carpe diem. Seize the day.

Friday, November 27, 2015

Thanksgiving from the Couch

There is truly nothing like being sick during the holidays. It started with a dry little cough at our wind ensemble concert on Tuesday night. Luckily I had a container of water which was guzzled in short order. But it wasn't over. The little tickle grew to a cough on Wednesday, when my whole family was coming over for Thanksgiving dinner. I plied myself with medicine, but the roar was there by the time I climbed into bed. I've now had two whole days of coughing up my lungs, and as luck would have it, all the doctors took off the day after Thanksgiving. Probably sleeping that tryptophan out of their systems. Meanwhile, I think I have either cracked or sprung my ribs out of their proper places. 

When sickness takes over the body, a whole lot goes out the window. I had two jobs today which didn't happen. I meant to call one of my clients about his listing, but he beat me to it because I was comatose in a big comfy chair. I needed to deliver paperwork and scan and send stuff. Didn't happen. I laid on the couch all day and all evening, watching reruns of What Not To Wear. As If I Care. Normally my numerous Christmas trees are decorated by now and we are cleaning up the bits of glitter and greenery that fall everywhere. But nope. I walked (staggered) the dog out tonight with my wild hair and no pants on and noticed that my neighbors have their decorations up. What is going to happen to us if I don't haul that paraphernalia out of the barn? You know how it is when you're sick -- you wonder if you'll ever do anything again. Am I the only one who gets mad for not appreciating life before, when I wasn't sick? I denounce myself for all the poundage that makes hauling this carcass off the couch that much harder. I'm gonna work on that before I get sick again, I am. 

Meanwhile, my grown kids and grandkids are all busy elsewhere with their lives tonight, Liz is gone for the evening and Ken retired early since he has to go to work before daybreak. Here I sit, alone, in my icky shirt, no pants, with seemingly busted ribs and no gumption to do anything but breathe in and out. If that. Makes me reckon about death. Because there will come a day that I won't be able to order my body to do anything and it will finally surrender itself to the gravity. People don't like to talk about it, but it's a huge fact that's going to happen to all of us. So on a night when I am feeling like that might just be a good thing, I am thinking of the Lord's goodness, of how in His mercy He called this family to Him. There's much bantering back and forth in our current environment, from doubters, haters, unbelievers, atheists that hate God and His people (and would indeed blow them up). When I consider the grace that He has showered on me through the thick and thin that is this world, I cannot help but love and trust Him. I have said it many times and I fully believe this -- if it were not for the grace of God, I would be in a gutter somewhere. That's where my sin's conclusions would take me and worse. I told my niece Olivia that and she laughed and said, "Oh Aunt Rose, no!" But yes, it is true. His goodness fills the heart and overwhelms us with His nature. It's inexplicable. 

So with my sprung ribs, stuffed head, leaking nose and leaden behind, I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving, even though I'll really be glad when it's over.

Friday, November 20, 2015

Blood, sweat, tears and a good teacher

Della T. Pearson. I will never forget her name or her face. She was my fifth grade teacher. Back then, you had one teacher for all your subjects. She was tough and strong, with a quick wit and a killer throwing arm. This was 1970 and the world was changing. She was a stout black woman in a nearly all-white elementary school in the suburbs of Atlanta.

The first day of school that year was epic. As we sat in our assigned seats, she told us that she would not be calling us by our first names, but by our last names. So for that year, my name was "Slate." She barely smiled that first few weeks and laid out the rules and what she expected from us. I was a little scared. I also noticed that the worst boys from my grade were in this class. The big, bad, tall ones that made everybody nervous. For some reason, she had them all sitting near the back. Apparently she wasn't afraid of them. There was a huge, long paddle resting on her desk, with holes drilled into it, and a hefty red rubber ball next to it. She also had a staple gun, something I had never seen before. Curious.

We all quickly learned that in Mrs. Pearson's class, you were expected to behave and you would behave or face the consequences. The incorrigible boys tried a few things, a few times, but her unorthodox discipline methods immediately earned their respect. I feel certain that she was always inheriting the lost kids. She was quick with the paddle, leaving the door slightly ajar when she took a wayward child into the hall to spank. She did not have to do it often....we all decided it was better to cooperate. I remember when my friend, Susan, who was a spoiled only-child and had a mouth like a sieve, smarted off at her with her nose in the air and a chunky hand on her hip. Mrs. Pearson was on her like a panther. With our mouths agape, we watched as she marched that sassy gal into the hall and gave her a new badge of humility. The first time one of the bad boys disrespected her from the back of the room, I felt the wind from that red rubber ball as it whizzed past my face straight to the head of the wayward boy. I am laughing now, remembering the shock and awe from the whole classroom. I wonder what today's parents would do with her brazen disregard for all those poor little childrens' psyches? 

What I haven't told yet is the fact that this woman profoundly altered our lives. She, looking down at you with her half-glasses and enough spunk to wither a volcano, had a heart of gold. She truly cared about her students, enough to take them down a rough and rocky road and then to teach them to soar to the heights. She was a math genius. She passed out big, fat, red notebooks (red was her favorite) during our first math class. She taught us Algebra in the fifth grade. She told us to keep our red notebooks and never throw them away. As we toiled away that year, filling those accursed pages with all of her magic tricks, we had a resource that helped us even into high school. 

She taught us poetry, both how to read it and how to write it. Shakespeare. She made us read "To Kill A Mockingbird." In the fifth grade. She took us to the Atlanta Symphony, which changed me forever. We did artwork. Science. Studied the Renaissance. We had to learn "To Dream the Impossible Dream" -- a song from The Man of LaMancha - and sing it for the whole school. She drilled us like she was a military sergeant and then taught us the finer things of life, leading us to the edges of what is beautiful and cultured in this world.

I feared and revered her, but I especially loved her. 

She pulled stuff out of me I didn't know was in there and expected me to rise to greater places. She taught me to take pride in doing things myself, without whining or expecting someone else to help. I was in the fifth grade, ten years old...that time before the hormones start to confuse the world.  There is an innocence that you never quite find again after that. This was the zenith of my life before the onslaught of that hellish place in life: middle school. She built on the foundations I had been blessed to have been raised with, but she didn't presume upon them. She called all of us to dig deep and find a way to press out more than we thought we could. 

It's a place of strength and beauty that I hark back to, that year with Mrs. Pearson. She made me understand that I could do way more than I imagined. That the road to doing something well was usually and often paved with pain and difficulty, but was also worth it. And that to dream the impossible dream was just the beginning...

Sunday, November 15, 2015

Hug Em While You Can

When my husband and I married, a few dozen years ago, we had numerous sets of grandparents still alive. The real problem with that began hitting the fan when the holidays rolled around. On a typical Thanksgiving or Christmas, we had 3-4 feasts that we were expected to participate in. I didn't (and still don't) have a clue what the word "no" means, or "let's take turns." We would drive 2-1/2 hours to Lincolnton and Thomson, Georgia, have two Thanksgivings there, then drive home and have another one at Ken's parents....and then have another one the next day at my folks' house. Somewhere in there we would visit his other grandparents in Marietta. Then Christmas came and it was even more complicated, particularly when we started popping out progeny. I remember one epic Thanksgiving. Ken's Grandmama Babe fed our firstborn son about two boxes, not joking, of Vanilla Wafers, behind my back. In the space of four hours. I didn't realize how many of those things a human can eat, until we experienced something akin to a lava flow, a golden brown one, in the back seat on our way back home to our third Thanksgiving dinner. This from a child who had never eaten anything with sugar in it, at least not from his Mama's hand. I had a lot to learn.

There's never so much fussing as a great-grandmother does over a child. They are way too far removed from child-rearing to be giving advice, at least when it comes to food. But they also don't care what anybody thinks anymore, so you get the full brunt of it. As a new parent, your insides are still quivering about all the decisions and responsibilities. You want to prove that you can do it all, though you're pretty sure you're messing it up. But nobody better tell you that. I remember my guts being in turmoil any time I had to parade my culinary prowess and parenting skills in the same visit. Which was pretty much any visit. The baby was always too cold, too hot, chugged up, crying too much, I wasn't feeding him enough or I was feeding him too much. I didn't bring what I was supposed to bring to the soiree or I forgot or I didn't ask the right question and just brought what I fixed. Or brought what was easy. There was no way to win this Wonder Woman event.

Now that I am a Yaya, time has mostly erased the hard parts of being a young Mama. It's easy to stand back on the hill and remember with fogged-over eyes how much I loved my babies, how I fed them right and disciplined them so well. I mean, look at those babies now - they're full grown, responsible adults starting to raise their own children. They're strong, healthy and even potty-trained. So with that fuzzy memory of what was difficult about it, I'm also thinking of how I miss those grandparents that I fussed about back then. How I'd give anything to ask their advice, to quiz them about things that I never bothered to find out. I assumed they'd always be here, because for all I knew, they arrived before the dawn of time. But this must be the way of it, that God doesn't inform us about what the future is, to know what we know now. The rhythm of time and the seasons turn over the earth of our souls. What was then is simply hard to believe. How did we do it? Where did that girl go? How did I forget her? 

She's wrapped up, like so many threads in a garment. A tapestry garment, with crazy-quilt squares and garish knots. It can get ugly. As the world turns, there are fresh crops of expectations from all sides. I thought that somewhere in there, I'd get a free guilt pass. But no. And then it dawned on me. That is exactly why all the Grandmamas, Grandmas, great-Grandmamas, Nanas, Mimis and Yayas love their grandchildren so passionately, even when they can't do everything they'd like to do for them. They realize that all the casseroles, turkeys, gumdrops, money and everybody's silly presumptions and opinions are a bunch of hooey when it comes to that baby. There's a whole lot that just gets thrown out the window. Yaya (or whatever she gets called) looks deep in those sweet bunny eyes and says its me and you kid against the world. And that baby knows it.

There's nothing like Grandmama love, when you know she loves you even if you commit a felony. In fact, it might be why you don't.

Saturday, November 7, 2015

Learning Dis-tract-abilities

After many years of wrestling with a brain that both likes to dream and think about lots of things but then misfires and forgets the most mundane of specifics...I discovered that I have a condition called ADOS. Attention Deficit Oooohhh Shiny. This is a real condition, where the brain never fully leaves behind certain behaviors from childhood. It manifests in rabbit-trail conversations, where one can be discussing the mystery of Luther's leaving the Catholic faith to start the Reformation and marry a nun, then jumps the track completely to admiring the exquisite handmade necklace my neighbor has on. Many nights, I wake up with myriads of thoughts churning in my head and then can't get back to hibernating. They say that your brain works on sussing out solutions to your thoughts and problems while you are asleep. I wish I could go back to the netherworlds of dark, sweet slumber and just dream and figure everything out without having to actually be conscious of it. Life is a maze of puzzles, connections, people, problems, solutions, and then, not. They say that without a plan, things are just happening TO you. And you're not making change in the world. I don't know if that's true. I think it may be more like we're in a big boat, traveling the seas of this life. We're trying to navigate ...we've got a map, a rudder, sails, a crew...but the weather keeps changing and the waves tend to swamp our silly plans. Which reminds me of one of my favorite passages in Mark that talks about Jesus sleeping through the storm, then stopping it dead in its tracks and him telling the disciples they don't have enough faith. I love that.  It's his humanness and his God-ness in one fell swoop.

I like storms, but only when I'm safe and dry and warm. The idea and thrill of it is exciting. But not when you're out there soaked to the skin and anticipating lightning bolts any moment. I guess what I'm doing here is summing up my last three weeks of writing and thoughts... We can try to make our lives snug, buttoned-up and free of danger, particularly people-danger. It's our nature to want it to be that way. The difficulties of relationships, confrontation and actually walking through problems rather than walking around them can be more perilous than any thunderstorm. There are so many distractions right there at our fingertips: work, a bottle, entertainment, the internet and its images, gadgets, games, a bowl of cookie dough. All that stuff can be more comforting than actual living and working it out. I've been navigating marriage with the same (very patient) dude for nigh thirty-four years and still have days that I don't know how to ask for what I need without starting a hell-cat-fight.

I'm very much the freakout queen, always shrieking about the tornadoes swirling around me. I embrace life like a wide-eyed child but in the next breath I fear death. Then I remember his words to that ghastly storm. I think about him sleeping on that pillow and I can't help but laugh, thinking about those disciples flipping out. They must be my relatives. God says a lot about being still, a whole lot of times. I want to avoid that, substitute for that, distract for that. ADOS. But it's in the still, small voice that is on the other side of the wind that I finally find peace.



Friday, October 30, 2015

I Am NOT Competitive!

Sco-crares. That's what our son, Daniel, used to call scarecrows when he was little. He also would call anything resembling a skeleton a "serious man." Why do you call them that, Daniel? Well Mama, have you ever seen one?! So with him in mind, I endeavored to make a scarecrow for Villa Rica's annual contest, for the company I work with, Southern Homes and Land Realty. But what does a real estate agent scarecrow look like? I imagined her holding a phone to her ear, a briefcase in one hand, wearing her professional duds and lookin' spiffy. That just seemed boring. Then I mused about a country real estate girl dressed in overalls. But every scarecrow looks like that. Then it hit me....

Some of my favorite phrases are:
"I'll think about it tomorrow." "After all, tomorrow is another day." "Well fiddle-dee-dee." "Rhett, the Yankees are comin'!" "Whateva shall I do?!" And then I thought about Miss Scarlett and her love of the land (which incidentally, I love too, along with the smell of sawdust and fresh sheetrock)....and her Daddy's admonishment: "Land. It's the only thing that lasts." So that led to remembering about when Scarlett conspired to trick Rhett into paying the taxes on Tara. The Yankees had taken everything valuable from the house....except those gorgeous green drapes hanging in the parlor. Which led to....remembering when Carol Burnett did a Gone With the Wind spoof. She tore down the curtains, ran up the stairs and then descended with them transformed into a dress, complete with a curtain rod sticking out from her shoulders and tassels in her hair. It's one of the times in my life where I nearly got sick from laughing so hard. Hence, my inspiration....

I haunted the thrift stores in Villa Rica and dug through piles of fabric, curtains and bedspreads. I was able to find tassels, green fabric, curtain rods and a black wig to make a semblance of ole' Scarlett. I reincarnated her into a real estate agent, with a big honkin' curtain rod and the proclamation, "Buy land, it's the only thing that lasts!" I had the bright idea to use a pumpkin for her head. Painted it creamy white and put big crazy green eyes on it. With a twist of genius, I plopped it on top of a headless mannequin, dressed her and proceeded to put her in my van. But I forgot about the gravity. The head met the pavement with a sickening splat. I put the whole thing up anyway outside our office: Scarlett O'Scary with the cracked head. I left for Home Depot and bought another pumpkin. Rewind, with no mishaps this time, but her eyes were definitely bigger. We left that day and were gone for a week. We got back and drove by Southern Homes and Land. There in all her glory was Scarlett the Headless. No head, just a body and a wig. While we were away she apparently breezed through another role: Scarlett the Zombie (With the Rotted Head). I surrendered and bought a styrofoam head from the craft store. Painted her up once again (third time's a charm and her eyes are enormous now) and snuck up there after hours with my husband to help me. We rigged her up with enough pins and wire to ground a lightning rod. I got insanely busy these last two weeks and didn't pay any attention to her until I noticed her listing to the east, with her head lolling onto her shoulder.  I told Ken I was done with trying to make that dumb scarecrow work and that they already did the contest judging anyway so why in the sam hill would I care if her head fell clean off at this point?

But then. I read that the contest judging was tomorrow morning. I had already worked and eaten myself into a 10:00 television-watching-stupor when I realized this fact. Ken said to just get up with the sunrise and fix her. I cannot tell you how evil that man can be about the crack of dawn. He jumps up like a squirrel on steroids. Every. Single. Day. Not me. I knew that if I waited 'til morning, it would never happen. So I put on my tackiest pink Crocs and started sloshing out the door. Ken grabbed his hat and said I'm coming too. With a spool of wire, a fistful of hat pins and some twine, we tethered and pinned her poor head back to her body and double-jacked her to the lamp post. 

I never saw my life going this way. Tacky, clandestine, dark-ops missions to downtown Villa Rica in the middle of the night. Weird preoccupations with winning gaudy ribbons. Dreaming about all the different ways I can decorate a mannequin. I'm tellin' ya, I thank God I got a fella that jumps right in the pond with me. But I dang sure better win that contest...

Saturday, October 24, 2015

Dangerous Creatures and Thirsty People

My son, the traveling one, read my last article and had lots of questions: "Mom, what do you mean? All the stuff about Disney? You need to write another article explaining yourself." He has always had a quadrillion questions about everything. His first sentence was: "What's that?!" He would pester us until he was satisfied with an answer. God's sense of humor came back around on him, with a 2-year old darling daughter whose first sentence and persistent curiosity are identical to his. So, thanks Jon, for making me think again...

Disney, Disney, Disney. Is my diatribe against them, really? No, I don't hate Disney. Yes, I'll admit I hate a lot of their political agendas and their insistence on making their princesses out of airbrushed Playboy bunnies and how that (now) most of the men in their stories are bumbling idiots or bad guys (I guess they're just mirroring the current attitudes about men in TV and advertising). A normal, healthy family can't be found in their stories and usually parents are as stupid as those leading men. Think about it. I guess I have to admit that's a diatribe. And that would make me a curmudgeon. 

Do I hate Mickey and the Magic Kingdom? No. But it's like so many things in our culture... I think you can enjoy things, like a cute cartoon or a movie or a comic book. We can laugh at something funny or read a fluffy book just for entertainment. What I think is wrong, however, is letting these things lead us. Or define us. That we don't ponder the deeper things in life, that we don't question the message behind the fluff. Are there subtle things that are undermining our basic ideals and morals? Do we care?

We need to be living mindfully, not just moseying along life's river, oblivious to the alligators lurking under the surface. Because they are there. And they have eaten many of us and many of our children. And there's that other creature: lemmings. In my earlier article, I referred to lemmings....little rodents. They occasionally do a strange thing -- they will gather in large groups and then begin running, faster and faster. They move as one, picking up other lemmings along the way. When they are confronted with a cliff or a body of water, they pay no heed and scamper, pell-mell, right off the cliff or into the water, to their deaths. This is what I see happening to our young people. So many of them are running life's races being led by their peers, not by their parents. Our culture is saturated with messages that parents, and men in particular, are weak and stupid and not worth listening to. So where are they getting their wisdom? God? Themselves? Their parents? Their teachers? With the advent of so much technology, media and instant gratification, we are getting farther and farther away from the serenity that comes from the simple act of thinking. We don't even have to reason anymore....our answers are only a few keystrokes away. 

So my beef isn't with Disney, per se. Disney is a corporation made up of some very savvy business people and a boatload of amazingly creative mortals. They've made a whole universe of fantasy that takes us away from reality for awhile and entertains the masses. But even as creative and beautiful a world as they have constructed, there are walls to it. I was sitting on a bench at Disney Downtown (basically a giant outdoor mall with 10,000 reasons to buy overpriced cute stuff and food) in front of a shop that had decorative things for your house. Yes, you can buy Disney things for the kitchen. I was amazed at the lack of creativity in that particular store. Of all places, this should be over the top. Even with all their creativity, it was constrained by the brand and the trademark. 

Now I sound like a gripey old lady who doesn't want to have fun. Quite the contrary. We live in an amazing world, in a basically still-free country, where the possibilities are endless. God made us, and intended us to enjoy and delight in this world. Technology is changing, expanding at an exponential rate, and keeping up with it is challenging. But with all this, there comes a price. It takes us being intentional to move beyond the fireworks and sparkles, to keep our humanness and relationships meaningful. I have recently gone to events where most of the people were immersed in their phones, not talking or reaching out to one another, and certainly not talking to the strangers. Tragic. Because I have found, in my inquisitive years, that everyone has a story, a life, and something they care about. Each individual matters. But if our eyes and minds are immersed in our phones and locked onto only our canned little worlds and peers, we will miss the one passing us by. Or sitting beside us on the bus. Or dying next door.

It really gets down to God. It's becoming fashionable to be an atheist or an agnostic. If there's no God, hey, nothing matters anyway. We're just bags of chemicals trying to survive and get us some. We're so smart, thinking ourselves to be God, we are becoming fools. In the spin I'm hearing all around, it often gets said that no one can prove the existence of God and there's no way to know if he is real. Have you looked at the intricate wings on a ladybug, the sweet eyes of a baby staring back at you, the wind and rain, the moon lining up at just the right gravitational juncture to keep the tides at bay, the exquisite dance of man, beast and nature that keeps the circles of life circling? I can hold up a simple, empty Coca-Cola bottle and no one would ever believe that it just made itself. How much more do the untold fathoms of details and designs that make up this insanely complex world prove that it was planned and that it has a grand purpose? God is here. Our sin is here. We need redemption and He sent it in Christ. Our cracked selves and imperfect world need a Savior. There's no amount of technology and entertainment that can fix that. But there's a Well in the wilderness who can. Cry out to Him while it is still day.




Thursday, October 15, 2015

Fairy Dust and Fireflies

We got the luxurious opportunity to visit our son and his wife and baby this last week. He is making the rounds, traveling and doing construction jobs all over the country. This one landed them in Orlando, the land of all things Disney. We had a wonderful time at SeaWorld and strolling through the shops. But I couldn't help but wonder...

Do I dare step in this pile?

I grew up in the 60s and 70s. Disney for our family was that few moments on Sunday night when we saw the show coming on TV. Us kids were hoping Mama and Daddy wouldn't notice that it was time to leave for church and maybe we might get to actually watch it. But alas, usually we headed out the door. I loved to see Tinkerbell waving her wand over the castle and all that fairy dust going everywhere. Our family didn't have the means to actually visit Disney or even see all the movies. Our vacations were more in the mode of visiting relatives and tent camping on Lake Allatoona. 

You might think I would be sad. Or bitter. I never got to visit Mickey. But I'm not. Maybe it was the fact that we saw very little of those Disney shows on Sunday nights. Or that it wasn't advertised as heavily back then. Most probably, it was because we had a relationally-rich childhood full of heavenly-scented, newly-mown grass to run in, fireflies all around in damp, heady romps in the woods, the bittersweet bite of wild, ripe muscadines, truckloads of books from library trips in the summer, trips to Grandmas who thought you hung the moon, and sticky days running barefoot with siblings and cousins. Who needed Disney? Life was simpler, cheaper, with less expectations and more fulfillment. Instant gratification was limited to getting that one little drop of goodie out of a honeysuckle blossom. I'm not (that) old yet, and this wasn't that long ago. I'm afraid our fantastic bouquet of technology is making us into zombies (read: walking dead). 

Our oldest child is 31 years old. When we birthed our four babies, I was already seeing the writing on the wall -- that outside stimulation and technology was beginning to overtake us. What I always hated about even the simplest TV was that hoards of people could all sit in the same room and stare at it, not talking, eating mindlessly, living vicariously through silly sitcoms that were way more exciting than actual life. In one show, you can cram days and weeks into one concentrated 20-minute episode. Real life can seem mighty sluggish in comparison. There have been studies done on what happens to our brains when a TV is on. Basically: nothing. We are entertained and don't have to think or process much. No wonder it's so easy to get hooked on it. And so hard to let go of it. I am just as guilty as anyone. In my dreams, though, I wish we could throw the things away and start over. 

I tried valiantly, however, with my kids. I limited their TV time to when their Dad was home and watching sports or special movies. We didn't buy them video games or high tech toys. I remember being scolded by people because we didn't have a computer or cellphones for many years. We moved out to the country and I shooed them out the door for entertainment. They grew up in the trees and woods, a world similar to my childhood. We homeschooled them, because I wanted them to think for themselves and not be led by their peers like lemmings over the cliff. Did this yield perfect adults or Mayberry in Douglasville? I'd like to think so, but naw....we're all still perfectly cracked humans. Still, I'm thankful that we resisted the onslaught and that they had an old-school upbringing.

There's always ominous reports, no matter what universe you live in, controversies and dire predictions that threaten to destroy the world. Sometimes horrible things happen. Countries get bombed, droughts and plagues and tsunamis hit. We could have an EMP attack (a deliberate burst of energy that could disrupt the electrical grid and cripple NORAD's ability to defend the nation). There are whole websites and fantastic movies dedicated to the notion, where we could be thrown back into the Stone Ages instantly. Fireflies and muscadines wouldn't look so romantic then. Some people say "Prepare!" and others say "Baloney!" 

I think I'm too tired to prepare, so I'd just have to go out with the first wave. 

Either way, better to have lived, really lived, than to exist in a Disney bubble, no matter how cute, fun and entertaining it might be. Please don't hate me.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Halloween and the Zombie in the Basement


I am a big, fluffy gal, and if you didn’t know me well, you might not know that I can whup anybody at painting.  I love paint fumes and the soothing flow of a paint roller.  There is just something about a fresh coat of paint that clears your mind and renews your soul.  I’ve always wondered why it is that many of the painters I run across, both residential and artistic, seem to be alcoholics as well as very “soulish” people.  We gather at the contractor’s desk at Sherwin Williams and ruminate about colors and painting techniques.  Old crusty guys with vaporous breath seem to have a kinship with me.  It must have something to do with the soul of an artist and inhaling deeply. I've been able to avoid the substance abuse, but maybe I'm compensating with food...

An age ago, we lived in a camper (not a trailer) for two years and built a home (ourselves, with our own hands...don't you forget it) on five acres in Douglas County. When it came time to waterproof the basement, I was the gal for the job.  When inspiration hit me, it also happened to be a school day (for normally-schooled children) and Halloween. Waterproofing a basement is no normal paint job. It's sticky tar applied down deep in the bowels of the earth onto the basement walls before you fill in the hole around the foundation. It gets everywhere. I believe it took me a week to recover the notion of clean skin and hair after doing that job. In order for me to get down to the remote parts of the exposed basement, I had to be let down with a rope.  We had a nice sturdy one and I had four kids who got a free pass to play that day, except for the times that Mom had to be hauled up out of the hole.  When I needed a break or to move to another area, I'd holler and the kids would attach the rope to something and pull me up out of purgatory. 

Of course I happened to be in the deepest section of the outside of the basement as well as completely covered in black tar (not to mention the state of my hair or face) when I heard wheels crunching on the gravel driveway.  I was in too deep to see anything or to help myself get out.  The kids started yelling, “It’s a policeman, Mama!”  I was yelling back for them to haul me up, but no, too late….I could hear them all running away to check out the cop.  I also heard them talking to him; meanwhile I’m pulling and yanking myself up the dirt wall to try to get out.  Just about the time I got my carcass to the top (and wrenched my back really bad), he’s pulling slowly back up the driveway.  If he had looked back I am certain that our lives would have taken a drastically different turn.  I was covered in tar, my hair and body had red crusted dirt all over, and by this time I’m a little wild-eyed.  I don’t know why I considered letting that man see me at all.  Thankfully, he didn’t. 

When I asked the children about what had conspired, they said that he told them he was out checking around since it was Halloween. Praise God, he didn't see the zombie painting the basement. For some reason, he also didn’t ask these truant children where their parents were and just told them to be careful.  That night, when we were regaling the story to Ken, he was concerned.  He told me to make sure that everything was buttoned up tight the next day….that we were to have “normal” (whatever) school in the camper and to not let the kids out for any reason, in case DFACS was sent over or something.  I hadn’t thought of that. 

So we were pressed and dressed the next day, camper clean and kids studying and warned not to go outside unless Mom did reconnaissance first.  Mid-morning, I heard gravel crunching again outside.  I walked outside and saw to my horror a white government car crawling down the 400-foot driveway.  The emotions that went through my heart that day were indescribable.  I imagined my kids being hauled away, Fox5news helicopters flying over, me in handcuffs and chains and wailing loudly.  Next, a woman with a clipboard got out of the car and started writing.  It was obvious she did not want to talk to me.  She nodded in my direction and with tight lips continued writing and checking off things on her little list.  She stepped around the house and even talked on her walkie-talkie.  I think this was the day I started having heart palpitations (well, except for that day when I first saw Ken, that).  After quite some time and waiting awkwardly for her to acknowledge me, she walked towards me.  I must have looked like an ashen ghost.  I nearly fainted when she stuck out her hand and said, “I’m _________ from the Tax Assessor’s Office.”  I can't stand taxes or the idea of the government coming onto our land and assessing our property, but all of a sudden she was my new best friend.  We started talking and I found in her a kindred spirit. All the fear and trepidation washed away as she told me about her family, three beautiful kids and a husband that had left her. They had been separated for a time, but he had recently become a Christian and they reconciled and were back together.  By the time she left, we were friends. We hugged and prayed together in the driveway, with tears rolling down our faces. Unbelievable.

God definitely has a sense of humor.  I shudder to think about the peril that we would have been in had someone decided to call the authorities about us living like crazy hippies in a camper and homeschooling our four kids.  People used to live in one-room cabins and mud huts in America, but nowadays that would be considered cruel treatment to children.  I happen to think it was the best thing we ever did for them. All four of them are thinkers and survivors and know how to adapt to lots of situations. Nowadays, whenever we are able to get together around our big round table, one thing's for sure -- there's going to be laughter. Their parents are pretty cracked, but we are really grateful for the mercies of God! 




Friday, September 25, 2015

2011 seems like a long time ago....

09-28-2011 7:18:58 AM CST
Time Warp


Last Friday night, my husband and I rented a couple of $1 movies from the box down the road. We watched the first one and then Ken decided he didn't want to watch the second one. It was Jane Eyre, which he would have loved if he could have endured the initial protestations of his manliness.... and I dearly loved the movie. As I was watching it, Ken was in the other room on the computer....it was cool outside and the windows were open, with a breeze blowing in. It was dark in the room and I was very cozy wrapped up in my blanket. Something about the night reminded me of when we were first married, almost 30 years ago. I was reminiscing about those days but embracing these days and suddenly I had this feeling of time literally flashing by. Here we were, a couple, having a nice Friday night..... and the images of a packed life flashed from here to there. No, we haven't raised four children to adulthood. Surely not. How does a life that was so incredibly full and busy and filled with conversations, schedules, school, extracurricular activities, so many sports events, corrections, disciplines, distractions, meals, meals, meals....suddenly shift in a moment, it seems? Like a u-turn on a busy highway. It couldn't have happened overnight, but it sure seems like it did. Our first-born son married 3 years ago. Our two last sons have moved into separate apartments, both preparing to marry precious women in the next few weeks. Our youngest, our daughter, is off at college and very busy with studies and sports. When we go to sleep at night, we don't have to think about shutting doors or placing fans strategically to ward off noise. There are no giant feet bounding down the stairs. There are no monster appetites to fill at mealtimes, in fact, now we're spending a great deal of time trying to beat down our own appetites that threaten to send us to an early grave. When our youngest son, Jesse, moved out last week, I heard him talking with his Dad and hauling out the rest of his junk. It seemed bittersweet, but tolerable, until a few days later when I surmised that this was not him leaving for school....and that he will be back starving at semester break. No, that was his last tornado through the house. The things that I took for granted, the noises, the talk, the thumps, the finger marks all over the ceiling, the irritating need to make supper.... those things are not there, in a forever kind of way. Older women tried to tell me about this, but it seemed we were way too busy for that to happen.

Changes

Changes (This was written in 2012)

April 3, 2012 at 7:59am
There is no way to describe the last few weeks. I have neglected to write it down because the emotion of it overwhelms me.

It appears that we have sold our home. We are due to close in ten days. I can't describe the depths of sorrow and grief that I am experiencing. I have made myself virtually sick over it. My stomach is like raw hamburger... largely because one of my children is so grieved. It is scary, different and permanent. That is the hellish part of change. It is usually permanent. You can't go back.

God has seemed to almost lock-step cause everything to fall into place. So strange. All these years, only a handful of lookers at our house. Then all of a sudden, they were everywhere....and we had two offers within six days of each other, then another offer this week.

The people on the other end, where we were looking to buy, took our offer and also gave us money for repairs. Every objection or problem that has come up has resolved, and quickly.

I seemed to find peace and then my son's depth of grief pulled me right back there. If he were just mad, it would be one thing. But when he wept with me on the phone, I could not bear it. It is a death, and I am ashamed that I have grieved more over this than I have over the deaths of my loved ones.

I also know that my fear and despair are more about the leaving behind of other things. Jon is married; Daniel and Jesse recently married. Liz is busy with her life away at college. Our children are grown. My life's main pursuit and goal has been to raise a house full of children. That job is over. Even Liz is now a woman. We have four precious adult children and that significant purpose is over. I am still here for love and advice (ha!) and frozen pizzas....but maybe it is just really hard to face that.

I am not healthy -- a hundred-plus pounds overweight and aching all over. My hands are bending in on themselves. It is nobody's fault but mine. And life goes on.

Meanwhile, the Lord....
His purposes are complex and unfathomable. Way beyond what we can see. The threads He is weaving are on the back side. Who am I to question His will or what He is doing? I used to think that His will would always be manifested with a slice of cherry pie...and that my world would be safe and secure, free of trouble and full of purpose and happy things. But as you age, you begin to see that just because you are His child, you are not immune to suffering, to the encroachments of a cruel and evil world. Towers fall, people get sick and die, jobs are lost, dreams fail. We realize we are indeed cracked at our very centers.

At the same time that I begin to see these truths, I also begin to deeply and subtly understand the heart of the gospel: that I need saving. The fatal flaws that run through me and threaten to shatter into a million pieces are irretrievable. There is no hope, but for Christ. The picture becomes clearer.

I am undone. My world is shattered, oh so temporary. I cry out to Him in anguish. I don't understand. I am afraid. It all is slipping through my hands.

But God.
He's in the boat. The waves are crashing around, there is no hope. Damn it, He's asleep. He doesn't even care that we're going to die.

With a word, He hushes the storm. The waves fall. The wind stops.

He wasn't asleep, after all. He did care. He knows everything.

He works all things, even the storm, to my good. Then He admonishes me because I didn't have faith.

The storm is huge and roaring. It's all I can see. It's what I can taste and feel. Yet He tells me to trust Him.

I determine, today, to keep my eyes fixed on Him. Not the storm, not the boat. He is there at the eye of the storm, where all is still even though hell rages at the door.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Guilt on Planet Venus

There's really so many things I should be doing....

- eating organic
- selling essential oils instead of just buying them
- populating my Etsy shop with all the stuff lying around in my studio
- shopping and then re-selling things on Ebay
- getting rid of all the junk in our garage on Ebay
- painting my garage
- exercising every morning, at the gym I'm paying through the nose for...
- contributing to people in all sorts of downtrodden places
- writing a book
- taking a lot more supplements
- doing Kegels
- getting a regular job where I'm chained to a desk and get a regular paycheck (well, maybe not. We don't need more shoot-outs or postal episodes)
- doing all the Dave Ramsey stuff that I promised myself I would do
- growing a garden
- finishing the two commissions I have in my studio
- wearing earth shoes
- doing yoga. But hey, when I do that plank thing, my stomach's touching the ground, so....
- typing standing up (not sitting. I'm not joking. This is a big movement now. Somewhere. On some other planet.)
- worming my cats
- taking my dog on play dates (seriously?!)
- practicing my flute 2 hours a day
- joining the Symphony and the High Museum
- juicing
- cooking, for heaven's sake
- cleaning the house, instead of taking naps when I get the chance
- doing something miraculous for my grandchildren
- not ever eating sugar again
- etc.

So here's the thing. I really believe there are enough hours in the day. There's just not enough juice in the engine. So if something wonderful or productive or even close to that happens, something else gets neglected. So if I sell something, there's no gas to make supper. If I clean the house, nothing gets sold. If I start painting, heaven forbid, all hell breaks loose. And at this age and at this stage, I have to be honest -- I got nothing. No answers. No miracles. No promises. It's all like a production mired in molasses, where you're gonna get maybe one little fireworks show a day. After that, you might as well forget it or hope for an anomaly. All I've got to say is, thank the Lord we're getting something done and we're still breathin'. It could be a whole lot worse.


Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Daughter-in-Law of a Southern Belle Biscuit Maker

Heritage and Lineage. We hear those (obviously important) words a lot. My Daddy is a geneology junkie. Even though he is a king of a man and doesn't seem to understand that fact, he needed validation from his ancestors. He had his DNA examined and has done thousands of hours of investigating murky details of the past. There's no summing it up, because hey, in the end we are all related to Noah and his wife....but Daddy has found that we are the grandchildren (10 or so generations back) of the King of Ireland (Brian Boru), the descendants of a Revolutionary War bigshot (Daddy's now a proud member of the Sons of the Revolution), very close offspring of a Cherokee Indian chief, and progeny of a southern Baptist minister who fought for the Yankees in the Civil War. That's the short list. And we are not going to mention all the horse traders, thieves and pirates. Either way, I have a long, illustrious list of relatives that should make me proud and mark me as a validated human being. But what really bothers me is that, with all that heritage, I have never learned to make a decent biscuit.

I was raised here in the deep South, with a true-blue Southern Daddy and a Yankee Mama. Daddy lived up "there" for only a couple of years, long enough to find my Mama and have me. Then they had to hurry back down here. My children still torment me, saying that their mother is a Yankee, because I was born up there and because my Mama is one. What they fail to acknowledge is that, in the Bible, the Daddy is the one you go by in the geneology and by the way, I was raised down here, except for six months of my life. Now I'm not disrespecting my Yankee Mama. She is amazing. She had a lot to do with finishing my Daddy into a gentleman and she raised us right, with plenty of homegrown love, including hugs, a clean home and lots of good food. She made us behave and expected us to do our homework and chores without complaining. She made Mayberry out of a lot of chaos and I will always be grateful for the security and light she brought to our world. She's a black-and-white woman. Right is right and wrong is wrong. So I grew up thinking everybody was like that. 

When I hit about the fourth grade, I began to realize that there were rules besides the ones I was growing up with. Southern Rules. I had a couple of friends who knew about the Rules. They said "Yes ma'm" and "No ma'm" to our teacher. They said please and thank you with just that extra bit of sugar on top. My Mama had no use for such confections. She said that she'd seen trashy, no-good women use those terms and it didn't make a bit of difference in their character. Let your yes be yes and your no, no. I knew that when my Mama said something, there was no embellishment and you could count on whatever she said to be true. Even if it stung. There wasn't talk behind your back, because she would tell it to you straight up. Now that I'm older, I appreciate that kind of candor. But there's also a place for the Southern graces, when done sincerely. And therein lies the problem...

I married young, into a family of Southern belles. I thought I had learned all the rules by then. But I had not. When we got engaged, I began to realize that I was clueless. There were layers and layers of Southernese that I had not absorbed, even though I'd been here since infancy. Ken took me to meet his people in Lincolnton and Washington, Georgia, where the real Southerners are. The women were as luscious as maple syrup and sassy as fresh lemonade. When they spoke, it sounded like a balmy, sweet breeze across a wide porch in the evening. They were thoughtful. I received the most beautiful, traditional gifts of crystal, silver and monogrammed correctness you can imagine. They wrote kind notes, showed up for showers and blessed us all around. I had known kindness all of my life, but I had not known the full-blown culture that was the Old South. When I partook of my mother-in-law's beyond-heavenly pecan pie and biscuits, I realized that I was in big trouble. I knew how to saw down a tree, clean and scrub anything, mow and trim a lawn, rebound a basketball like a wildcat and run like the wind.... but I didn't know one thing about making a biscuit. Or a pie. Or a roast. My husband had grown up with all the Southern rules that I didn't know, but he had also been the recipient of daily helpings of food that defied description. Food that you can't just make from a recipe. It was time-honored and Grandmama-honed stuff that you can't write down in a book or take in a class.

In our early days of marriage, I cooked a blue streak, making thousands of mistakes and a few successes along the way. My artistic soul won't let me do anything the same way twice, so my experiments with biscuits were nearly always disastrous. The Lord gave us four gargantuan children -- three stunning Lumberjacks and a Wonder-Woman-worthy Amazon. Somehow, with monthly trips to Sam's Club and lots of coupons, I managed to fill up and grow them to adulthood, with (still) no real progress in the biscuit category. One morning, before my boys married, one of them made breakfast and presented a couple of pans of perfectly-made biscuits. I asked in astonishment how he did that, and he said, "I just followed the directions on the Martha White bag, Mama." Now why didn't I think of that?

My days are still full, but not with a whole lot of cooking, much to my husband's chagrin. I'm just really grateful that Hardee's and Bojangles make some pretty mean biscuits. They're definitely not my mother-in-law's, but they beat the sight outa mine.