This earth that we are walking around on is a cracked place. There are evils on every side....we are experiencing racial wars, culture wars, political wars, and oh yeah, how-to-pay-the-bills-this-week wars. If you listen to the news or keep up with current events, you could easily lose heart and feel that nothing is going right in the world. I often let myself fall into despair about the state of things, but I (and we) should not. There is hope. I have seen God do the impossible in my own lifetime, and here's just one story....
When I was a little girl, we lived in a typical suburban neighborhood, not quite middle-class. My Mama stayed at home, raising the kids and keeping our lives organized, healthy and stable. My Daddy worked at the Post Office in Atlanta, doing things completely alien to his artistic salesman nature, to keep food on the table. If you compare the things that we had to what is "expected" now, we would be considered poor, though I never thought that. We had love and security in our home and that was treasure enough.
My Daddy. A man who was raised as poor as possible....he grew up knowing hunger, extreme cold and heat, the lack of shoes to wear to school, very little education, a drunken father and hope in short supply. So when I say I saw God lived out in my father, it is no small miracle.
My Dad became a Christian when I was twelve years old. He had been a fun and kind Daddy before that, but when Christ redeemed him, he was changed all the way to the core. Where there had been rules, there was now relationship. Where there had been fear, there was now love. I saw him praying, reading the Word and loving his wife like he had never loved her before. My parents had been on the verge of divorce when the Lord swooped down and rescued them. And us.
A true Christian is marked by love. A true one. Bitterness can eat a person alive, but the forgiveness that God gives a repentant sinner emanates from that person's life. How can I not forgive, when I've been forgiven so much? I saw this walked out, when the devil moved next door to us in my teen years.
Our family lived next to a large wooded lot, probably 4 or 5 acres big (or not -- it seemed enormous). My siblings and I had grown up playing in that hallowed field. We had several tree houses, "forts" and trails carved into it and I knew every inch. We picked blackberries, played cowboys and Indians, "run away from the orphanage" (that was always so romantic) and all those things kids used to play. When Mr. Devil Man bought the property and built a house on it, even though we were getting older, it was a sad day for us kids. He built his house right up on the highway, so you couldn't see it from our side next door. But we sure saw him. All the time. My Dad had maintained part of that property because it hit right on a ridge that flowed onto our lot. Mr. Devil came over and told my Dad that he was not to maintain that part of the property and that us kids were not to step onto his land. When Dad would crank up his lawnmower, this man would run out of his house and stand on the edge of his property, making sure that Daddy didn't encroach onto his side. Any time Dad went outside to garden or do his many projects, he had a spectator on the sideline, watching and waiting for him to make a mistake or misstep. Devil man then cut a ditch and begin rerouting his runoff water onto our lot. He pitched fits about all kinds of things. I remember his red face, ranting and raving about who-knows-what. I was just a kid and wondered what all the fuss was about. This man seemed to have one purpose and that was to torment my Dad. I knew that my Dad would never purposely harm this man or impose on him, but with the way the guy was acting, I thought he should just punch him in the nose. Daddy was masculine, strong and capable of such, but I saw something else coming out of him that wasn't born of anything from this world. Something that made no logical sense.
My Daddy started praying for him. All the time. He said that he just needed love and Jesus, and that we were to be respectful to him. He could have sued this guy over the water issue and he could have thumbed his nose at him. But he didn't. Mama began taking him cookies. Daddy offered to help him with things he was working on. Still mad. Still grumpy. Still hateful. Years went by. So many years, my sister and I grew up, got married and busy with our own lives. I didn't think about Mr. Devil much anymore. Except one Thanksgiving Day, not long after Ken and I married.....
The table was groaning, the extended family was gathered, and the prayers were said. As I gazed about the room full of people, my heart was lifted in gratefulness to God as I saw what it means to be a Christian. Because that Devil Man was sitting right at the head of the table, eating, smiling, and talking with the family. He was now my Daddy's friend.
Things could have gone so differently. We could and should have ended up with a war all those years. Certainly, Mr. Devil Man wanted one. He made no bones about lobbing his hate mortars our way, right off the bat and consistently through the years, even when my Dad's kindness was lobbed back, over and over... But God's love persisted way past the point of what was reasonable and fair or even sane. It was God's child acting like Jesus -- when he was persecuted and treated unfairly, he responded with the love that God had given him.
When I met the difficult teen years, made mistakes, put my toes in the water, was tempted at the cliffs.... there was this place of refuge in my soul because I had learned, firsthand, what it means to trust in a God like that.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
The Very, Very Wicked Day
I am sitting here before my computer, numb. The soft air of a fan is rushing by my face. I am now mostly sane, in my pajamas, safe, cool and everything is blissfully quiet in the house.
It wasn't always this way.
The very wicked day started in a not-too-unusual way. I switched a paint job to start a day later so that I could help my daughter-in-law with our almost 2-year-old grandbaby, Madelyn Rose. Maddie is my namesake, though after today she might want to change her name. Maddie had a terrible reaction to something from a handful of trailmix on July 4th at the fireworks in Douglasville. Anaphylactic shock, they called it. She broke out in hives, then more hives, then swelled up like a botoxed balloon. Thank God, my son Daniel had the good sense to get her right to the hospital, where they administered an epi pen and emergency measures. Everybody's lives will change now with how and what we do with Maddie. Today was a follow-up with her regular doctor. So we trawled our way to Kennesaw in the blistering heat. Poor baby had to have more blood drawn, but she was a trooper, showing everyone her new booboo and proudly brandishing about 20 princess stickers.
Suddenly, my daughter-in-law, Jessica, gets a text from my son....that he was at the hospital with an abscessed tooth. He was in horrible pain with a toothache and wound up there before he could make his way to the dentist. Before we could get to him, he drove himself, unwisely, to the dentist...so we detoured our trip to collect him, drugged and bloody, from the dental office. With a fistful of prescriptions to be filled, Ma and Pa were dispatched to the drugstore while I took Maddie back to their house in my van to get a much-needed nap. So a thirty-minute drive later, my bladder is about to explode. I had been dismissing hints from it all afternoon, trying to save time.
I shouldn't have done that.
It messed up all my sense of logic. Not that I actually have any of that. Maddie and I pulled into their driveway. My normal modus operandi is to push the button to open the sliding door of my van, before I turn off the car. But did I do that? No. I was conflicted. My bladder was in pain and I was afraid to even pick up the baby. In my muddled brain I thought I could run quickly to the bathroom before I took her out of the car seat. So I ran. The car door neatly slammed behind me (I told you this was an evil day) and I heard the door lock. I am not kidding. I do not know why it did that, but it did, locking my keys in the car. And the baby in the car.
Now I am standing in the driveway, wailing to our oldest son, Jon, on the phone about what I've just done. He tries to calm me down and tells me he will call my husband to bring the other key. Which meant, approximately another thirty minutes of hell. To add insult to injury, my dog (who was in their backyard) realizes that I am there and starts yowling like a coyote. Meanwhile, there are forces in the universe which inevitably kick in, no matter what I do. Gravity. Time. Stress. Bladder torsion. Yes, it is true. I have now been entered into the Bad Yaya Hall of Fame. Locked the baby in the car and then peed on myself.
God is real. I know this because He providentially caused me to put a huge, rude wad of gum in my mouth before I did the evil deed. So as I'm waiting for Papa Bear to get there, I also get the divinely inspired idea to blow bubbles with it for Maddie while we wait. She is laughing behind the glass, trying to duplicate what I am doing on the other side. Between 24 verses of Old McDonald, with me calling up every animal sound known to man, Maddie keeps begging me to blow more bubbles. I know that there is a statute of limitations on the elasticity of gum, so I'm interspersing the bubbles with more verses. Occasionally my emotions get the best of me and I have to turn my back to her and sob my heart out for a few seconds. Have you ever tried to pray, really hard, while you are blowing bubbles? Maddie seemed to think it was all very funny, praise God, and Papa Bear's mad driving skills got him there quicker than I want to think about. We got that baby outa there lickety-split. Two cups of juice, a bowl of applesauce and a change of clothes later, she's snoozing like a kitten in her crib.
Yaya gets home, Papa Bear tucks her in and the world is right for the time being. But now I've got this twitch in my left eye which I suspect might not ever leave.
It wasn't always this way.
The very wicked day started in a not-too-unusual way. I switched a paint job to start a day later so that I could help my daughter-in-law with our almost 2-year-old grandbaby, Madelyn Rose. Maddie is my namesake, though after today she might want to change her name. Maddie had a terrible reaction to something from a handful of trailmix on July 4th at the fireworks in Douglasville. Anaphylactic shock, they called it. She broke out in hives, then more hives, then swelled up like a botoxed balloon. Thank God, my son Daniel had the good sense to get her right to the hospital, where they administered an epi pen and emergency measures. Everybody's lives will change now with how and what we do with Maddie. Today was a follow-up with her regular doctor. So we trawled our way to Kennesaw in the blistering heat. Poor baby had to have more blood drawn, but she was a trooper, showing everyone her new booboo and proudly brandishing about 20 princess stickers.
Suddenly, my daughter-in-law, Jessica, gets a text from my son....that he was at the hospital with an abscessed tooth. He was in horrible pain with a toothache and wound up there before he could make his way to the dentist. Before we could get to him, he drove himself, unwisely, to the dentist...so we detoured our trip to collect him, drugged and bloody, from the dental office. With a fistful of prescriptions to be filled, Ma and Pa were dispatched to the drugstore while I took Maddie back to their house in my van to get a much-needed nap. So a thirty-minute drive later, my bladder is about to explode. I had been dismissing hints from it all afternoon, trying to save time.
I shouldn't have done that.
It messed up all my sense of logic. Not that I actually have any of that. Maddie and I pulled into their driveway. My normal modus operandi is to push the button to open the sliding door of my van, before I turn off the car. But did I do that? No. I was conflicted. My bladder was in pain and I was afraid to even pick up the baby. In my muddled brain I thought I could run quickly to the bathroom before I took her out of the car seat. So I ran. The car door neatly slammed behind me (I told you this was an evil day) and I heard the door lock. I am not kidding. I do not know why it did that, but it did, locking my keys in the car. And the baby in the car.
Now I am standing in the driveway, wailing to our oldest son, Jon, on the phone about what I've just done. He tries to calm me down and tells me he will call my husband to bring the other key. Which meant, approximately another thirty minutes of hell. To add insult to injury, my dog (who was in their backyard) realizes that I am there and starts yowling like a coyote. Meanwhile, there are forces in the universe which inevitably kick in, no matter what I do. Gravity. Time. Stress. Bladder torsion. Yes, it is true. I have now been entered into the Bad Yaya Hall of Fame. Locked the baby in the car and then peed on myself.
God is real. I know this because He providentially caused me to put a huge, rude wad of gum in my mouth before I did the evil deed. So as I'm waiting for Papa Bear to get there, I also get the divinely inspired idea to blow bubbles with it for Maddie while we wait. She is laughing behind the glass, trying to duplicate what I am doing on the other side. Between 24 verses of Old McDonald, with me calling up every animal sound known to man, Maddie keeps begging me to blow more bubbles. I know that there is a statute of limitations on the elasticity of gum, so I'm interspersing the bubbles with more verses. Occasionally my emotions get the best of me and I have to turn my back to her and sob my heart out for a few seconds. Have you ever tried to pray, really hard, while you are blowing bubbles? Maddie seemed to think it was all very funny, praise God, and Papa Bear's mad driving skills got him there quicker than I want to think about. We got that baby outa there lickety-split. Two cups of juice, a bowl of applesauce and a change of clothes later, she's snoozing like a kitten in her crib.
Yaya gets home, Papa Bear tucks her in and the world is right for the time being. But now I've got this twitch in my left eye which I suspect might not ever leave.
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Confessions of a Book Abuser
Stillness. There it is. From rushing here and yon, planning, preparing, going, doing.... it is rare. If I look for it, I can find it. That's easy to say, now that my four children are grown. I can remember when a trip to the bathroom was fraught with perils beyond the door lock. You never knew what was going to happen and what you might miss, just because of your tiny escape to the bathroom. I used to keep a Reader's Digest in there, because you could read a whole book in about 20 minutes, if you were fast. So I learned to read lightning quick. And type like a woodpecker. And fold clothes like it was a contest. All those Wonder Woman skills that I remember seeing my Mama churn out in record time....I would ask her, "How do you do that so fast?" She'd say, "Lots and lots of practice." Eventually I became the skilled one because I had so much practice it was scary. There's not a lot of room for perfectionism when life is going on without you if you don't get all the mundane things whipped out in a jiffy.
On another note... (but talking about Reader's Digest made me think about it). The Library. Oh how I love the library and books. Back in the van-full-of-kids days, I'd get two armloads, one for me and one for our kids. We'd carry them home in a milk crate. I still like to read 4-5 books simultaneously, one in each bathroom, one beside the bed, one in the living room by my chair.... The number of bathrooms in our house has always dictated how many I might be reading at any given time. Oh yeah, and there's the tub adventures too. One day, years ago, I asked my brother to borrow a book and he wouldn't let me read it. He told me that he would only be buying me books from now on, and that I would not be borrowing any more from him. I was offended until he told me that the last book I borrowed came back looking like one of those old Reader's Digest Christmas trees we used to make out of folded books....not to mention that it also had bite marks on the cover. He checked and said that the bites were definitely human and definitely adult-sized. How can I help it if the book slips into the tub while I'm trying to balance my bowl of ice cream in the other hand, leading to two memorable events, one involving a hair dryer and the other resulting in bite marks? He's been true on his promise to buy me books, thankfully, and they're always the good ones. I relish reading them whenever and however I like.
On another note... (but talking about Reader's Digest made me think about it). The Library. Oh how I love the library and books. Back in the van-full-of-kids days, I'd get two armloads, one for me and one for our kids. We'd carry them home in a milk crate. I still like to read 4-5 books simultaneously, one in each bathroom, one beside the bed, one in the living room by my chair.... The number of bathrooms in our house has always dictated how many I might be reading at any given time. Oh yeah, and there's the tub adventures too. One day, years ago, I asked my brother to borrow a book and he wouldn't let me read it. He told me that he would only be buying me books from now on, and that I would not be borrowing any more from him. I was offended until he told me that the last book I borrowed came back looking like one of those old Reader's Digest Christmas trees we used to make out of folded books....not to mention that it also had bite marks on the cover. He checked and said that the bites were definitely human and definitely adult-sized. How can I help it if the book slips into the tub while I'm trying to balance my bowl of ice cream in the other hand, leading to two memorable events, one involving a hair dryer and the other resulting in bite marks? He's been true on his promise to buy me books, thankfully, and they're always the good ones. I relish reading them whenever and however I like.
Back to the Library. Libraries would be just peachy if it weren't for those people they employ, Librarians. Librarians do not like me. I don't understand that. I exude much joy and happiness when I walk in there. Most people really do like me. I adore books, acres of them. And so do Librarians, correct? They are always nice when I first come in, and then they seem to get upset when I don't bring books back, when I make too much noise in there, and especially when I do bring the books back but they have bite marks on them. One day I brought back my truckload of books and they were quite late...so late that I had a fine of $12.10. I had $12 but not 10 cents. I assumed she'd be merciful (why would I think that?) and I took an hour to pick out another bucket of books, but when I failed to come up with the extra 10 cents, the Librarian wouldn't let me check them out. I went to my truck and dug around, asked a couple of people for a dime and then began begging on the sidewalk. There was no money to be found. Maybe those black helicopters hovering over the library weren't just looking for marijuana fields. She refused to let me take the books home. That was the day I began to wonder if it was time to move, since apparently my cover had been blown. I mean, how many times does a book actually get read? Surely only a few, right? Especially if they're paperbacks. They get read a couple of times then go in the 25-cent bin, where I buy them and then trade them in at the used book store for more books. Why would I keep most books? I'm only planning on reading them once, maybe, maybe twice, unless it's the Bible, so why all the hostility? Either way, when we moved to Villa Rica, I don't think the Librarians here got the memo, so somehow I have been able to remain incognito for three and a half years. Maybe it's because I've gained some Ninja-Library-Sneaking skills. I don't know and here I am now, risking my cover again. Meanwhile, if I call you a Librarian it probably means that you are much more reverent and obedient than I and I probably do not understand you. And of course you don't understand me. Since I don't actually call anyone that to their face, maybe it will go well and I won't get tarred and feathered soon. Many apologies to all decent and good Librarians that I may (and surely) have offended in this life. You are truly better than me and I mean that from the bottom of my heart. I wish I could be that good. And please understand that I'm a very sarcastic person and that God's gonna get me for all my Library Sins. I don't think those are on the 7-worst-sins list, but I'm pretty sure they're still sins.
Thursday, June 11, 2015
What is love?
Hollywood is just full of love. Bookstore shelves are filled with novels about it. The computer seems to have a permanent scrolling banner, proclaiming promises of how to find love with this or that singles site. The movies and TV have story after story, finding love, unrequited love, everlasting love. At least half the songs written are about it. At least.
But what is it?
I have been married a long time. 33 years at last count. I married a 6'2" hunk of a man with about 8% body fat, shoulders like a lumberjack and biceps like Hercules. He married some woman who looked like a model, with long blonde hair to her teeny-tiny waist, wearing 4-inch high Candies heels and a size 5 ring. Something happened along the way and those people can no longer be found. It's as if they vanished. A mirage in the desert. A few pictures in an album. Four babies now grown, three daughter-in-laws, five grandbabies (one in the oven!), lots of houses and jobs, and way too much cheesecake later....the years peel off like a waitress's orders at a barbecue pit. When we married in a fever all those years ago, we had no idea what we were in for.
The movies and books that tell about "true love" are always some convoluted story that ends in someone running because the bus is about to leave or the train is departing or the boat is pulling away from the dock. Then there's hugging and kissing and happily ever after. And a lot of times, in real life, that stuff happens (though not usually). There's the flush of infatuation, all the etc.'s in between, and then a conclusion with some sort of commitment. But in the real world, over 50% of married couples don't make it. For a million different reasons. It breaks my heart when they don't make it, because there's always so much more that gets broken than all the "reasons."
Part of our dilemma is that real love, in the real world, doesn't have a screenplay, a plot and a soundtrack. Well, we do, but it might wreck your ears. Most of our problem is that we're a bunch of sinners and we mess stuff up. Real love involves blood, sweat, tears, vomit and worse. But the trial isn't the drama, it's the spaces in between. When everyone is tired, Mama's sick, Daddy's not making enough money, the laundry needs doing, the bathroom needs cleaning, the joints are aching, everybody's hungry, it's sticky and hot and 95 degrees and the air goes out, there's seventeen things to do today but only time for four of those things, and then Uncle Joe dies and we need to pack up and go to the funeral in Mississippi. Rev it up and start it all over tomorrow. Then there's the days where you've gotten up to go to work for the 10,000th time at an ungodly hour, worked, driven back and forth, come home, eaten and gone to sleep and nothing even remotely exciting has crossed your path. Day after day. Year after year. The same ole gal across the table. The same ole guy across the table. You can speak each other's sentences before they roll out. You know those rumply hands, those mangy toes, and the way he takes five decades to get out of the car because he's got to get everything arranged just so. Then there's the way she makes a mess at every stop and station along the way, with apparently no promise of food coming out of the kitchen yet and it's 6:30, and seems to have no regard to the fact that company's coming tomorrow, but she's managed to talk to 23 people today.
This is love. It is the "putting." Putting one foot in front of the other. Putting up with the snoring, the mess, the neurosis. It is the remembering. Remembering why she liked him. Remembering why he liked her. None of us really change that much. Looking to the core of that person and what made us connect like two magnets (besides just the animal magnetism). Remembering that he is a person, he needs to be acknowledged, affirmed, respected. Remembering that she longs to be cherished, loved, and believed.
And then it's just the miracle. For us, the miracle of God. Because only God could make these two sinners put up, shut up, and forgive when they need to. Two strong-willed, opinionated first-borns on opposite ends of the spectrum...who on a bad day and without the spirit of God might have the capacity to kill each other. A miracle because in the midst of a thousand different, boring spaces interspersed with homicidal tendencies, we found the grace of God. Rather, it found us.
The grace of God. That's all I got.
But what is it?
I have been married a long time. 33 years at last count. I married a 6'2" hunk of a man with about 8% body fat, shoulders like a lumberjack and biceps like Hercules. He married some woman who looked like a model, with long blonde hair to her teeny-tiny waist, wearing 4-inch high Candies heels and a size 5 ring. Something happened along the way and those people can no longer be found. It's as if they vanished. A mirage in the desert. A few pictures in an album. Four babies now grown, three daughter-in-laws, five grandbabies (one in the oven!), lots of houses and jobs, and way too much cheesecake later....the years peel off like a waitress's orders at a barbecue pit. When we married in a fever all those years ago, we had no idea what we were in for.
The movies and books that tell about "true love" are always some convoluted story that ends in someone running because the bus is about to leave or the train is departing or the boat is pulling away from the dock. Then there's hugging and kissing and happily ever after. And a lot of times, in real life, that stuff happens (though not usually). There's the flush of infatuation, all the etc.'s in between, and then a conclusion with some sort of commitment. But in the real world, over 50% of married couples don't make it. For a million different reasons. It breaks my heart when they don't make it, because there's always so much more that gets broken than all the "reasons."
Part of our dilemma is that real love, in the real world, doesn't have a screenplay, a plot and a soundtrack. Well, we do, but it might wreck your ears. Most of our problem is that we're a bunch of sinners and we mess stuff up. Real love involves blood, sweat, tears, vomit and worse. But the trial isn't the drama, it's the spaces in between. When everyone is tired, Mama's sick, Daddy's not making enough money, the laundry needs doing, the bathroom needs cleaning, the joints are aching, everybody's hungry, it's sticky and hot and 95 degrees and the air goes out, there's seventeen things to do today but only time for four of those things, and then Uncle Joe dies and we need to pack up and go to the funeral in Mississippi. Rev it up and start it all over tomorrow. Then there's the days where you've gotten up to go to work for the 10,000th time at an ungodly hour, worked, driven back and forth, come home, eaten and gone to sleep and nothing even remotely exciting has crossed your path. Day after day. Year after year. The same ole gal across the table. The same ole guy across the table. You can speak each other's sentences before they roll out. You know those rumply hands, those mangy toes, and the way he takes five decades to get out of the car because he's got to get everything arranged just so. Then there's the way she makes a mess at every stop and station along the way, with apparently no promise of food coming out of the kitchen yet and it's 6:30, and seems to have no regard to the fact that company's coming tomorrow, but she's managed to talk to 23 people today.
This is love. It is the "putting." Putting one foot in front of the other. Putting up with the snoring, the mess, the neurosis. It is the remembering. Remembering why she liked him. Remembering why he liked her. None of us really change that much. Looking to the core of that person and what made us connect like two magnets (besides just the animal magnetism). Remembering that he is a person, he needs to be acknowledged, affirmed, respected. Remembering that she longs to be cherished, loved, and believed.
And then it's just the miracle. For us, the miracle of God. Because only God could make these two sinners put up, shut up, and forgive when they need to. Two strong-willed, opinionated first-borns on opposite ends of the spectrum...who on a bad day and without the spirit of God might have the capacity to kill each other. A miracle because in the midst of a thousand different, boring spaces interspersed with homicidal tendencies, we found the grace of God. Rather, it found us.
The grace of God. That's all I got.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
The Story of a Door
The Story of a Door
One hundred and eleven years ago, a man built a house. He put a beautiful mahogany door on the front of the house. It was massive, with a large beveled glass window in it. It was handcrafted for the house. A knocker, brass handle and a twist-type doorbell completed the masterpiece.
A door. A doorway. Brides carried over the threshold. Babies born and visited. Children played on porches, uncles smoked and told stories, funeral meals were taken, good news and bad news welcomed through its portal. Lives born, lived out, extinguished. Time, weather, more weather. Someone painted the door green. And then black. It weathered some more. Thankfully, an expansive porch protected it from most of the elements. It stood proud, with a handmade screened door between it and the world. Then an owner came that stayed almost thirty years who rarely, if ever, used the porch or the door. The door was locked, with acres of beautiful antique furniture inside blocking entrance or egress. It sat still, old but perfect, not moving, not aging much. Then one day the door was opened, and all the furniture that had taken up the house like a warehouse was moved out. The people left for the mountains. The house was still again. Empty. Waiting. All those years, the doorbell unused. Another year went by, with many people going through the house, some lookers, some buyers. Offers given, refused, disqualified.
Then we came, new caretakers grateful for the love and protection given the house and the door over these many years. The door gained a lively new life, not so protected anymore. Children passing through, slamming, adults banging on it, youngsters twisting the doorbell and driving everyone to distraction. The old black paint started to chip and fall off, exposing wood to the world. So I stripped the door. The old wood did not want to be naked. It didn't want to be stained or polyurethaned. It cried out and told me that it was meant to be painted. Since it was rare and beautiful, it deserved all the glory I could give it. So I painted it red. Bright red. A siren song red. It was a thing of beauty. Happy, unashamed, just-a-singin'.
Then we painted the rest of the front of the house. The red glared and looked vulgar against the warm historical colors I brought the house back to. Everyone knows that a door holds an important place in the face of a house. It needs to pop, to say "Come on in, ya'll!" So I thought, "Yellow!" I bought little buckets of yellow paint, painted big poster samples and set them up against the door. Looked at them for a week. Yellow, right? That's an autumn color. It should work. People pay me to pick colors for them, so how could I go wrong? I started painting the door with my quart of high-quality oil paint. I do this for a living, remember? I have had only a couple of accidents in 30+ years of painting. But somehow, some way, I tipped the whole quart of bright yellow-gold paint onto my porch. I slopped up as much as I could with my dropcloth and headed out to the yard with it, dripping all the way. Dripped it onto the porch, the concrete, the ancient bricks, the shrubs, the grass and me. My new tennis shoes (don't ask). My clothes and hair were covered in it. I look over at my Australian Shepherd and saw that she had plopped down right in the middle of it. This is oil paint, people. You can't clean that up with the hose. I whip out my gallon of mineral spirits and try to mop the worst of it off the brick and concrete stairs, praying no one decides to use the tiki torches later and incinerate the house. After much consternation and internal swearing, it gets somewhat cleaned up. I start over. Given drying time and two coats later, it's done. I enjoy a few days of opening the door and seeing that happy yellow face every morning. A couple of weeks go by. I still enjoy opening the door to the joy, but when I drive by my house or walk the dog in the front yard, the yellow up against the other colors begins to irritate me. Badly.
What's an artist to do? I can abide a foot-high pile of papers on the kitchen table for months, dog hair on the carpet or that infernal mess that's all over the inside of my car....but don't irritate me with a color hitch. So I prayed. Yes, I finally resorted to that. Shoulda done that before I started. Ya'll think I'm kidding, but I'm not. He never misleads me on these things. Yesterday's exciting job was to buy yet another quart of paint (that makes three so far, in addition to a grocery sack of paint samples). Today's exciting job was to paint over the infernal yellow. But of course it rained and it's supposed to rain all week. With oil paint, you better wait for low humidity or you've got a permanently sticking door. I can't disrespect the door that way. I'll make myself wait.
So what is the new color? Sherwin Williams Roycroft Copper Red. From the historical collection. Red with some brick-ness in it. What was I thinking? Of course the door had to be red. Didn't it tell me that in the first place? I just had to find the right one. I guess if this one doesn't work out, I'll have to resort to stacking furniture in front of the door.
A door. A doorway. Brides carried over the threshold. Babies born and visited. Children played on porches, uncles smoked and told stories, funeral meals were taken, good news and bad news welcomed through its portal. Lives born, lived out, extinguished. Time, weather, more weather. Someone painted the door green. And then black. It weathered some more. Thankfully, an expansive porch protected it from most of the elements. It stood proud, with a handmade screened door between it and the world. Then an owner came that stayed almost thirty years who rarely, if ever, used the porch or the door. The door was locked, with acres of beautiful antique furniture inside blocking entrance or egress. It sat still, old but perfect, not moving, not aging much. Then one day the door was opened, and all the furniture that had taken up the house like a warehouse was moved out. The people left for the mountains. The house was still again. Empty. Waiting. All those years, the doorbell unused. Another year went by, with many people going through the house, some lookers, some buyers. Offers given, refused, disqualified.
Then we came, new caretakers grateful for the love and protection given the house and the door over these many years. The door gained a lively new life, not so protected anymore. Children passing through, slamming, adults banging on it, youngsters twisting the doorbell and driving everyone to distraction. The old black paint started to chip and fall off, exposing wood to the world. So I stripped the door. The old wood did not want to be naked. It didn't want to be stained or polyurethaned. It cried out and told me that it was meant to be painted. Since it was rare and beautiful, it deserved all the glory I could give it. So I painted it red. Bright red. A siren song red. It was a thing of beauty. Happy, unashamed, just-a-singin'.
Then we painted the rest of the front of the house. The red glared and looked vulgar against the warm historical colors I brought the house back to. Everyone knows that a door holds an important place in the face of a house. It needs to pop, to say "Come on in, ya'll!" So I thought, "Yellow!" I bought little buckets of yellow paint, painted big poster samples and set them up against the door. Looked at them for a week. Yellow, right? That's an autumn color. It should work. People pay me to pick colors for them, so how could I go wrong? I started painting the door with my quart of high-quality oil paint. I do this for a living, remember? I have had only a couple of accidents in 30+ years of painting. But somehow, some way, I tipped the whole quart of bright yellow-gold paint onto my porch. I slopped up as much as I could with my dropcloth and headed out to the yard with it, dripping all the way. Dripped it onto the porch, the concrete, the ancient bricks, the shrubs, the grass and me. My new tennis shoes (don't ask). My clothes and hair were covered in it. I look over at my Australian Shepherd and saw that she had plopped down right in the middle of it. This is oil paint, people. You can't clean that up with the hose. I whip out my gallon of mineral spirits and try to mop the worst of it off the brick and concrete stairs, praying no one decides to use the tiki torches later and incinerate the house. After much consternation and internal swearing, it gets somewhat cleaned up. I start over. Given drying time and two coats later, it's done. I enjoy a few days of opening the door and seeing that happy yellow face every morning. A couple of weeks go by. I still enjoy opening the door to the joy, but when I drive by my house or walk the dog in the front yard, the yellow up against the other colors begins to irritate me. Badly.
What's an artist to do? I can abide a foot-high pile of papers on the kitchen table for months, dog hair on the carpet or that infernal mess that's all over the inside of my car....but don't irritate me with a color hitch. So I prayed. Yes, I finally resorted to that. Shoulda done that before I started. Ya'll think I'm kidding, but I'm not. He never misleads me on these things. Yesterday's exciting job was to buy yet another quart of paint (that makes three so far, in addition to a grocery sack of paint samples). Today's exciting job was to paint over the infernal yellow. But of course it rained and it's supposed to rain all week. With oil paint, you better wait for low humidity or you've got a permanently sticking door. I can't disrespect the door that way. I'll make myself wait.
So what is the new color? Sherwin Williams Roycroft Copper Red. From the historical collection. Red with some brick-ness in it. What was I thinking? Of course the door had to be red. Didn't it tell me that in the first place? I just had to find the right one. I guess if this one doesn't work out, I'll have to resort to stacking furniture in front of the door.
Friday, May 1, 2015
Magnolia Street, Villa Rica
A little over three years ago, when we sold our home in the middle of the Winston countryside, I thought I was going to die from grief. We had virtually put our heart and souls into a gorgeous piece of land in 1996. That's a whole book of stories that can't be pieced together in one column, but suffice it to say, out of necessity we sold our life's dream and began hunting for a new place to live, with the cash-out of 30 years of sweat equity to pay for it with. I have my real estate license, so was able to do my own looking without bothering anybody else. My husband, Ken, and I had a system: I would preview the houses and then drag him around to the ones I found interesting. Thankfully he is a wise man and has usually trusted my instincts.
I put in all the parameters of what we could afford...which was an exercise in restraint. We looked at dozens of homes, scads of them. Nothing really stood out and nothing spoke to us, but we were willing to buy a simple, sound home in order to be at a more peaceful financial place in our lives. Coming up short, I started thinking about where we would like to live, rather than just a dollar sign on the page. So I put in "Villa Rica" as my criteria and began looking through the homes available. I had always liked the small-town feel of Villa Rica. It seemed more peaceful and more hopeful than some of the other towns around us. Up popped this adorable Victorian house, charming and quaint...but out of our price range. I decided to look at it on my day's wanderings. I believe I looked at twelve houses that day and it was the last one.
I pulled into the driveway behind the house. The yard was as big as two city lots and looked like a park. Two massive pecan trees hovered over the back lot like a set of grandparents pampering their progeny. The house, even the backside of it, was darling from the street. The lockbox was on the back door. I was stunned by the door itself. It was indescribable...a whimsical, sweet confection of stained glass and Renaissance revival carvings. Then my jaw dropped at the star-like light fixture hanging in the laundry room. The laundry room! Each corner I turned had surprises in store. Inlaid floors, five fireplaces, huge windows that seemed to pull the outdoors in. Stained glass, pocket doors, leaded glass, a massive porch, a sweet wrought-iron gate and fence, woodwork still in its original state, a giant built-in china cabinet in the dining room, and a freshly-renovated lovely kitchen. It even had a little room on the back that I could use for an art studio. The last owner (and probably many other owners) had taken loving care of the house. It was hard to believe a 100+-year-old house could be in this kind of shape. So why wasn't it selling? Besides the fact that God was keeping it for us, the walls were dark and ugly, dated with decades-old wallpaper and colors. Each room had its own color scheme, with no rhyme or reason as to why. There was no flow and it felt cavernous. I have spoken to numerous people who said that they loved this house and wanted to buy it, but they just didn't know what to do with all the clunky colors and walls. How thankful I am that they didn't! Because that's exactly what I (and we) do -- I am a decorative painter and have spent the last 30 or so years buying and selling homes, fixing up, painting them and repainting them. My husband said of one of our houses, that we would be safe from nuclear fallout because of the nine paint jobs that I layered in the master bedroom...in nine years, no less. Now with so many years of practice, it doesn't take me several layers before I know what looks right, fortunately. So this was no problem, in my book. But there was the question of Papa Bear -- what would he think? I had two houses in my mind that would work for us -- this one and a different one in another town (that was smaller, not that old, and a lot simpler). I took him for the next round of house-hunting, showing him several. I said very little about any of them, hoping to get his gut reactions.....and of course, saved the Victorian for last. When he saw the house, it was over. He was in love. I even tried to dissuade him with arguments about the age of it, the upkeep of it, etc., but all he could focus on was that this was to be our Grandparent House (even though we had no grandchildren at the time).
Next problem: the price. Oh yeah, that. We knew exactly how much we would have, after the sale of our other house. And with the downturning of America, the loss of a 23-year-career through downsizing and outsourcing after 9/11, medical bills and the influence of God and Dave Ramsey, we offered what we had left. The homeowner came back willing to owner-finance, which we quickly declined. There were other houses we could buy. We didn't have to have this one, though we really wanted it. But God moved the heart of Pharoah and they took our offer.
There are many more stories since that day, but I'll hold those for later. Now, every morning we wake up in the sweetest house (that feels like a Bed and Breakfast) and sit on porches that catch the breeze perfectly. We have the best neighbors you could ever hope to have, we walk to town with friends and loved ones and enjoy all the loveliness of our precious town, Villa Rica. Ken says they're going to bury us in the backyard. Best of all, God has sent us four grandchildren in less than eighteen months. We are wearing this place out.
I put in all the parameters of what we could afford...which was an exercise in restraint. We looked at dozens of homes, scads of them. Nothing really stood out and nothing spoke to us, but we were willing to buy a simple, sound home in order to be at a more peaceful financial place in our lives. Coming up short, I started thinking about where we would like to live, rather than just a dollar sign on the page. So I put in "Villa Rica" as my criteria and began looking through the homes available. I had always liked the small-town feel of Villa Rica. It seemed more peaceful and more hopeful than some of the other towns around us. Up popped this adorable Victorian house, charming and quaint...but out of our price range. I decided to look at it on my day's wanderings. I believe I looked at twelve houses that day and it was the last one.
I pulled into the driveway behind the house. The yard was as big as two city lots and looked like a park. Two massive pecan trees hovered over the back lot like a set of grandparents pampering their progeny. The house, even the backside of it, was darling from the street. The lockbox was on the back door. I was stunned by the door itself. It was indescribable...a whimsical, sweet confection of stained glass and Renaissance revival carvings. Then my jaw dropped at the star-like light fixture hanging in the laundry room. The laundry room! Each corner I turned had surprises in store. Inlaid floors, five fireplaces, huge windows that seemed to pull the outdoors in. Stained glass, pocket doors, leaded glass, a massive porch, a sweet wrought-iron gate and fence, woodwork still in its original state, a giant built-in china cabinet in the dining room, and a freshly-renovated lovely kitchen. It even had a little room on the back that I could use for an art studio. The last owner (and probably many other owners) had taken loving care of the house. It was hard to believe a 100+-year-old house could be in this kind of shape. So why wasn't it selling? Besides the fact that God was keeping it for us, the walls were dark and ugly, dated with decades-old wallpaper and colors. Each room had its own color scheme, with no rhyme or reason as to why. There was no flow and it felt cavernous. I have spoken to numerous people who said that they loved this house and wanted to buy it, but they just didn't know what to do with all the clunky colors and walls. How thankful I am that they didn't! Because that's exactly what I (and we) do -- I am a decorative painter and have spent the last 30 or so years buying and selling homes, fixing up, painting them and repainting them. My husband said of one of our houses, that we would be safe from nuclear fallout because of the nine paint jobs that I layered in the master bedroom...in nine years, no less. Now with so many years of practice, it doesn't take me several layers before I know what looks right, fortunately. So this was no problem, in my book. But there was the question of Papa Bear -- what would he think? I had two houses in my mind that would work for us -- this one and a different one in another town (that was smaller, not that old, and a lot simpler). I took him for the next round of house-hunting, showing him several. I said very little about any of them, hoping to get his gut reactions.....and of course, saved the Victorian for last. When he saw the house, it was over. He was in love. I even tried to dissuade him with arguments about the age of it, the upkeep of it, etc., but all he could focus on was that this was to be our Grandparent House (even though we had no grandchildren at the time).
Next problem: the price. Oh yeah, that. We knew exactly how much we would have, after the sale of our other house. And with the downturning of America, the loss of a 23-year-career through downsizing and outsourcing after 9/11, medical bills and the influence of God and Dave Ramsey, we offered what we had left. The homeowner came back willing to owner-finance, which we quickly declined. There were other houses we could buy. We didn't have to have this one, though we really wanted it. But God moved the heart of Pharoah and they took our offer.
There are many more stories since that day, but I'll hold those for later. Now, every morning we wake up in the sweetest house (that feels like a Bed and Breakfast) and sit on porches that catch the breeze perfectly. We have the best neighbors you could ever hope to have, we walk to town with friends and loved ones and enjoy all the loveliness of our precious town, Villa Rica. Ken says they're going to bury us in the backyard. Best of all, God has sent us four grandchildren in less than eighteen months. We are wearing this place out.
Mrs. Keener's Pound Cake
I am not that old, but have already reached my cake quota. Well, I'll make a list...I've reached my pie, candy, chocolate, ice cream and popcorn quotas as well. That doesn't mean I'm not having any more. It just means I probably shouldn't.
I have a bit of a love affair with cake. Who doesn't love a yummy, slightly-warm, buttery piece of cake (except for my eldest son Jon)? Somewhere along the way, I probably ruined it for him. I bake pretty wedding cakes for relatives and loved ones, but I quit doing it for strangers as it dawned on me that it was a very real possibility that I could ruin a bride's whole day if I messed up her cake. Hopefully, loved ones will give me a pinch more grace if I mess up theirs? But before I had that epiphany, on "cake days" I would become a shrieking diva, freaking out and making my whole family miserable (see above note concerning eldest son). It started with cake-decorating classes and my oldest nephew's wedding and then with realizing that decorating a cake is like an adult excuse for playing with playdough.
Besides all the art and playing, I stumbled upon three of the best four cake recipes in the world (because I already had the fourth one). This wonderful, delightful lady on the internet shares her recipes with everyone. She is retired, lives in Texas, and is honestly the Queen of All the Wedding Cake Makers. Her name is Miss Earlene and that's all I'm going to tell you about that....you'll have to google and dig to find her. Her cakes are moist, yummy and have special ingredients that make you have to sneak into the liquor store to get them. She is a precious Christian lady and when you think about it, what was Christ's first miracle?!
Which brings me to the best pound cake in the world.
When I was a child, our dear friend, Mrs. Keener, lost her husband. Mrs. Keener is a true-blue country gal who is still kicking at 92, working on her farm. (When my husband met her after hearing years of stories, he introduced himself and she just about crushed his hand, which is no small feat since he's got hands like a lumberjack.) Back then, she had a massive garden. As in -- several acres worth. A few families began helping her with it since her husband had died. Mama and us kids would go to her farm very early in the morning, while it was still dark. We would pick whatever produce was ready -- corn, peas, green beans -- and then dump the contents under the trees by her house, where she had strategically placed plastic tablecloths on the ground. When it got close to lunchtime and things starting heating up, we would leave and go home. My Mama would make us clean up and lay down for awhile. That evening, we would go back over there for a potluck dinner, everyone bringing a dish. We would eat and then proceed to the backyard where she had lanterns hanging and we would process the day's produce....shucking corn, shelling peas, stringing beans, etc., while the Moms got everything ready to freeze and can. Mrs. Keener always had this giant pound cake on a stand on top of her refrigerator. It was so good, so moist, perfect every time. And as soon as one was eaten, she'd bake another. Such happy, uncommonly contented times we had and not really that long ago (I'm telling myself that). I ran into her grandson a few months back. He said that she is still working rings around him on that farm.
So I've decided: that's why I'm fat. Cake = happy times and memories. Or -- it's possible I'm an addict. I have a disease and some Cake Genie forces me into the kitchen and stuffs my face with cake. Or maybe, all that cake never really ever leaves my body. It just floats around in there making cake babies and crowding out my kidneys.
With 33 years of marital bliss and a large family around me, I've had my share of company, potluck dinners, family reunions, church picnics, not to mention thousands and thousands of meals cooked for my super-human-sized offspring. When I make one of Mrs. Keener's pound cakes, it gets wolfed down within about 24 hours. Just like it did at her house. And my Mama's house. Some people think it's "Rose's Pound Cake" but then that would just be false pride. I must say that it's never the same way twice, for some reason, when I bake it. I think that's because I'm really an artist, not a baker, and I'm always tweaking things too much. That just means I don't like to follow directions. So today I am going to bless you with this time-honored recipe. You can thank me later:
Mrs. Keener's Pound Cake
310 degree oven (or thereabouts)
8 (or 9) large eggs
1 cup shortening
1 cup butter
2-2/3 cups sugar
3-1/2 cups plain flour
1 Tbs real vanilla
1/4 cup milk (or maybe a little more)
Separate and beat the egg whites with 6 Tbs of the sugar. Put aside in a separate bowl. Cream remaining sugar with the butter and shortening. Add egg yolks, flour, milk and vanilla. Fold egg whites carefully into batter. Pour into greased bundt or pound cake pan. Bake for about an hour (sometimes a little less).
You want it almost underdone. Then it's great with strawberries and cream or coffee or for breakfast or lunch or dinner in spring or summer or the first of May.
They have 12-step programs for people like me.
I have a bit of a love affair with cake. Who doesn't love a yummy, slightly-warm, buttery piece of cake (except for my eldest son Jon)? Somewhere along the way, I probably ruined it for him. I bake pretty wedding cakes for relatives and loved ones, but I quit doing it for strangers as it dawned on me that it was a very real possibility that I could ruin a bride's whole day if I messed up her cake. Hopefully, loved ones will give me a pinch more grace if I mess up theirs? But before I had that epiphany, on "cake days" I would become a shrieking diva, freaking out and making my whole family miserable (see above note concerning eldest son). It started with cake-decorating classes and my oldest nephew's wedding and then with realizing that decorating a cake is like an adult excuse for playing with playdough.
Besides all the art and playing, I stumbled upon three of the best four cake recipes in the world (because I already had the fourth one). This wonderful, delightful lady on the internet shares her recipes with everyone. She is retired, lives in Texas, and is honestly the Queen of All the Wedding Cake Makers. Her name is Miss Earlene and that's all I'm going to tell you about that....you'll have to google and dig to find her. Her cakes are moist, yummy and have special ingredients that make you have to sneak into the liquor store to get them. She is a precious Christian lady and when you think about it, what was Christ's first miracle?!
Which brings me to the best pound cake in the world.
When I was a child, our dear friend, Mrs. Keener, lost her husband. Mrs. Keener is a true-blue country gal who is still kicking at 92, working on her farm. (When my husband met her after hearing years of stories, he introduced himself and she just about crushed his hand, which is no small feat since he's got hands like a lumberjack.) Back then, she had a massive garden. As in -- several acres worth. A few families began helping her with it since her husband had died. Mama and us kids would go to her farm very early in the morning, while it was still dark. We would pick whatever produce was ready -- corn, peas, green beans -- and then dump the contents under the trees by her house, where she had strategically placed plastic tablecloths on the ground. When it got close to lunchtime and things starting heating up, we would leave and go home. My Mama would make us clean up and lay down for awhile. That evening, we would go back over there for a potluck dinner, everyone bringing a dish. We would eat and then proceed to the backyard where she had lanterns hanging and we would process the day's produce....shucking corn, shelling peas, stringing beans, etc., while the Moms got everything ready to freeze and can. Mrs. Keener always had this giant pound cake on a stand on top of her refrigerator. It was so good, so moist, perfect every time. And as soon as one was eaten, she'd bake another. Such happy, uncommonly contented times we had and not really that long ago (I'm telling myself that). I ran into her grandson a few months back. He said that she is still working rings around him on that farm.
So I've decided: that's why I'm fat. Cake = happy times and memories. Or -- it's possible I'm an addict. I have a disease and some Cake Genie forces me into the kitchen and stuffs my face with cake. Or maybe, all that cake never really ever leaves my body. It just floats around in there making cake babies and crowding out my kidneys.
With 33 years of marital bliss and a large family around me, I've had my share of company, potluck dinners, family reunions, church picnics, not to mention thousands and thousands of meals cooked for my super-human-sized offspring. When I make one of Mrs. Keener's pound cakes, it gets wolfed down within about 24 hours. Just like it did at her house. And my Mama's house. Some people think it's "Rose's Pound Cake" but then that would just be false pride. I must say that it's never the same way twice, for some reason, when I bake it. I think that's because I'm really an artist, not a baker, and I'm always tweaking things too much. That just means I don't like to follow directions. So today I am going to bless you with this time-honored recipe. You can thank me later:
Mrs. Keener's Pound Cake
310 degree oven (or thereabouts)
8 (or 9) large eggs
1 cup shortening
1 cup butter
2-2/3 cups sugar
3-1/2 cups plain flour
1 Tbs real vanilla
1/4 cup milk (or maybe a little more)
Separate and beat the egg whites with 6 Tbs of the sugar. Put aside in a separate bowl. Cream remaining sugar with the butter and shortening. Add egg yolks, flour, milk and vanilla. Fold egg whites carefully into batter. Pour into greased bundt or pound cake pan. Bake for about an hour (sometimes a little less).
You want it almost underdone. Then it's great with strawberries and cream or coffee or for breakfast or lunch or dinner in spring or summer or the first of May.
They have 12-step programs for people like me.
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