Ferrets, Squirrels and Leprechauns

A lot of my real estate business involves estates, where I sell the homes of expired (that means dead) people. It is the best of times and the worst of times, but often it's just plain difficult. Sometimes it is an ancestral home, with multiple family members, who attach great meaning to all the decor and tchotchkes. Or sometimes it is a home that involves an administrator who is coldly unattached and just has to get the thing sold. And there's everything in between. Most of them involve getting rid of a little, or usually a lot, of stuff, and then there's the cleanup and/or repairs. Occasionally, everything gets left as-is, for the new owner to deal with. No matter what, it's complicated.

Why do we wait until we're dead to deal with our junk? Read: why do we leave it all to our kids to deal with? I think we generally don't believe we are ever going to die. Marie Kondo, that paragon of order, says that every object in our home should be utilitarian or it should "spark joy." Doesn't she know that all this pretty stuff in here sparks joy? Well, maybe not the papers stacked a foot high on my desk, or the strange things lurking in the backs of my closets. But who has time to yank all that out? They tell you to pull every single thing out of your closets and basically start over. Put three boxes in front of you: labeled Keep, Trash and Donate. I'm gonna do that, I really am, someday when I have a week to turn off my phone, not work, play no flute, keep no grandbabies, or feed my husband. I have this sincere problem, I think it's genetic, where when I do something like empty out a closet, the rubbish starts breeding fireflies and leprechauns. I see all these wonderful possibilities, rabbit trails and memories. Next thing you know, I'm painting the hall and changing the light fixtures because I'm so inspired by some weird flicker that ignited in my brain; meanwhile the closet is spilled all out on the study floor. It might take weeks to get back to that project. 

I have a tiny, lovely, light-filled art studio off my laundry room. It is precious. Ken fitted it out after we bought our Victorian in 2012. He found old unused trim in the barn, added some beadboard, and finished out the room for me. I painted it Sherwin Williams "Rachel Pink," a historical color that spoke to my heart. I loved it so much, I painted the laundry room and pantry the same color. The studio has been my grandchildren's happy place, as we set up a tiny easel in there, with every child having their own set of watercolors and a little table for them. But it turns into a big wreck, with all those Lilliputians messing about. It had no rhyme or reason, no order, and it was hard to find anything. So I did the unthinkable...I hired an organizer to fix it. She didn't insult me, graciously looked at the mess and hired a second set of hands to help. They put cute containers with labels on them, made trash piles and put everything back nice and tidy. The problem is, the owner of the studio doesn't have a brain that works that way. It gradually began to devolve. Then we had a big family baby shower for one of my daughter-in-loves, and ten or so extra Lilliputians showed up with their Mamas. After snacks and cake, the Moms all settled in the living room, chatting it up and having a great time. The short people disappeared and we didn't care. Because, you know, they are darling, sweet little girls who tend to dislike mud and we generally don't have to monitor traffic when they're around. Not this day. The containers, the shelves, the tools...they were like candy to them. After the crowd went home, it appeared that we had let the squirrels in and they'd had a party with all those containers, ferreting out the curiosities and then mixing it all together. Crying emojis all around. But what could I say? I'd been doing the same thing to the space, just at a snail's pace.

I thought about it for months, occasionally glancing in on the room, even daring to step in there a time or two. I haven't wanted to draw or paint, haven't gleefully had my grandkids paint with me. After many months of despairing of ever cleaning it up, I tucked my tail, gave in and invited my organizer friend back over. It's downright shameful that I ain't got it in me to do it myself, but as Ken says, "It is what it is." Problem is, I'm still me, Mrs. Squirrel. Maybe we can throw away half of what's in there and the future will be composed of "less" slob parties. We can always hope...  

Endurance

I talk about the weather far too much, but apparently it's all around me. Since I'm one of those "out of sight, out of mind" people and it's rarely out of sight, obsession is the order of the day. Plus, if you're an extrovert, you can start any conversation, be it friend, stranger, even enemy, with whatever's going on outside. I can just imagine two warriors stopping mid-fight, to save their coiffures from the rain. Not really, but it's a fun image.

This part of winter, to me, is the pit of despair. In Georgia, this is our winter cycle: two weeks of cold and rain (lots and lots of rain), then two to three days of spring. Repeat. If you have arthritis, you agonize and know what's coming. Usually around mid-January or thereabouts, we'll have a "winter storm" which especially involves emptying out all stores of bread and milk. If the storm actually happens, it can be very bothersome. Because it's so wet, ice covers everything in sight, trees (especially pines) fall and people start losing their minds. Yankees that are new to the South (or particularly the ones that don't live here) will sit in judgement because of our mass neurotic panic attack. The electricity goes out, the roads empty (hopefully) and we sit around shivering while we drink our milk and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We have "ice storm babies" nine months later. I have a few grandchildren with that moniker attached. That's the good part. The other good part is that winter is short here. I cannot imagine living where the summers are just a blip on the radar, even though ours can be hellish. I finally figured out that all those Southern Living party ideas, though adorable, are only worked out in the spring and fall (when pollen and ragweed choke us to death anyhow, but it's better than the fires of Mordor in July). 

I know it sounds sad and hopeless, our weather, but it's really not. The earth and all in it are sort-of cracked, and us humans like to complain and find the bottom side of the barrel. The turning of the seasons is God's way of teaching us patience as well as helping us to know that we're not really in charge. As I feel the winter weighing on me as heavy as lead right now, I also know it's good to be quiet and hunker down with this season of contemplation. Calm down, store up, slow the wheel, plan, read a book, pet my dog.    

You Should Be Dancin', Yeah....

When one of my cousins got married a few years back, no one would dance during the reception. The music was playing, people were talking and eating, but there was an awkwardness for anyone who did decide to try and put themselves out there on the floor. The DJ played song after song, with few takers. I enjoy dancing, but whatever this techno-pop stuff was, I did not think it had the grease to loosen up my wheels. This was before the movie "13 Going on 30" -- so no, I wasn't mimicking Jennifer Garner when she got the DJ to play Thriller instead of his lukewarm selections. Back to my cousin's wedding, I told the DJ: "I bet if you play some BeeGees, you'll get these old folks out on the dance floor." I think he played "You Should Be Dancing" (well, duh!) and before you could blink, the old folks AND the young folks were cutting rugs. 

My goofy dance life has been so much fun. I know for a fact that I have embarrassed many a niece, nephew or maybe especially my children. I think of all the times I've danced with people in kitchens, starting with my sister when we were kids, then my four kiddos, especially Elizabeth, our daughter. We danced up until the day she got married in our backyard...and I think a few times since. Way back before the kiddos were a gleam in their Daddy's eye, Ken and I square-danced at a church function before we even went on our first official date. I loved it that that big, muscley guy could throw me around, sashaying, swingin' and Do-Si-Do-ing. And then he had that spit-shined honkin' red truck in the parking lot, what? Ken is a natural. Before I came along in his life, it was the 70s and I've always suspected that he was a disco king. He'll still pull out a few moves on rare occasions, with much shock and awe from the party-goers. We took swing dance lessons one time, in preparation for our nephew's wedding (Stewart). While I was fumbling around and trying desperately not to break something, he was picking up every new maneuver with panache. I asked him if he'd ever done Swing dancing before, but no, of course he hadn't. And then he didn't want to go back for more lessons, because why should he? He's already got it.   

My own dear Daddy, bless his heart, was no Fred Astaire, but that did not stop him from trying. At every wedding, party or major event where there was dancing, he would inevitably be out on the floor, his head bopping. He would put us in hysterics with his rendition of the "Alabama Twist." It was rather like the way he played basketball or tennis. He would win, because we were weak with laughter. And he was laughing right along with us. I learned early that chuckling at one's self is one key to a happy life. I seriously can't stop seeing his mischievous, loopy grin as he'd drag us one-by-one out there to dance with him. Ken's Dad, on the other hand...(it is obvious the apple doesn't fall far from the tree). At our daughter Elizabeth's wedding, he got out there at 87 years old, dramatically threw off his coat into the grass and danced with all the little girls. Smooth as silk and perfectly gentlemanly, I don't know that I've personally known a better dancer in all my days.

Life -- it's often called The Dance of Life. Some do it with grace, some with difficulty, some with abandon. And then there's those that fumble and fall. Maybe we all need to do a little dancing. It's sure to bring some mirth and might just bring us closer. I signed up for a dance class from some pesky Facebook ad, where you can groove all over your living room and not have to go a gym and put up with mirrors and weird steroid-addicted guys walking around. No worries that we live smack-dab in the middle of a small town, with lace at the windows. I asked Ken if he wanted to sign up for some at-home dance lessons too...he said, "Naw, I'm good. I already know how to dance." I told him that's not the point, it's so we'll dance together. Together, like the way I gee-haw with his grandkids in the kitchen. He said, "Baby, we don't need to dance. We've got Netflix!" So there's that...   

All Coupled Up

It's not spring (well, at least not today...a couple of days ago, my daffodils were poking their heads out of the ground and now it's freezing), but it's time to bring out the cleaning supplies. One of our dear sons and his family have been living with us for over a year while they build their house. They moved out last week, to go on an extended camping trip while they finish the rest of it. Who does that?! (Us, we did it for two years with our four kids). After they left, I walked through their section of the house.  Everything was clean, quiet, and bare. Ken liked the vibe so much, he called a family meeting, with just me and him. We made a big list of all the projects that were unfinished around here and vowed to follow through. Saturday was gleeful as we began to work. There's nothing like decluttering and cleaning to put a pep in your step. I think we've been treading water for nigh on a year, in some kind of holding pattern. We've tried to empty this nest more than once: all three boys married and Liz was off to college; you could hear a pin drop. She graduated and moved back home, so we had another few years with her. Marcus strolled in and married her away. We had about a year and a half of still, quiet mornings before Daniel and Jessica and their two children moved in, ever mindful of our privacy, but the pitter-patter of little feet was heard once again. I'm already missing those sweet hugs. 

This week was a rediscovery of that man I live with. We talked more than we have in months, made plans, laughed, dug a few ditches. I think we had been holding back, but no more. I almost feel guilty, but I'm gonna let that pass. Meanwhile, I'm already decluttering and finishing those half-baked projects that have been looming. It's not spring, but I feel like taking down the cobwebs. It all makes me remember our early days of marriage, when Ken worked nights and I worked days. The quiet house gave me much to think about, and I dreamed of us starting a family and filling up the spaces. It flashed by in a wink, and now we are on the other side, watching our people fan out like eagles with their own nests. 

When we had a boatload of kids in tow, I was often asked when we were going to stop, or why were we having so many kids. God gave us four and we'd have taken more, if He'd have given them to us. There were those who were critical of our choices, right to my face. Overpopulation! How are you going to pay for them?! But God's economy says: "Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one's youth." Psalm 127:3,4. And then there's grandchildren...

But I have to admit, it sure is nice to nest right on up with my honey sugar pie, just me and him.   

Angry Birds

Me and food have a wrestling match going on. It's a tired  saga that goes round and round, with no end in sight. There's a big ole story, full of woes and reasons and substantiations for why I'm on the wrong end of the scale right now, but either way, I am once again on the mats. Some of it is medication, some of it is my propensity for all things sweet. Around October, I went to our son, Daniel, and asked him what to do. He's a Jiu Jitsu beast, a Flames firefighter, and has the ability to push himself to do pretty much anything he decides needs doing. He's been called The Lumberjack, The Viking, The Bulldog, and I'm sure his defeated foes call him things this Mama doesn't want to know about. I figured he could give me some advice. I've asked him before, and he always says the same thing: "Get your diet under control first. Worry about exercise later, when you've mastered that." I'm trying to figure out when the fun kicks in. This time, he said, "Mama, get your plan under way before the holidays or just wait it on out until January, because it's too hard to change course in the middle when everybody's having a party." So you see, I didn't do that. There was a lot of distraction and sickness and too much ADOS (Attention Deficit Ooooh Shiny), and probably some sin in there. It's mid-January now, with no kale in sight. 

Way back in the 70s, when I was athletic and still had a thyroid, everybody was skinny. All us girls thought we were fat, but we weren't. Look at any picture of people at Woodstock (no, I wasn't there..I was in elementary school) and try to find one overweight person. There aren't any. And that's the way it was everywhere. I think we had one lady in our church that was husky. I heard it said, "She has problems with her glands." That's what people would say back then, if you ever happened to see a corpulent person: "See that chubby boy? He has bad glands." It was rare to be bigger, and nobody was going to the gym. We didn't have computers, cellphones, or a whole lot of air conditioning. Things didn't smell as good as they do now, but we were all outside playing or working, so it didn't matter.

Now that I'm on the other side of 50, well, 60... I honestly believe I could subsist on a few crackers and a boiled egg or two. A few months ago, my husband decided to do a novel thing: eat one meal a day. Now it has a fancy term: intermittent fasting. Everybody's doing it these days. Sometimes I hate men. They get a random thought in their head: "Hey, I think I'll go on a diet" or "Hey, I'll eat 5000 calories, but I'll just do it all in one meal." The weight falls off like autumn leaves. In short order, Ken lost 45 pounds. People started coming up to me, ooohing and aaahhhing about his svelte figure and asking me the secret. I tell them, he just thought about losing weight and it stimulated some brain cells and apparently he's burning the fat off like kerosene or something. I've been doing the same thing (minus 3000 or 4000 calories) and you guessed it, nary a pound has shifted from this dear frame. In fact, it might be going the other way...

I was talking to a couple of my friends, who suffer with my same malady. We all agreed that we hate food now. Why can't they just give us a big food pill and then we wouldn't have to eat? All the fun is gone, now that we eat like finches but look like Southern Cassowaries. Look it up...tiny head, big body, lots of waddling going on. All those years of counting, chopping, guessing, planning, grocery shopping. We're old and sick of it. And nothing tastes good anyway.

Now that we all seem to be past most of the winter plagues, I'm thinking about going on walkabout. I think I'd like to hole up somewhere where there's a beach or lake...read books, drink mineral water and sleep for a few days. No cooking, no restaurants, no protein bars. At my current rate, I might have enough stores to hold out until 2024.  

Child's Play

  My childhood was a trickling creek that broke free from the Southern Gothic upbringing of our Father. There were remnants in my memory, backroads, dark and scary places and people that were at the fringe of our lives. The murky, foggy vestiges of the old South, where the poorest of both blacks and whites mutely crossed paths, even though the class system still reigned with its unwritten rules and presumptions. We were descended from the humblest of places. I never had to suffer as my Daddy had done, in our clean, secure but very simple home, but I was intimately acquainted with the dirt, the grease, the ditches that came before us and indeed made us. I and my siblings were blessed. We inherited the hope that comes with two parents whose aim was to dig in and make a better way for their children; at the same time, we inherited the blessing of two folks whose honesty put us squarely in the reality of our station. There were no false airs, no seeing ourselves as better than. Pretension was not allowed, just a clean, genuine, real life without sophistication. Right was right, wrong was wrong, and simplicity was just fine. No frills, plain clothing and food. Children can grow up free and happy in this kind of environment, when they are loved. Magic isn't contrived...it comes with the sunset, the blackberries, the warm earth. The fabric of experiences always comes later, like a tsunami. But the security of a straightforward, uncomplicated childhood where worth is found through work, play, and an uncluttered life, prepares and makes the most intricately-brained child sturdy and capable for their future. 

My road has taken many turns, though sophistication has never quite reached me. It's in these many decades later that I can muse over the wonder of the gift I was given, to deeply understand the value of what our parents did for us. This without fancy books, vacations, psychiatrists or competing "expert" opinions. In fact, these things might just be the ruination of modern man. Thinking ourselves to be wise, we became fools. 

Summers, hot as a blanket, then the cool night air stealing across the dark yard. Daddy would beckon us to lie on our backs on the driveway, warm from the day. Our eyes would adjust to the diamond-studded sky, comets streaking, Mars red, Venus glowing... he'd talk about God, about how He made all this. The longer you watched, the more brilliant the Milky Way became. We'd hush, take it in, think, settle, wonder. Disneyland, the skating rink, the latest clothes meant little to nothing to us with the enchantment of what was real spreading before us in real time, especially with Daddy's long arms curled around our shoulders. 

All that treasure simply gets more valuable with time.   

Scroogey

I thought I was through with my illness, but alas, the Pestilence is still here, reminding me of the ghost of Christmas Future...there's a lot of moaning and chain-rattling, with a Linus-like attachment to my fuzzy blanket. If the doctor's office will ever call me back, I'm heading there for some antibiotics and whatever else they can pump into my miserable body. This too shall pass... 

I had a moment of light yesterday, emerging from my swaddling clothes mid-afternoon to practice my flute. I found there was enough oxygen to push out some scales. If you don't practice, you go backwards, sick or not. Some of our new spring music was in the Google drive (Carrollton Wind Ensemble), so I printed it off and had a look-see. Of course, the music is impossible, but that's nothing new. I sometimes wonder if composers just hate flutists, because it appears so. All the squiggly noodles from the lowest to the heights belong to us. One consolation is that maybe this brain and finger work is delaying the decline of my synapses. You never know. There was a gorgeous piece, long, sprightly, full of flute zippity-do-da, and an awesome Benny Goodman compilation. My problem with that will be trying to keep myself from dancing off the stage. Who doesn't love some amazing Big Band tunes? 

We're having a hard time over here; half of us are sick or recuperating from surgery (Ken). But thank the Lord, Winter Solstice is past and that means that the shortest day is behind us. Here in the Deep South, spring comes early, so if we can limp on through January and February, maybe it won't take forever. Our 41st anniversary is in February and that's always a distraction, then the daffodils start poking their heads up and the pollen starts flying. I need to stop thinking about it and tend to the quiet, muffled song of Winter. We rarely have snow, and the temperatures in Georgia run crazy all over the map. We'll have several days of freezing and then a week of near-Spring teasers. Meanwhile, it would do me some good to settle down and do some reading and planning, before the flowers emerge. God gave us seasons for a reason, though we might only have a couple down here: Hot, hotter and muggy, then the rest of the time could be described as some sort of personality disorder. We have so much to be thankful for. One of my sons and his wife gave me this fancy Keurig machine; I can have a piping hot cup of cinnamon tea in just a few seconds. I think I'll spring for that right about now...that, and a Dickens novel.