Night Passages

Town was quiet tonight, with a fragrant and mellow breeze wafting by. One of the sweetest sounds that I love in the whole world is when the frogs and crickets start croaking in the spring. I thought it only happened in the country, but I hear them right here smack-dab in our little city. The stars were twinkling as the dog and I had our secret walk around the darkened yard. Little buds emerging, my three pussy willow bushes finally sprouting tiny, velvety pink babies, after many years of no-shows. The sunny daffodils and jonquils are springing up everywhere. Hope arises. 

Last weekend, our daughter arranged a photoshoot for Grandma Judy, with all the daughters and granddaughters on that side of the family. After months of wrangling schedules, weather and outfits, we gathered at a local lake. The sky was misty; we somehow threw ourselves together with our various shades of pink (Great Grandma's favorite color) to get a few dozen females all in one place, at one time. There was mud, Canadian geese, lots of giggling girls, Moms, Grandmas, Great Grandma. Looking at the miracle of progeny and the grace of God, I was so proud of my brood -- our daughter, three daughters-in-love, and five granddaughters were spicy, sweet and adorable, all at the same time. Then there was Grandma, quiet as a mouse (though she's never mousy) and uncomfortable without a chair. Someone found one in the woods and she sat down. Eventually every possible individual and group photo was had, and we disbursed. My tribe made their way to the Japanese steak house, where the girls acted big and the Mamas enjoyed the night out. I was suffering with a throbbing headache and almost opted to head home, but daughter-in-love Jessica had a bottle of ibuprofen and I might have emptied the thing. Within a short while, I began to feel better. I remained quieter and more observant than usual, finding it peaceful to simply enjoy these wonderful folk rather than comment on every. single. thing. It's such a problem, my hating to miss out on any activity. I have a hard time understanding the introverts around me. But maybe there's a lot of good to be had from shutting my mouth, sitting still, letting the room have its say without my constant input. Sweet, peaceful, like the serenity of listening in the dark to those frogs and crickets. What a novel idea...     

One Man's Junk, Another Man's Treasure

When we arrived home from our week-long camping adventure in northern Kentucky (where we had suffered through extreme cold, frozen water, snow and way too much walking), I was surprised to see that our yard was full of daffodils popping up everywhere. It always gives me hope to see their sunny faces emerge pre-spring, during the dreary month of February. I do not recommend camping or even basic travel in that most sad of seasons in the South, unless you plan to go to the tropics. Christmas is over and spring is definitely still far enough away that it just seems impossible that it's ever going to get here. Even my dear neighbor who lives in Alaska most of the year says that she's colder in the wet, humid Georgia winter than she is when she's in Alaska. Either way, I'm glad to still be breathing and glad that those yellow and green bits of happiness are growing all around our property. I didn't plant all those flowers -- some thoughtful person in the past did it. I might love them for it.

My husband had knee surgery a few weeks back, and finally got free of his cane. With two more weeks of rehab left, he got the gumption to clean out the barn. I send out bags and boxes of junk to the various charities every month, but there must be a truck of elves backing up to the house at night, emptying out their leftovers. The barn was bursting to the eaves with all manner of detritus and it was becoming dangerous to step inside. Anything that was on the floor was pulled out to the driveway and Ken started setting items at the curb to give away. I'm always amazed at how quickly even the strangest items get snapped up, one of the great things about living in town.  We meet some of the nicest people when we do this, and the stuff gets a chance at a second life (hopefully instead of the landfill). Three of my Christmas trees are now someone else's problem -- and that means I'll have to shop for one next year, something I haven't done in decades. 

As I was sifting through all the sentimental things, many that I haven't set eyes on in years, I was reminded that letting go of physical things can be very cathartic, even if it is difficult to do. What good is all this stuff, if it's just clogging up space? No one is looking at it or paying attention to it. And if we don't manage it, someday our kids will have to. In real estate, I often deal with estate listings and I see the trials of families having to parse through their peoples' belongings and get rid of truckloads of paper, plastic and brown furniture that nobody really wants. I'm asking my children if they want anything in my house...why wait 'til we're dead to let them enjoy something they can have now? Not that I'm anticipating dying any time soon, but shedding all the extraneous helps me to think clearer and see through to the people I care about, rather than all the clutter that's falling on my head. 

Spring really might be coming soon. Gulp in that sweet, warm air before the pollen gets here!   

February and Bi-Polar Weather

When we married, all of forty-two years ago, I didn't ask an essential question of my husband-to-be. He looked like a lumberjack, favoring jeans and flannel. He was as strong as a bull and big as a barn. I made some assumptions.

One day, a few months into our life as married folk, I was driving down the road and saw a nice pop-up camper in a yard. I stopped and found out that they were only asking $125.00 for it, a steal back in 1982. I called Ken from the peoples' phone (no one had cellphones except James Bond) and said wow, guess what I found?! An uncomfortable pause, then he said "Uh....does it have a bathroom?" "Of course not! It's a pop-up camper, not the Ritz!" I quipped.  He responded: "Well, I'm really more of a Holiday Inn kind of guy. I don't want a camper." Why I never thought to ask these questions, I do not know. I was raised going to King's Camp on Lake Allatoona, in a tent, spooning with my siblings on the cold, wet, uneven ground. I know my Mama really only agreed to this because she loved Daddy and us. It went against every sensibility her German-influenced housekeeping rules would allow. But she jumped in there with all the prep and cooking and cleaning that camping entails. In the same manner, she fed my constant influx of animals that came to our home. I appreciate that these things went completely against her nature, but she did them anyway (Happy Birthday, Mama).

Even with the rocky start, along the way of Ken and I's long trek, we have actually camped. Two of our years were lived in a leaky, old, decrepit camper (it did have a bathroom) while we built a house on acreage. A few years ago, one of our sons took up camping in a big way. He has the gift of persuasion and sold me on the idea. I bought a little camper (brown, ugly, dated, boring) and surprised Ken with it one night. I cleaned it up, painted it so it looked like a darling, retro Barbie camper -- turquoise, cream and coral inside and out. We put down a new floor, sewed adorable little curtains and put a shiny new backsplash behind the stove. It was so cute, when I decided to sell it I had three people show up at the same time to buy it -- two of the parties circled the block while the first lady bought it.  I doubled our money, then reinvested in a newer, much bigger camper. It's so darling, but one of our sons is now living in it with his family while they build their house on ten acres (who does that?!). By the time we get it back, maybe I'll sell that one too, just for fun. Ken keeps reminding me that we could take that money, put it aside, and just rent a cottage nearby when our children camp. I don't know. Might be a thing...

 This week, we are camping with that persuasive son, his wife and their four energetic children in Kentucky. We have an uncanny knack of doing this when the temperature bumps down to Alaskan climes. So far, the water has frozen up every night. I have a wicked cold, can't breathe and feel like I'm operating at less than half capacity. At night, Ken and I bundle up while I strap on the CPAP and put on an eye mask to block the light. Sounds like purgatory, but I sure am loving the time with these little people who won't stay little very long. Seize the day. Our concluding activity will be to visit the Ark Encounter, an amazing experience I highly recommend. Ken's never seen it before, so I'm looking forward to his reaction. And I'll try not to cry when I see that big boat on the hill. 

Both Ends Now

Little children have an uncanny way of being blunt and telling it like it is. As parents, we spend a lot of their growing up years trying to teach them the art of diplomacy and kindness (well, at least we should be). It takes a lot of intentionality to help them understand the other side, to have empathy for others but at the same time have appropriate boundaries and strength to stand up for themselves. Daddy taught us siblings to be other-oriented, but also how to not be bullied. He told me once that if someone ever hit me at school, I was not to simply "take it." He said, "You better win that fight." It seemed so counter to his sweet nature for him to say such a thing, but he was teaching us the noble skill of self defense right along with the other lessons of standing up for the weak, the infirm, the little ones. 

Now that we have twelve grandchildren, all under the age of eleven, I am amazed at their candor and pluck. They are observing the world around them and learning what is true, what is not, and what matters. Heaven help their parents. It's not light work. Truth be told, we all mess our kids up in myriad ways, without even meaning to. When people say, "Oh, kids are resilient," I wonder. To me, they're pretty vulnerable and have to learn to navigate in a sometimes crazy world. My folks seemed to do it so well, while I worried so much of my life away, trying to somehow translate that good stuff over to our children. The grace of God is a very wonderful and inexplicable thing.

I see the beginnings of life-- the little ones come here so helpless, but incredibly demanding. Their most basic of needs have to be tended to. They cry, they eat, empty out, sleep, then start over. They can't even lift their heads up by themselves at first. We work with them, making them (hopefully) independent enough to be able to eventually take care of their own bodily functions, then we begin pushing them towards the edges of the nest. All of this takes years. We see extremes on either end of it. There are kids who are made to take on too much, but more often these days, kids who are still modeling truly infantile behavior. Our goal should be to work ourselves out of a job and have sturdy, tough, thoughtful, buoyant adults who can survive. In our culture of abundant resources, it gets harder and harder to do just that. Keep the end game in mind. We're talking about the future of our country, our world. A sacred trust.

The infant starts out helpless, then there's the bounteous, growing years and decades. The end of life, if one lives to a ripe, old age, often tends to taper in a sneaky, incremental way. It creeps up on us, usually because we start giving things up, quit moving, stop calculating what it means to grow. Serenity is good, needful, beautiful, but when I get stuck in my recliner or taking the too-traveled road rather than branching out into all the possibilities that I haven't discovered yet, then comfort becomes my idol, my goal. These are heavy thoughts. I don't know how to fight my iron-poor blood (or the delightfulness of a comfy-cozy chair). Then there's the sage wisdom of Solomon in the Good Book, "For everything there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up..." Then there's the principle of sowing and reaping. I hope we can all find ways to be sowing good seed, even into our old age, and reaping a sweet harvest. A little here, a little there, as we rise up and as we lie down. I'm gonna go tuck into our pile of pillows and dream about what I'm doing tomorrow...  

One Is Silver and the Other Is Gold...

I call her my "Cruise Friend," because we met, yes, while on a cruise. It was many years ago. Ken won a trip when he was building homes for a developer. We were in high cotton -- got to fly on a real plane all the way to Miami, get on a big ole boat and then pony up for all the food we could eat (even half a dozen of them chocolate molten lava cakes, just for asking).  When dinner was over, we'd stagger back to our room and there'd be cute little animals made out of towels sitting right there on our bed. We curled up like baby squirrels and slept like babies to the sway of the ocean. I've never been sophisticated and never will be, even though I adore Mozart. 

Our group had assigned seating at dinner. While getting acquainted with the folks around us, I happened to mention that we homeschooled our children. One of the ladies pointed to a sweet face across the table and said that she was also teaching her kids. Back then, we were considered extremely strange to do such things...some people thought we needed our heads examined (we started way back in 1989). Kathy and I immediately struck up a conversation that has never truly ended. Now, some twenty years later, we can spend an entire day talking and then have to force ourselves to shut up and go home. We've laughed, cried, prayed for everything under the sun, told our stupid stories, gossiped, asked forgiveness, complained, fixed a few problems, agonized over our kids, griped about politics, pondered the universe and shared all things about the Lord we both love. We often speak of both our sweet Daddies who are in heaven, think about what they must be experiencing and wonder if they know each other yet. Sister from a different mother. 

She is also an Island Friend. These are my busy friends who are busy living on their universe while I'm busy living on mine. We wave across the way, occasionally row our boats to meet up somewhere, and then pick up where we left off. We think the best of each other and trust that friendship is something lifelong, treasured, rare. That trust extends between "trips" and knows that neither time nor trouble will rust our boats. My old Sunday School teacher said that scriptural adage: "A man of many friends comes to ruin..." She also pointed out that we might have lots of acquaintances and relationships along the way, but you normally only get a few truly good friends in your lifetime, sometimes only a handful. I think this is true. 

Tonight, we met up for her birthday, a month-and-a-half late. We squeezed thousands of words into a few hours. I ate too much while she behaved, as usual. I wish I could learn her iron-willed moderation, for longer than a minute. When the evening wound down and I was driving back home, I thanked God for friends like her. We're planning on a whole lot more talking, even if it means we stretch it into the next millennia or so. It's probably gonna take that long...  

Slugs in the (Not) Snow

After finally clearing out my little art studio -- bucketloads of mysterious craft supplies, dried-up paint, random lengths of ribbon and strange tools -- I did away with about 3/4's of all the stuff. Some was given away, some went into the landfill and I even had a bonfire (any excuse, eh?). We put the things back in there that actually will get used. I feel pounds lighter and the room now feels airy and serene. Maddie (10) and Caiden (6) and I (39?) tried it out this weekend, replete with gorgeous music, paints and a blow-dryer to speed up the fun parts of paint drying. I'm a natural-born clutter bug, but I have to admit that clearing out all that mess was inspiring. The colors flowed freely as our right brains took over. I really must do this to the rest of the house. I'll think about it tomorrow...

Meanwhile, in the bleak midwinter of Georgia, where nothing weatherwise is certain, we slogged through Ken's knee surgery today. Weeks of holidaying ahead for his rehab, I'm never going to get on with my January plans. I haven't even made them yet. It's almost February, with our 42th anniversary  and a camping trip looming with some of our children and grandchildren. Then there's spring and then Italy and the world keeps on turning. 

How many of you have broken their New Year's resolutions already? 

Dear Self, 

There's frozen green beans in the freezer, fresh blueberries in the fridge, lean ground turkey too. The gym is close enough to walk to and oh yeah, I forgot that I signed up again for that groovy dance program online. Something's got to give. Please do something about it.

Feeling bloated,

Rosemarie   

Yee Haw

Today was one of those days where life looks like Spaghetti Junction, where several major highways meet and cross up, outside Atlanta. That crazy place brings trepidation to my heart, any time we have to go through it. Ken still loves slinging our car to the outside of those curves, with me shrieking and cringing in full-pucker position. You'd think I'd learn to just be quiet and quit indulging his mangy-boy-creature self. It's a fact of life that all (or most) men have a 12-year-old wild boy still inside them. Now about taking that trash out...

Morning found me at the hospital with Ken's Daddy. Old age and the ravages of dementia are rapidly disconnecting him from the land of the living. When only a few weeks ago, he was able to at least string some sentences together, they now turn into the smallest of fragments, shredded and flaking away like snowflakes melting into the earth. I see this large, strong beast of a man reduced to child-like behavior, even the basic functions of eating and sleeping falling back to infanthood. He twists his blankets into knots, looking for some way out of the puzzle. Death comes to some simply. My MawMaw and Daddy died like kittens in their recliners, with their boots on. Not everyone gets that lucky. The future yawns in front of us, the unknown, the fear of it. I have to lay my heart before the Lord and ask for both mercy and wisdom for the days I know so little of. To worry is to lose today. Just stop that. 

Afternoon found me on the other side of Newnan, with four of our grandchildren who needed me. We turned off the devices, ate muffins, took down the Christmas tree and danced to beautiful music. Well, Eden danced and we swayed, the baby turning in circles and making lots of noise. Then it started... 

A fixer-upper listing of mine went viral and I was barraged with texts, emails and calls, ending up with nigh-a-dozen offers. Amazing -- a house with a bad roof, a kitchen with a caving-in floor and no updates since 1964 -- but it was hot property because it was a brick ranch in an up-and-coming part of town. I hoofed it back towards home, whipped into the Chick-Fil-A drive-through for dinner and inhaled my food while we decided which offer to take. 9:33 p.m. had us binding, with the dog at my feet and the cat curled up on my desk. I talked to my Mama for a spell and thought about the Twilight Zone that I live in sometimes. Spaghetti Junction, where there's too many carbs and a whole lotta sauce...