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.