Sunbeams

I got the last-minute chance to go to the beach last week -- my daughter-in-love was texting me during church, making plans and a packing list. Don't tell Pastor David. Ken rushed me home and I threw a bag together while wolfing down tacos from the drive-through. I hot-wheeled in on over to Newnan and we looked for all the world like the Clampetts, with all kinds of flotsam piled on top. I almost didn't go, because I was coughing like an old stovepipe. But the sea air did my lungs and bum knee a heap of good. It was beautiful to see the dolphins and stingrays flinging themselves out of the surf, the soft sand between our toes, the children jumping pell-mell into the frigid water. Thankfully, the pool was heated, so Yaya jumped on in too. Got burnt toasty while I was at it.

We were staying at the place we took our kids for all of their lives -- Laguna Beach Christian Retreat -- but now it has a fancier name, something to do with Cottages or some such. They've painted all the block buildings with beachy, sherbet colors, but you still have to bring your own pillows and bed linens. We have such happy memories of weeks at the beach, with lots and lots of our family and other friends getting their own cottages at the same time. The kids ganged up and played volleyball, basketball, swam, hunted crabs, got sunburned and hung out with cousins and close friends. It was the best of times. Us adults would visit on our front porch (#7 -- we went so often, we thought it was ours), laugh and drink coffee. When the sun went down and supper was over, we'd congregate with more beverages at the old pool. The bigger boys would have contests where they stacked up chairs and dove over them into the water. We did this for nigh-on two decades. Now my adult children are so tall, they don't fit the full-size beds there (6'6", 6'5" and 6'4". Liz makes me the shortest now, at her 5'10"). They prefer places that have king-size beds. But this son, Jesse, and his family decided to go for a few days anyway, and invited me along. Papa had to work, poor thing. I like these arrangements (not Pa working, just the fact that I got to go). 

While granddaughter Eden (11) and I were riding home together, she said, "Yaya, can I say something? I hope that I don't offend you... I've noticed that Nortons, well, they talk a lot." I love the directness of children. If you don't want to know, don't ask. I reminded her that she was a Norton too and we had a good laugh.  She's the eldest grandchild (of 12) and I'm keenly aware that these days of early childhood are fleeting. Kids get busy with all sorts of things and we have these brief windows where they are still somewhat fascinated by their grandparents. I better tighten up. But then, with the recent death of my father-in-law, I was amazed at the sweet stories that his grandchildren told at the funeral. There's an unconditional love that is truly special. Some people don't get grandchildren, it's just a fact. Check around for a family that might need a surrogate Papa or Yaya. There could be no better investment.   

Crazy World

During our craziest season of life, thick with budding children, homeschooling, lots of relatives and friends and responsibilities....we decided to jump off a cliff and move into an old, leaky camper with our four children onto our land. We were young and idealistic, full of energy and dreams, seeing ourselves as pioneers in a new land. People seem to be doing this a lot these days, but back then we were unique, it seemed. And the campers back then were not as bougie as the fancy ones now. Our only had a sleeper sofa and two single beds in the back. We bought it anyway, even with that many kids. Our boys were 12, 10 and 8, our daughter was 5. The man-sized 12-year-old slept in one of the beds, the 10 and 8 year olds slept together on the other one, and our daughter slept on a pallet on the floor each night. She's now 32, with a husband and two young children (and one on the way) -- I recently asked her if she was traumatized by those two years of sleeping on the floor. She said it was the happiest of times for her, getting to be right in the mix with her crazy-fun brothers, listening to their antics and stories, sleeping right there where she could be a part of it all. That's some relief to me...we had the best of intentions, but after everyone's grown you worry about these things. They certainly learned resilience, how to work hard, and saw first-hand how good things don't just magically appear without someone laboring for them. 

Before we physically moved our camper to our land in south Douglas County, systems had to be put into place: electrical lines, septic system, a water line and some grading. We moved into a kindly-run campground that was right across the street from Six Flags theme park in Atlanta. We learned that many of our neighbors at the campground were long-term campers as we joined the ranks of the homeless. It sounds scary but it really wasn't. I was shocked at how quickly one can adapt to small spaces. Our heater and refrigerator didn't work, but the air conditioner and water heater were first-rate. We adapted with small space heaters and a big cooler (not fun) but if the air and water heater hadn't worked, it would have been a heap-lot harder to do this.

Many eldest children in families tend to think they are co-equals with their parents. They also are usually more obedient and responsible, but not always. This personified our oldest son -- he was (and is) very smart, quirky, and the most inquisitive human I've ever met. He learned very early that he could figure most things out by himself. His Father (my dear husband) also had the attitude that our kids should be allowed to climb 40-foot trees, scale mountains, tunnel into dangerous places, and basically be withheld from nothing that appeared dangerous to their Mother. Many times, my freaking self would be at shrieking level when their Dad would touch my arm and say, "Let 'em go, Rose"... Amazingly, these feral children grew up with lots of opportunities to get wrecked, but they rarely ever got hurt. Ken also expected them to work hard and be his minions, so they learned early how to do things...but when it was play time, the world was their oyster. I'm now grateful for how it went down, now that they're all thriving and able to actually survive as adults. God is good. 

One of my most memorable mornings during those days was when we were still living at the campground. Ken had to get up around 5:00 a.m. to get ready for work each morning, so we'd talk and eat before the kids got up. That day, right after he left, I decided to walk across to the camp showers and clean up real quick. I had done this many times, and the kids welcomed some more time to snooze.  I locked the camper door and proceeded to shower. Before I even turned the water off, I heard a familiar sound driving by the showers. Our conversion van, which had a unique rumble. I thought, "Did Ken have trouble with his truck, so he's come back and is now taking the van?" I quickly dried off and dressed, and ran to the door to see our van driving around the corner, making its way up the hill of the campground road. I looked left, there was no Daddy truck. The camper lights were not on. As the van made its way back down the hill, there is our 12-year-old son scooched up tight to the steering wheel, driving. He jerked to a gravelly stop, rolled down the window and explained why he was taking his life into his own hands: "Hi Mom! I woke up and you weren't in the camper. I didn't know where you were, so I thought I'd search with the van." Though I was imploding internally, I calmly told him to put the van into park. This is the child, who at many times in his life would say things like, when there was general mayhem: "Mom, what are we going to do about these kids?!"  Or -- "Mom, don't you care about Elizabeth's soul? She is getting old (she was 4) and she's not saved yet. What if you have a wreck and she dies and goes to hell?!" This one was born full-grown and full of sauce, and the rules didn't apply to him (still don't). My vision for him, while he was being formed in my womb, all 10 and a half pounds of him, was that he would be a light in the darkness. 

On that particular summer morning, however, he might have just barely squeaked through to live another day...  

Night Passages

Town was quiet tonight, with a fragrant and mellow breeze wafting by. One of the sweetest sounds that I love in the whole world is when the frogs and crickets start croaking in the spring. I thought it only happened in the country, but I hear them right here smack-dab in our little city. The stars were twinkling as the dog and I had our secret walk around the darkened yard. Little buds emerging, my three pussy willow bushes finally sprouting tiny, velvety pink babies, after many years of no-shows. The sunny daffodils and jonquils are springing up everywhere. Hope arises. 

Last weekend, our daughter arranged a photoshoot for Grandma Judy, with all the daughters and granddaughters on that side of the family. After months of wrangling schedules, weather and outfits, we gathered at a local lake. The sky was misty; we somehow threw ourselves together with our various shades of pink (Great Grandma's favorite color) to get a few dozen females all in one place, at one time. There was mud, Canadian geese, lots of giggling girls, Moms, Grandmas, Great Grandma. Looking at the miracle of progeny and the grace of God, I was so proud of my brood -- our daughter, three daughters-in-love, and five granddaughters were spicy, sweet and adorable, all at the same time. Then there was Grandma, quiet as a mouse (though she's never mousy) and uncomfortable without a chair. Someone found one in the woods and she sat down. Eventually every possible individual and group photo was had, and we disbursed. My tribe made their way to the Japanese steak house, where the girls acted big and the Mamas enjoyed the night out. I was suffering with a throbbing headache and almost opted to head home, but daughter-in-love Jessica had a bottle of ibuprofen and I might have emptied the thing. Within a short while, I began to feel better. I remained quieter and more observant than usual, finding it peaceful to simply enjoy these wonderful folk rather than comment on every. single. thing. It's such a problem, my hating to miss out on any activity. I have a hard time understanding the introverts around me. But maybe there's a lot of good to be had from shutting my mouth, sitting still, letting the room have its say without my constant input. Sweet, peaceful, like the serenity of listening in the dark to those frogs and crickets. What a novel idea...     

One Man's Junk, Another Man's Treasure

When we arrived home from our week-long camping adventure in northern Kentucky (where we had suffered through extreme cold, frozen water, snow and way too much walking), I was surprised to see that our yard was full of daffodils popping up everywhere. It always gives me hope to see their sunny faces emerge pre-spring, during the dreary month of February. I do not recommend camping or even basic travel in that most sad of seasons in the South, unless you plan to go to the tropics. Christmas is over and spring is definitely still far enough away that it just seems impossible that it's ever going to get here. Even my dear neighbor who lives in Alaska most of the year says that she's colder in the wet, humid Georgia winter than she is when she's in Alaska. Either way, I'm glad to still be breathing and glad that those yellow and green bits of happiness are growing all around our property. I didn't plant all those flowers -- some thoughtful person in the past did it. I might love them for it.

My husband had knee surgery a few weeks back, and finally got free of his cane. With two more weeks of rehab left, he got the gumption to clean out the barn. I send out bags and boxes of junk to the various charities every month, but there must be a truck of elves backing up to the house at night, emptying out their leftovers. The barn was bursting to the eaves with all manner of detritus and it was becoming dangerous to step inside. Anything that was on the floor was pulled out to the driveway and Ken started setting items at the curb to give away. I'm always amazed at how quickly even the strangest items get snapped up, one of the great things about living in town.  We meet some of the nicest people when we do this, and the stuff gets a chance at a second life (hopefully instead of the landfill). Three of my Christmas trees are now someone else's problem -- and that means I'll have to shop for one next year, something I haven't done in decades. 

As I was sifting through all the sentimental things, many that I haven't set eyes on in years, I was reminded that letting go of physical things can be very cathartic, even if it is difficult to do. What good is all this stuff, if it's just clogging up space? No one is looking at it or paying attention to it. And if we don't manage it, someday our kids will have to. In real estate, I often deal with estate listings and I see the trials of families having to parse through their peoples' belongings and get rid of truckloads of paper, plastic and brown furniture that nobody really wants. I'm asking my children if they want anything in my house...why wait 'til we're dead to let them enjoy something they can have now? Not that I'm anticipating dying any time soon, but shedding all the extraneous helps me to think clearer and see through to the people I care about, rather than all the clutter that's falling on my head. 

Spring really might be coming soon. Gulp in that sweet, warm air before the pollen gets here!   

February and Bi-Polar Weather

When we married, all of forty-two years ago, I didn't ask an essential question of my husband-to-be. He looked like a lumberjack, favoring jeans and flannel. He was as strong as a bull and big as a barn. I made some assumptions.

One day, a few months into our life as married folk, I was driving down the road and saw a nice pop-up camper in a yard. I stopped and found out that they were only asking $125.00 for it, a steal back in 1982. I called Ken from the peoples' phone (no one had cellphones except James Bond) and said wow, guess what I found?! An uncomfortable pause, then he said "Uh....does it have a bathroom?" "Of course not! It's a pop-up camper, not the Ritz!" I quipped.  He responded: "Well, I'm really more of a Holiday Inn kind of guy. I don't want a camper." Why I never thought to ask these questions, I do not know. I was raised going to King's Camp on Lake Allatoona, in a tent, spooning with my siblings on the cold, wet, uneven ground. I know my Mama really only agreed to this because she loved Daddy and us. It went against every sensibility her German-influenced housekeeping rules would allow. But she jumped in there with all the prep and cooking and cleaning that camping entails. In the same manner, she fed my constant influx of animals that came to our home. I appreciate that these things went completely against her nature, but she did them anyway (Happy Birthday, Mama).

Even with the rocky start, along the way of Ken and I's long trek, we have actually camped. Two of our years were lived in a leaky, old, decrepit camper (it did have a bathroom) while we built a house on acreage. A few years ago, one of our sons took up camping in a big way. He has the gift of persuasion and sold me on the idea. I bought a little camper (brown, ugly, dated, boring) and surprised Ken with it one night. I cleaned it up, painted it so it looked like a darling, retro Barbie camper -- turquoise, cream and coral inside and out. We put down a new floor, sewed adorable little curtains and put a shiny new backsplash behind the stove. It was so cute, when I decided to sell it I had three people show up at the same time to buy it -- two of the parties circled the block while the first lady bought it.  I doubled our money, then reinvested in a newer, much bigger camper. It's so darling, but one of our sons is now living in it with his family while they build their house on ten acres (who does that?!). By the time we get it back, maybe I'll sell that one too, just for fun. Ken keeps reminding me that we could take that money, put it aside, and just rent a cottage nearby when our children camp. I don't know. Might be a thing...

 This week, we are camping with that persuasive son, his wife and their four energetic children in Kentucky. We have an uncanny knack of doing this when the temperature bumps down to Alaskan climes. So far, the water has frozen up every night. I have a wicked cold, can't breathe and feel like I'm operating at less than half capacity. At night, Ken and I bundle up while I strap on the CPAP and put on an eye mask to block the light. Sounds like purgatory, but I sure am loving the time with these little people who won't stay little very long. Seize the day. Our concluding activity will be to visit the Ark Encounter, an amazing experience I highly recommend. Ken's never seen it before, so I'm looking forward to his reaction. And I'll try not to cry when I see that big boat on the hill. 

Both Ends Now

Little children have an uncanny way of being blunt and telling it like it is. As parents, we spend a lot of their growing up years trying to teach them the art of diplomacy and kindness (well, at least we should be). It takes a lot of intentionality to help them understand the other side, to have empathy for others but at the same time have appropriate boundaries and strength to stand up for themselves. Daddy taught us siblings to be other-oriented, but also how to not be bullied. He told me once that if someone ever hit me at school, I was not to simply "take it." He said, "You better win that fight." It seemed so counter to his sweet nature for him to say such a thing, but he was teaching us the noble skill of self defense right along with the other lessons of standing up for the weak, the infirm, the little ones. 

Now that we have twelve grandchildren, all under the age of eleven, I am amazed at their candor and pluck. They are observing the world around them and learning what is true, what is not, and what matters. Heaven help their parents. It's not light work. Truth be told, we all mess our kids up in myriad ways, without even meaning to. When people say, "Oh, kids are resilient," I wonder. To me, they're pretty vulnerable and have to learn to navigate in a sometimes crazy world. My folks seemed to do it so well, while I worried so much of my life away, trying to somehow translate that good stuff over to our children. The grace of God is a very wonderful and inexplicable thing.

I see the beginnings of life-- the little ones come here so helpless, but incredibly demanding. Their most basic of needs have to be tended to. They cry, they eat, empty out, sleep, then start over. They can't even lift their heads up by themselves at first. We work with them, making them (hopefully) independent enough to be able to eventually take care of their own bodily functions, then we begin pushing them towards the edges of the nest. All of this takes years. We see extremes on either end of it. There are kids who are made to take on too much, but more often these days, kids who are still modeling truly infantile behavior. Our goal should be to work ourselves out of a job and have sturdy, tough, thoughtful, buoyant adults who can survive. In our culture of abundant resources, it gets harder and harder to do just that. Keep the end game in mind. We're talking about the future of our country, our world. A sacred trust.

The infant starts out helpless, then there's the bounteous, growing years and decades. The end of life, if one lives to a ripe, old age, often tends to taper in a sneaky, incremental way. It creeps up on us, usually because we start giving things up, quit moving, stop calculating what it means to grow. Serenity is good, needful, beautiful, but when I get stuck in my recliner or taking the too-traveled road rather than branching out into all the possibilities that I haven't discovered yet, then comfort becomes my idol, my goal. These are heavy thoughts. I don't know how to fight my iron-poor blood (or the delightfulness of a comfy-cozy chair). Then there's the sage wisdom of Solomon in the Good Book, "For everything there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up..." Then there's the principle of sowing and reaping. I hope we can all find ways to be sowing good seed, even into our old age, and reaping a sweet harvest. A little here, a little there, as we rise up and as we lie down. I'm gonna go tuck into our pile of pillows and dream about what I'm doing tomorrow...  

One Is Silver and the Other Is Gold...

I call her my "Cruise Friend," because we met, yes, while on a cruise. It was many years ago. Ken won a trip when he was building homes for a developer. We were in high cotton -- got to fly on a real plane all the way to Miami, get on a big ole boat and then pony up for all the food we could eat (even half a dozen of them chocolate molten lava cakes, just for asking).  When dinner was over, we'd stagger back to our room and there'd be cute little animals made out of towels sitting right there on our bed. We curled up like baby squirrels and slept like babies to the sway of the ocean. I've never been sophisticated and never will be, even though I adore Mozart. 

Our group had assigned seating at dinner. While getting acquainted with the folks around us, I happened to mention that we homeschooled our children. One of the ladies pointed to a sweet face across the table and said that she was also teaching her kids. Back then, we were considered extremely strange to do such things...some people thought we needed our heads examined (we started way back in 1989). Kathy and I immediately struck up a conversation that has never truly ended. Now, some twenty years later, we can spend an entire day talking and then have to force ourselves to shut up and go home. We've laughed, cried, prayed for everything under the sun, told our stupid stories, gossiped, asked forgiveness, complained, fixed a few problems, agonized over our kids, griped about politics, pondered the universe and shared all things about the Lord we both love. We often speak of both our sweet Daddies who are in heaven, think about what they must be experiencing and wonder if they know each other yet. Sister from a different mother. 

She is also an Island Friend. These are my busy friends who are busy living on their universe while I'm busy living on mine. We wave across the way, occasionally row our boats to meet up somewhere, and then pick up where we left off. We think the best of each other and trust that friendship is something lifelong, treasured, rare. That trust extends between "trips" and knows that neither time nor trouble will rust our boats. My old Sunday School teacher said that scriptural adage: "A man of many friends comes to ruin..." She also pointed out that we might have lots of acquaintances and relationships along the way, but you normally only get a few truly good friends in your lifetime, sometimes only a handful. I think this is true. 

Tonight, we met up for her birthday, a month-and-a-half late. We squeezed thousands of words into a few hours. I ate too much while she behaved, as usual. I wish I could learn her iron-willed moderation, for longer than a minute. When the evening wound down and I was driving back home, I thanked God for friends like her. We're planning on a whole lot more talking, even if it means we stretch it into the next millennia or so. It's probably gonna take that long...  

Slugs in the (Not) Snow

After finally clearing out my little art studio -- bucketloads of mysterious craft supplies, dried-up paint, random lengths of ribbon and strange tools -- I did away with about 3/4's of all the stuff. Some was given away, some went into the landfill and I even had a bonfire (any excuse, eh?). We put the things back in there that actually will get used. I feel pounds lighter and the room now feels airy and serene. Maddie (10) and Caiden (6) and I (39?) tried it out this weekend, replete with gorgeous music, paints and a blow-dryer to speed up the fun parts of paint drying. I'm a natural-born clutter bug, but I have to admit that clearing out all that mess was inspiring. The colors flowed freely as our right brains took over. I really must do this to the rest of the house. I'll think about it tomorrow...

Meanwhile, in the bleak midwinter of Georgia, where nothing weatherwise is certain, we slogged through Ken's knee surgery today. Weeks of holidaying ahead for his rehab, I'm never going to get on with my January plans. I haven't even made them yet. It's almost February, with our 42th anniversary  and a camping trip looming with some of our children and grandchildren. Then there's spring and then Italy and the world keeps on turning. 

How many of you have broken their New Year's resolutions already? 

Dear Self, 

There's frozen green beans in the freezer, fresh blueberries in the fridge, lean ground turkey too. The gym is close enough to walk to and oh yeah, I forgot that I signed up again for that groovy dance program online. Something's got to give. Please do something about it.

Feeling bloated,

Rosemarie   

Yee Haw

Today was one of those days where life looks like Spaghetti Junction, where several major highways meet and cross up, outside Atlanta. That crazy place brings trepidation to my heart, any time we have to go through it. Ken still loves slinging our car to the outside of those curves, with me shrieking and cringing in full-pucker position. You'd think I'd learn to just be quiet and quit indulging his mangy-boy-creature self. It's a fact of life that all (or most) men have a 12-year-old wild boy still inside them. Now about taking that trash out...

Morning found me at the hospital with Ken's Daddy. Old age and the ravages of dementia are rapidly disconnecting him from the land of the living. When only a few weeks ago, he was able to at least string some sentences together, they now turn into the smallest of fragments, shredded and flaking away like snowflakes melting into the earth. I see this large, strong beast of a man reduced to child-like behavior, even the basic functions of eating and sleeping falling back to infanthood. He twists his blankets into knots, looking for some way out of the puzzle. Death comes to some simply. My MawMaw and Daddy died like kittens in their recliners, with their boots on. Not everyone gets that lucky. The future yawns in front of us, the unknown, the fear of it. I have to lay my heart before the Lord and ask for both mercy and wisdom for the days I know so little of. To worry is to lose today. Just stop that. 

Afternoon found me on the other side of Newnan, with four of our grandchildren who needed me. We turned off the devices, ate muffins, took down the Christmas tree and danced to beautiful music. Well, Eden danced and we swayed, the baby turning in circles and making lots of noise. Then it started... 

A fixer-upper listing of mine went viral and I was barraged with texts, emails and calls, ending up with nigh-a-dozen offers. Amazing -- a house with a bad roof, a kitchen with a caving-in floor and no updates since 1964 -- but it was hot property because it was a brick ranch in an up-and-coming part of town. I hoofed it back towards home, whipped into the Chick-Fil-A drive-through for dinner and inhaled my food while we decided which offer to take. 9:33 p.m. had us binding, with the dog at my feet and the cat curled up on my desk. I talked to my Mama for a spell and thought about the Twilight Zone that I live in sometimes. Spaghetti Junction, where there's too many carbs and a whole lotta sauce...  

Brrrrrrrr.......

Our Yankee friends and relatives make fun of us Southerners, when a winter storm sets in. We scramble to the store when the weather man reports there will be dipping temperatures, particularly when there's also any kind of precipitation. The obligatory bread, milk and eggs leave the shelves within hours. Anyone who is a Mama of children understands this. With those three items, you can always make something that will keep your peoples' stomachs full for a couple of days. We all have peanut butter, syrup and butter stored somewhere. Even if the electricity goes off,  you can muster up a sandwich of sorts. Not that any of us would die, even if we had to fast for a week or two. I dare say, with my metabolism, given the combination of my fat stores and my pantry, I might last until Summer Solstice. When things warm up permanently in the spring, I could plant a garden (newly-nimble with this enforced fitness plan) and we'd have crops before we turned into skeletons. If society made it through, I could write a book and retire on the proceeds. That escalated quickly...

All the neighbors have scattered to the four winds. On one side, my Alaskan friend headed back to her frozen tundra. On the other, the Californians knew to scuttle back to where it never rains (or freezes). This week, our cross-the-street neighbor decided to vacate back to her hometown of Carrollton and sell her sweet little cottage. Need a house? I'm a realtor and we need a new neighbor. We're starting to get paranoid. 

Carrollton Wind Ensemble rehearsals start back tonight, after a long winter's nap. I'm not looking forward to skidding over to the Arts Center in 20-degree weather. I truly have nothing to complain about...I think about my college friend (Bryan College in Dayton, Tennessee), Grace, who hailed from Miami with nothing but a sweater. She is a 6' goddess and married a 6'5 Viking preacher from Minot, North Dakota. Their first winter together, she called me from under the permafrost. Back then, we didn't have the internet and barely watched the news. She shocked me with the report of their 52-degrees-below-0 temperature reading that day. Said that the snot was freezing in her nose. It has been 40+ years, three girls later, and she's still with the dude and all that weather. Love is certainly blind.

I guess I'll quit complaining about our 20 degree weather and go find my ole Papa Bear and hibernate with him for a few hours...   

Winter Woes and Wonders

We are past Advent, but the tree is still up in all her glory. Now I've got the flu, so I'll think about it tomorrow... meanwhile it's so pretty, it's making this extended couch visit more tolerable. My poor old fake Christmas trees are truly flagging. The one in the living room is shedding as if it's a live tree, but it's not. I have three more in the barn doing the same thing, and there's still another one that I believe has to go bye-bye as well. It's like 10-feet tall and as big around as a Grizzly, simply gorgeous. It's too bad it takes two people all day just to get it put together, and that's even before the lights go on it. So if you're looking, there will be four or five trees at the curb at Rockmart Road one of these days. Feel free to haul them off at your leisure. 

I thought we were done with house projects for awhile, but then there was a box-and-a-half of flooring left from the last one (the re-do on our rotten nursery floor). If you give a mouse a cookie, she's gonna have to get a glass of milk... While debating when we were going to drive all the way to Newnan to take that stuff back, I thought long and hard about my sweet art studio. It's no bigger than a minute, painted sugary pink and full of art supplies and goodies. Ken fixed that joyous space up for me soon after we moved here. He found old trim in the barn, added some beadboard to it and finished the room. It's the perfect place to draw, paint, dream. It gets cold in there, so there's a little heater he put in there. He also installed an air conditioner for when it heats up in the summer. Each of the grandkids have their own sets of watercolors and I keep scads of pencils and paper just for them. It's a magic place. What it doesn't have is a decent floor. It's just old plywood that I painted over, well, at least some of it. There are patches of bare wood and one of the corners of the room has never been fully trimmed out. 

So instead of driving all the way to Newnan to take flooring back, we drove all the way to Newnan to buy some more, since apparently the room is way bigger than I ever knew. We made a day of it, meeting up with our youth-pastor-son Jesse and his wife and kids. After picking up the flooring, we played pickleball out in the freezing cold, hugged on grandkids and ate hamburgers at Red Robin.  I had no clue I could actually still hit any kind of ball, but maybe we're onto something. It only took me a week to recover...

I dreaded clearing all those supplies out of that room, but we took the weekend to do it. I have no clue what some of this stuff is, but I declare now to the world that half of it is not going back in there. I paid a professional organizer to sort and fix that place up a couple of years ago. We threw about half of it away. She made it so nice and neat, so much so that I couldn't find anything. But now I have to behave like Marie Kondo and get shed of much of that detritus. There's still two truckloads of insanity in there. Yes, I thought I was going to love scrapbooking, that 15 minutes, but alas, it's been mouldering in there for 10 years and I haven't made a thing. And those beautiful stained glass supplies! What are these appendages for? I don't even know where to begin. I painted the wall where it attaches to the house (it was still the original white) and trimmed out the big window. After staring at it for a sick weekend, I believe I have to also trim all the little windows that surround the room, after I rise from the dead. Papa started laying flooring today and will hopefully have it finished soon. 

It might not be the best thing in the world for me to have idle time on my hands. Today, from my sick couch, I stared at our gorgeous wavy-glassed windows in the living room and dreamt about paying some brothers to take the storm windows down and un-stick all my windows, clean them, and re-install the storms. Then when spring finally comes (oh, pray it comes soon), I can open them all up and sing "Oklahoma!" to the top of my lungs. 

There's a reason God invented Christmas in the middle of winter...  

Warm, Inside Thoughts

All the mad holiday rush was over and it was New Year's Day, somewhere around 1993 or 94. The tree was looking shopworn, there were crumbs of various origin all over the house, and bits of wrapping and broken ornaments were scattered to the four corners of the living room. A cold front moved in and suddenly we had snow and ice. The kids went nuts, throwing snowballs and muddying up everything. Then the lights went out and all laundry efforts halted. We munched on cold leftovers for a day or so, then my parents showed up to visit. The lights and warmth came back on as the snow started melting. Our tiny 13-inch black and white TV had little to offer in the way of entertainment (thinking now about how our phones aren't much smaller than that). Someone got to talking about onion rings and chili dogs, and next thing you know, we all bundled up and headed to Atlanta, to the Varsity. At the time, we had a big conversion van. So with the four kids and the grandparents, we slip-slided all the way there. The roads were empty and we sincerely wondered whether the restaurant would be open. But without much else to do, we whooped and hollered, the winter doldrums passing on by. Once we got there, with no lines, we were greeted with the traditional: "What'll ya have?!" Everyone chowed down on all the goodies: chili dogs, onion rings, frosted orange shakes, and the piece de resistance - deep fried peach pies. This was the taste of my childhood, back when Daddy worked downtown at the Post Office. He was the coach of the softball team and many evenings we were treated to grease of the best kind. Not all the Yankees that we have taken there think that it's so wonderful. I don't think much of tenderloin sandwiches either, but my Yankee Mama will drive many miles to get one, since Culver's decided to venture South. That is one big hunk of dry, mealy meat, but she thinks it's the best. Childhood might warp our sense of taste. I mean, baby birds think worms are fantastic. 

This trip to the Varsity became our New Years Day tradition. No sweating over black eyed peas, turnip greens and cornbread. We just laze into the vehicles and head there -- 6:00 p.m. on New Year's Day. At best count, it's been around thirty years of this. Some years we went to the one in Kennesaw -- it's all spiffy and new, with the same menu. But somewhere in there, Jon, our eldest son, put his foot down and said that we have to go to the real one in downtown Atlanta. Covid messed us up a couple of times too. We've invited extended friends and family, often filling up that middle room where the TV is (because there's always a football game on in there too...Papa is pretty sensitive about that). 

Last night, we also had a pre-Varsity party at our eldest son and daughter-in-love's house, since they were sick at Christmas and missed the presents. We snacked, opened gifts, did a craft with the kids (d-i-l Christmas Queen) and then headed to Atlanta. It was surreal and sweet, sitting there once again and seeing all the life busting out everywhere and getting that many grandkid hugs in one night. We are definitely filling up a room these days. 

Today it's January 2. It's cool now to scoff at resolutions, but I think it's healthy to reassess my life, even if it takes an excuse like New Year's Day to do it. We're full up with sugar, grease and some ten extra pounds. To keep on going like we're going would be pretty dumb. I heavily dislike winter, especially when they're cold and wet in Georgia. But God must have reasons for these kinds of seasons: slow down, contemplate the universe, do some inside projects, drink warm beverages, read good books (and the Good one). What'll ya have?