Happy Ether

There is a big, unopened box that's been propped up by my desk for some months, labeled "Blick Art Materials." Most Christmas seasons, that would be full of children's art supplies for some mighty-cute elfin people that I love. My go-to gifts have always been paper, pencils, and Playmobil sets. This fall, I got a few not-so-subtle hints that they were getting bored of always getting Playmobil (how is that possible? I want some for myself!) It's happening. They're getting older. Some of them are obsessed with Transformers now, so I just googled until I found one for each of the older kids. When they arrived with the Amazon man, I was astonished how such a tiny figure could cost that much. Can't wait to see them get transformed. Everything's wrapped and getting put into Papa's truck this afternoon. We're headed to our Daniel and Jessica's house down the road. They recently moved out of our camper, into the house they've been building for the last three years on ten acres. What a happy day, to enjoy their new home and to celebrate the birth of our Savior with our family gathered around. I've kept things fairly simple this year, with my bum ankle and all, and didn't even have to hurry around this morning since we're not having everybody over today. It's kind of sad but I'm trying to not think about it. The empty nest is a dicey transaction and grippingly tragic until the grandchildren show up, and then it's the best thing since sliced bread, fireworks or pretty much anything else. I spent the whole of last evening in the same spot for the Slate annual Christmas Eve party, getting snuggles from one grandchild to the next. There's not enough money in the world or prestige or careers or toys that can top the golden thread that runs between us. It's more than I deserve.

But back to the Blick box. 2024 has been a dire year for many Realtors, what with higher interest rates, political uncertainty and low inventory. I had planned on retiring but didn't, and had almost the perfect mix of listings and sales, handing one off and then picking another up one behind the other. My flute stayed extremely busy -- from an Italian concert tour, to a busy ensemble calendar, to church, to side gigs. Practice is essential, in this kind of environment. Music is creative, but it's more about math, counting, practicing, coordinating than it is about floating over there in la-la land like some might think. I have to hunker down and use the things I have. The discipline is good for my brain.

But I have missed the paint. The sketchpad. The clean wall prepped for a mural. Our grandchildren huddle up in my studio with paper and watercolors, so cute in their little aprons and easels, but I have drifted in my own doings. I get lofty ideas about re-opening my Etsy shop and spending weeks at a time creating art, but the reality is that I seem to require deadlines and accountability to get literally anything done. So I signed up for an art class, yes I did. This will help everyone, including those cutie pies that land here often. We'll all dally around with the pencils and paint, and see what conspires. 2025 -- we're hunkering down in the ether!   

Advents of All Kinds

Every year at Christmastime, without fail, I feel the wind rushing by my face as the calendar pages riffle like some sort of makeshift fan. It helps that shopping is easier now. Click-click-click and I've got the Amazon truck whizzing by every other day. But we are all so much more distracted, what with phones and devices and Netflix. Our collective ADHD has spread like wildfire and all the clicks are just making the merry-go-round go faster.  

This year, we have had our own Advent going on, in addition to the traditional Christmas watch for the Christ Child. Our daughter, like her mother and grandmother before her, was late with delivering her baby, nigh on three weeks past-due. Diva that I am, had four flute performances looming. I put out prayer flags to all my friends and even people that weren't my friends...pleading with God to let me not miss anything. I didn't want to leave anyone in the lurch when my part wasn't covered. Because I sure as shootin' wasn't going to miss the birth of my 13th grandchild. She scooted on in there, in between event #2 and #3, praise the Lord, beautiful and serene as a kitten. She looks just like her beatific Mama.  

The excitement was mostly over, when we made our way to church last night for Event #3. A calm and a hush fell over the auditorium, where little children and not-so-little children played various instruments for the prelude. Then their choir lined up front. A lone little boy sang out, as only pre-pubescent boys can. The pure, singular sound hung sweetly in the air. As the night progressed with the choir, carols and Scripture-reading, everything began to crystallize into one of those times where all at once, things made sense and the clock stood still for a bit while we contemplated the nobler, higher things. It was a grand pause, the knowing of goodness and light suspended in time. We rush and plan, run to and fro, but these are the nuggets that make it worth it all. 

There's still another nine days before we haul all the gifts around for our annual goings-on. I might  make a Sam's run, cook a few things, call an old friend or two. But I think I already found Christmas and it's snugged up right here under the ribs.     

Santa Baby...

I was born an animal whisperer. I've had pets of every stripe since I was very young. The cats, dogs, snakes and mice all looked me deep in the eyes and we connected. I can walk by an animal and make eye contact and they try to to follow me home. To this day, I am grateful for my Mama, because she didn't have any inclination towards furry things, but she tolerated my animals and also made sure they got fed. Then I had kids, the perfect solution to feeding chores. When Ken and I got married and our children began to get pets, I had to hold back, so that they'd bond to the kids instead of me. I didn't make this happen, it just is.  

Every birthday and Christmas I ever experienced as a child, I had one request: a horse. I drew scads of pictures of them, dreamed about galloping alongside any car that I happened to be traveling in. Our neighbors had several in the pasture behind our house. They were not tended to much, just roaming free. I'd join one of their daughters and would ride pell-mell over the fields, bare-backed and ridiculous. I was scared to death of them, and I believe they knew it. Every time I got the chance to be on the back of a horse, it usually ended with some sort of event...getting bucked off, reared-up-on, or scraped off under low-hanging trees. Even though I have Dr. Doolittle leanings with most animals, apparently I'm not a horse whisperer. I never did obtain a horse, though not for lack of pleading. When the time came for us to actually be able to get one, where we had five acres (we fenced it and everything), my passions had drifted to my handsome husband, four darling kids, and piles of Golden Retrievers and kitties. There were also lots of chickens, gerbils, lizards and life to be lived as well as school to be had. Now our nest is empty and my tendons aren't holding up so well. Maybe the Lord will have one waiting for me in heaven, though hopefully not too soon...

The best Christmas present I ever got was Zoe, my very own Aussie puppy, no sharing with kids or siblings. I still adore Ken for that. It was 2012 and my first winter without a house full of children. We had just moved to downtown Villa Rica into our amazing Victorian house, with beautiful things to look at every day but no dog. There were two crazy barn kitties we had brought with us but they were preoccupied with all the chipmunks and critters living under the house. To this day, I have no clue how they survived a move from the country into a busy corner in town. Occasionally, I'd see traffic stopped and Peter lounging in the middle of the street. He lived another ten years before dying of old age. Matilda is sixteen and still leaving me eviscerated baby squirrels on the front stoop. She's now an indoor-outdoor cat, who waits at the door when it's time to go to the potty. Smartest cat I've ever seen. I lost Zoe some five years ago, then adopted precious Sadie, a retired Aussie show dog, whom we lost a few months ago. My heart might be buried in the front yard.

I told Ken he needs to hit another one out of the park. Maybe another kitty, that doesn't have to be walked of a cold morning or sweltering evening and we can pop out quickly for a camper run. I've got my eye on a Pixiebob (yes, it's a thing) that needs me to rescue it. Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat...  

 

I Had An Epiphany

I started decorating the family Christmas tree a very long time ago, when I was a teenager. There's an art to it, more instinct than training. When we got married and Ken brought home our first tiny tree, I hand-made all the ornaments and strung popcorn and cranberries. It was just scrumptious. Over the years it became somewhat of an obsession -- bigger, better, fuller. And always a real tree, that was especially Ken's wish. I began decorating for other people as well, usually for pay. I'd try to do my own first, so I wouldn't be burned out from putting up everybody else's. By Christmas, our trees would be crispy-dry, ready for the fireplace. But I'd let them hang on at least until January 6, when they say the Wise Men visited Jesus. 

When we moved to Villa Rica in 2012, my nest was emptied out except for one child and she was away at college. Our three sons were married, with their own trees in their own houses. I thought I needed something more to do, so persuaded the arts committee to have a tour of homes. I figured it would give me incentive to decorate and also help us get to know people in our sweet town. I put a post on Facebook, asking for tree donations. Next thing you know, I've got five of them, all artificial, to Ken's horror. We had a rip-roaring time on the tour, and our house was filled with all manner of trees. I'm exhausted just thinking about it. I tried to keep up the multiple-tree thing for years, but grandchildren, the wind ensemble, and real estate began encroaching more and more into my life. I was still decorating for other people, but began to pull back on it a bit, keeping just one of my clients. I gradually receded on the amount of trees in my own house. But I may have become a bit of a diva about all of it, along the way.  

Then came 2024 and the year of post-menopausal, dried-out tendons. Two meniscus tears in my left knee called for surgery, but physical therapy somehow kept me away from the knife. I was feeling pretty good about things when our wind ensemble played across Italy in June, averaging about 25,000 steps a day on this less-than-fit body. I came home with two tears in my left Achilles tendon, all swelled up like a goose egg. Months of physio, medications, one giant boot and a lot of griping, then Christmas decided to show up. My one decorating client called. I wailed about my inability to currently climb a ladder. Close to thirty years, been hauling it up there to her big, gorgeous house. But this year, I am Galadriel (Lord of the Rings): "I must diminish and go into the west..." So here I sit, in the west, staring at my four walls with ice and red-light therapy on my still-pitiful Achilles. They say it needs surgery, but I've heard that before. 

When I took down my decor last year, I noticed that my trees were all becoming decrepit, strowing spent needles all over the house. So when Ken and I cleaned out the barn in the spring, I put all of them out at the curb. You can get rid of pretty much everything that way, when you live in town. Within minutes, they were all gone. All of them. Since I needed a new one, my daughter-in-love said that Home Depot had a tree that had gone viral and that I should try to get one. It's called the "Grand Duchess." Isn't that my name? It was beautiful, looked like a real tree, and was not terribly expensive. I got on a waiting list and checked every day. Months went by with no luck. But one fortunate day I was in the store and found three of them. I quickly got Papa to load one up. Somebody said it was November, so my daughter put it up for me and turned on the lights. It was all true. It looks like it's real, has the most beautiful twinkles I've ever seen on a tree, and it's nine feet tall. 

I got a grandchild over here to help me decorate. We pulled some things out of the barn, but decided to leave my tree as it was, with just the lights on. I ain't fit for no ladder. We gussied up the mantle with greenery, lights, some big nutcrackers and  23 (count 'em) stockings. There's a big wreath on the front door and I'm calling it a day. Normally, my tree is barely visible underneath all the trimmings. But I'm feeling really, really good. The diva is taking a holiday. All the presents are bought, the tree is twinkling and we're all still breathing, for the moment. I stopped and thought about why we're doing this - about a manger, a Lamb, redemption. It might not be about the decorations at all...   

Humble Pie

When I look out on the landscape of the things that I know, (that I can still remember), it seems to me that the graces of life come in the humblest of packages. The rat race of this world, which only seems to get more frantic and complicated as time goes on, is probably necessary. The wheels of commerce and the production of goods and services are vital to humanity. We still gotta eat and have some clothes to wear, no matter where we come from. The hunger and challenge of winning or producing something meaningful is good, needful. We all need purpose, whether we know it or not, but the human condition seems to like extremes. We swing wildly from one position to another, and it is always tough to find the goody in the middle  (I love that word "goody" -- reminds me of Ken's old Pop, who would used it as he was digging out a morsel of pecan from a stubborn nut or scraping up that last bit of pie. Thanksgiving always reminds me of him and his wife, Babe). 

The best people in the world are the ones who are humble at heart, who remember where they came from and who helped them get there. My worst days are when I forget that I have benefitted greatly from so many peoples' care and love, and that there is no self-made man (or woman). The very best days are when I stop and ponder my life, begin thanking God for the big and (especially) the little things, and understand the meaning of grace (unmerited favor). The day that we start believing we did something on our own is the day that it all begins to turn sour. Expectations can turn into monsters, can kill marriages and relationships, and make a disappointing mess of our lives. A better turn is to humble myself, express gratefulness to those around me, and to simmer in that goodness for a bit. 

We have trite phrases at Thanksgiving, nostalgic and sentimental commercials (I love those), and the obligatory rounds at the family gathering to say what we are grateful for...that is all good. Let us all begin a fresh year of appreciation this season. Things have been rough for awhile...pandemics, shutdowns, inflation, political mayhem. The media likes us all stirred-up -- it's what keeps us clicking and feeding their corporate machine. It's good to be informed, but what about being informed about my neighbors? About what is right in front of me, rather than something going on in outer Mongolia? Rather than a room full of people on their phones, how about we put all the phones in a bowl and concentrate on each other this Thanksgiving? 

The best marriages I've known are the ones where the spouses feel lucky that they got the other one. They look across at this fatally-flawed human but see what is good about them. On days when I've just about have enough of my husband, if I will stop and muse on what he does well, what he's gifted at, what he puts up with from me, pretty soon a rush of gratefulness comes to the top and I realize how lucky I am. I think on my parents, as opposite as two humans could be, how they would bicker sometimes and were always raw with their opinions...but they would also make up in front of us, ask forgiveness, see the good in each other. They lasted, because they were willing to be humble and grateful. 

Look up, look out, be humble, thank someone for even the smallest things, quit worrying, look at the beautiful world all around you and thank God. Preachin' to myself...  

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.  

Fall, Fake Fall, and I Better Not Trip and Fall

After False Fall in Georgia, which (obviously) was only brought on by a hurricane, we've had blistering summer again. There's nothing so discouraging as having a whiff of a cool breeze, only to be followed by the sun laughing in our faces, the sweat rolling down our backs, dogs lolling about on porches like they're in a coma. There ain't no way I'm buying pumpkins for my front stoop right now, even if they do look adorable out there. But I did check the weather a minute ago and another hurricane is headed to the gulf. Pity that people have to suffer for us to get some cooler temperatures. It's late September. My California neighbors came driving in last night. They live here part-time, and I'm sure by now they think we've all lost our sanity with all the fluctuations. But they also say that they love the Southern kindness and connection that they have found here. I need to work harder at being Southern...

Our musical Italy trip in June left me reeling with so many thoughts and ideas, but it also left me with a messed-up Achilles tendon. You'd think with as much time to prepare for that trip, I'd have been walking on the daily. But no...I had better things to do -- chatting, doing puzzles, eating bon-bons.  So now, after various attempts at healing it, I've been in a boot for many weeks. At the beach, I thought it prudent to leave it off, with so much sand and trips to the pool. Who wants to strap on that monstrosity, when you're just going to take it back off? Upon arriving home, my doctor gave me the stink-eye as he asked me where my boot was (I forgot to put it on and keep up hypocritical appearances). I blithely told him I was feeling pretty good and that I'd been at the beach all week. He reached down and gently squeezed my Achilles, which resulted in wailing and gnashing of teeth. More of the eye-thing, and he said, "You're going backwards. Get that boot back on, go back to physical therapy and come back in three weeks." So again, I'm dragging it around like an appendage, thinking "What hump, Master?" I know this travail is very small potatoes, compared to other peoples' pain and trials...I see people in stores with contraptions where their knee is bent into a 90 degree angle and they are hobbling around with some sort of trolley. Then there's the guy at the gym (not that I've been lately) who only has one leg and looks like Adonis. My apologies to him and the others, but apparently I'm milking it for all it's worth.  I've got stuff to do but God keeps slowing me down. 

So here's to cooler weather, prayers for folks in hurricane paths (including us) and a dream for pumpkins on the porch. I'm not even gonna get started on the fact that I put all four of my decrepit Christmas trees at the curb last spring (yes, all of them). I just might be on a waiting list for just the right tree at Home Depot, jus' sayin'...  

Practice Makes Perfect

I hit the floor running this morning, well...it was more like hit the computer keys running. I've had lots of vacating, so it was time to try and catch up with work and communications. I sat here, a hunched-over nerd all day, took a break for a very late lunch and then wore out a few fingertips this evening. It's 9:16 and I haven't even played my scales today, but I'll stop and do that now... 

There. That feels better.

Our Maestro says that if you miss one day of scales, you know it. Two days, he knows it. Three days, everyone knows it. Or something like that. I can't always manage to practice, but that mantra presses me to keep on keeping on.  I never did all that in high school. I was too busy playing basketball, running from activity to activity, chatting with friends and doing my homework on the bus. Scales, meh, who needs them? I've grown to appreciate the merits of practice and the muscle memory that helps my brain to connect the musical dots. And my fingers get real stodgy if I don't keep 'em moving. Didn't have to worry about that when all the oils were flowing freely and everything was still glossy. 

As usual, Fall is going to be full of musical endeavors. The Carrollton Wind Ensemble has a packed calendar, starting with a fundraiser September 26th (Rapha) and then our fall concert on October 18th at the Carrollton Arts Center (get your tickets -- they sell out!). October 29th finds us in Villa Rica for our annual "Creepy Concert" at the amphitheatre...a fun mix of music that always delights the audience. And all that is just for starters...there's Christmas music coming and caroling around town and pop-up candlelight concerts with a new woodwind quintet I'm playing with. 

Music is so many things. It is easy to take it for granted, in our digital age where it's so easily available. This last week at the beach, when it was my turn to cook and I had a kitchen full of adorable girls helping me, I turned on a playlist of movie soundtracks. It upped the mood instantly. There was laughing, dancing, moving into the strains of the music. Last evening, at home alone and vacation already a dim memory, I was feeling melancholy so I turned on some soothing tunes. Instant magic. A cool breeze wafted through the house and suddenly life was a mysterious song. My work became lighter, tolerable. Hope and possibilities sprang forth. Then there was my practice session with my flute, which started with obligations and ended with noodly, French pieces that floated out the window. 

Do your scales.  

Greater Purposes

They are piled around us like a litter of puppies. We have ten grandchildren with us this week (along with their parents) -- missing two of the grands who are with their folks at home. They are all aged 11 and below, full of energy and spice and nerve. The cousin love is palpable, with plenty of laughter and healthy competition. There's nothing like cousins...they're related, so they're permanently connected. 

People have always raved about the awesomeness of grandchildren. But until I experienced them for myself, I didn't understand the joy of them. I remember my own grandmothers. They were as opposite as two people could be, but both of them had this unconditional love for me that translated to my heart, even when I didn't see them often. That is what any grandparent can give to their progeny. We're not having to raise any of ours...I cannot imagine how difficult that must be. My get-up-and-go has done gone-up-and-went and we were lucky to have had our children young.

For decades, the message to young people has been to get educated, get your career in place and then play the field until you find just the right person. Take a few years to make money and travel and enjoy yourselves. Then think about having a baby, and never more than one or two. Overpopulation and all, you see? This was the preaching I got from society when I was young, but not from my parents. They had three and then regretted not having more (when it was too late to do so). We had happy, healthy childhoods, with very little money. One income, plenty of outside play, robust work and talk. When people say that it's impossible to live on one income, they might be talking about the importance of the magic of going to Disney as a child. Our magic was our Dad throwing us the softball, taking us fishing down the road at a local creek; Mama making simple but nourishing meals, Mama being home when the bus let us out; Daddy teaching us to help him mow, till a garden. Our vacations consisted of driving to Illinois to visit Grandma and the Yankee relatives, eating bagged lunches on the way there. Summers were long, hot, glorious.  The library was free, but supplied us with all the imaginative worlds we needed. 

Yes, I rhapsodize about the good old days, but realize that these are the good old days too. Trying to not miss a minute of the glory (and agony) of all that is in front of me. Everything takes longer, hurts more and feels more like mountain climbing than it should. I am convinced that half our problem is that we quit using our "parts" and they rust on up. Some people, wonderful ones that I can't relate to, stay the course and never quit all the moving, so they seem younger, longer. As for me, I have a terrible problem of being all-or-nothing, as well as easily distracted. So the rust builds up and I'm again "mountain climbing" when it's really just a stroll down the lane. I alternate between all-in and all-out. This is not a good plan, but it is my reality. 

Meanwhile, the grandchildren. How I love them, with their clear, sweet eyes and easy laughter. I see the miracle of DNA, how they reflect parts of both their parents, beautiful people that I also love. All from two sections of the helixed amalgam of one egg and one sperm that God picked out special to make that single person, that single month, that particular day. I worry about them, all twelve and also the one that is still in her Mama's womb. I pray for them, their particular bents, their particular gifts and flaws. The world is a scary place and getting scarier by the year. I could be overwhelmed by the thought of their futures and what they might have to face. But then God comforts me with the knowledge that not a sparrow escapes His notice, and that they were born "for such a time as this." No fear... 

What Matters

Close to five years ago, our world got turned upside down. An unknown, unseen critter spread like wildfire across the continents, arresting our brains, bodies and mental health. I remember being horribly scared, reading and researching to discover how to be prepared for the worst. I had a plan to sequester the sick, even down to duct-taping doors shut against the sickroom. Ken was out in the middle of it with his job at a building-supply place...thousands of people breathing by every hour. He would stop on his way home and get our groceries. Each day when he got home, I begged him to strip down and throw his "contaminated" clothes in the washing machine. I washed, yes, washed the groceries. I slathered myself with sanitizer (which cost a fortune) and stocked up on N95 masks. We had virtual church for awhile, and sometimes just sat on the front porch and listened to the neighboring pastor yell angrily from his perch across the street. I'm not sure he's read his Bible in context, because God has more than one side. He is both love and truth, and much, much more. 

We were scared. Well, not Ken. He refused to be afraid, put his boots on every morning and went to work, mask hanging off his ear. He wasn't stupid, but didn't let anxiety draw him up into a twist like I did. I am still grateful for that leadership, and I slowly began to relax and realize that I couldn't put life on hold. Better to live or die, than to shrink up into a corner. 

Here we are, these years later, but still affected by what happened. Our social lives changed, our trust changed, we became more cynical and way more attached to our devices. We learned that we could drill into this little 3x6 inch screen and have all the entertainment, information and music we ever wanted. We all contracted ADHD in short order, unable to focus for longer than a few minutes. In places where we were required to wait -- doctor's offices, the queue at the DMV, the fast-food line in our cars -- we pulled up our phones and lightning-scrolled through reams of information and sound bytes. No need for eye contact or interaction with other humans. They were busy doing the same thing. News, weather and "truth" were all obtained and possibly manipulated by various entities. We gathered like moths to an enticing, warm flame, unaware that we might be burned. 

I'm trying to quit all that, but it is nigh impossible. My business, contacts, emails, calendar, maps and news all feed through that little monster. It's marvelously convenient and helpful, but like all good things, too much is counterproductive. I'll do better one day, only to spend most of the next day in the ozone of social media and not get my kitchen cleaned up or the laundry done, much less talk meaningfully to anyone. I'm usually busy, but when I'm filling in the spaces with basically meaningless drivel, what have I done with my life? It takes over when we least suspect it. So enticing, the quick fix of all these bites of information. 

Over the course of a trip with a good friend, my phone refused to work. A few stray texts drifted in, social media was nonexistent, and there seemed to be a fence between me and any incoming or outgoing calls (even though I paid the extra for access). I lost three client deals because I was just not there to do them and couldn't communicate. When the boat landed and I assessed the damage (which was considerable), I agonized, chewed, fretted and summarized what happened, including my faults in this scenario. Then a pleasant, settled and happy balm spread through my heart. I had a week without interruption, time with an old friend, laughter and contemplation and good, old-fashioned human interaction with her and also the many kind people on the trip that we encountered.  We lived to fly another day, clients got what they needed, and the world didn't stop turning. Joie de vivre.   

Float, Sweat, Laugh...

My good friend, Patricia (we wore our fancy names), and I cruised to the Bahamas this last week. After navigating the Miami airport and figuring out where all the food was on the boat, my ankle started to hurt. Specifically, my Achilles tendon, which swelled up like a big goose egg, along with much pain. Pat insisted I go to the medical station on the boat, where they promptly gave me a shot of something and hauled a wheelchair into the room. Yes, I spent my vacation being pushed around by my friend. I was heartbroken, because we were on this cruise to give her a much-needed break from the care of her husband and the weight of the loss of her son. Here she was, taking care of yet another human being.

The wheelchair was tragic for a minute, then became our ticket to the front of the line everywhere we went. Everything became an adventure, meandering through the halls and restaurants. We got dropped off at Coco Cay, an island where we floated all day in a giant lagoon-shaped pool, sipping cool drinks and talking about everything and nothing. The next day, they dropped us off in Nassau, where we had rented scooters. I thought, "That was fortuitous -- now I won't have to worry about the wheelchair. I'll just scoot all over the island!" Word to the wise: Don't ever assume you're paying for actual things, if you can't see them. We were scammed on the payment of the non-existent scooters. My heart was sick, as the sweat dripped down my back and our hopes for the day were dashed. No wheelchair, no scooters, no fun. As we sat dejected on the sidewalk, a nice fellow walked by with a laminated flyer in his hand, a flyer with pictures of scooters. He looked skeptically at us, saying that he didn't recommend us renting that type of vehicle. But why?! He said the word Mama several times, in that delightful Bahamian manner, specifically stating that he would not put his own Mama on one of those scooters. For a small price, he had two of those granny-devices that you see in grocery stores and such. He was certain we would be happier on them than a gasoline-fueled accident waiting to happen. We were highly offended at first, and then thought about my pitiful ankle and so opted for the granny-mobiles. He gave us instructions, an extra battery apiece, and then we were off. In short order we were hooting and hollering at every corner. They were so small, we could navigate inside stores and alleyways. There was a fella hawking Cuban cigars and said we should follow him. You would think I would have learned not to do these things. The further we got from the main street, the more I began to question my sanity. But alas, we were not kidnapped or robbed that day. He probably took one look at us and decided we already knew about the dropping-dead tricks and were way past caring what means it would take to protect ourselves. Don't mess with Mamas who've already plowed the back fourty. We wended our way to the beach, where a golden-toothed gentleman promised to watch our granny-mobiles, then yelled at us when we touched a lounger as we climbed over the sea wall - "This is a private beach!" We floated for an hour then didn't tip the guy because he never once looked at our bikes. We tipped ourselves and howled with laughter, dripping wet and hungry. Eventually we found a restaurant full of very jolly people, where there was a shouting DJ, playing horrid and loud music. He offered free shots of alcohol to anyone who would stand on their chair. There had to be a hundred folks in that place, and 98 of them stood on their chairs. We were content to eat nachos and laugh at the crazy people.  Then there was the straw market, where we found ourselves deep in the bowels of a building with a sweet vendor girl, full of the same stuff that we saw all over Nassau.  The wheels of my Yaya-mobile wound around a decrepit tarp and we like-to have pulled the whole place down. There were expletives from ancient Bahamian women, but we escaped with trinkets and bags anyway, losing what was left of our cash. On the way back to the pier area, an old man sitting on the street was singing. He had been serenading me all afternoon, waved us over and asked who we were voting for, Trump or Harris? He then sang my choice as his buddy strummed a guitar. We were laughing so hard, my ribs were beginning to hurt. 

I've known Patricia for around 30 years, but never knew that she was a Jedi. For the duration of the cruise, she would wave her hand and tell people what to do and they would simply do it. We encountered servers, customer service staff, strange characters on the streets and security personnel. All of them obeyed her, with a smile on their faces. We whizzed through lines and got most everything we wanted. Everywhere we went, they kept remembering our names, as if we were memorable.

The last night, we opted for showers and our room, preparing to leave the next day. There were photos to share and things to talk about, the fatigue took over. Lights out and alarms set, then the quiet... One of us, in the dark, started talking about the trip, about all the absurdities and foibles we had encountered. Before long, the cackling started. I was concerned about making too much noise, but the mirth was overwhelming. You only get so many of those nights, where the windows open and the gales of laughter make the troubles fly away like giddy seagulls. 

Yes, there was some money spent, some troubles had, some sweat spilled, some tears shed. Life is short. Laugh when you can.   

Floaty Thoughts and Bucket Lists

The water is beckoning. It's so stinkin' hot right now, who wants to take walks around in it? I should, but I don't. Still needing to exercise and having crabby knees and joints, I took the literal plunge and joined the pool in Carrollton. I get wet, cool, and can't even tell I'm sweating. It takes two hours out of my day, but who's up at that time anyhow? Swimming is much nicer on the bones, but gives a fantastic workout. I did this years ago and lost a good many pounds just by treading water in the deep end. At that time, there were deep-water aerobics classes, where ladies strap on a flotation belt and float around. They would mock me because I wasn't in their class. I was in my own lane, over my head, with no flotation belt. I wasn't doing laps but I was wearing myself out just keeping my head above water. Don't be a mean girl. 

Over this last month, I started meeting up with a girlfriend (not a mean girl) three mornings a week and we yap while we manage to stay afloat. An hour goes by quickly when you're distracted. This week, I had to go it alone and it wasn't nearly as easy. I took up chatting with one of the lifeguards and it helped. A very good plan. My body is already starting to feel better, walking is easier, and I think there's hope for the cranky parts. This is all in preparation for more water and lower A1Cs.

Speaking of water, Monday, I get on a big boat with an old friend. She lost her 30-year-old son last year to suicide, a hugely unexpected twist in her life. Meanwhile, her husband is declining way earlier than anyone could expect. He can no longer turn himself or do basic tasks. She had to put him in a facility where he could be helped. As we were grieving over that one recent day, nearing the anniversary of her son's death, she said, "What I would love right now is to just get on a big boat somewhere and float." I said, "I'm your gal." So we got to planning and are leaving day after tomorrow for a short cruise. We chipped in extra for the balcony. Our idea is to simply laugh, cry, rest, laugh some more.  We are not going to worry about calories or the advent of anything chocolate. We will think about that tomorrow. Or next week...

I thank God for the goodness of water. Of course, we can't live without it. But the cooling, buoyant properties of water have always made my insides feel serene (except when plunging into murky lake water, there's that, but I ain't doing that again). Is there anything so pleasant as slipping into a cool, clean pool and letting the cares of the world drift away? I'm a mermaid, undulating my fins, left alone with my thoughts, no phone, no TV. In these days of multiple assaults on my brain, with social media and Netflix marathons and endless news feeds, it is really nice to have an excuse to disconnect from everything and help my body (and brain) in the process. 

I spent many, many years teaching children to swim and then lifeguarding. I've been musing about the idea of taking (expensive) training to become a certified ISR swim instructor, where I'd teach little kids and even babies to float, to be safer in the water. A friend of ours lost her baby to drowning, and these things are weighing heavily on my mind. I have 12 (#13 in the oven) grandchildren too. Even though I've taught some to swim, I can't help but think about taking it further. Musing on that this week. Bucket lists and goals...and mermaids.  

Maggie, Part Deux

Not long after we moved to Villa Rica, there began to be talk about using golf carts on the streets. We were going to be the next Peachtree City. We'd pop over to the local grocery store and I would see people tooling around from the subdivision around the corner. That seemed like a fun idea, and since we lived right in town, I had visions of grandkids and I whizzing about in our own little vehicle. Golf has never been a realistic game for our family -- it seems to me a mysterious life full of money, lots of clingy, collared sports shirts and boring conversations about imaginary birds. All over a little tiny ball that has to cover lots of ground and drop into a miniscule hole. No offense to those who have attained the ability to play it. They say it's almost addictive, it's so enjoyable. I've known a few Golf Widows. 

I've also found that there's an entire culture around the carts that carry people around to those little holes on the golf course. There are utilitarian ones, though those are inevitably the ancient models that are still limping. Very rare and apparently expensive to maintain. Why not just take out a second mortgage on your house and get a new one? Well, we don't do new. We do cheap. 

I began scouring Facebook Marketplace for a used golf cart. Some slick Eastern European gentleman in Peachtree City persuaded me to purchase one such ancient E-Z-Go model. The charger didn't work once I got it home, but he did at least provide another one. That should have been a clue. Ken named her "Maggie" -- a shortened version of the name of our house (Magnolia Rose). She started out a scuffed-up navy blue, with all sorts of plastic curtains hanging around her. A few years later, when our son Daniel and his family lived with us, he stripped all the extra stuff off her, painted her a jaunty red and black (even with him being a Tech fan) and applied party lights and safety gear. We began acquiring stickers from the places we visited and plastering them to her red self.

You take your life into your own hands when you decide to travel the streets of Villa Rica in this manner. The grandkids think it's the best thing since sliced bread. They know the drill: buckle up buttercup and hang on. I have been known to resort to the sidewalks when traffic is high. We're supposed to only travel on the 25 mph streets, but sometimes have to cross the other ones. It's high adventure on a Saturday night. Lunch dates with girlfriends and my family often include a whirlwind tour of the town. It's so much fun I can hardly stand it. 

There's been a great deal of prayer involved with Maggie. You're never quite sure that she's going to make it back. I've found myself stuck in the middle of traffic or on the side of the road too many times. It is no fun to be hauled off the street by any of my enterprising sons who seem to always have ropes and contraptions available in their trucks for such breakdowns. Why would we get a trailer or a wrecker, when it's so convenient to just pull Mama home with a handy vehicle? Somebody has to steer for that, and you can guess who that is.

Over the years, we've put a good bit of money into keeping her limping. Lately, she's been completely MIA because none of us could figure out what was wrong. We finally surrendered and took her to the shop, where she stayed for weeks without a diagnosis. $250 and a lame repair left us worse off than before, but a different shop and two days later we had the answer. Her engine was fried and the repairs were not worth it to us to try to keep her going. After much gnashing of teeth, we traded her for a new model, the "Eco" model, which sounds like it might have something to do with economy but I don't think it does. We don't buy new, but yes we did. What it does have is sparkling, state-of-the-art everything and a two year warranty. Maybe I won't be as easy a target for big trucks barreling around the corners of our town now and we can keep our little ones a bit safer when we take to the road. 

Either way, everyone's delighted and wanting to take a spin. Golf carts are a whole lot slower than motorcycles, so I have a new idea for a bumper sticker: Check THRICE - Save a Life - Golf Carts Are Everywhere. 

I sincerely doubt it's going to help.    

Zippity-Do-Da

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naturally, Politically Incorrect

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adventures in Kidnapping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simple Summers

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

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

Ruminating on Italy

I am home, still and quiet in the morning heat. The awareness that this is not all there is in the world overwhelms me. Just a few days ago, I was hoofing it all over Italy with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble, sweat pouring off me like a faucet. I swore that when I got home I would jump up every day and beat a path around the block, since I'd become accustomed to that in Europe. But alas, I've been in a zombie state since we returned -- I picked up a strange cough over there and my stomach is revolting. I was almost out the door to church on Sunday when the comfy couch and wise husband persuaded me back. 

When two years of planning finally became reality, you would think that the amazing history, buildings and people would be what stands out. There was lots of shuffling of schedules and places, extraordinary feats of physicality needed to make the timeline occur, and the depravity of man to flesh it all out. We fat Americans love our comfort and air conditioning, and by all means don't mess with our acquisition of food. Bathrooms are another problem but I won't go there today. Suffice it to say, even the air in Italy seems to sing. The close proximity of the ocean and the atmosphere brought on by structures that are thousands of years old brings out the artiste in all but the most cynical. We got off the plane in Venice to the sound of water taxis. I saw my life pass before my eyes as both the dock and the boat swayed to the wake of oblivious barges pushing through the canal. No one seemed to worry that we didn't have our sea legs yet. By the third day, we began to figure out the importance of strong thighs and timing. And walking. 

I was immediately struck with not just the beauty of the place, but the beauty of the people. They walked on cobblestones everywhere with ease, lightly dressed and relaxed. In America, even thin people seem to have cellulite. Not the Italians, with their olive, smooth skin and candle-lit complexions. Must be all the fresh food and the walking. No GMO-infused produce here. There was definitely some eye-rolling at our silliness. How could we not be silly, when we had passed into a portal that defied time, culture, proximity? The oldest things we have in the U.S. are the chimneys left over from a couple of centuries ago. 

The wonders that we were seeing on our frantic, much-overbooked tour (if it were up to me, I'd stay for a few weeks in a single town, soak up the aura and shops and cafes and then make occasional day-trips to the various places) were striking awe into all of us. What I didn't expect was what would go on in me internally. In this awe-inspiring place, and with our bevy of musicians trying to scurry to where we were supposed to be...I found myself invisible. I was struggling valiantly to keep up with the necessities, walking with a bum knee that's anticipating surgery next month and scolding myself for not having lost a hundred pounds over the last two years. Or at least twenty. I knew we were planning on doing this thing, but somehow floated in the ether, practicing my flute diligently but vacillating with the Oreos. They are such good dance partners. 

But me, invisible. Being humbled is a good thing, but is never a welcome thing. We might even say, "Humble me, Lord" but we don't really mean it. With my diminished physical capacity, combined with the tour's hurry-on-up-or-you-get-left-behind mantra, I sweated like a stuck pig and tried to look at the marvels while not tripping on the cobblestones. Sounds miserable, yes? Yes, it was. And then it was wonderful. 

We played five concerts over there, arriving to each place with our clothes plastered to our bodies. How would we possibly play with any skill, since we'd already depleted all our strength? But each time, we settled into our seats with music and instruments in hand, breathing in the magnificence of the places we found ourselves in. As Maestro tested the rooms with the music during warm-up, the notes floating above us like gossamer threads, something took over and magic was made. Italians who attended held their hands over their hearts, some of them weeping. We wept too. 

I thought about life, so brief. We believe we are so important, so necessary to the universe. How often do I poke my head beyond my own cossetted, protected little world to think about someone outside my comfort zone? There's a great, big planet rotating out there and it's not dependent on me for the gravity. I might be chewing on this for a long while...