The Grapes of Wrath and Other Tall Tales

If you're alive and have been around this planet for, say, the last few decades, you probably remember what happened to America during the years between 2008 and 2012. We were riding high. Real estate was booming, houses were being thrown up and selling for the highest prices in history. Every jackleg dude with a little gumption and a hammer was throwing his hat into the ring, making up a name for his LLC and signing away his house, boat and first-born child to the bank to get construction loans. Banks and lenders were writing checks left and right, qualifying practically anyone for mortgages well beyond what they could repay. There's a lot of technical reasons behind why this happened, of which I am (mostly) ignorant, but the basic problem was that many, if not most of us, were presuming upon the future. We assumed everything was going to keep going like it had been for a couple of decades. There were warning signs, but we did not heed them. 

I've been musing on the effects of what occurred during the Great Recession for many years because we were right in the middle of it. I have been intrigued with how marriages and the roles of men and women were affected. My perspective here is as a woman, and I don’t want to disrespect the men discussed here, but they get a hard rap. It was really rough on them. I am a wife to Ken (43 years now), mother to four grown children and four in-loves, Yaya to 14 grandchildren under the age of 13, an entrepreneur (Realtor and decorative painter), as well as daughter, sister, aunt, neighbor, pet owner, and not-so-model citizen (I've jumped ship on a few of the committees around here). Been around the block a time or two, with too many layers of life experience than I care to admit. For us, the decline started way before 2008. My husband had been working for AT&T/Lucent Technologies (under many different name changes) for twenty-two years when a random Tuesday in September 2001 changed all of us forever. The scales started to tip against Lucent and its subsidiaries those next months and Ken lost his job when they outsourced most of his facility to another country. His stock was reduced to a pittance and what was left was sold for pennies on the dollar. His retirement was gone too, so we got into our own recession several years earlier than the rest of the country. With our extensive experience in fixing up our homes, it was natural for Ken to morph over into construction. The financial tsunami that was coming would affect us and most of America. At the time, we had been homeschooling for many years, with multiple side cottage industries that augmented Ken's salary. Our schooling included our boys working in the construction trade with my brother at least one day a week and our daughter painting alongside me. As things began to unravel, however, Ken went through job after job. All our presumptions about the future went down the drain. The beautiful home we had built on five acres in the country began to become an impossibility to maintain. Our goals of becoming debt-free were engulfed with the strain of simply surviving. Then Ken got deathly ill with a strange liver abscess (with subsequent doctor bills and hospitalization) that swamped our proverbial boat. That was just the beginning. 

I have spoken to many different women over the years whose husbands lost their livelihood. Men who were very successful in their careers and callings. Men who got their legs cut out from under them unexpectedly, without warning. To recover from this was difficult. To recover after having it happen many times was untenable. What follows is a few of their stories that occurred during and after the Recession... the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

The Aggressive Man
Misty was a Realtor who was making bank when the mess hit. She was married to a successful builder. They worked together with her mother (who was a Realtor as well) like a well-oiled machine. Their advertising budget alone would have curled your hair. Money was rolling in and life was good. When the Recession hit like a bomb, her husband and their bank account were devastated. He sunk his despair into a bottle and before long, his frustration and anger welled up. He lashed out at everyone around him, winding up in jail for beating his beautiful wife. He lost his company, his good name, and his marriage. Misty recharged her batteries, reinvented her business, plugged through and figured out how to live on a shoe-string while working the "new" real estate system. She's successful, bitter and remarried to another man now.

The Hippy Man
Julie had a house full of kids, with a gorgeous home and life that were the envy of other people. They were a stunning couple with darling children. The kind of people that seemed to have never suffered a minute in their lives. He was another successful builder, handsome and charming. The fragile tightwire that they had built their business on simply broke one day. Within a few months, they had to move their whole family in with a relative as the cards flew. Years went by with no work. She was broken. He seemed to be oblivious, cheating on her several times as he took temporary work in other states. Somehow, they are still together. She has raised the children mostly on her own and they are quietly making their way. He's churning out the charm but I believe he's crumbled on the inside, trying to prove he's still all that.

The Fishin' Man
Anne and her husband were laid-back but resourceful. She didn't care if her house fell down, as long as she could cook. Her main forms of entertainment were canning, drying, cooking and inventing delicious new recipes. He worked in a large factory, with a great job and benefits, until it all went south in '08. They gave him over a hundred grand and said goodbye. He decided he was going to be an artist. After frittering away two years and the money, he was at the lake fishing every day and she was pulling her hair out. She muddled through, learning how to stretch a dollar with couponing, gardening and raising pigs. He eventually woke up and started working as a handyman and janitor. They recently sold off a piece of land and were able to eliminate their mortgage. They're going to make it, but it's been rough.

The Golf Man
Priscilla and her husband worked together in a successful business for many years. They were conservative and careful, paying off their home mortgage and raising their kids. When everything hit the fan, though, they lost the venture they were working on as well as other entities, numerous properties and their timeshares at resorts and in the mountains. Eventually their home was re-mortgaged in order to survive and they found themselves strapped. Thankfully, a generous relative needed their help and reciprocated with generosity. He was emotionally immobile for years, filling his time with the golf course and TV. Eventually he got part-time work; she mustered up all sorts of ways to make ends meet and they crawled through. Now his days are filled with time in the recliner, watching other people live, content to live small and unthinking. The earthquake leveled his world and he's too tired to build it back.

Bully Man
Irene was another enterprising woman who worked alongside her husband in the construction business -- building and selling. They had their dream home and years of work together when the bottom dropped out. Her husband lost all self-respect and began acting irrationally, drinking heavily and becoming more and more violent. On the night that she found herself with a gun pressed to her chest (by her husband), she decided enough was enough. Thankfully she lived to see another day, and she moved out and got a job at a hardware store. She won't divorce him but she won't live with him either. He comes by and helps her out occasionally. She was able to retire recently and is living a quiet life. 

What intrigues me about all of these scenarios is the unique reactions of men and women to this kind of strain. In my limited experience, men seem inclined to get their self-esteem and worth from their work. Their masculinity and their sign to the world is intimately connected to what they do for a living. When that worth is stamped on or crushed by multiple hits to their career, it is difficult to swim past it. It is as if their very core is destroyed. To rebuild it takes a supreme amount of effort. If a man can't get past his defeat, he tends to either lash out (thus the violence or drinking) or retreat to his recliner or hobbies that disconnect him from the world. Women, on the other hand, generally have a wider net of connectedness -- it could be many different arenas that stamp a woman's worth: career, children, talents, her spot in the community, even her husband. Whereas men might tend to see their trajectory as a one-way road, women tend to see theirs as a network, with many side roads. As I look around me at my middle-aged friends, empty nesters who are finally able to breathe a bit, the men seem ready to take their boots off and relax. The women, however, are looking around at all the possibilities still out there. Maybe it's because many of them have been raising children and those children are now grown. These are just tendencies that I see, mind you. There are no two people alike on the earth. As someone who has experienced first-hand the trials of the recession, I have had to reinvent myself several times. One of the difficulties for all of us who are resuscitating after the fall is not to become cynical or bitter. If your trust is placed in banks, money, the economy or even the scruples of humans, the hits can keep on coming when times are hard. As a Realtor, I see on a daily basis the results of lifetimes of mistrust in some of my clients. It can make life a very miserable place. 

So what is the answer? What is the other side of recovery? I have wrestled with these questions for years and there are no guarantees that we won't go through these kinds of trials again. Buildings fall, terrorists invade, markets crash, people are born and they die. Life goes on. The sun keeps coming up and going down. We are living in a day when the ideas that women and men might be different are challenged at every corner. The conviction that a wife should serve her husband or vice-versa has become old-fashioned, except when it comes to the husband serving the wife. I am more convinced now than ever, after going through these difficult times, that God intended the sexes to complement each other. Too simple an explanation perhaps, but the resiliency of a woman, combined with the strength of a man, is divinely and uniquely designed to work together. In my personal life, the biggest challenges to marriage were not in those first, fumbling, bumbling years. It wasn't in the decades of no sleep and profound tiredness with pregnancy, babies, toddlers and raising four children to adulthood. It wasn't even in the ages of finding creative ways to stretch a dollar and finding myself working on scaffolding or contorted in a corner with a paintbrush to make a buck. It was in that aftermath, where my husband and I had to cross over the stillness, the elephants in the room that had mysteriously grown up over the years. When he was thoroughly defeated but in denial. When I was angry but not telling. When life was moving on but we were still stuck back there somewhere. I stand back and think about our (and others') failure and triumphs. What went wrong and what went right. I don't think I know the answers to dealing with these scenarios like I'm sure I should. I recognize how poorly I handled our situation. It's easy when things have resolved and time has healed wounds to forget the hard parts. The tongue has in it the power of life and death, and it is often where our sin shows itself. I know that these are principles that contributed to getting us through:

1) Honesty. If a couple cannot carefully traverse the waters of honesty, they are doomed. The strain of either ditch: deceit or delusion, can kill any relationship. It is hard to ever trust again, after serious deceit. And if there is delusion, where one or the other party cannot be honest with their situation or relationship, it is difficult to get down to the realities of digging out from under hardship. We wrestled mostly with delusion: it's comforting to tread water underneath the surface, to act like there's no tomorrow and there are no sharks in the water. Too bad you'll drown under there too. Facing reality was and is something that my husband and I have to work at. He's stoic and I'm a fairy, so there. Reality has to be cracked open carefully and with a lot of love.

2) Foundations. We had layers of truth built into our heads from years of sound scripture, sermons, and counsel from good pastors, elders and parents. Even though people often depart from those wonderful gifts, God was merciful to steady our ship through those means. I grappled with trusting God. It's easy to trust Him when all is well. The truth of the matter occurs when the vultures are circling.

3) The grace of God. This phrase is flippantly plastered onto coffee mugs and Pinterest pages, but it is the reason we are still standing. When I don't trust Him, He still holds me. When the cracked places inside of us threaten to undo everything, we have found grace where it shouldn't have been. Grace is His unmerited favor, not something we muster up. We pray for it, hope for it, desperately need it. We've all experienced it, whether we realize it or not. God indeed loves for us to trust Him and to call on Him. I've seen Him answer from the pit of despair, over and over.

To quote somebody's Mama, "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get." We laugh, but it's true. I am grateful for a good husband who, in his dark days and when I was always believing that now was a perfect time to panic, ardently loved me and was the wind under my wings. Whatever I have wanted to do, he has been my cheerleader. But at the end of it, and for our future trials that will surely come, I have found that honesty, coupled with much love, takes the day. We have many layers of God's Word laid down in our heads and hearts. Neglect it and we go astray, falling into one ditch or the other. Dwell in it and we find all the good paths, teaching us to love, forgive, tame our tongues, walk and think rightly. And lastly, the grace of God, which is beautifully summed up in the Chris Tomlin version of that old hymn, Amazing Grace: "The Lord has promised good to me. His word my hope secures. He will my shield and portion be, as long as life endures. My chains are gone, I've been set free. My God, my Savior has ransomed me. And like a flood His mercy reigns. Unending love, amazing grace."

Wake Up, Oh Sleeper!

I threw open the doors and windows this morning, a gentle breeze blowing the delicious air through the house. We want it to be Fall, but the Georgia summer is clinging to it like a baby to its Mama. For those new to us, know that it's not truly Fall until it's Winter. We rotate through four seasons until January or February, then it becomes a greige-y, blustery, miserable kaleidoscope of sleet, rain and occasional winter storm. The mercy is that winter is very short and then daffodils start poking out their heads. Of course, they get frozen somewhere in there and start over. I'm already looking forward to it. I need to calm down, enjoy this day and forget about the coming spectre of winter. There's Thanksgiving and Christmas somewhere in there, thank God. Live in the today, I keep telling myself. Except those Christmas gifts don't get bought all by themselves. 

Last week was a whirl of doctor appointments, wrasslin' with insurance providers over my wrecked car, practicing for our upcoming Fall concert (John Williams on steroids at the Carrollton Center for the Arts -- October 18!!), eating better and seeing lots of soccer games with grands. The weeks fly by, behaving more like the "days" back when we were younger. The consolation of mature age, for me, is the sweet faces of our grandchildren, full of life and promise, unjaded. 

Our daughter took a day out of her life to take me to downtown Atlanta for a test I had to have (which included sedation, so I had to be driven home). She has her Father's DNA when it comes to many things, particularly driving. If I haven't said it a hundred times, I simply have to say it just one more: they don't drive, they qualify. We were squeezed into her little Honda RV -- Liz, me, and her three babies. Little 9-month-old Zariah was hangry-hollering like a siren, when we got pulled over by the police. Liz said, "Don't say a word, Mama. I got this." I restrained myself, with great effort. The police lady took one look (and listen) and gave Liz a warning. She deposited me and proceeded to go to the park and the library while she waited. In the hospital, I found myself surrounded by several nurses and support people - angels, surely. The doctor was late getting there, so we had time to get acquainted, swapping stories and connections. By the time he arrived, we were in full, laughing, party mode. The anesthetician put a mask over my face, and before I knew what was what, I was waking up in a recovery room. I always try to stay awake in those situations but can't ever override the pull of the Sandman. The kind nurse who was attending me had already called Liz to let her know I was awake. He spoke to me about my life, my children, and the goodness of the Lord in his own world. I left that place feeling like I had been in a love cloud all morning. 

It took us over two hours to make it back home (what should have been a 45-minute drive), but that's Atlanta on a Friday afternoon. We collapsed like spent balloons, just about the same time that Papa got there. Then there was the blur of the rest of the weekend. Here it is Monday, and I intend to embrace the zephyr wafting through the house, our sweet, sweet, old Magnoliarose (Ken's name for her). That and a stiff cup of coffee...  

Bless the Great Weaver

 It was to be my next-to-last trek into Rome for a client buying a house there, doing a walkthrough a couple of days before the closing. We needed to make sure the junk left in the house had been cleared, and I was also helping them come up with color choices for the walls (my favorite job!) The car was loaded up with samples and paint fans. There's a spot on that trip, where the speed limit suddenly drops to 45 then 35...and there are danger signs all around, because you find yourself dead-ended into a big four-lane highway. Even though I've made that trip many, many times, I am never quite prepared for the sudden stop.

I was stopped, sitting behind two cars who were waiting for the traffic. There were also two cars behind me, when I heard a loud screeching of locked-down brakes. I looked quickly around, not sure where the sound was coming from, but thinking "Somebody's about to have a wreck." In my rearview I saw a big utility truck (with a large trailer attached) barreling down the hill. I heard several crashes, then knew I was next. I was rear-ended by two vehicles, one on the right panel and another who ran right up under my bumper. There was a car over in the grass, and two others behind me. There's nothing like the shock that hits you after an accident. My head was buzzing, neck already seizing up. I sat still, trying to relax and wait for the next things. It seemed only a couple of minutes and we were surrounded by firefighters, EMTs and policemen. I called my people, and within ten minutes our firefighter son and Ken were there to check on me. Ken insisted that I be assessed in the ambulance, where it took a battalion of people to fight the hill that the gurney and fluffy Yaya were placed on. How humiliating. I saw so much kindness and tenderness by those who cared for me. There is much good still left in the world. I decided to go home with our son (with Ken following) because it was a mere bit of whiplash and nothing serious. My daughter-in-love fed me soup while we sat on their front porch. The wind was blowing and I watched our grandkids playing and enjoyed the love of family and God while my brain settled and we went home. 

What struck me that day was the precise timing of all of it. I had redirected my steps earlier, where if I had not done that, I would have "avoided" this wreck. So then it seemed as if this was meant to  happen to me, if you believe like I do, that everything happens for a reason. For all I know, my redirection kept me from something much worse. Or, as it is, God is weaving much tapestry from what did happen. I have to know that the latter is true. That mysterious tapestry that goes beyond the things that I plan, the steps that I take, the places I go. It's a lot to think about.

As for today, I'm thankful. My car is shredded and the insurance is complicated. But I'm still here in one piece, the wind is still blowing and hope brings forth another day... 

Rearview Mirror

The first time I saw her, she was standing in the middle of her garden in the early weeks of a hot Georgia Fall, picking tomatoes. She had on a giant floppy hat, a full face of makeup, a long-sleeved double-knit pantsuit (that she made herself), replete with painted fingernails and kitten heels. She was my fiance's grandma, affectionately known as "Babe." When she saw us, she threw up her hands in glee and practically ran to the car. She welcomed me as if she'd known me all my life. I was shown around their huge, rambling farmhouse and grounds, then she and I settled in the kitchen to prepare lunch. The ceilings must have been 12-feet high, the walls made of ancient beadboard. I loved it and her immediately. I quickly learned that, in her eyes, Ken could do no wrong. I think that if Ken had up and murdered somebody, she'd have blamed the other person. She loved him to pieces and for that, I am grateful. 

Peggy Ann, her only child, tragically died of pneumonia at 24 when Ken was 2-1/2 years old and his brother was five months. Babe and Pop kept the boys for three years, until the boys' Dad remarried. In the many years following our engagement and marriage, Babe could not bring herself to speak of her. If the subject was broached, her eyes would well up and she would excuse herself. I can only imagine the pain behind those eyes. Her only, beloved child, lost so young. She did tell me that those two boys saved her life after the tragedy. It gave her something to live for and a purpose in the midst of the worst of days. 

Pop and Babe lived at the farm where he grew up, tending cattle and farming a huge garden. Much of their sustenance was home-grown. They knew how to do and fix most everything. By the time I came along, however, Babe thought that modern conveniences and the whole plethora of food shortcuts was manna from heaven. She particularly loved the ideas of canned biscuits, whipped topping and orange juice concentrate. We could make a recipe book out of the different ways she used canned biscuits. She made all sorts of goodies out of them: pigs in a blanket, fried pies, fried donuts, chicken and dumplings, for starters. One time, when I mentioned that we were planting a garden at our house, she said, "Don't do that! Just go to the farmer's market!" She didn't assign any merit to going back to the land. I guess she'd already done her time and was ready to be done with it. She also loved sugar, which happens to be my drug of choice. I've never seen anyone as sugar-obsessed as her.  She put it in and on everything. Her iced tea was more like syrup than a drink. She loved to bake and would make several different kinds of cakes, all on the same day. There was coconut cake, vanilla cake with chocolate icing, fruit cake, orange slice cake, chocolate cake, pound cake, and several others I can't remember. She would bake the cakes, and while they were cooling and before they were frosted, she'd pour boiled sugar syrup all over, and poke holes in them (to let the sugary goodness penetrate the whole cake). After everything was cool, she'd frost the cakes and then slice them. She'd fill up tupperware containers with various slices, sandwiched with waxed paper in between. These then went into the freezer. After any meal, maybe even breakfast, out would come a container filled with all the different kinds of cake. You'd eat until you were bursting, and then she'd start in with wondering why you stopped. She kept her house blazing hot, summer and winter (she must have had a refrigerator inside her spine, because she was always cold)...after her gut-busting meals we would all sit around the living room, fighting the urge to nap. But Babe was no napper. Her word box was eternally full, with strong opinions and suggestions and optimistic views of life. She was a sober-minded Christian, one who did good for others and helped when she could. Her and Pop both read their Bibles every day. They were the salt of the earth people, content with little and good stewards of all they surveyed.

I think the Alzheimers started years before any diagnosis. Pope knew, and sold the old farmhouse and moved into a little house right in town. She was naturally a bit OCD, with little variance in her routines or daily life. She was tidy and feminine, with the strength of a farm wife. Her house was minimally-decorated (she might have thought I was a little wacky with all my painting and rearranging) and clean. Food and meals were ordered and of very high importance. Her disciplines and methods were streamlined and simple, but over time, the grooves were laid down and the disease took over. She began to repeat herself incessantly. I was young and yet to understand it all. I sometimes thought she was purposely trying to irritate me. She would call me "Annette" (my husband's stepmother) over and over. Pop began to call and say that he was going to need help with her. We would make the 2-1/2 hour trek there with our four children and Ken and the boys would work on the yard while I did things in the house with Liz and Babe. She would be chipper and happy when we got there. We wondered at why this was hard for Pop, as she seemed pretty easy to deal with. We weren't seeing the daily of it, which was actually hellacious. 

Ken and I bought land and moved our four kids into a leaky old camper onto our land and proceeded to start the build on our house. This was no typical project. We were literally building the house ourselves from the foundation up to the rafters. It was right about when we got settled on the land, that we got a call. Pop had to go into the hospital with a stress heart attack. Taking care of her had finally called his bluff. I drove to Lincolnton with our four children, to watch over Babe. I had no idea what the next weeks would entail. She never slept more than 15-20 minutes at a time, wandering through their tiny house all night. I had the children lock themselves in their bedroom so they could sleep. When Ken's aunt relieved me for a week, I won't even tell the crazy story of our trip back home. Suffice it to say, I was so sleep-deprived that it's just the mercy of God that I-20 was mostly deserted that morning. 

The next five years were torturous, to say the least. We didn't have any choice except to put them in a nursing home close by, as we were six people living in a camper at the time. Pop never walked again and only wanted to go home to Jesus. Two years later, he did just that. Babe lived another three years past him, living in that smoggy half-life zone that is Alzheimers. She was internally so fractured, violent, frazzled. The only peace she had was when scripture was read to her. She could be in a crazy fit, but if you pulled out a Bible and started reading, she would sit down quietly, close her eyes and move her lips to the words. The Spirit was there, even if her brain was not. 

I think of them often. They rescued my husband and his brother, instilling in them the meaning of unconditional love, the goodness of the Lord, and what it means to be constant and devoted. I am sometimes ashamed of my aggravation, of not understanding her disease, of my lack of faith in the face of such a difficult season. Death, disease, diminishment come to us all. The world and our fragile flesh are cracked and in need of redemption, especially when our strength ebbs. How grateful I am that they trusted in Someone higher than them.    

Laborin' in the Love

If you've already heard this story, please forgive me. It floats in my head like a melody and I can't help but repeat it every once in awhile. They say that if you are ever having marital trouble, you should go back to your beginnings, to the things that attracted and brought you together. We aren't having marital trouble, but I find that thinking of those early days is always a boost to our collective love story. Every Labor Day holiday brings it back around... 

In the summer of 1980, our Daddy moved us to a different church. He said that he wanted to go somewhere where his children would be able to meet their spouses (which all three of us did!). I had come close to marrying someone (definitely the wrong someone) while away at college, and came home bereft of emotions and resilience. I needed to stay home with the safe haven of my good people, to heal and remember who I was, that 10-year-old-self combined with new life lessons. I worked during the day, went to community college classes at night and hung out with my family. And went to church, where I saw Ken and knew that he was it. He was a whirling dervish, newly saved and full of life, handsome and strong, funny, charming, and always saying the wrong things because he had no filter. I was dating someone else at the time but told my Mama, "I think that that is the guy I'm supposed to marry." She said, "What about Jeff?!" He was swiftly dispatched, as I knew that if I could be that distracted by someone else, I had no business dating him. 

But we didn't date, except for about a month, where things were awkward. We were both still recovering from past serious relationships. It was decided we wouldn't, so then we commenced becoming the best of friends. He, his buddy Brian and I tooled around town. We went places, ate together, they picked me up for lunches from work, talked for hours and had just general fun. The girls who worked with me asked which one I was dating and I said, "Neither!" This was a precious gift to me, to help me believe in mankind again. They were like brothers, but I always had Ken in my heart. There was a raw but very masculine vulnerability in him that called to my empathetic nature. 

The guys were always teasing me and the sarcasm was thick. Brian started dating my sister, which put an odd twist on our socializing. Us four wound up together a lot. One evening, Brian and Ken dropped by my parents' house on the way to a mutual friend's home. Brian asked Melanie if she would go down the river with him (the Chattahoochee) on the upcoming Labor Day. She said yes, and Ken turned to me and asked if I wanted to go as well. I said sure (nothing out of the ordinary for our history). I didn't see this as a date. Ken, with his smart mouth said, "Well good.  I already asked everybody else and nobody could go. I knew you would go." They then left, with the steam rising in my ears. I gave it ten minutes, long enough for them to get to their friend's house, then called. "Hi Ricky, can I speak to Ken?" I proceeded to rip Ken a new one, stating that I was not one of the boys and was highly offended at his words, said I was NOT going, then hung up on him. Our family left right after, to go to a movie together. When we got home around midnight and Daddy was unlocking the door,  we heard the phone ringing. Daddy said, "That'll be Ken. Now it begins." I said, "huh?" Sure enough, Daddy handed me the phone and it was him. He said, "I've been trying to call you for hours. I am so sorry for how I spoke to you. Please forgive me! I don't know why I said that, because you're the most fun one and I didn't mean to hurt you. Please, please go with us down the river." I begrudgingly said okay and that I forgave him.

Labor Day was warm, beautiful and pleasant, but I was still grumpy about Ken. I barely spoke to him and just enjoyed the rafting. For whatever reason, for Ken, now it was on like Donkey Kong. He pursued me like there was no tomorrow and it didn't take much before we were engaged (like, a month). his poor Mama was flummoxed. We were already very close friends and it took just a spark to get a fire going. A short engagement (3-1/2 months), 4 kids, 14 grandkids and now 43-1/2 years later, God's goodness to us in the land of the living still astounds me. 

That is why I love Labor Day.    

Pratfalls and the Universe

We are in the thick of a hot, sticky summer, even though school is already back in. In my  mind, summer doesn't really end here until October or some-such, no matter when they say it's "Fall Semester." We did have a breezy few days last week but the mosquitoes aren't giving up. I was sitting in church yesterday, trying to keep my paws off my itchy legs...the result of Friday night's backyard swinging with some of our grandchildren. What a weekend...

Saturday morning I headed out early to show houses, all organized and ready. I thank God for technology (some days) because the fancy tire doohicky on my Ford Explorer began to show me a rapidly-deflating tire on the left front of my car...all while I was doing 75 miles an hour. When I stopped at a nearby gas station, I saw that there was a hole blowing air on the sidewall of the tire. If the car hadn't told me I was getting a flat, I'm pretty sure it would have blown out and I'd have been in a much worse situation. Our firefighter son, Daniel, happened to be ten minutes away. I was in a dress and in a hurry to meet my clients and he headed right to me. Meanwhile, I pulled the spare out of the back of the car and tried to get the jack untangled and ready, grease getting all over my hands. I heard a loud whistle from across the busy parking lot of the gas station emanating from a heavily-bearded man. He gestured at my clothing. To my horror, I realized that my dress was tucked up into my underwear. Every middle-school-girl's worst nightmare. He didn't come over and offer to help me with my flat tire, but I guess he did help me in his own way.

Eventually, our son got there and fixed me up and I headed out again, though limping with that spare. I had a long drive and plenty of time to lower my blood pressure and think about the many embarrassing situations I've found myself in. I am often preoccupied, not careful about my physical surroundings. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I sometimes forget to eat and forget to pay attention to anything but my thoughts or the conversation I'm in with another person or the job I'm working on. This leads to some mayhem. 

Clothes being tucked up into my underwear is no stranger to me, and back in the 70s, when those silky shirts were a thing, I've been known to suddenly expose my bra to unsuspecting people. 

Then there are the falls. Ballards are a real hazard in my world. I've tripped over several, while vacuuming out my car, loading up groceries, going into the doctor's office and arriving for  parades. Once, I face-planted on asphalt at a baseball game with my daughter because we were hurrying and I didn't see an object in my path. That one made me hurt for months. Then there was one of my daughter-in-love's shower, where I was in the midst of countless strangers. As I began to sit down, I narrowly missed the chair and took out two church ladies (but miraculously didn't lose any of my lemonade in the process. I might have priorities...). The absolute worst was when I was on tour in Italy with our wind ensemble and I nearly fell in between our gondola and the dock, into the inky black water beneath (it was late at night)...but instead knocked over one of my friends in the process. There's a theme here and I imagine I might need to get myself in gear. Time's marching on and takes no prisoners. I don't think of myself as clumsy...I was heavily recruited to play college basketball, am an artist and musician, using all those physical tools, but apparently I might still be a klutz and ding-y at times, despite my protestations. 

What embarrassment does for our character is keep us humble. About the time we think ourselves masters of the universe, a little dog poop or toilet paper invariably makes its way onto our shoes. When Mr. Beard hailed me about my unholy underwear and dimpled, white, unsummered legs showing, I did the best thing I could -- wave and laugh. If you can't chuckle at the absurdity of life, well, you're just missing out. But I might need to pay more attention to those ledges and stairwells, just sayin'...   

Market Pandemonium

Us homemakers have been the "consumers" of all things domestic since the beginning of time. There's no need for any market tests. Just go ahead and ask us. I have long been able to predict the failure or success of any new store that pops up. It's contingent on interest, location, products, product placement, and pricing. Any savvy gal who has been on a budget and raised scads of kids can give you a real quick market analysis. Just ask the Mamas, people. You'd save a lot of money and have boots-on-the-ground information you could actually use. 

I was given a tour of the fanciest day spa I have ever seen in my life. It was beyond beautiful, classy and sleek, comforting and luxurious (look, Pa!), everything I imagine you'd find in New York City. They offered a monthly club deal and reduced rates for those lucky individuals who can afford it. But naw, I need grocery money. And real estate is wonky right now. And, oh yeah, this is a small town, not NYC. I wish them well and I hope they will succeed beyond their wildest expectations. I am pro-Villa Rica! But my spidey sense is going off and I'm afraid they might not make it. Hopefully, they will. But I do have a record...

Then there's the subject of real estate. I've been in this for eighteen years (how can that be true?!) I've seen the roller coaster ride that is the market -- starting with the downturn of 2008 to the riding-high of the COVID years (super low interest rates and subsequent bidding wars). Homes, construction, neighborhoods have always fascinated both me and Ken -- for fun, we have ridden around looking at all that for the last 43 years. Which brings us to the current strangeness... after the escalation of prices and then higher interest rates, it is much harder for first-time home buyers to get into a property, and also hard for other folks to move "up" when even a lateral move would mean a doubled payment, thanks to doubled interest rates. Lenders don't like true fixer-uppers, so cash is king, but then there's lots of folks with cash wanting to low-ball everything so that they can flip properties and make a profit. What I see right now is an old-fashioned standoff. Homes are sitting on the market for weeks and months, with Sellers hoping for last year's prices. Buyers are bidding and trying to wrestle the prices down so that the interest won't kill them. Us agents are in the middle, working harder than ever to come to agreement on both sides. I'm tuckered out with all the wrasslin', but unless it closes nobody wins. 

What nobody tells you is that being a Realtor is kinda like being a lawyer, but without the degree and without the respect. And it's kinda like being a counselor, without the credentials. Then it's kinda like being a Mama, breaking up fights between two kids. And some days, because I deal with a lot of estates, it's like holding back the tide on decades of infighting. Some are holding out for that inheritance day that may not pay out as much as originally hoped. Nobody wants to pay top dollar for Grandmama's treasured antiques, and her house is in poor shape, so nothing pans out like anticipated. Sometimes I list a house for more than I think I should, because the family always thinks that it's easy to come down but not easy to go up (well, that's impossible, actually). But in the end, if it sits there, the internet sees it and so does everyone else, and everybody's mad at me because it took so long to sell. I tried to tell them...

I love my clients, however. I pray for them, develop a relationship with them, ride down beautiful country roads for them. If I keep my eyes on that, then we are okay. I think we will get through this and then I'll take a nap.    

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 Daytona. 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.