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.