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.