Death, Taxes and a Little Blood

On a good month, I'm a realtor juggling at least three or four dead peoples' houses. Not in the air, but definitely juggling. I've got people grieving, fighting, complaining, worrying and trying to kill each other. Just last month I found myself in the middle of a domestic fight, with glass jars, picture frames and Buddha figurines being lofted in my (and mostly my client's) general direction. When furniture started making flight paths across the living room and then the yard, I decided it was prudent to meet elsewhere (ya think?!) With blood flowing (ever so lightly) from my left foot, I pulled my car away from the curb and thought I might want to write a book. I could be the James Herriot of Realtors. Write little vignettes about houses, clients, closings, murders. There's just so much good material. But then again, if the book didn't take off, I certainly couldn't keep doing real estate. Who would sign up with a Realtor who was going to expose and detail all that family drama? 

In all seriousness, however, I have learned much from these histrionics. Number one, get out a legal pad and detail who is getting what, who's doing what and then decide what they are going to sing at your funeral. Do it now. Then get a competent lawyer to draw up a will. Better yet, give everybody the stuff you want to give them. Now, not when you're dead. Then you get to see them enjoy it. Or not. Why are you hanging on to all that anyway? Number two, clean out all the junk out of your house. I don't care if you are twenty-nine or a hundred and nine, it's evil to make other people clean up your mess, especially when they're grieving and fighting with your relatives. A beautiful gift you can give them (and yourself) is to minimize your stuff. There are folks that will come and pick it up or throw it out for you. I do estates all the time and guess what? Most people really don't want your refuse, even if you think it's valuable. These young people might want that furniture, but they're just going to cover it with chalk paint and sell it on Craigslist. I'm no minimalist, but our paraphernalia is crowding out our brain cells. 

Lastly. Let go. None of us need to expect that Aunt May is leaving us a million dollars. We need to learn to work hard to make our own way. If there's two nickels to rub together, people lose their minds and do awful things to each other in the name of fairness and getting "what's rightfully mine." Whole families fall apart over all the little bits and pieces that are left after someone departs. Yes, I know, some of it's not little. It still ain't all there is, folks. There are larger things at play in the universe than our tiny patch of earth or our big treasure chests. Peoples' souls and hearts matter so much more than their trappings. And it's tragic to forget that, just when our lives are stripped bare by a death. Someone is going to act horrible, but that doesn't mean we have to.

A Crispy Day in Villa Rica

September wings its way in like an eagle, determined and bold. Exciting, new, fresh. The books crack open, the notebooks are clean, the band is playing and the whistles are chirping out on the football field. October hovers near, with its promise of bonfires, the smell of leaves burning, crisp air and apples, fields and parking lots full of pumpkins. Here in the Southland we might have several Indian summers, heck, all the way up to Thanksgiving. So we get the best of it. 

It's a true story that we voluntarily kept our kids at home for 18 years and homeschooled them. At the time, it was considered radical and even weird. We gathered on the porch in the morning and did the pledge of allegiance, sang the national anthem and sometimes other songs (to our neighbors' chagrin -- have you heard Nortons sing?) I got more schooling done in the month of September than I did the rest of the semester. September was honkin' serious. Our kids reveled in the hundreds of acres that surrounded our house, taking every opportunity to suck the marrow out of life after class. The animals turned cartwheels because things were cooling off. Church, family, field trips, wrestling and dancing filled in the other gaps. Don't tell me my kids weren't socialized. It was a wonderful, terrible time. I'm glad we had it.

So here we are, another September. My kids are grown, flying, bearing eaglets of their own, extending their orbits beyond what I could have ever imagined. When the wind blows just right, I hear the band practicing on the other side of town, the drum corps tapping out a cadence. I stop and consider the years, the seasons, the trajectory of life that I have known. Look homeward, angel. But look forward, with hope, to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Two Funerals and a Hurricane

Two funerals in one week, both attended by a lot of the same people. It was two of our old, old friends, one 95 years and one 80. When I was young, I thought that was terribly ancient. Now it's not so far away. 80 is the new 60, right? The same pastor preached and the same pianist played for both, but it was all good. So very good. Music flowed, rich words were sung, hugs given and received, tears dabbed from eyes, friends reunited. As I listened to the exceptional sermons, it came to me that this was the finest part of life. Funerals aren't always that way and there's not always peace or joy accompanying them. But for these, that is what was present. I've been at wakes where people made things right with each other. Hatchets buried, bridges gapped. The summation of life is right there in that death room, good and bad, life and death, future and past.

One of my grandbabies was with me for one of them, asking a hundred questions. Where is he? Why is he dead? Where's his wife? Her best thoughts came after this one: "Yaya, was he sick?" I told her yes and that he was old. She said, "But he's glad he's not here now. He's with Jesus." Four year old wisdom. The occasional joke sprinkled in with the speakers made her laugh, loud and uninhibited, making us all chuckle more. The joy of a child, mixed in with the sorrow of death. There's hope in that, hope that tomorrow will indeed come. 

So winding up this week with funerals and a hurricane in the mix, I feel renewed. We hunkered down with naps and food while the wind howled around us; shortened work days reminiscent of snow days in Georgia that never usually materialize. But it was okay. A fine excuse to muse and pray for the families those who've passed on, those who are struggling elsewhere with trials, and to love and be grateful for those around us. It was good to remember that we can stop when we need to. And we don't have to wait for a hurricane to do it.

Blingin' and Laughin' Loud

I think I've figured something out... most people who have money are skinnier than us. And they also don't laugh as loud. Pa and I took our last hurrah of the season to the beach this weekend. Somehow we got a really cheap room in the heart of an expensive section of one of those fancy beach towns. Those places where people get up really early and run or ride their bikes. They do Crossfit in the parking lot. You have to watch constantly so that you won't run over five of them on the way to Hardees in the morning. There's not a Hardees for 20 miles, so that's a feat as well. All the fancy dining spots are outside, where it's still hot. What? Those people don't sweat, either, except when they're supposed to, like when they're exercising or paddle-boarding. 

We ate breakfast one morning in one of them elegant restaurants and I saw yuppies cutting up their kids' pancakes and fruit. These kids were, like, 8-10 years old, not toddlers. My eyes got wide and I thought the woman might cut me up too, so I tried not to laugh. Then there was the evening where we went to a Mexican restaurant for twice what it costs at home. I wore my deluxe new leggings with roses on them, with a blousy, fun top and my normal amount of bling. Nothing super special but I felt pretty spiffy. An imperious lady looked me up and down like I was some sort of circus freak, so I grinned and looked her up and down. She never did smile, but Ken thought I was mighty cute. There were so many beautiful buildings and people. I was impressed with all the kids and parents who were cycling on those old-timey cruiser bikes. It was great to see everyone so active and out in the air, not just marooned in their rooms. But what I found odd about the bike thing was this: if you're lucky enough to be staying and riding around in Seaside on a vintage beach cruiser, don't you think you'd be just giddy about it? I mean, it's one of the most wonderful places on earth and you get to be there. So why so serious?! The adults, in particular, seemed grim and determined. You're not on a racing bike. You're not in a marathon. For the life of me I couldn't get why so many people needed to be taken seriously when they were riding around on a cotton-candy-coated chunk of love. Oh well. Once again, there's some things that money can't buy. But I wish to goodness I could have bought a few more days down there. I'm not ready to be a grownup again. Maybe I'll string up those party lights and turn up the radio.

Unexpected Gifts and Tilt-A-Whirls

We probably should have named him Isaac (the Hebrew name Isaac means "laughter") because the first flip he turned in my womb was apparently accompanied by laughing gas and jazz hands. For nearly 10 months, that child used my bladder for a trampoline. I found out I was (unexpectedly) pregnant for the third time when we bought a distressed property that was half-built and head-high in weeds. With two wild-man toddlers under the age of three in tow, we moved into a friend's basement apartment and proceeded to finish that giant 5-bedroom house. This was the most challenging project I ever took on, given the ages of our babies and the state of my body. I took to wearing Ken's coveralls, since there was nothing else that fit. We moved into the house a month before Jesse Caleb was born and I think I immediately went into a coma, surfacing just long enough to birth that 11-pound, 2-ounce behemoth.  

My hands were so full it was scary. Three precocious boys under the age of four. I was nine weeks pregnant before I realized it, and we had not planned this pregnancy. But God did. After the joy of this child, we left our family planning up to God. I could sense Jesse's personality as soon as I could feel him move. Happy, joyful, athletic, loving. His birth was an experience in faith. He should have died or at least been damaged, but the Lord spared him. He came into the world fearless, oblivious to danger or unhappiness. His brothers and sister and he traversed the woods and life with abandon. He came here with a light that dispelled darkness, making us all feel hopeful. His laughing eyes and giant buck-tooth grin refused to be squelched. Anything resembling a sphere was his game. He could deftly bounce a basketball at eighteen months old. He leapfrogged, jumped, careened and twisted his way around the world, lean and muscular as a monkey. He loved to snuggle and be held. Any pain could be fixed with a hug. He had the most sensitive of spirits, often taking his brothers' blame when things were not his fault. His heart loved Christ from a young age. I believe he was twelve before his brain allowed him to read. He wrote whole sentences backwards and turned numbers upside down. He made up his own written language, made of runes known only to himself (he eventually taught his wife how to read them). Everything was an analogy to Jesse. He saw the parallels and significance, the deeper meanings behind the world around him. Before he could read, he would tell me what things meant, how they fit into the cosmos of his planet. Apparently there are more important things than letters. 

He made it to college on a basketball scholarship, struggling but working hard. His junior year, he met the love of his life and suddenly his grades improved. He started studying and reading. He came home and asked me to buy him books. We knew she had to be the one. They are now happily married with three adorable rug rats tearing it up. His first kiss was for Bailey, on their wedding day. Tall and handsome, he waited stalwartly and patiently for his bride and that special moment. He is a youth pastor, bounding his way through life, throwing his kids ten feet in the air and scooping toddlers away from danger. His joy and zest for life are lighting the world. 

I still marvel at God's providence, how He bypassed our plans to bless us with this precious son. We think we're smart, but He is smarter.

Forks and Knives and Other Tools

I ran far away from him, all those many years ago. I got lucky, when the spirit of the Lord compelled me to run. Tonight, as I saw the empty eyes of the one that he caught and the children that he begot, another wave of thankfulness wafted up. Many nights, over these thirty-five years, I have woken up in a panic from a dream that I had married him....feeling over to the other side of my bed to find that I had blessedly not, that the warm form slumbering there was Ken, protector of my heart and soul. This cracked earth, we traverse together. Seasons of life and light vary with those of death and darkness. The sea ebbs and flows, joy, sorrow, love, madness. How unbelievable was my kismet, how I got to love this man and he actually loved me. How I almost messed up, how I almost was sold into a slavery of sorts. When you're young you have no idea the harvest that comes from small seeds, good and bad ones. All these years later, I sense the plenteous crop about me. There are tares in the wheat, always, but the wheat flourishes and ripens. I know that what we have is beyond our own effort. It is God's fruit borne of that which is mysterious.

I tucked my tail and ran away, ran home to Daddy and Mama, the hot breath of the devil breathing down my neck. I rushed through thick fog, feet of mud, lake of tar, 'til I found my wings beating, slowly at first. So slowly, but then leaving behind the earth to find the sky. It's been a long time now. Funny how I remember those days, how the pungent emotions of youth still resonate. The tape recorder of time rewinds, and the events where I chose one road over the other would forever change my life. God intervened in my foolishness. He protected me and brought me to sanctuary, despite myself. Mercies of God in the forks in the road. 

Southern Showers

Showers are a rite of passage for every Southern girl. They speak of a different time -- a blend of comfortable, genteel rules where the women gather 'round and bless a sister going through the gauntlet of marriage or pregnancy. I remember going to many of these events with my mother and relatives as a child. Cousins and siblings playing in the yard and then sneaking into the kitchen for snacks and lemonade. When it came my turn to get married (and blessed), the showers I was given are still fresh in my heart. My Mom's best friend's house, where the ladies of the church poured out manna from heaven on me. Ken's dear aunt Francis, who invited the family to her antebellum mansion in Washington, Georgia to anoint me with the family love. I still recall their voices and accents, sounding like soft breezes blowing through the room. She served a special fruit salad called "Rosie." Such thoughtfulness and decorum, the flower of many generations of sowing the things that are good in this world. At my place of employment, the ladies brought lunch and gifts, unexpectedly adding to our larder. Then finally, aunt Debbie opened her home to the Norton and Slate sides, where I began to wonder how I would live long enough to repay all these favors. I had a friend who said, "You can't repay them! But you'll have your chances to bless those coming behind you." 

It wasn't long before I saw what she was talking about. I've helped and hosted many a shower in the thirty-five years hence. It's always a joy to see the gifts opened, to enjoy the fellowship of a gaggle of women in the same room. I did a mad dash of a shower this last weekend, with the help of several lovely people and a daughter-in-law or two... My daughter stepped up in new ways to make it happen. Our 117-year-old Victorian house is sheer confection for these types of events. I thought about her old bones as I was dashing about...wondering how many times she might have hosted a wedding or shower or party. We're trying to wear her out while we're able. There's simply nothing like an ancient house to host a soiree. I think the mature, beat-up floors make everyone relax and the soaring ceilings and beautiful glass are inspiring. 

At 9:50, only one guest had arrived for our 10:00 brunch. I was frantically throwing on my makeup in a locked room after yelling at my husband (that's the way it works). The cheese grits weren't made yet, the glasses and drinks weren't arranged, but I figured we had time. Before I could blink, the house was packed with three dozen chattering women and giddy little girls. The food was divine and the company even better. We were celebrating our daughter-in-law, pregnant with her rainbow twins (look it up). Everyone in the house was bursting with joy over the chance to rejoice with her. Each of the two great-Grandmas gave a devotion, laden with sage wisdom and hope. We could barely see her unwrap the gifts, with half a dozen jumping-bean girls crowded around her. Four-year-old sister Annabelle shrieked out thank-yous to each person when their gift was opened.  It was another of those rare Kodak moments in life, where everything comes together in a succinct snapshot, a blissful and sweet morsel where time stands still and we see the reasons we work so hard. A bit of heaven, it was.