Spring Has Sprung

We had a sweet weekend. I told Ken I felt like it was Old Home Week, where we had company over (I actually cooked, good ole country cooking, with beans and a hamhock, cornbread slathered with butter, slaw, sweet tea and peach cobbler). We hugged nine of our ten grandbabies (got to grab up that tenth one soon), went to church and had a fellowship meal afterwards with lots of awesome people, breathed in some freshly-mown-lawn-air, and slept like teenagers. Tonight, we drove over to Newnan to see three of those grandbabies, hung out on the porch at Cracker Barrel for an hour or two, then drove home with the stained-glass of a sunset spilling all around us. I thought I might marry that man all over again. Full of food and thought, you don't have to say much after all of that. His big, rough, craggy hand covered mine like an old bear's over a pine knob. Sometimes I'm mad at him for no reason at all, then other times I love the stuffin' out of him. It's not fair, not ever. Getting old is for the birds. I'm not admitting to it, I'm just saying... It hurts, it's grumpy, it can seem hopeless and like you're going down a road with no return. Well, you are. You thought you could just decide one day you'd lose some weight or start exercising and then you'd feel better. Well then, you do that and then you see that, phooey, you're too late. Or maybe it wasn't the weight all along, you were just getting old all along. I always blamed it on the fat. 

Either way, since apparently I'm stuck with this body until Jesus comes back or I take my dirt nap, my only alternative is to laugh. And maybe roll around in the surf, if I can get anyone to agree to bring a come-a-long to help pull me out. I remembered in the last day or two how much that ole' boy makes me laugh, and how silly I am to hold the stupid stuff against him. The Bible says in Ecclesiastes all kinds of things about seasons and toils and trouble, but it also talks about enjoying your spouse and the sunshine and the wine and all that. We could spend our days crabby and hoping for our wrinkles to undo themselves, but I'm thinking we better just slap a coat of paint on it, get to cuddling and head on out to the porch.   

Wash That Pollen Right Outa My Hair

I thought the doldrums of winter were about over, until we woke up today to a dreary, cold morning, where the dripping rain seemed to me like the sky was crying. Our princess diva dog, Sadie, seemed to think that she should not be subjected to puddles, even though she lived the first ten of her thirteen years out of doors. Her pitiful eyes looked at me as she stooped to do her business, cruel Yaya on the porch demanding that she go potty. I think that Georgia winters are the most malevolent, because we get hints of spring all the way from Thanksgiving through April, shot through with thunderstorms, icy days, cold spells and full-on summer afternoons. There's no rhyme or reason, but lots of hope. Thank God, winter is short here. I wouldn't talk so much about the weather except I just can't help it and I'm getting maturer. That's what we'll call it. 

Two of our young grandchildren stayed with us over a protracted spring-break weekend (that means long), with Papa and I playing tag-team a dozen times. God made him a lot more resilient than me. I get bumfuzzled over whether to have barbecue or Mexican, much less how to get everyone dressed while getting dinner on the table. I used to do that easily, with four young children, but apparently lost the skill along the way. I wish I could be one of those super organized, crafty Grandmas who have things laid out and ready when the grands come to visit, but that will never be me. I have accepted this. I am more like my own MawMaw, where we were lucky to be found alive after a weekend with her. Our favorite activity at her house was to dam up the nasty creek behind her house and make a giant mudpuddle out of it. Our second favorite was to put pennies on the railroad track by her house and wait for trains to run over them. Third favorite was to hunt for Coke bottles all over town, take them to the grocery store and return them for nickels and then get ice cream cones at the local diner. At my house, grandchildren have free range in my art studio, and there will be paint, paper cuttings, lots of trash everywhere, and usually very little TV watching (no, that does not involve imagination...we're not having that). We also have music. But sadly, there's nothing cutesy. I wish I had the energy. 

Yesterday, little Caiden (4 years old) asked me why we didn't have goldfish in our small pond anymore. I told them they had all died when someone sprayed stuff on the yard awhile ago (it was me; maybe I can bring myself to tell him sometime). I felt duty-bound to find him some more fish. We hauled ourselves along our paths yesterday to get some of those cheap little feeder goldfish. They only cost 16 cents each and will eventually grow to be gigantic, given time, food and a little luck. Last night, Papa consented to one more place to try our hand at finding them (after a very satisfying supper at Hudson's BBQ), so we pulled into Pet Smart. He parked the vehicle, put on the sunvisor and promptly went to sleep while the kids and I went inside. We hit paydirt and got 20 tiny goldfish. Caiden and his sister, Madelyn, also picked out gifts for one of my client's cats (for a closing tomorrow -- she'd rather have that than a restaurant card). When we got home, we acclimated the fish bags to the pond water then released them. They darted to the bottom, where they'll wait for winter to quit acting up. 

Easter is a-comin' -- I can feel it in my bones...   

Being the Harp...

It was a cool, brisk Friday night, and rather than veg at home binge-watching something I probably shouldn't anyway, I took the long trek to the other side of town. I picked up my sister. We rarely get to hang out anymore. Between us, we have 15 grown or nearly-grown children, scads of their spouses, grandchildren, puppies, activities, responsibilities and drama. Our paths diverge into fantastically beautiful splinters and then converge into meaningful similar trails. It's just a lot. So I'm really grateful for any us-time that we get to carve out. On this night, we went to hear a lovely lady play a senior recital's worth of harp music. Yes, there are Harp Doctorates. And after hearing this magician, my chin was on the floor. I kept thinking, "How many actual hours did this take to master?" And you don't get to rest on your laurels. That stuff doesn't just stay there. You have to keep practicing, growing, learning, and changing or it turns to rust. I'm a mature woman, and have been playing the flute most of my life, and have really just starting seriously practicing scales and such. No. I'm a toddler. I'm trying to figure out what planet I've been living on, because I'm seeing that there is a whole lot more to know. And there's also some more kind-of ceiling to things. Just because you practice, you might not get to be that great. You might not have the greatest ear, or the best eyes, or the nicest idea about rhythm. God has to give you that. Then a great teacher might help a lot. And luck...you might get lucky and land in just the right group of folks or school that help you learn the right skills. And on and on. But no matter what, you could make perfection your goal in life, work your fingers to the bone, wear out all your tendons, spend all your money, be an obnoxious diva to everyone you know, be outrageously skilled and famous, and still never get it. 

As this young lady started to play. she stilled herself. She closed her eyes, laying hands on either side of the harp. It seemed an eternity before she began to play, but then her swift fingers ran over the strings, nary missing a beat. What I noticed, maybe even more than the individual notes, was the way that her face immersed into the spirit of the music. Forgetting the audience, she became the song, be it classic, quirky, folk, quirky, fearful. Her pure-hearted preoccupation with the music was a thing of beauty. It was why we show up for these things, isn't it? It's why we listen, in the end. Ah, music...  

Villa Rica Partying

The family had gathered, partied...all the energy had risen, crested and then fallen back down to a quiet murmur. Most everyone had gone home. Papa was back in his recliner, some of the Nortons were nestled in their beds in the back of the house, Yaya and Jesse and his wife and clan were in the kitchen, snacking and trying to keep it to a small roar with the giggles of their three children. These are the days, the times that mean the most. The words that squeeze out are the meaningful ones, the ones that you don't waste. 

I'll try to sum up what our son said to me last night, without ruining the meaning of it...  he said, "Why do we waste our sorrows? Why do we waste our days, our years, on grief? When our loved ones die, our loved ones who love Jesus, who are safely in heaven...we spend too much of our emotions and time left on earth grieving them when we could be using that to tell others about Christ, to love others and to win others to Him." Wow! He specifically talked about his Grandpa (my Daddy) and how he would bemoan us dragging our feet over his death, when we're going to see him very soon. Life is a mere breath. Eternity is looooooooong. We're way too transfixed on the here and now and tend to get morbid on what was rather than what is gonna be. 

I do know this: it sure was fun to see a little 9-year-old country girl running around on her birthday, eating her favorite meal (beans, cornbread, slaw, and collards -- yes!) with her cousins, just like we used to do. It makes you feel hope for our country when you see things like that again.  

Noble Reasons To Live

 We had Blackberry Winter this past weekend, waking up to icy steps and blustery winds. I grabbed a container of Kosher Salt and sprinkled it all down the deck stairs, thinking how smart I was. Now we can't get that mess out of the house. It's everywhere. The dog coincidentally decided to eat something strange, causing piles of unmentionables all over the house, for days. And days. Then Ken's truck acted up and he missed work today. After countless cleanups, a trip to the vet, transporting vehicles to and fro to the shop, and trying to figure out the apps for Ken's new job, we rather collapsed on the couch,  which turned into naps while the TV blared. (If You Give A Mouse A Cookie...) Life in first-world countries is exhausting. What if we had to actually forage for our food? We might need to be thinking about that soon.

I moved some of our plans around, when our daughter said she would be dropping by...and then our son-in-law was going to meet her here, after he got off work. And of course, the real treat was getting to squeeze 1-year-old Ethan in the mix. We sat in the living room, enjoying their company and trying to decide on where to eat ('cause Yaya don't plan too well). Liz whips a white plastic stick out of her purse and you know what that means...I saw two pink lines and squealed, "You're pregnant!" Yes, it's #12 grandbaby. Yes, it's not their first. Yes, you'd think I'd get tired of this. But no -- it's the most wonderful gift that God gives people when they're done raising their children: grandchildren. Our society has been down on having children for quite some time. They say you can't afford them (I mean, if you have too many you might never get to go to Disney World, poor dears. I haven't gone yet and I've had a wonderful life). They say they are a liability. How in the world will you pay for their college (we don't - they paid as they went or got scholarships or were wildly successful in a trade)? They say that people are nuts to bring kids into this evil world (remember, we're taking over). They say you should enjoy yourselves and limit bringing those big carbon footprints into the world (how about raising them to be energy-givers?)

Having risked all these "dangerous burdens" and birthing four, who are now grown, responsible adults (who've married well, thank God), I have to say that there is no amount of money, fame, career or treasure that could compete with the joy that our children and grandchildren have given us. Those early years were sheer exhaustion, right along with the fun parts of it. I didn't know that I would re-live my own childhood through their eyes, that all their firsts would be like buds on the trees and flowers in springtime. I had no idea how much I would laugh (and cry) because of them. I'm still tired, but would love nothing more than to have the ability to just rotate my time around to each, one at a time, then start over. I'm guessing that's some of what eternity is for. Once, I did a study on all of the words "children, seed and womb" that are found in the Bible. Did you know that God loves children, that He always says they are a blessing from Him, and that Jesus is really keen on them too? They are our future. We need to teach them to be tough, raise them right and love the fool out of them. And pray a whole lot.

The Dark, Long Night

I remember hot, summer nights spent riding in the hinder parts of a tiny vehicle, with us three siblings wrapped together like sardines in a can. Our parents' car didn't have air conditioning, so the windows were open. I imagine we always rode through the night because it was cooler to travel that way in the dead heat of July. We hauled it from Atlanta all the way up to the breadbaskets of Illinois, where it was flat and sweltering, with miles and miles of rows of corn growing. I always wondered why it seemed to be just as hot there in the summer as it was in Georgia, because winter was an entirely different story. Our Grandma Betty always made sure we went swimming in the city pool at least once or twice while we were there. Sometimes it was at an ancient monstrosity of a pool; it looked like a tank for whales, not people. There were even murky portholes under the surface, where folks could go down and see all the chubby legs swimming. That seemed strange to me. While I was swimming, I made sure I stayed in the center of the pool, far away from any weirdos looking for cheap thrills down in the tunnels. Not that I was winning any body building contests. I looked like a tall, pre-pubescent child up until after we married. The month I got pregnant, strange things began to happen, as if my body wasn't going to grow up until there was a baby on the way. I always worked at a pool or swimming hole, from the time I was twelve. I love the water. I have enough unusual stories from those years to fill a small book. People do bizarre things when there's water involved. Boys were always fancying they were in love with me, just because I was the lifeguard. I was followed home from the pool on many occasions, where my Dad was fortunately, usually, working outside. He was the sweetest man on earth, until he wasn't. There abides much power in the craggy eye of a good Daddy. 

Thinking back to those muzzy trips, where us kids slept and sweated those hours away in a hot vehicle. Mama would pack some snacks and a thermos full of sweet tea, but since we left after supper, there generally wasn't a meal until we arrived at Grandma's house, some 14 hours later. Soda crackers smeared with peanut butter, stacked back inside the sleeve. Fruit, usually apples. If we were lucky, Little Debbies. No matter what, there was a Stuckey's somewhere along the highway there or back, and Daddy would buy a giant pecan roll. He'd hand each of us a chunk and we thought we'd died and gone to heaven. There's no misery like riding in a blistering car with the windows rolled down, going 70+ miles an hour. We were raised right, where things like whining were not rewarded. So you learned to endure and stick your head out the window, pretending you were on the back of a wild horse or riding the wind. When daylight came, there were books strowed all around the back seat, from the public library. We'd make ourselves carsick, trying to read them while the car swayed. Grandma was a book freak herself and worked for a publisher, so the days at her house were full of us languishing over the ones she'd brought from the book sales. Her house was cold with central air conditioning. Napping and reading were considered right and good activities. There was a requisite night out for steak dinner and often fireworks at the park. She always had a dance floor in her house, as well as a fully stocked bar. We'd sneak maraschino cherries and ogle her tins of strange food and bottles of drink from far-off places. She was a glamorous Chicago socialite and we were country bumpkins, full of wonder. I wish I could talk to her now, show her her beautiful offspring, pick her brains. 

On one such trip, I awoke to the sight of a policeman at the window, talking to Daddy in the middle of the night. It was in the 70s, there was a weak President in the White House, energy resources were low and they were rationing gas. Those days were frightening; it seemed like things were tipping on their head. But somehow we made it there and back again. Today I felt the same way, like I was staring at the edge of a precipice. Wars, rumors of wars, uncertainties and conundrums. All the wonders of the universe, along with the simple and the good, the bad, the ugly, I'm still glad this ain't all there is...

Stop All That Wigglin'

The rain came, chilly and blustery. It was Sunday morning and I woke up like an old bear coming out of hibernation, with joints afire. Ken was headed up to spend the day and go to church with his Daddy and I was supposed to play flute at ours. I don't know why it takes so long to get ready these days...I used to whup four kids into shape, get everybody fed and dressed and down to business within the space of an hour. When did I get so special? 

After eating my obligatory breakfast, I rolled right back into bed, with Pa tucking all the covers around me. The only thing for it was to get warmed up and take the Lord's admonishment to get a real day of rest. So I did. One of our sons and his wife and two children are living with us (while they build their house).  I could hear my grandchildren's sweet voices drifting by the door. Guilt assailed me. I thought of all the things I should be doing...going to church, playing my flute, drawing pictures with my grandkids. But no, I curled over and went back to sleep. I got up several times for basic reasons but returned to my comfy cocoon, finished a book, napped again. The day seemed lost, but I talked to Jesus and turned over a new leaf. I started out blue and sad, full of pain and worry...I ended up fresh and new, and by Monday I was raring to go. I got more accomplished in a few hours than I do sometimes in a week. 

God made us to have a Sabbath, that stopping of our work and all the regular things. I think it builds up over time, if we don't fully take that day each week to rest, restore, and to meditate on the goodness of God. We usually go to church, but do we really cease and desist the gerbil wheel of our busy lives? Probably, usually not. God took six days to make the big ole universe and then He rested. When we're in church, do we stop looking at our phones, stop thinking about all the stuff we have to do next week, stop fussing with our purse? God likes us to be still and know that He's God. I'm gonna work on that...