Oh The Tangled Web We Weave

The doc says this 30+ year old hernia has to go. I worked hard for that appendage, with my four behemoth babies that I carried around both inside and outside for about a decade. Many a 50-pound sack of dog food or chicken feed has been hauled. Countless ladders have been climbed. My body has been twisted into tortuous angles to reach my paintbrush into the vague corners of extensive cabinetry in more houses than I can count. They tell me that I can't put it off anymore, because it's starting to persecute me with excruciating pain on occasion. Well, more like every other day now. Since I don't want to become a prescription drug addict or end up with this thing twisted around my head...I guess I'm going. Next week, the day before Thanksgiving. Yes, it's true. I figured it was a better time than the week before Christmas. 

So instead of spring cleaning, I thought I'd clean out all those places in the house that nobody sees. Somehow I thought that would make me feel better about having to go under the knife. You know what your Mama says about wearing clean underwear (in case you have an accident)? This felt sort-of like that, don't ask me why. It is amazing what grows inside all these trunks and cabinets and closets. I send out bags and boxes every two weeks to charities, but there's some kind of breeding program going on inside those chester drawers (I know it's supposed to be chest-of-drawers, but that ain't how we say it down here). I went through every room with a trash can and a box for giveaways. They're gonna call the PC police on me for loading up the landfill. I really do feel bad about that. Why is there so much trash? After it was all said and done, I ended up having the last couple of days completely at home. So in between real estate negotiations (which actually involves considerable amounts of prayer time) and meals, I finished up the last drawers and did about 500 loads of laundry. Then I vacuumed, the crowning glory of housekeeping. I sit here tonight, with a tangled contract now untangled, a house humming because it's all clean, and the quiet rumble of the train running by. I'm loaded for bear. 

When I told my dear pastor Sunday that I was scared, he gave me words of wisdom. I told him that it sure seems to me that I don't do a real good job of trusting the Lord, even this far down the line. He said, "Rose, it's not that you don't trust the Lord. It's just that He keeps sending you new mountains to climb." He knows I prefer the beach to the mountains, but then again, the beach has the undertow. And sharks. So we're good.

My Classy Roots

My Daddy had five sisters and two brothers, a compilation of the most interesting and conflicted folk you could imagine. They grew up in a home where their mother slaved herself to the bone and their father never worked and drank everything away. It's unfathomable why she stayed with him, since she was the only one keeping the boat afloat. He died when I was a youngster, mean and ornery to the end, in a car crash caused by his drunkenness. He wasn't even driving, but had persuaded a 14-year-old neighbor kid to drive him over the river to get more liquor, since Cobb County was dry at the time. They were evading police when PawPaw reached over and stomped the gas, driving the car into a tree. Thankfully the boy lived, though I recall all my aunts talking about how he lost a bunch of teeth. PawPaw wasn't so lucky.

One time, as a teenager, I asked MawMaw why she stayed with him. She said, "I know he was a bad man, but I loved him. We'd go walking in a field and you could just feel the love all around. But sometimes I dream that he's still alive and that the cops are beating at the door. Then I wake up and I'm so happy he's dead." At her funeral, all I could think about when I saw her gentle face was that she had to be having a party up in heaven. She'd lived through the roughest edges of life, but now she was at peace. Her love for the Lord was real, ragged and simple. I bet she's got the biggest garden up there. 

Daddy's folks would do random picnics on Dog River. He nor my Mama drank alcohol, but there would always be a lot of drinking going on at any given family event, though I never actually saw even one can of beer. They were covert about it. When we'd go up north to my Mama's people, they would drink right out in the open and had fully-stocked bars in their basements. But it was my Southern relatives that tended more towards alcoholism. It's in my blood. I'd be in a gutter if it weren't for Jesus. 

Even so, those were halcyon days, spreading out lunch on warm rocks and then running barefoot in the mud with about two or three dozen cousins. As a child, I was oblivious to the problems that many of them faced. I just knew we had a whole lot of fun when we were together. Cousin bonds are the best. My Daddy was always the ham in the family. There used to be a commercial on TV that said that a Volkswagen would float. So he and one of his brothers tried to float our Beetle in Dog River. Now that I'm grown and know that Dog River is really just a glorified, rocky creek, I can't even imagine why they thought it was deep enough. Nonetheless, they apparently found a spot and drove in. How can I say it -- it didn't float. I don't remember the end of things except that everybody was laughing, even Daddy. Maybe not my Mama though...

Mr Sandman, Make Me a Dream

Used to be, when someone said they couldn't sleep, I frankly thought they needed their head examined. Just lay down and go to sleep, for heaven's sake. My sleeping's always been rather like a bear in hibernation (except when babies were involved, where somehow I became the Mama Ninja. I could hear a baby sneeze at 50 paces). Then something happened to me. I'm not sure what, but maybe it's got something to do with hormones and stress, too much barbecue, or too many work scenarios to fit in during the day. I could go to sleep for a little while, then 3:00 a.m. would come and my brain would wake up like the rooster had just crowed. I'd lay there and kick around the covers, but finally would just get up so as not to wake Papa Bear. We love each other, but are definitely from two different planets. He's from the one where you wake up like a jack-in-the-box. He said that showers are like caffeine, and if I happen to come across him during that period of time, he's full of questions, comments and kisses. Insanity. Because I'd just as soon dig a hole and crawl down into the deep, dark earth with the moles right about then. On my planet, we start really living about 10:00 p.m. and that's a perfect time to clean, paint the house or draw a masterpiece. 

I digress. I started not being able to sleep. And nobody wants to hear you walking around the house or painting things in the middle of the night. I got a lot of computer work done, pondered the fate of the universe, prayed for people, but even the dog looked at me like I had lost my mind. Something had to be done. 

I started acquiring sleep aids. There's all kinds of gadgets for that. It began with the sheets. A dear client asked me if I had ever heard of Peacock Alley. I said I think that's around the corner from me, but no, that might be Chicken Alley. She said my life was about to change, and bought me a set of sheets from those folks...bamboo sheets that cost an ungodly amount of money. She said they'd keep me cool. While Ken was helping me put them on the bed, he commented that we were in trouble. I asked why and he surmised that these things were nothing like our Walmart sheets and we were going to have to go ahead and buy another set, so we'd never have to be without them. So, in pursuit of scientific solutions, I bought another set, along with their special blanket and pillowcases. When that didn't help enough, I bought this humongously ridiculous pillow that was shaped like a big wedge, and had a hole in it for your arm so it wouldn't go numb. It also had a big body pillow so you could keep your hips aligned. It was wonderfully comfy, but still no cigar. What followed were more additions to these expensive sleep aids: a weighted blanket (blissful), CBD oil (don't tell my Mama), a king-sized bed with all the trappings (where did my husband go in all that acreage?), a new mattress, and finally, a sleep study and honkin' CPAP machine (okay, now we're broke). Cha-ching. The cherry on top of all that was a sermon. Yes, a sermon. My pastor preached about Christ's first miracle, turning water into wine. He spoke about big ole' cisterns full of water and how He turned them into the best wine and they were like bustin' out with it. Running over. How Jesus' love for me is like that...way more than you can imagine. 

So here is how it goes, after a couple of years and much travail: I curl up in my warm nest, blessed and thankful (extra thanks for the props, Lord), and I think about that love overflowing to my heart. I'm sleeping like a baby now. All those gadgets are wonderful and helpful, but I'm pretty sure it's the cisterns that take the day. Or rather, the night.

The Sound of Silence

We live with perpetual noise. TVs, devices, traffic, the computer humming beside me, talk - on the phone or in person. Where we live, the train bores through town a few times a day (and night), though I find its sentimental wail a comfort (unless the conductor is apparently hen-pecked at home and has to take it out on us poor townies.) I'm glad that at least I live in the U.S., where we still have some wide-open spaces. I can't imagine living in a crowd, where you become anonymous and the noise must be deafening. 

I was struck by the silence in our home tonight. Time change just happened, so we're all ready for bed way too early. The TV off, everyone's talked out. The heat just kicked on, a comfort that I try to never take for granted. I remember a few times where the stone-coldness of a storm took over and we've slept under ancient quilts. It's only October and I'm already thinking about spring. Are we never satisfied? 

As I think on silence this eve, I am overcome with the vacuum holes in my world. The people, my Daddy, that I have lost. The dear dog that I just said goodbye to. Until recent times, I haven't understood what it means to hear those kinds of silences. No matter how many times you turn to greet them, to pick up the phone to tell them some tidbit...it brings shocks to your heart. Over time, folks tell me, it gets easier. It seems silly to say, "They're just not here." But they're not. They won't answer me back. I want to explain that to them, to ask why aren't you here? I get no answer. I hear no tick of doggie nails on the floor, no response to my queries. It's a strange thing, for someone to be gone. It's not natural, no matter what people say.

I think I get mad at God sometimes, because He doesn't write messages up on the wall. He does what He wants, when He wants. There is a tapestry underneath it all. Sometimes I get a good glimpse, but often and mostly not. Our planet keeps spinning. The stars keep shining. We are picked off, one by one, sometimes early, sometimes late. Yet the world doesn't stop, even when we pause for memorial. The sticks fall to the ground, but we have to pick them back up and put one foot in front of the other. Our time is coming, only God knows when. We try not to think of that. We try to pretend we will live forever, but it's really just a minute 'til it's our turn. 

These things drive my heart to the bottom, where everything seems done for and there's only the bits to be scraped up with the gravy. I look to the hills from whence cometh my help and my help is from the Lord. There is order and design in each molecule of this body, in the luscious tree outside my window, in the sweet eyes of the cat who's mewing for my attention. The deep surrender that is faith, the laying down of my will to a God that is bigger and stranger and more wonderful than all the universes combined...this is peace. When I dig into His book, I find the gold amongst the thorns. And I remember once more, this ain't all there is.

Critters Building That City

This was a very rough week, which I won't detail here...but am thanking God that He held off the real estate demons for a few days. It seemed like my work was suspended in time, just when it needed to be. My house was quiet, the weather was rainy and cool. Hard decisions had to be made, so we did some praying, some crying and some laughing. Then the squirrels started up...

I noticed that we've actually got some pecans this year. We put a new roof on a few weeks ago, and I figured it might shake those critters up a little, but naw. It was all peaceful-like one morning...everybody gone to work except me. I heard what sounded like gnawing up in the dining room ceiling. Then scampering. Then nuts being dropped. I told my husband, our sons, a few neighbors, and God about it. Nobody seems to want to deal with this problem. There ain't no way I'm going up in that attic. We have 12-foot ceilings in this old Victorian house, and our attic ladder doesn't even reach the ground. You have to put a bench on the floor, then pull the ladder down to it. It's very sketchy. Even my limber, athletic offspring take issue with climbing up it. The only ghost that lives here is the Holy Ghost, but there might be a few that try to flit through that attic once in awhile. I hear strange noises emanating and smell an occasional whiff of tobacco. They're all up there, dressed up with party hats and cute little tails, rodents masquerading as squirrels. But nobody's fooling me. I used to like those types of animals. I would even swerve my car to avoid them in the street, but no more. They're chewing up my house and eating our pecans. It's on.

Did you know that the law doesn't allow you to trap and re-home squirrels? We're also not allowed to shoot 22s in town, but we can shoot with a pellet gun. Two of my dear neighbors also like to keep their pecans, so we form a trifecta of squirrel hunters between our houses. You might see us all stalking about our yards trying to round them up. The hawks are waiting with bated breath, way up in the trees. I don't understand why they don't come on down here and do it themselves, circle of life and all that. But they get their share after the sun goes down. I never see any leftovers in the morning. And there's still plenty of them dang squirrels running around, at any given time. They must breed like rabbits. Apparently, cats breed like rabbits too, but we get ours fixed so they can't. I have a story about that for another day...

I hope all this helps reduce the attic residents. I'm sure not going up there with a pellet gun and Papa apparently isn't either. They say that they'll chew up your wiring and make beds in the insulation. Somebody's definitely working on a mansion up there and we can only hope it's squirrels and not the possums that keep coming after the cat food on the front porch. We used to have these problems when we lived in the country. I never imagined us making possum stew after we moved to town, and I'm not planning on it any time soon. But we sure could, if we wanted to...

A Good Dog

She came to me as a 10-week old puppy. Bouncing, beautiful Australian Shepherd. Seriously the most perfect dog I've ever known. She's too smart for the rest of us...she knows what it means when we spell "Chicken"- "Snack" - "Potty" and even "Bath." When folks visit, they leave the house and believe that Zoe loves them the most. I had a friend who is intensely afraid of dogs come calling one day. She asked me to put her up in the laundry room, but I didn't. By the time she left, she had decided that if I ever needed a home for Zoe, she wanted her to come live with her. Zoe has one flaw...she is jealous of the grandkids, enjoys licking their faces and also loves to steal their food. This has caused some drama around here but hey, she never poops in the house.

She came down sick last week, ending up at the vet for days and then exploratory surgery this morning. We have no answers at the moment, and only time and the will of God will tell us if she's going to make it. I've had some good dogs in my life, some great ones...but she takes the cake. She is as devoted as a soldier on duty. When I leave the house, I'm told she waits by the door for me. Leaving her at that place without being able to fully explain to her why, is breaking my heart.  I went up there today for a bit, just to see her and try to tell her, a dog, that I love her and that I'm praying for her. She kept going to the clinic door and looking back, wanting to go home. How can we bear it?

There is nothing like the heart of a good dog. Their unconditional love and steadfast presence are things that man has depended on since he lived in caves. They protect us, provide companionship, get us outside of ourselves, even. We raised our children surrounded by them, teaching them early a bit about what it means to be a parent, to be responsible for taking care of a weaker animal. We've all waxed sentimental about puppy breath and all the great dogs we've been privileged to have. But there's none like Zoe. If God only means for me to have her these seven years, I will thank Him for all of those days that we had. Then I imagine I will grieve for her the rest of mine. But just maybe, He'll give me (and us) a few more. Praying tonight for that, with a boatload of tears.

Love Birds

Getting people hitched can be a mighty big deal. Our three sons all did it. Their weddings were beautiful, meaningful and exhausting. My niece got hitched this last weekend. It's been awhile since I decorated one, but suffice it to say, now I need about a week of naps to catch up. My daughter and I gussied up the church. My precious niece was there with her fiance, all butterflying around. The next day, we decorated the big venue for the reception. We had an army of young people, swarming like so many bees to get it all done. Our family doesn't know the meaning of paying other people to do things...we DIY the fool out of everything, including weddings. In the end, it looks like a million bucks. We're only out a fraction of the typical soiree, although we're all knotted up and pert-near crippled when we get done. All that work, for a 20-minute ceremony and then a few hours of eating and dancing. At one of our weddings, a rich uncle, who didn't know any better, stated, "Man, somebody's put out some jack for this event!" I think they're prettier than the fancy, paid-for weddings anyway, even if we have to lose a pound of flesh to get there. Our baby daughter is the last of my children at home. I'm hoping we can all hold out long enough to do her proud someday when it's her turn.

There's always got to be drama of one kind or the other, or maybe lots of it. This one was no different, but with an extra dose. Without dragging in details, we had some scrambling and rearranging to do at the last minute. The bride was a shredded mess the day before, but still kind and patient. I worried her pretty new eyelashes might wilt before the wedding, there was so much weighing on her (though not from her fiance-- he was a perfect Southern gentleman, tenderly caring for her. I didn't know him before, but I really liked him after that). By Friday evening, we were spent. I wondered how the bride could re-find her wings, after the emotional torrent of the day. She looked deflated. I prayed for the next morning to find her ready and refreshed.

Saturday: wedding day! The bridal party lined up at the front, the bridesmaids a plethora of autumn leaves all done up in chiffon, each one different and lovely. Then came the stunning bride, a veiled vision in lace with a train that trailed for days. Her hair was impossibly beautiful, braided and skillfully coiled around her glowing face. No trace of trouble. No trace of fear. Just joy for the day and eyes for her groom. The Good Book says that a wedding is a picture of Christ coming for His bride, the Church. I love that. Love and respect are at the heart of a good marriage. Half of them end in divorce. I prayed this one will flourish and grow, an example to a weary world. 

A long day and much eating and dancing ensued as we wound down at the reception. There were candles enough to burn down the barn and twinkle lights strung across the lawn, enough to light up a football field. The old folks watched, the young folks and babies danced, then the luminaries and sparklers were lit. The happy couple made their way through the gauntlet of light....the groom swept her up and kissed her midway through, amid much hoopin' and hollerin'. Then they were off, with a squeal of wheels and more noise. We turned to laugh and breathe a sigh of relief. We talked of how we're not going to do it this big next time, how we've got to find a way to make this simpler...none of us believing it. The army of young folks starting the cleanup. Papa said I had to go home, that they could manage without me this time. So we sauntered down two blocks back to our car, holding hands and breathing in the sweet night air. The moon looked like a bucket of cream. I looked at my dear groom, recalling our wedding those many years ago and all the blissful ignorance of youth. I thanked God for blessing me with a good man like him. I remembered those first, flushed feelings of how lucky I was, how I got exactly the one I wanted. I sometimes forget that, in all our shuffling to stay ahead. But there he is, my knight man, steady and strong of heart. And here I am, still lucky.