If I Was Rich, I'd Buy Me a Beach House....

My daughter hauled me down to Panama City last week in her spiffy new car. At least that's what I'm telling everybody. With Pa out of work for the last two months, I didn't need to be being irresponsible with our money and all. We stayed at some half-renovated motel cheaply, shared expenses and ate simply. Most of that you have to do at home anyway, so why not find some nice water to swim in while you are at it? 

We knew we were getting close when her windshield started getting really foggy with salt. We cranked up the radio, rolled down the windows and let the heavy wind inside the car, breathing in the thick, briny air. It's healing, it is. You know you have only a little while to enjoy it, so you try to squeeze all the goody out of it while you're there. We've stayed for two weeks before and it still wasn't long enough. Liz and I only had two full days (apart from the driving). It definitely wasn't enough, but I'll take it. 

The sand on the Gulf is like sugar. I love to lay face-down and sift it through my hands, looking really closely at it. There's always teeny, tiny shells in there that escape your notice if you only walk on it. When the wind blows, you see it softly drift like a confection on a cake. The water is crystal green and blue, most days. Sometimes there are no waves at all and it looks like a lake out of a dream. At home in Georgia, all of our lakes are unnatural and tend to look more like a mud bog. When we plant our bottom sides in the sand in PC, it's somewhat like dying and going to heaven. 

They call Panama City "The Redneck Riviera." So I guess you know what I am. My people are very content to while away their vacations in simple block rooms, as long as they get to troll down to those white beaches and jump in the surf. We don't care about stars on our hotel. We don't even care about hotels, for heaven's sake. It's not about where you stay, as long as it's habitable. It's about that moment when you first see the water or when your toes hit the sand. Or when your grandbaby squeals and has to be let down to run. We like to get all pickled and crinkled at the ocean, then jump into the motel pool to cool off. Liz and I did that our first day there, languishing in the pool so long that we forgot ourselves and our sunscreen. We came home happily red, full of vitamin D and fully grounded.

While cruising down the roads, we saw all the parts that we can't relate to. We drove around to the really fancy side, to Rosemary Beach and Seaside. It was night. There were twinkling lights inside beach cabanas and restaurants. People walking and riding bikes everywhere. The air was perfumed with meat and spices. The mansions on the shore had curtains on their porches. You could hear the murmurs and laughter of people inside the houses. We talked about getting out and getting some coffee, but I didn't want to break the mood. It was reassuring to see life thriving and humankind relaxing... Magical. We drifted on back to Panama City and stopped for ice cream at a seaside shack on the redneck end of things. Perfect.

One of my favorite things to do is go to the shell shop. It's an authentic place, run by an old Vietnam Veteran. He has articles pinned up on the walls, telling stories of controversies and apocalypse. He has long, stringy hair and doesn't initially talk unless spoken to, and even then it takes some effort to draw him out. He has warning signs about the shop, telling people to watch their kids and not to steal stuff. But then when I hold up a beautiful shell and ask him about it, he softens and tells me there's another one that is cheaper. He shows it to me, but it's not nearly as pearly as the first one. I coo over the bewitching shells, so he decides I'm not evil. By the end of the visit, he is asking my lovely daughter and I how to better display his custom jewelry. We give him our thoughts. He carefully wraps our shells and puts them into a box. We leave, carrying our purchases like delicate treasure. You can't get that at Alvin's Island or Pier Park. 

We've been home for a few days now, but I can still smell the beach. I can still go back there in my mind. It's going to fade, I just know it. But I'm going to hang on as long as I can.

I Will Never Grow Up

I never really planned on being a grownup. Not in a morbid way, where I thought I might die early. I wanted a husband, children, to work with my hands, grow things, paint things, have my own house... but I knew that I wasn't ever going to be grown up enough to be as important as the bankers, librarians, statisticians, CPAs, etc. that I saw rushing to and fro in the world. Maybe it's a math thing that I resisted (seeing as those people seem to be math-oriented people). Wall Street was a very important place, about the time I hit adulthood. When I saw pictures of those people hollering and all stressed out, I thought that situation was pretty close to hell, even though you could tell some of them loved it and thought it was pert-near heaven. 

I grew up in an easy spot on the planet. The South, a bit slower than where the Yankees hail from. Hot, with little or no air conditioning. The pavement in front of our house would melt, little bubbles of tar oozing up. We'd walk barefoot to the store and get little black cooked places on our feet. In the summer everybody really idled down and ambled through, hoping for homemade ice cream, swimming holes and watermelon. At night, we'd take baths and lay sprawled-out on our beds, still damp. Windows and curtains wide open, the moon shining like a lamp, the glossy bushes outside looking like a thousand eyes glowing. The air was like a heavy, wet blanket. We tried to get to sleep before the heat caught up with us.

My mother's house was always neat, clean, sheets fresh and crisp, bathrooms sparkling, kitchen swept. There's a peace in that, if it's not accompanied by neurosis. Mama lost her neurosis when she got reconciled with the Lord, but she still kept a wonderful house. She realized early on that children don't stay little forever and she concentrated her efforts on us rather than worrying about her own agendas. After we were grown, she went back to nursing school and graduated with a 3.9 grade point average. There was time for raising us and time for fulfilling her dreams of finishing her education. 

We are facing a sullen, hot summer similar to the ones I remember as a child. Watching the moonlit nights, with Mars and Saturn doing cartwheels in the sky, I am drawn back to those nights when my Daddy would get us kids to lay down on the driveway and watch the stars and wait for comets to streak by. Camping trips to Lake Alatoona, where inevitably it was going to rain, there were going to be ants, snakes and outhouses. When you went swimming, there were thousands of tree stumps still on the bottom of the lake, just waiting to assault your feet and ankles. Nobody had thought of making swimming shoes back then. You just had to take your chances. We climbed trees, rode horses, walked to Sun Valley Beach a mile away, walked to the little store around the corner for penny candy and a Coke in a tiny bottle. Rode bikes, played hide and seek, softball in the front yard, ran rings around the field next door until there were trails all over it. Family gatherings at Dog River in Douglasville with picnics spread everywhere and kids dropping off rope swings. Smelly hound dogs in the front yard, with no fences, chains, collars or tags. Didn't need 'em...everybody knew each others' dogs. Mamas hollering when supper was ready. I could hear a lady a half mile away yelling "Regina!" every night. 

Who would want to grow up? But then the siren call of hormones sets in, imaginations bloom and the future becomes an enticing place. Possibilities and wings sprout, adventures call and the circle of life picks up speed. Life is both predictable and unpredictable, all at once. Now that I've experienced a good many circuits of years and seasons, it is exciting that there's always another bend in the road, if we will just stop to see it. Feel the heat, smother in the humidity, listen to the breeze, touch a baby's face, hold your hubby's hand, ask an old lady about what was, breathe the salt air at the beach, hear the waves, linger on the taste of a strawberry. 

The other night, I was leaving orchestra practice and realized that I really wanted to get home to my husband. I've spent a million hours with him, especially lately, but I missed him. We fuss and fight about stupid things, just like every couple. We huff, puff, demand our rights. But then I stop and ponder on the heart of us, where we started, what we've been through, what attracted me to him in the first place... how he's constant and tolerant. He loved me for me and for the child that never grew up. How lucky can you get?

Mama Ain't Proud No Mo'

Continuing the saga from a few years back, when we lived on a very busy road, with four precocious kids (those darling, daring escapees).... We lived at that house for 8 years, but I had in mind to move from there for a long time. For good reason, I was nervous about the powder keg which was my boys mixed with dangerous situations. One afternoon, around lunchtime, we returned from town in our van. As I pulled close to our driveway, I saw two teenagers walking across our yard, headed towards the house. I had the distinct impression that they were up to no good. It was during school hours and they just looked guilty. One of them turned and stared me down. I didn't want a confrontation in the driveway, so I drove slowly around the block. The truants were gone when we got back. I checked the house carefully before we went in, then got lunch ready. Maybe twenty minutes later, I heard a noise on the front lawn. I peeked out and there was one of the boys pinned face-down with a big cop on top of him. The other one was already in handcuffs. They robbed a house two doors up and a neighbor called it in. A chase ensued and ended on our lawn. The police came to my door later and said to keep an eye out, because one of the boys had had a gun and threw it in the woods while he was being chased. The police had not been able to find it. This whole scenario made me sincerely want to vacate. I felt we were exposed and I didn't feel comfortable living there anymore.

But alas, there was always humor sprinkled along the way while we were in that giant fishbowl of a house. We had a friend with about a dozen kids who lived a mile away. Richard (let's call him that) was one of these people who could do no wrong. He was very buttoned-up, kind, courteous, a perfectionist. His children were exemplary, his yard perfect, his wife an angel. So of course it was when Richard exercised and jogged by our house, all manner of bizarre things happened. If something odd occurred, I could almost bet that he was gonna be running by. Once, I was digging and planting one of my flower beds. In a dress. Hey, I saw an opportunity and I wasn't going to stop to change clothes. This flower bed was giant, built more like a hill than a bed. I was overreaching when I lost my balance and tipped over the top of the mound, feet and dress flying up. Of course Richard was ambling by. On another day, I had been up all night, delivering thirteen Golden Retriever puppies, several of whom had gotten stuck and had to be retrieved in an ungodly manner. I plopped, exhausted, onto the front porch, where I saw a big, fat cigar that someone had left there, unwrapped, with a box of matches beside it. I had a strange hankering, lit up that cigar and was puffing away when my dear friend jostled by. He was and is a very good Baptist and I imagine he thought I was too, up until that day. Now we've joined the Presbyterians. There were numerous other events, but the funniest was when I was in the driveway, about to get in my van. A really big insect flew up my dress. I tried to swish it away, but it just kept going up. I started flailing and slapping, but it continued buzzing and stinging. Finally, I just went ahead and threw my dress over my head. I found the stinkin' monster and slapped my poor fluffy body silly until it was dead. Dress and hair askew, hollering, slapping. Silence. Then disbelief, as I saw our friend jogging ever so slowly by. In recent years, I had the chance to eat supper with their family. I regaled this story to his kids. They were rolling in the floor when I asked him if he actually saw that happen. 

The answer, unfortunately, was yes, he did.

Goldfish, Sparrows and Me

Granddaughter Annabelle stood at the edge of our little pond, pointing and jabbering. From my comfy chair on the porch, I told her that, yes, I knew a tiny frog lived in there. She yelled, "Yaya! Someboogachaha fishies!" Or something like that. I peered into the murky water and there were two jewel-toned goldfish and then an apricot-colored one. How was this possible?! One year ago, almost to the day, something went wrong with our pond. We came home from a week of vacation to find that a hose had popped off, the water had drained out, and the pump had quit working. I assumed it overheated. When we discovered the mess, all my little goldfish were laying on top of the mud, dead. I had bought about a dozen of them from the pet store and they had thrived just fine, until there was no more water to swim in. Sadly, I placed their little limp bodies around some of our plants to fertilize them. Even though the pump was ruined, I filled the pond back up and hoped it wouldn't become a mosquito breeding factory. Over the course of a year, the water hyacinths took over, baby frogs erupted and it remained a pleasant place by our front porch. The only movement I ever saw was from a happy frog, jumping in and out. Until the other day, when Annabelle gave notice and we saw the (now quite large) and glittering goldfish emerging from the winter sludge. I cannot imagine how they survived the ordeal. When it happened, all we saw was thick mud and dead fish that had apparently been there several days. Somehow they must have been under all that, maybe in a pocket of water, to live through it. Either way, they remained undetected for a year. When spring came, they started eating up all the dormant water plants and we were finally able to notice them.

How many times is life like that? What appears to be an impossible situation, muck and mire, fire and rain, piles of troubles, trials and sorrows... insurmountable odds stacked against us. Yet one day we find ourselves swimming in clear waters. We can see the sky. There's food, water, happy frogs chirping. I don't know. Life goes on. We see around us death and life. We recently went to the funeral of a friend whose life was cut short. I looked around the room at the people, babies, old folks and wondered why this one has to go now, and how does the mind of God work as He sifts the sands of time? Our pastor's wife wrote a beautiful commentary on the ancient oak tree outside...about how much grief that tree had seen come and go. I've seen what time does to the body and to the mind, how it disrespects us and tears away at brain cells and tissue. Getting old adds to all these wonderful layers of life experience, but it also begins to speed everything up and we grasp at the moments as they whiz by. The kaleidoscope gets blurry and we can miss the preciousness of it if we don't make ourselves stop and savor the many aromas, both good and bad. Without knowing God, I don't know how anyone has hope or purpose and meaning. Someday, as my world winds down and time steals my brain cells -- or if I simply drop dead in my tracks and then become fertilizer, I look forward to fully knowing the One that I already know. The cycle and symbiosis of this magnificent, intricate world are not here simply by chance and it wasn't designed without a Designer. He is mercy and truth, love and justice, untethered by man's opinions of who He is supposed to be. I am at His mercy, but am also an undeserving recipient of His grace. "Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows..." Luke 12:6-7

Adventures in Nortonland

Ken and I started out, 34 years ago, fixing up one house after the other. One of our homes was in Smyrna...it was half-built and sitting sky-high in weeds. We bought it for a song and finished it over the course of about six months. I was pregnant with our third son, with two toddlers in tow (aged 3 and 1). That had to be the most exhausting thing I ever did, even more than the 2-year camper stint we did with four kids a few years later. I painted and stained every inch of that house myself as well as bought all the plumbing and lighting fixtures, products and supplies that we needed to finish it. It was insane, that's all. I would fit my big pregnant belly in between the rungs of the ladder, making a fantastic counter-balance when I was painting. I was often found wearing my husband's coveralls, barely zipping them over the grand lump in front of me. I particularly remember one day, where we decided to actually hire someone to help us finish putting up the moulding and trim in the house. They sent me, in the fella's dump truck, to the hardware store to pick up supplies. I was covered in paint and stain, no makeup, Papa's coveralls stretched to the limit, hair a hot mess. I ran into three people that I knew and none of them recognized me. What can I say? I'm a woman of great contrasts. We finally got into that house and I pushed out that 11 pound, 2 ounce sweet-as-sugar man-child three weeks later. Paul Bunyon and his blue ox's got nothin' on us.

We were very grateful for that house, how the Lord made a way for us to learn skills, do things ourselves (thanks to a lot of assistance and wisdom from parents and friends), and then for sending us properties that needed help. This enabled me to stay at home with our children while gaining sweat equity and lots of life experience. Don't ever say I didn't work or I might cut you.  Our end-game plan was to eventually pay cash for a home, which we finally did, bless God. But believe me, we really did work for it. While we lived at that house in Smyrna, though, our purpose was to eventually sell it and move out to the country, where we'd have privacy and room for some wild things to play and roam. 

I never liked all the traffic on the street in front of that house. I had three precocious boys that enjoyed risking their lives and scaring their Mama at regular intervals. Even though there were strict boundaries and a line on the driveway they were forbidden to cross, at times they decided a spanking was a small price to pay for living dangerously. Just a few examples: Once, they stopped traffic because they were throwing dirt clods at passing cars. Another time, a neighbor met me at the door, holding two of my minions by the scruffs of their necks, telling me that they had been playing chicken with the cars in the street. And the worst time.... It was a Sunday. Ken had to work that day, so I packed up our three boys, ages 3, 5 and 7, to go to church. I was great with our fourth child, about 8 months along. When we got home, I dashed the boys up the stairs to change clothes, then went back to my room to do the same. I had taken off shoes and dress and was down to my slip when I had a niggling notion (obviously God-sent). I peeked around the corner to the living room window, only to see Jesse, the three year old, laying in the street making snow angels where there was no snow. That child already had mad athletic skills and somehow managed, over the course of a few minutes, to bolt out of the house, all the way down the driveway and onto the pavement. (I've never understood the fascination my boys had with that road). When he saw a mad, crazy pregnant woman in a slip, screaming and tearing towards him, he decided to jump up and head towards the house. No sooner than he stepped over onto the driveway, a car whizzed by, undoubtedly never seeing him at all. There were no snow angels, but there were definitely angels. And corporal punishment. And new deadbolts on the doors. It's a miracle, too, that I didn't just go on into labor with that baby, but no. I guess she decided to stay where it seemed safe. In fact, we could hardly get her out. She ended up being three weeks late and bigger than her brothers at 11 lbs, 3 oz and 23 inches long. All four of our grown children make us feel like midgets now, not to mention that we might be sustaining brain damage from all the shocks we've been through. Must be the hormones in the milk...or maybe, just maybe, we're related to ole Paul. 

Leaves in the Spring

I was helping a family to list their home today. A family that has lived in Douglasville for decades, but is now uprooting to go back to the home of their childhood to help with aging parents. They are retiring and just plain tired, hoping to turn a new leaf and start a different life. 

How many times do we do this in our lives? 

I remember being a young child and having to climb the steep stairs to the giant schoolbus that lumbered to our door. I was excited to ride it, though quickly learned how tedious and scary it could be, particularly when a giant fifth grade girl ruled from the front row. She was terrifying. Italian, beautiful, and ruthless. Even the bus driver obeyed her. In one day, my secure little life changed drastically. Aside from the giant, however, I loved school and my first grade teacher. She was strict with her lessons but hilariously fun during breaks. I remember us wearing boots and dancing on top of her desk. I am not kidding. Then when it was time for class to start, we were expected to be studious and serious in our seats. Elementary school was a delight and childhood was grand.

Then came middle school. There was no going back. We were on campus with the high schoolers at McEachern back then. There was a pecking order and we were at the bottom. We learned our place and that was generally to stay out of their way. But in our classes, my old friends from elementary school suddenly became sophisticated. Smoking. Kissing boys. Nights at the roller rink. Mama wouldn't let us hang out there, so my sister and I watched The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family on Friday evenings, dreaming about Donnie Osmond, Bobbie Sherman and David Cassidy. We imagined what it must be like to grow up, have a boyfriend, live exciting lives. High school rushed in like a tsunami, with lots of activity, excitement, trials. It seemed like it was never going to end, but then was over in a flash. Our childhoods take only a few years, but those years hang in our minds like a frame on a wall. What we do with it, what we populate our frames with, is up to us. We're not constrained by our frames, but we often believe it and can't seem to move past it. It's where we start, but not how we have to end up. The night I graduated, I looked all around me at the places at that school that I had loved: the musty, old gymnasium where I had sweated so many hours...the steps going up to the building where I loved to hang out every morning...the broad lawn where we threw softballs and frisbees...the band room where I found the bliss of playing with a group of people. All these precious places, now my past. I couldn't stay. I had to turn the leaf over again.

I clearly recall the day that my parents dropped me off at college. It was exhilarating, this new chapter. We arranged my dorm room, signed the proper documents, ate lunch. Then they pulled away from the curb. As I looked around, for the first time I realized that I didn't know a soul. For the first time in my life, there was no comfortable friend or ally to walk to class with...nobody to cry or laugh with, no routines or familiar roads to traverse. It was all novel to me. I felt alone in the universe. It was a new leaf. Somehow, I muddled through the first few days, meeting myriads of people. One epic day, I was in my room when a beautiful, 6-foot tall German-looking girl with deep-set eyes lit with intelligence walked right in without knocking. She was only wearing underwear and seemed perfectly at ease. That was Grace -- quirky, brilliant, funny, dry, shocking. She was instantly my friend. Grace introduced me to Red Zinger tea and Handel's Water Music. She had no problem speaking exactly what was in her brain. I began to understand more of where she came from... She had a hateful, legalistic father who beat her over the head with his demands and spiritual pride, then virtually beat her and her mother with his demon-filled fists. Coming from a home where my father exuded kindness, all connected to the spirit of God, I was confused about this kind of hypocrisy. How could she not explode with rebellion and all manner of debauchery in the face of such duplicity? But she didn't. She internalized it and by the grace of God worked her way through the hell that had been put upon her. My last week of college, where I was going through a personal firestorm, I hurt her deeply with a cruel and cavalier joke. I walked away, my final day, without making it right. Pride, shame and angst mixed up my heart until a few weeks later when God pricked me and caused me to make many things right, not just with her. Sometimes it takes an earthquake to shake a stubborn heart and I had almost wrecked every relationship I had. Perhaps there was something about the dreadful unknown that was staring back at me as I knew my leaf was about to have to turn over again. Despite my lapse, Grace and I have remained very close friends all these years, sharing mileposts, tears and joys along the way, even though we are a thousand miles apart.

There have been many more "new leaf" seasons in my life -- marriage, babies, moving, changing jobs, changing churches, losing family and friends...and then finding the next paths as I rounded the corner. God never does anything the way I think that He is supposed to do it. I love that saying, "If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans." The wild backside of this tapestry is a mystery, but it makes perfect sense to Him.

Rosemarie Norton is an artist and Realtor who lives on Magnolia Street in Villa Rica. Catch u

Oldie Goldie

I visited with an old friend tonight. A sage, witty and wise old friend. I met her several years ago when my son Daniel sold a litter of half-breed puppies for $50 each. His gorgeous Golden Retriever, Bethany, decided to go on the lam and wound up with 10 offspring that looked suspiciously like the yellow Lab around the corner. Mildred called Daniel up and asked if he would deliver the pup. He did, and wound up being her go-to fix-it man for years. She and I had an instant friendship. She's one of those people who just speak what they believe, but she is also a person that believes the best of you until you give her sound reason not to trust you. She has always spoken of her kinfolk and how much she misses them. I listen closely when I visit her. She's got stuff to say and you don't want to miss any of it.

The first time I went to see her, she had her old aunt in a hospital bed right there in the den. Earlene had been in a diabetic coma, at that point, for five years. Mildred would feed, bathe and turn her several times, both day and night. She did this for numerous more years until her aunt died, always saying that this was the least she could do for her. Her aunt, in that coma, would sometimes laugh at crucial moments in our conversations. Mildred said that she sometimes knew what was going on, even though she was asleep. After Earlene died, Mildred took on several friends who needed help. She would take care of them until their deaths. 

She called me the other day in a panic. She was at the hospital and her ride home had gotten delayed by a stopped train in downtown Villa Rica. I was over an hour away and tried to solicit some local friends or family to take her home. Before we could collect her, the train moved and her ride got through. But I could tell that Mildred was slipping and confused. We've talked more than usual the last few days and she asked if I would come to Douglasville to see her.

This evening, I did just that. It's always been difficult to concentrate when I'm at her house. It's like a quirky museum, full of interesting artifacts from her 89 years of adventures. She was somewhat of a debutante at the University of Georgia, way back in the day. She told me that she had lots of beaus and numerous offers of marriage, but it just was never the right fella at the right time. There are a couple of pictures of her in beautiful formal dresses during those years and her sunny, spicy personality shines through. She is always interested in my life, wants to see pictures of my children and grandchildren, and she asks all sorts of questions about what we are up to. She is the kind of lady who knows all those special gifts of Southern hospitality that have now gone the way of the Dodo bird. She makes you feel special and loved. 

As we visited today, I asked advice on several topics and she gave me simple but profound answers. I also inquired as to when her birthday was. It is this Tuesday and she will be 90 years old. My heart tugged as I regretted not stopping by more often, not making her a bigger part of our family. Here she has ministered to so many, but doesn't have her own children or grandchildren to bless her or take care of her in her old age. I think I'll take Ken over after lunch on Tuesday and bring her a little cake and a gift. It's the least we can do. There's a special place in heaven for her.