Incarceration

I am thinking about jail. No, I've never had to be incarcerated and I'm not expecting to be, though sometimes I wonder if my Joan of Arc tendencies might land me there someday. When our middle son hoisted a pirate flag on my house recently, I thought about the old adage, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree..." We're not pirates but we might not exactly comply. At the same time, when Jesus tells us to do something, we want to lay our lives down for that, though we're admittedly, grievously, sinners. 

When I gave my heart to Jesus, or rather, He snatched it up off the bottom of the ocean, I was just a small child. I remember talking to Him by starlight as a breeze tickled the curtains by my bed. It seemed as natural as breathing to follow Him, to sing His praises, to trust Him with my small world. The harder part has been to see the big, bad cosmos expand and to understand how to trust Him when life grew big and scary. The ever-complex tapestry woven on this side, with its tangles and confusion is, however, perfect on the other. 

My husband's story is very different. He grew up hearing all the right things, going to church from a young age and then, at youth camp, going down an aisle and saying a magic prayer then getting dunked. It didn't take. He descended into all sorts of bad mayhem, over many years. I didn't know that man. Ken says that I wouldn't have liked him. Then there came a day that God just plain-out chased him down. But Jesus loved him, and He swooped down and redeemed him too, like He did me. I love God. He gets us out of jail, just like that. 

And where people would like to keep you in their own personal jail, or hate you or not forgive you, or even if you are in a real prison, there's a God who transcends all of that and can set you free. From others. From ourselves. From all our transgressions. "If the Son sets you free, you are free indeed..." John 8:31-36

J.R.R. and the Backroads

I couldn't help but think he looked like a Hobbit, which happens to be one of my favorite Tolkien characters. He was extremely short, gnarly of face, bald as a boulder, and often as grumpy as all that. He was a client, referred to me by a friend. He had lost his dear wife and wanted to sell his home. He could barely tell me what had happened to her, even though it had been a long while. His gruff exterior was in sharp contrast to the tender heart within. We signed up the house, which quickly went under contract. Job One became finding him another one, and he had only Alabama on his mind. He greatly preferred that I pick him up and drive him everywhere, even though nobody does that anymore. I think he was pert-near blind, if you want to know the truth. The socially correct form in real estate these days is to "meet up" at the chosen houses, all parties using their GPS devices to get there. I'm not sure he knew what a GPS was, but I began to suspect he just liked the company.

Thus began the addition of hundreds, if not thousands, of miles on my new(ish) Ford Explorer. And we did indeed explore. The back roads and byways of Alabama became very familiar to me. I began to love the kind people of that fair land, with their slower pace and less-than-concerned rate of stress. The agents might or might not call you back right away, but they would call you back, always with a slice of courtesy. Sometimes we'd pick up his girlfriend. She was twice as tall as him and an angel. They met at a VFW dance, where apparently he had dated one of her friends but then switched to her. I found out that there are whole swaths of really old folks who still go out dancing on the weekends. Who knew? They told very entertaining stories as we rolled along. One day, after we dropped her off, he told me that he had asked her to marry him but that she wouldn't...because she was all tied up with her kids and didn't want to get married again. But oh, the dancing...

During this period of time, I would get random calls from the secretary at our office: "Rose, Mr. ______ is here waiting for you." This, when we had no appointment or had had no discussion of getting together that day to look at houses. I might be in outer Mongolia and Mr. Hobbit Man would be expecting me to just be waiting there, at our Villa Rica office, just in case someone dropped by and needed to look at houses. I guessed maybe that's the way they used to do it. He thought I clocked in every morning at the office and waited, or something like that. 

We finally narrowed the many houses down to two -- one was a house that had two stories. It would require going up a flight of stairs to get to the main floor, with a great big yard, complete with a barn and an orchard. The other house was a converted garage, with foot-thick concrete walls, concrete floors and was basically maintenance-free. It was gorgeous, with swirled stained concrete floors, granite countertops, beautiful lighting and tons of storage. To me it was a no-brainer, but he wasn't convinced. Between his girlfriend and I, we talked him into the rancher, but we were sweating it. I think the problem was that it wasn't actually in Alabama, though it was on the outer limits of Carrollton, which might as well be Alabama as far as I'm concerned. There was a lot of drama afterwards, about the guy who built-out the thing not getting a certificate of occupancy, and other such "trivial" matters, but eventually I lost touch with my Hobbit friend.

Until last week. A man called and was talking quickly...I didn't catch on at first, but then realized he was discussing his old relative, who had died a few months back. Yes, it was my friend who had passed, his numerous health issues and Covid reaching in for the final say. I shed a tear then I smiled at the memory of our short but very memorable saga. I still have a picture of him. I'm hugging him and he's literally half my size, grinning and looking just a bit naughty and somewhat like Gollum. I do hope he's up there doing a jig.     

My House Has A Little Soul

We had a leak around the ancient chimney in our old study, which was caulked and repaired from above. Meanwhile, I had sent my dear flute (My Precious) to the shop to be cleaned up (where she had gotten all wet and scratched up from wet plaster). All seemed to be well, until one sullen afternoon when the bottom fell out. Caiden, my four-year-old grandson, and I were in the study talking about the merits of Batman when began a nice, epic rainstorm, complete with rumblings and thunder and lots of big raindrops. I noticed there was more than usual noise from the fireplace area, when Caiden began laughing because he was getting wet from all the moisture plopping on his head. Next thing you know, we were dragging out towels, then quilts, then buckets to catch all the rain emanating from the ceiling. What had been a leak before was now a deluge. Apparently, the repair created quite the funnel for whatever was going on up above. Such is the life of an ancient house.

I love my old house (she's 120 years old this year). Many people hate them. They are creaky and quirky, musty and mysterious. But they are also full of character and craftmanship that can't be duplicated today unless you're a gozillionaire. We bought this one for a song, the only one we had in our pocket at the time, and have spent the last ten years putting my extra real estate commissions back into it. I pray my kids will forgive me. I keep saying, "After this last project, I think we'll have it shored up for the next 20 years and then we'll be dead (or might as well be) and ya'll can sell it and divvy it up amongst yourselves." Trouble is, it'll probably be needing who-knows-what by that time. But this thing is made tough, with thick timbers and hand-crafted stuff. I pray it will hold up for a long, long time. Longer than us. Either way, I thought I had one major project left, that of fixing the front window in the gable. I suspect it's dry rotted, though we keep painting it and hoping for the best. But alas, the study ceiling intervened. The only real solution was to take down the insanely high chimney that was attached to that fireplace. The thing was soaring to heaven, tall and skinny. I have no clue why that one, of the four that are connected to the house, is so much higher, but it was. When we bought the house, the inspector told us to take it down. He said, "That thing's gonna fall on somebody's head someday -- or at least, it's gonna end up cracking and leaking all over that room." I was deeply offended and refused such sacrilege. Oh well, at least we got ten years out of it. 

So a very industrious (and courageous) group of men climbed up to the heavens and chipped away at the thing for half a day. They saved a number of the bricks so Ken can be forced to lay them for a little walkway for me (he's grinning, though a bit Cheshire-cat-like). We had to keep them, to honor the house, yes we did. So now I've been cleaning up brick dust for days that sifted itself into the house, and somehow I've got this little cough going that I suspect is some kind of revenge she's taking on me too. We also had a creature die in the attic, so there's that to contend with in the next bit. But best of all, there's a new layer of scent overlaying it all, kind-of a mineral-based smell. I like minerals. I really do.   

Different Paths

The wheels of fortune have turned so many times, I'm starting to get dizzy. When I was a kid, not everyone went to college. Plenty of folks opted to work for their Pa down at the shop, or learn haircutting at the technical school, apprentice as an electrician or keep plugging away at the grocery store where they started part-time in middle school. Decades have passed, formal education has become more accessible, particularly with the advent of the internet and remote learning. A college degree has become the new high school diploma. It is generally expected, and most people go into debt to get it, sometimes heavily. But who's stopping to think about whether it's the best solution? 

Two of our children have college degrees, two of them don't. And frankly, it doesn't seem to matter one bit. The two that don't have them are probably making more money than the others (I'm not asking) and they sally forth with their self-esteems quite intact, thank you. It just didn't suit what they wanted to do with their lives and they've had enough hustle in them to go and get what they wanted. I am no fan of 30-somethings slogging around in the basement while Mommy takes care of everything. Any child who is still at home and not in school has to be earning their keep and paying rent. Get crackin,' Einstein...

Get two things, if you can: a trade, and an education. A trade can be gotten while you are getting an education. My daughter was my assistant for years and years while I painted houses. Summers and breaks, she was an apprentice to what I was doing. Our boys worked one day a week with my brother in construction trades, instead of hunkering over schoolwork. That means they only had four days of "school" but they can all swing a hammer if their other jobs dry up now (and one of them is a firefighter and he does just that on his off days). In the summers, they worked full-time at it. 

We have so much information at our fingertips, it is easy to learn new skills, take classes cheaply and expand our horizons. My hope is that the tide will begin to turn and that young people will begin to see that there are fantastic opportunities in the trades apart from college in the near future. I dare say that a vast majority of the entrepreneurs that I know personally are making far more money and are happier with their careers, who have found their calling in the various trades. They have flexibility and pride of place in their work. Here's to Mike Rowe and all the dirty jobs! 

Chicken Salad Chick

There's nothing like an event to get me to clean up my house. And even then, I rush around like a mad woman at the last minute to get it done. We had a baby shower for our upcoming sugar dumplin': Matthias Slate Norton, due to arrive sometime in early September, but probably more like late August, if his three siblings' entries are any indicator. His Mama looked serene and happy, aunts and all the cousin girls were giddy to be included in the festivities. We had all the requisite cool dishes in the sweltering heat: chicken salad, fruit salad, veggies with ranch, a yummy fruit trifle with angel food cake, and cool cheese slices, along with plenty of sweet iced tea and water with lime wedges. I love me a baby shower in the deep South in the summertime. It speaks of magnolias, humidity and lots of hope. I'm now one of the old tribe and I wear it with pride. What a joy to carry on a long tradition of welcoming these dear babies into the world.

I must speak about the chicken salad though... it's an ancient recipe, tried and true, that my family has loved and begged for in years past. I usually do the lazy thing and throw a family pack of pre-boned chicken tenders in the crockpot, cook it and then commence with all the chopping. There's almonds and celery, grapes, water chestnuts, pineapple, then the sauce. It's exhausting, so who wants to bone a hen (which is in itself so disgusting anyway)? But this time, I put a whole chicken in the pot and let her baste and simmer with all the spices. Then I spent the time pulling it apart and picking out all the little juicy pieces. So of course when the chicken salad arrived at the party, it was primo. I noticed it at first bite, and my daughter noted that my more recent efforts at chicken salad (before this one) had been lacking (though she had not wanted to say anything). I was aghast, but decided that no more shortcuts were to be taken in the future. It was that good. There was a nice big bowl left in the refrigerator but it's all gone now. I don't believe Ken got any...he usually asks for the "Sampla" platter when I go to or host any shower or women's event. That's sampler, for those who aren't from east Georgia. 

Here's the recipe (I always at least triple it):

2 c. cooked chopped chicken

1/2 c. slivered almonds, toasted

1/2 c. chopped celery

1/2 lb. seedless grapes, halved

1/4 c sliced water chestnuts

8 oz drained pineapple chunks, halved

2 tsp. soy sauce, 2 tsp lemon juice, 1/2 to 3/4 c. Dukes mayonnaise, 1 tsp curry powder (or to taste)

Combine first 5 ingredients. Mix mayo, soy sauce, lemon juice, and curry. Add to first mixture. Put pineapple on top and chill. 

You're Welcome!

 

Exhaustion in the Vacay

I wanted to relax, sincerely I did...  

Two days before we left for the idyllic Georgia mountains, I was planning on getting organized...camping is not for the faint of heart. You have to clear the cobwebs, whirligigs and spiders out of the camper, haul all the containers into the house and pack them with food and clothing for the trip. There's lots to prepare for and think about. But no, during those two jolly prep days my phone started going off like a danged siren. And you have to say that like "S-i-r-e-n-e"...like it rhymes with Irene, because it's bigger than a regular one. Everybody and his brother wanted to buy or sell a house, sign a contract, inquire about a piece of land, get out of something or bite me. I woke up before dawn each day and threw myself in the bed after midnight for two days. Ken got off work early on Friday and hitched the camper up while I was still talking to clients and tossing things into hampers. We tore off down the highway and I wasn't quite sure if I was coming or going. When we got to the campground, I discovered there was no Wifi, so I parked myself at the Ingles cafe in the town until they forced me out at 11:00 at night. Little Annabelle played games with Papa's phone while I sweated bullets over contracts and tried not to cuss. The good part about all of this was that there were four of our grandchildren parked next door in their camper for a few of those days. At least there was that... 

This summed up most of my week, except we discovered the campground did indeed have Wifi. It was in the game room next to the office, where there was service, but alas, no air conditioning. I spent much of the week there, where I could see Ken out the window in all his splendor, laying out getting a tan like a king on the lawn next to the lake while I grinded out  amendments and drama. We were both in our elements: Ken was happy, clocked out and in his introverted bubble. He'd turn over once every twenty minutes like a skewer, getting a nice, even tan while listening on his earbuds or reading on his Ipad. I was up in the game room, my extroverted self, meeting many awesome strangers as I banged out contracts and made calls. It was a surreal kind of vacation, like none we've ever had. I don't recommend it. 

On July 4, the last night the grands were there with their folks, we went to see the fireworks with all the other rednecks. The next morning, they pulled out and went home. I see my people often, I mean, they only live 15 minutes away from us, but I bawled like a baby. Maybe it's just the same song and dance that time is marching on too quickly, or maybe it was that a dear friend died the day before...so I was feeling especially vulnerable. Then my phone started frantically buzzing again and I spent the next four days tamping down numerous real estate deals, each one dramatic and requiring vast amounts of time and emotion. There came a point where I literally raised my hands and gave up. I think that's where He wanted me anyways, and cussing sure don't help. The last night we were there, it was late and I was still up at the game room. There were folks playing pool and talking all around. I was sitting in a puddle of sweat, chatting with various people as I tried to send emails and finish up a contract. I decided I wasn't going any further until I got my hinder parts parked back home in front of my monster computer screen. I pulled out a bag of quarters and challenged some little 11-year-old girl to a game of Foosball. I warned her that I had mad skills. Her Daddy was standing there and laughed. People never believe me when I tell them that. Teenage boys don't believe me. 20-year-old young men don't believe me. They look at this mature, fluffy, blonde lady who seems harmless and they have no clue about what lies beneath. I enjoy this rarely-used part of my life. Her Dad joined her and they played me, 2-on-1, and I whupped them for about 10 games or so. It's really terrible, how much fun that was, but I'm pretty sure they'll be okay. 

Forever and a day later to get there, but let the record show: there's no place like home.  

Hanging On

Sometimes the connections dry up. Sometimes things just seem to stand still. Time flies by but then nothing seems to be happening. What is this, the spectre of age, when the efforts of survival finally overcome you? I knew I was slogging uphill, quite awhile ago, with occasional bouts of free-wheeling coasts and breezes on spring-spritzed days. That's why I want to pull my children and all those young people aside and tell them that it really is true -- that they need to eat right and exercise while the gettin's good. I've always been the kind of gal who ate dessert first and then dove in. The diving in is fantastic, but you better shore up those arteries while you can and keep 'em maintained all along the way. Don't make a religion out of it, for heavens' sake. I know people who have no other subject in their head except what they ate, didn't eat or what supplements they're taking. Ditches on either side of anything are a bad idea. 

Go back to your Grandmama's good advice, well some of them, anyways. One of my husband's grandmothers thought that white bread, instant everything and lots and lots of sugar were the best things God ever made, even though He had nothing to do with that. I understand. That stuff tastes so amazing, it's completely out of this world. And it is, it's not from this world. It's from zombies or Planet Zurg or something. She wound up with bad Alzheimers and a terrible end. I don't know if that's why, but I do know she ate from a pitted set of aluminum cookware that was her Mama's...and most of her siblings also came down with the big A too. All this negativity, but it's a part of our world. The sweet part was that even when she was at her worst, full of violence and confusion, you could pull her Bible out and start reading the Psalms...she would immediately calm down and close her eyes and starting quoting it with you. The Spirit was still with her. She is with Him now, whole and at peace. I bet they have stuff that tastes a whole lot better than white bread and sugar.

We're back up here in the mountains for the Fourth of July, at our old campground, with one of our sons and his family. Today's job was to go swimming in the little lake. I forgot how much faith it takes to immerse one's self into a brown, murky lake. I tried to not think of water snakes, but the grandkids kept reminding me of them ("Yaya, there are water snakes in here, but guess what, there's no rattlesnakes!") I'm not so sure about the rattlesnakes either. And I also couldn't help remembering that long-ago movie (before my time but still memorable, even if it was terribly cheesy) Creature From the Black Lagoon. Because I was certain I felt my foot get bumped a couple of times. Either way, the kiddos and I made our way out to the slippery dock. The fresh mountain water was delightful and it was fun to share time with these precious ones. We drank cold water from a spring and they rode on the back of the truck with Papa while I tried to bounce them off. 

Slow down, time. Slow down.