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.