Silver Linings

I looked in the mirror the other day, pondering when it was time to get my next highlight appointment with my beautician (who happens to be my newly-minted niece). I did a double-take as it seemed as if my hair was fresh from the salon. I checked my calendar to see when my last appointment was. It made no sense. It should be growing out by now. It was really early in the morning, the room was rather dark...the light of day finally revealed the truth: I went silver almost overnight! 

These crazy young folks are paying big bucks these days to get their hair "silvered." At first I thought it was awful, but then I started to see the beauty in it. Then there was some lady touting makeup for mature women. She had silver hair too and was gorgeous. My husband has always begged me to grow my hair out. It's already to my shoulders, but apparently men think their wives should keep the hairstyle they had when they were 21 and new brides. He has repeatedly asked me to quit highlighting my hair. "Let it go natural," he says. When natural is the color of dishwater and as limp as a noodle, Mama hoofs it to town to get some light and texture in there. I told him years ago, it was either highlights or a permanent. He opted for the highlights. I still shudder at the Poodle Years. I've been a happy camper, staying the perpetual blonde of my youth. This puzzling new development has left me perplexed. How did it happen that quick? Why did it happen? Am I missing crucial minerals or vitamins? I'm eating really good stuff right now, with no processed or artificial food. My fingernails are coming in like horse hooves and I feel like a million bucks. So why the emptying-out of all that color? I read in the Scriptures where it says, "Gray (silver) hair is a crown of glory; it is gained in a righteous life." Hey, I might just take that one. Old age doesn't mean wisdom, necessarily. Well-worn paths can also be considered ruts, but it depends on whose wagon you're following. 

I remember the hoary heads of so many of the people I have loved, with the wish of just one more chance to kiss those dear faces. What I didn't know was that some of them were still ten years old inside and had no clue that they were old. Others gave up early and hung up their boots while they were still supple. Nothing can stop the march of time, but we can laugh at the future and not live in fear. For me, that is only possible because I know the One who holds my hand. 

More Precious Than Gold

The Scriptures say "a man of many friends comes to ruin." I didn't understand those words for many years. I thought a pile of friends was just peachy. Then I realized that, in truth, no matter how social or extroverted you are, you only can have a handful of good friends. There's just not enough time or juice to keep up with a gozillion friends. And a faithful friend is rare indeed. I have seen where bad friends take people down treacherous paths. I had one such comrade in my freshman year of college. She was more fun than a barrel of monkeys. Before long, she had me skipping class, staying up half the night and missing church. I had grown up with a simple and parentally-ordered life, so the advent of eating a whole package of Oreos or swilling all the Coca-Cola I wanted was wild partying, in my mind. I was the willing participant to these follies, much to my parents' chagrin. When I came home that first semester with a D in New Testament Studies and skinny as a rail, they didn't quite know what to do with me. I wasn't drinking or laying out with bad boys, but I was definitely out of control. When things began to teeter to the dark side, I had to take a hatchet job to our friendship. And it pretty much took an implement that violent to rend me away from her. There's a reason the Good Book says, "Bad friends corrupt good morals." My friend went right on down her path and ended up getting kicked out of school, on drugs, with a baby and no Baby Daddy to help her. But for the grace of God I could've tromped right into the mess with her.

I was reminded today of the value of a good compatriot when I had breakfast with one of my oldies but goodies. We go way on back to fourth grade. I have a few, very wonderful bosom buddies. They're all better than me. I probably pull them down. Honorable, conscientious, good, fun people. Salt of the earth. I've collected them over many years. They come from my many seasons of life: Mama, one from birth (my sister), grade school, college, our early years of marriage, church, family, another that I birthed (my daughter), and others that my sons married. They are the kindred spirits that link like DNA to your soul. Time and space don't matter. A year can go by and we link back up like sisters. 

This morning's talk with my dear old friend was pure gold. Memories, children, grandchildren, Mamas, work were all spun into a sweet amalgam of time, too short. True treasures are those moments and days where we get to exchange our lives. I don't want to ever take that for granted. 

Home Sweet Home

Every time there's a wedding in our family, Papa Bear likes to take the new family member around to see all the houses we've lived in over these 38 years of marriage. We've had quite an adventurous real estate history. Those reality TV shows got nuthin' on us. So we headed out with our daughter and her fiance last week, running all over metro Atlanta to tout our accomplishments. Many of them were still in great shape, some of them not so much. But when we pulled in to see our very first little house (I believe it was 800+ square feet), I was flooded with nostalgia and memories. 

It was in the slums of Mableton, on a narrow little street of tiny row houses next to the railroad tracks. We didn't even have a down payment. Ken's Pop gifted us $800 so we could buy it (it was a gift but we paid him back eventually). When we saw what our note was going to be, we were nervous. The house was a complete mess, not liveable and had to be gutted. When we got through demolishing the rot and ruin, you could see all the way to the other end of the house. There were massive holes in the kitchen and bathroom floors. I'll never forget Ken single-handedly picking up the cast-iron tub and hauling it out of the house. He was a beast.

It was a tough time. We were living with my folks, I was pregnant with our first baby, and we were trying to learn how to do things we had never remotely attempted before. Ken thought he had married a sweet honey of a gal, but with all those pressures, the hellcat came out and he didn't know what hit him. We worked our tails off, my Daddy teaching Ken how to do basic carpentry and my Mama teaching me how to sew, paint and put up wallpaper. It was an unexpected gift that was tortuous in many ways, but also laid the foundation for our future endeavors. In a few short months we moved in. I was very great with child, extremely tired and frankly scared. I would sit with my hands on the whirling dervish that was my tummy, wondering how in the world I was going to raise this young'un. I didn't want to mess it up. I kept asking the doctors if he was not huge, because it seemed like I had an elephant in there. They kept reassuring me that "it" was measuring normal size and that it would probably be around 7-1/2 pounds. They also said that it was a girl, because of the heart rate. But I knew it was a son, sure as shootin. I had had dreams. And he moved around in there like a bull moose. He ended up being my smallest, at 10 pounds, 8 ounces and 22 inches long. He's 35 years old now and still a bull moose, but with a heart of gold.

Seeing that little house again made me misty with remembering my baby son. We were young, strong, hopeful and clueless. I never knew I could love something as much as I loved that wriggling, wailing bundle of man-child. I saw us as standing in the face of all that is evil in the world with God on our side and the wind at our back. Time and troubles etch away at us, but it pays to remember the noble purposes of our youth. God often uses those waves to propel us over the course of a lifetime, else we might cave when the going gets rough. Thankful...

The Good Fight

If there's anything I've learned these last couple of years, it's that there's a time to fight and there's a time to surrender. When I was young, I was content being obedient to the authorities over me. Secure, happy, free. My world was a safe place. After the very naive years came the gradual encroachment of what it meant to fight, to face the challenges of life with strength. I was blessed to have folks who taught me how to box in life's ring, to rise above what I thought I was capable of. My parents, teachers, coaches, relatives who loved me...though looking back, I know that my Dad and Mom were marching to the beat of a different drum. They were not willing to sashay through this world without some sort of fortitude behind them. They appeared simple, but there were always noble purposes behind their actions. Nothing was done lightly -- their rules were few but profoundly enforced. I don't think they ever realized the beautiful wake they were leaving behind them. Through their uncomplicated and transparent lives, they changed the world. No magazine covers or paparazzi, just the profound influence that good people can have on those coming behind.

Surrender may be the hardest part of all. I have a bad tooth, don't ask me why. I have always been faithful to brush and floss and see the dentist. But I have a big ole molar that's gotta come out sooner than later. That's irrevocable. You can't re-grow those things. There will be a giant gap back in there that will take thousands of dollars to dress up with a fake tooth that will probably always feel weird. I was struck with the fact that there are plenty of things that start going downhill when you start wearing out. Going downhill is bad enough, but when it's just over, that's another thing. There's no pushups or supplements to fix it. Life is like that. There's a day, whether it's quick or super slow, when we're going to die. Irrevocable. There's often a lot of sluggish increments in between hearty and our demise. Here's to sucking the marrow out of each and every one of them. I don't think I'm inclined to go gently into that night, even though I'm gonna wake up like a new penny on the other side.

Paintball Wars

It was Christmas Eve and I had not bought my four children one gift. Not one. We only had a foot-high Christmas tree with teeny-tiny ornaments on it. What in the world?! It was one of the years (there were two, mind you) when we lived in an old, rusty camper and built our house, with our own hands. I like to draw all this out, because I (and we) want credit. You don't do crazy things like that and just act like it didn't happen. 

But there I found myself, tired and worn out from extreme efforts. Christmas gifts seemed irrelevant, in view of the 1400 square feet of tile that I still had to lay. I loved my children and couldn't let them miss the holiday, so I left them with Pa in the camper and said I'd be back. In a few minutes, I pulled into a Christmas tree lot and saw the pitiful leavings that the Grinch had left behind. There was one, however, that had a beautiful shape. I asked the guy how much and he said, "Fifty dollars." I offered him five, and he had mercy and strapped it to the roof. I drove to the Kmart and bought a few boxes of lights and simple ornaments. As I searched the toy department, my eyes lit upon the perfect gifts for the boys: paintball guns. I knew they would be over the moon when they opened them. I got a menagerie of fun things for Liz, and then headed home. While I wrapped gifts, the kids and Ken nailed the tree to the floor in our half-finished house. We strung lights and hung the ornaments in record time and it was pronounced the best tree ever. Christmas was epic that year, and everyone crowed over their gifts.

Paintball became an art form with our boys. Their fame grew with friends and family as their fearless forays into battle spawned legends. I was told that they were plumb scary when they played. So one afternoon I thought I'd join them and see what all the fuss was about. We all suited up with headgear and guns and headed out into the woods in front of our house. I had never played anything like this, but I was a good shot so I figured it would be easy to learn. Our teams ran to their hiding places. I found a huge oak tree to hide behind. The tension was high as I peered slowly around to find the enemy. As I felt the splat of a paintball against my poor temple, stars began spinning and I thought I saw Elvis. I am ashamed to say, I handed my gun to Pa and said, "Ya'll have fun. I'm outa here!" And that was my long and storied career as a paintball player. I'm pretty sure my kids could've started a war and held off Genghis Khan with those things.

A Very Big Day

We were tired and very hungry. It was a whole carload of sassy, Southern women, plus one astute 6-year-old. We'd been shopping for my daughter's wedding dress. It was the iconic day that most girls dream about all their lives. We went into a shop, where the vibe was rather subdued and elegant, something that our family is not. Nobody seemed to be whoopin' and hollerin' when they found their dresses. We sat in very uncomfortable chairs and gave our opinions. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why they were putting her in dresses virtually twice her size and then cinching the back of it with what looked like giant clothespins. Didn't they carry dresses in her size? My daughter-in-loves told me that this is how it's done. You figure out which one you like, even if you can't for sure tell what it's going to look like...then you order it in your size. And then when it gets here, you send it back for more alterations. I'm getting dizzy at this point. Liz wasn't loving anything they brought out, even though I cried a bit. Just seeing her up there the first time, my baby girl, in a wedding dress...my heart jumped and the tears followed. As a Mama, you pray for your children to find a good, honest soul to marry. Our job is to raise them and then let them go. I've had a long spell with this child, enjoying every day with her. Her fiance is an angel, loving and kind and he loves Jesus even more than he loves her. Her three brothers married early. She's not shipping off to Cuba, but it's that last tether that's difficult to surrender, hard as it is to admit. But this is what we raised her for -- to find her own wings and fly. She's a good gal, sassy, strong, sweet and calm at the same time. If I was ordering up a daughter, she'd be it. Not everyone gets that lucky.

At the second bridal shop, the whole vibe changed. It seemed there were five hundred people in there, lots of mayhem and lots of dresses. Our saleslady was energetic and had been around the block a few times. We squeezed in tight as Liz modeled several gorgeous samples. On her last one, she turned, smiled, kept turning. The gals and I secretly hoped she wanted this one. We knew it was right when she started crying. There were bells to ring and lots of hugging going on. Happy day.

We finally headed south to go back home. The news reported tornado-type weather headed our way. Even though we were starving, we decided to try to hoof it back to Villa Rica before it hit. Halfway there, the bottom fell out. Little Annabelle was afraid, as the wind whipped around my car and the rain began to flood the roads. She piped up and said, "Liz, how come you're not driving?" Someone asked her why she wasn't okay with Yaya taking her home. She said, "She's driving us right into the storm! And she can't see!" We all howled as we inched our way through the mess. God spared us another day and we met up with all the boys at Brother's Steakhouse in VR. There was dancing, karaoke, and lots of food. Sometimes you just have to celebrate, and there were plenty of reasons for that.

Winter, Oh Winter...

I forgot about puppies. They are cute, fluffy, inquisitive, cuddly, and oh, that breath! They are also destructive, demanding and like to poop a lot. And you have to catch them before they do it on your new living room rug. Not to mention the disruption of taking him out at all hours of the night, with the miserable cold and rain... Last evening, my body decided that all the things inside it needed to be on the outside. A stomach virus, courtesy of my grandkids. I've not felt this much misery in a long time, what with the whining dog and the bellyache all at the same time. But he sure is adorable. And that's a good thing for him.

In the annals of Norton, this was a banner week. We got a puppy and a new future son-in-law. Our daughter got engaged, the last of our four children. The other three were sons, so their weddings were not as daunting. This, however, is a three-ring circus. My daughter and I are fanatics about decorating and colors and all-the-party-things. We've got five months and lots of swatches to moon over. We'll be calling in markers from all the other events we've helped with, praying that we'll marshal an army big enough to pull this off. We don't pay people to do things....we're old-school DIYers. I may be prejudiced, but our family nuptials beat those pre-made, canned ones to death. But this one may be the demise of me. I think I need to start actually showing up at that gym where they extract money from our bank every month.

2020 is here, like a newly-minted penny. Real estate is typically slow around the holidays, so I'm feeling like a bloated walrus right about now, even though I'm actually pounds lighter, due to my good diet. But vacating too much leaves me floating listlessly in my proverbial pool and it's time to get busy. My desk is suffering under piles of books, bills and mail. Maybe I'll start tackling that tomorrow, if my stomach (and the puppy) cooperate. There's a wedding this summer and spring is not entirely too far away. Hope springs eternal!