Sunday, September 30, 2018

To Pet or Not To Pet

Been pondering some deep subjects lately.... life, death, seasons, love. And gerbils. Many years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, my children started out with a couple of gerbils. Two.  No one told me that they cranked out new baby gerbils every few milliseconds. Before long we were supplying darling pets for friends, relatives, pet stores and strangers on the street. 

We were in a very busy time of life -- homeschooling our four children, attempting to preserve the lives of said Norton creatures that had been born with the propensities of wild monkeys. Ken says they were products of fine breeding, and I guess that folks say that about Mustangs on the prairie too. Either way, gerbils were way down on the list of priorities. They were caged up, most days, in an old aquarium with a screen on top. I'll save the escapee stories for another day. But since guilt is my favorite woe, I began to feel sorry for the neglected gerbils. Sure, they were fed and watered. Occasionally I'd clean the bedding out and put new, fluffy cedar chips in there. I felt terrible, because nobody was petting them. I assumed that all creatures, human and otherwise, wanted and needed to be petted.

I'd pull one out of the cage. Adorable little things, with their little twitchy noses and strange, long tails. Since they were always reproducing, we had myriads of color combinations. They were bigger than mice but definitely cuter. I'd try to keep them from jumping out of my hands and almost always ended up getting bitten. One time one of them took a chunk out of my finger, with much bleeding and sorrow. I assumed that they just needed more attention, more petting. I kept trying. And trying. 

One day, my wise sister Melanie said, "Rose, did you ever think maybe they don't like to be petted?" 

I never considered that. 

And that led to another notion. Mel said that there are a lot of PEOPLE that don't want to be petted. This was a novel wrinkle in my space-time-continuum. Was that why the librarian hated me? I so wanted to love her, since she was the purveyor of all the books. And the post office lady...I had been rebuffed so many times, even though I twinkled and offered candy and my sincere devotion. Then there was the disgruntled baroness (well, I think she must have been a baroness) who sat next to me on that committee...did she simply want to be left alone, never to know the joy of a little coiffure-ruffling? 

This was a sad day. All those pretty songs say "All You Need Is Love," or "Love Can Build a Bridge," then "Love Will Keep Us Together." Affirming, empowering words to inspire us all. But as I thought about my poor finger, I remembered those other ones: "What About Love?" and "Love Stinks," and of course the apropos "Bleeding Love." Maybe not everyone really wants to be loved. Or petted. Why? I know not. These things go beyond my current brain waves. I really tried hard, with that post office lady. I'm still tempted to squeeze her hand and give her a big hug. That might just put her over the edge, so for now, I let people pass me in line when I see that I'm going to be stuck in her queue. But then again, tomorrow is another day...

Monday, September 24, 2018

Pond Scum and Other Issues

As I am wont to do, I got a wild hair late Saturday afternoon. I had been suffering. All three of my fountains have been silent for over a year. I miss my Pa and I wanted the sound of water when I sit on my porch. There's a small pond, a concrete fountain and a container with little kids "playing" with water -- all of them moldering and full of strange creatures, spawning clouds of mosquitoes. 

I went and bought new pumps for all of them, changed into my paint clothes and started hauling goldfish and frogs out of the pond. Ken likes to plan all activities at least two weeks out but I wasn't having any of that. The outside temperature had dropped to 88 degrees, here in late September where the devil came down to Georgia and it's always Summer, rarely Christmas and never Fall. My Home Depot card needed exercising and I was feeling ambitious. 

Ken came around the corner shaking his head, about the time I got down to the sludge at the bottom of the pond. I pitifully asked if he could help me. How could he refuse? I had mud from head to toe, aquatic animals in numerous buckets, and water hyacinths laying all over his lawn. He and my daughter dispatched the rest of the pond problems, hauled the concrete fountain pieces around until they were right, and then fixed the porch fixture. At last, we had water running through all three fountains. Believe it or not, none of the new pumps had to be used, though now I've got to piece those together and take them back. Ken was the hero of the day, with several cheapskate hacks and tricks to get everything going. It's three days later and I still have mud in my pedicure. I was raised a country girl. I think something has happened since then. 

Today I took our eight-month-old grandson onto the porch, where he gleefully laughed at the water splashing. I noticed that the pond had drained almost completely dry. Again. At least the goldfish and frogs are still in their containers. That devil's definitely still down here and I'm about to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with him. 


Sunday, September 16, 2018

A Good Death

Last time I wrote, I penned these thoughts about my aging parents: "I don't say all the things that I need to say. Maybe if I don't say them, they won't leave me." I wrote those words in haste at my Daddy's desk two weeks ago. I was compelled to run to their house that day for some reason. I had not written my article and remembered that it was late...so I hammered it out quickly that morning at their house and then lounged for hours with my folks, talking about everything and nothing, listening to my Daddy pray and read his Bible to Mama at their kitchen table. Little did I know that this would be the last time I would hear his voice, hear him spontaneously laugh, be hugged by him. It was a gift from God. 

Only last week, he died in the good way, quickly and with no apparent pain. He had mown his and his neighbor's grass, taken a shower and sat down in his recliner. He had his hand in his popcorn bowl (one of his favorite places) when his heart experienced some sort of arrhythmia and he slipped away, was revived by paramedics who got his heart pumping, but never regained consciousness. Three days we sat by his side, holding his sweet hands, speaking our love, regrets and hopes to him. He was surrounded by his multitude of children and grandchildren, who sang Amazing Grace and cried like there was no tomorrow. I'm sure the ICU staff at Kennestone Hospital was inconvenienced by our huge and loud family, but they treated him and us with so much respect and kindness, I will ever be grateful.

My stomach turned to stone, each swallow like acid spilling down a tube. The devil attacked my thoughts, bringing a thousand questions and demon regrets, lies. I had no idea it was like this. All the weak places in my constitution were fair game, the people around me a fog. I wanted to lie still, still on my bed and never move, my legs leaden and useless. I knew that there were others who needed my help, my compassion, but all thoughts turned inward to the loss of my Daddy hero, a man whose death I always dreaded. He was too alive to be dead. He loved me too much to be gone. He loved life more than anyone I knew. His delightful spirit lit up every room he ever entered. How could he leave? How could he be gone when his hat still smelled like him and his gloves are still on the patio where he left them?

We are still numb from the outpouring of loved ones. Raw from the quickly planned and executed funeral. People from three and four decades back showed up and hugged us, spoke of his character and his love, what he meant to them. The weekend afterward was full of more food, more relatives, more talk, more hugs. But tomorrow the alarm rings and life has to resume. Without him. Survival requires the march, paying no heed to the fallen. 

Our eldest son asked me a question, after it was all over. "Mom, are you better off now? Can you see where the places it might be better now that he is gone?" What a seemingly cruel question, until I ponder it deeply. Eternity gaped before me. I searched my soul in ways that I had not for a long time. I reflected on his life, on what was important to him and to me. I thought about how I can honor him better, going forward. And especially, I considered heaven, God, and Daddy's deep and rich love of Christ. He lived as a true Christian, simply and faithfully. Not a hypocrite. Not proud. A light in darkness. He loved all the folk God put in his path. His body is deep in the earth but his spirit has flown to his Savior. Death be not proud; death is swallowed up in victory. I love you Daddy. I'll see you on the other side. 

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Thinking of Fall and Villa Rica

From my study window, I can see the street corner. There's an old, distinguished mansion that's crumbling, a sidewalk with all sorts of interesting people walking, a church, myriads of cars and trucks driving by, and a stand of poke salad growing up in the island out front. If the apocalypse comes, we can subsist on that a couple of days. My MawMaw used to pick that stuff out by the railroad tracks. She'd strip off the berries and the purple parts that were poisonous, then stew it with a hamhock all day. It still tasted terrible, but I'm sure there were times in her life that it tasted like heaven. With all the rain we've had this summer, our yard looks like a botanical wonderland, with all the strange weeds growing up. I bought Ken a new lawnmower last year, but since the bathrooms look like a gas station around here, maybe I won't mention it.

It's a sad thing to see that old mansion deteriorating. It's caught between the ravages of time and the luck of the draw. It can cost a fortune to keep a roof intact and to fight off the inevitability of the Second Law of Thermodynamics (basically, that everything breaks down unless you add energy to it). And it would take a heck of a lot of energy to save it now. I wish it were possible, but I also don't have the hundreds of thousands of dollars that it might need to rescue it. Meanwhile, we all have strong opinions one way or the other about what should happen with such things. There is that element of private property that reigns supreme. At the end of the day, what doesn't belong to me (and I'm not ultimately responsible for) is really none of my business, unless I'm willing to do something significant to fix it. Even then, unless I'm able to make it mine, it's still none of my business. We've avoided HOAs in neighborhoods for the same kinds of reasons. 

Summer is winding down, though you wouldn't know it by the temperatures. The promise of fall is there on my calendar. I love to think of the Gold Rush Days, the parade, our grandkids squealing for candy...it's always a fun spot in Villa Rica. We might get two weeks of respite from the heat before winter sets in, usually somewhere in November. You can have an outdoor wedding here pert near up to Christmas. This fall is going to be special though -- we're working on a wonderful Christmas Tour of Homes (that's going to be the second weekend of December) with lots of beautiful homes decorated for Christmas. There's also going to be several workshops from the Villa Rica Arts Coalition -- check them out on Google. One of them is in September, where we will be working on making garland and Christmas decor ahead of time. There are possibilities in the air. Meantime, maybe that will help cool off my brain. 

Love in the Leaves

The leaves are weary. The sky is clouded over, with a slight breeze. Fall is a promise, but far off and inconceivable, except for the overworked trees that whisper for surrender. 

My people who are long gone also whisper to me. It seems we are all transparent curtains, layers of years and generations passing through. Our days are but a breath, here today and gone tomorrow. My aging parents and in-laws talk of pain, of the supreme effort it can be to simply get through a day. They also talk of heaven, of glorious peace and rest. I am lucky to still have them all, yet I take them for granted. I deny that they will ever not be here. I don't say all the things that I need to say. Maybe if I don't say them, they won't leave me. My own joints are rusting up and my body reminds me that I need to take care of it. It's not the years as much as the mileage. It's not the time, it's the juice.

How shall we then live? Sucking the marrow out of life, but the toll unbearable if our excesses take over. The steady, simple treadmill does not suit me. I must throw bombs into each day, lest two of them end up the same. There are prices to be paid, no matter how we slice it. Interesting that the Scriptures say that we are either slaves to sin or slaves to righteousness. I believe that. But there are also all those gray places in between, where we have multitudes of choices that impact our lives but are just that, varieties on a theme. Balance, oh that word. What is that and how do we find it?

Our running about, our seeking for survival, money, fame, approval...so much is frivolous and in the end, silly. The houses will burn, the roofs will rot, the mortar will crumble. The legacies may or may not be remembered. Apparently, so much is vanity. But once again, it is the people, the relationships, that matter and will ripple forth out of the splash. Ripple wide and far, affecting the whole of the world in ways we cannot fathom. Does it matter if anyone fills in that credential, that space on the paper? Not in the end. All our accreditation is as much as a dung heap if we haven't loved those who God brings across our path. Him, the great lover and giver of life. He, who does most things backwards from what our natural wisdom directs. I love, because He first loved me.