Incandescent Christmas

Christmas night, I fell ill. We were at the apex of all the festivities...our children, grandchildren, my Mama and Ken's Daddy and sister's family were here...there was a groaning table of breakfast food and beverages, lots of joy and happiness. The tree was jammed with presents...it looked like a Santa dump truck had just unloaded there. We held off opening presents until the food was eaten (I mean, cheese grits can't wait). Delicious, fruity mimoses were passed around to the adults, chocolate milk to the kids. We were all ready when it came time to open gifts. This is our tradition: presents are passed out, but opening starts with the youngest and ends up with the eldest. That way, the Mamas can corral their children's gifts and we all get to see and enjoy everyone's prizes. In this family, that gives room for plenty of ribbing and laughter. I opened my gift and it was a lovely, framed picture of our grandchildren, plus a wooden box that had this burned into the top: "You are loved." Inside were personal notes from my folk, even down to the littlest grands. As I read them, the tears poured. It was the best gift imaginable. But my tears started sticking...the nose clogged, breathing became more labored, the joints began aching. It was if my tears spawned an illness. Thankfully, there was lots of help cleaning up -- I didn't even move from my comfy chair. Everyone parted to their own homes, but by midnight, I was one sick puppy. Throat sore, sinuses clogged and aching, I went into my cocoon and stayed there for two days. Ken is the best of nurses, so I had all my needs met, even the ones I didn't want. 

I am overdramatic about pretty much everything, but in the times that I have been very sick, I come to a cresting point when I think, "Maybe this is going to kill me." And I always wonder what it would feel like to just be normal again. Will that ever happen? Then I start promising God I'll do this-and-that differently if I get to live another day. I know He redeemed me with all my sins and warts, but I also know that I could do better. At 5:00 am this morning, I was hurting so bad I thought I might as well go stand in the cold and let the dog out. Then I could let myself die, because who knows when Ken might remember to walk the dog. I peeled myself off the bed, let her out (no shoes, only a nightgown on, heck, it was 30 degrees out, a heat wave compared to the last three days). She took her time sprinkling on three hibernating flowerbeds, did some serious business at the edge of the lawn, then decided to have herself a walkabout. Of  course she would do that when I'm not dressed and it's freezing outside, though that dog is usually attached to me like velcro. She even glanced around at me as she casually trotted across the neighbor's yard, as if to say, "Haha! You can't catch me now." Though the whole neighborhood seemed to be in deep winter lockdown, I can't imagine I didn't wake someone up with my hollering. I was able to retrieve her before my toes got frostbitten; all the while hoping the neighbors didn't wake to see the crazy lady running across their lawn. 

Now that I'm emerging from the cocoon, I feel the warm afterglow of Christmas. What blessings, what joy, what goodness I see all about me. There are also troubling things-- relationships that need mending, things to be anxious about, a church friend dying today (he seemed hale and hearty a week and a half ago as he thanked me for some decorating I did.  We never know when we will get the call, do we?) There's a time to say yes and a time to say no. I did a lot of "No" in the last few weeks, purposely slowing down from the most hectic fall in recent memory. Sometimes I resent the necessity of food. It doesn't seem to matter how much or how little I eat of it, I'm still fat. So much trouble. 

As a Christian, I have at my core the heart that God gave me at salvation, not of my own merit or my own goodness, because heavens to Murgatroyd, I ain't got none of that. Emmanuel, God with us, who created this amazing place and this body that is beautiful, despite my errant ways. Our cracked, fallen world cried out for redemption and He answered. He calls the high, the mighty, the lowly...but I believe He saves the scumbags, because they're the most impossible, after all. Look at the manger, the simple shepherds, the poor mother and father...the King arrives unexpectedly, in humility and common flesh. That's how we find Him, when we strip down to repentance and need. Glory, in the dirt.  

Twas the Night Before Christmas

My Daddy grew up without much Christmas. He also grew up without shoes and enough food. His parents had 8 children, but PawPaw was shiftless (PawPaw was a rolling stone...wherever he laid his hat was his home) and didn't provide anything monetarily to the family. He was apparently an amazing salesman. He would buy an old nag of a horse, fix her up and then sell her. One time he sold a mutt dog, because he cleaned it up and talked its virtues up to the buyer. They didn't have Goldendoodles back then, at least not on purpose. Selling a moth-eaten, lost dog to a stranger might indicate how persuasive he was. Only the Lord knows how He invented my Daddy, because he was nothing like his own father, praise be...

When he and my Mama married, they had very little in the way of money. Daddy worked hard at the Post Office, while Mama took her Domestic Engineer role very seriously. She wanted Christmas to be special for him, so she carefully bought ornaments and decor over the years. She told me that she wanted him to have the childhood he never had. Then Daddy would go over-the-top with gifts for her. The house was full of good smells, a fresh tree, decorations everywhere. It is a mystery, how our one Christmas album (Perry Como) survived decades of playing.  

We would always visit my Aunt Ellen, either Christmas Eve or Christmas day. My favorite cousin, Susan, was everything good about cousin love. She was (is) a whiz-brain, played card games like a card shark, and was an incredible athlete. She grew up with four mangey boy creatures and learned grit and sass very early. At Aunt Ellen and Uncle Fred's house there were always tangerines, bananas, yummy fudge. A cloud of aromatic cigar smoke drifted through the house. I thought it smelled somewhat like coffee and leather. I love that fragrance. We would play and eat all day, then head home. Daddy always drove by a church every year that had a life-sized nativity scene out front. Then as us kids were getting woozy, full of candy, fruit and mac-n-cheese...Daddy would say that he thought he saw Santa up above. We would snap to, desperately looking for signs of that sled or the reindeer. When we got home, they would put us to bed and tell us that Santa wouldn't come if we were still awake. Daddy was as excited as we were. He never lost his inner child and we loved him for it. 

The gifts were put under the tree while us kids tried to sleep. Our parents usually got us up, late Christmas Eve, to open them. There's nothing quite like that feeling...the anticipation, the joy of it. After all three of us married, our folks kept to the tradition of Christmas Eve. No matter the size of their house, the whollllllle family comes for Christmas Eve supper and to open gifts. That number is somewhere around 64/65 people now...started with three little souls and now we're filling and subduing the earth. This year it's gonna be chili and all the fixin's. We will crowd up in Mama's small house, jam up the road in front, eat, laugh and catch up. I see the importance of that cousin love...all our grandkids are now becoming great friends with each other. At every juncture, we get announcements of more weddings, more babies, job changes, moves, hopes, dreams. Our folks blazed a trail and they have a legacy that is following right behind them...a strong wake whose ripples just keep on going. 

Who could have imagined, all those years ago, those many Christmas Eves, the impact that two people would have on the world? Simple work, humble abode, steadfast and faithful ones who did their best, bowed their heads to pray, talked about (and to) Jesus when they rose up and when they went to bed. It wasn't fancy or complicated, just real faith in a real God, walked out. Some say that the Church is full of hypocrites. Truth is, we're all hypocrites, with our pride and self-promotion and posturing. If we could work up being as good as God, what would we need Jesus for? I'm naughty, even when I'm nice. But hope springs eternal, for the baby boy king came to redeem us from the pit and the pits. 

Let's see if I can find me some Perry Como on Pandora, where there are clouds of music and no grooves in the records...  

Emmanuel

It's never good for me to decorate other peoples' houses before I gussy up my own. All the juice gets used up. I require male help getting the decorations out of the barn right now as well (that's from all those years of muling it myself, producing hernias and such). God gives that decorating bug to people, not everyone, mind you. I was a young gal when my Mama let me take over the tree decorating. It's an inborn, inherent knack for placing the goods in just the right spot on the tree, but apparently it can also be taught. I don't trust anyone to do it, however. Anyone. My MawMaw would say that's just pride, and it probably is. Even though there are those in the world that do it better than me, they're not here to do it, so I suppose I will labor at it until my pine-tar-sticky hands fall off. 

But not this year. Here it is, December 6, with only less than three weeks 'til Christmas and my house is still frumpy and undecorated. Last year it looked like the Christmas Bomb went off, even before Thanksgiving, with the tour of homes stopping here. Past years have always involved some sort of early event that forced my decorating hand. I do that, lining up company, events, extravaganzas in all areas of my life (not just Christmas), to keep me from being lazy. People always tell me that I need to cut back, but the inevitable thing that happens is that if I don't book myself uber-tight and keep ten plates spinning, then nothing gets done. It's sad that I wasn't born with a high degree of self-discipline. I have to hem myself in like a hog so I'll actually do things. Then I end up stressed or sick and miss my people. It's a problem. 

I think I'm Grinchy this year. That is a terrible thing to have to admit. Where are you, Christmas? I know where He is. Maybe I need to take a timeout and set down with Him a spell. Remember the Magnum Mysterium, think about the vortex of time, where He flung the planets across the Milky Way, where He saw and knew it all, from the first pinprick of creation, through the fall of man, to His grand plan to redeem a people for Himself. To think upon a star, signs in the sky, a king brought in the humblest of ways. God as man, the great mystery. Let us ponder...   

London Bridge

 So many reasons to be thankful, but I didn't relish the idea of Thanksgiving this entirely-too-busy Fall. I didn't even have a turkey yet, come Tuesday morning, much less anything else that was needed. Everyone brings side dishes, so that's a blessing...but there's still so much to be done. The house was a wreck. Crunchy leaves seemed to be in every corner, as we have been dealing with new trees and also picking up a bumper crop of pecans from our yard. Laundry was piled up from the results of a dead washing machine.  I've had a lot of real estate business and musical events to deal with, along with the requisite worrying about all my people (and our daughter very late with her baby). I was just plumb tuckered out. Then the lady who was going to help me clean my house had an emergency with her Mama. I figured we'd live, even if the acorns started making babies in the house. Somehow, I mustered up the energy to run through Walmart, where I quickly picked up a monster turkey, some not-home-made pies, a big sack of potatoes and a gloriously tacky Christmas sweater. It said "Feliz Navidad" and had a big Llama on the front, along with chili peppers hanging from it. I couldn't imagine many more things that would give you that much fun for $24.95. My spirits were picking up... 

The family Thanksgiving was wonderful, with enough warmth and hilarity to make it worth it all. The party wound down, with lots of sticky hugs and kisses from cute little people. My daughter and her husband and toddler son lingered behind with us and our son's family who is living with us (while they build their house). We sat in the kitchen, laughing and talking. It was one of those occasions where the evening was crystallized into a sweet bubble, when you look around the room and just want to freeze time. We rush about in our lives, fussing and worrying, arranging, buying, selling, working...and sometimes fail to really stop and savor what we are doing it all for. As we walked Liz and Marcus and Ethan outside to their car, we laughingly told her that she better get home and get to bed, because that baby was coming in a few hours. Of course, the phone rang in the middle of the night with the frantic news that they were on the way to the hospital. That turkey and gravy was just the ticket. 

It was a short travail that involved many things: dancing and funky music, laughter, a very chatty Elizabeth (even without medication), next some calm and serene songs, then the transition period into that hell-like chasm between life and death that is often natural labor. When all strength seemed gone and hope was absent, there were cries and prayers for mercy. Papa Ken was in the next room on his knees, the best (and only) thing worth doing at the time. Marcus prayed too, wrestling with the difficult and helpless place of watching his beloved in such pain. As the despair crested, the lioness roared as she refused to give in. Baby London burst into the world, red and loud, her Mama punching the air and shouting, "I did it!" The whole room laughed and cheered as Liz reached to pull their baby to her heart. 

When calm came over the room and the many hospital staff began to drift away, I was able to get close to our granddaughter. She was laying in a bassinet, wailing and protesting the cruel, cold air she found herself in. I reached down and she grasped my finger and pulled it to her face. As I began speaking to her, she ceased her crying and stared into my eyes. We had a "moment." I've experienced these soul ties before, with other of my precious grandchildren upon their births. Sometimes the tie happens later, and it might take more time. Either way, these lives are not just biology. There is that soul...

Nothing on earth is like the miracle of birth. It's gut-wrenching pain that suddenly stops and delivers you a miracle in its place. I imagine crossing on over into heaven is similar to the believer. We've got pain, trials and that pesky law of gravity, but then we're delivered, death and life tumbled together like pearls in a bowl. Swing low, sweet chariot. 

Great Ten-Pound Expectations

We have been married fourty-plus years now and there's a strange phenomenon that I have observed about men and women, when it comes to preparing for events. I do not remember this being a problem when my Mama and Daddy readied for such things (but then again, I also don't remember them having scads of people show up for random and large soirees. If I'm gonna clean up for company, we might as well invite a hundred people...) The problem with marriage is that folks tend to have expectations. If the couple happen to be polar opposites in personality (and most are), these assumptions can vary wildly. As in, when I look at a room, I see the beauty and color (or lack thereof); Ken sees the giblets on the floor and the remote control out of place. We have had many a fight when it came time to whip our house into shape for company. My thoughts run to straightening the house, cleaning the bathrooms and getting the food ready. But especially vacuuming. The roof might as well be falling in, if we haven't vacuumed before the company arrives. 99% of my problem is that I wait until there's a deadline looming and there's precious little time left to get my tasks done. I work best under pressure, I tell myself. Truth is, I've seen what happens to pressure cookers when they explode. It's not pretty. Ken's priorities, however, run to the bizarre. I'm sure he'd say the same about me...

A prime example of the subject at hand: several years ago, we were preparing to have fifty or so people over for a church-sponsored meeting. We had four very young children, whom we were also homeschooling. I was mad-dashing about the house to get it (semi) sanitary. Ken resisted my to-do list and said he had his own, so I frantically buzzed and tried to stay in my lane (does anybody really stay in their lane?) The time was almost up, I was sweating like an old fishwife, ready to jump in the shower, when I noticed a smudge on the wall. On closer inspection, I saw that there were several such marks down the main hall. I hunted down my husband, to find him with a rusty old can of paint and a brush, "touching up" the walls. To my dismay, I found that he had done this all over our big house, in literally every room, without noticing that the rust was mixing right in with the touch-up paint. After falling on the ground in a fit of despair, I righted myself and got in the shower. Somehow, some way, no one was murdered that night, we had the event, and lived to see another day. The next few weeks were preoccupied with repainting much of the interior of the house. We figured out our lanes: I don't touch his yard. He doesn't touch my paint brushes. 

I've discussed this phenomenon with other wives...and they concur with me that men have strange priorities in these circumstances. When the one (you know who the one is) is cleaning and preparing the food, the other is cleaning out the garage (that no one will see) or maybe shoring up the foundation on the house, just for kicks. Or perhaps he'll take the cars to the carwash and detail them (because the company's going to be inspecting the interiors for sure). But it might be just the day to put the new brakes on the car. Yes, there's that. 

I saw this play out in front of my eyes this week. Our dear daughter is two weeks overdue with their second baby, miserable and great with (probably) a 10-pound baby girl, if the past is any indicator. She doesn't want drugs, epidurals or interventions, so she's waiting on the nature of things to take their course. Her precious husband, whom we love greatly, decided to put brakes on her car for the first time. We are very proud of him...he has been learning to do all manner of things since they married -- he's learned how to tile, lay flooring, build out a fancy closet, strip furniture, how to manipulate wood into lovely things, and lots of other skills in the course of a couple of years. All the while working a job in a new field and acing it, as well as being a good husband and father. Not to mention, he mostly does the cooking around there. I might have skipped that part of homeschooling my daughter, I fear. But the woman can change brakes. If she can do that, I guess she can figure out the rest of it. 

While she was travailing inside the house, he pulled the car apart and started on the brake job, which turned into one of those nights where the evil-universe-dominoes decided to fall. You know those times, where this thing breaks and the next thing is messed up and you didn't know that all the things were worse than originally noticed? Wailing and gnashing of teeth was heard around the neighborhood, as nighttime and frozen air descended and the car was still up on blocks. They gave up and came on over to our house, where I cooked sub-par spaghetti and we laughed on the sofas, Liz looking all the world like she had a giant beachball attached to her tummy. Ahhh, I well remember those days. 

So we're still waiting. I popped over to their house late last night on the way back from an appointment to check on them, and I saw that our son-in-love had the car fixed and put back together. We foolishly stayed up too late (I had no clue the hour), laughing and eating all manner of food. A frantic Ken called me at midnight, after arriving home from work with no wife in sight. All these expectations! Eventually, everyone got swaddled in at their appropriate homes and we all slept like kittens. Life is a mighty fine shindig. Jesus take the wheel...    

Tree Beard and His Buddies

I whined a few weeks ago about the loss of our beautiful Water Oak in the side yard. Each morning, I have missed that golden, dappled light as I do my morning coffee and Bible reading. I started thinking about what we could do to replace that old soul that was outside our window. Alas, there is no replacing, as the thing was at least 85 years old and bigger than the house (my sons counted the rings), but something had to be done. One afternoon, as I was watching baby Ethan at my daughter's house, we took a stroller walk around the neighborhood. I saw several mature trees that made me pause. The light was filtering through them like the magic in a wonderful movie...there was curling bark, leaves dripping like they had nothing to do but show off. After a little research, I found out that they were River Birch trees. I remembered an old friend who had two of these, massive ones, flanking the walkway to her fancy Buckhead house. I always loved them, with their unique bark and the way they affected the sunlight with their willow-like leaves. I also recalled that her evil gardener talked her into sawing them down. I bet he got tired of moving leaves around. 

I started searching for local shops who had River Birches in their inventory. I talked to Ken at length about it. We wandered in the yard, him with a measuring tape and strong opinions about how many trees we could put over there. He said "one." I said "two, at least." It's gonna take years before these things make a difference, so why not double your efforts? I found a store in Carrollton (Southern Homes and Ranch -- it's an Ace Hardware, with the helpful hardware man).They had two 7-footers. One random Thursday morning, Ken said, "Can you head over and get those two trees? I'll go ahead and agree to two, and if you hurry, I'll get them planted before I have to go to work this afternoon." I threw my purse over my shoulder and flew out the driveway. Ken is not known to be spontaneous, so I knew I had to seize the day. Excitedly, I drove out I-20 to the GA 113 exit, turned left and headed to Carrollton. As I was buzzing south on 113, I whipped right past a sign: Redland Nursery. It said something about trees, both Christmas and otherwise. I needed trees! I yanked off to the side of the road, googled the nursery and called; the owner picked up on the first ring and told me that yes, he had River Birch trees, and they weren't just seven feet tall. It was kismet. 

I ambled down a dirt road to his house, passing what seemed to be hundreds of acres of saplings. I followed him off the dirt road and four-wheeled it to a batch of giant trees. He said, "These are too big. It would cost you $1200 just to get someone to dig these out." That wasn't in my budget, so we meandered around to another field, where the "little" birches were located. There was a line of lovely ones, much taller than seven feet, but just right, in my mind. In my excitement, I told him "I want three of them!" as I wrote out a deposit check. I mean, you have to admit that the Trinity is foundational to God's nature. Everything that looks great comes in threes. A triangle is a super-stable thing and I simply couldn't see anything but three in the yard. One would give off a puny vibe, two would feel too symmetrical, but three was just right.  The man told me he'd have to get "his guys" out there to dig them up and ball them up in burlap in a few days so they could be transported. He covertly asked, "Do you have a big trailer?" I figured Ken could throw them in the back of his truck and we'd be good. After much ado and details I cringe to mention, I find three monsters from Fangorn Forest laying across the trailer in our yard. Surely these mammoths were not the trees I chose. My lumberjack men informed me that they could not move these by themselves (no small concession from those I consider to be modern-day Vikings). Apparently, large, earth-moving equipment and power tools were going to have to be involved, if we were to ever get these in the ground. 

For nigh three weeks, those trees slept in their burlap while we watered them and waited for a trusty man with an excavator to come. I was alone last Sunday when everything finally came to fruition. His machinery crept by, inches from our old windows.  He expertly dug massive holes in just the right spots we had marked. Before I knew it, there were three towers standing proudly, still tied up at the top. I figured Ken was now going to die, falling off a ladder to get those loose. But when he arrived home, he quickly nicked the ropes and pulled, freeing those beautiful branches. I drenched them with the hose and could almost feel them breathing a deep sigh of relief. Now they're all tucked in and we're praying for spring and God's favor. 

I kind-of figure that Ken might decide not to send Mama on random errands anytime soon. It often turns into much more than he bargained for, but I have to say that that man must love me, after all.  

Celestial City

Celeste. When I met her, she was a little girl, shy as they come, with long, curly, jet black hair. Chubby cheeks, smiling eyes, usually wearing Chuck Taylors. Her Dad is the most excellent house painter I have ever known (and I've known more than a few). He and I would occasionally work together on a job. Once, there was a 25-foot foyer that was calling for a faux-metal ceiling (it was begging for that)...and I had no inclination whatsoever to get up there. He nimbly climbed scaffolding and a scary ladder and followed my instructions to make it look like brushed gold metal. But that's the least of it. He's one of those people that you implicitly trust -- conscientious, God-fearing, honest. His parents brought him here, at 15 years of age, from Mexico, illegally. He grew up, married a kind, humble American girl and raised a family. Then he decided to jump through all the hoops to become an official American citizen, even though he didn't have to and most don't. It took lots of time, money and persistence, but he did it. He is highly respected by our church and by anyone who knows him, yet he never assumes such. So these are the people that Celeste comes from... 

Celeste. What a beautiful, old-fashioned name for a beautiful girl. It means "heavenly." She always stood in the background, never drawing attention to herself. There were other girls that people noticed, but Celeste was one who didn't seem to mind. She kept wearing her Chucks and being just who she was -- thoughtful, caring, steadfast. Even though I would see her at church and across my feed, I somehow didn't notice that she grew up. Her cherubic, innocent face belies the fact that she's a working adult now. One afternoon I was strolling through Facebook and happened to see that she had gotten engaged, to this adorable guy. How do these things just happen, kids growing up like that? I FB-stalked him and saw their winsome pictures. There was Celeste with a ring on it, sure enough, still in her Chuck Taylors. I was so happy, I texted her Mom and said hey, can I decorate her wedding? Because, you know, I don't have enough to do right now. I dream that, sometimes...

When I spruce up a wedding, I am afraid I become a bit of a diva. I worry, dream, draw pictures, wake up in the middle of the night fretting. I talk about it to everybody, ad nauseum. The tension builds and no one around me can rest until it's over. To my loved ones, I am truly sorry. Maybe I can change, but it's looking doubtful. Venues rarely give enough time to get the place ready...they'd like you to spend extra dollars for extra time to do it right, but this is do-it-yourself, not Designer Central. I'm under several guns right now -- besides my obligations to work, wind ensemble, the holidays, holiday decorating for other people, and life in general, the big Event is that our daughter is due for their second baby. Today. I have no illusions that she's coming today, as her last baby came almost three weeks late, but the advent season is here and in not just one way. Yesterday we found out baby London has turned transverse (sideways)...just like her Mama did when she was in my tummy. I'm not gonna miss her birth, so someone else will have to fill in for all the things if she arrives on time. Bless God for good friends who rescued me from myself and assisted getting everything done. Several helped, but dear Kathy gave me two whole days, one to organize and clean all the decor, another to decorate at the venue. Pure gold. A wedding is about love and commitment. So is a true friend.

So the day is almost here and I think on my own youth, where I blissfully sailed into our simple wedding, no stress, knowing he was the right one and just wanting to be married to him. Candles, flowers, details...none of that really mattered. There were so many that blessed us. Now I more understand all the implications of marriage, the good and the bad, the charge of the long game. The truth of love, which includes the aches, the sicknesses, the sagging of the flesh. And more, maybe, the give and take of two sinful people over time, where the fairy tale ideas grow dim and the reality of weariness can overwhelm the strongest. I will pray for Celeste and Dalton, as the Lord brings them to mind. That they will love each other, forgive each other, respect each other, and that time will be kind to them as they trust God to carry them through the darkest of days as well as the light-filled, happy ones.  

Autumn Leavings

Our children gave us a gift for our fourtieth anniversary...it was an official family photography session. Our anniversary is in February, but it took us until mid-October to finally do the deed. The photographer had us meet at a local park (Clinton Reserve) at "golden hour" -- that time of day where the sun is moving down in the evening sky and everything looks magical. My daughter and three daughters-in-love commiserated and planned for months about what we were all going to wear. A color scheme was shared, "fall" colors of course. My complexion looks like the day of the dead when I wear those colors. I remember, in my past, a brown prom dress, gorgeously hand-made by my skilled Mama. I put it on and my face turned a shade of light chartreuse. Then there was an orange silk blouse, a hunter green wool sweater, a yellow bathing suit. Sad chapters in my clothing life, though I didn't understand why they didn't work. Then some brilliant person woke up in the 1980s and started giving parties where they draped you in your "colors" -- they sold you makeup and gave you a customized little color palette that fit neatly into your purse. Color Me Beautiful was the rage and we all figured out whether we were a Summer, Winter, Spring or Fall. I was a Summer, which included all the colors of the sunset that I already loved -- shades of pink, purple, blue, creamy white (not white-white), reds (with a blue undertone, not cherry, mind you), never black, but navy was amazing. All the planets aligned and I saw the fashion universe in a whole new light. I knew that I looked like a frump in that green sweater, and now I knew why. For the record, I often cheat and wear other season's colors. I've never liked to just stay in my lane, but then again, hunter green on me might deserve incarceration.  

So back to photos...I had had months to think about an outfit, and all I could come up with was some sort of denim. But my denim jacket has really tight arms and makes me claustrophobic. Two days before the big day, I strolled into Walmart for milk or something, when I happened upon a packed-out double rack of dresses and tops. When did prairie dresses come back on the scene? Because I already did that, back in the 70s, and it didn't turn out so well. Back then, we had a hippie moment and then everything suddenly went sporty. I missed the 80s, because I was getting married and raising four kids and didn't care one lick about current music, fashion or trends. I stuck to Beethoven, Dan Fogelberg and Chicago, blue jeans and t-shirts and that worked out fine for me while my main priorities were diapers and nursing babies. I blinked, they were grown, and I'm still trying to catch up. So here's this rack of clothes and I had to admit they were kind-of adorable. I didn't want to deal with the sweaty, sticky job of dressing and undressing in Walmart, so I bought two dresses and two tops and took them home to try on. I felt real fancy doing that, like one of my old rich friends used to do. Except she was shopping somewhere much more dignified than Walmart. Either way, I was pleasantly shocked that the dresses fit nice and were really cheap. I might have also figured out that I no longer have a waist, so you just kind-of make one up and that seems to work. The tops didn't fit, so I took them back the next day. The whole rack of clothes had sold out, except for one top, which was just my size. What is Walmart thinking? Cheap and cute clothes?

So for the photo session I wore the blue dress, and Papa Bear decided at the last minute to wear his overalls. He was hunkier than the Marlboro man. It was heaven, because all of our perfect grandchildren were there, along with their gorgeous, though imperfect, parents. The photographer was brilliant, coaxing all sorts of love and giggles out of everyone. Then we retired to Jon and Nakitta's house, where she had made several delectable soups. We all brought side dishes, and after stuffing ourselves, there was a bonfire, s'mores and we cut designs on our pumpkins. It was as perfect a night as I could ever imagine.  

Nights like that are like a glowing sphere in my mind (maybe it was the jack-o-lanterns, maybe it was the bonfire, but it was probably those people). They don't happen every day or we'd not appreciate them. I sat my big pumpkin, with vines carved all over it, along with Maddie and Caiden's (they're living here, with their parents, while they build their new house), on the front porch. It took two weeks before they succumbed to the elements. One of the guys threw them away yesterday, leaving a trace of moldy gourd on the porch rug. Rotten pumpkins are just tragic, no matter how much you try to puzzle through their demise. I've smiled and had warm thoughts each time I've passed that spot on the rug (you'd think I could get a warm, soapy rag and clean the mess up, but I digress...), just thinking about that lovely day that we had together and blessing God for His mercies and gifts that have nothing to do with what I really deserve. When I opened the stunning pictures from the email I was sent, I boohooed. I'm so happy that this world is not all there is...but sometimes God pulls back the curtain just enough to let us see a bit of heaven.  

Eight Days A Week

"I'm in a full pucker position," said Judge Adams. He was up on a very high-pitched roof with my husband when he said that. They were helping a friend finish his house. We laugh to this day about that expression, and every time we're in a tight spot, it gets said again. That's how I felt today, when I was trying to get out of downtown Atlanta after a closing. Folks were jockeying for position like it was a NASCAR race. I try to arrange closings with more local attorneys, but don't always get to choose. I hauled it home, ate leftovers and decided to hit the hay early, only to find that the sheets were still in the washing machine. Life is just like that sometimes. Our first-world-problems..... 

I sold my dear little camper this weekend to the sweetest lady. Ken hauled it to Newnan and fitted it into her teeny-tiny backyard (with his massive truck attached). It took an hour and a half to get it finally situated, without ruining something in the process. I was sentimental as we pulled away. I had taken that very ugly camper and turned it into something Barbie could be proud of. People would knock on the door when we camped and ask to see the inside of it. I left the dishes and pots and pans in it. How could I not? They matched the turquoise, coral and cream color palette. We had some fun in that thing and I hope the new owner does too. These Neanderthals are too big for a Barbie camper, so we got us another one, bigger and with bunks for grandkids. 

This next month might prove to be my undoing. I have to decorate a ladies luncheon, a wedding and a mansion (for Christmas), then a mural to paint for soon-to-be-present baby London Grace. We have two concerts with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble in the next few weeks (don't forget them scales!) Then there's my day job. And Thanksgiving and Christmas don't wait on anybody. I've been having trouble sleeping at night, wondering how I'm going to get all this done if London decides to make her entrance on time (she's due November 8). Her brother was three weeks late, so hope springs eternal, not that I want to wish that on my daughter. But the apple doesn't fall from the tree and the four of mine were at least 2-3 weeks late. I see Liz in all her glory, beautiful and shaped like a very ripe pear, miserable, but with all her dreams coming true. 

Dear Lord, You know I ain't got time to do all this stuff. I remember there's somewhere in the Word where you stopped time for, like, a whole day. I'm not asking for anything like that, but I'd appreciate it if you could slow everything down, just a little bit. It'd be just peachy if You could hold off London until at least November 13. And while we're at it, and since we're asking...our little Maddie is turning 9 this week and she'd like to know if You'd speed things up for her, just until Wednesday. Thanks in advance.   

Grounded

A few weeks ago, I listened to a fascinating podcast "In the Red Clay." (Not a children's podcast, I might add).  It concerns a man (Billy Sunday Birt) who was considered a hit man  for the so-called "Dixie Mafia." I never knew there was such a thing, though my early days were traversed all over dirt roads in the great countryside surrounding Atlanta, where much of this activity was rumored to have occurred, in the 60s and 70s...my very growing-up years. While listening to the tales spun out of this podcast, however, I began to think about how closely I certainly came to the characters that are introduced. I wish Daddy were still here (but of course, but he'd never come back now, after all he's seeing). I can just imagine him connecting a lot of dots from some of his people back in the day. His Daddy was known to be a rounder, with plenty of brushes with the law, usually having something to do with alcohol. The Dixie Mafia was all about hauling moonshine. I believe PawPaw had an old still across the street from their house in Smyrna, but I could be wrong. It involved a radiator, that's all I'm sayin'... There were some bad cousins, one using my Dad and Uncle's print shop after hours to make false documents. Arrests and a murder or two in my family, and you have a dingy, dusty veil of Southern gothic mystery back there, roaming the back roads that were still not quite civilized. It doesn't seem that long ago, but I guess nothing is, if you can still remember it. 

The Red Dirt story also involved a local hero: Douglas County's Sheriff Earl Lee. I don't know much about him except that he was an amazing lawkeeper -- putting the fear of God into people while keeping the peace and respect of most everyone. He was (and is) revered and kept his jurisdiction on the straight and narrow. But he was first and foremost, a man of God. The word is that Billy Sunday Birt was paid to murder Sheriff Lee one Sunday, while Lee was coming out of church. Though Birt has been credited with as many as 56 or more murders, something made him pause and reconsider. Lee lived for many more decades. Years later, Lee allegedly led Birt to Christ and arranged for him to be baptized in a country church. Yes, truth is stranger than fiction.

Irony runs along my lifelines as well. My PawPaw was nothing like the tender-hearted, God-fearing man who raised me. Many years after he died, MawMaw told me that she sometimes dreamed PawPaw was still alive, that the law was pounding on the door. She said that when she would wake up, she'd be relieved he was gone. In the next breath she was talking about how she had always loved him, no matter what kind of mayhem he was dredging up. God uses whatever He likes and PawPaw's blood runs through these veins just like my Daddy's does. I guess I've got a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. But I sure do love my roots, deep in that Georgia red clay.   

Camping, Kids and the Passage of Time

Camping was our childhood version of Disney. We would head a few miles down the road to Lake Allatoona, and spend a night or two in a tent at King's Camp, where the lake was muddy and murky. When we waded into the water, we had to make our way past all the stumps that lurked in the thick mud. That final push into deep water was a mercy. But there was nothing more delicious than the eggs and bacon Mama fried on our Coleman stove the next morning, or the smell of the campfire and the hiss of the Coleman lantern that Daddy hung from a nearby tree. He made it magical, telling us stories and being in a perpetual state of boyhood himself. When you have no money, but you have love, a mud-slide on a hill can be paradise.

Ken and I's camping adventures of late bear no resemblance whatsoever to my childhood adventures. I surprised him with an old camper a couple of years ago, a little thing that is adorable (since I turned it into a turquoise, coral and cream Barbie camper). We fixed it up and took it a few places, only to finally admit that we are two barbarian-sized folk that need not only space to spread out, but room to escape in times of peril. Ken felt hemmed in by the little tiny bed in the back. He never likes to have only one escape route. It's a wonder he wasn't in the military. He'd have been a 5-star general by the time he got done. Our last trip was the tipping point and we realized we would either have to quit camping or get a bigger one. So we took the latter option and found a nicer, newer, bigger camper a couple of weeks ago. It has two exits and a bed that's not the size of a Chiclet. You also don't have to climb over anyone if you have to make a midnight run to the bathroom. We're taking it for a practice run in a few weeks.

In the meantime, I went with my son Jon and his family for a several-day trip in their camper, to visit the Ark Encounter in Kentucky. We call their rig "The Split Level." It's huge and boujie, with a big ole refrigerator and multiple ways to sleep, not to mention its own outdoor kitchen. You could almost forget you're camping. Almost. 

 They planned this trip many months ago, to celebrate their twins' fifth birthday. Little Addison said, "It's a grand adventure!" We drove miles and miles to get to Kentucky, which might as well be Outer Mongolia, when you're traveling with four young children (one of them a baby). It really took us two days before we pulled into the main event: The Ark Encounter. We parked, waited in a long line, boarded a bus, then walked a ways until we passed through a big arch (remember that God put a rainbow in the sky after He promised to never destroy the earth again with water?) The kids were going nuts as we looked up and saw a gargantuan replica of Noah's Ark, right there in technicolor. The kid in me stood, gaping at the sheer size and reality of the thing. Tears came unbidden as so many memories and versions of the biblical story tumbled out of my brain. Faith became a sort of sight as this legend came to life in front of me. There are over 300 cultures that have flood stories. It's not a children's tale, if you think about it.

Jon and Nakitta had several friends staying nearby at the campground. Each night was filled with the squeals and games of children around the campfire. After the kids were put to bed, the men would head back out and stay late into the night talking. Yaya curled up in her bed, read books and slept like an old lady, without apology. It was pretty blissful. 

The role of Grandma is so precious, it defies explanation. When God gave us our four children, I felt like I had won the lottery. I had wanted them from the time I was a little girl and then I got to have my very own. I kissed and hugged and drank in their childhoods. They're all grown now and probably have no idea how nuts I was and am about them. My and our job was to raise them, so there were the tough years where you had to make them mind and teach them all the things...Because you love them. So they might not know how much every inch of their sweet skin and bunny eyes made me happy. 

Then God gives you grandchildren. It's like winning the lottery, but with double prizes. 

Rise and Shine

Most every morning, I take my breakfast at my favorite spot in our lovely old Victorian house...in the living room, snuggled up in my big, comfy chair. There's a large, round, tufted ottoman with my favorite books piled on it. I settle there with my coffee, Bible, a bowl of something warm to eat, maybe a book or two and my phone (to catch any pressing emails or messages from the last night). The phone is a distraction. I wish I could ignore it, though my job requires a constant vigil on the blasted thing. My squirrel brain sees some interesting tidbit within the bowels of the email box and I'm off to the races. But this morning I awoke to literally hundreds of new emails. Somehow some "European business connection" bot got hold of my address and is now flooding my inbox with various numbers of vendors and requests. If this goes on, I might have to finally retire my ancient email address. Wouldn't that be tragic? I don't even know how that works. 

The worst thing about this morning is that when I sat down to my snuggly warm spot in the living room, the golden, dappled light that is always there is no more. Our delightful and huge Water Oak tree, just outside these windows, met its demise yesterday. Our son Daniel rented a bucket truck and carved it down into pieces. Ken and another son, Jon, joined him late afternoon to finish the job. Our beautiful tree had split in half about two years ago during the aftermath of a hurricane, but was hanging on despite missing half of herself. We believed the best of it, though we were told it would eventually die and fall. It was showing signs of faltering, so we bit the bullet and let her go. Now our dear house is exposed, harsh, cold. It will take many years before shade will come again to these windows. 

Life and death circle us all our days. Births and deaths bring new chapters, some delightful, some devastating. I often say that the death of my Daddy made a giant hole in the universe. So here's our new hole in our yard. The gothic wrought-iron fence was damaged. There's a big mess to clean up. How will we adjust? 

Life moves on. The little Sweet Bay Magnolia we planted two years ago will now have more sun, more room to grow. I plan to plant the biggest River Birch I can afford, a bit over from where the Oak was. We'll mulch and pay attention to the yard over there, giving it extra love. I've been nursing a whole army of Creeping Fig along the retaining wall there for many years. It will now have better sun...it thrives in heat. In my mind's eye I can see all these things thriving, growing, reaching to the sky. I will smile at the morning sun that beams in my windows. I will thank God for the comings and goings, for as the world turns, so will I...  

Red and Yellow, Black and White, They are Precious in His Sight

"I'd like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony..." went the famous Coca-Cola ad that I grew up hearing. There were a bunch of hippie-type folk with candles, multiple colors and nationalities of people, all swaying and singing together. The 1970s world I was living in was learning to adjust, grappling with the issues of all the changes going on in our culture. There was integration-by-design, logistical problems of bussing children to different districts so that there would be "equality" and racial balance in the schools. It was a strange time, but there needed to be change. Whether it was done correctly or not, I'm not here to judge. 

But what I do know is that God talks about this subject thirty-four times in the Scriptures. He calls people to Himself from "every tribe, tongue and nation." And until they are all represented, it says that Christ will not return. Being from the deep South, where some folks seem to think the devil lives (well, he IS the prince of the power of the air, that, but it's not limited to the deep South), there were so many wrong deeds and evil done. If you're living on the planet Earth, from any place anywhere, at some point there has been (and is being done), much evil. There is no single people group anywhere that is immune to the depravity of man. 

When I think of that idyllic commercial, with the pretty people of all races and creed singing together, I think about the makeup of heaven. Let me tell you, if you will look, you will find that within the simplicity of the Word of God there are the keys to peace, to unity, to so many of the world's questions. This Sunday morning, as I sat in church (I sit down front beside the piano, so I can see out there really good)...I wanted to weep. Because all across our quiet, gentle, kind, Word-centered church were all manner of people sitting together, worshipping God. I saw threads of Irish, English, Ethiopian, African, Scottish, Hispanic, Greek, German, Dutch, and the always essential Duke's Mixtures of humankind. In the end, we are all a "Duke's Mixture." Another simple story from the Scriptures, that most young children know, the one about Noah and a giant boat...not truthfully a children's level reading, because it's actually pretty gruesome, where only a few people (and animals) make it through a big, bad storm. There were eight folks on that ark, four human couples plus two of every kind of animal (seven of every clean animal).  They got through, made it out and then repopulated the earth. Look at it -- we're all cousins. Even the secular world has proven it out in science...that we all hark back to a simple human line...they even call that first mother "Eve." So guess what? We're all related. All. Of. Us. There are many, many cultures, but we are all kinfolk. We are all human. The concept of race is really a cultural construct rather than an actual race. We are the human race, with a beautiful range of colors and hues, faces, eyes, fingers. I heard a dear, young pastor say that our big problem is that we don't know God and we don't know each other.

And that's the real goal...to love our neighbor as we love ourselves. All these biblical themes...amazing that He wrote all that down for us. We need to read it and heed it. It's all there.

The Fruits of the Prosaic

Practice! The dread of it was real. I was an 11-year-old dreamy-eyed girl when Mama signed me up for piano lessons with our neighbor. I got off the bus on Thursday afternoons, waited at Elsie's house for my turn, then went into a tiny back room to learn the piano. Elsie was amazing. When she played, the world began to swirl around my head. It was like peering into the Milky Way, seeing things I had never seen before. Something in my heart opened and the music seeped in like honey. She loved classical music, which I had recently discovered from two albums Mama bought me at a yard sale, Beethoven's Fifth and the Pastoral Symphony. After I learned a few basics, Elsie put me on a book with lots of little Mozart pieces --wiggly, happy forays that made you think of sprites and fairies in springtime. 

I have ever been a busy girl, easily distracted and in need of various, tortuous types of accountability. What else does an 11-year-old need in order to practice? But it was, and is, the challenge of my life. There were fields and kittens to explore, my sister and the neighbor girls to ride bikes with, basketballs and softballs to throw, grass to be mown. A week would go by so very quickly and Thursday's bus ride was filled with sad contemplation of a poor lesson, all because I had failed to practice enough. "You have promise!" she said. I knew it was true. The notes flew easily from my long fingers, the interpretation flowed like a river from my heart. But when the mundane reality of scales and consistency broached my life, I fell short much of the time. Why be humdrum, when there were so many sparkles elsewhere? Six years of lessons can only take you so far, when you don't apply yourself. Basketball, high school band and my new flute, track team, clubs, socializing and the ever-circling spectre of boys kept a lid on any serious piano goals. Fired by two good teachers, I missed the gold that was there under my phalanges. 

Here we are, how many decades later? I somehow stuck with the flute all these years. It's simpler, sings with a voice and is super portable. I've kept up the practice, though without much real knowledge and no lessons. I finally bit the bullet and paid for lessons during the plandemic, with a wonderful lady from Los Angeles. Whoever knew we'd be Zooming instructions from across the other side of the world? I realized, for the first time in my life, that scales were indeed the magic sauce. And that all the workaday parts that I dreaded were the very thing that laid a foundation for everything else. If you do your scales, the other stuff is easy. Who knew? 

I play with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble every Tuesday night. We do multiple concerts all year (fall concert is October 13th at the Carrollton Fine Arts center, ya'll), difficult pieces that make my head swim. I complain every semester about the level of impossibility that our conductor, Terry Lowry, hoists upon us. I mumble "how am I supposed to do my day job?" pretty much every time the new music is introduced. I agonize over my distractions...very real, important ones... grandchildren, children, husband (the hunky one that still circles) , job(s), church, friends (socializing is good for your soul) and of course my Mama and siblings. Every turn of the seasons, I question whether I should continue to try to hang with this ensemble, constantly forcing myself to do the requisite practicing and treks to rehearsals and performances, when I have so many other noble obligations. Some weeks I practice nearly every day, then others I might get one session in. The agony weighs on me sometimes. Or often. 

In stressful duty mode, I pick up my flute and begin the banal scales. I sound like a rusty tin whistle. The playing starts to clear out my throat and sinuses. I begin to breathe deeper, opening up my head and lungs. The fingers relax and move, remembering patterns. Before you know it, I've worked through the scales and arpeggios and everything begins to flow. Then comes a lovely etude and the sound starts to warm, the rich silver of the flute coming alive. The deep, sonorous tones from this lovely instrument (that I sold a house for) are like liquid gold. I stop and thank God for it, even though I often feel guilty for having bought something so expensive. Then I remember that I really did work hard for it and maybe it's okay. For God so loved the world (and me)... Then the honey seeps in and I recall why I do this and what music does for my soul. Besides, it's all over the scriptures, about singing, instruments, even God's ideas about it. Heaven is gonna be full of music, the expression of the heights of the glory of God. I'm so happy we get to go ahead and start early, down here.   

Decadent Decade

I was walking the new puppy this morning (yes, Ken let me...and her name is Scout) and many thoughts came pouring forth. She's an Aussiedoodle, the grandbaby of our Sadie girl (who is an Australian Shepherd, almost human). One of my strong motives for getting a second dog is the biblical adage: two are better than one. Numerous members of my family think that I am nuts for procuring a second dog, particularly a puppy. But I believe she will be good for Sadie, will keep her company when I'm busy or gone, and will all-around be better for everybody, even me, who needs to get my hinder parts off the chair and do something to bump some of this rust off. Meanwhile, I'm already sleep-deprived and trying to figure out how to train a puppy after all these years. I have a little schedule. We'll see how that goes.

As I was walking through the yard, remembering our first Aussie, Zoe, and her early days as a pup, it struck me that it has been ten years ago since we brought her home. A decade ago that flew by like a minute. We like to think that nothing ever changes, because sometimes the minutes drag by. We might be too acclimated to 30-minute sitcoms, where a week's worth of activity gets summed up in 20 minutes, if you take out the commercials. I was fatter, ten years ago, but much more limber. Real estate was still slow, though my art business was steady. We had recently moved into our delightful Victorian home in Villa Rica, all three of our sons married and our daughter away at college. It was a sweet, very quiet time. When Elizabeth would come home on her breaks from school, she and I would pal around and talk on the cool front porch. Then we'd paint something in the house, eventually getting it all beautiful. We had no grandchildren and it was a brief, still season. Then the harvest began to come in...

Three grandchildren in the space of about 7 months, and then they began rolling in like a gold rush. In a couple of years, real estate started cranking up, a dribble at first and then a geyser. These years, on my most frantic days, I threaten to throw up my hands, put all our grandkids on a boat and find a nice island somewhere. The Scriptures say that children are the crown of the aged and boy do I love them crowns. What a difference a decade makes. To every season, turn, turn, turn... 

Happy Hope Days

There's just something about the gloaming between seasons here that is also downright gloomy. When winter hangs over the skies like a bloated ghost, or summer moons about with its oppressive heavy blanket, as if it thinks it's Savannah or something. Have you ever been to Savannah in August or September? By then, the mosquitoes are so heavy with human blood, their bellies are dragging the ground. I can't even imagine what it was like before the advent of air conditioning down there. It was bad enough up here in the ole' Piedmont, though we really didn't know any different, if the truth be told. 

But you can't stay gloomy when there's a baby involved. We knew that a grandson was on the horizon and that his Mama was pert-near beside herself to get him on out here with the rest of us. Our son, Jesse and she had had quite the trial of getting him to fruition. They have three hale and hearty children: Eden, 9, Titus, 7 and Tate, 6. They tried and lost four dear babies in the last year before the Lord brought this little boy. They tell you not to be anxious, to not worry, to trust the Lord...we all say those things. To walk in it and be at peace is quite another thing.

Bailey was determined not to use pain medications or an epidural with this labor. She said that epidurals had caused her earlier labors to stall, so she didn't want that to happen again. Even though they hooked her up to a pitocin drip, which is code for devil's brew, she was hanging tough many, many hours later with this labor. I didn't open my mouth about it, because mother-in-laws should not (unless they are asked). Even though I am a massive proponent of natural childbirth and did it myself twice (and tried valiantly a couple of times before that), I didn't see how she could possibly make it all the way through with that cocktail of labor meanness they had hooked up to her veins. That stuff brings teeth grinding to new levels and the expression "peeling oneself off the ceiling" becomes reality. Her Daddy, Mama, my son and I held her hands, prayed, rubbed her back, hummed through contractions and wondered if it would ever end. She soldiered on until the doctor checked her and said she still had a good ways left to go. She cried out in agony, still refusing the medications. My heart cried out for her, remembering the pain of my own labors with her husband and my other babies. In the midst of it, time indeed stands still and the advent of the child that is so wanted, so feared-for, so needed to be delivered...seems to never actually arrive. The pain is indescribable and indeterminable. You wonder how long you can take it, and whether it will go on forever. It is not dissimilar to the waiting upon a loved one to die, wondering whether their next breath is their last. But on this end, the happy result is life, as difficult as that can and will be, with all its resulting responsibilities and uncertainties. 

She paused, calmed herself. She turned to Jesse, her husband (my son) and said, "Please turn on my music." He pulled up a playlist on his phone, fast-forwarded past a few songs and then began playing one that spoke about strength, about not leaning on our own but God's, about not caving into fear, about fear not being our future. We were all praying, tears streaming down our faces. In those moments I saw a new resolve come over her, as if the Spirit overcame her flesh. And that's really what happened. Somehow, she mustered through and in those next hours, that young Mama relaxed into her pain, trusted, breathed, let go and gave way to let that big old baby boy out. She felt the need to push, the doctor came in and said, "Sorry, you're still not ready" and walked out the door. Before the doc got 15 feet down the hall, Bailey said, "I'm pushing!" and Matthias Slate Norton was born into this world, all 9 pounds, 4 ounces of him. 

So on a gloomy, hot, humid Southern day, the sun and the Son broke through. There's hope in the world and the world just keeps on turning...     

Puppy Love

I remember those halcyon summer days, hazy and hot, but heavenly to me, especially where our Daddy was concerned. He was always working on something -- a car, the garden, or tooling around with a lawnmower. If he wasn't working, he was playing with us...usually softball or basketball (possibly tennis), his long, lanky, awkward frame towering over as he threw or hit a ball, feet never leaving the ground. He was not naturally athletic but he managed to get good at these things and he was the best of coaches, knowing the balance of toughness and encouragement. He was also a Finder. Back in those days we didn't have Facebook marketplace or Craigslist. We had the Atlanta Advertiser. You could buy it at little gas stations along the way. He would buy them every time they came out and was always looking for a deal. His Daddy (my PawPaw) was a horse trader, not sure how honest...my Daddy got the DNA but also had the Holy Spirit. When he showed up, it was like people couldn't help themselves -- they had to give him the best price for whatever he wanted. But he definitely had no shame in asking, and therein lies the rub. Many a time, I wanted to run and hide myself, given the audacity he had at making insane offers on things. I've also seen him slip a widow a few extra dollars over a price, rather than work his sales magic when he could have. That was him. 

Either way, when it was time to go "Finding," us kids were jumping in the car. Sometimes he would use the expression "I'm gonna go see a man about a dog." My heart would begin pounding as I raced to the vehicle. I'm not sure why I thought he was ever talking about a real dog. We always had a family canine or cat(s), a motley collection of kindly animals that curled by the door. Mama was never an animal person, though she was the one who managed them and fed them for us. I think of all the many pets I had over the years, from the more domestic kind to a couple of lab rats, a king snake and a mean Shetland pony stallion. When Daddy would bring home the Atlanta Advertiser and was done perusing it himself, I'd sneak to the back recesses of the house and underline ads for free puppies and kittens. I'd also dream about the ads for various horses, imagining myself flying alongside the road on a beautiful black Arabian, with the wind in my hair. Then I would actually call the people connected with the ads, asking questions about said animals, daring to hope maybe I could ask Daddy for one of them. Occasionally I would slip him a question about a puppy or a kitten, but we were usually already "full up," though sometimes it did result in another addition to the family. My dear parents... 

Are you ever too old to quit dreaming about puppies? I think not. Because I'm dreaming about a little one that has been offered to me, an Aussiedoodle that is grandbaby to my dear Sadie. I named her Scout, after my favorite character in To Kill a Mockingbird. I spent two hours with her last week, most of it with her on her back in my lap. Her little black eyes like poppies, snapping with intelligence and joy, she kept running back to me over and over again. There was another beautiful golden puppy in the same litter, more luxurious and with a gorgeous blocky head. She looked like she should be in a show ring, but she fought me every time I picked her up. Each time I held her and gently stroked her fur, she cried out for dominance. Maybe we are like that with God. He is waiting to bless us, but we are kicking and screaming because we want our own way. 

Well, I want my own way. Here we are again. I have been young and now am getting older, but there's a puppy in the mix once more. Ken says we already have a dog who is wonderful, and she is. And a cat, and she is. They're both getting very old. Some new blood would do us all a heap of good. So ya'll pray that Papa Ken will change his mind. And if he doesn't, that Yaya will find a way not to run away. She is, after all, still a kid at heart.  

Birthday Love

I was conflicted yesterday about what to do. One of our daughters-in-love is great with child, lives about an hour away, and it was her birthday. Our son-in-love, who lives thirty minutes the other direction, shares the same birthday (and his wife, our daughter, is great with child as well). There were lots of pregnancy hormones in the ozone layers, so I just invited everybody over for chili and a potato bar. Birthday politics can be complicated in a big family, but after all the mess and mayhem was over and I was laying exhausted in bed, I thought about how sweet it is to have such precious people in my life.

The grandchildren are getting to an age where most of them now spill out to the yard and play like there's no tomorrow. They run in and out, sweaty and happy. I get hugs coming and going, but they're really here for the cousin love. The adults can even (mostly) eat in peace now. It's amazing. The big ones entertain the little ones. Our grown children are teaching their children well, so they're learning to work out their fusses by themselves and there's little to no whining going on. At the "big" table, there are serious theological debates being had - last night's was about baptism and Paul and Silas and the Philippian jailer (look it up). No light subjects here. And then in the next chapter there's someone joking about something, cracking us up so I can hardly breathe. All of this thrown together on a wing and a prayer and a group text yesterday morning. That, plus some extra pantry items from my daughter-in-love and a trip to Walmart. Sometimes I think the best things in life are done without a lot of planning or forethought.

Life is fragile, then it's not. People are a mix of many things, all of us with fatal flaws that could threaten to crack us plumb down the middle. All of our relationships are subject to the whims of our humanness; they are precious and worth protecting. Sometimes they are beyond saving, no matter how hard we try. Then again, sometimes, God makes ways in the wilderness when everything else is impossible. Love your people while you can.    

Incarceration

I am thinking about jail. No, I've never had to be incarcerated and I'm not expecting to be, though sometimes I wonder if my Joan of Arc tendencies might land me there someday. When our middle son hoisted a pirate flag on my house recently, I thought about the old adage, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree..." We're not pirates but we might not exactly comply. At the same time, when Jesus tells us to do something, we want to lay our lives down for that, though we're admittedly, grievously, sinners. 

When I gave my heart to Jesus, or rather, He snatched it up off the bottom of the ocean, I was just a small child. I remember talking to Him by starlight as a breeze tickled the curtains by my bed. It seemed as natural as breathing to follow Him, to sing His praises, to trust Him with my small world. The harder part has been to see the big, bad cosmos expand and to understand how to trust Him when life grew big and scary. The ever-complex tapestry woven on this side, with its tangles and confusion is, however, perfect on the other. 

My husband's story is very different. He grew up hearing all the right things, going to church from a young age and then, at youth camp, going down an aisle and saying a magic prayer then getting dunked. It didn't take. He descended into all sorts of bad mayhem, over many years. I didn't know that man. Ken says that I wouldn't have liked him. Then there came a day that God just plain-out chased him down. But Jesus loved him, and He swooped down and redeemed him too, like He did me. I love God. He gets us out of jail, just like that. 

And where people would like to keep you in their own personal jail, or hate you or not forgive you, or even if you are in a real prison, there's a God who transcends all of that and can set you free. From others. From ourselves. From all our transgressions. "If the Son sets you free, you are free indeed..." John 8:31-36

J.R.R. and the Backroads

I couldn't help but think he looked like a Hobbit, which happens to be one of my favorite Tolkien characters. He was extremely short, gnarly of face, bald as a boulder, and often as grumpy as all that. He was a client, referred to me by a friend. He had lost his dear wife and wanted to sell his home. He could barely tell me what had happened to her, even though it had been a long while. His gruff exterior was in sharp contrast to the tender heart within. We signed up the house, which quickly went under contract. Job One became finding him another one, and he had only Alabama on his mind. He greatly preferred that I pick him up and drive him everywhere, even though nobody does that anymore. I think he was pert-near blind, if you want to know the truth. The socially correct form in real estate these days is to "meet up" at the chosen houses, all parties using their GPS devices to get there. I'm not sure he knew what a GPS was, but I began to suspect he just liked the company.

Thus began the addition of hundreds, if not thousands, of miles on my new(ish) Ford Explorer. And we did indeed explore. The back roads and byways of Alabama became very familiar to me. I began to love the kind people of that fair land, with their slower pace and less-than-concerned rate of stress. The agents might or might not call you back right away, but they would call you back, always with a slice of courtesy. Sometimes we'd pick up his girlfriend. She was twice as tall as him and an angel. They met at a VFW dance, where apparently he had dated one of her friends but then switched to her. I found out that there are whole swaths of really old folks who still go out dancing on the weekends. Who knew? They told very entertaining stories as we rolled along. One day, after we dropped her off, he told me that he had asked her to marry him but that she wouldn't...because she was all tied up with her kids and didn't want to get married again. But oh, the dancing...

During this period of time, I would get random calls from the secretary at our office: "Rose, Mr. ______ is here waiting for you." This, when we had no appointment or had had no discussion of getting together that day to look at houses. I might be in outer Mongolia and Mr. Hobbit Man would be expecting me to just be waiting there, at our Villa Rica office, just in case someone dropped by and needed to look at houses. I guessed maybe that's the way they used to do it. He thought I clocked in every morning at the office and waited, or something like that. 

We finally narrowed the many houses down to two -- one was a house that had two stories. It would require going up a flight of stairs to get to the main floor, with a great big yard, complete with a barn and an orchard. The other house was a converted garage, with foot-thick concrete walls, concrete floors and was basically maintenance-free. It was gorgeous, with swirled stained concrete floors, granite countertops, beautiful lighting and tons of storage. To me it was a no-brainer, but he wasn't convinced. Between his girlfriend and I, we talked him into the rancher, but we were sweating it. I think the problem was that it wasn't actually in Alabama, though it was on the outer limits of Carrollton, which might as well be Alabama as far as I'm concerned. There was a lot of drama afterwards, about the guy who built-out the thing not getting a certificate of occupancy, and other such "trivial" matters, but eventually I lost touch with my Hobbit friend.

Until last week. A man called and was talking quickly...I didn't catch on at first, but then realized he was discussing his old relative, who had died a few months back. Yes, it was my friend who had passed, his numerous health issues and Covid reaching in for the final say. I shed a tear then I smiled at the memory of our short but very memorable saga. I still have a picture of him. I'm hugging him and he's literally half my size, grinning and looking just a bit naughty and somewhat like Gollum. I do hope he's up there doing a jig.     

My House Has A Little Soul

We had a leak around the ancient chimney in our old study, which was caulked and repaired from above. Meanwhile, I had sent my dear flute (My Precious) to the shop to be cleaned up (where she had gotten all wet and scratched up from wet plaster). All seemed to be well, until one sullen afternoon when the bottom fell out. Caiden, my four-year-old grandson, and I were in the study talking about the merits of Batman when began a nice, epic rainstorm, complete with rumblings and thunder and lots of big raindrops. I noticed there was more than usual noise from the fireplace area, when Caiden began laughing because he was getting wet from all the moisture plopping on his head. Next thing you know, we were dragging out towels, then quilts, then buckets to catch all the rain emanating from the ceiling. What had been a leak before was now a deluge. Apparently, the repair created quite the funnel for whatever was going on up above. Such is the life of an ancient house.

I love my old house (she's 120 years old this year). Many people hate them. They are creaky and quirky, musty and mysterious. But they are also full of character and craftmanship that can't be duplicated today unless you're a gozillionaire. We bought this one for a song, the only one we had in our pocket at the time, and have spent the last ten years putting my extra real estate commissions back into it. I pray my kids will forgive me. I keep saying, "After this last project, I think we'll have it shored up for the next 20 years and then we'll be dead (or might as well be) and ya'll can sell it and divvy it up amongst yourselves." Trouble is, it'll probably be needing who-knows-what by that time. But this thing is made tough, with thick timbers and hand-crafted stuff. I pray it will hold up for a long, long time. Longer than us. Either way, I thought I had one major project left, that of fixing the front window in the gable. I suspect it's dry rotted, though we keep painting it and hoping for the best. But alas, the study ceiling intervened. The only real solution was to take down the insanely high chimney that was attached to that fireplace. The thing was soaring to heaven, tall and skinny. I have no clue why that one, of the four that are connected to the house, is so much higher, but it was. When we bought the house, the inspector told us to take it down. He said, "That thing's gonna fall on somebody's head someday -- or at least, it's gonna end up cracking and leaking all over that room." I was deeply offended and refused such sacrilege. Oh well, at least we got ten years out of it. 

So a very industrious (and courageous) group of men climbed up to the heavens and chipped away at the thing for half a day. They saved a number of the bricks so Ken can be forced to lay them for a little walkway for me (he's grinning, though a bit Cheshire-cat-like). We had to keep them, to honor the house, yes we did. So now I've been cleaning up brick dust for days that sifted itself into the house, and somehow I've got this little cough going that I suspect is some kind of revenge she's taking on me too. We also had a creature die in the attic, so there's that to contend with in the next bit. But best of all, there's a new layer of scent overlaying it all, kind-of a mineral-based smell. I like minerals. I really do.   

Different Paths

The wheels of fortune have turned so many times, I'm starting to get dizzy. When I was a kid, not everyone went to college. Plenty of folks opted to work for their Pa down at the shop, or learn haircutting at the technical school, apprentice as an electrician or keep plugging away at the grocery store where they started part-time in middle school. Decades have passed, formal education has become more accessible, particularly with the advent of the internet and remote learning. A college degree has become the new high school diploma. It is generally expected, and most people go into debt to get it, sometimes heavily. But who's stopping to think about whether it's the best solution? 

Two of our children have college degrees, two of them don't. And frankly, it doesn't seem to matter one bit. The two that don't have them are probably making more money than the others (I'm not asking) and they sally forth with their self-esteems quite intact, thank you. It just didn't suit what they wanted to do with their lives and they've had enough hustle in them to go and get what they wanted. I am no fan of 30-somethings slogging around in the basement while Mommy takes care of everything. Any child who is still at home and not in school has to be earning their keep and paying rent. Get crackin,' Einstein...

Get two things, if you can: a trade, and an education. A trade can be gotten while you are getting an education. My daughter was my assistant for years and years while I painted houses. Summers and breaks, she was an apprentice to what I was doing. Our boys worked one day a week with my brother in construction trades, instead of hunkering over schoolwork. That means they only had four days of "school" but they can all swing a hammer if their other jobs dry up now (and one of them is a firefighter and he does just that on his off days). In the summers, they worked full-time at it. 

We have so much information at our fingertips, it is easy to learn new skills, take classes cheaply and expand our horizons. My hope is that the tide will begin to turn and that young people will begin to see that there are fantastic opportunities in the trades apart from college in the near future. I dare say that a vast majority of the entrepreneurs that I know personally are making far more money and are happier with their careers, who have found their calling in the various trades. They have flexibility and pride of place in their work. Here's to Mike Rowe and all the dirty jobs! 

Chicken Salad Chick

There's nothing like an event to get me to clean up my house. And even then, I rush around like a mad woman at the last minute to get it done. We had a baby shower for our upcoming sugar dumplin': Matthias Slate Norton, due to arrive sometime in early September, but probably more like late August, if his three siblings' entries are any indicator. His Mama looked serene and happy, aunts and all the cousin girls were giddy to be included in the festivities. We had all the requisite cool dishes in the sweltering heat: chicken salad, fruit salad, veggies with ranch, a yummy fruit trifle with angel food cake, and cool cheese slices, along with plenty of sweet iced tea and water with lime wedges. I love me a baby shower in the deep South in the summertime. It speaks of magnolias, humidity and lots of hope. I'm now one of the old tribe and I wear it with pride. What a joy to carry on a long tradition of welcoming these dear babies into the world.

I must speak about the chicken salad though... it's an ancient recipe, tried and true, that my family has loved and begged for in years past. I usually do the lazy thing and throw a family pack of pre-boned chicken tenders in the crockpot, cook it and then commence with all the chopping. There's almonds and celery, grapes, water chestnuts, pineapple, then the sauce. It's exhausting, so who wants to bone a hen (which is in itself so disgusting anyway)? But this time, I put a whole chicken in the pot and let her baste and simmer with all the spices. Then I spent the time pulling it apart and picking out all the little juicy pieces. So of course when the chicken salad arrived at the party, it was primo. I noticed it at first bite, and my daughter noted that my more recent efforts at chicken salad (before this one) had been lacking (though she had not wanted to say anything). I was aghast, but decided that no more shortcuts were to be taken in the future. It was that good. There was a nice big bowl left in the refrigerator but it's all gone now. I don't believe Ken got any...he usually asks for the "Sampla" platter when I go to or host any shower or women's event. That's sampler, for those who aren't from east Georgia. 

Here's the recipe (I always at least triple it):

2 c. cooked chopped chicken

1/2 c. slivered almonds, toasted

1/2 c. chopped celery

1/2 lb. seedless grapes, halved

1/4 c sliced water chestnuts

8 oz drained pineapple chunks, halved

2 tsp. soy sauce, 2 tsp lemon juice, 1/2 to 3/4 c. Dukes mayonnaise, 1 tsp curry powder (or to taste)

Combine first 5 ingredients. Mix mayo, soy sauce, lemon juice, and curry. Add to first mixture. Put pineapple on top and chill. 

You're Welcome!

 

Exhaustion in the Vacay

I wanted to relax, sincerely I did...  

Two days before we left for the idyllic Georgia mountains, I was planning on getting organized...camping is not for the faint of heart. You have to clear the cobwebs, whirligigs and spiders out of the camper, haul all the containers into the house and pack them with food and clothing for the trip. There's lots to prepare for and think about. But no, during those two jolly prep days my phone started going off like a danged siren. And you have to say that like "S-i-r-e-n-e"...like it rhymes with Irene, because it's bigger than a regular one. Everybody and his brother wanted to buy or sell a house, sign a contract, inquire about a piece of land, get out of something or bite me. I woke up before dawn each day and threw myself in the bed after midnight for two days. Ken got off work early on Friday and hitched the camper up while I was still talking to clients and tossing things into hampers. We tore off down the highway and I wasn't quite sure if I was coming or going. When we got to the campground, I discovered there was no Wifi, so I parked myself at the Ingles cafe in the town until they forced me out at 11:00 at night. Little Annabelle played games with Papa's phone while I sweated bullets over contracts and tried not to cuss. The good part about all of this was that there were four of our grandchildren parked next door in their camper for a few of those days. At least there was that... 

This summed up most of my week, except we discovered the campground did indeed have Wifi. It was in the game room next to the office, where there was service, but alas, no air conditioning. I spent much of the week there, where I could see Ken out the window in all his splendor, laying out getting a tan like a king on the lawn next to the lake while I grinded out  amendments and drama. We were both in our elements: Ken was happy, clocked out and in his introverted bubble. He'd turn over once every twenty minutes like a skewer, getting a nice, even tan while listening on his earbuds or reading on his Ipad. I was up in the game room, my extroverted self, meeting many awesome strangers as I banged out contracts and made calls. It was a surreal kind of vacation, like none we've ever had. I don't recommend it. 

On July 4, the last night the grands were there with their folks, we went to see the fireworks with all the other rednecks. The next morning, they pulled out and went home. I see my people often, I mean, they only live 15 minutes away from us, but I bawled like a baby. Maybe it's just the same song and dance that time is marching on too quickly, or maybe it was that a dear friend died the day before...so I was feeling especially vulnerable. Then my phone started frantically buzzing again and I spent the next four days tamping down numerous real estate deals, each one dramatic and requiring vast amounts of time and emotion. There came a point where I literally raised my hands and gave up. I think that's where He wanted me anyways, and cussing sure don't help. The last night we were there, it was late and I was still up at the game room. There were folks playing pool and talking all around. I was sitting in a puddle of sweat, chatting with various people as I tried to send emails and finish up a contract. I decided I wasn't going any further until I got my hinder parts parked back home in front of my monster computer screen. I pulled out a bag of quarters and challenged some little 11-year-old girl to a game of Foosball. I warned her that I had mad skills. Her Daddy was standing there and laughed. People never believe me when I tell them that. Teenage boys don't believe me. 20-year-old young men don't believe me. They look at this mature, fluffy, blonde lady who seems harmless and they have no clue about what lies beneath. I enjoy this rarely-used part of my life. Her Dad joined her and they played me, 2-on-1, and I whupped them for about 10 games or so. It's really terrible, how much fun that was, but I'm pretty sure they'll be okay. 

Forever and a day later to get there, but let the record show: there's no place like home.