Adventures in Nortonland

Ken and I started out, 34 years ago, fixing up one house after the other. One of our homes was in Smyrna...it was half-built and sitting sky-high in weeds. We bought it for a song and finished it over the course of about six months. I was pregnant with our third son, with two toddlers in tow (aged 3 and 1). That had to be the most exhausting thing I ever did, even more than the 2-year camper stint we did with four kids a few years later. I painted and stained every inch of that house myself as well as bought all the plumbing and lighting fixtures, products and supplies that we needed to finish it. It was insane, that's all. I would fit my big pregnant belly in between the rungs of the ladder, making a fantastic counter-balance when I was painting. I was often found wearing my husband's coveralls, barely zipping them over the grand lump in front of me. I particularly remember one day, where we decided to actually hire someone to help us finish putting up the moulding and trim in the house. They sent me, in the fella's dump truck, to the hardware store to pick up supplies. I was covered in paint and stain, no makeup, Papa's coveralls stretched to the limit, hair a hot mess. I ran into three people that I knew and none of them recognized me. What can I say? I'm a woman of great contrasts. We finally got into that house and I pushed out that 11 pound, 2 ounce sweet-as-sugar man-child three weeks later. Paul Bunyon and his blue ox's got nothin' on us.

We were very grateful for that house, how the Lord made a way for us to learn skills, do things ourselves (thanks to a lot of assistance and wisdom from parents and friends), and then for sending us properties that needed help. This enabled me to stay at home with our children while gaining sweat equity and lots of life experience. Don't ever say I didn't work or I might cut you.  Our end-game plan was to eventually pay cash for a home, which we finally did, bless God. But believe me, we really did work for it. While we lived at that house in Smyrna, though, our purpose was to eventually sell it and move out to the country, where we'd have privacy and room for some wild things to play and roam. 

I never liked all the traffic on the street in front of that house. I had three precocious boys that enjoyed risking their lives and scaring their Mama at regular intervals. Even though there were strict boundaries and a line on the driveway they were forbidden to cross, at times they decided a spanking was a small price to pay for living dangerously. Just a few examples: Once, they stopped traffic because they were throwing dirt clods at passing cars. Another time, a neighbor met me at the door, holding two of my minions by the scruffs of their necks, telling me that they had been playing chicken with the cars in the street. And the worst time.... It was a Sunday. Ken had to work that day, so I packed up our three boys, ages 3, 5 and 7, to go to church. I was great with our fourth child, about 8 months along. When we got home, I dashed the boys up the stairs to change clothes, then went back to my room to do the same. I had taken off shoes and dress and was down to my slip when I had a niggling notion (obviously God-sent). I peeked around the corner to the living room window, only to see Jesse, the three year old, laying in the street making snow angels where there was no snow. That child already had mad athletic skills and somehow managed, over the course of a few minutes, to bolt out of the house, all the way down the driveway and onto the pavement. (I've never understood the fascination my boys had with that road). When he saw a mad, crazy pregnant woman in a slip, screaming and tearing towards him, he decided to jump up and head towards the house. No sooner than he stepped over onto the driveway, a car whizzed by, undoubtedly never seeing him at all. There were no snow angels, but there were definitely angels. And corporal punishment. And new deadbolts on the doors. It's a miracle, too, that I didn't just go on into labor with that baby, but no. I guess she decided to stay where it seemed safe. In fact, we could hardly get her out. She ended up being three weeks late and bigger than her brothers at 11 lbs, 3 oz and 23 inches long. All four of our grown children make us feel like midgets now, not to mention that we might be sustaining brain damage from all the shocks we've been through. Must be the hormones in the milk...or maybe, just maybe, we're related to ole Paul. 

Leaves in the Spring

I was helping a family to list their home today. A family that has lived in Douglasville for decades, but is now uprooting to go back to the home of their childhood to help with aging parents. They are retiring and just plain tired, hoping to turn a new leaf and start a different life. 

How many times do we do this in our lives? 

I remember being a young child and having to climb the steep stairs to the giant schoolbus that lumbered to our door. I was excited to ride it, though quickly learned how tedious and scary it could be, particularly when a giant fifth grade girl ruled from the front row. She was terrifying. Italian, beautiful, and ruthless. Even the bus driver obeyed her. In one day, my secure little life changed drastically. Aside from the giant, however, I loved school and my first grade teacher. She was strict with her lessons but hilariously fun during breaks. I remember us wearing boots and dancing on top of her desk. I am not kidding. Then when it was time for class to start, we were expected to be studious and serious in our seats. Elementary school was a delight and childhood was grand.

Then came middle school. There was no going back. We were on campus with the high schoolers at McEachern back then. There was a pecking order and we were at the bottom. We learned our place and that was generally to stay out of their way. But in our classes, my old friends from elementary school suddenly became sophisticated. Smoking. Kissing boys. Nights at the roller rink. Mama wouldn't let us hang out there, so my sister and I watched The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family on Friday evenings, dreaming about Donnie Osmond, Bobbie Sherman and David Cassidy. We imagined what it must be like to grow up, have a boyfriend, live exciting lives. High school rushed in like a tsunami, with lots of activity, excitement, trials. It seemed like it was never going to end, but then was over in a flash. Our childhoods take only a few years, but those years hang in our minds like a frame on a wall. What we do with it, what we populate our frames with, is up to us. We're not constrained by our frames, but we often believe it and can't seem to move past it. It's where we start, but not how we have to end up. The night I graduated, I looked all around me at the places at that school that I had loved: the musty, old gymnasium where I had sweated so many hours...the steps going up to the building where I loved to hang out every morning...the broad lawn where we threw softballs and frisbees...the band room where I found the bliss of playing with a group of people. All these precious places, now my past. I couldn't stay. I had to turn the leaf over again.

I clearly recall the day that my parents dropped me off at college. It was exhilarating, this new chapter. We arranged my dorm room, signed the proper documents, ate lunch. Then they pulled away from the curb. As I looked around, for the first time I realized that I didn't know a soul. For the first time in my life, there was no comfortable friend or ally to walk to class with...nobody to cry or laugh with, no routines or familiar roads to traverse. It was all novel to me. I felt alone in the universe. It was a new leaf. Somehow, I muddled through the first few days, meeting myriads of people. One epic day, I was in my room when a beautiful, 6-foot tall German-looking girl with deep-set eyes lit with intelligence walked right in without knocking. She was only wearing underwear and seemed perfectly at ease. That was Grace -- quirky, brilliant, funny, dry, shocking. She was instantly my friend. Grace introduced me to Red Zinger tea and Handel's Water Music. She had no problem speaking exactly what was in her brain. I began to understand more of where she came from... She had a hateful, legalistic father who beat her over the head with his demands and spiritual pride, then virtually beat her and her mother with his demon-filled fists. Coming from a home where my father exuded kindness, all connected to the spirit of God, I was confused about this kind of hypocrisy. How could she not explode with rebellion and all manner of debauchery in the face of such duplicity? But she didn't. She internalized it and by the grace of God worked her way through the hell that had been put upon her. My last week of college, where I was going through a personal firestorm, I hurt her deeply with a cruel and cavalier joke. I walked away, my final day, without making it right. Pride, shame and angst mixed up my heart until a few weeks later when God pricked me and caused me to make many things right, not just with her. Sometimes it takes an earthquake to shake a stubborn heart and I had almost wrecked every relationship I had. Perhaps there was something about the dreadful unknown that was staring back at me as I knew my leaf was about to have to turn over again. Despite my lapse, Grace and I have remained very close friends all these years, sharing mileposts, tears and joys along the way, even though we are a thousand miles apart.

There have been many more "new leaf" seasons in my life -- marriage, babies, moving, changing jobs, changing churches, losing family and friends...and then finding the next paths as I rounded the corner. God never does anything the way I think that He is supposed to do it. I love that saying, "If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans." The wild backside of this tapestry is a mystery, but it makes perfect sense to Him.

Rosemarie Norton is an artist and Realtor who lives on Magnolia Street in Villa Rica. Catch u

Oldie Goldie

I visited with an old friend tonight. A sage, witty and wise old friend. I met her several years ago when my son Daniel sold a litter of half-breed puppies for $50 each. His gorgeous Golden Retriever, Bethany, decided to go on the lam and wound up with 10 offspring that looked suspiciously like the yellow Lab around the corner. Mildred called Daniel up and asked if he would deliver the pup. He did, and wound up being her go-to fix-it man for years. She and I had an instant friendship. She's one of those people who just speak what they believe, but she is also a person that believes the best of you until you give her sound reason not to trust you. She has always spoken of her kinfolk and how much she misses them. I listen closely when I visit her. She's got stuff to say and you don't want to miss any of it.

The first time I went to see her, she had her old aunt in a hospital bed right there in the den. Earlene had been in a diabetic coma, at that point, for five years. Mildred would feed, bathe and turn her several times, both day and night. She did this for numerous more years until her aunt died, always saying that this was the least she could do for her. Her aunt, in that coma, would sometimes laugh at crucial moments in our conversations. Mildred said that she sometimes knew what was going on, even though she was asleep. After Earlene died, Mildred took on several friends who needed help. She would take care of them until their deaths. 

She called me the other day in a panic. She was at the hospital and her ride home had gotten delayed by a stopped train in downtown Villa Rica. I was over an hour away and tried to solicit some local friends or family to take her home. Before we could collect her, the train moved and her ride got through. But I could tell that Mildred was slipping and confused. We've talked more than usual the last few days and she asked if I would come to Douglasville to see her.

This evening, I did just that. It's always been difficult to concentrate when I'm at her house. It's like a quirky museum, full of interesting artifacts from her 89 years of adventures. She was somewhat of a debutante at the University of Georgia, way back in the day. She told me that she had lots of beaus and numerous offers of marriage, but it just was never the right fella at the right time. There are a couple of pictures of her in beautiful formal dresses during those years and her sunny, spicy personality shines through. She is always interested in my life, wants to see pictures of my children and grandchildren, and she asks all sorts of questions about what we are up to. She is the kind of lady who knows all those special gifts of Southern hospitality that have now gone the way of the Dodo bird. She makes you feel special and loved. 

As we visited today, I asked advice on several topics and she gave me simple but profound answers. I also inquired as to when her birthday was. It is this Tuesday and she will be 90 years old. My heart tugged as I regretted not stopping by more often, not making her a bigger part of our family. Here she has ministered to so many, but doesn't have her own children or grandchildren to bless her or take care of her in her old age. I think I'll take Ken over after lunch on Tuesday and bring her a little cake and a gift. It's the least we can do. There's a special place in heaven for her.

Wonder Woman is my Sister

I was two years old when she was born. My Mama tells me that I was never jealous when she got here. She did a lot of talking and preparation before Melanie arrived -- laying out the baby clothes, letting me touch them, and talking about the child in her tummy. When Mel appeared, I assumed she was my personal baby doll. We were always very close, even when the school bus came and took me away. I remember her waiting at the driveway for me after school. We eventually sat on the bus together, played together, ate together. My Mama gave up on the bunk beds after a time because we always ended up giggling and talking in the same bed rather than be separated. This continued all the way through school, even high school, where we shared our friends, clothes, jewelry, makeup and lunch. We had maybe a handful of fights through all those years. I can remember all of them: #1--a couple of times when she whipped me at basketball in the driveway and I found my jealous streak, #2--we had a smack-down in the car, driving down the road, when she was mad at me because I was leaving for college, #3--I visited her at Berry College and she got all sassy with me, #4--a not-pretty, epic one a few years back where I got rebellious on her. I am pretty sure that ranks up there with miracles, and I'm not exactly certain why. My other friends fought all the time with their siblings and seemed to hate them. Melanie was my best friend, confidante and playmate, all rolled into one. 

We were very different in temperament and personality, she being more intense, introverted and driven. She had (and has) more gumption in her little finger than anybody I know. Fearless, competitive, quick, athletic. She slaved away at her studies and had good grades (and good study habits). The athletics came easy to her.  I was the extrovert, friendly and flighty. I slaved away at the athletics but the grades came easy to me. We trusted each other and thought the best of each other. Whatever my parents did right, I wish I could have bottled it. I'll save my brother's story for another day, but we were similarly close. How does that happen?! The culture of our home didn't include jealousy. Mama and Daddy were both strong-minded people, but somehow they gave way to each other and had a united front. This translated to us kids and that was how we got along.

Growing up, Melanie would say that she was not going to have kids. She was going to be a career woman and climb the ladder of success. I played with baby dolls and puppies. Time went by. We married within 6 weeks of each other, to two guys who were best friends. Something drastically changed, because in short order we were both popping out babies. Ken and I had four, but Brian and Melanie seemed to have finally stopped, in their middle years, at eleven children. She says that she quit mixing their laundry together and that seems to have stopped it. Of course we all homeschooled our children. I've had three careers since we quit homeschooling, but Mel is still at it. This next year, she'll have only three left to teach, so she thinks she's having empty nest syndrome. Not only does she practically run the world, she helps myriads of people out in countless ways. She's very opinionated, bossy and beautiful. A force to be reckoned with. Steadfast, unmoving in her Christianity. Her accomplished, tough exterior hides the kindest, most tender heart imaginable. Her home is the epitome of hospitality. If anyone stops by, they are going to eat. Or at least have a cup of coffee. Sunday afternoons are old-school, with boatloads of teenagers, stragglers and grandparents showing up after church for lunch. If Melanie wasn't doing all that, she'd be running some Fortune 500 company. She reversed her original idea, raised a pile of great kids, and is changing the world. She says they're taking over. I say, hallelujah.

Legacies of Heaven and Hell

I am descended from generations of addicts and sinners. My legendary grandfather floats like a spectre in my mind. He was not a fun kind of drunk. He was naturally mean, and when he drank he was worse. I don't ever remember him on the sauce, but I do remember how heartless he could be. When, as a child, I would rush to see him, he would contort my thumb until he had me begging in the dirt. He liked to twist my nose til I was squealing. He was cruel. One time, he had a tame raccoon in a pen by the barn. I was petting it and he told me I could name it and it would be mine when I came to their house. A few weeks later we came for a visit. I rounded the barn and saw the empty pen. When I asked him about the raccoon, he said that he had eaten it. He taught the grandkids little dirty songs, just for fun. We loved him to pieces. Children tend to do that, even for awful old men. When MawMaw had their third child, he never worked another day, although they eventually added five more offspring. His children didn't have food or shoes, but somehow he always had a nice, new suit and a shiny car with which to do his philandering. 

One day, I was seven years old and my sister was five, we were playing in the front yard when my Daddy squealed out of the driveway. Mama came to us and said that PawPaw had died in a bad wreck. As the details drifted out, we heard what happened. He and MawMaw lived in a dry county. He was in his 60s then. He was drunk but wanted some more. He coerced a 14-year old neighbor kid to drive him across the river, to Atlanta, for more booze. He wasn't happy with the speed that the poor boy was driving, so he reached over with his foot and stomped on the gas. The car sped out of control and broadsided a tree. The boy lost most of his teeth. PawPaw lost his life. Months later, my Daddy thought he saw him in our carport window, burning in hell. 

The funeral proceedings were both horrifying and fascinating to me. They put him, in his casket, in MawMaw's parlor. I wanted to scream and cry and giggle all at the same time. I was embarrassed and troubled that I almost laughed. I had to pinch my nose really hard and cover my mouth. In the next breath, I cried at the stillness. Even he, in all his wickedness, couldn't defy death. And even he, who demanded his way and hurt everyone he came across, couldn't keep people from loving him. 

His legacy was addiction and meanness. His eight children  and thirty-something grandchildren have wrestled with a myriad of demons. Poverty, bitterness and the devil may have seemed to triumph, but in the end, God gets the last word. I believe God likes to defy the odds. When you go back 10-11 generations, you find Brian Boru, the God-fearing king of Ireland. Then there's my Daddy, the last of the eight children....the epitome of fun, kindness, mercy and God's redemption. 

Now, even with the legacy of my Godly father to guide me, if I were not led personally by the grace of God, I would follow willingly down that easy path of addiction. Indeed, I wrestle with that most acceptable of enslavements: food. I found out recently that there are even 12-step programs for people like me. I think I'm not addicted, until I try to deny myself and then the villain raises its head. We are living it up this week with our children and grandchildren at the beach, indulging in all kinds of food, laziness, laughter and late nights. I'm enjoying it thoroughly, but at the same time thinking of things that need to change in my near future, in a permanent way in my life, if I am to enjoy all these blessings God gave me. I find myself between the mores of a noble king and an indulgent drunk. Isn't that just the way life is? Choose you this day whom you will serve...