Amazing Graceland

I've never understood why there are so many movies about road trips. The plot is usually some exhausting setup where there's bound to be plenty of conflict and trials, usually involving deep childhood trauma and toxic bitterness. Worse than that are the game-shows that combine a race and a road trip...don't get me started. My cortisol levels are peaking already and the thought of watching someone else run in contrived circles makes me nuts. Races are great -- there's a beginning and an end -- everybody hurries and somebody wins. It's when you put stops and starts and strange side hustles in that I exit, stage right.  

I have been on many a road trip. As a child, our vacations consisted of an annual or bi-annual visit to our Grandmother's home in Illinois. Back then, it took better part of a day to get there from Georgia, mostly on Highway 41. We got to see the goat man most years (he traveled up and down that highway with a passel of goats, looking pretty forlorn). Daddy always stopped at Stuckey's on the way, where he bought a giant pecan roll and doled it out to us a chunk at a time. I still pick one of those up (despite my better judgment) when Ken and I travel and it reminds me of my fun Daddy and a rollicking childhood. That's my problem. I need to grow up and quit eating contraband. Those trips were usually done with five of us in a tiny Volkswagen or Ford Pinto, without air conditioning, us kids curling up and sleeping much of the way. We played games (Punchbug!) and sang stupid songs. There were no tablets or movies, just our imaginations and the Sandman. Our folks were content and frugal, but happy. That upbringing still serves me well. Now, the simple things are enough, and the extras are a delightful surprise.

Last week found us on another road trip, this one with Ken's sister and our brother-in-law to visit their brother and his wife near Orlando. We took Ken's monster truck, despite the fact that three of us needed the ladder to get in and out. Sometimes I get brave and twist myself in there without it, then I wonder what is wrong with my reamed-out right arm in the middle of the night. Melissa and I rarely get to talk for long periods of time, so we commenced the ratchet-jawing and didn't stop for some eight hours, with potty breaks, then repeated the same on the way back home. I really love her and enjoy her no-nonsense Norton-ness, which is counter to all my fluff. Besides being smart and level-headed, she is an amazing conversationalist and there is no one-sided exchange. She asks good questions and is interested in what others have to say. She also deserves extra crowns in heaven for taking good care of Ken's Dad the last few years of his life. 

The subject of siblings is always a mixed bag. There are so many dynamics, good and bad, that affect the relationships. There are different seasons of life, spouses, jobs, children, difficulties, and what appears to be luck-of-the-draw that can change literally everything when emerging from childhood. We all take our different roads, leading to who knows where, and we also take pieces of our people along with us. Sometimes it seems like life is laying down a track in our souls, a recording with bits and bobbles of the folks and the circumstances we encounter along the way. This trip included three siblings with very different paths, albeit with similar core values of work ethic, morality and faith. They couldn't be more different in expression, but each as strong-willed as bulls, with a lot of potential for conflict.

And there has been that. I've often wondered what would happen if you put these three strong souls in a room and sealed the door for a week -- who would come out on top? Melissa laughingly says, "Me!" Hopefully, we don't ever have to test that scenario. Without going into too many details, I have seen  forgiveness, humility and mostly the grace of God enable these three to come to peace. Often, death brings out the best and the worst in people. About half of my real estate business deals with estates and the fallout from probate court. I've seen angels but definitely more devils, when it comes to dividing up the old folks' stuff and facing unresolved conflicts in a family. 

We drove, ate, bobbed in the pool while the guys worked on projects, ate some more, talked around the table and just had a generally great time. That grace of God is a very, very good thing. I highly recommend it...  

Larger Than Life

In our little town of Villa Rica (well, it used to be little but something is happening), there's an anomaly sitting on the side of Hwy 61, right as you roll into town. It's a 9-foot-tall bunny named Mr. Atterholt, sitting on the side of a hill next to the cutest cottage imaginable. I am friends with his caretakers, Pink and Red. Pink is an artist who carves whimsical and delightful scenes and characters out of wood. She also has the most creative and quirky eye for decorating I have ever seen. Her cottage is a delightful, eye-watering confection. Each time I've been invited in, I stumble around with my mouth gaping -- her ability to see and find the things that bring joy and the unexpected goes beyond the pale. I don't get jealous, but sometimes I do when I visit Pink, such is her cleverness. What a treat for the eyes, and also a treat for my soul when I spend time with her. She is hilarious, irreverent, sassy and straightforward. I love people that tell it like it is and then make you laugh.  Her husband, Red, is a retired fireman and appears to be completely on board with her outrageous ideas and projects. He builds, paints and kits out whatever she comes up with. What a sweet partnership.

Mr. Atterholt's history is a long and convoluted one. Many years ago, the town of Odessa, Texas had a jackrabbit problem. The citizens fought them valiantly at first but then decided to embrace their dilemma. The humble jackrabbit became their city mascot. Similar to our University of West Georgia project, where multiple fiberglass copies of their mascot, the Wolf, were scattered about Carrollton, with artists embellishing each one with different designs -- a boat manufacturer in Odessa created a giant jackrabbit mold and created six copies of the Odessa Texas mascot. One of them sits in the center of Odessa, but the others have made their way to new homes -- New York, Kansas, and our own Villa Rica, and Pink is not sure where the other two reside (or have met other fates). At some point in the past, a man named Mr. Atterholt purchased one - he owned a daycare in Smyrna, where he displayed him. He eventually sold his business and moved to a horse farm on Villa Rica-Dallas Hwy in Powder Springs, and set the bunny up in a conspicuously-placed pasture. Teenagers at McEachern High School (go blue and gold!) would steal him and move him around, putting him in hilarious spots around town. The Atterholts would retrieve him and put him back in his spot. This went on for years in good fun, until Mr Atterholt died. In 1998, Pink and Red bought him from an estate sale. The bunny had a broken ear (probably from too many late-night raids on the farm), but resourceful Red fixed his ear and the bunny became Mr Atterholt, replete with his own sign. In 2008, the whole troupe moved to downtown Villa Rica, on the corner of Walker Street and Hwy 61, where he reigns as prince of the town for all to see.

As the turning of the years and seasons go by, Pink's creativity and Red's ingenuity transform Mr. Atterholt into different characters. He has been seen as an alien, scarecrow, beach bum, Irish shamrock, Valentine, Princess Leia, Easter bunny, gardener, bus driver, and many more creations. I live here and go by him multiple times a week, but always have to notice what he's got going on. Our grandchildren squeal and want us to drive by, particularly in our golfcart, for pictures and to see what new role he is playing. 

On occasion, Pink has asked me to paint him. Red gets the "base" color and then I embellish various things onto his person. That has always been a blast, and Pink asked me to help last week. What I thought would take an hour or two turned into a half-marathon, because who can stop, when the company is engaging and fun, and Pink's ideas bring the magic to the project? We made him into a debonair gentleman, with white fur and a Alice-in-Wonderland-worthy vest. Fresh nose and eyes and fluff to the fur, and he was brand new. Pink says that he has about 36 layers of base paint, since they bought him in '98. 

I told her they can't ever move, because Mr Atterholt, their quirky cottage and their wonderful personalities bring so much joy to Villa Rica. Thank you, Pink and Red, for a spot of fun and happiness on our way to everything else!

Amelia June-bug

I was putting a little, adorable, Dennis-the-Menace-kind-of three year old to bed tonight. He wasn't really ready for that event, as he had fallen asleep earlier in the car. And even though he'd had a snack, a dance party with his siblings, prayers and songs, he still thought that sleeping was a bad idea.  After a few trips back and forth, to make sure he had every possible need taken care of, I talked to him about his make-believe friend, the Tiger Truck. He likes to tell his Mama and his siblings about their adventures in his dreams. I told him to think about what him and Tiger Truck were going to do, and to also talk to Jesus until he went to sleep. His words to me were: "welllll....uhhhh...but He's dead." I might have cracked a rib, I laughed so hard. After reiterating the story he's heard all of his little life, he commented, "He did? Oh yeah, I forgot." The simple honesty of a child is a wonderful thing. They'll tell you straight-up about your waistline, your inconsistencies and your morning breath and love you anyway. 

We've had quite the waiting game for grandbaby number 14. We didn't go to Scotland, the Grand Canyon or the campground during Ken's plant's shutdown (even though my chances of getting that man to go across the pond are next-to-nothing), anticipating little Miss Amelia's arrival and the need to help with her four siblings. Just about go-time, I developed red, runny eyes (after teaching art to a hundred kiddos at Bible camp. Apparently there was an epidemic going around).  The daughter-in-love that is never late was late. A couple of different antibiotics dripped in my eyes and I was better. Then a crazy delivery, replete with an emergency C-section and at least one quantifiable miracle, and the anticipated baby made it into the world, replete with doe-like eyes like saucers and chubby cheeks that will require many future smooches.  

It's easy to forget the on-game that young children require. They need feeding (and often), vigilance in large crowds, overseeing when quiet and slipping away to other rooms, and  plenty of explanations. There is nothing sweeter at the end of the day when everyone's clean, teeth are brushed, prayers are said and the last song is sung. I remember then my own children, the end of days not that long ago and the turning of the planets and clocks that whisk us so desperately forward. My body aches, doesn't want to move and a brain that wants to revert to the diet preferences of a child. I stood today in my daughter-in-love's kitchen, trying to remember how to plan a decent meal. Just yesterday, I was whipping out meat-and-threes like a chef on fire. When the Preacher in Ecclesiastes talks about us being grass burned up in the oven, I'm just-a feeling that right about now. Grasping at time while the body lags a half-step behind, and in our ADHD-addled society, we've forgotten the importance of slowing down. That it's okay to be simple, to pinch off just a little at a time, to savor, to linger, to turn the stinkin' phone over. I talk about this a lot, because I am my own worst enemy.

Meanwhile, there's a sweet, beautiful baby in the world tonight. Hope and joy mingle together, pushing the worry aside. Tomorrow's another day, and she was born for such a time as this. As were we...  

Baby Advent

A few months back, Papa Bear and I were discussing his July 4th "shutdown week" at work. It's an additional week of vacation for him and we have thoroughly enjoyed it every year, even though it occurs when the fires of Mount Doom meet the storm clouds of the tropics, producing the hottest and most humid blanket of mosquito-loving weather ever. When our kids were young, we used to lay out an old door in the front lawn and blow up fireworks. We were especially gifted at setting the woods on fire. I have traumatized numerous nieces and nephews with Aunt Rose's obligatory cigar-smoking during said events. Even so, a lit cigar is the absolute best thing to light fireworks with. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. 

Papa had the great idea to get his passport last year, since he is working for Honda and might need training in Japan. He wouldn't do that when I was planning to go to Italy, seeing all the sights and eating delicious food, but he's good with doing it so he can look at metal parts and robots in a factory. He might be more comfortable with factories than actual people. I still love him, I do. But since he's now travel-ready, we discussed going to Ireland or Scotland or the like, since that's where most of our DNA comes from. Then we remembered Amelia...

Baby Amelia, number 14 in this arm of the Norton legacy. Baby #5 for our oldest son and his wife, the ones who thought they'd never actually get a child. After much infertility, loss, and trial and error, they now have a house full of exuberant, precocious and wonderful kids. Last night, the youngest, Knox, told me, "I can't wait to see her!" What some folks don't know is that kids in a big family end up loving the babies. Then we try not to ruin them. No, we're not Catholic or Mormon, but maybe passionate Protestants...Anyway, Amelia June is due any day and besides, who wants to get on a plane right now?  

Last week was a flurry of activity. Our church has a "Bible and Music Camp" instead of a typical VBS. There are no silly posters or mass-produced consumables in their program -- it's like nothing I've ever seen. The children sing (and really LEARN to sing) and harmonize, play simple instruments, learn folk dancing, do art projects and hear the Word. They had a ball. This is my fourth year to go to the presentation night, and my first year to help (with art). It took me back to my youth, happy days where we lined up in front of Orange Hill Baptist Church and marched in to "A Mighty Fortress." This church has captured the innocence of childhood that I have not seen in many years and I was so happy to be a part of it. I collapsed in a heap over the weekend but am inching slowly out of my cave today. 

I've been asked many times what I would do with myself after our nest emptied out. I'll let you know when that happens...     

Purging, Pea Protein and Praise

I've been driving all over Rome, Georgia for the last couple of weeks, helping clients look for a house. It takes me an hour or more to get there. Usually this is the not-fun part (long drives), but I have so enjoyed these jaunts through beautiful country. The hills are green and verdant, with plenty of old houses and cows to gaze at. Floyd County only has a few towns and I seem to love all of them, particularly Cave Spring and Rome. I turn on Pandora  music (Jim Brickman or Alan Silvestri stations) and breathe deep. I might also call a friend or family member and visit on the phone with them for a bit. When you know you're stuck in the car for a stretch and without much traffic, it's a great way to catch up. 

Meanwhile, who thought it was a great idea to do a "liver detox"? I am certain that my fat, old-ish liver would like a break. That translates to: take a bunch of very expensive supplements, drink nasty protein powder (pea powder, of all things -- and who in the world likes peas?), chop up scads of vegetables and fruits, throw raw things into the blender and try to drink it. All without gagging. Mind you, I really do love vegetables of all types, raw, roasted, sauteed...but there is a limit, even for me. After four days of this, my entire body revolted. From my scalp to the other end, I felt nauseous and sick. They say that's because you really need to be doing it. But my poor polluted self had a hissy fit. I missed my niece's graduation party and threw myself into a prone position on my recliner, the cats delighted with their big, warm, unmoving comfy pillow. I've been pretty much there ever since, drinking fluids and whining. The pizza I had last night seemed to help everything, however. Ken has been known to say, "I need a little grease in my life" but little is not in my vocabulary. It makes sense that in order to detox, I'm going to have to go backwards from where I currently am. I've done some crazy things to get healthy, then lots of backsliding. Question is, do I have the courage to start this back up?  Life would be simpler if I could just not eat and quit having to make all these decisions. It's what, when, how much, how often. I'm exhausted. I guess I could do that (not eat) because I've definitely got some extra stored up in here.'' Inquiring minds want to know... 

Leaving those thoughts, I'm so grateful that we actually have food, water, soap (don't knock it), a home, people that love us, grandkids, kitty cats, good neighbors, wonderful church family, the beauty of the earth around us and still, a free country. There is so much to be thankful for and it's too easy for us to forget those things.   

It's Hot So I Thought About Snow...

Recently as I was tooling around Villa Rica in our golf cart with several squealing grandchildren, a Land Rover crossed our path. On the roof, it had special accoutrements that held skis. Not water, nay, but snow. When such vehicles pass me, whatever stage of life I find myself, I am struck with awe and humility. I think of what kind of life this person must lead, that they casually attach snow skis to their cars here in the Deep South. They must be sophisticated, well-heeled people, living in some other world that I will never approach. Not that I mean to. I've been skiing before, yes I have. It was rather like when Flossie Mae went to the Prom...  

Ken and I were newly married and went on our church's annual ski trip to Boone, North Carolina. People say that if you can ski on the ice in Boone, you can ski anywhere. Our group pulled in to an ancient schoolhouse where we were staying in the mountains. We felt like we had gone back in time. The stone walls and unadorned floors and trim were literally unchanged since a hundred years before. In the main room there was a massive fireplace that was big enough to walk right into. The sleeping quarters were spartan, with cot-like beds and clawfoot tubs. I loved it. Meals were in a dining hall next door, hearty and delicious. At night, we could hear somebody scooping coal down in the basement, to stoke the boiler that was heating the place. Not sure who that was. In our numerous years of staying there, we never knew who was doing that in the middle of the night. A tortured soul from a beleaguered orphanage or an unfortunate ski accident? Who can know...

When we finally arrived at the slopes, I was already intimidated. My beasty husband had already figured out skiing some time before. Being proud and athletic, I brushed off his attempts to help me apply those strange, long things to my already-plenteous feet (I have been told they resemble gun-boats. And Hobbit feet. But I care not and will go barefoot as often as humanly possible). I told him I was going to practice on the bunny slope, and to please go ahead. He and his buddies scatted on up to the very top of the mountain, while I attempted to get in line for the kiddy lesson. There was a dozen little kids attached to each other, with an instructor leading them. I began to slide backwards, first flailing about and then desperately trying to grab the ground with my hands, resulting in a fanny-first attack on the poor, tethered kiddos. They and I ended up in a tangled mess on the ground. The instructor did not seemed pleased with me, so I took off my skis and slithered to the snack bar.

After being supplemented with hot cocoa and time away from anyone who might recognize me, I was helped by a kind friend who took me on up to the easy slope and patiently showed me how to snowplow and do a decent slalom. Occasionally, Ken and his man friends would swoosh by and tell me I was doing great (nice to see ya). After half a day of this, Ken decided I was ready for the big slope. I rode up there on the lift, which is an apparatus I will never understand. There's only a little metal bar keeping you from plunging to a certain death, then they expect you to just hop off when you get to the top of Witch Mountain. No hesitating, no stopping, no messing around. Get off and shove off. Miraculously, I did just that.

As we made our way around to the beginning of the run, I looked down and saw that I was about to go see Jesus. Whatever I had done on the intermediate slope had nothing to do with this. But I used those glutes and knees to snowplow my way part-way down. Then I came upon masses of ridges of snow, rather, ice. They call them "Moguls." I will not say what I called them. I found that when I pushed myself more to the outside of the slope, I could manage better. I saw three of Ken's buddies standing to the side, taking a breather. I believed that I needed one of those too, so I angled my skis that way.  This time, however, there was no grabbing the ground or snowplowing my way to safety. I hit a patch of ice and barreled right over those three mangy boy creatures, again ending in a tangled mess. Thankfully, they were nice people and couldn't stop laughing. I took off my skis, walked the rest of the way down and said adios to my skiing career. All later trips were enjoyed with Ken skiing with the boys and Mamasan shopping with the gals. Hurrah for jewelry and chatty lunches. Flossie Mae ain't got time to kill herself that-a-way.   

Come On In, The Water's Fine

I can feel the water calling my name. Be it the beach, a creek or somebody's swimming hole, I need to get on over there. It's pretty scary, to expose these white, fluffy limbs to the sunshine, but I need some buoyancy in my life. 

When I was a child, I was horrified of the water. I had been thrown in a few times and also heard tales of drownings at Sun Valley Beach, the South's "biggest swimming pool," (it was a concrete lake) which was a half a mile from our house. We were always warned not to go in the water for at least thirty minutes after we ate, because supposedly you could get cramps and drown. (And just for good measure, don't swallow your chewing gum, because it won't pass through your digestive tract for seven years). I would splash at the edges, but there was no swimming for me. 

The summer I turned eleven (the other neighborhood kids were already tadpoles), our Uncle Lloyd decided we needed a pool. He bought a 3-foot deep model and slaved over it all week, to get us somewhere to cool off. Since we didn't have central air conditioning in our 60s brick ranch (oven), this was heavenly to us kids. And apparently to my parents too. Many a night, I would hear them giggling out there, taking a midnight "swim."   Having a pool that shallow gave me the confidence to put my head under the water and to push off and glide. I began to imagine myself a tadpole too.  

Then came 4-H camp at Rock Eagle in Eatonton, Georgia. I didn't know a soul when I got there, and on the very first day we had free time at the giant pool. There were two diving boards -- a tall one and a thirty-foot one (not really, but it seemed like it), impossibly deep water and about three hundred strangers. Since I would never see these people again, I had nothing to lose. I waited in line and tentatively jumped, well, fell off the board. My body descended deep into the water. I had never swam in anything deeper than three feet, and here I was, dying on the first try. I thrashed my way up to the surface, gasping for air, and made my way to the ladder. No one seemed to notice what I had just been through. Kids were laughing and talking and even throwing themselves off the high dive, something I decided I would never do. But of course, there were more trips to the board and by the end of the week I joined the crazy kids, not just falling but jumping off the high dive. 

Thus began my love of the water. For my middle school years and all the way through high school, I worked at Sun Valley Beach, teaching little ones to swim and lifeguarding (who lets a 12-year-old teach swimming lessons? But I promise I did, and they even paid us). Each break I got, I would get back into the water, perfecting my dives and swimming around like a mermaid. 

I taught my four children and many of my sister's children to swim, and have never ceased flinging myself into the ocean or lake or pools along the way, no matter how white or floppy I happen to be. It's a wonderful thing, to float and move in the liquid spaces. Even just seeing water is good for the soul. It's dangerous and wonderful and mysterious, all at the same time. 

Seize the day. Don't wait to lose weight or get in shape. Get the old fool out there and dive in (and get your kiddos some swimming lessons).   

Breathing Deep

Warm spring day. Porch fans are turning, everything is green and fragrant. Bees are buzzing, kitten is purring at my feet. The two cottages across the street are blessed with residents who have turned their little yards into havens for wildflowers, birds, and various types of gatherers. Sitting on my front stoop, I chide myself for not doing this every day. My daughter and I chew the fat for awhile on the phone, with chatty baby voices in the background. Four-year-old Ethan announces: "The pool opens in 8 days and then Yaya is going to teach me how to swim!" This, from a conversation he overheard a few months back. Don't ever promise a toddler something unless you plan on doing it (even if he just overheard it). 

I'm so very thankful for the sweet neighborhood we live in. My plan was for our children to grow up in the country, which they did. Then the latter plan, after the Great Downturn of 2008, was to get shed of debt and downsize. We got lucky, upsized rather than downsized, with the cash we had -- to a 3000 square foot ancient Victorian house, smack-dab in the middle of town. It's a great Papa and Yaya house, if I can keep my refrigerator stocked. After all those decades of cooking, I find it way too easy to pop over to town and get food that someone else cooked. The progeny seems content to have pizza, chicken nuggets, and occasionally Yaya's spaghetti. Someday, I might have to get back to the kitchen in a more intentional way. But tomorrow's another day. I'll think about it tomorra...  

One of our conversations on the stoop today was about Cave Spring, Georgia, where we initially planned to have our daughter's wedding. There's a wonderful park there (Rolater) where you can rent the chapel, a two-story old schoolhouse for the reception, and an inn where you can put up your whole family -- all for very reasonable rates. Covid shut the venue down, three weeks before her wedding. We still muse about it a lot...we pivoted and had a much-smaller soiree in our backyard. A blissful, happy day that will sit sweet with us forever. I like to occasionally visit Rolater Park and shop in the tiny town there. There's something kind and gentle about the times I've visited. I might need to go back soon and soak my feet in the spring water that runs out of the hill. 

We've got a loaded weekend ahead -- babysitting grandkids, a funeral for Ken's uncle who died suddenly, Sunday church and then a picnic on Memorial Day (I guess I'll break down and bake a cake). The circle of life parades all around us. Two neighbors ill with cancer; a grandbaby due at the end of next month; uncles dying; plants blooming. To everything there is a season. Turn, turn, turn... 

   

Floodgates of All Kinds

In general, no one expects it to flood (well, there's Noah, and hardly anyone believed him, either). In the great flood that happened here in 2009, we didn't realize what was happening that dark, stormy night. We'd had lots of recent rains, and then it rained a whole 'nother day and night. The sound of it beating on our metal roof was soothing, as we lay down to sleep. Persistent, even roaring, but we thought nothing of it. Ken got up very early to get ready to work, left out while it was still dark. The sky was black as soot and it was still raining buckets. At the time, he was driving a Ford Focus (the really tiny model). He's never been known to take it slow on a curve (yes, that's how I'm going to die), and he hugged the big one coming down the hill from our house at the creek. Well before the bridge, a man in a truck was parked in the middle of the road with his flashers on. Ken skidded to a stop, just in time to see that the creek had turned into a boiling inferno, way past its banks. 

Sometimes I ponder how many times I've nearly been swallowed by many unknown dangers that pass me by. God gave Ken another chance at life that day.

We were stuck at home, Ken, Liz (a senior in high school) and I, for several days until we could get through. We had no idea how many creeks were hemming us in until they swelled up like the Colorado River. Several people died, doing just what Ken almost did. It was surreal, how quickly we reverted a hundred years, without the means or knowledge to truly survive (if the conditions had persisted). I've always thought of us Nortons as tough birds, but then when there's no clean water and your house is completely run on electric power (and there is none), you get humbled real quick. 

There are other floods, tsunamis, wrecks, disasters that come along -- not literal ones, but unexpected sea changes throwing us for a loop. Currently, our church is going through such a disaster, where a pastor has lied, criticized other pastors and even our elders, and had hidden agendas through fake social media accounts. Such a strange way to get dethroned. Usually it's some sexual sin, a hidden affair, embezzling funds that takes down those in leadership. I don't even know if I should talk about it, but it's splattered all over the internet already. What I do know is this: no one is infallible and we all sin, whether we want to admit it or not. "Little" white lies can turn into big ones and can leach the mortar out of a relationship. This I know: man is fallible, God is not. The church is full of hypocrites and I am one. We all need saving, because our hearts continually stray.  "I will lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help comes from the Lord, which made heaven and earth..." from Psalm 121. These are spiritual promises, in the midst of another kind of flood. My heart is seated on the rock, not on shifting sands. 

God's Grace

I will never forget the day that I found out I was a mother. Amongst many details, I knew that my body had shown some changes in recent days. My formerly flat chest seemed to be blooming, and I was literally glowing heat from the inside out. I was afraid to hope, when the doctor drew blood from my arm (which was how they figured these things out, back then). It took days before they called and confirmed that I was carrying our first child. Emotions rushed all over me -- exhilaration and trepidation mixed with the unknown. Could I do this? Could we afford it? How could I, this artsy, fly-by-night semi-hippie have the gravitas needed to be consistent enough to keep a baby alive? How many of my pets lived, only because my Mama fed them? Fears assailed me, but I wanted to stand on the roof and shout with all the joy that came bursting out of my heart. I was of the generation of women who were told that our most important job was to be equal with men, get careers and become "somebody." Domestic bliss was a bad phrase. Mind you, that wasn't how my parents raised me, but that was the message all around us, at school, in advertising, in society. We weren't supposed to be wanting a baby that much. But it was my dream, after all the years of posturing.  

I went to the library and took out books about babies, especially the ones with pictures of what they would look like in utero. I imagined our little bean in there, doing flips and growing tiny fingers and toes. One book in particular got checked out over and over (I eventually bought a copy, during my third pregnancy), because I wanted to keep looking at the changes that would be happening. I felt in my heart he was a boy. We never got a sonogram -- they weren't routine back then. He grew and grew, and I began wondering how I would be able to get him out. The doctors kept saying that he was measuring normal, and would probably weigh between 7-1/2 and 8 pounds, but I knew there was a whole lotta boy in there, and not of mild temperament. He pushed and shoved around like he was ready to stand up. That summer, it was horribly hot and we didn't have central air conditioning. We had an old, rickety window unit in the living room. To my shame, I took to making homemade ice cream (it was a banner year for Georgia peaches) and would sit in front of the A/C eating dishes of it to keep cool. When there were chances to get into water with anybody, I was there. I remember racing my Mama and her friend across the Powder Springs pool, a week late, and winning. These things matter. 

In quiet moments, Ken and I would pray for our baby. We so wanted to raise him right and felt scared and unprepared. My vision for this child was that he would be a light in the darkness, bold and true. We decided to name him Jonathan Uriah, which means "God's gift and flame of God" (and he is just that). He came out flaming and yelling, all 10 pounds, 8 oz of him. Then came the flurry of three more huge babies in rapid succession, with us working on dilapidated houses in- between. During pregnancies, I had a "vision" for each one -- their personalities were strong and obvious, even before they were born. Daniel Josiah - "God is my judge and The Lord Heals" (that man is a wonderful juxtaposition of tough and sweet); Jesse Caleb - "God is real and God is faithful" (our youth pastor son who wholeheartedly loves Him); Elizabeth Hope - "God is my oath and Hope" (our devoted, steadfast, funny girl).  God gives babies to us when we're young, otherwise we'd never make it. Even with my youth, I remember feeling so profoundly tired in those years that all I wanted for Mother's day was a night in a hotel room and sleeping as long as I wanted. Young mothers know what I'm talking about. 

The days are long, but the years are fast, says the old saying, but it's true. In a flash, they were grown and having their own babies. In my youth, I thought of 40-year-olds as old, and grandparents as folks who rocked on the front porch and not much else. Little did I know that youth was fleeting and that there's a whole lot going on besides rocking chairs, then suddenly your babies are the 40-year-olds. I didn't count on not being able to climb scaffolding when I was 100 (it's probably because I quit doing it all along the way). 

What I do know is this: not everyone gets to have babies, and not everyone wants them. My heart aches for those who want them but can't. Our family didn't have a big, fancy party for this holiday, but what I received is simply the best. Four conversations with my four children, some of them deep into the night. Four precious people, flawed and still perfect to me, who make the world a better place. Jewels, money, careers, pfffft. This is the stuff dreams are made of...  

Easter Song and Medicare on the Horizon

I love Easter, the remembrance of Christ's death and resurrection. To me, it's way better than Christmas. And this year, the advent of it seemed sweeter than ever. The trees and flowers (as well as the pollen) have bodaciously sprung forth. The bluebirds are chittering in the trees, everything ridiculously green. Spring and the ensuing Easter always feel like hope personified. 

We've had a lot going on recently -- just got back from a week of camping (with a lot of rain and crabby joints), then the week of preparing for family and all the birthdays surrounding this time of year. There was Good Friday service, then Annabelle's 12th birthday party to be had on Saturday, then Sunday morning church (I bought 3 dresses on Amazon, hoping one might be okay --that's where we are now), Sunday lunch and then the family was coming to our house Sunday evening for our annual egg hunt and baskets and dinner. Everybody throws in and it's the highlight of the year, to me. 

Saturday, I felt icky but kept aiming at getting the Easter baskets ready and the house in semi-normal shape. I couldn't find my ceramic bunnies that normally live in our giant built-in china cabinet. I looked everywhere for them, remembering that I had used them recently for a church tea, and I pondered out loud if I'd ever see them again. Ken just said, "They'll show up eventually." No! I scoured the barn, to no avail. It didn't make sense and my heart fell. I love those silly bunnies. But I know that once again, it's just stuff. By then, I should have showered, but didn't. It was time to leave for Annabelle's party (at the church) when Ken found me in the barn. He usually makes no comment on my appearance except to say I'm cute, once in awhile. I was standing there in my cat-hair-covered outfit that was considered cute that morning, but he said, "Are you going to do something about your hair?" I crabbed, "Of course, I'll brush it in the car on the way." Then he asked, "Aren't you hot? That outfit looks hot. Why don't you change into a dress. It will be cooler." I said, "Why? I thought you liked this outfit" to which he stated: "Welllll, it looks kinda dowdy." This is something he has never said to me in 43 years of marriage. I guess I should have been huffy but I wasn't and just said, "We're going to be late! Nakitta said she wanted me there early to help with Annabelle's cake." "We've got time -- just hurry up and change" said the errant male. I threw on the coolest dress I could find, put a brush through my hair and jumped in the car with Annabelle's present and some chips to help with the meal. When we arrived precisely at 5:30 (the man knows time, which sometimes makes me homicidal), the parking lot was full. Our son, Daniel, met us at the door. I suddenly thought maybe I got the time wrong, but Daniel said that there was an event going on at church and he had come early because he had to get back to work soon. We walked into the door and into the gym, where a dozen boatloads of people cried out "Surprise!" Right now, it is two days later and I'm still trying to process the shock. I literally had no clue that this was going to be anything but Annabelle's party (she was born slap-dab on my birthday, happy-happy day). A throng of our grandchildren surrounded me as we all laughed and crowed. It was the sweetest of times, as Ken and I went around to all the tables thanking old friends and new, and our family. There was excellent, home-smoked barbecue and fixin's, then there was old-fashioned folk dancing on the gym floor (I'm still sore from just two dances) and lots of love and laughter. It was a glimpse of heaven and I'll probably never get over it. Oh yeah, and there were my bunnies, decorating some of the tables...

And if all that wasn't enough, there was Sunday church, with glorious music, scripture and hymn-singing, then more amazing music with the choir along with the children's choir (I might have just floated on up). The message given was one of light and hope and joy, just what you should expect from the Christian's high holiday. Evening came, with our annual Easter egg hunt in the yard and supper, then collapsed in the backyard with kids all around, hyped up with the sugar. By the time everyone left I could hardly move. It will take us a week to get all the crumbs and Easter grass up off the floor, but we are buoyed up for heck, another year or two. 

"He is not here, for He is risen as He said!" Matthew 28:6  But He is now in our hearts and for that, we are so grateful.  

Home Fires

Pinterest kind-of ruined it for licensed decorators. Now we're all decorators, even if it's just a cut-and-paste kind of thing. My years of decorative painting were sometimes done under the projects of professional designers. It was fun to be let loose with their vision of beauty for their clients and I was privileged to work with some amazing artisans. Rarely did they ever hold me back on what I wanted to do in a space. "Space" -- how many times are we going to hear that word on another HGTV program before we lose our minds? Between so much overuse of the the words "space" and "narrative" I might just pop a gasket. 

All posturing aside, a lovely home is a gift to those who live in it. Be it a mansion or a grass hut, when there is thoughtfulness and intention for those who live there, it becomes a base and touchstone, even a reason to go on. I grew up in a very clean, modest home in the suburbs of Atlanta. We didn't even have air conditioning in that small brick oven of a house, but it was as comforting and reassuring as any dream. The real and raw people living inside it were never perfect, but redeemed by the blood of the Lamb. That's what lots of folks don't understand. You don't find Jesus because you've gussied up your goodness enough to be accepted by Him. No, it's the dirty, the unwashed, the unworthy who find Him, when they cry out in their lostness. He covers the depraved with His worthiness and they break free, gifted with new, healed hearts. Still not perfect, but indeed covered. 

When we married, 43 years ago, our church and family blessed us with sweet gifts at our wedding. There were strawberry-infused Melamine plates and sunshiny yellow linens and towels. I augmented everything by scrounging at yard sales and thrift shops, a tradition my family swore by. We're still doing that -- FB Marketplace and Craigslist replaced the Atlanta Advertiser that we perused until it was dog-eared. My Daddy used to leave out on a Saturday, saying, "I'm gonna go see about a dog." Us kids would run to the car, hoping there was something involving any kind of animal, though it usually wound up being about car parts, new-to-us curtains or hand-me-down jeans. 

 In the humblest of abodes, cheer and warmth can be brought to its occupants. A scrubbed floor, a slip of a bright curtain at the window, the smell of lemons and a simple candle...all things to show that someone cares. Home should be a safe place. It doesn't have to be fancy, expensive or matched. The thought really is the thing that matters. I've been at the humble end of things and also at the fair-to-middlin' end of things, but the sentiment is the same. Make it so your people think: "There's no place like home." 

Yellow Snow?

I think we are still not over the effects of the Covid debacle that had us hamstrung five years ago. We were stuck at home so long, were taught to avoid the physical presence of people, figured out how to order all our stuff online or with the touch of a button or two...so we became those floaty people in the movie "Wall-E." Or at least I am heading perilously close to that. I used to enjoy the whole adventure of shopping, but now my patience monitor has gotten extremely short and I can feed the instant gratification monster with a few clicks while I wait for the light to turn. They'll have my hairspray waiting on the front porch by morning, in its own bag. I have guilt, for all the bags and boxes that are flooding over here. Well, apparently not enough guilt to change my ways. It seems to be the human default, to take the easiest path home. 

We have numerous activities looming: a week-long camping trip with family and church family; Easter and the joy of Good Friday and morning service at church (my favorite remembrance of the year - He is alive!); the eventual cessation of the pollen; a trip to Ken's brother's in Florida in May. Then comes the heat... Thinking about what to do, to get moving more. My trips to the pool are too infrequent and the conveniences of restaurants and pre-packaged food might be killing us all. What a dour attitude. Get going, sistah.

My favorite greenhouse is open now: Georgia Bluebird Greenhouses in Rockmart. I have been waiting all winter for them to unlock the doors. Their plants are rich and green, and their staff knows what to do with them. Years ago, I planted Creeping Fig all along the wall that abuts the street. If you don't know this plant, just head yourself to Charleston and note all the vines decorating its beautiful self, the ones that have smaller, sweeter leaves than ivy. That's Creeping Fig and I want it everywhere. Will see if the Bluebird has some to add to my collection, plus some ferns, succulents, groundcover and anything unique to gussie up my Victorian yard. We quit putting weed killer on it years ago and let the clover and moss take over. Now the bees have their way and it's much softer on  bare feet. I'd head there now, but the pollen reading was 14,800 -- 5,000 more than any earlier levels. 5,000. More! We are gonna die. I'll give it a week or two and then head there, so I won't suffocate in the pollen when I go to planting everything.

But it's finally spring, thank the Lord, bringing hope and light and joy (as well as the elephant sitting on my chest from the allergies). There's nothing as dreary as a Georgia winter, but then nothing as wonderful as a Magnolia Street, Villa Rica spring.    

Breathing In the Musky

We recently watched the movie "Hoosiers" again, one of my all-time favorites. I love a good sports movie, where there's the struggle of rising above defeat and the limitations of bodies to find victory. Think: Rocky, Remember the Titans, Rudy, Coach Carter, Glory Road... In seeing Hoosiers again, however, I was transported back to my youth. Even though this movie was set in the year 1951 and my basketball days started in the 70s, there were many similarities. I could smell the musky, dusty, antiquated locker rooms of my beloved McEachern in Powder Springs, Georgia where grades 6-12 were all on the same campus. One of the gyms was a big, white building that seemed to be a hundred years old, with barely room enough around the playing box to even walk. They called it the "Girls Gym" and we did P.E. and practiced basketball in there. It was also the best Battleball arena because the walls were high, with grates on them.  My sister and I played intramural ball of every kind during middle school years in that old white gym. I wish I had those legs back. The larger gym was still older than dirt but was considered the "Big Gym" where games were held. 

The trials of Middle School must be eternal. I remember fifth grade at Powder Springs Elementary, where I was on top of the world. They now say that you should go back in your head and find your ten-year-old self and try to emulate the good things that were going on at that time (this isn't true for everyone, and who is "they" anyway?) But if my life were my a mirror of that season, then the world is my oyster. Confident, fun, successful, dancing on chairs. Then sixth grade happened, not just to me but everyone. My elementary grade friends emerged from that summer, changed, alien, strangers. The world became scarier overnight and the walls fell away. New faces joined us as we started changing classes instead of being cozied up all day with the same teacher. When you are eleven, it seems that the whole world is cavorting away on Friday night at the skating rink while you're stuck watching The Brady Bunch with your siblings. The culture was telling us that everyone who was anybody already had a boyfriend and was applying layers of makeup, while my country self was still combing the fields around us for tadpoles and daisies and playing ball with Daddy and my sister. I'm truly thankful for good parents who kept me grounded. 

It was with great relief that high school finally rolled around, because it affected another sea change in my life. I clearly remember the day it was announced that basketball tryouts were coming up and we were to meet in the Big Gym. The new ninth grade coach was introduced -- strong, tough, no-nonsense, intimidating. That was how I loved my teachers and coaches -- Daddy was our first coach when we were little softball players, and even though he was the sweetest of men, he ran us hard and expected our highest efforts. He believed in us; we were pushed hard and encouraged to the maximum. How lucky could I be, to have that kind of man raising me?

Coach Brown was like a drill sergeant, running us over hill and dale, teaching us Maravich drills and learning to pump iron in the weight room (this was new to women's sports). Before we even touched a ball, he had us in good shape. I couldn't wait until classes were over every day to hear the thumping of balls on the court and face the challenge of stretching ourselves to the brink. Every spare minute at home was spent shooting hoops in the driveway on the plain, small plywood backboard Daddy made. If I missed, the ball would roll down the hill, motivating me to rebound before it got away. 

Those high school years were wonderful. I ate, slept and dreamt basketball. There were so many life lessons learned there -- how to endure beyond what I thought possible, how to give way to others, how to follow leadership, how to see nobility in the daily grind, how to reach deep. Those things translated to so much of what I have had to do as an adult...I've pushed out and raised four strong-willed Viking babies; the slow and difficult constancy of keeping little humans and husband alive and fed; years of fixing up and maintaining impossible houses; all manner of cottage industries done from home; homeschooling said humans despite my frailties and crazy-brain; ladder-climbing of all sorts as I've painted the world; and so much more.

Yes, basketball has been very, very good to me. I miss the musty gym, the sweaty and earthy connection to the struggle. That rangy, coltish girl is still in there. I must visit her soon...   

Chillin' Poolside

We meet up of chilly mornings at the local pool. Two Blonde Bobbers, not to be mistaken with Blonde Bombers (which wear rollerskates and try to knock each other off  small roller rinks with obligatory disco balls overhead) -- though we might have done such doings, back in the day. She hails from New York and I from here. We've lived through the disco days, husbands, babies, dozens of pets and years of playing in community wind ensembles (she on the saxophone, me on flute). That's where we became friends a decade ago. She was my beautiful roomie when we toured and played Italy last summer, urging me to not give up when my feet were begging to give up from all the walking we were doing. Where we might have been disco divas back when it mattered, the years have left us queenly, still blonde, but just extra. We decided we needed to exercise some of that "extra" off. Since my Achilles has never been the same since Italy, I thought swimming, particularly treading water, was all I could manage. Thus the pool... People look at us strangely, as we don't wear flotation belts or join the "deep aerobics" class. There ain't no doing laps or jogging through the shallow end. We just make our way to the deep end, tread water and ratchet-jaw our way through an hour. It is amazing how quickly the time goes when you get two women together who have full lives. If we didn't force our arms and legs to move, we might not even call it exercise (in all fairness, I did say something about bobbing earlier).

There is a richness to a middle-aged woman. I actually mean a three-quarter's woman, because middle-aged might be 40 or thereabouts, mere child's play. She has weathered the silly years or the bitter years, the disappointments, the triumphs, the stretching-out of everything that was once taut. She sees the world behind her like a rapidly-accelerating time warp and faces the unknown sprawling before her with some trepidation. She didn't intend on losing her strength or all the B-B's that seem to keep dropping out of her brain (because it's already so full). No one told her that people would ever consider her irrelevant or passe, but it happens. The wake fanning behind her is considerable, whether she realizes it or not. The humbling eventually comes. There are those younger, stronger, quicker, smarter, more beautiful, more skilled that will take our place. This is always the truth and is the way of life, as long as time continues. We think we will live forever in full bloom. It's true in heaven, but not down here. Circle of life and all that... 

I've known the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat, many cycles in different arenas. Life is not merely meant to be a competition, though we do it to survive, to fight for meaning, and sometimes just for fun. I've learned  and had to do a lot of things all along the way that have often been uncomfortable. Trusting God has been the big mountain before me, because each step is an unknown. Now, I am challenged to learn about how to keep moving (how?!), to continue growing, to bless others even when strength ebbs, to gracefully accept that sometimes it's just someone else's turn and that I don't have to do every single rootin-tootin' thing. Maybe say no to the next silly dog-and-pony show, let go of things that pride is making me hold onto, and throw out (or give away) half of the crap in my china cabinet. 

And while I'm at it, go jump in the pool with my friend...  

Warm, Fuzzy Thoughts

I was sitting in the dark, in the corner of our kitchen, late, late on Sunday night. The dishwasher was filled with clean dishes, and there was a sink-ful of dirty ones (Ken likes to stack them up neatly but ignores the fact that all the crud is being left to dry like concrete)...these are the things that a woman ponders in the middle of mindless snacking. I was wondering why I was so tired, even though it was coming up on midnight, and confused about why I had no incentive to clean up the mess. It seemed so peaceful in the twilight, but tomorrow's trouble was baking right in front of me. I threw up my hands and went to bed. That's never a good idea, because apparently our brains never go to sleep and I dreamt about critters feeding on the detritus all night, to the soundtrack of some creepy song on a true-crime station on YouTube. No, they have not found JonBenet's killer, no matter how many podcasts I've listened to...

This morning, in the light of day and with strange sleep patterns from last night, I surveyed the new week and the old. I have my yummy new Pixiebob kitten, Jillian, zooming all over the room. A new pet in the house is rather like having a new baby. The old cat, who is 16, thinks that I should now be strung up by my toenails. At some point this week, I have kept all but one of our 13 grandchildren. We had overnight company, with our daughter's family staying here while our son-in-law worked on fixing our front walk (yes, herringbone!) Last, but not least, the dentist informed me that all four of my upper front teeth had to be replaced with crowns. Those who know me, and many who don't, know that yes, I'm headed for heaven, thanks to the blood of the Lamb. But here on earth, there's some kind of purgatory or maybe even hell related to me and the subject of teeth. Even though I have been ever-faithful in the flossing and brushing of them, I must bear the tribulation of bad ones. My MawMaw would say, "They're just crumbly." She said that about her bones, and maybe that's happening here too. 

We have found that the best solution, when approaching any serious event in a dentist's chair, is to sedate me. My dentist wisely pumps my gums full of Novacaine, but before that he prescribes drugs that I happily take. I had my 11-pound babies a-naturale, but don't be messin' with my teeth without knocking me out. And don't touch my feet, either. Our daughter, Liz, picked me up after the procedure because I wasn't allowed to drive home. Ken told her to put me in the recliner and just stick the kitten on top of me. I don't remember any of that, but there was a warm, purring being there when I woke up, hours later. And people wonder why pets are important... 

My Valentine

February always finds me, like Bilbo Baggins said in The Fellowship of the Ring (J.R.R. Tolkien), "...thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread." I definitely don't feel skinny, but in the hovering winter before  spring in the Deep South, I feel I'm in that dream where I am desperately trying to run, but my legs seem to be slogging through mud. There's a beast or ghoul catching up to me, but nothing will make me able to go faster. Eventually, I start flapping my "wings" and slowly, slowly make my way into the sky, right before I'm gobbled up. Yep. Winter in Georgia is a bad dream, with snatches of false spring interspersed with cold, bleary, wet days. My neighbor from Anchorage says that it's colder here than Alaska, because of the humid misery of it. Thank God it's short, but I must really learn to be grateful. Things could be much, much worse.

We just celebrated our 43rd anniversary, which is a bright spot in the winter morass. It was really a month of fun and uncommon blessings, if I'm to be truthful. Our son, Jonathan and I surprised Ken with a new-to-him Big Truck. It has extra muscles, good for hauling campers and pulling down houses. People might think it strange, how we do it around here. Jon and I find vehicles and show up with them, when there's cash to do such things. Then we sell the old ones at good prices, because Ken takes such fantastic care of them. He trusts Jon's judgment and prefers the shock and awe of it. I've seen neither hide or hair of him for two weeks while he's detailing and tricking out his new baby.

For my Christmas, anniversary and birthday gifts for possibly the rest of my earthly life, Ken's gift to me this year was a kitten. Little Miss Jillian Pixiebob made her entrance this week, after a harrowing $56 roundtrip dash to Orlando to pick her up. Word to the wise: do not bring kittens on planes. No one is happy and you might get murdered.  

Love isn't like a Hallmark movie, where the end is a kiss and promise. That's just the beginning. Love is a man who hates cats but gives his life over to a kitten just to make his wife smile. He tolerates my animals, helps me out of chairs and trucks, tucks me in at night, puts my special pillow under my back, lets me have all the babies I wanted (and we tried for even more), puts on his boots every day and works his whole life, loves his grandkids like there's no tomorrow, is happy to watch all my "stuff," never complains about the squeaks and squawks from my flute practice, encourages me when I want to take yet another class, sees that we go to church, tithes even when it hurts, straightens up my messes, cleans and shines my nasty car, takes me to the symphony (when he'd rather do a Netflix binge), brings me soup when I'm sick, and especially, loves me when I'm unloveable, which is often. The scriptures say that a man's job is to love his wife as Christ loves the church. The world and even the church seem to have a hard time staying faithful or married. I think I'll keep this one.  

 

Buzz, Buzz, Help...

Along the paths of life, I have met people I bonded with instantaneously. Spirits link, a thread of understanding passes between us, and a lifelong friendship ensues. In "Anne of Green Gables," Anne called them kindred spirits. I have a number of these souls in my life -- the quiet, Coke-bottle-glassed Gail in high-school band; eccentric and funny Susan; tall, brilliant and quirky Grace in college; smart, always-researching Kathy across the table from me on a cruise; hilarious, cynical Cynthia playing piano beside my flute at church... I always found smart, funny, nerdy girls a lot more interesting than what folks consider "popular" -- vapid, silly, shallow. Better to be warm, brainy and kind to all, than to be snooty and trendy. Life's just way too short for uppity-ness.

Recently, two such friends (Cynthia being one of them) and I decided we were all sick of our phone addictions. We are of a certain age, not entirely decrepit yet, but feeling that our brains were being short-circuited. My question was: is this just the natural course of things or is it truly our phones and all the disruptions of social media that's causing our brain cells to fall out? We bought copies of the book Reconnected: How 7 Screen-Free Weeks with Monks and Amish Farmers Helped Me Recover the Lost Art of Being Human by Carlos Whittaker.  In a nutshell, the author turns his phone and screens off for 7 weeks, spending time with monks in silence, then working hard with an Amish community to detach from his attachment to all things media. Mr. Whittaker also had an interview with Dr John Delony which sums it all up. See on YouTube: "I Gave Up Screens for 2 Months (Here's What Happened)". I highly recommend watching the short video -- easier for our scrambled brains to decipher. 

I read all the time, with books at every stopping-place -- the side tables, bedside and even the bathroom. But it took me many weeks to finally finish Mr. Whittaker's book, maybe because it hits way too close to home. I wish, maybe, I had the luxury of taking weeks off to turn everything off. As I pondered the subject, I asked myself key questions: Don't I have to keep my phone on, because of my business? Because of my family, grandchildren, my Mama? One time I turned my phone off, only to wake up to five overnight messages from Mama. She had had a mini-stroke or blood sugar event, and in her confusion kept dialing, trying to reach me. One could say, she could call Ken or my siblings. But that night, she didn't. For that reason alone, I can't put her on "Do Not Disturb." As I looked further, however, and tried to honestly assess how much time I spend on my phone, I realized the vast majority of it is not in talking to clients or family or checking emails for business-related contracts or communication. The problem is in all the rabbit holes that I go down when those first tasks are completed. 

I raised my children without much technology. I personally hated the TV and would have gladly thrown our 13-inch black and white one in the dumpster (yes, they used to manufacture those). From childhood, I felt that TVs were horrid, that it was a terrible way to spend your life -- watching other people live rather than live it yourself. I always thought it strange that a room full of people would quit talking, to watch mindless programs for hours, while they had all these interesting, real, breathing folks right next to them. That was a good way to live. Little did we know what was coming...

But then something happened in the last few decades. I accepted the wonders of technology and embraced my smart phone, which turned me stupid. Now, I don't have to ponder the universe. I just google it. If there are awkward silences with strangers at the doctor's office, instead of striking up conversations with intriguing people, I just pick up my phone (like they are doing, too). If I'm sitting on the front stoop at my house, in the glorious sunshine, instead of noticing the bluebird family flitting about or the minty green buds peeping out from the ground, I'm checking on Suzy Q's Facebook nonsense, which probably isn't even accurate. It is very, very difficult to resist the instant gratification of knowledge, even if it's not even going to help me decide what I'm going to believe about, well, anything. Trivia is truly trivial, and I've fallen more and more into the pit of knowing much about nothing. Meanwhile, I point at items and the word won't come out of my mouth. That is plumb scary.  

My girlfriends and I are supposed to meet one more time about this subject. We are trying to come up with strategies to disentangle us from this mess. Mr. Whittaker's book didn't seem to have enough constructive ideas, except for taking a massive sabbatical which I can't seem to do. The only thing that has helped me so far is to leave the confounded phone on the charger when I get up in the morning, or to put it into the next room while I'm getting busy. Even at that, my brain is listening for the buzzes and pings which alert me to clients' needs (or my Mama), so am I really detached? 

I'll let you know when I figure it out.  

Humble Pie

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

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

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

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

Shall We Gather At the River?

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

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

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

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

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

Nuclear

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

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

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

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

Hee Hawing

I hate it when the holidays are over and I feel like I got run over by the Polar Express. This year was odd and I'm still not sure I like it. With my bum Achilles tendon, there was no real decorating to speak of. My house sat quiet, with the crumbs of cardboard left over from mountains of Amazon boxes. I lit up the neighborhood with a great bonfire of them. It probably isn't nice, to burn that many containers, but at least they didn't pile up in the landfill. The plain but well-lit tree, wreath and garland laughed at me, my un-minimalistic self. Less-is-more is pretty much demon-speak in my world. When I see "Home Alone" every year, I fondly sigh and remember the 90s, where decadence and Waverly wallpaper ruled the land. It's coming back, you know. Everything does. I even read that color is "in" again, praise the Lord and pass the peas. I tired of gray-everything a long time ago and this white phase is bleaching out pretty quick too. 

I have to admit, however, that that quiet, twinkly tree with no ornaments made me feel all forest-y and serene. 

A literal blur of activities, concerts, gifting, eating and just general Christmassing left me bloated more than usual. Even with all that, we hauled our camper up to Pigeon Forge the day after Christmas. The truck broke down on the way, causing quite the traffic jam, complete with cops and sirens and everything.  We lost a day of the trip getting that sorted, only to find ourselves landed in the worst idea since they started laying down pavement. Don't hate me, but Dolly must have forgotten all about those beautiful hills surrounding that town. You sit in hours of traffic just to move a mile and then you spend piles of money to eat overpriced food and watch other people live. The mountains peek at you over the way and there's no way you're gonna ever get to actually walk on one or breathe the forest air. It just ain't fittin' (apologies to all who love that place, bless your heart).

We eventually got home, laid out like hillbillies on moonshine for two days straight. Somehow staggered into church on Sunday morning and then met up with friends that evening for pizza. Our group drove around town for an open restaurant in the cold, slushy rain. I thought maybe we should just head back to our pillows but then suddenly it all worked out. The ladies sat at one big table and the guys sat at another, laughing. I looked across and saw this big, masculine guy talking and smiling. He had a baseball cap and a pair of overalls on. I found him very attractive and he grinned back at me. I hopped back in the car with him at the end. 

Sometimes and often, it's good to remember who you fell in love with in the first place.