Star Spangled Thanks

I woke to the sound of hammers and men shouting this morning. I threw on my clothes and walked the dog to see workers on top of the old mansion across the street, the "Marchman" home that has been embroiled in much controversy over the years we have lived in Villa Rica. Opinions seem to fall in two camps: Save It - or - Tear It Down For More Parking Spaces. As a lover of all things antique, I want to save all the old houses that need saving. But just because I want that to happen doesn't mean that it's going to happen. Unless I put my money where my mouth is (or my labor), I can't expect the world to just manifest my wishes. I see a lot of people protesting, but until they are willing to put boots to the ground (or dollars), the point is pretty moot. Meanwhile, somehow, I pray this beautiful old place gets restored to its former glory. Ken and I have offered our mad construction skills but no takers yet...they might think ours have expired and they might just be right.  

It takes a lot to keep up these ancient homes. Ours is now 122 years old and there's always something trying to give way or sag or rot. We've owned many domiciles over the years, though, and the truth is that the 2nd law of thermodynamics applies to every house, old or new. If you don't keep applying energy to said structures, they will eventually rot and fall down. Add to that the constant American urge to update everything every few years, and it just costs you, whether you do it yourself or not. 

As we sat on our insanely wonderful front porch last night, with sweaty, grungy grandkids running circles around the yard, classic childhoods complete with lightning bugs and cousins...I gave thanks to God for so many things. Grateful for the many veterans who have given their lives to buy and keep our freedom, grateful that somehow we've been able to own our homes these many years, grateful for the gift of grown children and their wonderful spouses, and grateful for the hope that grandchildren bring. They are growing up in such volatile days -- I worry that they might see more trouble than I've seen, that their lives might face trials and tribulations that are unbearable. Then I remember that they were born for such a time as this and their purposes are in God's hands, no matter what wild imaginations I might conjure up. 

We enjoyed our zany Memorial Day, full of food, dessert, laughter, love, deep discussions and not a little dirt on the floors. Speaking of Veterans, we parsed out some of Ken's Dad's things (he went to glory last month) to the kids. It was fun to look at the pictures and memorabilia and to think of him without pain and with a right mind. He was military (a Navy SeaBee) to the end, everything seen in black-and-white, all rules, no gray. That can be quite aggravating, when you're butterfly-ish or taking a road less traveled. But we need those people. We need the ones who will stand on the wall for us, do the hard things, be willing to lay down their lives for the greater good. It's not Happy Memorial Day, just Memorial Day. Hand over heart.  

I'll Think About It Tomorrow....

My sister and I are examining ourselves as to why we have a problem with food, except I'm pretty much done with navel gazing. I see that it protrudes more than it should, and then it recedes. Then the cycle begins again. In the 70s, we were all lean and nobody went to CrossFit. There was literally one big lady in our church, and I wondered why she was so fluffy and her husband was so skinny. Now we're mostly all fluffy. If you spend any time on the internet, you'll find all these reasons -- from food addiction to gut biome. If you just buy this supplement or sign up for yet another plan, you will finally get victory. And don't get me started on "the shot."

Why is food so good? And why does obsessing about anything just seem to make it worse? Yet, when I don't obsess, I get basically the same results, just quicker. Back in those 70s, we ate ice cream, popcorn with lots of margarine (yikes, maybe that's what clogged our arteries -- butter disappeared for a few decades), plenty of carbs and real food. There was lard in the homemade biscuits, real bacon, cobblers made of blackberries we picked out in the field. But not Twinkies, specialty coffees, Coca-Cola (except the rare occasion, and that in a tiny little glass bottle) or McDonalds. I believe the first time I ate at a McDonald's, it was on a field trip in high school. It seemed strange to me, somewhat lifeless and generic. Along the way, however, Pizza Hut and ice cream loomed large. 

My sister does not look like she needs to lose much weight. She gains her pounds all over, instead of being isolated to one particular spot. It's probably because she never stops moving. Add to that she has five-gozillion kids (well, only eleven) and maybe a couple dozen grandkids, and her propensity to cook for everybody instead of going out... sometimes I tell her she needs to chill for a minute. Alas, her highly-motivated self is going to Overeaters Anonymous and reporting back to me each week. I need to go too, but I'm too busy contemplating the universe. We're having interesting talks about food and our childhood and why we love the taste of Chick-Fil-A in the morning.  We're in our golden years and have been having these conversations since high school, and the answers are as elusive as ever. Ironically, back then, we thought we were fat. 

I haven't held back from living my life, just because I don't look like Twiggy. Swimming, climbing ladders, going to all the things, laughing loud and being in the moment are important enough that I'm not waiting around until the elusive svelte side of me decides to re-reveal herself. I'll keep aiming for what I should be eating, keep fighting the good fight...but I'm starting to think we're missing some key ingredient and there's just no figuring out what that is. Discipline, calories-in and calories-out, eating in moderation, fasting, keto, 12-step-programs...I've done them all and am still wrestling with the devil. I'm tired, just thinking about it. 

I was supposed to lose a trillion pounds this past year, because I'm going to Italy with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble next month. Didn't happen. I took my eye off the ball and now I'm limping around the bases, praying my bum knee holds out for the duration. But I have a plan: As the Lord wills, I'm going to eat, drink, enjoy all the people and sights that I can stand, flop my feathery self all over Italy. I'm going to be grateful for every little thing, even the hard things (I hear that finding bathrooms can be quite the adventure), because I'm probably not doing this again. They say the light there is amazing and the coffee is to die for. There's amazing things to see and good friends to see it with. Viva Italia and Carpe diem (that's not Italian, I'm pretty sure)!    

Fireworks On the Lake

We did the dreaded cleanout of my Father-in-law's apartment last week. I've been privy to many of these scenarios, as much of my real estate career involves the sale of estate homes. Often (unfortunately), there's crabbiness, hurt feelings, competition for the bits of things left over after death. I've seen normally-sane people reduced to toddlerhood when the grabbing begins. Thank God, this wasn't how our weekend went down. I don't know how this is possible, but my husband, his brother and sister are all Alphas. That means they're strong-willed leaders of whatever pack they find themselves in. Each one is bossy, opinionated, almost military in their ability to organize and get things done. There's The Chairman of the Deacons, The Manager, and The Teacher...they have other titles too. My life with the Chairman has been fraught with mutiny and convoluted versions of Capture-the-Flag. Job One is to keep things off-kilter just enough to keep his brain from turning into one giant, immoveable groove. I think often of that old movie, "No Time For Sergeants," (hilarious) where the head Sergeant aims to train his unit so that everything is quiet and peaceful, like a lake. Similarly, Ken's Dad, Ken and his siblings all have had this desire to level all the worlds around them to run smoothly. It's really best you go along with their plans. Now think about three of these Alpha dogs in one room. Seal the door and just imagine what kinds of fireworks could conspire. But God...

We had the sweetest of days. Everyone rustled through the necessaries, speaking up when something mattered to them, but also giving way to the others. A spirit of cooperation made the work light and the feelings kind. Trips were made to Goodwill, the trash was placed at the street, boxes and bags made their way to our trucks, as if we need one. more. thing. We finished up our time up in a loud, bustling restaurant and talked, laughed, ate. As we wended our way back to our vehicles, my thought was that the day could not have gone better. 

Now my house is crowded up with things to hand out to our children and maybe the Goodwill store. One thing we brought home was a giant credenza that needed paint. Ken knew that I was toast, so he set everything up on the carport, even bought the paint and primed the boombox with one of my playlists. It was a cool evening and he promised to sit out there with me while I worked. He knows that my FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) is pert-near a sickness with me, and the best way to get me to do something is to make a party out of it. He is not allowed to get near a paintbrush in my presence. This is not because he's sloppy, oh no, far from it. He takes extreme care not to make a mess and paints very carefully. One time, we were painting about 20 doors in a new house. I painted five doors and went to check on him. He was still on his first one, with nary a drip anywhere. But the paint on the door was so thin, I had to do it all over. That's the day I fired him from ever painting again. Sometimes I suspect this was actually part of a grand plan and I am the one who has been duped for the last fourty years. I'll take it. I love the smell of paint in the morning. Or pretty much any time. Now I have a beautiful, creamy white credenza for our lovely guest room and we had our little soiree on the porch. Meanwhile, Dad's having a party up there, with his very own serene, quiet lake and Jesus. Life is good. 

Jupiter Singin'

There's not enough people playing the really good music that's in the world. I love all sorts, from current pop (some) to bluegrass, from hymns to 70s rock, from folk and soundtracks to classical....and everything in between. When I have grandchildren in my car, I like to expose them to all manner of songs. Sometimes they like it, sometimes not. We talk about what the song is discussing or how it makes them feel. As of late, the winners have been the soundtracks to "Top Gun: Maverick" and "Rudy," along with the suite of pieces from Gustav Holst's 1916 "The Planets." Our wind ensemble (Carrollton Wind Ensemble) played some of the Holst a couple of years ago, and I fell in love with the complicated and rich tapestry of his compositions. I'm a barefooted country girl at heart, still wandering through this world picking up the wondrous pieces of artistic genius that drift across my path. How lucky I am, as are you, to live with so much beauty around us. So easy to forget it's right there within our grasp. 

It was on a recent weekend that two of our grandchildren were staying with me (Ken had to work). As we went about our errands, I played the Holst pieces, us all agreeing that "Jupiter" was our favorite. Fashioned after the Greek gods, Jupiter is jolly, boisterous and fun. At a long 7+ minutes, it never gets boring. For us flutes, it's nigh impossible to play with all the trills and runs. The brass play, answering the woodwinds with their pompous and proud postering. Then suddenly, in the middle of it, there is the loveliest hymn in the solar system: "O God, Beyond All Praising."  We sing this often at our church and I love the tune and the words. I heard it first on a Charlotte Church album, where she sang the original patriotic British version: "I Vow To Thee My Country." At that time, I knew nothing of Holst or The Planets. I just knew I loved the haunting melody and the noble words that plucked at my heart strings. Yes, there is music that makes you want to stand up and be brave. 

Maddie and Caiden loved Jupiter and we played it numerous times. After errands and lunch, they plopped in front of the TV to watch Bluey while I snuck in a nap on my recliner. Maddie piped up, "Yaya!! It's that song again!" They were playing the hymn from Jupiter, right there in a Bluey episode. We couldn't believe our windfall. Then it was time to leave for a wedding and we had to play it again on our way (children like grooves). Entering the lovely setting of the church -- fresh flowers and lovely young people were everywhere -- we sat quietly as the prelude played. When it was time to seat the parents and grandparents of the bride and groom, a now-very-familiar hymn began to play. I thought my two enthusiastic grandchildren were going to knock over their chairs. The weekend wound down and I met up with their Mama to deliver them. We told her about our musical escapades, laughed, and went our separate ways.

I know I shouldn't ever do this, but when my grown children text me during church, I can't help but look. During Sunday School, I got a message from my daughter-in-love. She and the children had gone to church that day with their Mimi. As they were sitting quietly during the prelude, Mr. Holst inserted himself into the hymnody. Maddie and Caiden squirmed and giggled as they pointed out the obvious. 

Why things like this line up sometimes, I'll never know. Maybe there's a divine intervention going on. I might need to print out the words of that hymn and get studyin'... Either way, my grandkids know a bit more of the delightful parts of life.