Best Laid Plans...

Christmas gets more complicated with each passing year. I think back to the fall of 1981, when my sister and I and both our fiances made a day trip up to North Carolina, where her beau's family lived. The four of us squeezed into Ken's red Chevrolet truck and trawled through the mountains, having a rollicking good time laughing and then eating and visiting with his family. We'd have to hire a double-decker bus to haul all of our progeny these days. Add to that my brother, his wife and six kids and we might have to get a Marta train to take all of us. I think we're numbering around a hundred now. Once a year, Christmas Eve, my side of the family gets together. I remember in our early years, we'd all go to lunch after church. There's not even a Golden Corral that could handle us now. As Mama's house has gotten smaller (she now lives alone in a garden-type dwelling, with no parking), she has continued to try to have Christmas Eve there. This year, a persuasive granddaughter convinced her to do it at her house, a much larger venue. We trekked up there last night, with a majority of the family bringing their casseroles, desserts and Christmas joy. 

My kids and grandkids were supposed to come over tomorrow; we were going to break from turkey and ham to have taco night while we opened gifts. Alas, one of the sons' families is suffering from the domino-effects of a stomach virus, so we're still deciding on our strategy. Do we go ahead without them, or wait another week to be all together? Either way, Christmas day feels mighty sad today. The Fear-Of-Missing-Out runs strong in my veins. 

Ken and I have a long-standing Christmas tradition of eating breakfast at the Waffle House. After a leisurely morning of acting like irresponsible newlyweds, we moseyed there to find the parking lot spilling over like so much lava. I said I'll just make pancakes at home, but Papa had the brightest idea: "Let's go over to the RaceTrac. You can get their good coffee, they have hotdogs and Krispy Kremes there -- and we can watch people." So that's exactly what we did. He didn't even bother to park in a proper place -- just pulled up to one of the pumps and left the car while we did our "shopping." We bought hotdogs, snacks, donuts, coffee. He still didn't move the car, and we ate all the junk, every last crumb, while we laughed and watched the parade coming in and out of the doors.  Ken always has hilarious commentary: what people are up to, their clothing and what they might be thinking. I felt transported back to when we were "just friends" and would sit in the church parking lot talking for hours. After awhile, when there was nobody but us (sitting in that sexy red truck), the cops would inevitably pull in and ask me, "M'am, are you okay?" I'd think about the hunky guy next to me and wonder what it might be like to kiss him. Eventually that happened. We blinked and landed in the RaceTrac parking lot today, four kids, four in-laws, twelve grandkids and many, many meals and miles later. Yes, I'd tell the cop. I'm okay.    

The Magi Saw...

Not everyone gets a happy childhood. I view mine through a gauzy scrim -- a secure, sweet, simple upbringing where time seems to stand still. But the unexamined life is not worth living, isn't that what they say? Every family has its skeletons, and all of earth and humanity have its fatal flaws, capable of cracking off and plummeting into the canyons. My family is no exception. There were deep addictions and suppressed traumas on one side, then moral jump-offs and escapades on the other. There's really no telling where following your "heart" can lead, no matter how idyllic that sounds to our Hollywood-sirened-ears. I'm sure Ted Bundy was following his, too. Here it is Christmas, and I'm being morose. But no, I've witnessed miracles in my not-so-short life, beyond all that comes natural to us humans. They do exist, without the benefit of celluloid and soundtracks. If you've heard me tell of my (and my siblings') favorite Christmas story, please indulge me once again. The best stories bear repeating, and often...

Our earliest Christmas memories were happy ones. Mama made it very special for Daddy, who had grown up hungry, cold and poor. She went a little overboard, even with just a single income on a postal worker's salary. The Sears and Roebuck catalog yielded up tinsel, ornaments, a tiny nativity scene and spray snow for the windows. Perry Como crooned from the record player as we danced around the tree. Sugar cookies, fudge, peanut brittle, brazil nuts...need I say more? There was a blight, however, in the background that us little kids did not understand at the time. Our Mama was angry, for what reasons, we did not know. The house we grew up in looked like a hospital -- clean and sanitized daily from top to bottom. The porcelain on the toilets began to be dull from all the scrubbing. There was plenty of crying over spilt milk. Don't spill the milk, because that's when earthquakes occurred. In later years, I learned that in those days our parents were coming to an impasse -- over time, anger makes cracks form in even the strongest foundations. 

The most inexplicable part (though where the roots started) of our Mama's anger was when we visited our Grandma, way up in Illinois. We'd drive for many hours to get there in our tiny car, usually a Volkswagen Beetle. Us kids would sleep in the back, cuddled like so many kittens in a pile. The trip would begin pleasantly, but within a day or two there would always be a fight between Mama and Grandma. It would start small, then escalate to what sounded like two cats killing each other in the kitchen. Everything went sour from there. I didn't understand the dynamics of the hurt, shamed, bitter adults that surrounded me, but I knew that there was nothing good about it. Our simmering, volatile Mama had deep, mysterious wounds. I loved being a kid, but I didn't think that I wanted to be a grownup. 

We grew up in our local church, dutifully sitting in the pews every service. Daddy was head of the boy's group that met each week. We had a form of religion, but there was something missing. Then things began changing in our church. A revival isn't a bunch of scheduled meetings, it's when God starts taking out peoples' hearts of stone and replacing them with hearts of flesh. One of our uncles visited one week and brought shock waves to Mama when he said: "Judy, you go to church all the time and you carry around that big ole Bible with you, but you hate your own Mother." She was struck by the fact that she had been forgiven by God, but had not forgiven her Mother. God instantly gave grace for her to lay down her bitterness, and that was the first miracle. Again, we were kids and not fully cognizant of what was happening, but we noticed that the house started blooming. The cold, sterile walls mushroomed with color. She started painting, wallpapering, sewing beautiful clothes, humming while she was cooking. Daddy and her started sparking, holding hands, giggling. I knew there was a God, when I spilled a big glass of milk one night at supper and she happily jumped up and grabbed a towel to clean it up. No earthquakes. It was in this new environment that our already-sweet Daddy announced one day that he had become a Christian. We thought he already knew Jesus, but apparently he had not. He could be found on his knees in our freezing spare room, his Bible getting lovingly worn out from reading and re-reading the passages. Their marriage was not just repaired, it was ignited, sometimes embarrassingly so. 

That first Christmas, after all that, we took the long trip to Illinois to visit Grandma and our step-Grandpa. We played Carpenters Christmas tapes and sang along as the miles went by. Things had changed drastically in our family. There was love, warmth, peace, but I pondered how it would be, up there with Grandma. As we pulled up to their snow-blanketed townhome, the light spilled out the door as we all hugged and unloaded. Eventually, things calmed down inside and most of us were in the living room except for Grandma and Mama. I leaned up from my chair and looked into the kitchen to see them bear-hugging, something I had never observed in my entire young life. Tears were streaming down their faces, but no words. Grandma lived many more years and our visits became more frequent, but they never fought again. 

"The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and upon those who sat in the region and shadow of death Light has dawned." Matthew 4: 16 

Christmas has come.   

It's Not Paint, It's Insulation

I'm assembling projects for 2024, as if there's not enough to do already. When I still had a thyroid, I never anticipated that just hauling in groceries for two people and fixing my hair would become such chores. I have two buckets of paint staring me in the face, something I should have never bought. I like to purchase those little paint samples at Lowes and Home Depot, slather them onto foam boards and then stare at the ideas until something strikes me. This causes us a lot of problems. 

It started with the fact that I mostly live in our study. It is a gorgeous room, in our old Victorian house. When we first bought this place, in 2012, Ken found a huge, ancient painting in the barn. It's a mystery -- a picture of several old men gathered around a stove at a feed store or something. We stuck it above the mantle in that room, before I decided on colors. Ken decided he wanted everything to match that painting, to feel like a man cave in there -- with textured, suede-colored walls and leather chairs. Clubby, sophisticated. That room was the worst one in the whole house. There was old wallpaper hanging from the ceiling and walls. Liz and I started scraping. We dogged it for a month, making some headway, but that stuff was not yielding much. One morning, I decided to prime everything with B-I-N primer, the Mack-Daddy of primers. It's oil-based, heady stuff. We got up on scaffolding and worked all day, painting and covering up all the nasties that were left from all that scraping. Ken arrived home, hollering something about why didn't we open the house up while we were exposing ourselves to toxic fumes. Liz and I were singing and basically hanging from the rafters, oblivious to the fact that the Elvis who was singing with us was not real. A massive headache took over my brain and I think Liz might have eventually succumbed to the porcelain. I recall doing many such events way back when I was pregnant with my various children. The grandmas would worry about the ladders, the heights, all the drama. I should have listened. One child has Aspergers, one is dyslexic, they all have ADD and one's a firefighter. What was I thinking? 

Either way, eventually I did a gorgeous, velvety suede finish on the walls. Sherwin Williams Portobello. Yep, looks like a mushroom. Ken built a whole wall of beautiful bookcases to house some of my books and I painted them SW Turkish Coffee. The room is warm and enveloping, a place you might go to smoke cigars or swill brandy. But we don't do that in there. It's my office where I work and practice my music. That's all well and good, except for the fact that when winter comes I get really sad about all the darkness. I scoured thrift stores and yard sales, coming up with amazing, Victorian-styled lighting. Lots of it. Doesn't help. The walls are sucking all the light into their vortex. It's a near miracle that this room has stayed the same color for a decade. I'm like the Navy -- if it's sitting still, it's time to paint it. I got on Pinterest and started perusing colors. I laid out a paint fan (I only own four or five of them, having begged them off of gullible people at the paint stores)...and then proceeded to buy about a dozen samples. God really intended me to live in a beach house, He did. When given the chance, I revert to colors that have something to do with water. There's a big blue-green sample that's been floating on my mantle for some time. And one day, at a weak moment in Home Depot, I went ahead and bought two gallons of the goody. If we hadn't had to rip a whole rotten floor out of the nursery and change-up all the holiday magic this year, I'd have had it painted by now. Problem is, I've had too long to stare at it. I think if I go ahead and do it, I'm going to end up re-doing it, another problem that my poor husband has had to contend with these 41+ years. He never yells about it...he really never complains much, just laughs and shakes his head. 

Meanwhile, the Amazon boxes are piling up, Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat. Will I waste two gallons of paint, again? Only the shadow knows for sure...   

You're A Mean One...

I'm trying to figure out what we did before Amazon came along. My sister was the first person that I knew that bought from them, way on back there. I looked at it online and thought, meh, why pay for shipping? Then they figured out that people would still pay for shipping but in a monthly subscription, so they wouldn't notice that they were still paying for shipping. I'm now totally dependent on them for say, that elusive container of mascara that I misplaced, or some delicious, crunchy, non-GMO Amish popcorn that I can't get at the Walmart. Every year, when tax-time rolls around and I have to account for all my spending, I bow my head in shame at the amount of money that passes through my fingers via clicks on that Amazon site. I vow to do better next year. Then I also wonder how they're making money on that shipping part, when I have to make bonfires out of all the boxes that have overrun my house. Apologies to my neighbors, but at least I'm not crowding up the landfill? 

Christmas is upon us, with less than three weeks to go. Once again, I'm late to the party. Thank the Lord for Amazon, however. I've got a massive cold (or something) and can't breathe, so I sat on the porch and ordered most of our grandchildren's gifts within an hour. That should be criminal, but it's not. It's perfectly legal to be that lazy and sit in my rocker and order wonderful things that will be delivered right to our door within a day or two. With all this extra time on my hands, why haven't I put up our tree yet? There've been years that I did it the day after Halloween. There have also been years that I decorated six other peoples' trees as well as my own, while painting a couple of peoples' houses in between Halloween and Christmas.  It's all Amazon's fault. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. My Grandma didn't have Amazon and she just put up one of those little ceramic trees that you plug in. The other Grandma didn't put up anything. I wanna be a Grandma. Oh yeah, I am.

Therefore, I will decorate. I will. And attend all the requisite parties, soirees, concerts and general hoopla that goes along with it. I'll at least show up, if I can find a way to get some oxygen through my nostrils in the next few days. The Grinch will be defeated!   

The Irony: Shakespeare and Me Share a Birthday...

After the surprise of last week's construction project, where we had to rip out part of the whole floor structure of part of our home and start over, I began to wonder what was wrong with me. We were able to host Thanksgiving here, even if it was on Friday rather than Thursday, and even though there were "extras" added in -- friends, neighbors, clients -- who we wanted to include in all the food and love. I was tired before we even got started, but was also truly grateful for God's goodness in the land of the living. Any time there are that many kids (there were at least 15 or so), the fun quotient gets magnified, as well as noise and dirt. When everyone finally left, I found dirt and leaves spread to the four corners of the home. I might still need to vacuum, four days later, but don't tell my Mama. 

Sometime Friday, I got a text with a photo of our church foyer. It was my deacon friend who always hauls out the big Christmas tree each year. We have a running joke, where he threatens to decorate the tree himself, again. He did it one year and I spent the better part of a year complaining to my husband about the "plain" outcome of his beautifying project. I had planned to do it Wednesday or Thursday, but completely forgot. Since it was Friday, and Sunday was coming, there was nothing to do but do it Saturday. I enlisted some granddaughter help from Annabelle, who happened to be standing nearby when I got the incriminating photo. Even though I was thoroughly exhausted, I dragged myself out of the bed Saturday morning and headed to Douglasville to pick her up. My muggy face showed up at their house before 10:00, and said child was waiting for me by the road. I was thoroughly ashamed when she told me she had set her alarm for 7:00 a.m., in anticipation of decorating with me. I might need to grow up. We were able to get the job done fairly quickly (I might have said a prayer or two), and then we headed to lunch at the local Chick-Fil-A, her restaurant of choice. 

I was wearing irregular shoes that morning, so I will make my excuses from that, but the truth is that I was probably tired and not paying attention when I tripped on the curb at Chick Fil-A. I felt my clumsy self start to fall, tried to correct myself, then wind-milled-it the ten feet or so to the wall. I slammed into both the big trash can and the brick wall at the entrance simultaneously, both of my elbows and shoulders bearing the brunt of the assault. Thoughts of my Daddy and his similarly-awkward-athleticism coursed through my mind as the whelps and bruises began immediately rising up on my body. Annabelle was horrified and scared at the event. Strangers called out their concern. We weren't missing lunch for any reason, so we walked on in, and people on the inside of the place also expressed their worriment over my condition. There's no shame like a fantastic pratfall on the way in to anywhere. I wanted to shout out to all the worriers: "Next subject!" Meanwhile I wondered how I was going to drive home with all the pain that was starting to rack my body. Over the course of thirty minutes, besides my poor shoulders, a wrist, ankle and pinky finger started to swell up like some sort of beached whale. After the medicinal application of Ice Dream in a cup (and a peppermint milkshake for Annabelle), I drove her home and limped my car to Magnolia Street. Papa Bear soothed me upon arrival, forced me into a hot shower, gave me several forms of medication, covered me with a warm blanket and made me lay down. With my head buzzing and feeling rather spoiled, I pulled on my cozy socks and settled in for an evening of Netflix and a lot of hand-holding. 

While nursing my traumatized joints over the last few days, I've managed to paint the newly-constructed nursery not once but two times. Sherwin Williams Antique White and SW Romance just would not do, so I had to apply second coats of Sherwin Williams Alabaster and SW Sea Salt. I'm done. Toast. Here's a big Thank You to everyone who made all this possible, as well as God, who kept me from breaking my poor ole' neck.   

I Hope You Dance

I was feeling a little low...well, a lot low. Tired, achy, downright lazy. I think there was a bowling ball stuck in my abdomen, or something about that size and consistency. It was Saturday, and we needed to take back all the extra tile from our kitchen project. While we were at it, we also needed to pick up the flooring for our next delightful scheme: replacing the flooring in our nursery area. Which was rotten and full of old termite trails. Thankfully there were no insects still chewing on our wood, but time and water had done their worst. I was horrified when the guys ripped out some floorboards to reveal what was going on in the bowels of our home. There were roots from trees that were far from their trunks, trailing all across the floor, and evidence of decades of folks cobbling together rocks and random flotsam to keep the place upright. At least it's still standing and somewhere along the way, the termites expired. They pulled up every piece of tongue-and-groove in the room until there was only soil and history exposed. It's a good thing I love the delicious aroma of dirt -- it's now perfuming the whole place. It was at this point that we decided to head to Newnan, where there's seven things I love. Floor and Decor (one) and our youngest son and his family (the other six). Well, I like Floor and Decor, a lot, but I adore those Newnan people. Jesse helped me pick the perfect flooring, which looks for all the world like an old camp meeting cabin floor but it's made out of "luxury" vinyl. I know that C. M. Griffin (the builder of this house 121 years ago and the former mayor of Villa Rica) is going to haunt me for putting plastic in his gorgeous Queen Anne Victorian house, but there are times for economy and this might just be one. Besides, this part of the house was a sleeping porch long ago, not a parlor or conservatory. Not to mention, I'm keeping the place from falling down and that's got to count for something. 

This was not what I planned on spending this year's IRS bill on, so I might have been a little salty and blue. Sounds ocean-like, but it was definitely not. We hauled it on over to Newnan and I tried to enjoy the impossibly-pretty drive there while Ken played Eagles music. I remembered having brown skin and long hair bleached by the sun, but couldn't convince myself I was still seventeen. We had a couple of grandkids with us, and you can't stay old-fogey for long when they start singing along. Eventually we wound up at Red Robin for burgers, with our son and six of the grands, loud and excited to see each other. 

I enjoyed some serious conversation with our Jesse, who is a youth pastor at a large church in Newnan. He's always been a giant kid -- fun and happy, but somewhere along the way he became a man, serious and sincere about the things that matter, while still keeping his optimistic heart afloat. It came time to break up the party. The two ten-year-old girls were taking forever in the bathroom, so I checked on them. They were together in the handicapped stall, chatting like two magpies on steroids. I couldn't help but laugh at the range of subjects they traversed while I was there. Numerous other people came and went as I waited and tried to hurry them up. These things can take time. 

We were dutifully washing our hands in this (public) bathroom when a particularly fun and loud song came on over the loudspeaker. Maddie immediately starting dancing. I joined her, and then Eden jumped in there. The three of us whooped and giggled and cut a rug until the song ended. It was a brief, hilarious few minutes. We laughed and headed outside, where we all hugged our goodbyes and headed home. It's been a couple of days now, but I'm still bubbling with the sweet disruption to my pity party.

Sometimes, you just have to dance...    

Hope Springs Eternal

Over the course of days, I attended two events at opposite poles. One, an engagement party for a young couple. The other, a visitation for the death of one of Ken's cousins. The contrast of the two is still resonating within me. 

The impossibly-young couple sparkled like gin fizz (well, it seems more and more like that...and I am very much in favor of people marrying -- the younger, the better). I married my sweetheart when I was 21 and we grew up together, through the storms and tides of life. We weathered them with all the naivete and (probably) stupidity we could muster. Two flawed folks with their own perspectives from very different family cultures, thrown together in a boat and hoping to sail. As I looked on these two youngsters at the soiree, fresh-faced and beautiful, with family and friends gleeful and celebratory, it brought a smile to my heart. No one knows what the future will bring -- joys, trials, heartache, bliss, sin, triumph, glory -- all mixed together in a tumult of trying to stay ahead of the swells. The operative word that night was: hope.  

Yesterday's trek was very different...my sister-in-love and her husband and I had one incentive, really: love on Aunt Frances. There would be other loved ones there too, but she was top on the list. She has endured the loss of a husband, a sister, a young son years ago and now this son, with a devastating, quick illness and death.  We left late afternoon, for a 2 - 1/2 hour drive ahead of Atlanta traffic, where we knew we'd have to make the same journey back as soon as visitation was over. My stomach was roiling before we even left. With the Atlanta insanity and herky-jerky driving, I wondered if I had been wise in coming. But as we moseyed through the roads, our word boxes began to empty and before long, the traffic began to fall away. Going to Washington, Georgia is like a trip back in time for me. I get misty-eyed as I remember Ken's grandparents and family, those early years where we visited them regularly. We arrived at the funeral home, promptly broke in line to head straight to Frances (my deep apologies to everyone else who had been waiting). It was for the best, as she melted into Melissa's arms and then mine, her grief palpable. I could see the strength behind her eyes, but also the aching sorrow. These things, you never recover from. You can only hope to learn, eventually, to live with them, cracked and all. There was an awkwardness as we had to make way for others to give her their condolences. It felt as if we should just head right back home, but we didn't. We settled in to conversations and hugs with other family members, becoming more and more comfortable with each others' stories and updates. A hum of voices and laughter settled over the room, as people came and went and the core of the family stayed to comfort each other. Like it or not, we are grateful. Grateful for each other and grateful to still be alive. We said our goodbyes and hugged our lasts, then pulled away into the inky night. Even through this dark side of life, my heart had the same response: hope.    

Go Ahead, Open It...

With an old house, there's always something that needs attention. We've owned several homes and that's actually true of all of them, no matter their age. It is a big, rotating list of demands, a mean ole' gaping maw of uncertainty looming in front of you. There are termites just waiting for a snack and the chance to weasel their way into all the quiet, dark crevices that you can't see. Then there's rain dripping slowly down, snaking its way until it finds a tiny, unpainted corner to drift into and start turning all your wood into mush. The sun and wind beat the roof into submission, widening any and all gaps until the gateways open up and let in the squirrels and any semblance of moisture. It's called something like "The Second Law of Thermodynamics." I didn't pay much attention in Science class, except to memorize the test and then promptly forget it. I taught my own kids for a couple of decades and realized that Science was amazing and that there are actually laws in place. Gravity. Heat Conduction. Fluid Dynamics. Things like that. It explained a few things, though I still am bumfuzzled as to how brainy some of these people are (who figured this stuff out). When I drive through Atlanta and see skyscrapers, for example. How did that many people, systems and engineering feats all conspire together to make something that magnificent, that functions and hums like a well-oiled machine even a centennial later? But the thermodynamics thing -- nothing's going to just buzz along without requiring some energy, and usually lots of it. Otherwise, it rusts, rots, dissolves and then goes back to the earth. We have to keep maintaining this place or it turns to so much debris. 

So it was no great surprise when what was once upon a time a sleeping porch began yawning towards the earth. Several years ago, I noticed there was a hump in the middle of that room. A little quirky, but part of the charm. We use that space as our "nursery" -- it's where the grandkids bunk when they visit and play. I painted everything in cheerful colors, put baskets of toys in the chiffarobe, arranged it just so and even put new packages of toothbrushes in the bathroom in case somebody forgot theirs. Over time, the chiffarobe started looking like the one in the Beauty and the Beast cartoon...listing heavily to one side. Then the little table by the bunkbeds on the other end of the room began threatening to fall over. We willed ourselves into denial, passing through on the way to the carport. Humming helps. But then, the front wall began separating slightly from the floor. One pesky son had the nerve to say, "Mom, you're gonna lose this whole room if you don't do something about that foundation." Doesn't he know that I've got to pay the tile man for what's already happening in the kitchen? 

Apparently we've got to rip out the floor in that room, dig out the dirt there, pour concrete and actually make a foundation, and then do something about all those wonky floor joists. We will end up with new subflooring and something on top of that (which remains to be seen). I love the smell of dirt. It's a weird thing about me and I'm embarrassed to admit I've been caught with mud on my face before, when I was a kid but then particularly when I was pregnant with Viking children. We're about to open up Pandora's Box and see what's been conspiring under there for the last hundred and twenty-one years. Wish me luck. 

Falling Forward

I was holding his giant, gnarled, ancient hand as he writhed in pain, begging me to pull him up out of the hospital bed. It was my Father-in-law, who had broken his hip earlier in the day. The two kegs of morphine that they had pushed into his vein were doing nothing to help him. This, a man whom I've never heard complain about hurting except to say his shoulder was grumpy. Even with that, he won't generally take anything to make it feel better. He's a tough old Navy SeaBee, still strong as an ox at 90 years old. I felt like I was wrestling a bear for a bit there, as the fog of dementia further added to his confusion. Before the doctor found the sweet spot of pain relief for him, I tried my best to comfort and explain to him what was happening. Minute-by-minute, the words rolled back out of his brain and the pain overwhelmed all reason left in there. Alzheimer's has to be one of the cruelest diseases, stripping one of dignity or purpose.  Lucky were my MawMaw and my Daddy, both dying with their boots on in their recliners. We don't like to talk about death, but it's a thing. And it's a-coming. 

Climbing back into the car with my son, Jon, and his family, who had also visited my daughter-in-love's sister who happened to be at the same hospital...I was struck by the blessing of children. There were four shining faces -- happy, laughing, fresh, waiting on us. I wanted to squeeze the stuffing out of them. I was reminded of my Grandma Betty's death, where our 3-month-old firstborn (yes, Jon) and I rode all the way to Illinois with my folks for the funeral. He was fussy and full of sauce on that trip, but the old ladies said hearing those sounds made them feel hopeful. Life goes on. I get that now. Harvest moon looming big overhead. 

This week looks to be another insane one at the Norton house. Besides Ken's Daddy's surgery and a few procedures ourselves, our tile guy decided to jump ahead of schedule and will start tiling our kitchen, laundry and pantry tomorrow. We've been waiting for him for a couple of months, so no one's complaining. Our son Daniel rescued us this morning and arrived to move appliances out of the house and bring his personal comedy show while he was at it. He could make money making people laugh, if he so chose. Daughter Liz sent cute videos of two of the grands, bringing more sunshine to the horizon. We're planning on visiting son Jesse and his family later on the week, if possible. There will be four more jolly little faces there, as well as a whole passel of puppies. Puppies are always good. Things are looking up.   

Ohhhhh Shiny!

You beautiful, shining orb...who are you? I've seen you lately, every night when I walk the dog, hanging like a beautiful, eye-watering jewel on a tree. I want to shout to the neighbors in the waning evening light: "Can you see it?! Is it a planet or a star or a UFO?" Then they'd really know I was crazy. It's not moving, so it must not be aliens, and it's not the North Star, because it's in the east. It must be Venus, that blazing, flashy diva. All of my childhood, I was unaware that you could see planets with the naked eye. I just assumed all the shiny objects in the sky were stars. My Daddy loved to watch the heavens with us kids on summer nights. We'd lie on the warm driveway and look for "shooting stars." I don't know what took me so long, but now I know that many of the big, gleaming things suspended in space are actually planets. This makes my inner child very excited. 

My favorite wedding decor that I have been involved in had to do with night skies. We decorated my nephew and his new bride's reception with a theme from the book "The Little Prince" (her favorite childhood tome). I had never read it, so it was a delight to be introduced to the story. It involved stars, planets, the moon, a little boy and a fox. With a bevy of helpers, we spangled the walls of the church fellowship hall with big golden stars and twinkle lights. The tables had magical jars filled with more stars and firelight, then we stacked old books and trinkets alongside. I bought various sizes of Japanese lanterns and painted them, transforming them into the planets and a (really big) moon. One of our nephews, Benjamin, built a whimsical trellis out of branches; I festooned it with tulle and lace and lights. There was a a fox sitting all sassy on the grand piano and a massive telescope beside it. Said nephew also dragged tall saplings out of the woods and pegged them onto stands, feathering even more lights up into the branches. We hung the planets all around the room in the trees. It was like a fairy garden, but better. The piece-de-resistance was the cake my niece, Hannah, made: a multi-tiered confection, with blue and white icing that she had poured and swirled down the sides. It looked for all the world like the Milky Way. The massive moon was smack-dab in the middle of the trellis, with the cake the crowning gem of the whole affair. It was winsome, fun and beautiful. After all was said and done, the party over and all the decorations taken down, someone happened to notice that no one bothered to take pictures. Eventually one photo surfaced, a blurry one with the bride and groom leaning over the cake. You have to wonder: if there were no pictures, did it really happen? The most banal of happenings get documented these days...people looking insanely excited at the outside of a restaurant in their selfies, when the truth is they seem pretty bored once the picture-taking is over. Maybe this was a good sign, everyone too busy having a great time - talking, laughing, eating, and enjoying each other -- to stop and take pictures. We can all remember it as a wonderfully special night, and our memories can get more embellished and sparkly over time, than what any pictures would have shown.

Busy days ahead, with us (the Carrollton Wind Ensemble) playing the Phantom, Thursday and Friday in Carrollton, then a creepy concert a few days later (I've got my pirate costume ready, aarrrrrrr!). We have a grandson coming over the weekend and then four more grands staying the next week while their parents head to the northeast for some much-deserved time alone and Fall color. I might better gird up my loins...  

Not-So-Silent Movie

In the spring and fall, when we're not sweating bullets, I open up my 121-year-old Victorian house so it can breathe a little bit. Most of our windows have been painted shut, dang-nab-it...but the newer ones still open and I have a big screen door at the front. It can get musty in here and start smelling like an old lady house, so I take every chance I can get to air it out. I light candles and put on music or play it myself. It kind of freaks me out when neighbors from a street over tell me they're hearing me practice my flute. Music is a wonderful thing, but the tedium of scales and arpeggios might bring out the Phantom or something. Speaking of which...our wind ensemble (Carrollton Wind Ensemble, look it up, buy tickets...) is practicing a new Phantom of the Opera arrangement by Elijah Green. It's not the Andrew Lloyd Webber one, please, please put that one in your thinking cap before buying tickets. This one is an accompaniment to the old silent film with Lon Chaney. I had never seen it in all my born days until last week. Why would I ever watch a silent movie when there's plenty of talkies? Besides, I'm still only 39. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. This version is fascinating, you must come out and see it. 

I get to feeling sorry for myself on Friday nights. I have a long history of that. When we were kids, my sister and I would watch The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family on Friday evening. All I could imagine was that the neighborhood girls were at the skating rink and I was stuck at home, watching other (fake) people have fun in TV land. My Mama said that everybody was smoking and kissing boys at the skating rink, so I wasn't allowed to go. She was probably right and I'd have ruined my life right then and there. I didn't know at the time that there was such a thing as FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), but I was born with this condition. That's why I'm on the fluffy side. If anyone is eating bon-bons, I have to have some too. It's also why I can't get anything done, if there's a social event going on. Or if someone pops in for a visit, I ain't doing any laundry or dishes while they're here. I want to be all-there and hate to miss any of the conversations. It's probably why my bladder is already ruined, being stretched one too many times while conversing with fascinating people.

This particular Friday night, Ken was working until midnight and I was alone with the animals. That can be soothing, but not this time. I opened up the house to the cool night air. There's a chill in the air, so the critters are starting to try to get into the house. I ran out to the mailbox (well, I shouldn't lie...I walked spastically) and did a crazy dance when I found myself face to face with a garden spider hanging right in my path. I shook the water bugs (read: big, ole gigantic roaches with an agenda) off the cat food and brought it inside.  There was a gentle rain and fun sounds from the concert down the street. I desperately needed to practice the Phantom, so I hunkered down, opening up the actual movie while I played along. Things were going swimmingly as I worked on scales and exercises, then moved on over to the main event. The crisp night air was starting to nip at my fingers and toes, but I kept on working. The FOMO was significant and all I could think of was all my grandkids and the fact that I wanted to curl up with a few of them and a warm blanket. Or my hunky husband. But none of those people were there. 

It is about midway through the movie when the Phantom gets unmasked. It's the silliest thing you've ever seen, if you have normal proclivities and have already seen other modern scary movies, but I don't watch horror movies or attend witch covens. When that dumb girl pulls off his mask, you want to laugh but then you might want to scream. I mean, he doesn't have a nose, for heavens' sake. And I'm supposed to keep playing my flute, which requires air and relaxed lips. It was then that I decided to quickly close up the windows and the front door. I tried to get back to some serious playing, but it just wasn't happening. I curled up with my blanket and a flighty movie about some over-empowered Australian woman, a pilot, who falls in love with a wimpy but fantastically cute guy who is scared of everything, including his own Daddy. Why would she do that? The abs will definitely fall later and then what will she do? And why is he such a chicken? He's got everything going for him but he can't step up and be the hero. Well, he kind-of does some of that at the very last minute but if I were her I'd be worried that might not hold up under duress. I am a woman, so I tend to blame women for the state of these things, but I digress...

I got ready for bed, gathered the dog and took her to the side door for her last hurrah. The door was unlocked. It had been unlocked all night! As I rushed poor Sadie to do her business, all I could think of was nose-less crazy people in the corners of the yard. Or probably already inside the house. Now who's the chicken?   

Priorities and the Pull of the Barcalounger

The space between summer and fall is one of those renewal periods in my year. Spring is another one, of course, but Fall is special because, you guessed it -- there's no pollen! Everything is cooling off, but there's still warm days interspersed here and there in the South even up to Christmas, for heavens' sake. Then from Christmas to March we've got little sun siestas all along the way, mixed with the occasional ice and sleet storm. We might get snow one day and the whole place shuts down, even if it's just from the threat of it. I've been mulling priorities in my brain these last few days. We desperately need to clean out our barn, but Ken says that half of that mess belongs to our son who is still working on building their house. I don't believe him. That man is the most organized neatnick known to humanity, but he doesn't have the ability to throw anything away. His clothes are color-coded in the closet, shirts are spaced equidistant from each other, and all his belts and ties are perfectly stored in their racks. But he can't throw away a candy wrapper. Oh yes, he folds it neatly and lays it on the counter (perfectly parallel to the edge). Then I have to be the one to throw it away. When it comes time to clean up or organize his shop, I'm the unlucky one who gets the job. He can't bear to think of disposing of anything, so I have to make those decisions. I'm the mean mug who is filling up the junkyard, ya'll. Don't hate me. I'm the messy one and I've also got all my collections of paraphernalia cluttering up the house. But I love my junk. It's too pretty to throw away. You see the hypocrisy here? Stopping to prioritize our lives takes sincere intention and effort. You have to actually stop, turn off HGTV, make a plan, get off your duff. Read: quit watching other people live and get to it. Please remember that I am preaching to myself. If I write it down, maybe I'll do something about it. Ken hates my sticky notes, but I need them because if I don't put a reminder right in front of my face, I'll go chasing the next butterfly and forget all about it. 

What do I love? What do you love? Put it on a sticky note. If you decide later that you don't love it, throw it away. Sort them in order of priority and then actually do something every day to make that thing show up in your life. We don't need 500 of these, not even 20. Stick to the top 5 or 10 if you can, then daily remind yourself to give them energy. 

I was thinking this morning about paint. Paint is a lovely thing to me. I love the movement of it over a page or wall or piece of furniture. The way it changes the world is magic. It's not terribly expensive. When you add your effort to it, it becomes something new and different. It can be ugly, but I ain't having that. It smells wonderful, covers a multitude of sins and feels like the world just got a do-over. I get down, when I haven't had enough paint in my life. This is just a fact of my existence and I keep forgetting that. I should put a new sticky note on my desk: Paint Something Today. Heading out shortly to get paint samples... 

We can live for years without doing the things we say we love or want to do. I had a friend who kept saying, for years, that they wanted to ride the whitewater down the Colorado River (that seems pretty much like hell to me -- think about it, cold, wet, all that jostling...). With the event never occurring, I recently asked my friend when they were going to do it. There was some pondering and then he said, "You know, truthfully, I really don't care about doing that." So I said, "Quit saying it then!" Time's a wastin' and if we're gonna do something, let's get to it. If not, let's make another plan, a realistic one. To quote an overused but wonderful phrase: Carpe diem!   

Shootin' the Breeze

We've been doing a whole lotta front-porch-sittin' this week. Grandaddy Norton is with us for several days while Ken's sister takes a much-needed vacation. Ken is shuttling him back and forth so that he can sleep in his own bed at night. Funny, how old age really does reverse the process...often, our parents eventually become our children, and then they become the infants. Sometimes we get lucky and die with our boots on, but maybe not as often as the alternative. I'm guessing that all of it is has something to do with sanctification. The temptation is to get crabby, and it takes a lot of resolute courage not to cave to our lowest common denominators. 

Thankfully, there are porches. We've had them on most of our houses. Long ago, all we had was a little stoop facing the street, maybe a 4x4 spit of concrete. We only had one baby at the time, and I'd sit there and watch him happily play in the little front yard. Wherever we've lived, the bit of porch had an important role. There's fresh air and free entertainment, even if there's no traffic. When we eventually built a house, way out in the country, we made sure the porch wrapped around the house. My morning coffee was had in our swing there, contemplating the deeper things of life and watching the wildlife while I read my Bible. The front of the house faced west, so the setting sun cooked everything to a crisp. We'd head for the back deck as the evening waned. Then we moved to our old Victorian gal in downtown Villa Rica. Right off the bat, it was obvious that folks knew how to build a porch back then. The house is oriented East-to-West, so the breeze runs straight across. When the sun sets, it doesn't scald you. We eventually installed ceiling fans, a curtain on the west side for really hot days, and party lights to get everyone in the mood. There are three different fountains bubbling, enticing folks to sit and breathe for a minute. Once you sit down, it might just be difficult to get back up. With our particular spot in town, there's always some sort of drama walking or driving by. This week, Georgia Power is sadly taking down numerous trees across the street, so we've been watching the circus. It has been slow-going and scary, with people taking their lives into their own hands. There was even a fuss yesterday between two of the workers. I guess things get a little tense, when life is on the line. 

Ken's Daddy has been entertained by all this, but we're also making the rounds with our children and grandchildren. Yesterday we had dinner with our "stoop baby" who is now 6'5" and has a wife and four babies of his own. Then there was a soccer game for the 5-year-old twins. Grandaddy laughed as he tipped backwards in his lawn chair and spilled onto the ground when Bennett came in for a big hug. I'm glad he's still got his sense of humor. We will be distracting him all week, with hopefully no broken bones. 

If you are sad or depressed, lonely or tense, find you a porch (or just a stoop) somewhere. Bring a cool drink and a friend. A dog or cat always helps, too.   

Anchors Aweigh

We spent the last week with family at our annual beach vacation, with a house of loud folks, from infants up to old people. When our children were young and behaving like so many dolphins, I spent our beach days in the water with them. As seasons waxed and waned, eventually there came that time when they married and began to have their own young ones. The labor of beach visits became tougher, hauling loads of equipment onto the sandy shore, just to make some semblance of comfort under the hot summer sun. I am eternally grateful for our annual trek -- it's one of the highlights of our year. We lay around, eat, nap, swim, enjoy grandchildren, and have evenings of hilarity after all the kids are in bed. We were missing one of our sons and his family this year, but still had ten of our twelve grandchildren along with their parents. It was loud, grungy, exhausting at times, but always blessed. One of the sweetest things is that now a lot of the grands are big enough to join me in the water; our boisterous flotilla was epic, running off timid folks around us I am sure. Papa was all the rage this year, with his dry, funny wit and physicality with them. He's not a water bug, but he's definitely a landshark. The grandkids think he's the bomb.com. He's a bit like Brutus, or maybe a bull in a china shop. I learned early on that it did no good to try to wrestle with him. You simply can't win. Instantaneous slam dunks are the order of the day; his thickly muscled arms and back are shored up with intense tenaciousness. Our four beautiful and handsome spawn have inherited these bulldog traits, thank God. Somebody's gotta help this next generation and I think they're it. 

As we arrived home, toasted brown and misty-eyed about having to leave the beach and our people, I noticed I was itching. Like, all over. I had felt icky for a couple of days but just figured I was getting tired from being in the water all day with rambunctious small people. Turns out that chicken pox stays with you all of your life, and I now have a bad case of shingles. While I'm here whining and whimpering, I've had time to observe and think about my dearest. Yes, he's a little (well, maybe more than that) OCD, bossy, opinionated and set in his ways. Think of the creature in Beauty & the Beast, with less hair. We're as opposite as two people can get (he is ISTJ and I'm ENFP, for those who follow that sort of thing), so there's always been plenty of conflict. With 41-plus years under our belts, I've had to grow some skin and he's had to shed some of his. But even with his bravado, there's a tender heart beating under all that muscle. The brawny bull snorts, paws the ground and then tenderly rubs ointment on my blisters, brings me food and drink, runs to Dunkin Donuts for my favorite coffee. He holds me in the night, when my emotions run over and I weep in pain. Irritatingly, he tells me what I should and shouldn't do, then we're off to the races again. 

The movies and the books say that love is violins and roses...if at first you don't find your soulmate, keep searching until you find him (or her) even if it means discarding the one who gets ugly, fat or disappointing in front of you. Truth is, life is never perfect - any time you get two warty humans together, you're eventually going to get disillusioned, tired or just bored. Love is a choice, where the ocean of it ebbs and flows. Storms, tsunamis and seaweed come alongside the gorgeous sunsets and beach-glass waters. Sometimes there are long seasons of difficulty interspersed with churned-up grit and slime, with the raft getting pulled into the maelstrom.

I don't believe there are any simple answers to this long game, except that in every high and stormy gale, my anchor holds within the veil. And it ain't me that's the anchor.  

The Rewards of Our Labors

Labor Day doesn't get a whole lot of respect. It's thrown in there at the end of summer, sort of a little vacation bump in between July 4 and Thanksgiving. The kids love it because they were thinking that summer was over. When I was a child, we had school vacation the proper way -- we got out right after Memorial Day and whiled away those slow, heat-blanketed days until Labor Day. It was wonderful. Then when September came, we were chomping at the bit to get back to school. New, crisp clothes from the Sears catalog and the promise of Friday night football games hung in the air. I felt it again the other evening, when I heard the drumbeat from the high school marching band float over to our yummy front porch. There is a Fall coming, I just know it. 

Ken and I have had several weeks of extra work -- he at the plant and me with events. We're tired. I hadn't straightened my house or cleaned it good in quite the stretch, but we really wanted to hang out with our kids for Labor Day this year. Miraculously, we got the house presentable enough that, hopefully, no one would get listeria or other bacterial infections. All of the children, grandchildren, Grandma Judy and then a family from our church piled in. Everyone brought meat and side dishes. I forgot the plates, so Ken ran to the store last-minute to pick up paper goods. He walked in with "Chinet" brand. I have been married for 41-1/2 years and have never bought fancy paper plates. We've suffered through those really flimsy ones, where you have to stack 3 or 4 of them or you risk them collapsing. Then there's the foam ones, who appear sturdy until the spaghetti slides right off. Or you pierce your watermelon and stick a fork right through it. And there's no abiding trying to cut a steak on a paper plate. I said, "I can't believe you bought those! They cost a fortune!" Ken said, "I'm over it. I'm tired of terrible paper plates so I bit the bullet and got them. And two sizes, one for the kids and one for the adults." What is happening in my house? 

After we ate, everyone wound up in the backyard around the firepit, then dozens of kids piled on the groaning trampoline. That thing's going to split in half soon. The mosquitos began to invade, insecticide was passed around despite our fears of the dangers of deet. As the sun went down, the earth cooled around us, and we relaxed and laughed about anything and nothing at all. We drifted back into the house, where the pieces of the evening and the evidences of life lived made themselves known. I'm always amazed at the transformation of clean to dirty, then back to clean again, in very short order after a gathering. Babies began to yawn and long for home, Daddies and Mamas anticipated tomorrow's labors. We hugged and said goodbyes as vehicles pulled out. Ken and I dashed the finishing touches on the kitchen and then plopped onto the couch. 

He reached over and took my hand and said, "It has been a good day." And it really was...   

  

La Dolce Vita

I can hear the earth drinking in the warm water tonight. The sky curdled and threatened all afternoon, then gave way while I was on my home from my sister's house. I could hardly see the road, so I pulled in to our daughter's neighborhood, since I needed a grandbaby fix anyway. 2-year-old Ethan was out on their front porch, cavorting in the rain in his new big-boy underwear. Our son-in-love whipped out an umbrella and escorted me into the house. 9-month-old London joined us on the couch and I enjoyed all the tumbling, sweet-skinned love. My glasses and earrings were fair game as Little Miss Priss tried to steal them. We chatted for an hour and then it was time to get back on the road. I was especially sentimental today, as it's my Daddy's birthday. He's in heaven, having all the best, but we're suffering down here without him. 

I've been thinking of late, about how we view the past, present and future. I believe honoring the past and learning from it is a good strategy, but we shouldn't live there. Time keeps moving on but we can get stuck with regrets, with too much nostalgia (yes, there can be too much of that), and putting a sugary haze on the way things were. I am definitely guilty of it. I am blessed that I grew up with so many good things to look back on, and then had the goodness of God all over our marriage and then those four amazing kids He gave us. Shot through it all are our sin natures and the trials of life, but I have seen the hand of the Lord in everything, both good and bad. 

We're given today, really just today. Tomorrow isn't promised, though we can look to it and hope for the future. My impatient self wants to jump around, leap ahead, fret about pretty much everything. There's always the next thing, the hustle of it, the urgency of the undone parts. Today's looming job was to untangle all the parts of the decor I had done for a really big event. I needed to categorize and parcel up hundreds of items. There's no fun for me in organizing and packing a pile of stuff. The party's over, I'm tired, and my feet hurt. I even missed church yesterday because my tummy was aching and I was dizzy. I was dressed and ready to head out the door when I realized that the only right thing to do was to curl up in my recliner with soup and some tonic water. The Lord and my husband said I had to, so I did. 

After a sweet, schlumming day and night, I woke up and decided to force myself not to rush. I was going to be the tortoise, not the hare. This is an alien concept in my world. I put on some music and started sorting.  Before I knew it, almost everything was packed up and put in the appropriate piles. In these instances, I always think of the Star Wars movie where the pilot keeps saying, "Stay on target..." Isn't that the guy that gets blown up? Either way, it's pretty amazing what a little focus can do. 

Maybe, just maybe, the secret to living in the moment is to simply slow way on down. And quit volunteering for every project that comes down the path, there's that.   

Future Plans

I have so many creative goodies around me today...I'm prepping to decorate our fundraiser for the Carrollton Wind Ensemble, where I'm boxing up half my house to try and gussy up some tables, all fancy-like. I've hauled a mess of stuff into the dining room, some from our barn and some borrowed. Then I started pulling things off my furniture. Hey, if it looks good here, maybe it'll look good there. As I sat down to hem some fabric for part of the project, I looked around at all the yumminess that I love when I get to decorate something. Then I thought about the women in my life who taught me early-on how to be resourceful.  

No shrinking violets here... my MawMaw (Daddy's Mama) was dirt poor but could put a stick in the ground and it would grow. She was known to knock walls down in her house and re-sheet-rock and make a new closet or bathroom. One day I was at a cousin's house and there was a large cartoon mural on the wall, and to my surprise, our MawMaw had done it. She had some secret sauce going on in there. Grandma Betty (Mama's Mama) had an iron will and worked hard all her life. She started the housepainting legacy that I inherited. She could take literally anything and make it elegant. She had that flair.  Then there's my own Mama, who was a whirling dervish when we were young. She not only painted; she rolled up her sleeves and dove right into any project that Daddy or her had going. Once, they bought an old pop-up camper that didn't have the canvas on top. She painted the thing, then got a ladder and measured it all around and proceeded to sew a huge new canopy, then doused it with Scotchguard. As I recall, it never leaked. Of course, they sold it at a good profit, which is what they generally did with all their fix-up campers. 

I loved both my siblings immediately upon their arrival. My sister came out of the womb strong-willed. I was carefree and butterflying around when she arrived. God sent this firebrand of a girl, who has a very tender heart underneath all the bravado (don't tell anybody), and I had to step up my game. She's the most resourceful human that I know, with 11 kids and who knows how many grandkids now. She could run New York City. As for my other sibling, his wife is busy producing geniuses with their six children. When I read their writing, I am astonished at the depth of their thinking and intelligence.  

It would take a book for me to mention all the women who have influenced and taught me with their examples of what it means to be a woman. Now, with three daughter-in-laws and a daughter, I feel that I am paddling behind them in their wake. I should just tether my boat to theirs. All four of them are stay-at-home Mamas, leading resourceful, interesting and intentional lives with their husbands and children. It's no simple feat to raise up children right these days -- there's a whole lot of things clamoring for their attention, much of it not good. I pray regularly for our grandchildren and other peoples' grandchildren, that they will have gumption, grit and faith in the God of the universe. They are the future. I gotta say it again: "The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world."   

A Night on the Town

When my folks rented my first flute all those decades ago (from Ken Stanton -- $5 a month!), I never imagined I would still be playing it in 2023. Heck, back then I would think about the year 2000...and the fact that I would be 40 years old that year. When you're young, you think that 40 is decrepit. Mind you, that was back when the Beatles were telling us that you can't trust anyone over the age of 30. Now I can say resolutely that each decade has its joys and sorrows, and the more life layers I have, the richer life is. 

I have played at school, at church, in community bands...but in 2014, when I was introduced to the Carrollton Wind Ensemble, lead by our fearless Maestro Terry Lowry, I was in for the treat of my life. Where I had been able to wing it most Sundays and in other groups, only occasionally practicing, this group had serious goals in mind. Suddenly I had to hunker down and figure out those scales that I had neglected since high school. We play an eclectic mix of music, from Big Band to classical to show tunes to movie soundtracks and then there's the marches in July. Easy is not how this is described. We rehearse every Tuesday night for 2+ hours and for around 10-1/2 months out of the year. I know it might sound agonizing, but for us musicians, it's not. If this is torture, chain us to the wall. All the challenges and pressures of learning amazing music has been such a joy (even when I complain to all my loved ones). This is good for my brain and for my fingers that constantly threaten to rust over. We do concerts numerous times a year, often at the Center for the Arts in Carrollton. This group is a hidden gem; once folks find us, they become fans. Tickets are cheap or free, and we've been known to sell out before our concerts (follow us on Facebook at Carrollton Wind Ensemble). I feel extremely privileged to be able to play with this bunch of amazing artists. 

Ciao! Our ensemble has been invited to play four concerts in Italy next June: Rome, Venice and Florence are on the agenda.  The tour's mission is to offer music-making to refugees from war-torn areas around the world. Through benefit concerts and music camps, we will bring the healing power of music into the lives of adults and children whose lives have been devastated by war in their homeland.  

To support the costs associated with this endeavor, we invite you to La Dolce Vita, a throwback to 1950's cool, on August 26, 2023, at The Carrollton Train Depot on Bradley Street. It will be a semi-formal evening of dinner and dancing, with live entertainment provided by Ten 'til Swing, The Haberdashers, and Timothy Miller (who sings "God Bless America" during the 7th inning stretch at Atlanta Braves home games). There will also be brief live and silent auctions during the evening that will feature a Bourbon Maestro Dinner for Six, a vacation home getaway, a custom tuxedo or tailored suit from Threads Custom Tailoring, services and packages from many area businesses, as well as artwork from local artists. This is also an opportunity for your business to donate your services or items to assist in this fundraiser. All donations and their sources will be listed in the program for the evening. Any support would be greatly appreciated.  

Please join us for this unique evening and help the Carrollton Wind Ensemble represent our community to the world. Individual tickets are $100 each. We will deliver your tickets to you if you are interested. Please let us know if you can join us! Checks should be made payable to: Carroll Symphony Orchestra. Memo: Carrollton Wind Ensemble/La Dolce Vita, P.O. Box 1756, Carrollton, GA 30112.   - Or - you can pay by Venmo: https://venmo.com/carrollsymphonyorchestra

I hope to see you there. Now I better get myself to the gym...I'm getting ready for the hills of Italy. Arrivederci! ​

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Cookies, Countertops and an Ark

One of my favorite children's books is When You Give A Mouse A Cookie (author Laura Numeroff). It's about a mouse, but it's really about us humans (especially toddler ones, of which I might still be one). One thing leads to another and next thing you know, we're on a whole different path. Then it all winds back 'round to the beginning. 

My "cookie" hunt started some time ago, when I began obsessing about the backsplash in our 1902 Queen Victorian kitchen. Well, it probably started when the ceiling fan died. Those things have never been the prettiest item to put over your kitchen island, but they sure help Mama stay cool while she gets supper on the table. In fact, when we moved here, I had my husband remove an ancient light fixture and put up an oscillating monstrosity so that I could bear the Georgia heat while I worked over the hot stove (barefoot always). I boxed up the old one, labeled it respectfully and put it in the attic, for future owners to find. Pragmatism has its place, even in a beautiful, very mature home. Don't tell anyone, but I have painted some of the orangey trim with Sherwin Williams Antique White in places, because one can only take so much of that shade of orange before depression takes over. When we're dead and gone and someone else buys this place, they can get busy stripping it if they want to. 

Ceiling fans have taken an even further nosedive, in the beauty department, since I bought my last one. Most of them look too modern or worse, they look like 1980 came back to haunt us. I opted for a vintage-looking fan, mounted on the wall, instead of another thing over my island. Then the wheels started turning. I got Ken to pull the old fixture out of the attic and had it re-installed over the island. I then got the bright idea to move it over the sink, for better task lighting, and get a copper pot rack to put above the island (found a $1000 one for $75 on Facebook marketplace=winning). I hoofed it to sell another house, to fund all these ideas. Because what's a copper pot rack without copper pots to put on it? I'm not French, but it's starting to feel that way around here. Me and ole Julia, though she actually cooked. 

All that activity might have made me start staring at the backsplash. It was retro-early-90s, dark, patchy and didn't even reach all the way up to where it was supposed to. I scrounged all the sales and found the perfect, Victorian-inspired tile to go there. Before I put it up, I began to obsess over the old countertops. They were scuffed, very dated and begging to go somewhere else. Maybe I'll build a studio in the backyard to accommodate them, because they were next on the chopping block. Long, winding tale, but I found myself in huge warehouses of stone, looking at lovely works of God's art and praying none of those slabs decided to fall on me. 

I love natural stone. I told Ken that if he ever wants to surprise me with a gift, just buy me a nice fossil. So I guess that's what he's doing right now, because in these big chunks of rock, there are rivers of sediment all preserved in gorgeous patterns. Occasionally, there are shells and trilobites found floating in there. As I looked at the various types of stone, putting my warm hands against the coolness, I saw amazing depths of color and variation. I imagined the great Flood, where the earth was inundated with water and sand and silt, all of it getting amalgamated into what seems like precious jewels. After much trial, error and bouts of sleeplessness (I ain't doing this again before I die), I arrived at the perfect slab that matches the cabinets and still evokes a classic vibe. I couldn't abide anything plain, no matter how hard I tried. They should arrive in a week or two. I'm going to put my grandkids up on it and tell them all about Noah. 

Meanwhile, I might need to sell another house. If you give a mouse a cookie, he's gonna want a glass of milk.

Labor Pains and Dental Chairs

The ongoing saga of my poor teeth boggles my mind. Please forgive my redundancy of this subject; I am clearly traumatized. I take very good care of them, but somewhere in my DNA, there's a screw loose in this department. I've been able to tentatively hang on to all of them, except those pesky wisdom teeth, for all these years. I had four lumberjack babies, two of them completely natural, but don't be messing with my teeth. I normally have a high pain tolerance, but I am a wimp when in the dentist's chair. Way back, in our early childbearing years, Ken and I belonged to a DMO for dental care, which is code for: we've got to cut costs somewhere, so we're not going to use very much Novocaine when we drill out your teeth, you silly woman. There were years of this. When our insurance changed and I was able to see a dentist who had a real, human heart, he told me that I needed a double-dose of that stuff to get me numb. When we moved from that area, he also emphatically stated that I had to inform my new dentist about my resistance to the numbing. So I have always done that, with mostly good results. Then five years ago, I blogged about the devil in Anniston who did a root canal on me and didn't numb me enough. After he was done, he also threw in this nugget: "I couldn't find one of the canals, so maybe you don't have that other one." I asked him what that meant, and what I should look for. He quipped, "Well, you'll know it in time. It'll get infected." I was so reassured. And over these last five years, that area of my mouth would get inflamed and cause pain, but I didn't connect the dots until it got really bad. And infected. The new dentist wanted to re-drill it and do another root canal. After much research and pondering, I decided I wanted that thang out of my mouth forever. The dentist agreed and set it up for me to have an extraction with a subsequent implant. You know I was so excited to have numbing medication and this gargantuan molar dug out of my jaw, along with stitches and blood and pain. These are first world problems...in other countries, they'd knock it out like Tom Hanks did in Castaway, with an ice skate blade. I might like that better. 

After imparting to the staff, over several weeks, that I was indeed mostly crazy in this arena, they carefully walked me to the quiet, darkened room in the back of the offices, speaking kindly and softly. One of the ladies stayed with me after I took the three pills they prescribed. I didn't even care what was in those things. I was just praying for peace and for it to be over quickly. As she spoke, I got a little buzzy and laid my head back. I remember, through the ensuing fog, a voice telling me to open wide, two or three times. Next thing I know, I'm at home. It's 5:30 in the afternoon and I'm in the recliner, no memory of anything but that voice in the etherworld. 

Ken laughed and said that it was reported I snored greatly during the procedure. And to that I say, Hallelujah.

Mutated Cupboards

The tyranny of the urgent drives entirely too much of my life. I hopscotch around to my many looming projects, with the deadlines as my pressure point. How I wish I could be steady and disciplined, as my husband is, but then again, where would be the fun in that? I am very thankful (when I'm not fuming) that he balances my excesses (and I, his). It's the cause of many a fuss but is also the thing that makes us a better team. 

My Daddy had a little sign on his workbench, that my sister owns now...I should engrave it on our walls, because it says: "Do It Now." Daddy had my same butterfly/squirrel/ADD-whatever-thing that keeps us from finishing what we start. He seemed to master this somewhere along the way, possibly due to the fact that Mama managed all the other things around him and they indeed balanced each other too. Ken and I have weekly meetings (even though our four kids are grown), where we eat breakfast and pull out our calendars, discussing what's ahead and what our priorities are. He also has helped me with my timelines and cutting out what's not so important. I honestly say that my real estate business is possible because of him and our team effort. He helps keep me grounded and I help him find the butterflies. This is a good plan. 

In the day-to-day, however, I am starting to wonder why my cupboards and drawers are all sprouting babies. I have a cabinet in the hall bathroom that is getting hard to close. Everything in there looks essential, but I only use a few things out of it. Maybe we're hoarding up for the apocalypse? How do you let yourself throw away perfectly good stuff that looked so important when it was all shiny up on the Amazon app? There's fancy facial creams and cleansers that I have forgotten about...hair products that bear mysterious promises, but I can't remember what those promises actually are. Years ago, I bought pretty baskets to put things in. Now they're overflowing and dropping their excesses every time I dare to crack open a cabinet.  These first-world problems need an intervention. I know a wonderful lady who is a professional organizer, but she's busy packing up her own house to move. Plus, you have to pay those people. Does that mean I get to do it myself and also pay myself? I think so. In fact, I think that deserves overtime pay and night differential, because I'm gonna be digging through here 'til after midnight. Just do it now... 

   

Good Neighbors and Just A Wee Bit of Water

I have dear neighbors on either side of me who live in Villa Rica only part-time. One couple is from Alaska, the other from California, worlds apart. All our lives are busy, and we don't intersect nearly often enough, but when we do, it is sweet and memorable. 

Last night, the Californians and I went out for dinner, since they are leaving for home soon. We live so close to town, we usually walk to local restaurants. I wanted for us to ride "Maggie" for a fun time (our beloved, beat-up golfcart). Ken has decided that everything in our proximity has to have some derivative of "magnolia" in it. I love that. In our estimation, Magnolia was cool way before Chip and Joanna came along. I've had a summer of events to decorate, so our barn looks like a bomb went off. Bucketloads of tulle, satin, fake greenery and lanterns are holding Maggie hostage, so she will have to wait for another day. Ken and I had promised each other we were going to clean out that mess during the week of July 4, but he ended up working extra and I was still in noodle-mode after my two weeks at the beach with grandkids and my daughter-in-love. It takes weeks to recover from a vacation, this I know. Then you awaken and try to get on with the rest of your life. 

So the Californians and I trundled to Los Cowboys in the balmy evening air. My spiffy, new Fresh Foam New Balance shoes starting chafing after only a few hundred yards. This is why I despise shoes. If God had meant for us to wear them, He'd have put them in our DNA code. While we're on the subject, why are people so concerned about whether everyone else has shoes on? What (or who) does it hurt, if I don't have shoes on, unless you're dealing with machinery or escalators? It is true that feet are not necessarily the most beautiful part of the human anatomy, though I deeply appreciate the luck of anyone who has nice, un-Hobbit-like ones. That nicety does not run in our family, with our knobby, strangely-webbed and curled-under toes. We look like we're ready to climb trees or grip utensils with them. And no, I don't believe we evolved from apes. We might try finding more useful purposes for them than just tucking them into ungainly clodhopper shoes. Scientists are even telling us now to shed those things and put our feet in the dirt. It's called "earthing" or "grounding" and it helps detox your body and shed extra electricity out of your limbs. This is another very good reason to up and head for the beach and stick your toes in the sand. Meanwhile, please don't judge me for rarely wearing shoes. I mean, I play my flute much better when there's nothing between me and the ground. It's a fact. 

My California friends are wonderful people, the kind who are all there when you are together. Nobody's checking their phones a hundred times, there's plenty of stimulating conversation, and they are the kind of folk who are transparent and real. They don't mind discussing controversial subjects, from politics to religion, from work to their personal lives. No hypocrisy and lots of honesty, all done with respect. I am always refreshed after I spend time with them. 

I was blessed to be raised by a straight-talking Yankee Mama down here in God's country with my southern Daddy and family. Sometimes our Southern culture presents a sugary face but has a wicked backbite. We need to work on that (well, at least I do). I heard a really good sermon this week about the tongue and how it can be a raging fire, from just a little spark. I hate it when a sermon jumps me like that. I'm chewing on and thinking about what kind of clamp I'm gonna need. 

Only a few weeks and kids will be getting back to school. This is that gloaming part of a Georgia summer, when people float in the molasses of the humidity and ponder whether they're going to have to get their hinder parts moving soon. Fall is a very, very long way off (not that we actually have one) but I'm already hearing people talk about pumpkin spice lattes and such. As for me, I'm still hoping for a cement pond.   

Snatched Up

These last few hot, muggy weeks, I've been a little obsessed with water. We've had the ocean, pools, rain...all those fun things. But these last few days, when a dire emergency came rushing into our lives, I found myself feeling like I was suspended in time, floating somewhere in the murky water between life and death. Not my own, but my baby brother's. To look at him, you'd think he was older than me (he's ten years younger but I keep saying that...). He has a massive, curly, white beard and a cue-ball-shiny head, devoid of hair. He looks like one of those Reformed pastors of old, but nope, he's current, though he preaches in a deep, intellectual manner similar to those sage men.

We got a call, saying that he had been taken by ambulance to the hospital. The symptoms seemed to indicate he had a blood clot in his lung. Then the story changed, saying that he was having back spasms. Then it seemed he might actually go on home, with some pain meds. My 25-year-old nephew (his son) insisted that he stay at the hospital for more tests. Thank God he did, for if he had not, we'd be having a funeral this week. What was wrong, in the end, was that he had a large aneurysm hiding in his heart that had torn. This was bad news to all of us, because our Grandma had died of such a thing, several years ago. We remembered her fateful end, at a fairly young age. Hours later we all gathered in the hospital waiting room, the same room where we waited for our precious Daddy's last breaths a few years ago. The air was charged with uncertainty as the minutes agonizingly ticked by. My dear sister-in-law couldn't keep her seat as two of her sons walked her nervously down the halls. It seemed that it would never end, but over 6 hours later, he emerged triumphant, though with a large scar running down his chest and with no small amount of blood loss. When I was able to finally see him, the next day, I barely recognized him. His normally swarthy skin was white as paste, his voice reduced to a whisper. In that weakened state, however, he told me of his lack of fear in the face of death. He was happy; he had seen the tunnel and knew Who he belonged to. Not even the spectre of the grave could snatch his peace.

I was nearly ten years old when he was born. The doctors had told my Mother that she couldn't have any more children, so when she discovered she was five months pregnant, it was the shock of a lifetime. Daddy knew he was a boy and nothing would dissuade him from knowing or saying it to everyone he met. Mama was worried about that. They'd had two girls that he had predicted and wanted, and this time it was a boy no matter what anyone said. The first time I saw him, this tiny little man in the crib, he had coppery curls and chocolate brown eyes. I fell in love and thought God had given me my own personal baby doll. As soon as he could talk, we started a conversation that hasn't let up since. Now, we might go for weeks and not converse, but then we start right back where we left off. We purposely don't call each other sometimes, because who has two hours to just chew the fat? We both love books. After years of my returning his borrowed books with teeth marks, rumpled pages and water marks all over them, he refused to let me borrow any more. Now he just buys them for me. Every time, it's going to be an awesome read.

I believe there's a day and a time for us all to meet our Maker. Crazy contortions and coincidences seem to run rampant, when someone lives through what my brother just experienced. I don't know what all God's got for him to do, but he's still here and I am so very thankful.   

The Water's Fine...

I was terrified of the water until I was around ten years old. My Daddy's attempts at teaching me to swim (very barbaric methods, for sure) only made things worse. Many years later, he asked my forgiveness when he realized that he had added to my fear when I was a kid. I have spent many words apologizing to my own children in their adult years. We don't always know what we're doing wrong. 

Our aunt and uncle visited from Illinois, early that 10th summer. Uncle Lloyd bought us a little 3-foot deep swimming pool at Sears and Roebuck, then proceeded to install the thing. That shallow water seemed plenty safe to me, and in short order I was pushing off the sides and swimming like a fish. It's easy to do that when all you have to do is put your feet down to catch yourself. Later, I went to 4-H camp, where they had a massive pool, teeming with scads of teenagers. I got comfortable in the shallows and then dared to go further, into the deep end. Clinging to the walls, I pushed off and swam to the other side, arriving alive. At last, I stood before the diving board, which seemed more like a cliff than anything meant for amusement. The line and the peer pressure behind me, pushed me bodily to the ladder. With a deep breath and eyes closed, I jumped, propelled deeply into the water. Frantically kicking and waving my arms, I burst back into the ozone where I could breathe again. I looked around and no one seemed surprised that I had made it. Kids were yelling for me to get out of the way of the next diver. I made it to the edge and realized I was finally, indeed, a swimmer. It became my beloved "profession"  where I taught swimming lessons and lifeguarded for many years. 

So when my daughter-in-love asked me to teach our five-year-old-twin grandchildren to swim, I pulled out that old file in my brain. Our first day of vacation, I was again tentative about the pool, not because of the water but because of my sheer whiteness and lack of exercise over the last year. 10-year-old sister Annabelle immediately began asking me about when the twins' first lesson would begin. I said, "Give me a minute!" I took a few to get acclimated to the cold water, then took off Addison's floaties. Bennett was next, not to be outdone. We started with getting our faces under the water, blowing lots of bubbles. There were the push-offs from the stairs, doggy paddling, floating and face-down forays in the water. We worked on their progress every day, with them keeping track as to whose turn it was. Within just a few days, brave souls that they were, they were swimming across the shallow end of the pool. The afternoon that I installed them at the deep end, their Mama was cringing. This was the real test. They took turns doing "pencil dives" (another word for jumping heartily into the deep), recovering and swimming across to me at the rope. I was so proud of their courage and endurance. Our last day, after two weeks of almost daily work, they both swam all the way across the pool from the deep end and did dives, retrieving objects off the floor of the pool. Their pluck and energy was inspiring. Their Mama and I agreed that they were now dangerous, with all these skills, and would have to be watched even closer now that they were doing this on their own.

Getting philosophical, I'm no longer a kindergartner (we didn't even go to kindergarten back in the day) and it seems that most of my frontiers have been conquered. But they haven't. There are still fears that confront me, old ones I thought I had in hand. Speaking up, when I need to, can be difficult. It's hard to kick against the bricks (the Bible says another word, but we don't use that word in the same way anymore and someone might be offended). It would be nice to go out like a calm lake, with everyone liking me. I think of the old ladies that I used to know, who just said the truth and didn't apologize for it. Not mean, just true. When I knew those ladies loved me, even when they said hard things, it affected me in good ways. It changed my life. It's an ancient scripture: "Speak the truth, in love." May I take a cue from my grandkids, dip my toe in that old lady pool and swim with boldness, without apology.