Freedom

 Every patriotic holiday, we complain about the weather. Our wind ensemble plays at the local veterans memorial park two or three times a year, always a smattering of Sousa marches, rousing sentimental anthems and battle hymns. The park is built right on the top of the crest of a hill, where the wind is always blowing. If it’s hot, it’s blistering. If it’s cold, we’re freezing. I was struck with the irony of the location. Maybe it’s not irony at all…perhaps someone who has faced the heat and discomfort of battle was the one who chose this spot, a tiny glimpse of bleakness on an otherwise spotless day. 

I am a woman in a first-world country, who has never really missed a meal or suffered much. I grew up with my hand over my heart, singing the national anthem and getting misty every time Lee Greenwood came up to the mike. I’ve slept snug in my bed most nights, with the blessings of God and country all about me. But recent days and turmoil have made me think long and hard about the price of freedom. I’ve heard the word all my life, thought I knew what it meant and knew that I wanted to stay that way (free). But complacency and plenty tend to lull the sensibilities, whether they lull the senses or not. Our senses are plenty engaged, too much so…but we’ve fallen asleep in the light of our glorious gift. The pampered lion in the zoo becomes fat and jaded, no longer proud and fit. When it comes time to defend his pack, he is too full of his appetites to notice that he can no longer move. We’ve become arrogant in the victories we did not win ourselves. We don’t even remember what they meant. 

I always worried that freedom of speech would be taken away by a big government ploy, that, like in some communist regimes, a huge hand would sweep in and plunder the people. Maybe we’ve been watching for that, when the truth is, the loss of freedom doesn’t start from the top. It starts from within. It begins when peer pressure rules the day, when children no longer look to their parents for guidance but are ruled by the whims of their schoolmates. It happens when fear of man’s opinions becomes the king. This is where we are.

I want to stand in the battle for truth, to crest the hill, to be willing to stick my head up, even if it gets shot at. We have all become too sensitive, too scared to speak the truth, too willing to sit back and wait for someone else to take the heat. There’s a time to say what needs to be said, no matter the pressure, no matter the cost. There’s also a time to be quiet, and finding the balance between the two is no simple matter. If we live our lives in fear, then we might as well not live. Existing in a cave, while life passes us by, is no existence. Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all….

And better to face the scorn of men than to remain silent.

Batwoman

I was sweating bullets, over a client who wouldn't sign an extension on a large contract we've been working on for a year and a half. My food was hitting my stomach like lead pellets in a tin bucket. When life gets like that, I don't even realize what I'm doing to the others around me. It's sort-of like what an unripe persimmon does to you...it looks nice and plummy, soft and sweet, but then the memory of that first bite will stay with you for an hour or so, all puckered up and mealy. Other flavors and foods don't help. You've just got to roll with it until its over. Being an overly sensitive woman is both a gift and a curse, and probably mostly the latter, if you were to ask my dear husband. The roller coaster life that he has had to lead because he decided to put a ring on it all those decades ago has got to be wearing on him. I know he'd like to live a more lake-like existence, emotionally, that is. But then, what would he do for fun? 

I was working here (sweating said bullets) at my giant desk, in our gorgeous study, by my 120-year-old fireplace when it started raining to beat the band. The problems with the client had apparently been resolved when I received an email back from the buyer's agent, telling me that, after all that, I had signed my part of the document wrong. So me, the redneck realtor, had to put the whole mess through to everybody for re-signing. I admit it, I am blonde, a bit ditzy, and yes, a bit of a redneck, but the real problem was that I was so excited about everything working out that I just got in a hurry. In the midst of this, and the rain, I noticed the nice sound of drumming in the fireplace. It seemed louder than normal. Then there was a mild splat of something that hit my cheek. On closer examination, I saw puddles all around, water streaming along the wall, down the mirror and pooling on the beautiful mantle. After pulling down the massive picture from above, there was a big bow in the plaster that had gone undetected. Then there was wailing and gnashing of teeth as my husband and Viking son scaled the roof (fairly new, I might add) to check it, only to find failing flashing as the problem. Help is on the way.

But this is really the kicker: I keep my Precious right by that fireplace. My Precious is my Haynes Q2 straight-line B-foot solid silver flute, which cost me as much as a decent used car. I sold a nice house and took my entire commission, tithed, paid taxes, then bought that flute.  I haven't bought a new one in 31 years. I leave that flute out, in the open, on a flute stand, so that my lazy self won't forget to practice it. I pet it, clean it, wipe it down, practice it most days, then put it back on its stand. A few weeks or months back, I noticed that my music had gotten all crinkled up and that my flute had little sprinkles all over it. One of the keys even had a wonky way about it. I thought somebody in the house had had an accident with a Sprite can and didn't want to tell me about it. There have been several times I thought I was really having to spend a lot of time working it over with the cleaning cloth. Things are not always what they seem and there just might be bats in the belfry.   

A Toast

We're old friends. Between us, we've raised ten kids (me 4, her 6)...two of ours almost married each other then thought better of it (then they found their right ones, praise the Lord). We've been through trauma, cried over spilt milk, wiled away the years on our sides of our different worlds with very different husbands as the drama of life spun us into so much cotton candy. Occasionally we call, meet up for coffee or lunch, talk for a few hours, hug, laugh, then part. Time stands still for that bit and we touch hearts as of old. Island friends, meeting up in the middling. 

Ken and I drove up to Rome for their baby girl's wedding. I draped a few flowers and some ivy on her cake, for old times' sake. Past weddings involved whole weekends and marathon decorating schemes, but this one was light work for my part. No diva-ish scrambling, no worries. A small token to say that I love you. She's always helped me with my children's weddings too. When my friend walked into the room, the tears sprang to my eyes, as all the emotions of "lasts" came pushing to the front of my heart. A scrim of hot summer days rolled over my mind, years ago where our family hauled back and forth, helping with the renovation of their country home... our daughters full of hilarity while my boys helped the Dads work. Her four younger babies, like roly-polies in the yard. All grown up now, they danced and jumped like June bugs on a hotplate, grandbabies all around and lives headed into the future like rockets. I've seen a lot of weddings but the bride was just about as tickled as any I've ever seen, and the joy of everyone present was infectious. We were all very happy for the beautiful couple. 

I have been told, more than once, that I have a condition called FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). It is, I am sad to admit, true. I am afraid that it drives far too much of my life's decisions and yes, indecisions. I resisted my dear husband's wish to leave much earlier than we did, but then I finally acquiesced and we pulled out, literally right before the bride and groom were leaving. We drove by the small crowd that was hailing them, with the energetic young people still jumping and full of zest. I had guilt and much FOMO, later regretting the loss of missing that one little bit of the experience and hoping I did not hurt anyone's feelings (I am actually quite certain that no one was offended). By the time we made it to Villa Rica, I surmised that it's okay for the old folks to leave the wedding before the fat lady sings. And it's even okay not to stay afterwards and clean up.    

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.