What Goes Around Comes Around

It's funny how people and time seem to run in concentric circles. Everything comes back around, like those circus rides that make you dizzy as they wend their way back to the starting point. Such is our friend, Frank.

Ken and I met him at our church, way long time ago. He was the music director, his brain a virtual galaxy of thoughts and ideas. Some people go through life thinking they are musicians or artists, but they got no soul. Frank's got the lion's share of it. He had a bunch of white folks belting out Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir selections. Then he turned the sanctuary into Jerusalem for Easter. There were huge mountains made out of brown paper, Jesus on the cross right over the baptistry, and live animals lumbering down the purple carpet right down to the front. He had (and has) a lot of audacity. He'll tell you right to your face that you need to plant hydrangeas (and where) in your yard. He has the ability to get you and everybody else to pitch in with his vision, working like serfs, and you'll wonder how in the heck he did that. 

One time, I bartered many hours of painting for an unfortunate set of used rugs that didn't work with my square warehouse of a living room (from a cheap doctor, no less). I wailed and gnashed my teeth and called Frank. He popped in for twenty minutes, told me to paint everything cinnamon, rearranged the rugs and furniture, said "Go buy two ficus trees and put them right there." I obeyed and our family loved curling up in that place with the fireplace crackling and books all around until the day we sold it. It transformed the whole house. He's got those gifts -- of color, music, design and caring for people. His wife, Karen, is the wind under his wings. She's the sugar to his audacity, a gracious and kind soul who tempers and balances him. 

As twenty-something years flew by, our families lost touch with each other. Facebook arrived and everybody knows all our business now. I met Frank's daughter-in-law and we became colleagues in real estate and friends for life. She helped him sell his home and went hunting for their next one. By gosh and by golly, he and his dear wife moved next door, in what will be a jewel in our little borough's crown after he works his magic. He says that Villa Rica is the next Charleston. We're gonna bring in some salt water and party lights and try not to get hit crossing the street. What a wonderful blessing for our town. Welcome to Villa Rica, Frank and Karen Reiff!

Sparrows and Lots of Little Things

You wouldn't think a bathroom could be such a big deal, unless you had the unfortunate rapture of showering in our original one. When we bought our beautiful Victorian almost 6 years ago, her bones and skeleton were in great shape for a 112-year-old lady. But her complexion needed a whole lot of work. She was splotchy, wrinkled, with clothing harking back to the 1980s, where nothing matched and all was gaudy. Dark teal, navy, peach, burgundy, orange, yellow, brown, hunter green were all gloriously displayed in various rooms, but the piece de resistance was the home office, decked out in Villa Rica high school's purple and gold. I am abundantly grateful to all the former owners of this home, for taking superb care of this jewel for all those years, even if she did need new clothes. No matter where I live, I'm going to completely paint and repaint, so getting her gussied up for prime time was pure joy. 

But the bathroom.

It was stuck in a corner of the enclosed sleeping porch, tiny, awkward. There was a small claw-foot tub with a curtain rod that circled above the tub. Taking a shower in there was no small feat. For starters, if you were less than fully clothed and walked out of the bathroom after bathing, the side door had a big glass window right there to display all your glory to the neighbors. Getting in the shower, one had to step high into the tall but short tub, a herky-jerky exploit when you're rather exposed and trying to not get twisted up in the curtains. The height of the showerhead was designed for underfed people from the 1800s, not Neanderthal people of dubious Scotch-Irish origins. The water pressure was dismal, the porcelain inside the tub had seen better days, and turning the water on and off with those curtains in the way was just peachy, especially when they blew all around and stuck to your naked body. I'm not picky. I'm an old country girl who was fine living in a camper for a time, where my hips hit both sides of the shower stall...but I was younger then, my knees still functioned normally, and the simple act of getting out of a tub was not life-threatening. 

Praise be to the Lord, handy relatives, and a few real estate closings, we finally took the purple and gold office and turned it into a darling master bathroom, complete with a shower, black and white retro tile and a fully-functional gorgeous double vanity from Home Depot. Sometimes I just go in there and breathe. Three and a half years of death-defying shower adventures have made me very grateful. When they were putting in the shower, I said, "Make it gigantic. We can put old Grandma, the dog and the grandkids in there all at one time if we have to." Our water bill has gone up significantly.

Recently, we ripped out the old bathroom and gave the clawfoot tub to a neighbor who's renovating their ancient house across the road (bye bye!). The new bathtub is simple, the walls are all beadboard, with more retro tile and light fixtures. As our last task, my daughter and I scoured the world for the right shower curtain, a seemingly impossible undertaking. How do you decide, when there are virtually thousands of choices? Today we were sick of it. After sifting through online ads, sending bad choices back, and tromping all over Douglasville, we started praying in the aisle at Target. "God, please send us the right shower curtain." A minute later, we saw the perfect one, a feminine, sweet confection hiding behind a pole in the store. When we got home, Liz hung it before I could put my purse down good. It was indeed perfect. Now some people would find that silly and maybe downright stupid, praying for something so small. I laughed when I thought about God and His ways, so different than ours. I believe He cares about our lives, down to the minutiae. He answered a simple, small prayer spoken in frustration.  "Not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing. So don't be afraid. You are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows." Matthew 10:29, 31. Indeed.

Planes, boats, and a Big Lady

New York, New York...a place that is as foreign to me as Mars. My daughter got the chance to hang out with her cousins there last weekend, something she has always wanted to do. Pa and I went there once, for a business trip about a hundred years ago. His company flew him and some of his compatriots, along with their wives, to the city that never sleeps...

We were in our early 30s, with four children, from ages 7 years old, down to 6 months old. I was a bit traumatized, leaving infant Liz so young, but the worst part was the plane ride. I had never flown before, so at first I was excited. Then came the turbulence. It felt like we were on a roller coaster. Except there were no rails, just a plane twitching like it was going to burst apart at any moment. I was digging into Ken's elbow with my fingernails. He said, "Baby, if we crash, I'm gonna need that arm." Always the funny guy. Meanwhile, my cup of tea emptied out into my tray. Ken was having no sympathy, pointing at things out the window and trying to get me to relax. Never, I say never, tell a woman to relax. This should be required information from anyone attempting to give premarital counseling. I don't like going over high bridges, but Ken has always delighted in swinging cars fast and furiously over Spaghetti Junction while I hyperventilate. He doesn't seem to understand the concept of gravity, whether in a car or a plane. You should see the guy ski.

I began to look around the plane for an empathetic soul. No one had screamed yet, but for the life of me I couldn't understand why not. Even though I knew that I was about to die, my pride had kept me from shrieking. I asked several ladies who were sitting around us about the tumultuous ride. They all said this was the worst turbulence they had ever seen. Why aren't ya'll hollerin' then, was all I could think. Ken had never flown either, but he didn't count. He grew up wanting to be a fighter pilot or at least a NASCAR driver.

About the time I was going to order whiskey, even though I had never attempted to drink that in my entire life, the plane began an intense banking maneuver. I was piercing Ken's elbow with all ten pincers when he started maniacally pointing at something out the window. To shut him up, I looked. It was one of the most beautiful sites I'd ever seen. There were frothing whitecaps below the crystal blue sky. The plane seemed to be suspended in time as the Statue of Liberty came into view right outside our window. She stood there, noble and stalwart, one of those symbols that inspire you from babyhood. Ken moved and let me press my nose against the glass, the gravity problem long gone. My brain flooded with wonderful songs from elementary school, amber waves of grain, spacious skies and the Gettysburg address. Tears spilled as I welled up with the pride and thankfulness of all that is American.

I will never forget that trip, that day, that plane ride, but especially that Great Lady. Ellis Island was right across from her, a reminder that most of us technically came over here on a boat, with nothing but a dream and a hope for a better life. I love this country.

It's Winter, Always Winter, and Christmas is Already Over

The fog snuck in overnight, enveloping the back yard. The wise, old pecan tree was buoyed up like it was in a cloud. I love to look up into her lovely branches and imagine all the things she has seen. We've had a long, really cold spell of weather this year. Thankfully there was no precipitation this week or we might have been in trouble again. But maybe it's killed all the bugs and my peonies might actually bloom next spring. Winter is barely tolerated here in the South. We usually have spits and starts of cold days, interspersed with times of balmy weather. It's dreary, wet and miserable. By February, I'm almost insane. That also happens to be our anniversary month, so Ken hauls me off to some other Southern town for a long weekend. We do tours of historic homes, eat a lot, and snuggle up for a few days. It helps get us through to March, when the lion roars and eventually the lamb arrives. Then Easter comes, praise the Lord. Easter is way better than Christmas. Less fuss and more promise. I need to quit thinking about it. My Christmas tree is still up, for heaven's sake.

I've been painting this week, two projects -- my daughter's renovated bathroom and about to start on our new bed that I bought on Facebook marketplace for $100. It's not actually new. It's the same bed we have had for the last twenty years, just bigger. King-size. So that's what you call it when you get this fat. Ken's old Pop had one. He said he loved it, that he could be in there and you wouldn't even know Ethel was in the room. I've heard Ken tell that about a hundred times and it's still not funny. But here we are. Today's job is to whitewash the thing. I ain't havin' no orange furniture. It's way too big for the room but I don't care. And there's a whole lot of other funny stuff you could say that I'm not gonna. Have a nice day and try to stay warm!

Hush Puppies

The holidays are over. The tree is still sitting there, though most of the trash has finally migrated towards the laundry holding room. That's what I believe that room is for, but Ken doesn't seem to recognize my dark hints. I mean, it's all bagged up (except for the dirty clothes) so I don't understand the problem. We have an old war, where I heap up things and see if he loves me. He allows the heaps to remain, to see if I love him. It's not true, we both know we adore each other. But it makes for some good fusses and makeup sessions. 

So today I worked feverishly on a listing, going from zero to a hundred to get it online. Never mind that it was 20 degrees out today and my stomach was revolting from the holiday debauchery. There's bags of candy cloaking miniscule pieces of pecan, bowls of Reese's, tins of homemade goodies that people gifted us over the holidays and a whole basket of mystery loaves of something. The Georgia game was on and Ken headed to one of our son's homes to jump and shout, but I stayed home with my raggedy constitution, drank hot tea and ate an apple. 

Suddenly I felt really sorry for myself. Christmas is over, New Years Eve is past. All the presents are passed out, the turkey eaten, the parties over, the trips taken. Our daughter is gone away for a long visit with a friend, all my grandbabies are safe at home with my sons and their wives, Ken's off watching the game, my sister's phone is broke so I can't call her, my dog's not here tonight, I'm still fat and I already called my Mama this morning. I don't have a "word" or a plan for 2018. I moped into the kitchen and gazed at the new dishwasher that came today, wrapped in its layers of packaging. Apparently the Magic Plumber did not come with it, so I started washing the pile of dishes on the counter by hand. With all the blessings and largesse piled about me, all I could do was complain in my head. 

I think it's good to be left alone sometimes with our thoughts, our selves, with only the warm water running and the soapy water, caring for the dirty dishes. I gaze up at the night sky in the window, the branches of the pecan trees like skeletons worshipping the moon. Cars drive by, intent on their destinations. The cry of the train lowing, lonely engineers content in the regularity of their schedules. My will protests the quietness, the necessities. The obligations of the simplest needs of life bring me to humility as I do my job, one of those original, ignoble jobs that takes me back to my roots, my youth. The youngest of children can wash the dishes. At least they should. As I finish, dragging out the full trash bags and turning out the lights, I hear a beautiful Appalachian melody whispering out of my high-tech phone. My heart quiets, I talk to God. Flesh and bone, dust to dust, we walk the earth. Some days we're shiny and then some we're laid low. Hush up world, I'm listening to my heart beat.