Naturally, Politically Incorrect

I was the gal who showed up with scaffolding, ladders and paint brushes to change out the colors in fancy houses and businesses. There are many places that now have hand-crafted logos, done by my hands. What started as a mural and art business morphed into a regular-Joe-type painting trade when the downturn of 2008 changed everything we knew about "normal." Wealthy people quit opting for Renaissance-type dining rooms and started dulling down everything into neutral and updated, just in case they decided to sell, if the market ever came back. It turned into a four-or-five year grind before we saw anything ease back into hope, or at least that's what our family saw. When we look back at our Social Security reports that start coming when you hit your 50s and above, it was astonishing that we didn't starve to death. Especially during those tough days, I got kicks and giggles when I'd show up to a job (often with my young daughter, Elizabeth). I had numerous paint shirts that had scads of colors on them. The owner or contractor would look at me and ask what I was there for. I'd glance down at my shirt and say "I'm the painter." They would usually smile and tell me how unusual it was to have a woman painter. One supervisor, at a snooty university where I was hired to paint, seemed miffed that I was a woman (he said, "But you're a woman." I said "yes, and I'm the best painter you will find.") He refused my entrance to the job site until I put on an "appropriate" shirt. I asked him what was considered appropriate, since I was a painter and paint tends to get onto clothing. He said I needed a collared shirt that was clean. I left and went to a local Walmart and found an ugly, huge, collared shirt. My job was, of course, on point and there were no complaints, but I charged him for the time, the mileage, the shirt and the extra aggravation of making me start late. I looked around as I was working that day at the other contractors, who had outfits just as "dirty" as my original shirt. My only conclusion is that he was aggravated at me being a woman painter, even though that had never been a problem in my past. I am not a feminist, far from it. In fact, I think that all this goings-on about girl power and women empowerment might have done a whole lot of damage. God made us all different. We're simply not the same. I don't see but a tiny fraction of women picking up our garbage or standing on the top of skyscrapers. In my prime, I was physically stronger than any woman I knew, but an average-strength man could have still whooped me at arm wrestling. But then watch him try to birth an 11-pound baby. Not happening. God gave us gifts, some of them crossing gender roles, some not. But I say, viva la difference. 

Daddy never treated my sister and I as china dolls -- he taught us to work hard with him in the yard and garden, pushing past what we thought we could do. He also loved that we were girls and would tell us: "Be a tiger on the court but a lady off it." He liked for us to be femininely dressed on game days. I loved the idea that I could enjoy my dresses and then go all out when they threw up the game ball. 

As I age and see the beauty of the way we are made differently, it means more and more to me. I have been blessed with masculine men all around me, but the idea of masculinity being toxic has not been my experience. The men in my life are very masculine and would tear into anyone who tried to harm a woman; they also cry at births and funerals and they love their Mamas and wives, starting with my Daddy. I think of my Dad, my husband, our boys, my father-in-law and the extended men in our family. Heaven help anyone who tried to traverse that wall of heat to hurt one of us. I am lucky to have these examples around me, but I'm afraid our society has lost sight of those kinds of men and are not teaching their boys the things that matter. Wake up. We need them on that wall. I might be inviting heat when I speak these kinds of words in this culture. Some would have us believe that we are all simply the same. We are not. We are uniquely designed to fit together, physically, mentally, culturally.  

There was no dividing up of tasks...my baby brother came along much later, but learned the same work ethic. By the time he was born, my sister and I were playing ball in the front yard, digging the garden with Daddy and scrubbing toilets with Mama. We had plenty of time for play and contemplation, but everyone had to help. Many hands make light work. 

Maybe the reason I am cavalier about feminism is that I had a father who loved us so deeply, valued our femininity and at the same time taught us to work in the mud. Career wasn't job one. God, family and cooperation were. We learned lots of ways to earn and save money, but the job of raising good people with character was more important than the almighty dollar or the "appropriate" degree. When you can adapt, work, and have lots of skills, you can always find a way to survive. At the heart of this, my parents' simple and profound love of God was the meat of our existence. We looked to Him as our provider, as we labored and played through our days. Every concern or word of thanks was directed to prayer to God, day and night. He always answered, one way or another. He still does. 

In our extended family, which is now huge, this is still the Way. The diverse directions we have taken include fancy degrees, eclectic careers, homemakers, differing kinds of schooling, some extremely successful, some average, some struggling more and some less. The thread that runs through it all is the dependence on Christ, the heart that seeks and looks to Him for their answers. You will find Bibles in all these many homes, and the heart of them still runs true to the roots that grew this tree. The marriages are intact, the babies keep coming, the fields keep getting plowed and the seeds sown. We're all sinners, but saved by the grace of God and not our own goodness. Miracles still happen.     

Adventures in Kidnapping

Contemplating a cruise always brings up our first-ever trip to Jamaica. Ken had won a trip, alongside other guys and wives who were building houses (this was before everything melted down in 2008). We climbed onto a big plane to Miami. I still remember the couple in front of us, 10:00 in the morning. Giggling and ready to party, they managed three beers apiece before we even got to our destination. The flight home was a far different sight. 

 I clung tightly to Ken's elbow. My only other flight had been to New York City, where the turbulence resembled a corkscrew in the sky. He said, "If we crash, I'm gonna need that arm back." 

We had a fantastic time, feeding stingrays on Stingray Island and snorkeling with colorful fish. But when we got to our excursion in Jamaica, my knee decided to act up. We were supposed to climb a set of massive falls (Dunn River Falls), where groups of people helped one another not to fall to their deaths. There were steps and landing spots to the left side of the water, so I opted to use them instead of slip-sliding my way to certain knee surgery. 

As I climbed up, I got far ahead of the folks navigating the actual falls. Ken was doing his usual gentlemanly part, helping everyone up the precarious rocks. I came to a large landing deck, where I was quite alone and also close to the end of the excursion. A large man with an official-looking uniform came up to the platform. He asked me if I wanted to party. I politely said no thank you. Then he asked me if I'd like some rum. He rhapsodized about the different kinds of rum he could treat me to. Then he asked if I'd like some home-grown herbs to smoke. I repeatedly told him that I was not interested, and that I was simply waiting on my husband. He seemed to not believe me, and began tugging on my arm and trying to pull me from the platform. I was literally about to start screaming when I looked down and saw our group coming into sight. I gesticulated wildly as I pointed out my beefy husband to the uniformed crazy man. He decided to run away rather than take his chances with Ken Norton, Neanderthal hunk man that he is. 

At dinner that night, we told the story and a couple at our table said, "That's why we didn't get off the boat today." They had gone on a similar cruise the year before, having a similar story to ours. The husband climbed the falls while the wife worked her way up the steps and platforms. Instead of a man approaching, a little Jamaican woman came up to her and offered to braid her hair for a cheap price. For some strange reason, she decided to do it. The lady led her down a little path to a hut nearby. She chatted while she braided her hair, telling her that her husband would be told where she was (if he got through before she did). 

Meanwhile, the husband arrived at the end of the excursion, with no wife in sight. There was, however, a large man waiting there. He told the husband that if he wanted to see her again, he had to give him $5000.00.  The husband said, "My money's on the boat!" to which the kidnapper said he would gladly take the husband's Rolex watch instead. In shock, and not really thinking clearly, he took off the watch. The kidnapper grabbed it, pointed down a trail and said that his wife was down there, and dashed away in the opposite direction. The husband instinctively ran down the trail, to find his wife sitting alone in the hut. 

I don't know if Mr. Uniform had similar notions, but it's possible. I've often thought about the scenario and what I would have done, had he succeeded in pulling me off that landing. Firstly, it's always smart to never find yourself alone in foreign places, and secondly, it's probably a good idea to at least pretend to faint. I've tried lugging a floppy body around and it never goes well. Don't ask...   

Simple Summers

This time of year, when there is a blanket of heat and humidity hanging over us all, reminds me of childhood once again. We didn't care that there was no air conditioning because we didn't know the difference. Summer days were carefree, for the most part. Our folks required us to work alongside them, in the yard and garden, cleaning house, helping Daddy with whatever he was doing too. But they were always good to  let us play and have plenty of free time. There were fields all around our house, at the end of the humble subdivision. Behind us was a neighbor's 200+ acres, where there were horses, cows, and a lake. I'd slip between the barbed wire and wander through the creek, slipping tadpoles into a container to bring them home to hatch out in our little aquarium (we woke to dozens of baby frogs all over the house one time). There were stolen bareback rides on crazy horses, sunning on patches of grass after dips in the muddy lake, and picking wild blackberries for Mama to make cobblers (topped with a slab of vanilla ice cream). My sister and I would make pretend houses in the woods, cutting trails with all the running back and forth. The neighborhood kids would congregate in our front yard for softball or basketball games with Daddy, topping off hot days with a run in the sprinkler. Life was simple. Work, play, sandwiches at lunch and then supper at home each evening. Baths, brush your teeth, then bedtime sprawled out slightly damp, with the windows wide open. I would look out at the stars and talk to God about how pretty everything was that He made. My siblings and I were extremely blessed to have a secure, stable home, unlike the homes my parents came from. There were no fancy vacations or clothes or Disney World and that did not bother me in the least. Those aren't bad things, but a happy home doesn't have to include them. The uncomplicated world I grew up in has made the rest of life more wondrous. If I thought every day life was supposed to be a carnival, I'd get mighty disappointed as an adult. 

I highly recommend simplifying your children and grandchildren's lives. When you take away the phones, TVs and devices, it's shocking and difficult for a few days. The mind goes blank, but then it begins to actually work again. Provide them with plenty of work ("If you don't work, you don't eat")...plenty of free time, plain blank paper, pencils and paints. Shoo them out the door. Take them to the library at least once a week and join the summer reading program. Give them a treat for every book they finish. Let them be bored. Give them worth by attaching work and service to good things. Hug someone. Visit your old people. If you don't have any, visit a local nursing home and have them draw or play something to give the lonely ones there. When technology was starting to take over, back in the 80s and 90s, these are the things we did to stave it off. It takes even more effort now. Be the weird ones. Be the tough Mama and Daddy. You'll thank me later.   

Ruminating on Italy

I am home, still and quiet in the morning heat. The awareness that this is not all there is in the world overwhelms me. Just a few days ago, I was hoofing it all over Italy with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble, sweat pouring off me like a faucet. I swore that when I got home I would jump up every day and beat a path around the block, since I'd become accustomed to that in Europe. But alas, I've been in a zombie state since we returned -- I picked up a strange cough over there and my stomach is revolting. I was almost out the door to church on Sunday when the comfy couch and wise husband persuaded me back. 

When two years of planning finally became reality, you would think that the amazing history, buildings and people would be what stands out. There was lots of shuffling of schedules and places, extraordinary feats of physicality needed to make the timeline occur, and the depravity of man to flesh it all out. We fat Americans love our comfort and air conditioning, and by all means don't mess with our acquisition of food. Bathrooms are another problem but I won't go there today. Suffice it to say, even the air in Italy seems to sing. The close proximity of the ocean and the atmosphere brought on by structures that are thousands of years old brings out the artiste in all but the most cynical. We got off the plane in Venice to the sound of water taxis. I saw my life pass before my eyes as both the dock and the boat swayed to the wake of oblivious barges pushing through the canal. No one seemed to worry that we didn't have our sea legs yet. By the third day, we began to figure out the importance of strong thighs and timing. And walking. 

I was immediately struck with not just the beauty of the place, but the beauty of the people. They walked on cobblestones everywhere with ease, lightly dressed and relaxed. In America, even thin people seem to have cellulite. Not the Italians, with their olive, smooth skin and candle-lit complexions. Must be all the fresh food and the walking. No GMO-infused produce here. There was definitely some eye-rolling at our silliness. How could we not be silly, when we had passed into a portal that defied time, culture, proximity? The oldest things we have in the U.S. are the chimneys left over from a couple of centuries ago. 

The wonders that we were seeing on our frantic, much-overbooked tour (if it were up to me, I'd stay for a few weeks in a single town, soak up the aura and shops and cafes and then make occasional day-trips to the various places) were striking awe into all of us. What I didn't expect was what would go on in me internally. In this awe-inspiring place, and with our bevy of musicians trying to scurry to where we were supposed to be...I found myself invisible. I was struggling valiantly to keep up with the necessities, walking with a bum knee that's anticipating surgery next month and scolding myself for not having lost a hundred pounds over the last two years. Or at least twenty. I knew we were planning on doing this thing, but somehow floated in the ether, practicing my flute diligently but vacillating with the Oreos. They are such good dance partners. 

But me, invisible. Being humbled is a good thing, but is never a welcome thing. We might even say, "Humble me, Lord" but we don't really mean it. With my diminished physical capacity, combined with the tour's hurry-on-up-or-you-get-left-behind mantra, I sweated like a stuck pig and tried to look at the marvels while not tripping on the cobblestones. Sounds miserable, yes? Yes, it was. And then it was wonderful. 

We played five concerts over there, arriving to each place with our clothes plastered to our bodies. How would we possibly play with any skill, since we'd already depleted all our strength? But each time, we settled into our seats with music and instruments in hand, breathing in the magnificence of the places we found ourselves in. As Maestro tested the rooms with the music during warm-up, the notes floating above us like gossamer threads, something took over and magic was made. Italians who attended held their hands over their hearts, some of them weeping. We wept too. 

I thought about life, so brief. We believe we are so important, so necessary to the universe. How often do I poke my head beyond my own cossetted, protected little world to think about someone outside my comfort zone? There's a great, big planet rotating out there and it's not dependent on me for the gravity. I might be chewing on this for a long while...   

The Daughter and Her Day

My normally disorganized self has been on hyper-drive this week, preparing for my Italy trip with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble. Because I'm quite aware of my weaknesses, I have been laying out all the gobbleygook that is my stuff for weeks. Our daughter, Elizabeth, who has her Dad's packing/sorting/organizing superpowers, offered to help me do my final packing for the trip. We decided to meet up to get our nails done, have lunch, and then try to squeeze everything into two carry-on bags. Her three brothers and sister-in-laws scoffed at the notion. There was some posturing and put-downs on Memorial Day, but Liz does her best work under pressure and when she's underestimated. 

In the days leading up to our planned pack-fest, Liz and Marcus' wedding video came across my Facebook feed. It was their fourth anniversary this week. Think back to four years ago... June 2020, the Year of Our Undoing. We had an amazing wedding planned, another of our do-it-yourself events, at a park in Cave Spring, Georgia. But the actual nuptials were not to be outside, mind you. There was a chapel and a huge old renovated schoolhouse to glamorize and keep everyone dry. Liz has always been in love with the idea of weddings but never, ever was she going to have hers outdoors. When she was a little girl, she would ask me to buy her wedding magazines. Every few years she would decide on a different color scheme for her someday-wedding. During the engagement, she and I mused over colors, ribbon, flowers, ideas. She is our baby (of four) and our only girl. We have done many DIY weddings together for nieces and nephews and brothers, and she has been a bridesmaid many times over (using her Amazon-like skills at snatching myriad bouquets out of the air at the bouquet toss at any wedding she happened to attend. The girl played college basketball and those rebounding abilities come in handy). 

I was so happy for her, this stoic but funny woman who rebuffed many a suitor. She's very tall, beautiful, complex. When Marcus came along, the whole family fell in love with him. Their engagement was short (we don't believe in long ones --if it's the One, let's get on with this party!) Then Covid hit like a literal tsunami. We sent out invitations and kept being assured that the venue would stay open. She and I put together flowers and decor, filling up the dining room where it looked like a wedding bomb had gone off. There were showers where people dropped in and stayed 6-feet apart; gifts and RSVPs began flowing to the house. Three weeks before the wedding, the head count was that 340 guests were coming. Then came the call: the venue was shut down because of the Covid restrictions. 

We were all damaged, maybe permanently, because of the strange things that went on during those years. I most sympathize with the brides and grooms who were forced to change their big plans, but especially the people who died without their loved ones around them. We had both of these things happen to us in close proximity, with the wedding and then the death of my mother-in-law ensconced in a hospital for weeks before she passed. There wasn't much hope going on in June of 2020. 

The rule was that gatherings of more than 50 people were restricted. Our close family has over a hundred people in it, much less friends and church family, business associates and acquaintances. I felt like I was cutting out my heart, to pare down that list to so few. We live right in our small town, on a busy and noticeable corner. Our city councilwoman got permission from the mayor and police chief to turn a blind eye, so we slipped in a few more. Yes, we were having this wedding outside, in our backyard. Compromises were made and life makes a way.

When I watched that wedding video once again this week, for the millionth time, and with tears, I marvel at the grace of God. For all the uncertainty and trials that we were all going through, that day shone as a beacon of hope. While cities were burning with riots and race wars, there was a blissful and God-honoring marriage between two "races" (we are all the human race) going on under our trees. Two families melding and holding one another as brothers and sisters, testifying to the truth that got off the boat with Noah. Children laughed and danced; old Grandaddy threw off his coat and cut a rug too. There was a mist of hope running through the night air and the twinkle lights strung in the trees.  As the crickets sang and we sent off the beautiful couple through the front gate with sparklers and cheers, there was peace on earth in our little universe. Beautiful dream come true.  

Buongiorno!

I never meant to travel. Never had a bucket list either. We've always stayed pretty close to home for vacations -- the beach, the beach, the beach... We were feeding four very active Amazon-sized children and they loved nothing more than to head to Laguna Beach Christian Retreat near Panama City and hang out with all their cousins and friends. It was the best of times, all of us staying in our individual cottages. Sometimes there would be 20 or so families all staying there. Our favorite cottage was on a corner inside the camp, and we'd chew the fat and drink coffee while the kids played all manner of sports and games, swimming in the pool and ocean every day. Often, we would go both May and September for two weeks at a time. I can't look back too long or I'll be in a puddle.

Travel...our Maestro (Terry Lowry, the conductor of the Carrollton Wind Ensemble) brought up the subject of Italy around two years ago. We were invited to play four concerts there, and were going to need to raise money so the band could go. Long trail, but we are headed there next week. I'm excited, scared, and a little nauseous. Planes make me nervous, much less a 10-hour flight, a 6-hour time change, and who knows about the toilet paper situation over there? I am notorious for packing at literally the last minute, but I have my things already spread out over the spare bedroom bed. This is serious. 

Ken was going to go with us. I could tell he didn't want to. He likes things that are predictable, things that he has already done a thousand times. He likes clocks, schedules, Sonic and Netflix. But he loves me and knew I thought it would be romantic to see Italy with him in tow. It wasn't until we attended a friend's wedding that things changed. His sister Melissa, rather like Ken in a woman's body, reached over and took my hand. She said, "Rose, don't make Ken go to Italy." I crack up every time I think about this. She said, "Ya'll will both be trying to make each other happy. He'll be trying to be spontaneous for your sake and you will be trying to hold back for his sake. Neither one of you will have much fun." I think she could be right, but I reserve the right to drag him back over there someday, if I think we could manage it. We have been married a very long time and I know the things he likes: warm beach trips with the family where he doesn't really ever get in the water but enjoys a good book and turning over every twenty minutes to get a nice, even tan;  breakfasts with me, every morning and preferably in a restaurant; and again, Sonic, which only happens when I am not around. That stuff is not food, but it reminds him of the place he grew up with: Fat Boy in Smyrna.  

I've never practiced the same pieces of music this many times in my entire life. If my brains were intact, I would have it all memorized. Even with that, last night at rehearsal I messed up on things that I had down cold, random notes and such. We're not even there yet and I'm nervous. For three of our concerts we will be playing in ancient cathedrals with amazing acoustics. One is connected to Puccini, one to Pavarotti and one to Vivaldi. I've been on a couple of Caribbean cruises but never flown across the ocean to places older than America. I hate flying, but I know if it's my time to go, there ain't a thing I can do about it. 

I've been practicing my Italian on an app, maybe for a year, but when I try to remember a phrase or essential word, only a few seem to surface. Buongiorno -- bagno -- ciao -- arrivederci. I brought that up at a recent family gathering and one of my well-traveled sons said: "Just use Google translate. That's what I do!" Well, just stick me on a conveyor belt, 'cause here I come.    

 

Best Laid Plans

The downturn of 2008 like to have killed me. I was thinking deeply today, while trying to take a little nap this afternoon. We spent the morning helping one of our sons who is living in a camper and building his house (history repeating itself in our family...). I squeezed my fluffy frame up and down a ladder -- that frame that's being supported by a bum knee, in small spaces in his house, painting ceilings and walls. Arriving back home, I scrubbed paint off my poor skin until it was beet red, then scrunched up for a snooze after Ken tucked me in. He does that, arranging my pillows just so...it makes for the most blissful naps. It makes me feel safe, looked-after. Lord help me not to take that man for granted. 

Then I couldn't sleep, my mind drifting back to the day we sold our wonderful farmhouse in 2012. We had built that place in 1996 from scratch, literally, carving it out of the dirt, building it stick-by-stick, living in our leaky old camper with those four kids and stretching ourselves to the limit to get it finished. The plan was to live there until we died and be buried in the backyard. If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans. On paper, if you look at our income for 2008-2012, it does not make sense that we were not homeless and begging bread on the corner. We had lost everything but our people and our house, and it was questionable that we could hang on much longer. The people were a non-negotiable (even the teenagers). In fact, our children labored alongside us through it, the boys who were working paid rent and our daughter and I loaded up our ladders and painted houses while Ken faithfully put his boots on every morning to eke out enough to keep our heads (barely) above water. It's interesting how the Lord kept us afloat and we never missed a meal (a few wouldn't have hurt). 

When the house finally went under contract, I hit the road, searching for something that we could buy with the cash we would be getting after the mortgage was paid off at closing. I would view 8 or 10 homes myself, then take Ken and show him the 2 or 3 that I liked. There was a lot of scrambling, as we had only a short while to find something. And it was slim-pickin's; we were not going back into debt. Ken had nearly died from a liver abscess a few years before, and we still owed nine doctors. Our plan was to pay them off and then buy a house with what was left. There was $125,000.00 to show for our many years of buying and selling houses, after we paid the piper. 

My days were a rush of looking for the next house. When it was bedtime, I'd trudge upstairs and shower, then lay prostrate on the rug in our bedroom and cry. In particular, one of our sons and our daughter were so upset about us selling the house, it was simply unbearable. Our children had built the place right along with us. Their happy memories and childhood adventures were had in the woods and fields surrounding it.  My stomach was turning inside out from the grief; I began having bouts of intense abdominal pain, particularly during my nightly cry-fest on the rug. 

I must have looked at a hundred homes in Douglas and Carroll counties. There were few things in our price range, and nothing made sense. One day, I decided to simply search "Villa Rica," regardless of the price tag. Up came an old Victorian in downtown Villa Rica that was more than we were able to pay (and still stay out of debt). It was vacant, so I went to look anyway. The lockbox was on the back door. As I opened it, I noticed the hand-carved wood and stained glass. I stepped into the laundry room and looked up, where there was an ancient light fixture that looked like a star. Every corner I turned, there was charm, intricate woodwork, fireplaces, stained and leaded glass, 12-foot ceilings, an insane front porch. All kinds of things that screamed my name. I have always loved old homes and we had tried several times in past years to buy one. They were always beat up and in serious need of money and attention, but we tried anyway. None of them worked out. I was scared to hope for this one and put my heart and emotions in neutral.  It didn't have a decent bathroom and it was dark and had scads of ugly wallpaper peeling, as well as literally dozens of different colors inside and out. But the bones, they were good. I took Ken to see it and that was all she wrote. He said, "This will be our grandparent house" (there were none of those yet, but we were hoping).  When we offered up our $125,000, the seller said no, but that he would owner-finance the rest of it. There was a "vanilla" house in Douglasville that we knew we could buy and fix up for that amount, so we prayed and stuck to our guns. We were tired of bondage and knew we had to be out of debt in order to make it. It's in the Carroll County deed book, that the seller finally agreed to that price. An army of loved ones, family and church helped us move. Two days in, my stomach had had enough and I wound up in the hospital for a week. Worry, grief, stress, those things can wreck you if you let them. Trusting God is the better way. My tendency is to try and fix everything myself, before I just ask Him. He had already answered, and gloriously. 

I think often, probably too often, of all that conspired in those days. Our house had emptied out except for our daughter, not long before we moved. All three sons had married up and Liz was away at college. I had lots of time to ponder what had just happened to us. Ken got me a puppy and I spent a great deal of time languishing on that front porch. 

You look on your life and it seems like it happened in a blink. The turning of the pages and seasons, like a panorama or a book, occurs without our permission. One foot in front of the other, the next event, the next week, the weddings, the births, the deaths. Sometimes our noses are so attached to the grindstone, we're not even aware that we've become exhausted, grumpy, cynical. I think it's essential that we clean up, stop and dream on our beds, cool and dusty with cornstarch. We make our plans. Life happens while we're distracted, just trying to survive. Look upward, angel...