Thank a Teacher

My love affair with books began early. When I got to first grade and "reading circle," a couple of kids in our class already knew how to read. That sparked a competitive gene in me and I was compelled to learn too. What I didn't know was that the world was about to change. There were universes unknown that suddenly became possibilities. I voraciously scarfed up all the stories in our readers, and then began checking out books from the school library. I would sneak them in by opening a reader and slipping the other book inside. I have yet to understand why teachers objected to this. I had already gobbled up the whole reader, so why would anyone hold me back? In third grade, the teacher brought in these little machines that helped us to read faster. Magic! 

When we homeschooled our own children, many years later, I assumed they would inherit my love for reading. But their genes leaned more to their Daddy's side, where uncanny abilities to bounce and throw spherical objects dominated their psyches. Even though all four of them loved nothing better than climbing trees and wending their way through the woods, I was able to persuade them occasionally to enjoy reading. Our youngest son, Jesse, a natural-born firebug, loved to build a fire in the fireplace first thing on winter mornings. We'd snuggle up around it in the living room and I would read to them. Such happy memories of those days, where the weather was blustery outside and we curled up like puppies to listen to a good story. More often than I care to admit, we'd all nod off after awhile and steal a morning nap. Oh for those simple pleasures!

Somewhere along the way, my husband became a scholar. He cared nothing for books, except his Bible, when we were first married. But when our current church nominated him for deacon, the preparation was nothing short of six months of seminary training. He was required to study a stack of books and actually learn what was in them. My athlete husband became a reader. Now, if his Kindle is running low on content, he asks me to find him something interesting to read. He has found the classics and other adventures, making up for lost time. Neither of us can get to sleep now without spending some time reading in the evenings. I love it.

Kindle has changed everything, as has Amazon. I still prefer a virtual book when I read -- it's the tactile process of turning the pages that makes it sweet. But I load up that Kindle with all manner of material, plus buy used books on Amazon with one simple swipe. Lord have mercy, it's all stacking up to the rafters, and the used book store closed down in Villa Rica. They used to trade books for store credit. Now I just donate them (well, sometimes). I keep books at every juncture in the house -- every table, desk, bedside, bathroom. You never know when you might find a minute. I'm truly grateful for all the folks in history who made it their mission to teach people to read. I believe it was Martin Luther, the Protestant Reformer, who said that every simple farm boy should be taught to read so that the Scriptures would be illumined to them. So today, I'd like to thank you, Miss Bell, who long ago taught me to read in first grade at Powder Springs Elementary. I don't know where you are but I sure am grateful. 

Valentine Recipe

The stores were glutted with Valentine candy last week and I bought the hubs his dream come true: an impossibly huge bag of peanut M&Ms. I told him to hide it from me, but I found it in the pantry, amongst the pharmaceuticals. I haven't snitched even one yet, but my resolve can only hold out for so long. We won't talk about the fact that the Girl Scouts came 'round the other day.

Every holiday is connected to candy. Even Thanksgiving gets its gobbler-shaped chocolates, not to mention the candy corn that's still hanging on from Halloween. The stores stock up the appropriate two aisles of selections, people dash around the day before, snatching up last-minute gifts and treats...then there's a 50% off sale the whole week after. Then they start stocking for the next holiday. It's insane. How am I ever going to escape Willie Wonka and that blasted Chocolate Factory? Now that cacao has been labeled an antioxidant, I'm really never going to get delivered of my confectionary demons. I forget that cacao is really the same thing as cocoa, that bitter stuff that Mama used to buy in cans and tastes horrible until you put lots of sugar and butter in it. I don't give a rip about fried chicken, French fries or macaroni and cheese. Whip me up a brownie with ice cream and fudge sauce, tote me on out to the curb and dump me out with the trash. 

I couldn't help but think on some of my past Valentines and the last 37 with my Sugar Bear. I feel sorry for all the expectations put on men, in particular, on that silly day. There's no way most of them ever get it right. Who could? But there's been a whole lot of money made with all the trying. Ken has learned to just get me some flowers (with the help of his children) and some chocolate. It's sweet, to the point, with no surprises. Surprises can be overrated, although a puppy or a pony once a decade doesn't hurt anybody's score card. I'm late into my fifth decade and I still mentally put those two items on my Christmas list. I think heaven must be full of those.

My sweetheart was sick with a stomach flu this week, moaning and groaning and unable to get much relief. I got aggravated with him because it seemed to never end. Then I thought about how, if we tarry long, we might be in store for a lot of never-ending whining going on, from both of us. When you are young, carefree and strong, you don't think about all that. You line up with your pretty, fair friends and say vows that sound nice and true. Then there comes a day when he's got a paunch, you've got what looks like twins in the oven, and both of your hairlines are receding. Your skin is starting to crinkle up, it's hard to remember where your glasses are and I think my hip just cracked. We might have a long haul ahead of us, maybe not. In sickness and in health, in wealth or poverty, til death do us part. I reach over and find his big ole warm hand. I press my fingers to his lips. Even though he's asleep, he kisses them. Some days I could just slap him, and then others I melt. And on any given day I have no idea how he puts up with my sass. I thank God for the truth of grace, the slow, steady path that is commitment, and the shared yoke that we have shouldered all these years. It doesn't feel like a yoke. It feels like a whole lot of words, tears, laughter, and life, in between the mundane parts. There's oatmeal and then there's champagne. It's all good.

Honest Toddlers and Chewing Gum

There is nothing like the honesty of a young child. If you don’t want to hear it, don’t ask. Papa’s tummy is fair game, as well as Yaya’s. I have been patted lovingly (and often a bit too enthusiastically) on my midsection so many times, it’s embarrassing. I refused a dessert, a few months ago. One of our granddaughters asked why and I told her that I’d already had enough sugar in my life and that I needed to quit eating it. So now, I’m not allowed to slip up around this child. She is adamant that “Yaya, you can’t have that.” I love it that children’s emotions and thoughts lie close to the surface. I’ve seen them nearly burst open when they recognize their sins, then turn around and deviously lie about where brother’s toy is hidden.

I’ve been clambered upon so many times, I can’t begin to count. There’s the climbing of an infant to reach my shiny new earrings, the quest of a toddler to tell me a secret, the search for a comforting lap. Nothing, however, rivals the bevy of cherubs that comforted me during the death of my Daddy. They instinctively knew I was in deep grief. There were no bursts of bad behavior or cranky tummies during that time…only sincere, innocent tumbles of hugs and tears that reached past the worst of it. Months later, they still draw pictures of Grandpa in heaven, dancing, surrounded by flowers and angels. Where us grownups keep our thoughts damped down, they freely express how they miss him, and openly wonder about what death and heaven are like. They also ponder the grave and hell, something we all should do. I think about Jesus, when a pile of kids pushed past all the grownups to get to Him. When the disciples started to fuss, He said, “Let the little children come to me and don’t hinder them.” We forget these things, important things, when we grow up.

Us late-middle-aged folks are getting tired. But when the family pulls in and the light spills all over the house with the energy and straight talk of those chickadees, our hearts lighten and hope springs eternal. My arms get filled with hopping toddlers and kindergartners. They see and note every bump and blemish, though to them it is more about the funny than the flaw. It’s about the love and the warmth, the unconditional heart that passes between us. That’s a piece of heaven on earth. Then come the requests for gum. And like every good Mimi, Grandma or Yaya, I get my purse. Love is a many splendored thing and often includes a stick of Juicy Fruit.

Girl Trip

In the dead of winter, I always find comfort in a little trip or two. It's not unlike Narnia, where it seems like it's always winter and never Christmas. And then there's all that Turkish Delight, which raises my blood sugar too much and I can't quit eating. Our anniversary is in February, a nice respite from the dread of cold wetness, but my daughter intervened with the idea of a girls' trip before I could work up something for Pa and me. 

We decided on a long weekend in Chattanooga. About fourty years ago, I went to college up near there, when Chatty was a smoky, grimy industrial town. The only thing interesting at the time was the Choo Choo, where our basketball team would congregate for fried chicken and a night out. Liz and I hoofed it on up there, since it's only a couple hours away from Atlanta. 

What we found was an intriguing, ambitious place full of energy and possibilities. Chattanooga looks like a giant bowl, rimmed with mountains and beautiful lights. In the day it is bustling and laced with a thousand ribbons of street. At night it sparkles with a billion twinkling stars on the mountains and in the valleys. We drove through old neighborhoods filled with hobbit-like homes that had been recently updated, gulped back our fear as we looked down harrowing mountainside roads, and explored rabbit trails that ended in lovely waterfalls and rockslides. Down in the valley, cute hipsters and their trendy coffeehouses drew outsiders by the carload. I couldn't help but think about the ghosts of the mountain folk that must be watching and shaking their heads. I only heard a few familiar twangs of guitars and banjoes as we toured the place. 

The aquarium there is wonderful, with lots of delightful fish and fauna to admire. The otters were so cute, I could have watched them all day. I remember the first time I took my children to that aquarium, way back when it first opened. There was a gigantic tank with Tennessee river fish, replete with the biggest catfish I had ever seen. I grew up near Allatoona Lake, where all my life I heard about the "catfish as big as men" that prowled near the dam. I never believed it, until we went to the Tennessee Aquarium and I saw half a dozen catfish as big as a man, maybe bigger. The next time we went to the aquarium, the catfish were much smaller. I asked a docent about it and she said that they release them back into the river, after they get real big. I ain't puttin' my toe in any river in the South, ever again. Ever.

Liz and I enjoyed people watching, probably more than anything else we did. We had a nice cruise in the riverboat, our trip to the aquarium, lots of yummy food. We sat on the side of the river, soaking in the sun and making up stories about the people who passed around us. The next day, we sat in a snack shop window and thought up scenarios and shared opinions about the couples and fashions that ambled by. We laughed and suspended our busy lives for a couple of days, eating stuff we shouldn't and luxuriating just a little too long every morning in our pajamas. What a nice thing, to wake up one day and realize that your daughter is not just your daughter anymore. She's the best kind of girlfriend you could possibly have.