Musings on an August Day

 I woke up to a rare, cool August morning. I stumbled in the dark to let the dog out. She's extra, and won't go the bathroom (or even eat) if I'm not right there with her. She's an old, retired Aussie show dog and has lived several years with my sister, outside with a pile of other dogs. When she came to live with us, I had to potty train her and adapt her to indoor living. Since she's very intelligent and saw her big chance to live in comfort, she learned quickly what the rules are. But now, she thinks she's a princess and I'm afraid she's got me trained too. She's like Velcro -- always by my side. I can't do anything without her right there with me. I happen to like that, except that it's guilt-inducing when she won't even eat unless I stay close by to let her finish. Our little forays into the yard are always accompanied by Matilda the cat. She's also apparently from royalty. They groom each other and talk about the weather. Pets are one of God's wonderful gifts.

As I stepped onto our delicious front porch, it was sweet to drink in the crisp air this morning. It made me remember that it won't always be August. Way back when we homeschooled our kids, back when folks thought we were criminals for doing it, I'd start school the first of August because it was too hot to play outside anyhow. We got more done between then and Thanksgiving than the rest of the year. By April, our brains were buzzing out the window and Pa would declare school's out. We did that for 19 years, another lifetime away. I feel for all these families that are being forced to do it now. Only God could compel me, back in the day, but I'm mighty glad we did it. Our children, now grown, are independent, Biblical thinkers and also intelligent, hard workers. And anybody that worries about socialization should examine my kids...they can mix with everybody from old folks to babies. In fact, they're actually more social because they're comfortable with people not even in their own peer group. God's grace, again. I'm not that wonderful, being impatient and flighty, prone to change and distraction. But God's a whole lot bigger than us. 

With the chaotic, swirling times we are in currently, it's easy to descend into worry and fear. It seems to invite both frenzy and lethargy at the same time. I'm trying to get my eyes off of me, get into the Word every morning... even if it's just one thorough chapter, and keep throwing my cares on Christ. Drag myself away from social media, don't get stuck watching the news, find at least one person to bless each day. We're going to get through this, no matter if it's in a pine box. It's just the truth. I'm choosing to live, not cower. As Teddy Roosevelt so aptly put it: "We are face to face with our destiny and we must meet it with a high and resolute performance of duty; let us live in the harness, striving mightily; let us rather run the risk of wearing out than rusting out." Preach.

Seize the Paint!

I've sat here like a lump on a log. Really, for months. Technically, I've worked like a Trojan, but only when I had to. All those beautiful projects that live in my mind have sat like an island for nigh half a year. Why, when for a time, I had all the time in the world? All around me were raw materials, just waiting for inspiration and a rainy afternoon. Even when my daughter found out, just three weeks before her wedding date, that we could not use her original venue, we binge-watched on Netflix and lolly-gagged on the porch for at least a week before we let the clutch out. Then it was Katy-bar-the-door to get everything done in time. 

Now that real estate is as hot as a firecracker and I'm covered up with work, I've been pulling out my crafty projects. Go figure. First there was the ancient, musty old rocking chair that's been mouldering in the barn. I slapped a fresh batch of chalk paint on the frame, yanked off all the decrepit fabric, found a jolly-looking remnant at the store, stapled it all back together and then hot-glued trim to it. It looks like a toddler's happy place now. I was so energized, I found old curtains from a yard sale, cut them in half, attached some zingy pom-pom trim and hung them in the nursery. I think somebody needs to crank up the grandkid machine again. I've got eight very cute yard apes, but no babies now and Yaya's ready to rock.

It's easy to get carried away, especially when you've been living in a desert, creatively, for five months. Today, it all started with my dining room rug. Tragically, I bought that thing with good money a couple of years ago. I thought it might bring some whimsy into my formal Victorian ethos. But it's not whimsical and it's not happy. It looks like a bad paint accident and my feet have to touch it numerous times in a day. It's at the very heart of my dear, sweet home. How could I do that to her? There's century-old gold-ish and ivory wallpaper in the next room that I refuse to paint over, even though my Mama does not understand my undying love for it. It is elegant, classic and timeless. Who cares if it has a few age spots and crinkles in it? It's precious and will remain. So anything I do in this dining room has to also respect the old grand paper. I looked at the hapless rug (which will soon succumb to Facebook marketplace) and thought about the future. Then I made the mistake of calling my dear friend Frank, the decorator who invented Excess and happens to live next door. The 90s were Frank's oyster and his work is simply glorious. One time, he walked into another of my houses and in 15 minutes told me what to do to my living room. What was a colorless, awkward box became a delicious, warm haven that we hated to ever leave. When he tells me something, even with my years of houses and decorating under my belt, I listen.

We started commiserating about that room. He asked me to remind him about the colors in the stained glass, the fireplace tiles, the light fixture over the table. I'm pretty sure I heard the gears turning in his head. Before I could blink, I was clicking on Pinterest ideas and thinking about jewel tones and the wisdom of the fact that we only live once (Frank might have said something about that). Sherwin Williams' Whole Wheat ain't gonna cut it...when I mentioned that color, he said, "Chicken." He sent his wife Karen over here with one of her blouses, in the color he wants me to use. So this wimp waited until Pa went to bed (let's just say Pa's a really intense morning person and I am not), then tore off to Home Depot to gather paint samples. Please don't tell him I shopped there, but they don't have a Lowe's in Villa Rica and desperate times call for desperate measures, especially when you've only got 40 minutes before the store closes. That poor room has already been painted three times in the last eight years, but this is me. Oh yeah, and then there's Frank, Mr. Excess. There will be no half measures. Carpe diem.

Mayberry on a Friday

There's lots of things to be said for walking, rather than driving, to town... that is, if you live close. It's so much faster to whip in and out of errands when you drive, obviously. But it's a great activity for children, old ones and young ones. Friday, I had three of my young grandchildren with me for the day. After breakfast and one small round of cartoons, I figured we'd brave the steaming blanket of humidity to explore Villa Rica. 7-year-old Eden was not keen on this idea, but her two brothers and Sadie the dog were game so she was outnumbered. I tucked a $20 bill in my shirt and we headed out. The boys were hoping to spy a train that morning.

We discovered flowers, grasses, dog poo and a quirky fairy tree along the way. They each took a turn running and touching the train rails (no worries, I was vigilant). We waved at strangers like we were in a parade, then used that special path for walkers that crosses the tracks. There had been a great deal of meandering, so by this time they were thirsty and begging for lunch. I forgot how amazing little kids' metabolisms can be. We saw that Chat n' Choo was open, hurrah, but we had the wee problem of the dog. I didn't dare leave her tethered outside, so the nice waitress seated them right at the window while Sadie and I watched outside. I whipped out my $20 and said give them brownies. It's lunchtime and I'm their Yaya. Yayas do that stuff. They thought they were so big, with their red velvet brownies on a plate, silverware and all. They took their time eating, and walked out with an extra one. They knew Yaya doesn't eat brownies, so they instructed me that we could give it to their Daddy when he picked them up...they also said that he would never eat it all himself, but that he would share it with their Mama (he always shares with Mama, Yaya!) That is exactly what he did when he got to my house. Sweet that they knew it would go down that way. 

As we took our time down the street, we happened upon an ice cream shop (Kenny's Kremes). Their eyes lit up. We still had $8 and some change left, so I figured why not? They're only kids for a little while. The lady serving them was very patient and kind, letting them try several kinds before they settled on their choices, which they slurped down with gusto. We then took a few minutes to stop into the real estate company I work with (Southern Homes and Land), where they were oooohed and aaaahed over by my broker and our secretary. A few more detours and discoveries on the way home, and we finally arrived back, full of sugar and talk. Eden decided that it was the best day ever, after all.

It made me proud, the humans that we came across that day. There were happy waves, kind shopowners, friendly folks on the sidewalk and in the cars that drove by. We live here in a small town, not far from a big city, but there are people working hard, making a go of difficult times. If you listen to the media, there's nothing but hell and mayhem. I say turn off the news, take a deep breath, then take yourself on a long walk.

Blowin' In The Wind

I plunked my way through several years of piano lessons. My dear teacher, Elsie McDow, had to be the patron saint of piano students. She was patient and tolerant of my distracted childhood. I had the initial necessities: a musical soul and good hand-eye coordination, but my lack of discipline and ever-evolving string of new interests kept me from advancing to where I could have gone. My parents were wise in their teaching us to stick to things, even when the going got rough. So I stuck to it for six years. I still love the piano and occasionally whip out my classical favorites on dreamy afternoons. Between my 8th and 9th grade year, I begged for a flute. My folks rented one from Ken Stanton for $5 a month. They told me I had a year to work at it on my own or they'd send it back. With a standard band book and an old hymnal, I worked hard to learn it that summer. Basic flute playing isn't hard, especially if you can already read music. I loved sitting out in the open and playing the lovely hymns. When school started back, I joined the band. I had never played with a group before. Being as I am a social creature, that seemed like a lot of fun, if I could stop talking long enough to play. I remember the first day of class, when the director held up his hands for quiet, and then had us play those warm-up notes. It was magic. A hundred other people, all playing together. As time marched on and we learned to work as one orchestra, I recall the inexplicable buzz that all the harmonies coming together gave me. I had played many times on athletic teams, understanding how we had to cooperate in order to make things happen. But there is simply nothing like a clan of musicians combining their songs into a whole. Music is of heaven, where angels sing and praise rises. No wonder there are titles like "American Idol" -- because music is intimately acquainted with worship. 

I've continued to play my flute all these years, teaching lessons to young players to help buy extras, when our budget was tight. I've also always played at church, enjoying that hymnal and the accompanying voices of exuberant Christian brethren. When we first moved to Villa Rica in 2012, I joined up with the Carroll Community Wind Ensemble, headed by Terry Lowry (Conductor for the Carroll Symphony Orchestra). It was blissful to be back playing with a band and at the same time torturous because the music was so difficult I had to practice every day. I played with gusto with them for years, until 2018, when my Daddy suddenly died. I was overrun with grief, health issues and still had to find a way to work. I cut everything out of my life that was non-essential. I thought I'd take a semester hiatus, but it turned into two years that went by like a blink.

Come to find out, music is essential. It prompts, surrounds, fills and oozes out of some of us. My guilty pleasure has become my necessary medicine. I'm going back tonight, humble and sheepish. I've been playing at church all this time, but nothing that requires practice. I'm up for the challenge now, leaner and wiser, even with the virus scaring us all to death. Some things are worth making time for, even if they appear to be frivolous. Sing on, old heart...

Cool, Clean Water

It's so hot and muggy, all I can think about is water. I don't want to think about sickness, riots or global warming. I would love to submerge myself in a cool, clean body of water and float for a few hours, or days. 

When I was a child, I was deathly afraid of the water. We lived a half mile from Sun Valley Beach in Powder Springs, which was really an overgrown pond that somebody had concreted in years before. I played in the shallow end, but shrieked at anyone who tried to make me get deeper. My Daddy tried and tried to get me to learn to swim but I was terrified. One very hot summer, when some of our Yankee family was visiting and there was no air conditioning, our dear uncle bought us a 3-foot pool and installed it in the backyard. I remembering him sweating bullets while he worked on it. We thought we'd died and gone to heaven. My sister and I basically lived in it for the rest of that summer and several more after that. Daddy eventually bought us a fancy 4-foot pool and attached it to the deck right outside the house, so we could jump in without getting grass all over our feet and in the pool. Somewhere in there, I learned to swim and I learned to love the water.

When I was twelve years old, I started working at Sun Valley, teaching swimming lessons. Eventually I got my Senior Lifesaving and became a lifeguard. I lived for that 15-minute break each hour, where I could swim to my heart's content. I recall crazy near-drownings: A set of twins that were drowning right by their Mama in three feet of water. That was easy -- I just picked them both up. Their Mama acted mad at me. I guess she thought I was overreacting, or maybe she was just embarrassed. I found that to be a common reaction, when I rescued a young 'un when their parents were close by. It happened several times in my years as a lifeguard. The weirdest rescue was when some highly intelligent teenager tied one of the Tarzan ropes around his leg and then attempted to reach the next rope, but failed. That left him hanging plumb upside down, with his head under the water. Actually, before I could get to him, two girls pushed him up far enough and he was able to get loose. He had a nasty whelp on his leg and a really bad attitude when he walked by my chair. Pride goeth before the fall.

The most epic rescue happened one afternoon when I wasn't on duty but was picking up my check. I was at the concession stand when I heard a commotion at the water. The owner was running pell-mell across the sand, leapt into the water, swam like mad and then dove down into the deep. He surfaced, dragging some poor fellow. He got him up on the sand, then gave him mouth-to-mouth. Before the ambulance arrived, he had revived the guy and everybody was cheering and clapping. As the ambulance left and he turned to walk back, he looked up and saw our head lifeguard sitting on his stand, rubbing lotion on his feet. The lifeguard had not seen any of it, so preoccupied with those toes was he. The owner yanked him out of his chair and we never saw him again. Rumor has it he's buried out back somewhere.

A few years ago, they shut Sun Valley down like a Ghost Town. Weeds grew up, the slides rusted and you could barely see the sand. I read today that they've sold it and are going to put 56 single-family homes there. I think I'll ride by and see it one last time. It was a sweet, sentimental part of my childhood that I'll never forget. 

Light as a Feather

I call it the Mother-In-Law dance. It's those awkward gyrations that occur when two cultures collide in a thing called marriage. There are jokes and Greek tragedies based upon it, and it's one of the great mysteries on this planet that will never truly be solved. There's that old saying, "A son's a son until he takes a wife, but a daughter's a daughter all her life." As the mother of three faithful sons and a newly married daughter, I'm not sure it's that extreme, but there is some truth to that adage.  It's my belief that in most marriages, the culture of the wife is what makes the soul of a home. Like it or not, she is the one who is the liquid between the spaces...the one who connects the dots and brings her own special mix that grows into a new little universe. It is the mystery of womanhood, that in my observance (apologies to my detractors), God made to help root families together. Right smack in the middle of this is the mother-in-law. The new wife wants to please her, but at the same time wants to show her....to prove to her that she is worthy and capable of handling her new role. 

When I married Ken, some 38 years ago, I knew nothing about cooking. I could chop down a tree, clean anything, mow grass, work hard and handle a basketball, but I barely knew how to boil water. The kitchen was my Mama's domain and the only thing about it that was familiar to me was the suds and scrubbing. I was good at that part. It was strange to me, when we married, that Ken didn't care that much about a scoured pot as much as if he was going to get to actually eat. The men in that day were not as savvy as my sons have become with cooking. The grill was a possibility, but it was rare to see any man inside at the cooktop. He was and is a chauvinist in this area. If I am busy or dieting with food he can't muster, he gladly stops off at the Sonic. But is that actually food? I think it reminds him of his childhood and eating at Fat Boy in Smyrna, around the corner from his folks' home. I'm concerned about what might be collecting on the inside of his arteries. 

Ken's Mama (Annette) was Paula Deen, before Paula Deen came onto our radar. She made the best biscuits I've ever eaten...light, fluffy, but crispy around the edges. She used to make two giant pans of them, just to feed Ken, his brother and their baby sister. I did not know pecan pie, until I ate hers. At Thanksgiving and Christmas, she made masses of dressing for the turkey, always stating, "I'm sorry. It's not fit to eat." We all would feel like the holiday did not happen, if we did not get some of her scrumptious dressing. Recently, one of my daughter-in-laws wisely, patiently took down her instructions on how to make it. The legend will live on. I told Annette that one of my big regrets was not sitting at her feet when we first married and learn to cook from her. But no, I was proud. I didn't ask anybody for help. I got a big red-and-white Better Homes and Gardens cookbook as a wedding gift. All these years later, it's greasy and dog-eared. I did learn to cook, raising four giant lumberjack people to prove it. But my journey would have been better and smarter if I had eaten a little humble pie and let her teach me. 

She suffered immensely these last two months, with an aggressive cancer diagnosis. The COVID mess kept us all away, though at the very end she was able to have a little time with her husband and Ken and her daughter, Melissa. She died peacefully, in her sleep, holding Melissa's hand early on Sunday morning. In my mind's eye, I see her floating gently on up, light as a butterfly, with the warm scent of buttermilk biscuits filling up heaven. She and I often had an awkward dance and I know I must have aggravated her a lot with my lack of decorum and social filters. I am almost half-Yankee, there's that, and she was all gracious and Southern. But there are parts of me that she made and raised, that I will ever be grateful for. I will see you again, sweet Mother-in-Love.

Essential Oil

There's a passage in the Bible, where God tells Elijah He's about to pass by. A terrible wind comes, tearing the mountains and shattering the rocks. But God's not in the wind. Then there's an earthquake, but He's not there either. A vicious fire comes raging through but the Almighty isn't in it. Then comes a gentle whisper, a still, small voice. And that's where He is. 

As I sit here tonight in my very quiet, very still house, my brain slows down like the last gasp of a wind tunnel. Most of the folk that would pull at me are now asleep or at least occupied. My phone is on Do Not Disturb, unless you're my Mama or my kids. There's not enough time to really sleep good before it cranks up again. 

How much I have neglected the higher thoughts, the noble ones that God calls us with...where we put ourselves off the throne and listen, just listen. The whisper. It's so profound, you can't hear it unless you stop. Stop whining, stop worrying, stop marching to the tyranny of the urgent. There's always so many things we should be doing, so many things we are not. The cacophony of the rat race is making us deaf. Even with months of solitude, we're face-planted and mired in the next bit of shallow hoopla served up by our phones and TVs.

The air is sweet, heavy and cool tonight. The dew is thick on the grass and the night creatures are humming. I envy my dog's complete abandon to the floor at my feet. But then, there's His still, small voice. At once both a calling and a surrender. It's what's at the end of things, a sort-of parting of the waters. What happens when we allow ourselves to go there, to bypass the other voices, to lay them down, to just be at peace? This world of chaos wants to stir, to agitate, to ignite. But the ways of God bid us to be still, to ponder, to call upon "whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise. Think on these things." (Philippians 4:8)

My heart's gone a little rusty and needs some old-fashioned Holy Ghost anointing. Think on these things...