Home Fires

Pinterest kind-of ruined it for licensed decorators. Now we're all decorators, even if it's just a cut-and-paste kind of thing. My years of decorative painting were sometimes done under the projects of professional designers. It was fun to be let loose with their vision of beauty for their clients and I was privileged to work with some amazing artisans. Rarely did they ever hold me back on what I wanted to do in a space. "Space" -- how many times are we going to hear that word on another HGTV program before we lose our minds? Between so much overuse of the the words "space" and "narrative" I might just pop a gasket. 

All posturing aside, a lovely home is a gift to those who live in it. Be it a mansion or a grass hut, when there is thoughtfulness and intention for those who live there, it becomes a base and touchstone, even a reason to go on. I grew up in a very clean, modest home in the suburbs of Atlanta. We didn't even have air conditioning in that small brick oven of a house, but it was as comforting and reassuring as any dream. The real and raw people living inside it were never perfect, but redeemed by the blood of the Lamb. That's what lots of folks don't understand. You don't find Jesus because you've gussied up your goodness enough to be accepted by Him. No, it's the dirty, the unwashed, the unworthy who find Him, when they cry out in their lostness. He covers the depraved with His worthiness and they break free, gifted with new, healed hearts. Still not perfect, but indeed covered. 

When we married, 43 years ago, our church and family blessed us with sweet gifts at our wedding. There were strawberry-infused Melamine plates and sunshiny yellow linens and towels. I augmented everything by scrounging at yard sales and thrift shops, a tradition my family swore by. We're still doing that -- FB Marketplace and Craigslist replaced the Atlanta Advertiser that we perused until it was dog-eared. My Daddy used to leave out on a Saturday, saying, "I'm gonna go see about a dog." Us kids would run to the car, hoping there was something involving any kind of animal, though it usually wound up being about car parts, new-to-us curtains or hand-me-down jeans. 

 In the humblest of abodes, cheer and warmth can be brought to its occupants. A scrubbed floor, a slip of a bright curtain at the window, the smell of lemons and a simple candle...all things to show that someone cares. Home should be a safe place. It doesn't have to be fancy, expensive or matched. The thought really is the thing that matters. I've been at the humble end of things and also at the fair-to-middlin' end of things, but the sentiment is the same. Make it so your people think: "There's no place like home." 

Yellow Snow?

I think we are still not over the effects of the Covid debacle that had us hamstrung five years ago. We were stuck at home so long, were taught to avoid the physical presence of people, figured out how to order all our stuff online or with the touch of a button or two...so we became those floaty people in the movie "Wall-E." Or at least I am heading perilously close to that. I used to enjoy the whole adventure of shopping, but now my patience monitor has gotten extremely short and I can feed the instant gratification monster with a few clicks while I wait for the light to turn. They'll have my hairspray waiting on the front porch by morning, in its own bag. I have guilt, for all the bags and boxes that are flooding over here. Well, apparently not enough guilt to change my ways. It seems to be the human default, to take the easiest path home. 

We have numerous activities looming: a week-long camping trip with family and church family; Easter and the joy of Good Friday and morning service at church (my favorite remembrance of the year - He is alive!); the eventual cessation of the pollen; a trip to Ken's brother's in Florida in May. Then comes the heat... Thinking about what to do, to get moving more. My trips to the pool are too infrequent and the conveniences of restaurants and pre-packaged food might be killing us all. What a dour attitude. Get going, sistah.

My favorite greenhouse is open now: Georgia Bluebird Greenhouses in Rockmart. I have been waiting all winter for them to unlock the doors. Their plants are rich and green, and their staff knows what to do with them. Years ago, I planted Creeping Fig all along the wall that abuts the street. If you don't know this plant, just head yourself to Charleston and note all the vines decorating its beautiful self, the ones that have smaller, sweeter leaves than ivy. That's Creeping Fig and I want it everywhere. Will see if the Bluebird has some to add to my collection, plus some ferns, succulents, groundcover and anything unique to gussie up my Victorian yard. We quit putting weed killer on it years ago and let the clover and moss take over. Now the bees have their way and it's much softer on  bare feet. I'd head there now, but the pollen reading was 14,800 -- 5,000 more than any earlier levels. 5,000. More! We are gonna die. I'll give it a week or two and then head there, so I won't suffocate in the pollen when I go to planting everything.

But it's finally spring, thank the Lord, bringing hope and light and joy (as well as the elephant sitting on my chest from the allergies). There's nothing as dreary as a Georgia winter, but then nothing as wonderful as a Magnolia Street, Villa Rica spring.    

Breathing In the Musky

We recently watched the movie "Hoosiers" again, one of my all-time favorites. I love a good sports movie, where there's the struggle of rising above defeat and the limitations of bodies to find victory. Think: Rocky, Remember the Titans, Rudy, Coach Carter, Glory Road... In seeing Hoosiers again, however, I was transported back to my youth. Even though this movie was set in the year 1951 and my basketball days started in the 70s, there were many similarities. I could smell the musky, dusty, antiquated locker rooms of my beloved McEachern in Powder Springs, Georgia where grades 6-12 were all on the same campus. One of the gyms was a big, white building that seemed to be a hundred years old, with barely room enough around the playing box to even walk. They called it the "Girls Gym" and we did P.E. and practiced basketball in there. It was also the best Battleball arena because the walls were high, with grates on them.  My sister and I played intramural ball of every kind during middle school years in that old white gym. I wish I had those legs back. The larger gym was still older than dirt but was considered the "Big Gym" where games were held. 

The trials of Middle School must be eternal. I remember fifth grade at Powder Springs Elementary, where I was on top of the world. They now say that you should go back in your head and find your ten-year-old self and try to emulate the good things that were going on at that time (this isn't true for everyone, and who is "they" anyway?) But if my life were my a mirror of that season, then the world is my oyster. Confident, fun, successful, dancing on chairs. Then sixth grade happened, not just to me but everyone. My elementary grade friends emerged from that summer, changed, alien, strangers. The world became scarier overnight and the walls fell away. New faces joined us as we started changing classes instead of being cozied up all day with the same teacher. When you are eleven, it seems that the whole world is cavorting away on Friday night at the skating rink while you're stuck watching The Brady Bunch with your siblings. The culture was telling us that everyone who was anybody already had a boyfriend and was applying layers of makeup, while my country self was still combing the fields around us for tadpoles and daisies and playing ball with Daddy and my sister. I'm truly thankful for good parents who kept me grounded. 

It was with great relief that high school finally rolled around, because it affected another sea change in my life. I clearly remember the day it was announced that basketball tryouts were coming up and we were to meet in the Big Gym. The new ninth grade coach was introduced -- strong, tough, no-nonsense, intimidating. That was how I loved my teachers and coaches -- Daddy was our first coach when we were little softball players, and even though he was the sweetest of men, he ran us hard and expected our highest efforts. He believed in us; we were pushed hard and encouraged to the maximum. How lucky could I be, to have that kind of man raising me?

Coach Brown was like a drill sergeant, running us over hill and dale, teaching us Maravich drills and learning to pump iron in the weight room (this was new to women's sports). Before we even touched a ball, he had us in good shape. I couldn't wait until classes were over every day to hear the thumping of balls on the court and face the challenge of stretching ourselves to the brink. Every spare minute at home was spent shooting hoops in the driveway on the plain, small plywood backboard Daddy made. If I missed, the ball would roll down the hill, motivating me to rebound before it got away. 

Those high school years were wonderful. I ate, slept and dreamt basketball. There were so many life lessons learned there -- how to endure beyond what I thought possible, how to give way to others, how to follow leadership, how to see nobility in the daily grind, how to reach deep. Those things translated to so much of what I have had to do as an adult...I've pushed out and raised four strong-willed Viking babies; the slow and difficult constancy of keeping little humans and husband alive and fed; years of fixing up and maintaining impossible houses; all manner of cottage industries done from home; homeschooling said humans despite my frailties and crazy-brain; ladder-climbing of all sorts as I've painted the world; and so much more.

Yes, basketball has been very, very good to me. I miss the musty gym, the sweaty and earthy connection to the struggle. That rangy, coltish girl is still in there. I must visit her soon...   

Chillin' Poolside

We meet up of chilly mornings at the local pool. Two Blonde Bobbers, not to be mistaken with Blonde Bombers (which wear rollerskates and try to knock each other off  small roller rinks with obligatory disco balls overhead) -- though we might have done such doings, back in the day. She hails from New York and I from here. We've lived through the disco days, husbands, babies, dozens of pets and years of playing in community wind ensembles (she on the saxophone, me on flute). That's where we became friends a decade ago. She was my beautiful roomie when we toured and played Italy last summer, urging me to not give up when my feet were begging to give up from all the walking we were doing. Where we might have been disco divas back when it mattered, the years have left us queenly, still blonde, but just extra. We decided we needed to exercise some of that "extra" off. Since my Achilles has never been the same since Italy, I thought swimming, particularly treading water, was all I could manage. Thus the pool... People look at us strangely, as we don't wear flotation belts or join the "deep aerobics" class. There ain't no doing laps or jogging through the shallow end. We just make our way to the deep end, tread water and ratchet-jaw our way through an hour. It is amazing how quickly the time goes when you get two women together who have full lives. If we didn't force our arms and legs to move, we might not even call it exercise (in all fairness, I did say something about bobbing earlier).

There is a richness to a middle-aged woman. I actually mean a three-quarter's woman, because middle-aged might be 40 or thereabouts, mere child's play. She has weathered the silly years or the bitter years, the disappointments, the triumphs, the stretching-out of everything that was once taut. She sees the world behind her like a rapidly-accelerating time warp and faces the unknown sprawling before her with some trepidation. She didn't intend on losing her strength or all the B-B's that seem to keep dropping out of her brain (because it's already so full). No one told her that people would ever consider her irrelevant or passe, but it happens. The wake fanning behind her is considerable, whether she realizes it or not. The humbling eventually comes. There are those younger, stronger, quicker, smarter, more beautiful, more skilled that will take our place. This is always the truth and is the way of life, as long as time continues. We think we will live forever in full bloom. It's true in heaven, but not down here. Circle of life and all that... 

I've known the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat, many cycles in different arenas. Life is not merely meant to be a competition, though we do it to survive, to fight for meaning, and sometimes just for fun. I've learned  and had to do a lot of things all along the way that have often been uncomfortable. Trusting God has been the big mountain before me, because each step is an unknown. Now, I am challenged to learn about how to keep moving (how?!), to continue growing, to bless others even when strength ebbs, to gracefully accept that sometimes it's just someone else's turn and that I don't have to do every single rootin-tootin' thing. Maybe say no to the next silly dog-and-pony show, let go of things that pride is making me hold onto, and throw out (or give away) half of the crap in my china cabinet. 

And while I'm at it, go jump in the pool with my friend...  

Warm, Fuzzy Thoughts

I was sitting in the dark, in the corner of our kitchen, late, late on Sunday night. The dishwasher was filled with clean dishes, and there was a sink-ful of dirty ones (Ken likes to stack them up neatly but ignores the fact that all the crud is being left to dry like concrete)...these are the things that a woman ponders in the middle of mindless snacking. I was wondering why I was so tired, even though it was coming up on midnight, and confused about why I had no incentive to clean up the mess. It seemed so peaceful in the twilight, but tomorrow's trouble was baking right in front of me. I threw up my hands and went to bed. That's never a good idea, because apparently our brains never go to sleep and I dreamt about critters feeding on the detritus all night, to the soundtrack of some creepy song on a true-crime station on YouTube. No, they have not found JonBenet's killer, no matter how many podcasts I've listened to...

This morning, in the light of day and with strange sleep patterns from last night, I surveyed the new week and the old. I have my yummy new Pixiebob kitten, Jillian, zooming all over the room. A new pet in the house is rather like having a new baby. The old cat, who is 16, thinks that I should now be strung up by my toenails. At some point this week, I have kept all but one of our 13 grandchildren. We had overnight company, with our daughter's family staying here while our son-in-law worked on fixing our front walk (yes, herringbone!) Last, but not least, the dentist informed me that all four of my upper front teeth had to be replaced with crowns. Those who know me, and many who don't, know that yes, I'm headed for heaven, thanks to the blood of the Lamb. But here on earth, there's some kind of purgatory or maybe even hell related to me and the subject of teeth. Even though I have been ever-faithful in the flossing and brushing of them, I must bear the tribulation of bad ones. My MawMaw would say, "They're just crumbly." She said that about her bones, and maybe that's happening here too. 

We have found that the best solution, when approaching any serious event in a dentist's chair, is to sedate me. My dentist wisely pumps my gums full of Novacaine, but before that he prescribes drugs that I happily take. I had my 11-pound babies a-naturale, but don't be messin' with my teeth without knocking me out. And don't touch my feet, either. Our daughter, Liz, picked me up after the procedure because I wasn't allowed to drive home. Ken told her to put me in the recliner and just stick the kitten on top of me. I don't remember any of that, but there was a warm, purring being there when I woke up, hours later. And people wonder why pets are important... 

My Valentine

February always finds me, like Bilbo Baggins said in The Fellowship of the Ring (J.R.R. Tolkien), "...thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread." I definitely don't feel skinny, but in the hovering winter before  spring in the Deep South, I feel I'm in that dream where I am desperately trying to run, but my legs seem to be slogging through mud. There's a beast or ghoul catching up to me, but nothing will make me able to go faster. Eventually, I start flapping my "wings" and slowly, slowly make my way into the sky, right before I'm gobbled up. Yep. Winter in Georgia is a bad dream, with snatches of false spring interspersed with cold, bleary, wet days. My neighbor from Anchorage says that it's colder here than Alaska, because of the humid misery of it. Thank God it's short, but I must really learn to be grateful. Things could be much, much worse.

We just celebrated our 43rd anniversary, which is a bright spot in the winter morass. It was really a month of fun and uncommon blessings, if I'm to be truthful. Our son, Jonathan and I surprised Ken with a new-to-him Big Truck. It has extra muscles, good for hauling campers and pulling down houses. People might think it strange, how we do it around here. Jon and I find vehicles and show up with them, when there's cash to do such things. Then we sell the old ones at good prices, because Ken takes such fantastic care of them. He trusts Jon's judgment and prefers the shock and awe of it. I've seen neither hide or hair of him for two weeks while he's detailing and tricking out his new baby.

For my Christmas, anniversary and birthday gifts for possibly the rest of my earthly life, Ken's gift to me this year was a kitten. Little Miss Jillian Pixiebob made her entrance this week, after a harrowing $56 roundtrip dash to Orlando to pick her up. Word to the wise: do not bring kittens on planes. No one is happy and you might get murdered.  

Love isn't like a Hallmark movie, where the end is a kiss and promise. That's just the beginning. Love is a man who hates cats but gives his life over to a kitten just to make his wife smile. He tolerates my animals, helps me out of chairs and trucks, tucks me in at night, puts my special pillow under my back, lets me have all the babies I wanted (and we tried for even more), puts on his boots every day and works his whole life, loves his grandkids like there's no tomorrow, is happy to watch all my "stuff," never complains about the squeaks and squawks from my flute practice, encourages me when I want to take yet another class, sees that we go to church, tithes even when it hurts, straightens up my messes, cleans and shines my nasty car, takes me to the symphony (when he'd rather do a Netflix binge), brings me soup when I'm sick, and especially, loves me when I'm unloveable, which is often. The scriptures say that a man's job is to love his wife as Christ loves the church. The world and even the church seem to have a hard time staying faithful or married. I think I'll keep this one.  

 

Buzz, Buzz, Help...

Along the paths of life, I have met people I bonded with instantaneously. Spirits link, a thread of understanding passes between us, and a lifelong friendship ensues. In "Anne of Green Gables," Anne called them kindred spirits. I have a number of these souls in my life -- the quiet, Coke-bottle-glassed Gail in high-school band; eccentric and funny Susan; tall, brilliant and quirky Grace in college; smart, always-researching Kathy across the table from me on a cruise; hilarious, cynical Cynthia playing piano beside my flute at church... I always found smart, funny, nerdy girls a lot more interesting than what folks consider "popular" -- vapid, silly, shallow. Better to be warm, brainy and kind to all, than to be snooty and trendy. Life's just way too short for uppity-ness.

Recently, two such friends (Cynthia being one of them) and I decided we were all sick of our phone addictions. We are of a certain age, not entirely decrepit yet, but feeling that our brains were being short-circuited. My question was: is this just the natural course of things or is it truly our phones and all the disruptions of social media that's causing our brain cells to fall out? We bought copies of the book Reconnected: How 7 Screen-Free Weeks with Monks and Amish Farmers Helped Me Recover the Lost Art of Being Human by Carlos Whittaker.  In a nutshell, the author turns his phone and screens off for 7 weeks, spending time with monks in silence, then working hard with an Amish community to detach from his attachment to all things media. Mr. Whittaker also had an interview with Dr John Delony which sums it all up. See on YouTube: "I Gave Up Screens for 2 Months (Here's What Happened)". I highly recommend watching the short video -- easier for our scrambled brains to decipher. 

I read all the time, with books at every stopping-place -- the side tables, bedside and even the bathroom. But it took me many weeks to finally finish Mr. Whittaker's book, maybe because it hits way too close to home. I wish, maybe, I had the luxury of taking weeks off to turn everything off. As I pondered the subject, I asked myself key questions: Don't I have to keep my phone on, because of my business? Because of my family, grandchildren, my Mama? One time I turned my phone off, only to wake up to five overnight messages from Mama. She had had a mini-stroke or blood sugar event, and in her confusion kept dialing, trying to reach me. One could say, she could call Ken or my siblings. But that night, she didn't. For that reason alone, I can't put her on "Do Not Disturb." As I looked further, however, and tried to honestly assess how much time I spend on my phone, I realized the vast majority of it is not in talking to clients or family or checking emails for business-related contracts or communication. The problem is in all the rabbit holes that I go down when those first tasks are completed. 

I raised my children without much technology. I personally hated the TV and would have gladly thrown our 13-inch black and white one in the dumpster (yes, they used to manufacture those). From childhood, I felt that TVs were horrid, that it was a terrible way to spend your life -- watching other people live rather than live it yourself. I always thought it strange that a room full of people would quit talking, to watch mindless programs for hours, while they had all these interesting, real, breathing folks right next to them. That was a good way to live. Little did we know what was coming...

But then something happened in the last few decades. I accepted the wonders of technology and embraced my smart phone, which turned me stupid. Now, I don't have to ponder the universe. I just google it. If there are awkward silences with strangers at the doctor's office, instead of striking up conversations with intriguing people, I just pick up my phone (like they are doing, too). If I'm sitting on the front stoop at my house, in the glorious sunshine, instead of noticing the bluebird family flitting about or the minty green buds peeping out from the ground, I'm checking on Suzy Q's Facebook nonsense, which probably isn't even accurate. It is very, very difficult to resist the instant gratification of knowledge, even if it's not even going to help me decide what I'm going to believe about, well, anything. Trivia is truly trivial, and I've fallen more and more into the pit of knowing much about nothing. Meanwhile, I point at items and the word won't come out of my mouth. That is plumb scary.  

My girlfriends and I are supposed to meet one more time about this subject. We are trying to come up with strategies to disentangle us from this mess. Mr. Whittaker's book didn't seem to have enough constructive ideas, except for taking a massive sabbatical which I can't seem to do. The only thing that has helped me so far is to leave the confounded phone on the charger when I get up in the morning, or to put it into the next room while I'm getting busy. Even at that, my brain is listening for the buzzes and pings which alert me to clients' needs (or my Mama), so am I really detached? 

I'll let you know when I figure it out.