Moody Blues

The many moods of the sea were taunting us last week, as we made our annual family trek to the Gulf of Mexico. It started with iceberg waters, clear as crystal and frosty as mugs of rootbeer in the freezer. But the grandkids didn't care. They were frothing about in it like it was the Fourth of July, teeth chattering, goosebumps and all. The skies were gorgeous, the wind misty and sweet. The days were balmy and pleasant. The water got warmer, the longer we were there. Some of the time, we stayed in the pool because it was just easier. One day, we rented a big double-decker pontoon boat and trawled out to some "island" (I don't think it's an island at all), but the water was beautiful and we anchored, ate snacks and sandwiches and swam circles with the kids in the glory of God's creative genius. The next-to-last day, we hauled our grand mess down to the beach one last turn and stayed in the water the whole time. The older I get, the more I know how precious these days are, even though there are more of them under my belt. The kids are getting bigger, they can enjoy their cousins more and more, their independence grows each year. But especially this time, I looked at them and felt like I was seeing flashes of their parents. Wasn't that just last year that we were doing the same things with them? The page turns so quickly. 

The evenings on our vacations are special too. Our adult children are smart. They feed their kids, get them cleaned up and off to bed. Folks in other environs let their progeny stay up half the night when they're on holiday, but my people know that if everyone's tired, no one's having any fun. After the kids are asleep, the adults gather around for games, serious conversations (with deep, meaningful questions) and some medicinal belly laughs. I'm talking the kind that leave your ribs aching the next day. I look forward to this part the most. There have been years when there was drama, difficulty or pain, but usually it gets resolved. This year, we had a lot of peace, contentment and just a sweet sense of love. We've all experienced some kind of loss or trials, but have also been buoyed by God this year and were able to share that with each other while we were there. This is a bit of heaven on earth that doesn't always happen. I bless Him for that. 

We came wheeling it home, (I felt on two wheels) as I negotiated a contract Saturday night. I have been grumpy ever since, cleaning up clothes, sand, mopping up emails and work details. I just wasn't ready to jump back into the real world. This afternoon, Ken and I walked to town, to pick up his truck from the shop. I was wearing a new pair of shoes, not broken in yet, so I was even crabbier by the time we got there. He was all jolly and nice, trying to make conversation, but I wasn't having it. (He even carried my purse all the way to town). We popped over to Chick Fila for a quick supper before our granddaughter Maddie's last soccer game of the season, then we settled at the field. I sat there, ole' Grumpy Gills. Somewhere in the hours, my rusty heart softened a little bit. It might take it a few more days before it's pumping right again though. Dear Jesus, You've gotta help this gal. And please help poor Ken. He might need an extra dollop of grace, since apparently the sea isn't the only thing with a mood problem...  

The Magic Kingdom

 It was a chilly, blurry middle-of-the night when Daddy woke my sister and I up. He was grinning from ear to ear, with a cup of coffee in his hand. The musty car was already packed and he tucked us in with blankets and a thermos full of iced tea. He reached into the utility closet and pulled out our cane poles and his tackle box, put them in the trunk and we were on our way. I think Melanie and I fell asleep, but an hour or so later we woke up and it was still pitch dark. There were glimmers of light shining off the water as we crawled down a country road somewhere in the backwoods of Georgia. We stopped at an old gas station and Daddy bought Vienna sausages, soda crackers and a box of Little Debbies. We were beginning to be aware that we'd hit the jackpot.  Back on the road, we spied lights across the lake like so many midnight fireflies. Daddy found just the right spot and we pulled off, the mysteries of life deepening for us. All around us were old men, young boys, middlers, then us tomboy girls with our sweet Daddy...probably the only girls on the lake, but definitely making us part of a quiet fraternity of fishermen. 

Daddy started this tradition with us, with that smelly old fishing car, and clandestine early-morning trawling trips. He continued it with our much-younger brother and then with his scads of grandchildren many years later. The funny part is, we very rarely caught any fish, at least not many. There was no fancy equipment; we only had cane poles up until we were teenagers. Daddy eventually bought us those "fancy" Zebco rods from Sears Roebuck that you could cast, but we still didn't catch any fish. Do you think it mattered? Of course it didn't. I still smile at the thought of the tents, the lakes, the early morning trips, the Coleman lantern hissing in the night. I also bless Mama, for her lack of complaining, for cleaning up before and after us, for making the path clear for a Daddy to show love, with little money, to his children and grandchildren. My Mama is no pansy, no doormat. All of her ministrations came from a place of strength, not through seething teeth...it was done through eyes of love. I see a lot of women who complain about their husbands, about what they don't do, or what kinds of messes they make. Or they disrespect their kid-like-ness, undoing all that could be magical about that man.  

So you see why Disney holds no fascination for me.

Time Machines and Sign Posts

My husband rarely gives up the steering wheel, but last weekend's road trip had me driving and his Dad riding shotgun while Ken napped in the back seat. It had been nigh fourty years since I'd been the one to drive that trail back to the town where Ken's folks first met as teenagers. His Pa is having a slow look-back of sorts as time starts to steal the B-Bs from his brain. Heck, it's stealing my B-Bs too. I'm just able to bluff a little better, for now. Even though it's April and the cicadas aren't out, it always seems like the bugs are buzzing louder along that route on I-20 east towards Augusta. It's hotter, lonelier, more desolate. There are miles of farmland, but few cows and fewer crops. Beautiful, old farmhouses dot the landscape and I wonder where the young people are going. Because they certainly aren't sticking around, though it is as pretty as a picture out there and the land is cheap, if you can get anyone to sell you a piece of it.

Ken's Mama died suddenly when he and his brother were babies, leaving a massive hole in the universe, a crater that never really healed. This trip was about visiting her gravesite, honoring what had been left quiet for a long time. Sometimes things are too difficult to face and they get stored away, but then the days turn to decades. We bought three small pots of flowers -- two of them little rosebushes and one of fresh daisies. Ken dug out three spaces in the hard dirt and watered them in. I prayed that God would bless those plants somehow, that they'd thrive without us there to look after them. It don't matter. It really was the thoughts that counted. And we thought about her, her Mama and her Daddy, all resting under there waiting for the Lord to call their bodies to meet up with their spirits in heaven someday. If you don't read the Lord's book, you might oughta.

A kindly man let us inside the church, the place where Ken's Daddy and Mama married, where his grandparents rose up to life and went down to death. There was no sallying forth to places unknown. It was down the road and back to town. A simpler place and time, and truthfully not much has changed even in the fourty years I've been coming here. After riding all over the countryside and reminiscing about many things, we met up with family and had a delicious meal and much talk. The goodbyes were prolonged and repeated. You never know if we will see each other again in this life, so you learn to not take those for granted. 

The next morning, after a quick sleep at Ken's dear aunt's "town house" (no, it's not a condominium, it's a little house, in town), I felt like we were literally driving back through time. Away fell the fields, the old barns, the houses with their peeling paint, the glorious farms with their columns, tractors shedding their coats...gradually we encountered a car, then three, then more, then came Atlanta and its ribbons of lanes. We whooshed through and took Ken's Dad back home to Marietta. The time warp was over. When we pulled back to our old Victorian in Villa Rica, I felt drained, exhausted, overwhelmed. Life just keeps pulling. The past is sometimes like the signposts on the highway, whizzing right by. You look back and see them, wondering what the messages said. We need to pull off and walk, get out and read them, know them. I don't want to miss a thing.  

Yaya Said It

It's the soft things in life that beckon us. A cushy sofa, mashed potatoes, white bread, fluffy socks. It's the yummy resting place that keeps crying out for the snooze button. The cold morning warrants a turn back into the toasty covers. The hot midday calls me back inside to the frosty air conditioning. All the extremes cry out for a countering relief. I lean towards what comforts me, not what makes me inconvenienced. None of this is good, in the long run, because it makes us soft ourselves, less useful, less mobile, less ready, in a world that needs us ready. 

I'm digressing here. What I am worried about, as us mature ladies are allowed to do, is all these babies growing up around us. I seem to recall, back when I was a child myself, old ladies saying similar things. So either we're getting worse all the time or it's something old ladies just say. But these chillun are getting soft. Too many of them look like they have never encountered mud pies or cat hair. With the last couple of insane years we've had, we all need to go roll around in the dirt, whether you're a kid or not. There's entirely too much hand sanitizer (there ain't nothing natural about that stuff), too much fear, too many news feeds (turn 'em off, they're getting paid to scare you), not enough spankings and hardly anybody telling their kids no. Dear heavens, tell your kids no. They need it. There will come a day when they walk out your door (hopefully, before they're ancient) and someone else will tell them no. They need to be ready for that, and it's better coming from you first. The most miserable kids I've ever seen were the ones whose Mamas tried to give them a sanitized, pampered childhood. It always seems to produce whining, ungrateful children, and takes away the pride and accomplishment of hard work, also stealing the joy that comes from simple play. Children need less toys, more time, more outdoors (lots more outdoors), they don't need those screens (I'm serious, they don't - that's hijacking their brains), and they need you to love them. The Good Book says that if we love our children, we won't contribute to their death by not disciplining them. Their death. It's that serious, that important. I have been young and now am old and I have seen it with my own eyes. Simplify that child's life, say no and mean it, say yes to the good things. Ask God for help. Get you and that baby to a God-fearing church. Time's a wastin' and babies don't keep.

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...