If I Was Rich, I'd Buy Me a Beach House....

My daughter hauled me down to Panama City last week in her spiffy new car. At least that's what I'm telling everybody. With Pa out of work for the last two months, I didn't need to be being irresponsible with our money and all. We stayed at some half-renovated motel cheaply, shared expenses and ate simply. Most of that you have to do at home anyway, so why not find some nice water to swim in while you are at it? 

We knew we were getting close when her windshield started getting really foggy with salt. We cranked up the radio, rolled down the windows and let the heavy wind inside the car, breathing in the thick, briny air. It's healing, it is. You know you have only a little while to enjoy it, so you try to squeeze all the goody out of it while you're there. We've stayed for two weeks before and it still wasn't long enough. Liz and I only had two full days (apart from the driving). It definitely wasn't enough, but I'll take it. 

The sand on the Gulf is like sugar. I love to lay face-down and sift it through my hands, looking really closely at it. There's always teeny, tiny shells in there that escape your notice if you only walk on it. When the wind blows, you see it softly drift like a confection on a cake. The water is crystal green and blue, most days. Sometimes there are no waves at all and it looks like a lake out of a dream. At home in Georgia, all of our lakes are unnatural and tend to look more like a mud bog. When we plant our bottom sides in the sand in PC, it's somewhat like dying and going to heaven. 

They call Panama City "The Redneck Riviera." So I guess you know what I am. My people are very content to while away their vacations in simple block rooms, as long as they get to troll down to those white beaches and jump in the surf. We don't care about stars on our hotel. We don't even care about hotels, for heaven's sake. It's not about where you stay, as long as it's habitable. It's about that moment when you first see the water or when your toes hit the sand. Or when your grandbaby squeals and has to be let down to run. We like to get all pickled and crinkled at the ocean, then jump into the motel pool to cool off. Liz and I did that our first day there, languishing in the pool so long that we forgot ourselves and our sunscreen. We came home happily red, full of vitamin D and fully grounded.

While cruising down the roads, we saw all the parts that we can't relate to. We drove around to the really fancy side, to Rosemary Beach and Seaside. It was night. There were twinkling lights inside beach cabanas and restaurants. People walking and riding bikes everywhere. The air was perfumed with meat and spices. The mansions on the shore had curtains on their porches. You could hear the murmurs and laughter of people inside the houses. We talked about getting out and getting some coffee, but I didn't want to break the mood. It was reassuring to see life thriving and humankind relaxing... Magical. We drifted on back to Panama City and stopped for ice cream at a seaside shack on the redneck end of things. Perfect.

One of my favorite things to do is go to the shell shop. It's an authentic place, run by an old Vietnam Veteran. He has articles pinned up on the walls, telling stories of controversies and apocalypse. He has long, stringy hair and doesn't initially talk unless spoken to, and even then it takes some effort to draw him out. He has warning signs about the shop, telling people to watch their kids and not to steal stuff. But then when I hold up a beautiful shell and ask him about it, he softens and tells me there's another one that is cheaper. He shows it to me, but it's not nearly as pearly as the first one. I coo over the bewitching shells, so he decides I'm not evil. By the end of the visit, he is asking my lovely daughter and I how to better display his custom jewelry. We give him our thoughts. He carefully wraps our shells and puts them into a box. We leave, carrying our purchases like delicate treasure. You can't get that at Alvin's Island or Pier Park. 

We've been home for a few days now, but I can still smell the beach. I can still go back there in my mind. It's going to fade, I just know it. But I'm going to hang on as long as I can.

I Will Never Grow Up

I never really planned on being a grownup. Not in a morbid way, where I thought I might die early. I wanted a husband, children, to work with my hands, grow things, paint things, have my own house... but I knew that I wasn't ever going to be grown up enough to be as important as the bankers, librarians, statisticians, CPAs, etc. that I saw rushing to and fro in the world. Maybe it's a math thing that I resisted (seeing as those people seem to be math-oriented people). Wall Street was a very important place, about the time I hit adulthood. When I saw pictures of those people hollering and all stressed out, I thought that situation was pretty close to hell, even though you could tell some of them loved it and thought it was pert-near heaven. 

I grew up in an easy spot on the planet. The South, a bit slower than where the Yankees hail from. Hot, with little or no air conditioning. The pavement in front of our house would melt, little bubbles of tar oozing up. We'd walk barefoot to the store and get little black cooked places on our feet. In the summer everybody really idled down and ambled through, hoping for homemade ice cream, swimming holes and watermelon. At night, we'd take baths and lay sprawled-out on our beds, still damp. Windows and curtains wide open, the moon shining like a lamp, the glossy bushes outside looking like a thousand eyes glowing. The air was like a heavy, wet blanket. We tried to get to sleep before the heat caught up with us.

My mother's house was always neat, clean, sheets fresh and crisp, bathrooms sparkling, kitchen swept. There's a peace in that, if it's not accompanied by neurosis. Mama lost her neurosis when she got reconciled with the Lord, but she still kept a wonderful house. She realized early on that children don't stay little forever and she concentrated her efforts on us rather than worrying about her own agendas. After we were grown, she went back to nursing school and graduated with a 3.9 grade point average. There was time for raising us and time for fulfilling her dreams of finishing her education. 

We are facing a sullen, hot summer similar to the ones I remember as a child. Watching the moonlit nights, with Mars and Saturn doing cartwheels in the sky, I am drawn back to those nights when my Daddy would get us kids to lay down on the driveway and watch the stars and wait for comets to streak by. Camping trips to Lake Alatoona, where inevitably it was going to rain, there were going to be ants, snakes and outhouses. When you went swimming, there were thousands of tree stumps still on the bottom of the lake, just waiting to assault your feet and ankles. Nobody had thought of making swimming shoes back then. You just had to take your chances. We climbed trees, rode horses, walked to Sun Valley Beach a mile away, walked to the little store around the corner for penny candy and a Coke in a tiny bottle. Rode bikes, played hide and seek, softball in the front yard, ran rings around the field next door until there were trails all over it. Family gatherings at Dog River in Douglasville with picnics spread everywhere and kids dropping off rope swings. Smelly hound dogs in the front yard, with no fences, chains, collars or tags. Didn't need 'em...everybody knew each others' dogs. Mamas hollering when supper was ready. I could hear a lady a half mile away yelling "Regina!" every night. 

Who would want to grow up? But then the siren call of hormones sets in, imaginations bloom and the future becomes an enticing place. Possibilities and wings sprout, adventures call and the circle of life picks up speed. Life is both predictable and unpredictable, all at once. Now that I've experienced a good many circuits of years and seasons, it is exciting that there's always another bend in the road, if we will just stop to see it. Feel the heat, smother in the humidity, listen to the breeze, touch a baby's face, hold your hubby's hand, ask an old lady about what was, breathe the salt air at the beach, hear the waves, linger on the taste of a strawberry. 

The other night, I was leaving orchestra practice and realized that I really wanted to get home to my husband. I've spent a million hours with him, especially lately, but I missed him. We fuss and fight about stupid things, just like every couple. We huff, puff, demand our rights. But then I stop and ponder on the heart of us, where we started, what we've been through, what attracted me to him in the first place... how he's constant and tolerant. He loved me for me and for the child that never grew up. How lucky can you get?

Mama Ain't Proud No Mo'

Continuing the saga from a few years back, when we lived on a very busy road, with four precocious kids (those darling, daring escapees).... We lived at that house for 8 years, but I had in mind to move from there for a long time. For good reason, I was nervous about the powder keg which was my boys mixed with dangerous situations. One afternoon, around lunchtime, we returned from town in our van. As I pulled close to our driveway, I saw two teenagers walking across our yard, headed towards the house. I had the distinct impression that they were up to no good. It was during school hours and they just looked guilty. One of them turned and stared me down. I didn't want a confrontation in the driveway, so I drove slowly around the block. The truants were gone when we got back. I checked the house carefully before we went in, then got lunch ready. Maybe twenty minutes later, I heard a noise on the front lawn. I peeked out and there was one of the boys pinned face-down with a big cop on top of him. The other one was already in handcuffs. They robbed a house two doors up and a neighbor called it in. A chase ensued and ended on our lawn. The police came to my door later and said to keep an eye out, because one of the boys had had a gun and threw it in the woods while he was being chased. The police had not been able to find it. This whole scenario made me sincerely want to vacate. I felt we were exposed and I didn't feel comfortable living there anymore.

But alas, there was always humor sprinkled along the way while we were in that giant fishbowl of a house. We had a friend with about a dozen kids who lived a mile away. Richard (let's call him that) was one of these people who could do no wrong. He was very buttoned-up, kind, courteous, a perfectionist. His children were exemplary, his yard perfect, his wife an angel. So of course it was when Richard exercised and jogged by our house, all manner of bizarre things happened. If something odd occurred, I could almost bet that he was gonna be running by. Once, I was digging and planting one of my flower beds. In a dress. Hey, I saw an opportunity and I wasn't going to stop to change clothes. This flower bed was giant, built more like a hill than a bed. I was overreaching when I lost my balance and tipped over the top of the mound, feet and dress flying up. Of course Richard was ambling by. On another day, I had been up all night, delivering thirteen Golden Retriever puppies, several of whom had gotten stuck and had to be retrieved in an ungodly manner. I plopped, exhausted, onto the front porch, where I saw a big, fat cigar that someone had left there, unwrapped, with a box of matches beside it. I had a strange hankering, lit up that cigar and was puffing away when my dear friend jostled by. He was and is a very good Baptist and I imagine he thought I was too, up until that day. Now we've joined the Presbyterians. There were numerous other events, but the funniest was when I was in the driveway, about to get in my van. A really big insect flew up my dress. I tried to swish it away, but it just kept going up. I started flailing and slapping, but it continued buzzing and stinging. Finally, I just went ahead and threw my dress over my head. I found the stinkin' monster and slapped my poor fluffy body silly until it was dead. Dress and hair askew, hollering, slapping. Silence. Then disbelief, as I saw our friend jogging ever so slowly by. In recent years, I had the chance to eat supper with their family. I regaled this story to his kids. They were rolling in the floor when I asked him if he actually saw that happen. 

The answer, unfortunately, was yes, he did.

Goldfish, Sparrows and Me

Granddaughter Annabelle stood at the edge of our little pond, pointing and jabbering. From my comfy chair on the porch, I told her that, yes, I knew a tiny frog lived in there. She yelled, "Yaya! Someboogachaha fishies!" Or something like that. I peered into the murky water and there were two jewel-toned goldfish and then an apricot-colored one. How was this possible?! One year ago, almost to the day, something went wrong with our pond. We came home from a week of vacation to find that a hose had popped off, the water had drained out, and the pump had quit working. I assumed it overheated. When we discovered the mess, all my little goldfish were laying on top of the mud, dead. I had bought about a dozen of them from the pet store and they had thrived just fine, until there was no more water to swim in. Sadly, I placed their little limp bodies around some of our plants to fertilize them. Even though the pump was ruined, I filled the pond back up and hoped it wouldn't become a mosquito breeding factory. Over the course of a year, the water hyacinths took over, baby frogs erupted and it remained a pleasant place by our front porch. The only movement I ever saw was from a happy frog, jumping in and out. Until the other day, when Annabelle gave notice and we saw the (now quite large) and glittering goldfish emerging from the winter sludge. I cannot imagine how they survived the ordeal. When it happened, all we saw was thick mud and dead fish that had apparently been there several days. Somehow they must have been under all that, maybe in a pocket of water, to live through it. Either way, they remained undetected for a year. When spring came, they started eating up all the dormant water plants and we were finally able to notice them.

How many times is life like that? What appears to be an impossible situation, muck and mire, fire and rain, piles of troubles, trials and sorrows... insurmountable odds stacked against us. Yet one day we find ourselves swimming in clear waters. We can see the sky. There's food, water, happy frogs chirping. I don't know. Life goes on. We see around us death and life. We recently went to the funeral of a friend whose life was cut short. I looked around the room at the people, babies, old folks and wondered why this one has to go now, and how does the mind of God work as He sifts the sands of time? Our pastor's wife wrote a beautiful commentary on the ancient oak tree outside...about how much grief that tree had seen come and go. I've seen what time does to the body and to the mind, how it disrespects us and tears away at brain cells and tissue. Getting old adds to all these wonderful layers of life experience, but it also begins to speed everything up and we grasp at the moments as they whiz by. The kaleidoscope gets blurry and we can miss the preciousness of it if we don't make ourselves stop and savor the many aromas, both good and bad. Without knowing God, I don't know how anyone has hope or purpose and meaning. Someday, as my world winds down and time steals my brain cells -- or if I simply drop dead in my tracks and then become fertilizer, I look forward to fully knowing the One that I already know. The cycle and symbiosis of this magnificent, intricate world are not here simply by chance and it wasn't designed without a Designer. He is mercy and truth, love and justice, untethered by man's opinions of who He is supposed to be. I am at His mercy, but am also an undeserving recipient of His grace. "Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows..." Luke 12:6-7