Green Is the Color of My Mind (with orange and purple hanging down to the ground. But I don't care, 'cause I'm colorblind!)

I've been highly involved with three arenas in my life (and well, dozens of others too, but will only talk about these three today).  I'm intrigued how differently these three areas sit in my brain and experience.    

#1 - Teaching. Way back when I was a teenager, I thought that I wanted to become either a journalist or a coach. My 16-year-old self wanted to be on TV, to be a weather lady or news reporter. I thought that I needed an English/journalism degree, so that was foremost in my mind. Secondly, I thought I'd love to be a coach, seeing as I loved the game of basketball as if it were my life's blood. But there was also that pesky part of being a coach = teaching. I would think to myself, "What if God wants me to go to Russia to be a missionary and teach math?" Both those possibilities made me sick at my stomach. Russia, at the time, seemed to be this cold, scary place. And I despised math. Plus, I'd have to teach people, ick! Then as adulthood came into view, I realized I was a weenie when it came to telling people what to do. I'd rather just do things myself and not have to be the commander. Funny how God sees our plans and laughs. I spent some 25 years or so teaching. Not math (I outsourced most of the high school stuff by bartering with my painting skills), but I taught my own children at home (we were considered insane by some in the 80s), then taught art and flute to other kids for many years.

Teaching is a unique window into the souls of children. You can see right through to them. I could detect a teachable heart or a stubborn heart, just because I was trying to show them something. You can ask any teacher about this and they will usually agree. It's an uncanny phenomenon. Most (not all) of the kids I taught, I could have told you how they'd turn out as adults. Teachers can see the future and have a massive responsibility. Hats off to all of you that are teaching (I ain't doing that anymore...) 

#2 - Art/Decorative Painting. Besides teaching basic art to my own children as well as a good many other kids, bartering with my paint skills for math classes led to an ever-widening net of opportunities. This and that person wanted my experience, so it opened up to a full-scale business. I had decorators and contractors contacting me for their needs...the 90s and 2000s were ripe for murals, hand-rendered logos and faux finishes. 

Artistry is a unique window into our own souls. When I hit the "flow" that is that right-brained song, there's nothing closer to heaven for me. I feel very close to the Lord because I know these things are nothing I've trained for....they just come out and announce themselves. He has gifted all of us for our own places in the world, some for organizing, some for driving, some for directing Fortune 500 companies and some for many other abilities. I know that there are things inexplicably beautiful in all people and those are hints of the divine. He left those to remind us of Him.

#3 - Real Estate. I got my license some 19 years ago. The downturn happened right as I got it, so my busiest season has been since 2014 or so. You'd think I would understand it by now. I've never advertised it in a traditional manner; it has happened by relationships and word of mouth. At least half of my business is dealing with estate sales, not for the faint of heart. People who are selling Mama's house are in the worst place -- they have lost a relative, they might be fighting with siblings over the estate, or they are really needing the money and have anticipated this for years. Usually the home is in a mess, because parents have aged and lost the ability to keep up home maintenance. There are piles of belongings and lots of repairs needed. Much crazy-making can happen when everybody has to get along or agree on what is going to occur. I have to be counselor, lawyer and realtor all wrapped up in one place. This is where it gets hard to communicate. No one wants bad news, and if there's no good news to be had, why would you tell it? It's all a part of the business, and then there's the left-brain parts that contort me into a pretzel. I shouldn't tell my weaknesses in public, but I've never been able to hide myself well. 

Real estate is a unique window into the souls of other people. Their best and worst sides come out and my part is to try to keep the circus in balance. I love to talk but I don't like to boss people around. Communication is key but people are sensitive, anxious and needy when it's time to sell their homes. In my experience, there are two kinds of salesmen: Sharks and Dolphins. And I ain't no Shark. 

Summary: Each phase of our lives brings challenges and blessings. I used to look at old people and thought their lives must be boring. And maybe some of them were. But more likely, they had a lot going on that I knew nothing of. I really do regret not picking the brains of my Grandmas more. Not that I'm saying I'm old. No, I am not. I shall stay 39, except for on my birthdays, where I turn 40 for one day and then revert back. Daddy taught me these principles, and I am believing him for that...  

Tilting at Windmills

Little foxes, little arguments. 

A tiny infraction on one side can open into a massive chasm that destroys relationships, even businesses, churches, nations. Unfortunately, these things seem to be on the rise. All the "sensitivity training" and reams of writing and counseling are teaching us all to stare longingly into our bellybuttons and have thinned our skin to a crinkly, fragile state. The traditions of pulling yourselves up by the bootstraps or enduring through the storm have been largely relegated to old books or tales from the past. We have forgotten how to endure. Or to truly love.

Dear friends who we considered family have jumped ship and abandoned all of us and even our church because of a tiff between two wives in our social group. What started as a smart-aleck slight quickly escalated to something I can't quite describe. Long-term friendships have been abandoned, and there is a wake behind this middle-school-worthy girl fight that makes my heart feel a bit like it has been through a-stompin'... and I'm not even remotely part of the skirmish. 

But the tongue has the power to crush, to malign, and to destroy. "How great a forest is set ablaze by such a small fire! And the tongue is a fire, a world of unrighteousness. The tongue is set among our members, staining the whole body, setting on fire the entire course of life, and set on fire by hell." (from James 3)    It is the nature of mankind to gossip, to spread information under the guise of concern, and I am counted among the guilty. The scriptures call these words "tasty morsels." How fun is it to have the newest "scoop" on something wrong or evil or distasteful? We throw these things out for others to hear, clutching our pearls, anxious to see the shock and awe of such injustice. Heaven forbid we look at the log in our own eyes. 

There are better ways of healing hurts. One is to simply "step over" it, as our elder stated yesterday in Sunday School. Let it go. Get over it. Forgive it. Love covers a multitude of sins, isn't that what the Good Book says? Squash that little bug of irritation and be free to walk in peace. Love each other back, even when there is hurt. I have a friend, 35 years or so in the making, where we had multiple hurts between us. Things involving our kids, situations, jealousies, gossip. One day in recent years I found myself languishing in a body of water with this friend. Our eyes both misted over as she said, "Can you believe we are still true friends, after the hurts, the trials and troubles that we have worked through?" And it is as she said... forgiveness, love and a resolve to not make mountains out of molehills saved our friendship over the years. We have both grown, matured, walked a few valleys of our own...and came out on the other side still friends. Deeper comrades, so when the real hell happened, we were there for each other. 

We do not have to always have our own "protections" as preeminent in our lives. There is space, and need, for overlooking each others warts and stupid responses. Grow some skin. Not meaning to sound trite, but truly, love can build a bridge.     

Campy, Cheesy Thoughts

I hate to be redundant, but I am, on the daily. It's often a question I ask others: "Have I told you this before?" Yes, the B-B's are falling out, because I have a whole lot of them and there's  not enough space in there. Rather to have lots than not enough. Why not suck the marrow out of life? God's world is vast and there's lots more people to know before we dip out. Sometimes I feel like I'm rushing to not miss anything. That's probably not the best... might need to slow down and go camping. 

The subject of camping seems to come up a lot with me, even though there was a massive gap without doing it between being a kid and an adult. But then there's the two years we camped on our land with four kids while we (literally) built our house. I want credit. We laid every block and 2x4 in that house, with help from friends and family. Two years of "home construction skills" added to our kids' homeschool arsenal. Who was I kidding? Math meant measuring wood and counting nails. English was, well, talking. I figured I was warping our children and that could be, but they turned out pretty awesome considering their warped parents. 

That camper was well-worn when we bought it. The refrigerator didn't work, so we used it for my and 5-year-old Elizabeth's closet. The heating system didn't work, so we wore out a dozen space heaters instead. Ken and his Dad built a shelter over the camper and put a porch in the mix. I bought an old fridge for $25 at a yard sale, so we became true rednecks and had a refrigerator on the porch. I hammered big nails in the 2x4s and we hung everybody's overalls and had their boots underneath. We wore those all week and I washed and dried them early Friday mornings at the laundromat. In the winter, we wrapped plastic around the whole business, to help keep the warmth in. It was insane, but I still talk about it like it was yesterday. I really should stop. It has been a very long time ago. We sold that monstrosity of a camper to some guy who had six kids (it only had two twin beds and a couch sofa). I was only 36 when we had moved into that thing. 36. That is a baby. But we already had our four babies (ages 12, 10, 8 and 5) and I thought I knew what life was. The mountains and the valleys were coming, though God got us through them. 

Years of life, then the boys' marriages, then a move to Villa Rica, then the grandbaby fest started, then eventually the baby girl married  (their own babyfest starting when they came home from their honeymoon pregnant). Now we measure our days like a snowstorm, flurries of things to do and family and church and friends to see, ridiculous time spent in doctors' offices trying to keep ahead of our own creaky bodies.

I bought an old camper in 2020, when the world was falling apart. It was ugly, brown and dated. With some paint and imagination, I painted it inside and out (did you know you can transform the outside of a camper with Kilz and Behr products, no problem?) I figured why not live, so I turned it into a retro Barbie camper. I hate Barbies (please don't lynch me) but love the colors and painted it turquoise, coral and cream. Had a new label printed for the outside, some fresh floor love from our sons, and installed stainless steel tiles on the backsplash of the kitchen area and made cute curtains for the windows. It looked like a 50s diner. Then we actually camped in it. With a full-size bed crammed against the corner, Ken and I had a hard time navigating these Viking bodies around, especially at night when it came time to visit the loo. After a few camping events, with Ken feeling like he was suffocating, he mentioned how nice it would be to have a bigger camper. The operative theme here is that he wanted another one. I couldn't believe my ears. 

Facebook marketplace has changed all of our lives, for the better (well, except for those murders, there is that). With the fancy upgrades to our camper and an FB ad, I woke up to three different people circling our city block, vying for their chance to buy the thing. I sold it for over twice what I bought it for, and started hunting another one. 

After some hapless wandering, our son Jon and I drove to Lawrenceville, me with a bucket of cash and my gun strapped to my hip, to see another used camper. This one was much bigger, had room for actual Viking people and even a slideout, all for only a bit more than what I had sold the last one for. I became a little concerned when the guy had an electric cash counter to count the money. He obviously was accustomed to such things. But any fool who would mess with Jon Norton, or any of my men, might be losing his marbles. 

We drove the thing home and have spent entirely too much money outfitting it between road trips. Just so you know, I'm done with Barbie projects for now. Ken's next project is to rip out the couch and put in recliners. Both my MawMaw and my Daddy died happy and content in their recliners. I don't plan on sitting there. I'll take the booth, thank you very much....

What's Next?

Where is the beach? I can imagine it, I can feel it, I remember the warm, soft breezes and the gorgeous sunsets there. Not sure if we are going this year, but I could sure use some right about now. We used to go a couple of times a year, when Laguna Beach Christian Cottages were dirt cheap and half the people we knew in the world also went. We had to bring our own linens and half the kitchen with us, as well as bring extra blankets and towels to cover the windows at night. Otherwise, you seemed like you were sleeping in the daylight. But it was worth it.  Our kids would run all over the place -- swimming, playing volleyball and basketball, running down the very-familiar path to the beach, hunting through the local "Beall's Outlet" for great deals. We'd save up all year for our night out at "Angelo's Steak Pit" and take pictures of the family with the big bull out front. 

Thinking of the water makes me think of my Daddy, the best Daddy that God ever made. He loved the beach and hanging out with his 21 grandkids. My Mama didn't care for all the heat and the sand, but she indulged him those trips. I'd saunter over to their cottage and drink coffee with him in the mornings. We'd find him in his big Panama Jack hat and Bermuda shorts, with socks and flip-flops to protect his feet. How I miss the very essence of him, this Father's Day. 

I remember that little girl, so loved by him. He thought I was the bomb.com and delighted in whatever I was up to, including our (later) four children and then grandchildren. He was always completely involved in their activities, be it sports or speeches or church choir performances. He retired early, not with great riches, but with better plans than clocking in every day. He fixed up campers and he and my Mama camped all the time, usually bringing a grandchild or two with them. They made the rounds to see all the family. He'd say, "I'm hungry to see some of them grandkids." And he was loved for it.

I know that getting old was hard for him. He was always a kid at heart, and when there were restrictions beginning to hinder his activities, he was not happy about it. The Lord was merciful to take him while he still had his boots on.  I'm glad he didn't die by inches, which is often the case. He mowed his grass, took a shower, ate a bite of popcorn and that was it. His last words to my Mama were "Thank you." His last words to me and my sister were two days before: "I'm so proud of you two." These were the usual things that came out of his mouth. 

The world has not been the same, for the eight years since he left it. But we dishonor our loved ones, if we let that keep us from living, from flying. They would be terribly grieved, if they saw us mired in our own grief. They want us to thrive, to prove out what they taught us, to carry the candle of their light to the next generations. Therefore, I cry today, missing him terribly, but then I dry my tears and look to those God has placed around me, to love them well, to tell them what they mean to me, to encourage them to fly and to soar. 

This is the circle of life.

Deep in the Valley

 Sometimes God makes the train stop, all at once. The world keeps going by, but you have no choice but to sit out the tornado. Be it a death, illness, natural disaster or your house burning down, much that seemed to matter before suddenly takes a back seat. Life gets boiled down to a crystallized, laser-focused bullseye on the Big Things. Could be simply surviving. Could be making amends. Could be the thought: "If I get through this, what will I do on the other side that will make a difference -- to me or others?" Then, if I do survive,  and things calm down and I get back to the "usual" -- did I remember what I said to myself? 

Life is short. Don't wait for a better time or circumstance to do the right thing.  

And one of the right things, for me, is to pause. I gotta learn this. I don't think I appear hyper, but my brain is, and I take on way more things than I have the real bandwidth to make happen sometimes, well, often. The major stuff will magically arrive, but if you look at the wake behind me, you can see a crashed house, neglected people, exhausted interior brains and emotions. 

My sister and I are now of a certain age. That age where I'm not going to say I'm old, because I'm not! Besides, I'm only 39, that's what Jack Benny (and my Daddy) said, right? Ken owns that "old" label but nope, he can have it. Melanie and I both recently had emergency hospital visits, after large and exhausting projects in our lives. Sitting there now, feeling quite sorry for myself, I told her we need to keep doing, keep moving, keep living -- but maybe we need to learn to pause, particularly after these seasons of expenditure that we inevitably take on (on purpose, mind you). To take a breath and ruminate a bit on what just conspired before we jump headlong into the next adventure. Otherwise, like the sound of the tree falling in the forest -- did it really happen?

I recently had an amazing week at a writer's conference where my dear friend Grace and I absorbed lectures, workshops and consults like sponges. That was three weeks ago and my brain is still feeling the fullness, yet I have not had the space or juice to sit down, read through my notes and books, chew on a plan that I feel the Lord gave me. And if I don't, if I just let that sit out in the ether, in a year it will still be there rusting in my brain, but losing traction. There's space. There's time. Then there's that juice. Apparently that comes in limited quantities.

Yesterday, when I had a weird infection crawling up my arm and didn't know if it was jungle fever or MRSA or a flesh-eating bacteria, I went all the way to the worst possible scenario. I mean, it was spreading fast and even with all manner of powerful intravenous antibiotics, nothing was changing. I was watching this happen in real time and it really was a perfect time to panic. The histrionics have probably given my people PTSD. If you think you're going to die, then you go all the way to the other side of the moon, grieving and thinking last thoughts. If somehow you make it around to the other side and then there's a possibility that you might indeed live to see another day, you wake up extremely grateful. Everything is wonderful after that, even the dry, mealy chicken and beans I got to eat for supper. A friend brought me organic blueberries, however, and I had to have insulin this morning for my debauchery (and I don't even take insulin). Lord have mercy. 

I still don't know what will happen to me. I might pull through, but there will be a day, sooner than I can imagine, that I won't make it past whatever stops this heart. Things seem better today, but I'm still in pain, seeing a hot, purpley-red arm, though it seems to have quit spreading. Either way, when I sat in the middle of yesterday, not sure of much, I was still sure of one thing. That in that valley, I was smack-dab in the middle of God's hand. I have not suffered much in my life, but I do know that He has been faithful to me all of my days. There's a song about that and I play it often, to remind myself. There are valleys, but He's in them with me. 

God, Protecting Fools and Children

Who can know the harms that we may have avoided along our daily paths? I often think of this, when I am late leaving for a trip and see a bad crash on the road where I might have been, if I had left on time. I have had countless narrow-misses in traffic, which could have been fatal or worse (there are worse things than dying, in my opinion). There are awful things that still happen, but I just have to wonder at how many angels have caused me to avoid even worse. These are things I ponder, but none as much as a day back in the mid-90s...

Our big, rambling house in Marietta was for sale. It was on a very busy road and we had three mangy boy creatures, all ages 10 and under, and a 5-year-old ballerina. They liked nothing more than exploring and getting into hazardous situations. Our boys had been retrieved and snatched from oncoming traffic more times than I want to remember. Liz usually stood on the side and watched the parade. We were aiming to buy land and move into a camper and build our own house, far off the road and full of other kinds of adventures for our children. Snakes, creeks, stray bullets...those kinds of things.  

We didn't ever list our homes with Realtors, no. Who needed a Realtor, when we could do it ourselves? The market was terribly slow, so when a man called that morning to see the house, I was willing to interrupt our school day (we were homeschooling) to accommodate him. He asked if he needed to bring a Realtor and I said no. Because he asked that question, I didn't feel anxious about showing to a stranger, though I thought it was an odd request. His appointment was slated for 1:00. 

We ate lunch and I sent the kids out to play while I finished cleaning up the kitchen. At about 12:45, I glimpsed a man, silent, brooding, angry, walking up behind me as I leaned over the dishwasher. He had come into the house, going through several rooms to get to the kitchen, without knocking or hailing me or making his presence known. He had walked probably 6-8 feet into the area without speaking before I noticed him. He was about four feet from me when my spidey-sense kicked in and I immediately wheeled around to face the man. His demeanor and spirit were pure evil. I broke out in goosebumps. My first inclination was to say something like, "I'm sorry, but something has come up and we have to leave." As I considered strategy, I feared that if I did that, he would attack me. Instead, I acted very bright and cheerful, said instant prayers to the Lord and tried to think about how to extricate myself and the children from this situation. I kept myself as far away as I could from him as we walked down the hall to see the living room. He kept furtively trying to get behind me, but I arranged myself so that I was facing him at all times. As we passed the laundry room, our gentle, quiet, "harmless" Golden Retriever, Gracie, suddenly growled, a deep and vicious snarl. She had never behaved like that, even when strangers came to the door. She jumped up and came to my side. I quickly tried to show him the house, all the while keeping myself facing him and trying not to trip over the dog, who was making circles around me as we made our way through. After a few minutes, a couple of the children also came into the house. My heart was pounding, as this man never looked at anything but me. He was not interested in the house at all -- his furious eyes never deviated from staring at me. It did not seem to be a lust-type-of-thing, but more of an extreme and fierce anger emanating from his person. I had never met or seen this man before. I knew that we were in danger and my only defense was to pray and be alert. 

And God sent Gracie. To this day, some thirty years later, I believe the dog might have caused this man to be restrained. That, and especially, the mercies of God. After I walked him out, still alert and keeping him from circling behind me, I rushed the other children into the house. His car was an old white vehicle, covered with mold and moss. The license tag on the front of the car was from another state, very far away, and was 25 years old. As he backed the car out, I observed that the rear tag was also 25 years old. I pondered where he'd been for that many years, with his car mouldering under a tree somewhere. One of the boys said to me, after he had left, "Mama, I thought he was going to kill us." 

We locked up the house tightly, called Daddy at work and told him what had happened. He told me to head to Grandpa and Grandma's house with the kids until he got home (if I remember correctly, after this, we spent several days heading to their house after breakfast). He searched the house thoroughly and called us to come back when he knew all was clear. We called a Realtor that day to list the house and never saw hide nor hair of the devil man again. The house was eventually sold and we headed for the country life. 

Now, our children are long grown, with many children of their own.  I got busy with real estate after I was through raising them. But you can bet your boots, if I'm real-estating, I'm packing heat. Jus' sayin'....   

Slow Boat Full of China

All the aunts and Grandmas (and oh yes, the church ladies) taught me the importance of "registering" for my wedding wishes and needs, after Ken and I got engaged. My Yankee Mama was not raised up in these environs, so was unfamiliar with many of the customs of the Deep South. I think they also do that up "there," but perhaps with not as much gusto and reverence as here. Either way, I got the drill when at first I had an engagement ring upon my (then) slim finger. 

For Atlanta area folks, Rich's department store was the go-to for such traditions. Ken and I filled out the proper forms and spent the better part of a Saturday looking for things that we liked, but nothing more important than the china we were supposed to pick. I learned that this was a legacy, one that I should pass down to future daughters and daughters-in-love, and in kind, all those grandchildren which would spring from our DNA. My soon-to-be Mother-in-law, who knew all of the Southern Rules, told me how important this was. When I got to the intimidating wall of china patterns in the hallowed kitchen and dining department of Rich's, I was overwhelmed, to say the least. There were scads of different types, all manner of colors and levels of dishes. 

My people were, for the most part, earthy. Farmers, horse traders, day laborers, and the like. We boast an Irish king, some ten generations back, but that we were, robust and Irish. Less inclined towards tea and such...maybe more Guiness and whiskey. There were threads of culture, even in that...but after it all, I needed to pick a pattern. The prices on the wall were astonishing, and I grew up being taught to think of others first. How could I begin to ask for something that cost that much? So I picked the cheapest pattern they had. It had some blue in it, and it wasn't what I would have picked at all, had I chosen what I actually liked. But I went ahead and registered for it.

After our happy wedding day and honeymoon, we returned to Ken's Mama's house to retrieve the gifts we were given. I opened eight sets of that china. We laid them out on a table and I realized, sadly, how ugly it was. They were boxed up and we took them back to Rich's and bought a pile of every-day Corningware dishes with strawberries on them. Those things lasted us many years, even with feral Viking children eating off them. 

In the ensuing years, my Mother-in-law would often ask me to choose another pattern, one that I liked. She wanted to help me get my china someday. 

I never made any special trips to Rich's or Macy's or Davison's to consider her request. But one day, I met up with one of the young pianists from our church at her parents' house, to practice some music we would be playing together (me on flute). Her Mama was a thoroughly cultured Southern matriarch, with a lovely lilt to her voice and all the right plants in her yard (read: magnolia trees, hydrangeas and plenty of azaleas -- of which I now have plenty).  As we walked back to the piano room, there was a sideboard with twelve sets of china on it, like none I had never noticed. Rich pink and white, with beautiful scenes of different castles for each piece. I asked her what the pattern was and where it came from -- it was "Old Britain Castles" by Johnson Brothers. It comes in pink, green and brown. Pink is perfect. Her sister, Elisabeth, who was unmarried but dutifully collecting things for her hope chest, loved it and attained it from a place in Birmingham, Alabama who imported it from England. I was smitten. This china personified all the things I love to look at. Creamy white, rich pink, castles in the English style. I eventually bought a Queen Anne Victorian house. What more can I say?

I told my Mother-in-law about it and she mustered up all the relatives she could to pitch in to help get it for me. We had to order it and it took around six months for it to arrive on a slow boat from England. Ya'll -- it really wasn't that long ago...but I am not kidding that that was what had to happen. The day before we were set to move into a camper on our five acres in the country, the store called and said that it was here. But of course! I gingerly took the boxes to my Mama's house and Daddy stored them for me. Two years later, when we finished our house, it was a joyful day when I unboxed it in my new, sparkling kitchen.

I still use that china whenever I can, but especially for company. One time, Ken dropped a whole stack of salad plates and broke about half of them. I found more online and replenished most of them, but I keep an eye out on FB marketplace for other matching pieces. During Covid years, I saw that someone had a pile of it, as well as some bowls and a gorgeous, big teapot...all for a very good price. I messaged the young lady and met up with her in Marietta. Somewhere in there, I noticed her name was Elisabeth and thought, "No, that couldn't be the same family!" But yes, it was. This was the self-same girl whose china I first saw at her Mama's house some thirty years ago. She is a professional artist and was permanently moving to France, so was selling her wares before leaving. 

Her china made its way back to me.

Some of it, I gave to one of my nieces, who is also collecting this pattern. Every time I use those scrumptious, lovely dishes, I think of and say a prayer for Elisabeth and her adventures. The world is truly a small place and there are unexpected blessings everywhere we turn...