Pause and Refresh...

Feeling just a nip in the air this morning, and here it is, nigh on mid-November. I've experienced many a Thanksgiving in shorts. Just last week, my sister and I trundled on down to Panama City for a short trip, just us two. Her universe is busy and mine is too. We talk on the phone but don't get much time to sit and talk. But we did, and resolved to do it more often. 

Laguna Beach Christian Retreat Cottages is where our children grew up going to the beach. It was cheap, simple, and they had pools, basketball, volleyball courts, and lots of cousins around. The beach is right across the street. We usually went for long stretches, a couple of weeks, twice a year. We thought Cottage #7 belonged to us. When Melanie and I arrived days ago, it was surreal to be back there, especially because we were the only two humans in the whole camp. Fortunately, they still had the heat on in the pool. We sunk our toes in the sand, talked our heads off, watched the sunset and then relaxed as we treaded water for hours in the yummy, warm pool. We ate what we wanted, Little Debbies and pasta...because then we were committing to The Great Reset after our trip. Metabolic resilience is kaput, so we have to work at it. I always had to, but didn't. She didn't have to, but now does. Go figure.

Between us, we have 2 husbands, 15 children, 12 in-laws and 34 grandchildren (so far). It's hard to get a word in edgewise, much less make any kind of girl plans. But I'm so thankful we did. As life goes along, it's easy to put up boxes and edges that cause us not to communicate with each other. A flaming sunset and a long float in the pool tends to undo those things. Our roots are good but we've been pruned all along the way. So let's get back to the bud. The honest words and love of a sister are hard to beat. 

We came home to a sea change in politics and hit our separate floors running, hardly coming up for a breath. There's Christmas to buy for, Thanksgiving food to plan, and the tree to put up. I'm tired, trying to get into bed earlier, and batch cooking some real food. That spring chicken simply will not show up these days to help me out but the show must go on.    

Who You Gonna Call?

It is a wonderful thing to have children who stand up for you. I've never wanted to be a wimp, and there was a time that I could plumb clear out a lane on the basketball court. But that was very long ago, and the ole' IB (Iron Butt, my college team nickname) done got rusty. There were decades of raising Viking children, and now I have my own team. They've matured, expanded their borders and outstripped us by a mile. That's exactly what was supposed to happen. 

This morning, I begrudgingly went to get the tires rotated, get the oil changed and wash the car. Papa Bear usually does it but has a wonky schedule and would like to save his Saturday for better things this time. When I got there to have the rotation done, some teenager-ish looking young man walked around my car and said that I needed two new tires, and that he couldn't rotate them until I bought some more. I huffed and asked for my keys back. I knew that this was baloney, but wasn't feeling much like clearing a lane today. I figured I'd let Ken deal with it, who is not a wimp. We've been married for 43 years, but he still doesn't believe me when I say that there are men who like to take advantage of women. That's because he and our menfolk do not. 

When I arrived home, one of the Norton Viking men (Daniel) pulled in behind me. He's re-constructing our workshop behind the house, as it was raided by termites some years ago. I blithely told him what had just conspired, and I saw the steam rising from his ears. He used to work at this very tire shop. After carefully checking out my tires, he said, "You might want to go inside, Mama." He whipped out his phone and walked away from me, around the corner. I heard some rapid-fire discussion and a few choice words, and then it calmed down and there was laughter. He came inside and told me which guy to take it to in the future, and also said that he was sorry, but he did say one cuss word and also exaggerated my age a bit. 

I want these people on my side.

I had a friend in the past, who had observed our family for some years. I told her that I envied her diligent, disciplined homeschooling ways. I bewailed my butterfly, windy nature and my worries about ruining our children with my sometimes flaky inconsistencies. She said, "Hush, girl. When the tsunami hits, I'm calling the Nortons."   

Golfcart-Tipping

Preparing today for the after-party for tonight's Carrollton Wind Ensemble concert in downtown Villa Rica. I have to occasionally have a soiree at my house, so I'll at least take out the trash and swab down the toilets. Accountability is a beautiful thing, for the most part. And I do love a good party. The difficult part of hosting is that often you end up running back and forth, mopping up messes and chopping things at the sink, rather than visiting with the people you've meant to enjoy. It is always easy to lose sight of the forest for all the trees in the way. 

The weather has been divine the last few days. I looked up and noticed that the trees are finally turning, speaking of forests. Last week was a nut-house for me...I kept two of my grandchildren at their home. It was easier to just stay there, since they had to be taken to school each morning near Rockmart. I'd deliver them, then head to Villa Rica to see my husband and run errands, then go back to pick them up at 2:30. Since I homeschooled my own children for nineteen years, this was foreign to me. They were gone for approximately seven hours a day, where I floated around the world and came back again. Evenings were quick and it started over. All these deadlines were strange country. I could use a few of my own. Watching the childrens' projects over the week was so interesting, with all their creativity in full bloom. 11-year-old Maddie drew up a delightful poster of creatures called "Axolotls," some sort of salamanders I never knew existed. She drew them crawling all over the cardboard, different colors and faces and poses. You learn something new every day.

The weekend was another whirlwind, with soccer games and showing houses. By Saturday afternoon I was toast. Our daughter and son-in-love and their two babies came for dinner. I had meat, tomato sauce, noodles, snacks at the ready. I was going to cook, I really was. When they arrived, we all piled out the backdoor to the firepit...kids squealing, adults relaxing. The weather felt like heaven on earth. The longer we talked, the less I wanted to go inside and cook, away from my people. I whispered to Ken, "Why don't we take the golfcart to town and eat?" So we piled in, the six of us. Marcus said, "Do you think this is too many people in this vehicle?" I said, "Naw, they make these things for four fat guys on the golf course. We'll be okay." As we hauled all over Villa Rica, there were definite moments of doubt. After we bought this new cart recently, Ken got me a speaker for it that attaches to the phone Bluetooth. I can't help but remember Boom Boxes, those gargantuan things people used to channel music through, carrying them on their shoulders. This one is tiny, but can boom all the way to Elm Circle. As he attached the music to the speaker, a Christmas tune came through. So we rolled with that, Liz and I singing and laughing to the top of our lungs. We had a blast, the kids bopping their heads to all the songs, four-wheeling it all the way to Mirror Lake. I know people must have thought we were drunk, but we were just high on life and grandkids and Fall. Sing a song... 

Mr Rogers Wasn't Wrong...

One of our sons, who happens to be a youth pastor, has been on a quest for some time to lessen his dependence on his phone. He got off social media and bought a little bitty phone (everyone is incredulous...this is the son that I least expected to do something like this). What I have seen, over time, is that he is more settled, more intentional, listens better and is more "present" when I talk to him. These are all lovely things. He is there to minister to his family, to his young people. Guess what? His youth group has tripled in size. 

This week, I was whining about the burden of social media to our oldest son too... and he said it's a problem for him as well. I said I need to pack it in and get an old-fashioned flip phone. He said, "Let's delete Facebook off our phones right now. We'll do it together. 1-2-3." So while we were sitting there, me in panic mode, we deleted. I felt like my arm had been sawn off.  It's been three days and I am starting to think better. I get bored and get to talking to God. I asked my children to send more pictures to my digital frame in the kitchen (I don't know how the magic works, but they email images straight to it. I got at least ten new photos just today). If I'm not staring at their Facebooks, trolling for new pictures of my grandbabies, maybe they can just send them to my kitchen counter. These are also good things. 

Is there a wave coming? Today, a dear neighbor visited me on our front porch and said she was leaving her phone all by itself and only checking it in the morning and at night. We had over two hours of prime conversation, but my phone was buzzing every few minutes. I should have put it inside and we'd have gotten twice as much good content. 

What would happen if we had a giant EMP attack that took out the grid, our electricity, our phones, our livelihoods? I might have read one too many doomsday novels, there's that. First off, a lot of us would die, but then people would have to huddle up and figure out how to talk to each other and work together. That's the way communities used to manage, in the old, old days. There was bartering, trading of goods and services, and then just plain looking out for each other. That sounds nice. Then I think of the wild west, where every sin was another opportunity to take advantage of the weak. It was mostly settled, eventually. But those same uncertainties still lurk in all of us. What would you do, to feed your babies, to protect your place? These are not simple questions, but our modern "civilized" society is not a given. We should think on the richer, nobler, sweeter themes that make up a sound village. We need to begin again, to know our neighbors, taking baby steps towards the things we have forgotten (or may have never known). Maybe it's time to bake Mrs. Keener's pound cake and make the rounds around here.   

Contemplating Divine Appointments

At Summer's last Gasp, Ken had to work the weekend so I decided to do my own mini-retreat. I've done this in our past on occasion, when I needed solitude to assemble homeschool study plans or to bring focus to a difficult season. It's not my favorite thing to do, in actuality. I don't really like to be alone, certain that I'm missing out on something. But life these last few months has my brains feeling like scrambled eggs, so I thought a tiny respite might do us all some good.  

I needed the sound of moving water, and immediately thought of Cave Spring, Georgia. It's less than an hour away, a delightful park with a fresh, bubbling spring right in the middle of it. You can bring your own bottles and fill them up with delicious water to take home. There are park benches and swings. It feels like you have gone back in time when you are there.

I wheeled into the little grocery store in town and stocked up on fruit and snacks. It sadly seemed like it had gone downhill since the last time we were there. The shelves were sparse, it was dirty and unkempt and the cashier seemed world-weary. I wish for every small town to flourish, which seems to be a difficult thing these days. Unbeknownst to me, this was the weekend for the annual Pickle Festival in Cave Spring. I wasn't prepared for any significant amount of walking, as I still have a big, honkin' boot on my left leg because of a pesky Achilles tendon that refuses to heal. My masseuse friend reamed the thing out last week, and it's starting to feel better, but I didn't have a Granny Mobile to spend long hours perusing booths and merchandise. It's probably for the best, as I spent enough money in the little local stores. The prices are amazing and the eclectic antiques store is my favorite. Since we live in a true Victorian house with a massive yard, it is only right that I should fill it up with statuary, and they have it in spades. I found the perfect concrete coach boy there last time, and he's now painted and standing guard over our front gate. I've always admired the statue that is on the front of the book "Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil" (have never read it, though)...the little girl holding two containers (presumably weighing light and darkness?) that stands in Savannah. As I wandered the antique store, they had replicas of her, already stained and aged. She came home with me, to Ken's chagrin. He always marvels at the weight of these things but somehow manages to drag them around until I've found the perfect spot. Now, what to place in each hand? Glass orbs seem just the right thing. Maybe I'll get some with fairy lights in them. 

The weekend was sweet, silent, contemplative. I prayed, read, watched nature and the squirrels around me at the house where I stayed. Nighttime was strange and scary, but I slept like a baby with my gun beside me. I don't know what will happen if Ken goes before me (that ain't happening, unless he messes up with his NASCAR-qualifying-driving. His DNA definitely trumps mine). I'll have a Granny-pod built and will strive to torture my kids, rotating locations every six months. 

By Saturday afternoon, I was feeling the need to see people. I trundled to the park with my Bible and journal, and took up residence on a bench. It's hard to write and read with such interesting characters coming and going. Rolater Park is very special to me. There's an ancient church house there and an old schoolhouse. We were supposed to have our daughter Elizabeth's wedding there, until Covid shut it down three weeks before the event in 2020. We had all the flowers and decor ready, but instead celebrated right in our backyard, with the heady scent of the magnolias blooming around us. It was magical. When our dear niece was looking for a venue a couple of years ago, we all piled in and did her wedding at Rolater. Four days of sweat and hard labor, but it was gorgeous. 

As I was musing over all these things on Saturday, I got warm and had the urge to get my feet wet in the spring. There were two older couples at the little bridge who had already pulled off their shoes and were chatting in other languages. I settled in right next to them, and within minutes, a precious woman named Tara and I recognized that we were kindred sisters. We spoke of our families, our lives, our Lord. Wisdom spilled from her heart and I ended up in tears. Maybe she was some kind of angel, as the things she spoke about were the very things I had prayed about over the weekend. As the dark descended, her family sang a beautiful hymn that spilled out over the lawn. 

We embraced as we said our goodbyes, a new friend I may never see again in this life. Beauty and goodness in unexpected places.    

The Great Pumpkin Chase

The train wails its insistent call. I don't think about it very often, though several of them pass close to our home every day (and night). It sounds like Mayberry to me, probably because my MawMaw's house was next to the tracks in Smyrna. Even though there were no toys, no frills, no fancy food where she lived, those times were full of cousin adventures, plenty of mud, grass stains and railroad track events. We would scavenge for empty Coke bottles along the tracks and behind the strip mall on the other side. The grocery store would give us a nickel for each bottle we turned in. Then we'd traipse, barefooted and filthy, to G.B.'s diner and buy ice cream cones. The purveyor would give us massive scoops, probably sympathizing for what appeared to be poor street urchins. When we arrived home at night, sticky and tired, Mama would send us to the bathroom and instruct us not to come out until we were double-scrubbed. The older I've gotten, the more I have grown to appreciate her clean, well-lit house and all the order that was there. My own nature is undisciplined, messy, haphazard with anything that requires consistency. I have worked very hard most of my life, but creative and social meandering is hard-wired into my DNA. The cobwebs are just about to make me insane right now, so maybe I'll muster up some focus soon. We don't celebrate Halloween but maybe I should leave them up for decor. 

Speaking of focus, last night was our twin grandchildrens' birthday (and 10-year old Titus is in a few days too)...so we pot-lucked with yummy soups and home-baked bread slathered with Irish butter. There was pumpkin carving, a fun and terribly messy affair. Everyone was sawing away at their projects, producing some amazing results. Eventually, either because of finishing or simple boredom, the kids began to drift away and the adults stood around talking. The cheap little tools started to break, but our eldest son Jon and I were still hunkered down over our pumpkins. The light was fading, so flashlights were turned on in our determination to finish. He and I both have the ability to forget the rest of the world when we're neck deep in something we are interested in. They had to drag us inside to eat. There was soup, terrible singing (a Norton tradition), cake and presents. Grateful grandkids, a precious commodity in this day and time. 

Ken had to work, so I drove home alone, full of joy and contentment in the cool night air. Life is good. But I do believe I'm going to invest in some real wood-carving tools for next year. Can't stop thinking about those pumpkins...  

Angels Unaware

Sadie came to us late in life. She'd had a whole other existence as a champion show dog and then an illustrious breeding career, making beautiful babies with other champions. Australian Shepherds, to me, are the smartest and most sensitive dogs I've ever experienced. The line that Sadie came from is calmer and brainier than even the others I've known. She was living with my sister's family for years, running with her doggie pals on a few acres. She had never lived solely inside. We got her in her dotage, with a different name. Everyone said I couldn't change her name, but I did. She became my constant companion, and immediately knew that the toilet was outside, not in the house. She has lived the life of Riley these last few years, with grooming and treats and serene, simple purpose as my personal assistant. There's nothing quite like a devoted dog waiting at the door for you at the end of the day. They are at our mercy, with our contrived, domesticated lives, and live out their days serving us with their doe eyes and happy allegiance. 

The last few months, she had become more and more incontinent. There were also small seizures, little slips of consciousness. I didn't want to face the spectre of the end of her life. I didn't want to be responsible for doing the deed, and was hoping she would just go gently into the night without my intervention. I've had to put down several animals and the grief of it never leaves you. Sometimes the veterinarians do a good job, sometimes not. The "nots" are most grievous. One time, I took a friend's dog; she was in a financial drought and so were we at the time. One of my sons did it the old-fashioned, farm way...I fed the dog chunks of chicken laced with Benadryl, then took her into the woods where she was happy as birdsong, full of treats. She didn't have to experience the fear of a needle or the sterile smells of a medical facility. It was the quickest and most compassionate of deaths. But I was not courageous enough to do this to my own dog.

My niece had offered to take her, put her on a raw diet, and keep her with her other dogs, where she would have more outside toilet "options." I was so grateful for this, but over the next few days I began to wrestle with it. How could I abandon my dog, who was so attached to me? I was privately resolved to find a way to keep her here, even though my house was beginning to smell like a potty.  I was losing sleep, waking in the night and agonizing with guilt about what to do. I asked God to make it plain. She still looked healthy, was eating and bright-eyed, though she had taken to walking all over the house at night. I was getting up multiple times to take her outside. Sleep and toilets. The scourge of old age. 

Last Friday night, I woke at 3:00 a.m. to the sound of scrambling dog feet. I quickly walked her to the yard, but her gait was confused. She fell several times and was not only blinded, but severely impaired. I cradled her and wept, not only for the impending loss, but in gratefulness to God for giving me a clear sign. A kind veterinarian was able to get us in quickly. They rolled in a little cart with all the treats that had been forbidden her. She gladly lapped up cookies and chocolate kisses as she relaxed into the first injection of sedative. I will always be grateful for the tenderness they showed her and us as we let her go gently into that night. 

I spent the best part of the day letting the tears roll. God arranged so much sweetness as we grieved her. My niece, who lives an hour and a half away, just happened to be picking up furniture in Villa Rica. She dropped flowers at our doorstep. All of our children and grandchildren, who just happened to be coming over that evening, helped us bury her in the yard with a proper tiny funeral. I was surrounded by little arms who also loved our Sadie. The scriptures say, "Not even a sparrow falls without His notice...how much more does He care for you." The heavens and the earth declare His glory. And so do our little dogs.