There's a stack of furniture piled up in the Grandchildren's nursery area of our house. In a past life, I was a decorative painter and somehow people are still finding me. I managed to recently paint, distress and send a big table and a truckload of chairs back to their home, allowing us to move through the room a little better. But there's the next project staring me in the face every time I'm coming or going. It's a crazily-painted set of bedroom furniture, all wacky with red checkerboard print and faux-marbled tops. I didn't sign up for this. Now I've got to sand all that mess off there and then restore it to calm with hand-mixed chalk paint and polyurethane. A wise soul told me I needed to get stuff in writing from people, to outline what it is I'm "signing up" for. You'd think I would have learned that, since I've been doing these kinds of enterprises since, well, forever. Alas, as my husband likes to quote, "It is what it is." I hate it when he says that.
Just once, I'd like to get all the layers off for a minute or two. Layers of promised jobs, projects, paint requests, postponed contacts, and appointments that never got a firm commitment date. All these hang around like ethereal weights with no real deadline, slowing pressing down on me during my dreams until I can't breathe. But I do it to myself, I know. I say "yes" or "yes, later" when I should just say no. Just an example -- tonight, as I was breezing through Facebook Marketplace (don't do it, it's addictive), hating on some of the overpriced, used, yard sale items, but then finding stuff that I must have...I stumbled upon a friend's post about a gorgeous, 9-foot high fake Ficus tree that needs to be in my living room yesterday. I mean, really, how many trees would work in this house, with my 12-foot ceilings and massive windows? And there's a corner that is just begging for it. I used to have real Ficus trees that were also amazing but shed leaves everywhere. This one looks real and won't slough all over my floor. As I began to manipulate my tomorrow around in my mind, so that I could drive an hour to go look at this thing, I also remembered that it might not fit into my SUV. And even though my one "appointment" got cancelled for tomorrow, I have a huge list of things to do. Still trying to justify my taking up most of Monday to go buy something (when I just promised myself I'd stop buying things), I remembered the furniture piled up in my house. Tomorrow's the only day there's no rain forecast this week, and sanding that blasted stuff has to be done outside. Round and round we go. Where it stops, nobody knows.
So the buck stops here. Literally. The bucks are not going out the door. I'm going to do my list tomorrow so that I can make some bucks. I'm messaging her now, since she's probably asleep and can't answer back. Everybody (except her) is a winner and my conscience can rest easy. So if I get the furniture done and get paid, and nobody else buys it, can I still get the Ficus? Jesus take the wheel...
Sunday, March 10, 2019
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Dr Denmark Said It!
I was scared out of my wits. I had just delivered a ten and a half pound man-child who seemed to never stop screaming. Even though I loved children, I felt completely unprepared for the massive responsibility that was my own baby. I so wanted to be a good mother, to do it perfectly. I loved him instantly, the depths were astonishing to me upon arrival. I had a dream the first night that somebody mixed him up with another child in the nursery...but in my dream I recognized him already, as well as his lusty rebel yell. To this day, I've never heard a child that could holler like that boy did. Earth-shattering, piercing, loud as a siren.
The first day home, my Mama volunteered to stay with us. We thought we could handle it, so we turned her down. The next day, Papa Bear discreetly called and asked her to come on over. There isn't a whole lot that a Grandma can do for a nursing baby except change and rock him a little, but she sure can do a lot for her daughter. We cried together when he just couldn't be soothed. When the sun came up, we headed out for his first doctor visit. That was the day that I finally met The Legend.
She was tiny, with wispy white hair pinned up in a bun. Her wizened face and stooped shoulders belied all the knowledge and wisdom residing in that one miniature body. She was the third woman to graduate with a medical degree from the Medical College of Georgia. She was candid, but kind. Intimidating but quiet. A force of nature. When she spoke, we listened. She had almost a cult following of young mothers, women who wanted answers to their persistent questions about how to care for and raise their children. Her name was Dr. Leila Denmark. She practiced until she was 103 years old, and died at the remarkable age of 114 (and 60 days).
The day I met her, she handed me a little slip of paper with instructions on it for a newborn. She looked him over and told me he was going to be six-foot-six (he is). Her old-fashioned methods might have seemed quaint and outdated to some, but I followed her directions as closely as I could. Our four children grew strong, healthy and smart under her wise advice. Hers was not just a rote path, but an inspired philosophy that viewed children as a gift from God and motherhood the highest calling in the world. She often used that old quote: "The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world." I always went away from her office feeling emboldened about the importance of my job, and secure in the methods that she gave me to help make our home more ordered in the midst of the chaos. She was a tough cookie, but she made me feel like a million bucks when she bragged on our bouncing, healthy babies. Her book, Every Child Should Have A Chance, is almost impossible to obtain. It has a few antiquated ways of saying things, but the inspiration and intelligence in that book is worth more than gold.
We went to Dr. Denmark for years until she moved further out, to Alpharetta. I went to another pediatrician but would see her when I needed a second opinion. She was always uncannily correct in her advice. She was so old, so wise, so smart -- she had seen everything at that point. It was very dumb to ignore what she had to say. Once, I neglected her advice about a procedure for our daughter, and it could have cost her her life. I was never cavalier again about the things that she told me. There's a book out now that is written by another mother who went to Dr. D for many years (and many children)...named Dr Denmark Said It. And that's how it was. If Dr. Denmark said it, you had better do it. She hated pacifiers, not for the reasons you might think. She said that we shouldn't pacify our babies but should nurture them carefully into facing the world. One time she said (to a mother who didn't get the paci-memo), "Now you need to take that pacifier out of that baby's mouth. If you keep pacifying her, when she's 16 and her boyfriend breaks up with her, she's going to jump off the Candler building." We still howl at that. Besides the "controversial" philosophy of the pacifier, it was humorous that the highest building in Dr. D's mind was the relatively short, 17-floor Candler building. But she was around when it was built, so there.
All these years later (34 to be exact), I think that the things she taught me and us were priceless. She preached nutrition, exercise, fresh air, healthy living and showed me exactly how to administer that to my children. But the most important thing I learned was that I had been given a sacred trust with them. She highly valued God and human life. One day she said to me, "Even if I had to live in a gutter, what a glorious thing it would be to open my eyes and see that beautiful sky. There's so much to be thankful for." She helped thousands of babies and families over all those years, saving many lives with her care. I'm eternally grateful that I got to sit at her feet for a spell.
The first day home, my Mama volunteered to stay with us. We thought we could handle it, so we turned her down. The next day, Papa Bear discreetly called and asked her to come on over. There isn't a whole lot that a Grandma can do for a nursing baby except change and rock him a little, but she sure can do a lot for her daughter. We cried together when he just couldn't be soothed. When the sun came up, we headed out for his first doctor visit. That was the day that I finally met The Legend.
She was tiny, with wispy white hair pinned up in a bun. Her wizened face and stooped shoulders belied all the knowledge and wisdom residing in that one miniature body. She was the third woman to graduate with a medical degree from the Medical College of Georgia. She was candid, but kind. Intimidating but quiet. A force of nature. When she spoke, we listened. She had almost a cult following of young mothers, women who wanted answers to their persistent questions about how to care for and raise their children. Her name was Dr. Leila Denmark. She practiced until she was 103 years old, and died at the remarkable age of 114 (and 60 days).
The day I met her, she handed me a little slip of paper with instructions on it for a newborn. She looked him over and told me he was going to be six-foot-six (he is). Her old-fashioned methods might have seemed quaint and outdated to some, but I followed her directions as closely as I could. Our four children grew strong, healthy and smart under her wise advice. Hers was not just a rote path, but an inspired philosophy that viewed children as a gift from God and motherhood the highest calling in the world. She often used that old quote: "The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world." I always went away from her office feeling emboldened about the importance of my job, and secure in the methods that she gave me to help make our home more ordered in the midst of the chaos. She was a tough cookie, but she made me feel like a million bucks when she bragged on our bouncing, healthy babies. Her book, Every Child Should Have A Chance, is almost impossible to obtain. It has a few antiquated ways of saying things, but the inspiration and intelligence in that book is worth more than gold.
We went to Dr. Denmark for years until she moved further out, to Alpharetta. I went to another pediatrician but would see her when I needed a second opinion. She was always uncannily correct in her advice. She was so old, so wise, so smart -- she had seen everything at that point. It was very dumb to ignore what she had to say. Once, I neglected her advice about a procedure for our daughter, and it could have cost her her life. I was never cavalier again about the things that she told me. There's a book out now that is written by another mother who went to Dr. D for many years (and many children)...named Dr Denmark Said It. And that's how it was. If Dr. Denmark said it, you had better do it. She hated pacifiers, not for the reasons you might think. She said that we shouldn't pacify our babies but should nurture them carefully into facing the world. One time she said (to a mother who didn't get the paci-memo), "Now you need to take that pacifier out of that baby's mouth. If you keep pacifying her, when she's 16 and her boyfriend breaks up with her, she's going to jump off the Candler building." We still howl at that. Besides the "controversial" philosophy of the pacifier, it was humorous that the highest building in Dr. D's mind was the relatively short, 17-floor Candler building. But she was around when it was built, so there.
All these years later (34 to be exact), I think that the things she taught me and us were priceless. She preached nutrition, exercise, fresh air, healthy living and showed me exactly how to administer that to my children. But the most important thing I learned was that I had been given a sacred trust with them. She highly valued God and human life. One day she said to me, "Even if I had to live in a gutter, what a glorious thing it would be to open my eyes and see that beautiful sky. There's so much to be thankful for." She helped thousands of babies and families over all those years, saving many lives with her care. I'm eternally grateful that I got to sit at her feet for a spell.
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
Thank a Teacher
My love affair with books began early. When I got to first grade and "reading circle," a couple of kids in our class already knew how to read. That sparked a competitive gene in me and I was compelled to learn too. What I didn't know was that the world was about to change. There were universes unknown that suddenly became possibilities. I voraciously scarfed up all the stories in our readers, and then began checking out books from the school library. I would sneak them in by opening a reader and slipping the other book inside. I have yet to understand why teachers objected to this. I had already gobbled up the whole reader, so why would anyone hold me back? In third grade, the teacher brought in these little machines that helped us to read faster. Magic!
When we homeschooled our own children, many years later, I assumed they would inherit my love for reading. But their genes leaned more to their Daddy's side, where uncanny abilities to bounce and throw spherical objects dominated their psyches. Even though all four of them loved nothing better than climbing trees and wending their way through the woods, I was able to persuade them occasionally to enjoy reading. Our youngest son, Jesse, a natural-born firebug, loved to build a fire in the fireplace first thing on winter mornings. We'd snuggle up around it in the living room and I would read to them. Such happy memories of those days, where the weather was blustery outside and we curled up like puppies to listen to a good story. More often than I care to admit, we'd all nod off after awhile and steal a morning nap. Oh for those simple pleasures!
Somewhere along the way, my husband became a scholar. He cared nothing for books, except his Bible, when we were first married. But when our current church nominated him for deacon, the preparation was nothing short of six months of seminary training. He was required to study a stack of books and actually learn what was in them. My athlete husband became a reader. Now, if his Kindle is running low on content, he asks me to find him something interesting to read. He has found the classics and other adventures, making up for lost time. Neither of us can get to sleep now without spending some time reading in the evenings. I love it.
Kindle has changed everything, as has Amazon. I still prefer a virtual book when I read -- it's the tactile process of turning the pages that makes it sweet. But I load up that Kindle with all manner of material, plus buy used books on Amazon with one simple swipe. Lord have mercy, it's all stacking up to the rafters, and the used book store closed down in Villa Rica. They used to trade books for store credit. Now I just donate them (well, sometimes). I keep books at every juncture in the house -- every table, desk, bedside, bathroom. You never know when you might find a minute. I'm truly grateful for all the folks in history who made it their mission to teach people to read. I believe it was Martin Luther, the Protestant Reformer, who said that every simple farm boy should be taught to read so that the Scriptures would be illumined to them. So today, I'd like to thank you, Miss Bell, who long ago taught me to read in first grade at Powder Springs Elementary. I don't know where you are but I sure am grateful.
When we homeschooled our own children, many years later, I assumed they would inherit my love for reading. But their genes leaned more to their Daddy's side, where uncanny abilities to bounce and throw spherical objects dominated their psyches. Even though all four of them loved nothing better than climbing trees and wending their way through the woods, I was able to persuade them occasionally to enjoy reading. Our youngest son, Jesse, a natural-born firebug, loved to build a fire in the fireplace first thing on winter mornings. We'd snuggle up around it in the living room and I would read to them. Such happy memories of those days, where the weather was blustery outside and we curled up like puppies to listen to a good story. More often than I care to admit, we'd all nod off after awhile and steal a morning nap. Oh for those simple pleasures!
Somewhere along the way, my husband became a scholar. He cared nothing for books, except his Bible, when we were first married. But when our current church nominated him for deacon, the preparation was nothing short of six months of seminary training. He was required to study a stack of books and actually learn what was in them. My athlete husband became a reader. Now, if his Kindle is running low on content, he asks me to find him something interesting to read. He has found the classics and other adventures, making up for lost time. Neither of us can get to sleep now without spending some time reading in the evenings. I love it.
Kindle has changed everything, as has Amazon. I still prefer a virtual book when I read -- it's the tactile process of turning the pages that makes it sweet. But I load up that Kindle with all manner of material, plus buy used books on Amazon with one simple swipe. Lord have mercy, it's all stacking up to the rafters, and the used book store closed down in Villa Rica. They used to trade books for store credit. Now I just donate them (well, sometimes). I keep books at every juncture in the house -- every table, desk, bedside, bathroom. You never know when you might find a minute. I'm truly grateful for all the folks in history who made it their mission to teach people to read. I believe it was Martin Luther, the Protestant Reformer, who said that every simple farm boy should be taught to read so that the Scriptures would be illumined to them. So today, I'd like to thank you, Miss Bell, who long ago taught me to read in first grade at Powder Springs Elementary. I don't know where you are but I sure am grateful.
Monday, February 18, 2019
Valentine Recipe
The stores were glutted with Valentine candy last week and I bought the hubs his dream come true: an impossibly huge bag of peanut M&Ms. I told him to hide it from me, but I found it in the pantry, amongst the pharmaceuticals. I haven't snitched even one yet, but my resolve can only hold out for so long. We won't talk about the fact that the Girl Scouts came 'round the other day.
Every holiday is connected to candy. Even Thanksgiving gets its gobbler-shaped chocolates, not to mention the candy corn that's still hanging on from Halloween. The stores stock up the appropriate two aisles of selections, people dash around the day before, snatching up last-minute gifts and treats...then there's a 50% off sale the whole week after. Then they start stocking for the next holiday. It's insane. How am I ever going to escape Willie Wonka and that blasted Chocolate Factory? Now that cacao has been labeled an antioxidant, I'm really never going to get delivered of my confectionary demons. I forget that cacao is really the same thing as cocoa, that bitter stuff that Mama used to buy in cans and tastes horrible until you put lots of sugar and butter in it. I don't give a rip about fried chicken, French fries or macaroni and cheese. Whip me up a brownie with ice cream and fudge sauce, tote me on out to the curb and dump me out with the trash.
I couldn't help but think on some of my past Valentines and the last 37 with my Sugar Bear. I feel sorry for all the expectations put on men, in particular, on that silly day. There's no way most of them ever get it right. Who could? But there's been a whole lot of money made with all the trying. Ken has learned to just get me some flowers (with the help of his children) and some chocolate. It's sweet, to the point, with no surprises. Surprises can be overrated, although a puppy or a pony once a decade doesn't hurt anybody's score card. I'm late into my fifth decade and I still mentally put those two items on my Christmas list. I think heaven must be full of those.
My sweetheart was sick with a stomach flu this week, moaning and groaning and unable to get much relief. I got aggravated with him because it seemed to never end. Then I thought about how, if we tarry long, we might be in store for a lot of never-ending whining going on, from both of us. When you are young, carefree and strong, you don't think about all that. You line up with your pretty, fair friends and say vows that sound nice and true. Then there comes a day when he's got a paunch, you've got what looks like twins in the oven, and both of your hairlines are receding. Your skin is starting to crinkle up, it's hard to remember where your glasses are and I think my hip just cracked. We might have a long haul ahead of us, maybe not. In sickness and in health, in wealth or poverty, til death do us part. I reach over and find his big ole warm hand. I press my fingers to his lips. Even though he's asleep, he kisses them. Some days I could just slap him, and then others I melt. And on any given day I have no idea how he puts up with my sass. I thank God for the truth of grace, the slow, steady path that is commitment, and the shared yoke that we have shouldered all these years. It doesn't feel like a yoke. It feels like a whole lot of words, tears, laughter, and life, in between the mundane parts. There's oatmeal and then there's champagne. It's all good.
Every holiday is connected to candy. Even Thanksgiving gets its gobbler-shaped chocolates, not to mention the candy corn that's still hanging on from Halloween. The stores stock up the appropriate two aisles of selections, people dash around the day before, snatching up last-minute gifts and treats...then there's a 50% off sale the whole week after. Then they start stocking for the next holiday. It's insane. How am I ever going to escape Willie Wonka and that blasted Chocolate Factory? Now that cacao has been labeled an antioxidant, I'm really never going to get delivered of my confectionary demons. I forget that cacao is really the same thing as cocoa, that bitter stuff that Mama used to buy in cans and tastes horrible until you put lots of sugar and butter in it. I don't give a rip about fried chicken, French fries or macaroni and cheese. Whip me up a brownie with ice cream and fudge sauce, tote me on out to the curb and dump me out with the trash.
I couldn't help but think on some of my past Valentines and the last 37 with my Sugar Bear. I feel sorry for all the expectations put on men, in particular, on that silly day. There's no way most of them ever get it right. Who could? But there's been a whole lot of money made with all the trying. Ken has learned to just get me some flowers (with the help of his children) and some chocolate. It's sweet, to the point, with no surprises. Surprises can be overrated, although a puppy or a pony once a decade doesn't hurt anybody's score card. I'm late into my fifth decade and I still mentally put those two items on my Christmas list. I think heaven must be full of those.
My sweetheart was sick with a stomach flu this week, moaning and groaning and unable to get much relief. I got aggravated with him because it seemed to never end. Then I thought about how, if we tarry long, we might be in store for a lot of never-ending whining going on, from both of us. When you are young, carefree and strong, you don't think about all that. You line up with your pretty, fair friends and say vows that sound nice and true. Then there comes a day when he's got a paunch, you've got what looks like twins in the oven, and both of your hairlines are receding. Your skin is starting to crinkle up, it's hard to remember where your glasses are and I think my hip just cracked. We might have a long haul ahead of us, maybe not. In sickness and in health, in wealth or poverty, til death do us part. I reach over and find his big ole warm hand. I press my fingers to his lips. Even though he's asleep, he kisses them. Some days I could just slap him, and then others I melt. And on any given day I have no idea how he puts up with my sass. I thank God for the truth of grace, the slow, steady path that is commitment, and the shared yoke that we have shouldered all these years. It doesn't feel like a yoke. It feels like a whole lot of words, tears, laughter, and life, in between the mundane parts. There's oatmeal and then there's champagne. It's all good.
Honest Toddlers and Chewing Gum
There is nothing like the honesty of a young child. If you don’t want to hear it, don’t ask. Papa’s tummy is fair game, as well as Yaya’s. I have been patted lovingly (and often a bit too enthusiastically) on my midsection so many times, it’s embarrassing. I refused a dessert, a few months ago. One of our granddaughters asked why and I told her that I’d already had enough sugar in my life and that I needed to quit eating it. So now, I’m not allowed to slip up around this child. She is adamant that “Yaya, you can’t have that.” I love it that children’s emotions and thoughts lie close to the surface. I’ve seen them nearly burst open when they recognize their sins, then turn around and deviously lie about where brother’s toy is hidden.
I’ve been clambered upon so many times, I can’t begin to count. There’s the climbing of an infant to reach my shiny new earrings, the quest of a toddler to tell me a secret, the search for a comforting lap. Nothing, however, rivals the bevy of cherubs that comforted me during the death of my Daddy. They instinctively knew I was in deep grief. There were no bursts of bad behavior or cranky tummies during that time…only sincere, innocent tumbles of hugs and tears that reached past the worst of it. Months later, they still draw pictures of Grandpa in heaven, dancing, surrounded by flowers and angels. Where us grownups keep our thoughts damped down, they freely express how they miss him, and openly wonder about what death and heaven are like. They also ponder the grave and hell, something we all should do. I think about Jesus, when a pile of kids pushed past all the grownups to get to Him. When the disciples started to fuss, He said, “Let the little children come to me and don’t hinder them.” We forget these things, important things, when we grow up.
Us late-middle-aged folks are getting tired. But when the family pulls in and the light spills all over the house with the energy and straight talk of those chickadees, our hearts lighten and hope springs eternal. My arms get filled with hopping toddlers and kindergartners. They see and note every bump and blemish, though to them it is more about the funny than the flaw. It’s about the love and the warmth, the unconditional heart that passes between us. That’s a piece of heaven on earth. Then come the requests for gum. And like every good Mimi, Grandma or Yaya, I get my purse. Love is a many splendored thing and often includes a stick of Juicy Fruit.
Monday, February 4, 2019
Girl Trip
In the dead of winter, I always find comfort in a little trip or two. It's not unlike Narnia, where it seems like it's always winter and never Christmas. And then there's all that Turkish Delight, which raises my blood sugar too much and I can't quit eating. Our anniversary is in February, a nice respite from the dread of cold wetness, but my daughter intervened with the idea of a girls' trip before I could work up something for Pa and me.
We decided on a long weekend in Chattanooga. About fourty years ago, I went to college up near there, when Chatty was a smoky, grimy industrial town. The only thing interesting at the time was the Choo Choo, where our basketball team would congregate for fried chicken and a night out. Liz and I hoofed it on up there, since it's only a couple hours away from Atlanta.
What we found was an intriguing, ambitious place full of energy and possibilities. Chattanooga looks like a giant bowl, rimmed with mountains and beautiful lights. In the day it is bustling and laced with a thousand ribbons of street. At night it sparkles with a billion twinkling stars on the mountains and in the valleys. We drove through old neighborhoods filled with hobbit-like homes that had been recently updated, gulped back our fear as we looked down harrowing mountainside roads, and explored rabbit trails that ended in lovely waterfalls and rockslides. Down in the valley, cute hipsters and their trendy coffeehouses drew outsiders by the carload. I couldn't help but think about the ghosts of the mountain folk that must be watching and shaking their heads. I only heard a few familiar twangs of guitars and banjoes as we toured the place.
The aquarium there is wonderful, with lots of delightful fish and fauna to admire. The otters were so cute, I could have watched them all day. I remember the first time I took my children to that aquarium, way back when it first opened. There was a gigantic tank with Tennessee river fish, replete with the biggest catfish I had ever seen. I grew up near Allatoona Lake, where all my life I heard about the "catfish as big as men" that prowled near the dam. I never believed it, until we went to the Tennessee Aquarium and I saw half a dozen catfish as big as a man, maybe bigger. The next time we went to the aquarium, the catfish were much smaller. I asked a docent about it and she said that they release them back into the river, after they get real big. I ain't puttin' my toe in any river in the South, ever again. Ever.
Liz and I enjoyed people watching, probably more than anything else we did. We had a nice cruise in the riverboat, our trip to the aquarium, lots of yummy food. We sat on the side of the river, soaking in the sun and making up stories about the people who passed around us. The next day, we sat in a snack shop window and thought up scenarios and shared opinions about the couples and fashions that ambled by. We laughed and suspended our busy lives for a couple of days, eating stuff we shouldn't and luxuriating just a little too long every morning in our pajamas. What a nice thing, to wake up one day and realize that your daughter is not just your daughter anymore. She's the best kind of girlfriend you could possibly have.
We decided on a long weekend in Chattanooga. About fourty years ago, I went to college up near there, when Chatty was a smoky, grimy industrial town. The only thing interesting at the time was the Choo Choo, where our basketball team would congregate for fried chicken and a night out. Liz and I hoofed it on up there, since it's only a couple hours away from Atlanta.
What we found was an intriguing, ambitious place full of energy and possibilities. Chattanooga looks like a giant bowl, rimmed with mountains and beautiful lights. In the day it is bustling and laced with a thousand ribbons of street. At night it sparkles with a billion twinkling stars on the mountains and in the valleys. We drove through old neighborhoods filled with hobbit-like homes that had been recently updated, gulped back our fear as we looked down harrowing mountainside roads, and explored rabbit trails that ended in lovely waterfalls and rockslides. Down in the valley, cute hipsters and their trendy coffeehouses drew outsiders by the carload. I couldn't help but think about the ghosts of the mountain folk that must be watching and shaking their heads. I only heard a few familiar twangs of guitars and banjoes as we toured the place.
The aquarium there is wonderful, with lots of delightful fish and fauna to admire. The otters were so cute, I could have watched them all day. I remember the first time I took my children to that aquarium, way back when it first opened. There was a gigantic tank with Tennessee river fish, replete with the biggest catfish I had ever seen. I grew up near Allatoona Lake, where all my life I heard about the "catfish as big as men" that prowled near the dam. I never believed it, until we went to the Tennessee Aquarium and I saw half a dozen catfish as big as a man, maybe bigger. The next time we went to the aquarium, the catfish were much smaller. I asked a docent about it and she said that they release them back into the river, after they get real big. I ain't puttin' my toe in any river in the South, ever again. Ever.
Liz and I enjoyed people watching, probably more than anything else we did. We had a nice cruise in the riverboat, our trip to the aquarium, lots of yummy food. We sat on the side of the river, soaking in the sun and making up stories about the people who passed around us. The next day, we sat in a snack shop window and thought up scenarios and shared opinions about the couples and fashions that ambled by. We laughed and suspended our busy lives for a couple of days, eating stuff we shouldn't and luxuriating just a little too long every morning in our pajamas. What a nice thing, to wake up one day and realize that your daughter is not just your daughter anymore. She's the best kind of girlfriend you could possibly have.
Monday, January 28, 2019
Milk, Bread and Snow Babies
As I emerged out from under my rock today, limping from three weeks of illness and my Mama's hospital stay, I couldn't help but think on our beautiful, terrible, bi-polar Georgia weather. This would have to be the most miserable winter on record, with so much rain and leaden skies it could make you hightail it to Tijuana. I don't even know what it's like there, but it's got to be better than this craziness. We have the strangest dirt in our yard that I have ever seen -- it's black as soot, silky, soft as butter and will grow anything. Where did that come from? It's like Yankee dirt, not the Georgia red clay I grew up on. Trucks and cars like to leave deep ruts on all the edges of our yard. Ken jogs out there with his rake and shovel and fixes it back.
It was warm in the sunshine, so I sat and basked in it for a piece today with my animals, when I began to get cancellations for my appointments tomorrow. Apparently there's a snowstorm coming (an inch or two) and the schools are already cancelled too. Today: sunbathing. Tomorrow: snowblindness. Next week: heck, we're jumpin in the pond. My dear Yankee friends do not understand us. They get cranked up with the snowplows in October or November while we're still harvesting collards. Then they have an event called winter, which lasts on out til March or April. You wear your coats every day, you warm up your cars, you stay inside reading or knitting or whatever it is those foreigners do. Our weather is so wonky, we spend all winter sick and sure we're going to die. Their freezing temperatures kill their bad bugs...ours just breeds extra ones. By early spring the mosquitoes are dive-bombing us before we can navigate the screen door.
Either way, I'll take it. We had the chance, years ago, to consider jobs in such far-flung places as Colorado and Pennsylvania. I'm sure those are wonderful, interesting regions to explore. They have actual seasons, places where you can ski on real snow, not ice. They have plows and salt trucks to fix the roads up. Our grand winter adventures here include at least one or two disaster days filled with dread, ice-covered everything and mad dashes to the store. I apparently have a couple of extra grandchildren to show for some of those snow days. I'll take them too.
We're gearing up for tomorrow and I haven't got a lick of bread or milk in the house. Maybe we won't starve, and hey, I think we're overdue for another grandbaby.
It was warm in the sunshine, so I sat and basked in it for a piece today with my animals, when I began to get cancellations for my appointments tomorrow. Apparently there's a snowstorm coming (an inch or two) and the schools are already cancelled too. Today: sunbathing. Tomorrow: snowblindness. Next week: heck, we're jumpin in the pond. My dear Yankee friends do not understand us. They get cranked up with the snowplows in October or November while we're still harvesting collards. Then they have an event called winter, which lasts on out til March or April. You wear your coats every day, you warm up your cars, you stay inside reading or knitting or whatever it is those foreigners do. Our weather is so wonky, we spend all winter sick and sure we're going to die. Their freezing temperatures kill their bad bugs...ours just breeds extra ones. By early spring the mosquitoes are dive-bombing us before we can navigate the screen door.
Either way, I'll take it. We had the chance, years ago, to consider jobs in such far-flung places as Colorado and Pennsylvania. I'm sure those are wonderful, interesting regions to explore. They have actual seasons, places where you can ski on real snow, not ice. They have plows and salt trucks to fix the roads up. Our grand winter adventures here include at least one or two disaster days filled with dread, ice-covered everything and mad dashes to the store. I apparently have a couple of extra grandchildren to show for some of those snow days. I'll take them too.
We're gearing up for tomorrow and I haven't got a lick of bread or milk in the house. Maybe we won't starve, and hey, I think we're overdue for another grandbaby.
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