And here we are again, ready to shed 2018 off like an old coat. I think of my old MawMaw's expression, "I'd like ta get shed of that old thing." Some folks scoff at the idea of making goals and commitments at the new year, since most of them often peter out so quickly...but I love this time of year. It's a chance to examine the old and put on a fresh face for the new. We all have things in our lives that need to change (at least I do). Health, eating, exercise, plans for business, thoughts that drift back to former dreams that have not been attained.
2018 was one of the roughest years of my life, for many reasons. Death, loss, stress, taxes...things that can certainly get your eye off the "ball." But isn't life about those things? The hard inclines, the valleys. Mountaintops are reached after long stretches of work. Their experience is heady, brief and exhilarating. But the air is thin up there and you can't get much work done standing on a pinnacle. Most of our lives are about the murky, trudging places...marching, pulling through, taking the next step. It doesn't have to be drudgery though. If I've learned anything this year, it's to keep my head up and see the inchworm on a leaf or breathe in the sweet morning air. There's a lot in life that we can let go of, and the earth will keep right on spinning. I'm not God (surprise!) and I don't have to care about every tiny detail that I can't control. I'm learning to laugh and let Him worry about that.
When my husband lost his job this year, right smack in the middle of heavy grief over losing my Daddy, all I wanted to do was lay on the ground and die. Or kick and scream. Or find a way to fix it. What resurrected me was an epiphany in the middle of the night. I got my eyes off our circumstances and remembered my roots. What could I do to help us be healthier? There were lots of places I had neglected my own home and my relationship with Ken. First off was digging past the elephants in our room, to do the job of communicating better, where it had been easier to just ignore things. Admitting where I was weak, ask for help, clear out the clutter, both physically and emotionally. Having a heart of thankfulness, looking past the difficulties to all that is good. And even being grateful for what seemed bad. Romans 8:28 (my Daddy's life verse) says: "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose."
I've decided to do a 12-week plan rather than a 12-month plan, making my goals more accessible. Then I'll start over. There are worlds of possibilities out there. My personal plans include measurable goals in the areas of health, art, study and spiritual walk. Not insane, just with the end in sight. Let's have a great, mindful year, full of love for one another and with our sights set on walking with joy through the trenches of life.
Monday, December 31, 2018
Monday, December 24, 2018
The Great Turkey is Looming
I'm in big trouble. I have a 25-pound turkey beast, frozen as hard as the Arctic tundra, laying in my kitchen sink. And it's Christmas Eve. There are so many things going wrong on this...
I bought it at Aldi, on an ambitious day where I was thinking about how good I was going to be this year, weeks before the Christmas deed was happening. I loaded up my Explorer with lots of goodies, stocking stuffers, food of all kinds. The turkey resisted me, even back then. When I opened the hatch to unload my car, the turkey rolled right out and landed on my foot. I think it broke it, but now it's all mended back, crooked of course. Ken ate all the chocolate bars in between then and now, so I sent him back to get more for the stockings. The rest of the food is gone, the family is coming over tomorrow, and all that's left is this monstrosity of a turkey. Frozen solid.
My sister, the monarch of last-minute culinary miracles (she has eleven children), said to just brine it like Alton Brown does. Which means sticking it in a 5-gallon bucket of really salty water and other mysterious ingredients. That would mean I'd have to google the recipe and then head to the store. Then manage to find a clean bucket.
My mother-in-law's advice does not count. She is the Paula Deen/Nathalie Dupree/Julia Child of middle Georgia. All these years, I should have been deciphering and collecting the encyclopedia of cooking wizardry that floats naturally in her brain, but I was content to simply eat her food and pray that she brought the dressing and gravy. Great pans of it come masterfully through the door, magical potions that drug and put us all into a blissful, dream-filled sleep. We've already had our Norton Christmas with them. How can I learn to make dressing in one phone call?
Then there's my son, whose only skills at cooking include pickup from the wing place or barbaric uses of fire, outside. He said to bring it over and he'd fry it. Then he found out it weighed 25 pounds and began chiding me for buying that much meat, when we all know that my turkeys always leave something to be desired. His fryer won't hold a turkey that big, of course.
So I'm waiting on a Christmas epiphany to save the day. We're all stuffed to the rafters with all this holidaying anyway, so why can't we just order pizza? But then I've got this roast beast that's not going to look pretty in another year, much less take up half my freezer. Oh the trials of decadent, overindulged Americans. I guess this will be today's agenda. I don't think this has a lot to do with baby Jesus. But Merry Christmas ya'll. We really do have so much to be thankful for.
I bought it at Aldi, on an ambitious day where I was thinking about how good I was going to be this year, weeks before the Christmas deed was happening. I loaded up my Explorer with lots of goodies, stocking stuffers, food of all kinds. The turkey resisted me, even back then. When I opened the hatch to unload my car, the turkey rolled right out and landed on my foot. I think it broke it, but now it's all mended back, crooked of course. Ken ate all the chocolate bars in between then and now, so I sent him back to get more for the stockings. The rest of the food is gone, the family is coming over tomorrow, and all that's left is this monstrosity of a turkey. Frozen solid.
My sister, the monarch of last-minute culinary miracles (she has eleven children), said to just brine it like Alton Brown does. Which means sticking it in a 5-gallon bucket of really salty water and other mysterious ingredients. That would mean I'd have to google the recipe and then head to the store. Then manage to find a clean bucket.
My mother-in-law's advice does not count. She is the Paula Deen/Nathalie Dupree/Julia Child of middle Georgia. All these years, I should have been deciphering and collecting the encyclopedia of cooking wizardry that floats naturally in her brain, but I was content to simply eat her food and pray that she brought the dressing and gravy. Great pans of it come masterfully through the door, magical potions that drug and put us all into a blissful, dream-filled sleep. We've already had our Norton Christmas with them. How can I learn to make dressing in one phone call?
Then there's my son, whose only skills at cooking include pickup from the wing place or barbaric uses of fire, outside. He said to bring it over and he'd fry it. Then he found out it weighed 25 pounds and began chiding me for buying that much meat, when we all know that my turkeys always leave something to be desired. His fryer won't hold a turkey that big, of course.
So I'm waiting on a Christmas epiphany to save the day. We're all stuffed to the rafters with all this holidaying anyway, so why can't we just order pizza? But then I've got this roast beast that's not going to look pretty in another year, much less take up half my freezer. Oh the trials of decadent, overindulged Americans. I guess this will be today's agenda. I don't think this has a lot to do with baby Jesus. But Merry Christmas ya'll. We really do have so much to be thankful for.
Monday, December 17, 2018
Bonnie and Clyde and the Getaway Car
My neighbor had an intruder the other night. It's got us all scared out of our wits. The guy is now in jail, so why are we worried about the locks now? Just kidding, of course we need to lock up. It's the year 2018 and it's better to be safe than sorry. But it reminds me of something that happened to me one day in Villa Rica, just a few years back...
I was out walking the dog on a balmy, spring day. A lady sashayed by the house and we said hello to each other. She asked if I could do her a favor. "If I can, I will," I said. She told me that her car had been impounded and she needed to go to the bank to get some money, in order to get her car back. We are only a half mile away from the bank, but she wondered if I could drive her over there. I didn't know her from Adam's housecat, but I said yes. I said I had to run inside and get my purse. Before I could say Jack Sprat, she ran right on in behind me. She virtually sprinted all over my house in a flash. My trusty dog didn't take kindly to it and began to growl lightly at her. She asked if the dog would bite her. I said I wasn't sure, but not to be trying to come around without us here. That was probably a good thing to say.
I whipped up my things and we headed to town. I pulled into the bank parking lot and she hopped out of the car, leaving her purse laying beside me. She stated that they knew her there and she didn't need her ID. I thought that was odd, because my bank knows me too but I still have to show them my driver's license, even after twenty years of banking there. She was gone a few minutes and came out with a roll of money. It rather looked like a fat sandwich, it was so thick. She said to drive to Main Street and just drop me in front of the police station. I never did see her go in. The whole business took maybe ten minutes, but I learned many things about this lady in that time. Things that might make your hair curl or your Mama blush. I told her I'd pray for her and that I hoped she'd get her car back.
When Ken got home that night, he scolded me for picking up strangers. I guess it did seem sketchy, but I thought it went okay (well, except for the hair curling. Oh yeah, and the casing of the house and all). And I did still wonder about that bank scenario. A few days went by and as I was looking at the newspaper, I saw that this same girl was wanted in connection with a robbery. There had been a man involved as well, but they had caught him and he was in custody. I called the police station and told them my story. He said to quit picking up strangers and did I know where she was now? I most certainly did not. But as I hung up the phone, I had a slight suspicion that has nagged me ever since. Is it just possible that I was the getaway car?
I was out walking the dog on a balmy, spring day. A lady sashayed by the house and we said hello to each other. She asked if I could do her a favor. "If I can, I will," I said. She told me that her car had been impounded and she needed to go to the bank to get some money, in order to get her car back. We are only a half mile away from the bank, but she wondered if I could drive her over there. I didn't know her from Adam's housecat, but I said yes. I said I had to run inside and get my purse. Before I could say Jack Sprat, she ran right on in behind me. She virtually sprinted all over my house in a flash. My trusty dog didn't take kindly to it and began to growl lightly at her. She asked if the dog would bite her. I said I wasn't sure, but not to be trying to come around without us here. That was probably a good thing to say.
I whipped up my things and we headed to town. I pulled into the bank parking lot and she hopped out of the car, leaving her purse laying beside me. She stated that they knew her there and she didn't need her ID. I thought that was odd, because my bank knows me too but I still have to show them my driver's license, even after twenty years of banking there. She was gone a few minutes and came out with a roll of money. It rather looked like a fat sandwich, it was so thick. She said to drive to Main Street and just drop me in front of the police station. I never did see her go in. The whole business took maybe ten minutes, but I learned many things about this lady in that time. Things that might make your hair curl or your Mama blush. I told her I'd pray for her and that I hoped she'd get her car back.
When Ken got home that night, he scolded me for picking up strangers. I guess it did seem sketchy, but I thought it went okay (well, except for the hair curling. Oh yeah, and the casing of the house and all). And I did still wonder about that bank scenario. A few days went by and as I was looking at the newspaper, I saw that this same girl was wanted in connection with a robbery. There had been a man involved as well, but they had caught him and he was in custody. I called the police station and told them my story. He said to quit picking up strangers and did I know where she was now? I most certainly did not. But as I hung up the phone, I had a slight suspicion that has nagged me ever since. Is it just possible that I was the getaway car?
Monday, December 10, 2018
A Long Winter's Night
I had become the Tile Queen of Douglasville. We were living in a camper with four kids. It was 1997 and we were knee-deep into the second year of a house-building project. Some people said, "Oh yeah, we built our house." No. We really built our house. Ourselves. With our own hands.
I really hate carpet. It might be warm and pretty and it only takes a minute to vacuum it, but it gets nasty and full of germs and dust. When we built that house, there was to be no carpet. Only tile and pine floors. I went to Home Depot, where they have little classes on how to tile. Someone gave us acres of beautiful green Italian tile out of a dumpster, so we added an equal amount of cream-colored partners to it and borrowed a friend's giant masonry saw. It was January, cold as mess, and we had deadlines to keep. One of our sons was my cutter and I was the layer. Yes, I was the laying fool, wearing out my joints, knees, fingers and toes. We wound up putting in 1800 square feet of tile, all told. I had been working on it for a month solid. Ken had tons of vacation time back then, so he was home for the whole month, but working on other things. He apparently never learned how to lay tile.
I had one more room to finish -- the (really big) master bathroom. Don't ask me why (except that it was 1997), but I chose tile that looked like pink marble. The jacuzzi tub deck was done in a sandy pink. I'm sure the current owners of that home would like to shoot somebody over that. I woke up that January day, the temperature dipping down into the 20s. We only had space heaters in the house, but I was determined to finish that bathroom. I made up a big container of mud for the floor and got to work. Over this long project, my pretty piano hands now looked like meathooks. Thick, crabby, calloused and kind-of in a permanently curled position. It was cold, I was bone weary, and sick of the whole thing. I got about 3/4s of the way through my bucket when I simply shut down. I couldn't get warm and I was so tired, I couldn't see straight. I threw my tool in the bucket and started crying. Then I started wailing. Ken came running, "What's the matter?!" "I'm cold. I'm tired. I can't feel my fingers." Ken, his normal, practical self, looked into the container and said, "Well, how 'bout you finish up that bit of mud. Go into the camper and get a really hot shower and get in your sleeping bag and go to sleep." I squawled: "But ya'll need lunch and I don't want to think about lunch." He said not to worry about it, he'd take care of it. So I did just that. Got in the blissfully hot shower, went ahead and put on my pajamas so I'd be comfortable, climbed in my sleeping bag and zipped it clean on up. Mind you, our bed was in the "living room" of the camper.
Ken and our four children came in a couple of hours later, ate lunch, cleaned up, went back out to work, ate supper, cleaned up, had showers, went to bed, got up, ate breakfast, went to work, ate lunch again. Ken said he checked on my breathing several times to make sure I wasn't dead. I woke up promptly at 1:00 the next afternoon, after approximately 26 hours of sleep, never hearing a thing or waking up once.
Ken wisely waited a few days before he broached the subject of finishing the tile. He might have even contemplated doing it himself but I was a little diva-ish about anything I started. The day I announced I was going to finish, he said, "Whoa, give me a few minutes." He went up to the bathroom, turned the space heater on full force, laid out all my tools, gave me a vigorous back massage, and said okay now go. He kept bringing me drinks and refreshments all day, he and the children speaking in hushed, reverent tones. I believe we ate out that night.
My hands never did really recover from that winter. I now have man hands that curve in strange directions and I twitch slightly when I walk. But there came a day when we moved in and had a lot to be proud of. Just don't ask me to lay a piece of tile again. Ever.
I really hate carpet. It might be warm and pretty and it only takes a minute to vacuum it, but it gets nasty and full of germs and dust. When we built that house, there was to be no carpet. Only tile and pine floors. I went to Home Depot, where they have little classes on how to tile. Someone gave us acres of beautiful green Italian tile out of a dumpster, so we added an equal amount of cream-colored partners to it and borrowed a friend's giant masonry saw. It was January, cold as mess, and we had deadlines to keep. One of our sons was my cutter and I was the layer. Yes, I was the laying fool, wearing out my joints, knees, fingers and toes. We wound up putting in 1800 square feet of tile, all told. I had been working on it for a month solid. Ken had tons of vacation time back then, so he was home for the whole month, but working on other things. He apparently never learned how to lay tile.
I had one more room to finish -- the (really big) master bathroom. Don't ask me why (except that it was 1997), but I chose tile that looked like pink marble. The jacuzzi tub deck was done in a sandy pink. I'm sure the current owners of that home would like to shoot somebody over that. I woke up that January day, the temperature dipping down into the 20s. We only had space heaters in the house, but I was determined to finish that bathroom. I made up a big container of mud for the floor and got to work. Over this long project, my pretty piano hands now looked like meathooks. Thick, crabby, calloused and kind-of in a permanently curled position. It was cold, I was bone weary, and sick of the whole thing. I got about 3/4s of the way through my bucket when I simply shut down. I couldn't get warm and I was so tired, I couldn't see straight. I threw my tool in the bucket and started crying. Then I started wailing. Ken came running, "What's the matter?!" "I'm cold. I'm tired. I can't feel my fingers." Ken, his normal, practical self, looked into the container and said, "Well, how 'bout you finish up that bit of mud. Go into the camper and get a really hot shower and get in your sleeping bag and go to sleep." I squawled: "But ya'll need lunch and I don't want to think about lunch." He said not to worry about it, he'd take care of it. So I did just that. Got in the blissfully hot shower, went ahead and put on my pajamas so I'd be comfortable, climbed in my sleeping bag and zipped it clean on up. Mind you, our bed was in the "living room" of the camper.
Ken and our four children came in a couple of hours later, ate lunch, cleaned up, went back out to work, ate supper, cleaned up, had showers, went to bed, got up, ate breakfast, went to work, ate lunch again. Ken said he checked on my breathing several times to make sure I wasn't dead. I woke up promptly at 1:00 the next afternoon, after approximately 26 hours of sleep, never hearing a thing or waking up once.
Ken wisely waited a few days before he broached the subject of finishing the tile. He might have even contemplated doing it himself but I was a little diva-ish about anything I started. The day I announced I was going to finish, he said, "Whoa, give me a few minutes." He went up to the bathroom, turned the space heater on full force, laid out all my tools, gave me a vigorous back massage, and said okay now go. He kept bringing me drinks and refreshments all day, he and the children speaking in hushed, reverent tones. I believe we ate out that night.
My hands never did really recover from that winter. I now have man hands that curve in strange directions and I twitch slightly when I walk. But there came a day when we moved in and had a lot to be proud of. Just don't ask me to lay a piece of tile again. Ever.
Monday, December 3, 2018
Butterflies are Free
They say that our ten-year-old self defines us. We are either trying to get back to that authentic person or trying to run away from the circumstances we found ourselves in at that time. I think this might be true.
At ten, the world was my oyster. My fifth grade teacher was the best. At ten, you are living large. It's before all the hormones kick in and self-doubt overtakes your courage. It's before most of the bullies have found their marks. Puppy love is sweet and the event of the year is the hayride at the Harvest Festival. The playground is still cool. For me, the sky was very blue and clear that year. The rogue boys were still kept under control with paddles and clearly delineated authority figures. The girls kind-of ruled at that point, taller and seemingly smarter, the synapses of their brains maturing earlier than their male counterparts. I distinctly remember being amazed by eighth grade, when a group of boys started playing serious chess games, for fun. I saw their emergence and also (bless their hearts) their fascination with everything grungy. Our ten-year-old girl selves didn't understand that much. At least not back then.
The ten year old is like a chrysalis. Growing inside their cocoon, unassuming about the future, free to wiggle and grow. Soon the walls will harden around them. Pain of all sorts will either impede or compel. When time ripens and then opens the doors, they will succeed or fail according to the nature of the nest they were in or maybe better, how they react to it.
I love butterflies. I love to paint pictures of them. The fine details, the veining, the colors. We all enjoy watching them flutter by, fragile jewels. Hard to imagine that such a beautiful thing was once a worm. A hardy, fat worm, not caring that it's ugly. Carefree days spent eating, grubbing about, just living. Then comes the fortress, built all around it, the death of everything it knows. One day, as the walls give way, the creature falls out, wet and crumpled, vulnerable and cold. She dries out slowly, wings unfurling. The worm doesn't know it's wonderful. It will take time and zephyrs for her to know that she can fly, unaware that her wings are both useful and gorgeous. Hopefully, she will figure that out before her day is done.
At ten, the world was my oyster. My fifth grade teacher was the best. At ten, you are living large. It's before all the hormones kick in and self-doubt overtakes your courage. It's before most of the bullies have found their marks. Puppy love is sweet and the event of the year is the hayride at the Harvest Festival. The playground is still cool. For me, the sky was very blue and clear that year. The rogue boys were still kept under control with paddles and clearly delineated authority figures. The girls kind-of ruled at that point, taller and seemingly smarter, the synapses of their brains maturing earlier than their male counterparts. I distinctly remember being amazed by eighth grade, when a group of boys started playing serious chess games, for fun. I saw their emergence and also (bless their hearts) their fascination with everything grungy. Our ten-year-old girl selves didn't understand that much. At least not back then.
The ten year old is like a chrysalis. Growing inside their cocoon, unassuming about the future, free to wiggle and grow. Soon the walls will harden around them. Pain of all sorts will either impede or compel. When time ripens and then opens the doors, they will succeed or fail according to the nature of the nest they were in or maybe better, how they react to it.
I love butterflies. I love to paint pictures of them. The fine details, the veining, the colors. We all enjoy watching them flutter by, fragile jewels. Hard to imagine that such a beautiful thing was once a worm. A hardy, fat worm, not caring that it's ugly. Carefree days spent eating, grubbing about, just living. Then comes the fortress, built all around it, the death of everything it knows. One day, as the walls give way, the creature falls out, wet and crumpled, vulnerable and cold. She dries out slowly, wings unfurling. The worm doesn't know it's wonderful. It will take time and zephyrs for her to know that she can fly, unaware that her wings are both useful and gorgeous. Hopefully, she will figure that out before her day is done.
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