Zippity-Do-Da

The plant where my husband works shuts down for maintenance once a year, the week of Fourth of July. It's hot as Hades in Georgia about that time. I'm not as resilient as I once was, and rarely enjoy the fireworks anymore. I could do it, if I really wanted to. I get multiple invitations, usually from my children or sister and her family. I was the one who used to light the fireworks in our front yard or at the beach, bringing horror to the nieces and nephews because "Aunt Rose is smoking!" A lit cigar is the absolute best way to set off fireworks and you have to keep puffing that thing in order to keep it lit. That's my story...

The thought of all of it is marvelous -- patriotism, fun, watermelon...and the FOMO is real when I think of any kind of party ensuing. In recent years, my current lazy, chunky self can't seem to work up enough willfulness to brave the sticky, smothering, sweat-filled events involving celebrating the birth of our country. It would have been so much better, in the South, if the Framers could have dipped their pens when it was October, or hey, the April before. But then again, most of those dudes were from the Northeast, weren't they? Some bright people went on and invented air conditioning and ruined us for summers forever. 

No matter, Ken was home all that patriotic week and volunteered to stay outside, every day, to help our kids work on their properties with his DR. I don't know what DR stands for, but it involves this thing that looks like a monster lawnmower and acts like a bush hog. He pushes it around and it cuts down fields and small trees. He does it for fun and love. Our kids think that the Dear Redneck is an angel. So by week's end, he was toast. His next week at the plant wasn't much easier, putting in 20K+ steps a night on 12-hour shifts. He asked me to plan something restful for the next weekend. 

I looked at all the sites for somewhere to stay close-by, but they were charging a fortune for not-much. I wanted a pool to float in, and that seems to double the rates. It's July, people. Help me here! Google was spying on me and sending pop-up ads for places, when I saw the words "Banning Mills," which is less than a half-hour away. I had heard plenty about it, even gave one of our sons and his bride a gift card for their wedding night there several years ago. They have options for chocolates, champagne, food, what-have-you. It's a cool place with a lodge, cabins, yurts, and camping. They are known for an amazing network of ziplines criss-crossing their massive acreage. And they have a pool.

I booked the cheapest room they had with a King bed. It included breakfast as well as an option for a fancy dinner the night before. I clicked on that and made our choices. It was going to be a short getaway, but we were committed.

We threw a few things in our bag and made the quick trek there. Even though it was only minutes away, the stress and troubles fell off our shoulders as we wound through the countryside. Before the hour was out, Ken was lounging by the pool and I was floating in it. This is our way: him observing and me immersing. In short order he was fast asleep, as he should have been. I floated unhindered, watching the beautiful trees, the puffy clouds and azure sky. When my toes got perfectly pruney and Ken got perfectly relaxed, we cleaned up and headed to dinner at the lodge. It was a lovely place, rustic and soaring, with views all around of the forest. I felt like we were in the mountains somewhere, but no, we were very close to home. The food was scrumptious as we enjoyed talking with nowhere to hurry to. The next morning, breakfast was over the top. I was figuring on some muffins and juice, but it was a full-on meal, brought to our table by a sweet young lady. 

Life is short and often too fast. We're busy then we're tired. We rush and then we laze around, recovering. It was a blessing to hit the pause button, even for such a short visit. A week later, I'm still feeling the serenity from our magical little expedition. It's good to remember each other across the table. 

As to the ziplines, we heard them and we saw cute little behinds as they zipped right over the pool. We were not compelled to participate in such goings-on.  Naw, we floated.   

Naturally, Politically Incorrect

I was the gal who showed up with scaffolding, ladders and paint brushes to change out the colors in fancy houses and businesses. There are many places that now have hand-crafted logos, done by my hands. What started as a mural and art business morphed into a regular-Joe-type painting trade when the downturn of 2008 changed everything we knew about "normal." Wealthy people quit opting for Renaissance-type dining rooms and started dulling down everything into neutral and updated, just in case they decided to sell, if the market ever came back. It turned into a four-or-five year grind before we saw anything ease back into hope, or at least that's what our family saw. When we look back at our Social Security reports that start coming when you hit your 50s and above, it was astonishing that we didn't starve to death. Especially during those tough days, I got kicks and giggles when I'd show up to a job (often with my young daughter, Elizabeth). I had numerous paint shirts that had scads of colors on them. The owner or contractor would look at me and ask what I was there for. I'd glance down at my shirt and say "I'm the painter." They would usually smile and tell me how unusual it was to have a woman painter. One supervisor, at a snooty university where I was hired to paint, seemed miffed that I was a woman (he said, "But you're a woman." I said "yes, and I'm the best painter you will find.") He refused my entrance to the job site until I put on an "appropriate" shirt. I asked him what was considered appropriate, since I was a painter and paint tends to get onto clothing. He said I needed a collared shirt that was clean. I left and went to a local Walmart and found an ugly, huge, collared shirt. My job was, of course, on point and there were no complaints, but I charged him for the time, the mileage, the shirt and the extra aggravation of making me start late. I looked around as I was working that day at the other contractors, who had outfits just as "dirty" as my original shirt. My only conclusion is that he was aggravated at me being a woman painter, even though that had never been a problem in my past. I am not a feminist, far from it. In fact, I think that all this goings-on about girl power and women empowerment might have done a whole lot of damage. God made us all different. We're simply not the same. I don't see but a tiny fraction of women picking up our garbage or standing on the top of skyscrapers. In my prime, I was physically stronger than any woman I knew, but an average-strength man could have still whooped me at arm wrestling. But then watch him try to birth an 11-pound baby. Not happening. God gave us gifts, some of them crossing gender roles, some not. But I say, viva la difference. 

Daddy never treated my sister and I as china dolls -- he taught us to work hard with him in the yard and garden, pushing past what we thought we could do. He also loved that we were girls and would tell us: "Be a tiger on the court but a lady off it." He liked for us to be femininely dressed on game days. I loved the idea that I could enjoy my dresses and then go all out when they threw up the game ball. 

As I age and see the beauty of the way we are made differently, it means more and more to me. I have been blessed with masculine men all around me, but the idea of masculinity being toxic has not been my experience. The men in my life are very masculine and would tear into anyone who tried to harm a woman; they also cry at births and funerals and they love their Mamas and wives, starting with my Daddy. I think of my Dad, my husband, our boys, my father-in-law and the extended men in our family. Heaven help anyone who tried to traverse that wall of heat to hurt one of us. I am lucky to have these examples around me, but I'm afraid our society has lost sight of those kinds of men and are not teaching their boys the things that matter. Wake up. We need them on that wall. I might be inviting heat when I speak these kinds of words in this culture. Some would have us believe that we are all simply the same. We are not. We are uniquely designed to fit together, physically, mentally, culturally.  

There was no dividing up of tasks...my baby brother came along much later, but learned the same work ethic. By the time he was born, my sister and I were playing ball in the front yard, digging the garden with Daddy and scrubbing toilets with Mama. We had plenty of time for play and contemplation, but everyone had to help. Many hands make light work. 

Maybe the reason I am cavalier about feminism is that I had a father who loved us so deeply, valued our femininity and at the same time taught us to work in the mud. Career wasn't job one. God, family and cooperation were. We learned lots of ways to earn and save money, but the job of raising good people with character was more important than the almighty dollar or the "appropriate" degree. When you can adapt, work, and have lots of skills, you can always find a way to survive. At the heart of this, my parents' simple and profound love of God was the meat of our existence. We looked to Him as our provider, as we labored and played through our days. Every concern or word of thanks was directed to prayer to God, day and night. He always answered, one way or another. He still does. 

In our extended family, which is now huge, this is still the Way. The diverse directions we have taken include fancy degrees, eclectic careers, homemakers, differing kinds of schooling, some extremely successful, some average, some struggling more and some less. The thread that runs through it all is the dependence on Christ, the heart that seeks and looks to Him for their answers. You will find Bibles in all these many homes, and the heart of them still runs true to the roots that grew this tree. The marriages are intact, the babies keep coming, the fields keep getting plowed and the seeds sown. We're all sinners, but saved by the grace of God and not our own goodness. Miracles still happen.     

Adventures in Kidnapping

Contemplating a cruise always brings up our first-ever trip to Jamaica. Ken had won a trip, alongside other guys and wives who were building houses (this was before everything melted down in 2008). We climbed onto a big plane to Miami. I still remember the couple in front of us, 10:00 in the morning. Giggling and ready to party, they managed three beers apiece before we even got to our destination. The flight home was a far different sight. 

 I clung tightly to Ken's elbow. My only other flight had been to New York City, where the turbulence resembled a corkscrew in the sky. He said, "If we crash, I'm gonna need that arm back." 

We had a fantastic time, feeding stingrays on Stingray Island and snorkeling with colorful fish. But when we got to our excursion in Jamaica, my knee decided to act up. We were supposed to climb a set of massive falls (Dunn River Falls), where groups of people helped one another not to fall to their deaths. There were steps and landing spots to the left side of the water, so I opted to use them instead of slip-sliding my way to certain knee surgery. 

As I climbed up, I got far ahead of the folks navigating the actual falls. Ken was doing his usual gentlemanly part, helping everyone up the precarious rocks. I came to a large landing deck, where I was quite alone and also close to the end of the excursion. A large man with an official-looking uniform came up to the platform. He asked me if I wanted to party. I politely said no thank you. Then he asked me if I'd like some rum. He rhapsodized about the different kinds of rum he could treat me to. Then he asked if I'd like some home-grown herbs to smoke. I repeatedly told him that I was not interested, and that I was simply waiting on my husband. He seemed to not believe me, and began tugging on my arm and trying to pull me from the platform. I was literally about to start screaming when I looked down and saw our group coming into sight. I gesticulated wildly as I pointed out my beefy husband to the uniformed crazy man. He decided to run away rather than take his chances with Ken Norton, Neanderthal hunk man that he is. 

At dinner that night, we told the story and a couple at our table said, "That's why we didn't get off the boat today." They had gone on a similar cruise the year before, having a similar story to ours. The husband climbed the falls while the wife worked her way up the steps and platforms. Instead of a man approaching, a little Jamaican woman came up to her and offered to braid her hair for a cheap price. For some strange reason, she decided to do it. The lady led her down a little path to a hut nearby. She chatted while she braided her hair, telling her that her husband would be told where she was (if he got through before she did). 

Meanwhile, the husband arrived at the end of the excursion, with no wife in sight. There was, however, a large man waiting there. He told the husband that if he wanted to see her again, he had to give him $5000.00.  The husband said, "My money's on the boat!" to which the kidnapper said he would gladly take the husband's Rolex watch instead. In shock, and not really thinking clearly, he took off the watch. The kidnapper grabbed it, pointed down a trail and said that his wife was down there, and dashed away in the opposite direction. The husband instinctively ran down the trail, to find his wife sitting alone in the hut. 

I don't know if Mr. Uniform had similar notions, but it's possible. I've often thought about the scenario and what I would have done, had he succeeded in pulling me off that landing. Firstly, it's always smart to never find yourself alone in foreign places, and secondly, it's probably a good idea to at least pretend to faint. I've tried lugging a floppy body around and it never goes well. Don't ask...   

Simple Summers

This time of year, when there is a blanket of heat and humidity hanging over us all, reminds me of childhood once again. We didn't care that there was no air conditioning because we didn't know the difference. Summer days were carefree, for the most part. Our folks required us to work alongside them, in the yard and garden, cleaning house, helping Daddy with whatever he was doing too. But they were always good to  let us play and have plenty of free time. There were fields all around our house, at the end of the humble subdivision. Behind us was a neighbor's 200+ acres, where there were horses, cows, and a lake. I'd slip between the barbed wire and wander through the creek, slipping tadpoles into a container to bring them home to hatch out in our little aquarium (we woke to dozens of baby frogs all over the house one time). There were stolen bareback rides on crazy horses, sunning on patches of grass after dips in the muddy lake, and picking wild blackberries for Mama to make cobblers (topped with a slab of vanilla ice cream). My sister and I would make pretend houses in the woods, cutting trails with all the running back and forth. The neighborhood kids would congregate in our front yard for softball or basketball games with Daddy, topping off hot days with a run in the sprinkler. Life was simple. Work, play, sandwiches at lunch and then supper at home each evening. Baths, brush your teeth, then bedtime sprawled out slightly damp, with the windows wide open. I would look out at the stars and talk to God about how pretty everything was that He made. My siblings and I were extremely blessed to have a secure, stable home, unlike the homes my parents came from. There were no fancy vacations or clothes or Disney World and that did not bother me in the least. Those aren't bad things, but a happy home doesn't have to include them. The uncomplicated world I grew up in has made the rest of life more wondrous. If I thought every day life was supposed to be a carnival, I'd get mighty disappointed as an adult. 

I highly recommend simplifying your children and grandchildren's lives. When you take away the phones, TVs and devices, it's shocking and difficult for a few days. The mind goes blank, but then it begins to actually work again. Provide them with plenty of work ("If you don't work, you don't eat")...plenty of free time, plain blank paper, pencils and paints. Shoo them out the door. Take them to the library at least once a week and join the summer reading program. Give them a treat for every book they finish. Let them be bored. Give them worth by attaching work and service to good things. Hug someone. Visit your old people. If you don't have any, visit a local nursing home and have them draw or play something to give the lonely ones there. When technology was starting to take over, back in the 80s and 90s, these are the things we did to stave it off. It takes even more effort now. Be the weird ones. Be the tough Mama and Daddy. You'll thank me later.