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.  

Humble Pie

The Slate side of our family is artistic and creative. My Daddy grew up without the accoutrements of money, privilege or even much education. He and his seven siblings were happy to get a warm meal, much less art lessons. But the inventive roots were there and sprouted over time, despite the lack of early coaxing. When I was a child, I went to my cousin's house and saw a large mural that our MawMaw had free-hand drawn on her wall - a perfect cartoon of Popeye and Olive Oyl. In adulthood, my Uncle Bill figured out he was good at oil painting and became an amazing artist, particularly with portraiture. Then along came two of my aunts, who took up art lessons in their fifties with grand success. I still have a picture of a bodacious, glorious rooster in my house, painted by Aunt Ellen. Then you go to the grandchildren and great-grandchildren....there are artists, chefs, hair stylists, all manner of creatives being flung out in the world from this family. All four of my kids were born with it, some more than others, the ability and brain-quirk that makes them able to see beyond the obvious and to create things. I was born with it too, something I didn't train for... God-given and beyond explaining (but I can't seem to keep my laundry done). I think we all have something like this in our natures, whether it's obvious to the outside or not. There is giftedness in everyone that is planted there. I have a friend who can't walk a straight line but can whisk you away to Neverland with her poignant writing. Another can't write or sing, but when you sit down to tea with her, you feel wrapped in the glow of her kindness and her clean, warm, welcoming home. Still another has a cluttery, chaotic house but she can put your Ikea desk together in a heartbeat. I love God for that. 

These last few years have been hectic. I had a decorative painting business going back 30 years, with many adventures along the way. Murals, faux finishes, painted furniture -- and much of it hauling my homeschooled children with me. They'd spread out on the floor with their books while I painted, eventually becoming my helpers. Their unorthodox education has served them well, despite my flaky nature. They are creative, adaptive adults now, none of them antisocial or awkward (we were told that we were going to ruin their socialization, poor things).  

I got my real estate license in 2007, but the downturn nixed that idea, though I was able to continue the creative painting (along with plain ole residential painting).  I love the delicious smell and texture of paint, in whatever form it comes. Our daughter, Elizabeth, was my compadre when the boys were working construction in the summers and then getting married. She and I would suit up and she'd keep me focused while we painted high-end kitchens and baths. After college, she segued into Human Resources and I segued into real estate. It took over my life and there was not much juice left for the creative stuff, though it never left. My little studio out back is the grandkids' fun spot, but I haven't taken it seriously for myself in a long time.

I thought about going for an art degree at this late date, but then I have 13 grandchildren (with another on the way). Do I want to spend my days hunkered over books, because they're gonna expect me to fulfil my language requirement, a dumb math class and a random history prerequisite -- even before I get started on the art part? No! I ain't got time for that. I could just go out into my studio and draw or paint. I know how. But it seems that my depraved nature also includes the need for deadlines and accountability. So I did the thing -- I signed up for art classes with my teenage niece's teacher. It's only twenty minutes away, once a week, with a marvelous artist. She gave me homework on the very first day, so I'm working on drawing ten pictures of something attached to me - my hand. I have taught hundreds of children to draw in my lifetime, and I often started with yes, their hands. The ladies in the class, who don't know me from Adam, asked, "Have you ever drawn?" --and-- "Maybe your niece's talent will rub off on you!"  I swallowed my pride and said little. I'm always saying that God gave me this, so this is where the rubber meets the road. I will be the toddler and learn to walk, again.   

Shall We Gather At the River?

 Anxiety hangs in the air like an ethereal cloud. You might not have a clue why it's there. It just seems like you are required to worry about something or everything or nothing at all. I even hate assigning a word to that cloud, because it's not describable and doesn't like being put into a category. As I have, ahem, matured, I have learned to stop myself in my tracks and ask, "What is going on here? Is there a reason I'm afraid or sad or worried? What is the truth about my situation?" The truth will set you free. The devil loves to get us up and running from something that has no basis in reality. People have jumped off bridges, fleeing the pain of what was  fiction. The Emperor walked down the street naked, because he was told something that was not accurate. He saw the mirror and the suit his Mama gave him, but he listened to the charlatans around him and became convinced of a lie. We get tangled up in our emotions, circumstances, the spectre of the unknown, until the cloud becomes heavy and dark and closes in, causing hope and the idea of tomorrow to seem unobtainable. 

I have two neighbors with metastasized cancer, one across the street and one behind me. To the side of us is my neighbor who recently lost her husband. Death comes to us all, we don't know how or when. There was a time that I believed I would never die. A pastor held me as a baby and told my Mama that he believed Jesus would come in my lifetime. And He will, but maybe not in a disappearing-rapture-type of event. I'm most probably going to die like everyone else, but He'll come to get my soul when the old ticker gives out. Death is swallowed up in victory. I can hear my MawMaw singing, drawing out that last phrase in "I Will Sing the Wondrous Story" -- about being gathered by the crystal sea (she pronounced it more like "crishtial"). Any time I have sung this as an adult, I have to sing it like that, just so she can laugh at me from up there. That's also what Ken's Grandmama Norton called his cousin. Her name was Kristie but she called her Chrishtial. I don't understand. Maybe it's an old country girl thing, because they were both Grandmas of that persuasion. 

Sitting in church tonight, with hymns being sung heartily all around me, I sat instead of standing, just like a real Grandma with my tortured ankle. I brought my sewing kit to fix my 7-year-old granddaughter's toy while I sang and listened to the sermon. She also brought her stuffed Unicorn for me to work on. I assumed it was another little toy, but when we went out to get it, it was the 6-foot-version that I bought her for a past birthday. Needless to say, we didn't bring it into church. I have become the Mender of these things, a rite of passage that I accept with humility and gratefulness. I have arrived. 

The cloud that had hovered earlier was gone. The chilly night air, the warm church, prayers lifted, heart-encouraging sermon, grandchildren all around with energy and ideas, husband with his giant hand wrapped around mine, young people listening intently, old people quiet and serene... it seemed timeless. All at once in my mind, there were differing scenes -- the old Baptist Church I grew up in; Grandmas singing with quavery voices; my parents and siblings all in a row; a choir harmonizing in unity; my husband next to me; my children as little people, all shined up and hopeful; grandchildren nesting near -- thoughts of generations and truths that have stood the test of time, blessings of blood and brothers and bond. 

Why do we worry, why do we fret, why do we make so much of the things that do not matter? There is peace in my world tonight.  

Nuclear

I'm thinking on the times I had those early fights with my husband. We weren't even dating yet, but wound up next to each other at one of our College and Career Sunday school class's social events. I have a gluttony problem with popcorn...I prefer it popped the old fashioned way, with coconut oil blistering hot in the pan. Then you slather it with butter and salt. Now that I know about Amish, non-GMO popcorn, will I ever have the ability to put down the carbs? It's crunchy and delicious, irresistible. My childhood includes many memories of movie nights and popcorn. My Daddy died happy, with a bowl of it in his hands. 

So, at this social event, my hunky future-baby-Daddy came and sat beside me. We barely knew each other, but he had a giant bowl of popcorn and we were sharing it. I started fishing my way to the bottom, to pick out the half-popped kernels. That's the best part. Ken kept swatting away my hand, saying that we had to do this in the proper order: eat the fully popped first, then dig in with the "old maids" (the burnt parts). We began to wrestle with the control of the bowl, his OCD and my rebounding skills kicking in. Popcorn began flying out of the bowl as we howled with laughter. Ken's always the one with the rules. I am here to help him lighten up. Now, after 43 years of marriage, I give him his own bowl and I keep the big bowl, making me the keeper of the old maids. Whoever pops the corn gets the goody, though sometimes the Holy Spirit takes over and I'll share. 

Our first couple of years together, I was as meek as a lamb, trying to defer to his every whim. What's the old saying: "Women marry a man and expect to change him. Men marry a woman and expect her to never change." I'm from a long line of sassy women, so I don't know where my early efforts came from. Either way, our biggest epic fight was on a tennis court. I had played briefly on our college team, but I was more like the sparring buddy for the people who could really play. I knew the basics and could decently lob a tennis ball. Ken was in coach mode and started trying to correct my form. This did not go well. It ended with yelling and me throwing a well-placed tennis racket across the court in his general direction. He has superb athletic coordination and easily dodged the missile. With all the drama, I looked over at the couple playing in the next court. They stopped and stared and quickly left. 

It has been a long time, but I have been known to throw things at him in our fights. It's a good thing he's quick on his feet. If he had ever thrown things at me, I would have called the cops. See my hypocrisy there? It's pretty much a miracle that we didn't kill one another, both strong-willed first borns, with definite opinions on pretty much everything. Thank the Lord, we don't fight that way anymore. Sometimes it's needful to have the fight (no missiles allowed now). After all these years, we still have to open up and discuss difficult things. Little things become boulders in the road if you don't chip away at them. This past week, with all those years behind us, I brought up one such boulder. My husband responded with so much grace, I thought I might just marry him again. This is love.