You never know what might be cropping up next door. Particularly when you have lots of trees and underbrush between you and the neighbor....
We were living on five acres of property in Douglas County. Beautiful, sweet acreage that gave our kids lots of entertainment as well as work to do. We built a lovely farmhouse on it that looked like it had been there for a hundred years. There was an old homeplace on the land, with an ancient stopped-up well and remnants of a rock fireplace and foundation still visible. We bred and raised charming and angelic Golden Retrievers, the best friends a child could ever have. Our kids and dogs had a heyday out there. We had kind neighbors all around, people who would give you the shirt off their back but who also appreciated their privacy. Why else do you buy a big parcel of land?
A young couple built a house on the lot next to ours and lived there several years, then moved down the road. A new neighbor moved in. I felt bad because I had been busy and had not walked over to introduce myself. One day, we were working on our fence, with four or five dogs and as many kids helping us, when a huge black dog with a massive head burst out of the woods on the other side of the fence. He was growling, snapping and foaming at the mouth, apparently irritated that he couldn't quite get to us. We all were relieved when a man followed quickly behind with a contraption that he clapped around the dog's neck, restraining him. As we made introductions to our new neighbor, I kept trying not to stare. He was the shortest man I had ever seen. Tiny bone structure, flawless skin, beautiful eyes. And a mass of dreadlocks that threatened to topple him over. They were wound on top of his head like a turban. I imagined they weighed as much as he did.
He was very nice. Articulate. Intelligent. I asked him about where he worked. He said that he had two homes, one in Atlanta and this one out here, and that he was in pharmaceutical sales.
That should have been our first clue.
Then we talked about our animals. I told him that we bred our dogs, and asked if that would be a problem. Even though we kept our females put up during their seasons, we often had male dog visitors who would park outside our windows and howl and cry for weeks on end. I asked him if his dogs were dangerous. He told me that he bred his too, and that his were friendly to people but that they might kill my dogs if they got loose. I told him this was definitely a dilemma, but that hopefully that wouldn't happen.
So when a different neighbor (let's call him Jake, just for fun) called me a few days later, asking if I'd seen two large Pit Bulls running loose, I went into panic mode. But here were Jake's words to me: "Rose, we've taken a straw poll with the rest of the neighbors. We are not abiding dogs like that who might kill our grandbabies, livestock or our pets. We've all agreed that we are shooting those dogs. If you see them, shoot them. If you don't want to shoot them, call me and I'll head over and do it."
We don't need Homeowner Associations around these parts.
Or maybe even sheriffs.
Mysteriously, those dogs never made it home. He kept a couple of his puppies and raised those up. A few years later, the same scenario occurred. But my encounters with him were always pleasant. You couldn't ask for a quieter, more polite neighbor. Except when it came to his dogs. I began to notice that newspapers were piling up at the end of his long, gravelled driveway and that he had puppies and dogs barking at all hours. I wondered about him, then heard that he moved away, but no details about where and why. Until the day I ran into a sheriff's deputy who told me the tale....
His house went into foreclosure proceedings and an official came to serve papers on him. When he knocked on the front door, no one answered and the door turned on its hinges, revealing a giant duffel bag of contraband on the stairs (that's what I was told). The cop called in reinforcements and they raided the place. Turns out it was a five-acre marijuana farm, with crops out back, growing rooms in the basement and all the paraphernalia you can imagine.
Never assume that all is what it seems. If I'd had half a brain, I should have wondered why he kept breeding all those Pit Bulls and why he let all the underbrush and trees grow up so big. Good night, he told me right then and there that he was into pharmaceuticals...
Monday, January 4, 2016
Monday, December 14, 2015
And I thought "Up in Smoke" was just an expression...
Poetic justice. That oft-spoken phrase, is often a fact of life. And my life, usually lived like a Greek tragedy or at least a redneck siren song, seems to see it fairly often.
I'm not bitter about this story I'm about to tell. It's just one of those things that can happen when you are self-employed. I have to say, God has been merciful to me and as far as I know, this was the only time someone did me wrong when they went to pay me for a job. I've had virtually hundreds of other jobs where I was paid. Even if it was late, I've always gotten paid what I quoted. Except this day...
This one started with a strangely-located house. It was being built close to the road, with another home almost right behind it. The neighborhood had average-to-lower priced homes. But this one was a palace, compared to the others. It was quaint, one-of-a-kind, with beautiful and unique siding. The hand-crafted front door was flanked by real gas-burning lanterns. When I first saw the house, it was not finished, but it also had to be one of the most resplendent domiciles I'd ever seen. The master bathroom was reminiscent of a Roman bath....a shower that seemed to be 20 x 6 feet, with showerheads coming out from every angle. Tile and marble with custom designs. A massive soaking tub in the middle of the room. A bank of cabinets on either side of the gargantuan territory, one slew of 'em for him, one pile of 'em for her. The bathroom alone was about the size of our first house, and certainly cost more than that little shanty did.
The job that she wanted me to do included whitewashing two giant antique doors for the master suite that she had had shipped from Paris or somewhere on another shore. I was a little nervous about it because they seemed awfully statuesque and important, you know, coming from France and all. I wasn't sure how long it would take, but I knew it wouldn't be more than a day, so I gave her my day-rate price, plus materials.
The day arrived for me to work on the doors. I brought my paints and muscles and started the job. These doors were massive, maybe eight feet high. Simply gorgeous. I was having a great time, humming away, when I heard two dogs barking and fighting in the basement. Except they weren't dogs. They were the owners of the house. I don't know that I have ever heard two people go at it that unashamedly in my entire life. I waited for a gun to go off but it never did. Some time went by. The lady came upstairs and asked me if I would also paint a medallion, way up on the ceiling of her (quite high) foyer, after I got through with the doors. I said okay and proceeded to precariously hang off the top step of my ladder to get the deed done. I cleaned up and got ready to leave. She put a check in my hand for 1/3 of what I quoted her for the doors (not even mentioning the materials or the extra medallion that I painted). She said that she didn't have any more money for me and that her husband was mad at her for hiring me in the first place (hence the fight down in the bowels of the house?) I asked her when she could pay the rest and she said there would be no "rest." That was it. Take it or leave it. Wow.
All I could think was two thoughts: well, at least she paid me something. And, man, I better not tell Ken. I quickly cashed the check and pondered the mysteries of life, money and people with eyes too big for their stomachs.
Time went by. A good deal of time. I got a call for a large faux finish job around the corner from the palace. As my daughter and I rounded the curve in the road, we saw what was left of it: a stone foundation and black soot and ashes from where it had burnt to the ground. All that splendid stuff, up in smoke. When we asked our new client about what had happened, she said that the owners had burned it down themselves and they were now in jail for arson. Oh. My. Word.
There's really not enough words for that. But suffice it to say, that foundation has been sitting there like a sad, scalded soul for many years. I very recently listed a house down the road from it and saw that someone had started rebuilding it. With the same house plan. So my guess is that they've paid their debt to society and are starting over. I don't know. I hope that somewhere over these last pages of time and through the difficulties of consequences, they found peace and that they were able to stay together. 'Cause that's some redneck Greek tragedy right there.
I'm not bitter about this story I'm about to tell. It's just one of those things that can happen when you are self-employed. I have to say, God has been merciful to me and as far as I know, this was the only time someone did me wrong when they went to pay me for a job. I've had virtually hundreds of other jobs where I was paid. Even if it was late, I've always gotten paid what I quoted. Except this day...
This one started with a strangely-located house. It was being built close to the road, with another home almost right behind it. The neighborhood had average-to-lower priced homes. But this one was a palace, compared to the others. It was quaint, one-of-a-kind, with beautiful and unique siding. The hand-crafted front door was flanked by real gas-burning lanterns. When I first saw the house, it was not finished, but it also had to be one of the most resplendent domiciles I'd ever seen. The master bathroom was reminiscent of a Roman bath....a shower that seemed to be 20 x 6 feet, with showerheads coming out from every angle. Tile and marble with custom designs. A massive soaking tub in the middle of the room. A bank of cabinets on either side of the gargantuan territory, one slew of 'em for him, one pile of 'em for her. The bathroom alone was about the size of our first house, and certainly cost more than that little shanty did.
The job that she wanted me to do included whitewashing two giant antique doors for the master suite that she had had shipped from Paris or somewhere on another shore. I was a little nervous about it because they seemed awfully statuesque and important, you know, coming from France and all. I wasn't sure how long it would take, but I knew it wouldn't be more than a day, so I gave her my day-rate price, plus materials.
The day arrived for me to work on the doors. I brought my paints and muscles and started the job. These doors were massive, maybe eight feet high. Simply gorgeous. I was having a great time, humming away, when I heard two dogs barking and fighting in the basement. Except they weren't dogs. They were the owners of the house. I don't know that I have ever heard two people go at it that unashamedly in my entire life. I waited for a gun to go off but it never did. Some time went by. The lady came upstairs and asked me if I would also paint a medallion, way up on the ceiling of her (quite high) foyer, after I got through with the doors. I said okay and proceeded to precariously hang off the top step of my ladder to get the deed done. I cleaned up and got ready to leave. She put a check in my hand for 1/3 of what I quoted her for the doors (not even mentioning the materials or the extra medallion that I painted). She said that she didn't have any more money for me and that her husband was mad at her for hiring me in the first place (hence the fight down in the bowels of the house?) I asked her when she could pay the rest and she said there would be no "rest." That was it. Take it or leave it. Wow.
All I could think was two thoughts: well, at least she paid me something. And, man, I better not tell Ken. I quickly cashed the check and pondered the mysteries of life, money and people with eyes too big for their stomachs.
Time went by. A good deal of time. I got a call for a large faux finish job around the corner from the palace. As my daughter and I rounded the curve in the road, we saw what was left of it: a stone foundation and black soot and ashes from where it had burnt to the ground. All that splendid stuff, up in smoke. When we asked our new client about what had happened, she said that the owners had burned it down themselves and they were now in jail for arson. Oh. My. Word.
There's really not enough words for that. But suffice it to say, that foundation has been sitting there like a sad, scalded soul for many years. I very recently listed a house down the road from it and saw that someone had started rebuilding it. With the same house plan. So my guess is that they've paid their debt to society and are starting over. I don't know. I hope that somewhere over these last pages of time and through the difficulties of consequences, they found peace and that they were able to stay together. 'Cause that's some redneck Greek tragedy right there.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
The God of Christmas
We live in a media-sodden time, where we are saturated with the latest news and technology. Every kind of entertainment imaginable is at our fingertips. Tonight I'm thinking about the season we are in -- Christmas and the coming New Year. We are bombarded with twin messages of perpetual hope and terrorists blowing up cities. We see all sorts of beautiful, meaningful videos of people doing compassionate things for others. In the next, we are getting locked and loaded to prepare for the coming apocalypse and civil war.
It seems to be our nature to live like pendulums, swinging from one extreme to another. There is good, bad, ugly, and everything in between. Some decry God, because there is so much evil in the world. The next group denies the fact that man can be evil -- and says we're all just victims of varying stripes. I see people that sugar-coat themselves in cloaks of seeming goodness, and then we discover that they are living dual lives that completely oppose what they say with their mouths. Then still others that don't even try to disguise their basest instincts and simply live like wild hedonists.
When I talk to people along my way, I am frequently told that they are Christians. They go to church, they said a magic prayer when they were 8, walked an aisle. They say they're doing pretty good, so they guess God will let them in when they show up at the pearly gates. They haven't murdered anyone, they try to be a good citizen, pay their taxes, take their turn at grocery aisles.
Is this all there is?
When I read the Scriptures, this is not what I observe. I see traitors, adulterers, cheaters, frauds, murderers and some really bad folk, along with a few amazing ones. And such were some of us. God apparently doesn't discriminate about who He has included in that hallowed tome. He puts all of them in there, really embarrassing ones too. If you dig deep, though, there's reasons for it and a larger message than is usually seen at first glance. It just kills me when people pick random verses out to prove a point. You need to embrace the whole book, to really understand.
And that's what I've been thinking about, these last few weeks of holiday stress, coupled with sickness and too much work piled up. Under these circumstances, my icky self shows itself in new, delightful ways. Hurried, sick, overstretched, over-committed, under-funded, unattended house and laundry... then somebody lobs several containers of Christmas decorations on the living room rug. I can see dog hair floating through the air (she's chewing herself to pieces) and nobody's told my hormones to quit throwing gasoline on the fire. I go from sweating bullets to freezing in ten minute increments. Night and day. So what comes to the surface? All my sweet sugar thoughts of perpetual hope. Now I really am lying.
Nope. This is when I see and experience the enduring goodness of God. Because He knows what the heart, my heart, is capable of. I am a sinner. A cracked miscreant who came here yelling and screaming and still wants to default to that same modus operandi. I think I'm pretty good, until I muse upon those infamous ten commandments. In some fashion or another, I've broken most of those, if not all. So is my scale tipping just enough that my good outweighs my bad? Really? I want to think so. In the end I know that even my thoughts have cracks in them.
But this is hope: He came in the form of a sinless baby, child, man. He was God and man, all wrapped up in one. Perfection. God humbled Himself and became a man, and then gave His life as payment, redemption, for the sins of His people. So now I'm not standing in my own stead or my own limp imitation of perfection. He's standing in for me. His life, His death, His resurrection. I trusted Him when I was a child, and I'm never going to be perfect this side of heaven. I mess up, well, all the time. That doesn't excuse it. I don't live my life excusing my behavior or my sin because I've got a pass. But I do live my life now in a place of gratefulness....knowing that any good that I do, He is doing it through and in spite of, me. That's what the Christmas baby is really about.
It seems to be our nature to live like pendulums, swinging from one extreme to another. There is good, bad, ugly, and everything in between. Some decry God, because there is so much evil in the world. The next group denies the fact that man can be evil -- and says we're all just victims of varying stripes. I see people that sugar-coat themselves in cloaks of seeming goodness, and then we discover that they are living dual lives that completely oppose what they say with their mouths. Then still others that don't even try to disguise their basest instincts and simply live like wild hedonists.
When I talk to people along my way, I am frequently told that they are Christians. They go to church, they said a magic prayer when they were 8, walked an aisle. They say they're doing pretty good, so they guess God will let them in when they show up at the pearly gates. They haven't murdered anyone, they try to be a good citizen, pay their taxes, take their turn at grocery aisles.
Is this all there is?
When I read the Scriptures, this is not what I observe. I see traitors, adulterers, cheaters, frauds, murderers and some really bad folk, along with a few amazing ones. And such were some of us. God apparently doesn't discriminate about who He has included in that hallowed tome. He puts all of them in there, really embarrassing ones too. If you dig deep, though, there's reasons for it and a larger message than is usually seen at first glance. It just kills me when people pick random verses out to prove a point. You need to embrace the whole book, to really understand.
And that's what I've been thinking about, these last few weeks of holiday stress, coupled with sickness and too much work piled up. Under these circumstances, my icky self shows itself in new, delightful ways. Hurried, sick, overstretched, over-committed, under-funded, unattended house and laundry... then somebody lobs several containers of Christmas decorations on the living room rug. I can see dog hair floating through the air (she's chewing herself to pieces) and nobody's told my hormones to quit throwing gasoline on the fire. I go from sweating bullets to freezing in ten minute increments. Night and day. So what comes to the surface? All my sweet sugar thoughts of perpetual hope. Now I really am lying.
Nope. This is when I see and experience the enduring goodness of God. Because He knows what the heart, my heart, is capable of. I am a sinner. A cracked miscreant who came here yelling and screaming and still wants to default to that same modus operandi. I think I'm pretty good, until I muse upon those infamous ten commandments. In some fashion or another, I've broken most of those, if not all. So is my scale tipping just enough that my good outweighs my bad? Really? I want to think so. In the end I know that even my thoughts have cracks in them.
But this is hope: He came in the form of a sinless baby, child, man. He was God and man, all wrapped up in one. Perfection. God humbled Himself and became a man, and then gave His life as payment, redemption, for the sins of His people. So now I'm not standing in my own stead or my own limp imitation of perfection. He's standing in for me. His life, His death, His resurrection. I trusted Him when I was a child, and I'm never going to be perfect this side of heaven. I mess up, well, all the time. That doesn't excuse it. I don't live my life excusing my behavior or my sin because I've got a pass. But I do live my life now in a place of gratefulness....knowing that any good that I do, He is doing it through and in spite of, me. That's what the Christmas baby is really about.
Sunday, December 6, 2015
A Moment in Time
I have heard it said that the most important words in any visit or meeting are done in the last few minutes. I believe this might be true.
With the flurry that is the holidays, there are meetings, parties, visits.... it's a stressful, fun, hectic time. Depression often emerges. We think of our relatives who are no longer here. Poignant times that we can't re-live. Or bad times that we don't want to re-live but can't help but rewind in our mind. Then there's always the weight of finding the money to buy gifts and all the compulsory trinkets (and foods) that go along with the season. And the worst part: syncing schedules with everybody else to actually make an event happen.
One such occurrence transpired this weekend for us -- our Norton family Christmas party. It used to be a simple affair, Christmas day. Everybody brought food and gifts. And my side, the Slates, was always on Christmas Eve. But now there are multiple marriages and grandchildren that have bloomed from the tree. This year we did the Nortons way early, December 5th, so that there might be a possibility of half of us getting there. After much wrangling, it happened. My sister-in-law worked her fingers to the bone to arrange it and get most of the food there. We all arrived in our Ugly Sweaters. There were those few minutes that occur at any party, where there is some awkwardness as we reacquaint and pass around hugs and greetings. Then the food happens and everyone begins to loosen. The presents are opened, children are bouncing gleefully about. Cake and coffee later, people are shedding their sweaters and their inhibitions. The conversations begin to relax, the walls start coming down. We quit caring what anyone else thinks and start being ourselves again. There comes that special moment when joy begins seeping through the room. The place is buzzing with numerous conversations and I sense an overarching sense of gratefulness, a letting go of self and a receiving of each other. Yes, here we are. Warts, spare tires lopping over our belts, wrinkles, love handles, pimples, gray hairs, forgetfulness, babies crying, old and young all mixed together. Wasn't it yesterday that my babies were the ones needing diapers and a nap? And now I'm one of the older ones, needing a minute to readjust my joints when I first stand up.
We visit heartily for a good while, then suddenly the announcement is made that we have to clean up and leave, because another party is coming behind us. The whole gang whips the place into shape in a few minutes and then we all start hugging and kissing our goodbyes. If there's something to say, you have to say it quick. There's a general consensus of not wanting it to end. It took us a lot of planning, buying, driving, and arranging to make this happen. But in the end, it's actually only a brief window of clarity and warmth that hangs over the group. A summary of all the buzz and tinsel that conspired to get us here. Sometimes in this life, that's all we get. A brief window.
It's in these times that I try to force my ever-moving mouth closed and look around in awe at those that God put in my life. Savor it. Savor them. Let go of stupid, petty thoughts and hurts. Really hug them, no holding back. Tell them what I would tell them if I never got to see them again. I don't always do that. But I should.
In the end, much of my running about, my work and livelihood, doesn't produce those kinds of precious moments. But the fact is, I still have to work, try, produce, clean, show up, make or save money somehow...I don't have the option of just coasting or just enjoying. But if I don't stop and relish the moment and the people, stop and listen, stop and love....then all the other things don't mean a thing. Carpe diem. Seize the day.
With the flurry that is the holidays, there are meetings, parties, visits.... it's a stressful, fun, hectic time. Depression often emerges. We think of our relatives who are no longer here. Poignant times that we can't re-live. Or bad times that we don't want to re-live but can't help but rewind in our mind. Then there's always the weight of finding the money to buy gifts and all the compulsory trinkets (and foods) that go along with the season. And the worst part: syncing schedules with everybody else to actually make an event happen.
One such occurrence transpired this weekend for us -- our Norton family Christmas party. It used to be a simple affair, Christmas day. Everybody brought food and gifts. And my side, the Slates, was always on Christmas Eve. But now there are multiple marriages and grandchildren that have bloomed from the tree. This year we did the Nortons way early, December 5th, so that there might be a possibility of half of us getting there. After much wrangling, it happened. My sister-in-law worked her fingers to the bone to arrange it and get most of the food there. We all arrived in our Ugly Sweaters. There were those few minutes that occur at any party, where there is some awkwardness as we reacquaint and pass around hugs and greetings. Then the food happens and everyone begins to loosen. The presents are opened, children are bouncing gleefully about. Cake and coffee later, people are shedding their sweaters and their inhibitions. The conversations begin to relax, the walls start coming down. We quit caring what anyone else thinks and start being ourselves again. There comes that special moment when joy begins seeping through the room. The place is buzzing with numerous conversations and I sense an overarching sense of gratefulness, a letting go of self and a receiving of each other. Yes, here we are. Warts, spare tires lopping over our belts, wrinkles, love handles, pimples, gray hairs, forgetfulness, babies crying, old and young all mixed together. Wasn't it yesterday that my babies were the ones needing diapers and a nap? And now I'm one of the older ones, needing a minute to readjust my joints when I first stand up.
We visit heartily for a good while, then suddenly the announcement is made that we have to clean up and leave, because another party is coming behind us. The whole gang whips the place into shape in a few minutes and then we all start hugging and kissing our goodbyes. If there's something to say, you have to say it quick. There's a general consensus of not wanting it to end. It took us a lot of planning, buying, driving, and arranging to make this happen. But in the end, it's actually only a brief window of clarity and warmth that hangs over the group. A summary of all the buzz and tinsel that conspired to get us here. Sometimes in this life, that's all we get. A brief window.
It's in these times that I try to force my ever-moving mouth closed and look around in awe at those that God put in my life. Savor it. Savor them. Let go of stupid, petty thoughts and hurts. Really hug them, no holding back. Tell them what I would tell them if I never got to see them again. I don't always do that. But I should.
In the end, much of my running about, my work and livelihood, doesn't produce those kinds of precious moments. But the fact is, I still have to work, try, produce, clean, show up, make or save money somehow...I don't have the option of just coasting or just enjoying. But if I don't stop and relish the moment and the people, stop and listen, stop and love....then all the other things don't mean a thing. Carpe diem. Seize the day.
Friday, November 27, 2015
Thanksgiving from the Couch
There is truly nothing like being sick during the holidays. It started with a dry little cough at our wind ensemble concert on Tuesday night. Luckily I had a container of water which was guzzled in short order. But it wasn't over. The little tickle grew to a cough on Wednesday, when my whole family was coming over for Thanksgiving dinner. I plied myself with medicine, but the roar was there by the time I climbed into bed. I've now had two whole days of coughing up my lungs, and as luck would have it, all the doctors took off the day after Thanksgiving. Probably sleeping that tryptophan out of their systems. Meanwhile, I think I have either cracked or sprung my ribs out of their proper places.
When sickness takes over the body, a whole lot goes out the window. I had two jobs today which didn't happen. I meant to call one of my clients about his listing, but he beat me to it because I was comatose in a big comfy chair. I needed to deliver paperwork and scan and send stuff. Didn't happen. I laid on the couch all day and all evening, watching reruns of What Not To Wear. As If I Care. Normally my numerous Christmas trees are decorated by now and we are cleaning up the bits of glitter and greenery that fall everywhere. But nope. I walked (staggered) the dog out tonight with my wild hair and no pants on and noticed that my neighbors have their decorations up. What is going to happen to us if I don't haul that paraphernalia out of the barn? You know how it is when you're sick -- you wonder if you'll ever do anything again. Am I the only one who gets mad for not appreciating life before, when I wasn't sick? I denounce myself for all the poundage that makes hauling this carcass off the couch that much harder. I'm gonna work on that before I get sick again, I am.
Meanwhile, my grown kids and grandkids are all busy elsewhere with their lives tonight, Liz is gone for the evening and Ken retired early since he has to go to work before daybreak. Here I sit, alone, in my icky shirt, no pants, with seemingly busted ribs and no gumption to do anything but breathe in and out. If that. Makes me reckon about death. Because there will come a day that I won't be able to order my body to do anything and it will finally surrender itself to the gravity. People don't like to talk about it, but it's a huge fact that's going to happen to all of us. So on a night when I am feeling like that might just be a good thing, I am thinking of the Lord's goodness, of how in His mercy He called this family to Him. There's much bantering back and forth in our current environment, from doubters, haters, unbelievers, atheists that hate God and His people (and would indeed blow them up). When I consider the grace that He has showered on me through the thick and thin that is this world, I cannot help but love and trust Him. I have said it many times and I fully believe this -- if it were not for the grace of God, I would be in a gutter somewhere. That's where my sin's conclusions would take me and worse. I told my niece Olivia that and she laughed and said, "Oh Aunt Rose, no!" But yes, it is true. His goodness fills the heart and overwhelms us with His nature. It's inexplicable.
So with my sprung ribs, stuffed head, leaking nose and leaden behind, I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving, even though I'll really be glad when it's over.
When sickness takes over the body, a whole lot goes out the window. I had two jobs today which didn't happen. I meant to call one of my clients about his listing, but he beat me to it because I was comatose in a big comfy chair. I needed to deliver paperwork and scan and send stuff. Didn't happen. I laid on the couch all day and all evening, watching reruns of What Not To Wear. As If I Care. Normally my numerous Christmas trees are decorated by now and we are cleaning up the bits of glitter and greenery that fall everywhere. But nope. I walked (staggered) the dog out tonight with my wild hair and no pants on and noticed that my neighbors have their decorations up. What is going to happen to us if I don't haul that paraphernalia out of the barn? You know how it is when you're sick -- you wonder if you'll ever do anything again. Am I the only one who gets mad for not appreciating life before, when I wasn't sick? I denounce myself for all the poundage that makes hauling this carcass off the couch that much harder. I'm gonna work on that before I get sick again, I am.
Meanwhile, my grown kids and grandkids are all busy elsewhere with their lives tonight, Liz is gone for the evening and Ken retired early since he has to go to work before daybreak. Here I sit, alone, in my icky shirt, no pants, with seemingly busted ribs and no gumption to do anything but breathe in and out. If that. Makes me reckon about death. Because there will come a day that I won't be able to order my body to do anything and it will finally surrender itself to the gravity. People don't like to talk about it, but it's a huge fact that's going to happen to all of us. So on a night when I am feeling like that might just be a good thing, I am thinking of the Lord's goodness, of how in His mercy He called this family to Him. There's much bantering back and forth in our current environment, from doubters, haters, unbelievers, atheists that hate God and His people (and would indeed blow them up). When I consider the grace that He has showered on me through the thick and thin that is this world, I cannot help but love and trust Him. I have said it many times and I fully believe this -- if it were not for the grace of God, I would be in a gutter somewhere. That's where my sin's conclusions would take me and worse. I told my niece Olivia that and she laughed and said, "Oh Aunt Rose, no!" But yes, it is true. His goodness fills the heart and overwhelms us with His nature. It's inexplicable.
So with my sprung ribs, stuffed head, leaking nose and leaden behind, I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving, even though I'll really be glad when it's over.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Blood, sweat, tears and a good teacher
Della T. Pearson. I will never forget her name or her face. She was my fifth grade teacher. Back then, you had one teacher for all your subjects. She was tough and strong, with a quick wit and a killer throwing arm. This was 1970 and the world was changing. She was a stout black woman in a nearly all-white elementary school in the suburbs of Atlanta.
The first day of school that year was epic. As we sat in our assigned seats, she told us that she would not be calling us by our first names, but by our last names. So for that year, my name was "Slate." She barely smiled that first few weeks and laid out the rules and what she expected from us. I was a little scared. I also noticed that the worst boys from my grade were in this class. The big, bad, tall ones that made everybody nervous. For some reason, she had them all sitting near the back. Apparently she wasn't afraid of them. There was a huge, long paddle resting on her desk, with holes drilled into it, and a hefty red rubber ball next to it. She also had a staple gun, something I had never seen before. Curious.
We all quickly learned that in Mrs. Pearson's class, you were expected to behave and you would behave or face the consequences. The incorrigible boys tried a few things, a few times, but her unorthodox discipline methods immediately earned their respect. I feel certain that she was always inheriting the lost kids. She was quick with the paddle, leaving the door slightly ajar when she took a wayward child into the hall to spank. She did not have to do it often....we all decided it was better to cooperate. I remember when my friend, Susan, who was a spoiled only-child and had a mouth like a sieve, smarted off at her with her nose in the air and a chunky hand on her hip. Mrs. Pearson was on her like a panther. With our mouths agape, we watched as she marched that sassy gal into the hall and gave her a new badge of humility. The first time one of the bad boys disrespected her from the back of the room, I felt the wind from that red rubber ball as it whizzed past my face straight to the head of the wayward boy. I am laughing now, remembering the shock and awe from the whole classroom. I wonder what today's parents would do with her brazen disregard for all those poor little childrens' psyches?
What I haven't told yet is the fact that this woman profoundly altered our lives. She, looking down at you with her half-glasses and enough spunk to wither a volcano, had a heart of gold. She truly cared about her students, enough to take them down a rough and rocky road and then to teach them to soar to the heights. She was a math genius. She passed out big, fat, red notebooks (red was her favorite) during our first math class. She taught us Algebra in the fifth grade. She told us to keep our red notebooks and never throw them away. As we toiled away that year, filling those accursed pages with all of her magic tricks, we had a resource that helped us even into high school.
She taught us poetry, both how to read it and how to write it. Shakespeare. She made us read "To Kill A Mockingbird." In the fifth grade. She took us to the Atlanta Symphony, which changed me forever. We did artwork. Science. Studied the Renaissance. We had to learn "To Dream the Impossible Dream" -- a song from The Man of LaMancha - and sing it for the whole school. She drilled us like she was a military sergeant and then taught us the finer things of life, leading us to the edges of what is beautiful and cultured in this world.
I feared and revered her, but I especially loved her.
She pulled stuff out of me I didn't know was in there and expected me to rise to greater places. She taught me to take pride in doing things myself, without whining or expecting someone else to help. I was in the fifth grade, ten years old...that time before the hormones start to confuse the world. There is an innocence that you never quite find again after that. This was the zenith of my life before the onslaught of that hellish place in life: middle school. She built on the foundations I had been blessed to have been raised with, but she didn't presume upon them. She called all of us to dig deep and find a way to press out more than we thought we could.
It's a place of strength and beauty that I hark back to, that year with Mrs. Pearson. She made me understand that I could do way more than I imagined. That the road to doing something well was usually and often paved with pain and difficulty, but was also worth it. And that to dream the impossible dream was just the beginning...
The first day of school that year was epic. As we sat in our assigned seats, she told us that she would not be calling us by our first names, but by our last names. So for that year, my name was "Slate." She barely smiled that first few weeks and laid out the rules and what she expected from us. I was a little scared. I also noticed that the worst boys from my grade were in this class. The big, bad, tall ones that made everybody nervous. For some reason, she had them all sitting near the back. Apparently she wasn't afraid of them. There was a huge, long paddle resting on her desk, with holes drilled into it, and a hefty red rubber ball next to it. She also had a staple gun, something I had never seen before. Curious.
We all quickly learned that in Mrs. Pearson's class, you were expected to behave and you would behave or face the consequences. The incorrigible boys tried a few things, a few times, but her unorthodox discipline methods immediately earned their respect. I feel certain that she was always inheriting the lost kids. She was quick with the paddle, leaving the door slightly ajar when she took a wayward child into the hall to spank. She did not have to do it often....we all decided it was better to cooperate. I remember when my friend, Susan, who was a spoiled only-child and had a mouth like a sieve, smarted off at her with her nose in the air and a chunky hand on her hip. Mrs. Pearson was on her like a panther. With our mouths agape, we watched as she marched that sassy gal into the hall and gave her a new badge of humility. The first time one of the bad boys disrespected her from the back of the room, I felt the wind from that red rubber ball as it whizzed past my face straight to the head of the wayward boy. I am laughing now, remembering the shock and awe from the whole classroom. I wonder what today's parents would do with her brazen disregard for all those poor little childrens' psyches?
What I haven't told yet is the fact that this woman profoundly altered our lives. She, looking down at you with her half-glasses and enough spunk to wither a volcano, had a heart of gold. She truly cared about her students, enough to take them down a rough and rocky road and then to teach them to soar to the heights. She was a math genius. She passed out big, fat, red notebooks (red was her favorite) during our first math class. She taught us Algebra in the fifth grade. She told us to keep our red notebooks and never throw them away. As we toiled away that year, filling those accursed pages with all of her magic tricks, we had a resource that helped us even into high school.
She taught us poetry, both how to read it and how to write it. Shakespeare. She made us read "To Kill A Mockingbird." In the fifth grade. She took us to the Atlanta Symphony, which changed me forever. We did artwork. Science. Studied the Renaissance. We had to learn "To Dream the Impossible Dream" -- a song from The Man of LaMancha - and sing it for the whole school. She drilled us like she was a military sergeant and then taught us the finer things of life, leading us to the edges of what is beautiful and cultured in this world.
I feared and revered her, but I especially loved her.
She pulled stuff out of me I didn't know was in there and expected me to rise to greater places. She taught me to take pride in doing things myself, without whining or expecting someone else to help. I was in the fifth grade, ten years old...that time before the hormones start to confuse the world. There is an innocence that you never quite find again after that. This was the zenith of my life before the onslaught of that hellish place in life: middle school. She built on the foundations I had been blessed to have been raised with, but she didn't presume upon them. She called all of us to dig deep and find a way to press out more than we thought we could.
It's a place of strength and beauty that I hark back to, that year with Mrs. Pearson. She made me understand that I could do way more than I imagined. That the road to doing something well was usually and often paved with pain and difficulty, but was also worth it. And that to dream the impossible dream was just the beginning...
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Hug Em While You Can
When my husband and I married, a few dozen years ago, we had numerous sets of grandparents still alive. The real problem with that began hitting the fan when the holidays rolled around. On a typical Thanksgiving or Christmas, we had 3-4 feasts that we were expected to participate in. I didn't (and still don't) have a clue what the word "no" means, or "let's take turns." We would drive 2-1/2 hours to Lincolnton and Thomson, Georgia, have two Thanksgivings there, then drive home and have another one at Ken's parents....and then have another one the next day at my folks' house. Somewhere in there we would visit his other grandparents in Marietta. Then Christmas came and it was even more complicated, particularly when we started popping out progeny. I remember one epic Thanksgiving. Ken's Grandmama Babe fed our firstborn son about two boxes, not joking, of Vanilla Wafers, behind my back. In the space of four hours. I didn't realize how many of those things a human can eat, until we experienced something akin to a lava flow, a golden brown one, in the back seat on our way back home to our third Thanksgiving dinner. This from a child who had never eaten anything with sugar in it, at least not from his Mama's hand. I had a lot to learn.
There's never so much fussing as a great-grandmother does over a child. They are way too far removed from child-rearing to be giving advice, at least when it comes to food. But they also don't care what anybody thinks anymore, so you get the full brunt of it. As a new parent, your insides are still quivering about all the decisions and responsibilities. You want to prove that you can do it all, though you're pretty sure you're messing it up. But nobody better tell you that. I remember my guts being in turmoil any time I had to parade my culinary prowess and parenting skills in the same visit. Which was pretty much any visit. The baby was always too cold, too hot, chugged up, crying too much, I wasn't feeding him enough or I was feeding him too much. I didn't bring what I was supposed to bring to the soiree or I forgot or I didn't ask the right question and just brought what I fixed. Or brought what was easy. There was no way to win this Wonder Woman event.
Now that I am a Yaya, time has mostly erased the hard parts of being a young Mama. It's easy to stand back on the hill and remember with fogged-over eyes how much I loved my babies, how I fed them right and disciplined them so well. I mean, look at those babies now - they're full grown, responsible adults starting to raise their own children. They're strong, healthy and even potty-trained. So with that fuzzy memory of what was difficult about it, I'm also thinking of how I miss those grandparents that I fussed about back then. How I'd give anything to ask their advice, to quiz them about things that I never bothered to find out. I assumed they'd always be here, because for all I knew, they arrived before the dawn of time. But this must be the way of it, that God doesn't inform us about what the future is, to know what we know now. The rhythm of time and the seasons turn over the earth of our souls. What was then is simply hard to believe. How did we do it? Where did that girl go? How did I forget her?
She's wrapped up, like so many threads in a garment. A tapestry garment, with crazy-quilt squares and garish knots. It can get ugly. As the world turns, there are fresh crops of expectations from all sides. I thought that somewhere in there, I'd get a free guilt pass. But no. And then it dawned on me. That is exactly why all the Grandmamas, Grandmas, great-Grandmamas, Nanas, Mimis and Yayas love their grandchildren so passionately, even when they can't do everything they'd like to do for them. They realize that all the casseroles, turkeys, gumdrops, money and everybody's silly presumptions and opinions are a bunch of hooey when it comes to that baby. There's a whole lot that just gets thrown out the window. Yaya (or whatever she gets called) looks deep in those sweet bunny eyes and says its me and you kid against the world. And that baby knows it.
There's nothing like Grandmama love, when you know she loves you even if you commit a felony. In fact, it might be why you don't.
There's never so much fussing as a great-grandmother does over a child. They are way too far removed from child-rearing to be giving advice, at least when it comes to food. But they also don't care what anybody thinks anymore, so you get the full brunt of it. As a new parent, your insides are still quivering about all the decisions and responsibilities. You want to prove that you can do it all, though you're pretty sure you're messing it up. But nobody better tell you that. I remember my guts being in turmoil any time I had to parade my culinary prowess and parenting skills in the same visit. Which was pretty much any visit. The baby was always too cold, too hot, chugged up, crying too much, I wasn't feeding him enough or I was feeding him too much. I didn't bring what I was supposed to bring to the soiree or I forgot or I didn't ask the right question and just brought what I fixed. Or brought what was easy. There was no way to win this Wonder Woman event.
Now that I am a Yaya, time has mostly erased the hard parts of being a young Mama. It's easy to stand back on the hill and remember with fogged-over eyes how much I loved my babies, how I fed them right and disciplined them so well. I mean, look at those babies now - they're full grown, responsible adults starting to raise their own children. They're strong, healthy and even potty-trained. So with that fuzzy memory of what was difficult about it, I'm also thinking of how I miss those grandparents that I fussed about back then. How I'd give anything to ask their advice, to quiz them about things that I never bothered to find out. I assumed they'd always be here, because for all I knew, they arrived before the dawn of time. But this must be the way of it, that God doesn't inform us about what the future is, to know what we know now. The rhythm of time and the seasons turn over the earth of our souls. What was then is simply hard to believe. How did we do it? Where did that girl go? How did I forget her?
She's wrapped up, like so many threads in a garment. A tapestry garment, with crazy-quilt squares and garish knots. It can get ugly. As the world turns, there are fresh crops of expectations from all sides. I thought that somewhere in there, I'd get a free guilt pass. But no. And then it dawned on me. That is exactly why all the Grandmamas, Grandmas, great-Grandmamas, Nanas, Mimis and Yayas love their grandchildren so passionately, even when they can't do everything they'd like to do for them. They realize that all the casseroles, turkeys, gumdrops, money and everybody's silly presumptions and opinions are a bunch of hooey when it comes to that baby. There's a whole lot that just gets thrown out the window. Yaya (or whatever she gets called) looks deep in those sweet bunny eyes and says its me and you kid against the world. And that baby knows it.
There's nothing like Grandmama love, when you know she loves you even if you commit a felony. In fact, it might be why you don't.
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