Thursday, November 21, 2019

Oh The Tangled Web We Weave

The doc says this 30+ year old hernia has to go. I worked hard for that appendage, with my four behemoth babies that I carried around both inside and outside for about a decade. Many a 50-pound sack of dog food or chicken feed has been hauled. Countless ladders have been climbed. My body has been twisted into tortuous angles to reach my paintbrush into the vague corners of extensive cabinetry in more houses than I can count. They tell me that I can't put it off anymore, because it's starting to persecute me with excruciating pain on occasion. Well, more like every other day now. Since I don't want to become a prescription drug addict or end up with this thing twisted around my head...I guess I'm going. Next week, the day before Thanksgiving. Yes, it's true. I figured it was a better time than the week before Christmas. 

So instead of spring cleaning, I thought I'd clean out all those places in the house that nobody sees. Somehow I thought that would make me feel better about having to go under the knife. You know what your Mama says about wearing clean underwear (in case you have an accident)? This felt sort-of like that, don't ask me why. It is amazing what grows inside all these trunks and cabinets and closets. I send out bags and boxes every two weeks to charities, but there's some kind of breeding program going on inside those chester drawers (I know it's supposed to be chest-of-drawers, but that ain't how we say it down here). I went through every room with a trash can and a box for giveaways. They're gonna call the PC police on me for loading up the landfill. I really do feel bad about that. Why is there so much trash? After it was all said and done, I ended up having the last couple of days completely at home. So in between real estate negotiations (which actually involves considerable amounts of prayer time) and meals, I finished up the last drawers and did about 500 loads of laundry. Then I vacuumed, the crowning glory of housekeeping. I sit here tonight, with a tangled contract now untangled, a house humming because it's all clean, and the quiet rumble of the train running by. I'm loaded for bear. 

When I told my dear pastor Sunday that I was scared, he gave me words of wisdom. I told him that it sure seems to me that I don't do a real good job of trusting the Lord, even this far down the line. He said, "Rose, it's not that you don't trust the Lord. It's just that He keeps sending you new mountains to climb." He knows I prefer the beach to the mountains, but then again, the beach has the undertow. And sharks. So we're good.

Saturday, November 16, 2019

My Classy Roots

My Daddy had five sisters and two brothers, a compilation of the most interesting and conflicted folk you could imagine. They grew up in a home where their mother slaved herself to the bone and their father never worked and drank everything away. It's unfathomable why she stayed with him, since she was the only one keeping the boat afloat. He died when I was a youngster, mean and ornery to the end, in a car crash caused by his drunkenness. He wasn't even driving, but had persuaded a 14-year-old neighbor kid to drive him over the river to get more liquor, since Cobb County was dry at the time. They were evading police when PawPaw reached over and stomped the gas, driving the car into a tree. Thankfully the boy lived, though I recall all my aunts talking about how he lost a bunch of teeth. PawPaw wasn't so lucky.

One time, as a teenager, I asked MawMaw why she stayed with him. She said, "I know he was a bad man, but I loved him. We'd go walking in a field and you could just feel the love all around. But sometimes I dream that he's still alive and that the cops are beating at the door. Then I wake up and I'm so happy he's dead." At her funeral, all I could think about when I saw her gentle face was that she had to be having a party up in heaven. She'd lived through the roughest edges of life, but now she was at peace. Her love for the Lord was real, ragged and simple. I bet she's got the biggest garden up there. 

Daddy's folks would do random picnics on Dog River. He nor my Mama drank alcohol, but there would always be a lot of drinking going on at any given family event, though I never actually saw even one can of beer. They were covert about it. When we'd go up north to my Mama's people, they would drink right out in the open and had fully-stocked bars in their basements. But it was my Southern relatives that tended more towards alcoholism. It's in my blood. I'd be in a gutter if it weren't for Jesus. 

Even so, those were halcyon days, spreading out lunch on warm rocks and then running barefoot in the mud with about two or three dozen cousins. As a child, I was oblivious to the problems that many of them faced. I just knew we had a whole lot of fun when we were together. Cousin bonds are the best. My Daddy was always the ham in the family. There used to be a commercial on TV that said that a Volkswagen would float. So he and one of his brothers tried to float our Beetle in Dog River. Now that I'm grown and know that Dog River is really just a glorified, rocky creek, I can't even imagine why they thought it was deep enough. Nonetheless, they apparently found a spot and drove in. How can I say it -- it didn't float. I don't remember the end of things except that everybody was laughing, even Daddy. Maybe not my Mama though...






Monday, November 11, 2019

Mr Sandman, Make Me a Dream

Used to be, when someone said they couldn't sleep, I frankly thought they needed their head examined. Just lay down and go to sleep, for heaven's sake. My sleeping's always been rather like a bear in hibernation (except when babies were involved, where somehow I became the Mama Ninja. I could hear a baby sneeze at 50 paces). Then something happened to me. I'm not sure what, but maybe it's got something to do with hormones and stress, too much barbecue, or too many work scenarios to fit in during the day. I could go to sleep for a little while, then 3:00 a.m. would come and my brain would wake up like the rooster had just crowed. I'd lay there and kick around the covers, but finally would just get up so as not to wake Papa Bear. We love each other, but are definitely from two different planets. He's from the one where you wake up like a jack-in-the-box. He said that showers are like caffeine, and if I happen to come across him during that period of time, he's full of questions, comments and kisses. Insanity. Because I'd just as soon dig a hole and crawl down into the deep, dark earth with the moles right about then. On my planet, we start really living about 10:00 p.m. and that's a perfect time to clean, paint the house or draw a masterpiece. 

I digress. I started not being able to sleep. And nobody wants to hear you walking around the house or painting things in the middle of the night. I got a lot of computer work done, pondered the fate of the universe, prayed for people, but even the dog looked at me like I had lost my mind. Something had to be done. 

I started acquiring sleep aids. There's all kinds of gadgets for that. It began with the sheets. A dear client asked me if I had ever heard of Peacock Alley. I said I think that's around the corner from me, but no, that might be Chicken Alley. She said my life was about to change, and bought me a set of sheets from those folks...bamboo sheets that cost an ungodly amount of money. She said they'd keep me cool. While Ken was helping me put them on the bed, he commented that we were in trouble. I asked why and he surmised that these things were nothing like our Walmart sheets and we were going to have to go ahead and buy another set, so we'd never have to be without them. So, in pursuit of scientific solutions, I bought another set, along with their special blanket and pillowcases. When that didn't help enough, I bought this humongously ridiculous pillow that was shaped like a big wedge, and had a hole in it for your arm so it wouldn't go numb. It also had a big body pillow so you could keep your hips aligned. It was wonderfully comfy, but still no cigar. What followed were more additions to these expensive sleep aids: a weighted blanket (blissful), CBD oil (don't tell my Mama), a king-sized bed with all the trappings (where did my husband go in all that acreage?), a new mattress, and finally, a sleep study and honkin' CPAP machine (okay, now we're broke). Cha-ching. The cherry on top of all that was a sermon. Yes, a sermon. My pastor preached about Christ's first miracle, turning water into wine. He spoke about big ole' cisterns full of water and how He turned them into the best wine and they were like bustin' out with it. Running over. How Jesus' love for me is like that...way more than you can imagine. 

So here is how it goes, after a couple of years and much travail: I curl up in my warm nest, blessed and thankful (extra thanks for the props, Lord), and I think about that love overflowing to my heart. I'm sleeping like a baby now. All those gadgets are wonderful and helpful, but I'm pretty sure it's the cisterns that take the day. Or rather, the night.

Monday, November 4, 2019

The Sound of Silence

We live with perpetual noise. TVs, devices, traffic, the computer humming beside me, talk - on the phone or in person. Where we live, the train bores through town a few times a day (and night), though I find its sentimental wail a comfort (unless the conductor is apparently hen-pecked at home and has to take it out on us poor townies.) I'm glad that at least I live in the U.S., where we still have some wide-open spaces. I can't imagine living in a crowd, where you become anonymous and the noise must be deafening. 

I was struck by the silence in our home tonight. Time change just happened, so we're all ready for bed way too early. The TV off, everyone's talked out. The heat just kicked on, a comfort that I try to never take for granted. I remember a few times where the stone-coldness of a storm took over and we've slept under ancient quilts. It's only October and I'm already thinking about spring. Are we never satisfied? 

As I think on silence this eve, I am overcome with the vacuum holes in my world. The people, my Daddy, that I have lost. The dear dog that I just said goodbye to. Until recent times, I haven't understood what it means to hear those kinds of silences. No matter how many times you turn to greet them, to pick up the phone to tell them some tidbit...it brings shocks to your heart. Over time, folks tell me, it gets easier. It seems silly to say, "They're just not here." But they're not. They won't answer me back. I want to explain that to them, to ask why aren't you here? I get no answer. I hear no tick of doggie nails on the floor, no response to my queries. It's a strange thing, for someone to be gone. It's not natural, no matter what people say.

I think I get mad at God sometimes, because He doesn't write messages up on the wall. He does what He wants, when He wants. There is a tapestry underneath it all. Sometimes I get a good glimpse, but often and mostly not. Our planet keeps spinning. The stars keep shining. We are picked off, one by one, sometimes early, sometimes late. Yet the world doesn't stop, even when we pause for memorial. The sticks fall to the ground, but we have to pick them back up and put one foot in front of the other. Our time is coming, only God knows when. We try not to think of that. We try to pretend we will live forever, but it's really just a minute 'til it's our turn. 

These things drive my heart to the bottom, where everything seems done for and there's only the bits to be scraped up with the gravy. I look to the hills from whence cometh my help and my help is from the Lord. There is order and design in each molecule of this body, in the luscious tree outside my window, in the sweet eyes of the cat who's mewing for my attention. The deep surrender that is faith, the laying down of my will to a God that is bigger and stranger and more wonderful than all the universes combined...this is peace. When I dig into His book, I find the gold amongst the thorns. And I remember once more, this ain't all there is.