Travel Without the Hassle

I love books. They're all over my house, piles of them. I try to keep one at every landing spot I have: The kitchen, along with the cookbooks; By the recliner; Another pile at my big chair in the living room; By the bed; One or a dozen in each bathroom. If I'm sitting still, there's a good book nearby. Ken bought me my third Kindle for Christmas and gave it to me early (this one lights up so you can read it at the beach!). He thought I might need it while recovering from surgery. 

Way back when I started school, only rich people's kids went to kindergarten. I remember my first day of first grade at Powder Springs Elementary. We had reading circle and there was a boy who could already read. I didn't think he seemed all that much smarter than me, so I made it my quest to figure this thing out. In short order, I was done with those Dick and Jane books and picking up reads from the library. A whole world of adventures opened up as the delicious stacks loomed before me. I was always getting in trouble for sneaking my real books inside our "readers." When third grade came around, our teacher took us through a speed-reading curriculum. I couldn't believe my luck. 

I am thankful for all the libraries that exist -- school, public, church, and even the little library two doors down from us now. It's easy to pick up a $1.00 masterpiece at the Goodwill store, and now that Amazon is king, I'm ashamed of the amount of money I spend clicking on that little banner. Sometimes it's hard to find a book without gratuitous sex (really, don't these folks have their own sex lives?!) -- I've asked many a librarian to point me to a clean book, only to find it's just another trashy novel when you get to page 10. I really don't understand that. Just as in great comedy, the best and smartest work is what takes brains and plot, not resorting to the lowest common denominator.

Meanwhile, there are so many good books left to read, not enough time. I'm plumbing the depths right now, learning new things about training puppies. My Christmas present, Jack the Australian Shepherd Puppy, is coming next week and I'm doing a refresher, even though I've had more puppies in my life than is fair to the rest of the world. What is wonderful about literature is that you can immerse yourself into any subject, learn it from different angles, and see the whole world from another's eyes. I have several books in me, but I don't know if I can hunker down long enough to write one out myself. Books are our stories, our lives. How lucky we are to have them. There are too many great ones out there to stop and read one twice, except the Bible. And that is a mystery to me. I have no interest in reading a novel two times, but when I open that Good Book, it is a treasure trove (I like the ESV and the NKJV translations). It's like looking at a multi-faceted gem, where when you look from a different angle it takes on a whole other meaning. Different decades, different circumstances and you'll find little notes in my margins, telling of what God did. The facet of the Word turns and a new light is shed on today's disaster or triumph. It's a living book, sprung from the heart and mind of our Creator and different than any other. History, adventure, wisdom, and lots of mayhem, along with the way back to center. What could be better?

Christmas in Town

Some years, Christmas comes thundering in like a freight train. The stress of it can make one go mad. Atlanta traffic goes haywire as soon as Halloween is over, there are gifts to buy, parties to attend (many of them obligatory), and everything to decorate. I go out into my musty workshop and pull out grubby bins to see if the mice have left all my pretties alone. I have found that if I will decorate and shop sooner rather than later, there will come a serene moment where I can sit still for a spell and remember what Christmas is anyway. That moment came this morning...

We have the impossible blessing of living in this Victorian gem of a house. Since we moved here, 7-1/2 years ago, I have increasingly been aware that nothing is really ours...we are just passing through. I see the past marks of ownership...scrapes on the beautiful floors, chips on the (five!) fireplaces, loose tiles, mouldings worn about the edges from so much life happening over 118-or-so years. We're putting our own marks on it -- new layers of paint, sometimes peeling back unfortunate history (read: 80s wallpaper), puppy piddles on the varnished floors, bumps from furniture and grandchildren. Every change that we make, we try to respect the house and its history. No modern open-concept or fresh sheetrock here. How is it historic if you've ripped everything away? Eventually this home will pass on to someone else and they can put their own spin on it. I don't believe in ghosts, but I'll come back and haunt it if they don't do her proud. 

I bought a new living room rug, tired of the old burgundy ones. It was horrid, looked nothing like the pictures online, and there was nothing to do but send it back. As I agonized over first-world-problems, I finally found the perfect one. Ken didn't believe me, because it always takes one or two tries before it's right...but suffice it to say, it arrived and our son Daniel descended to help Papa Bear move that massive thing around until it was right in the space. Papa insisted that I Scotchguard it, so last night I sprayed it with six cans of some kind of carcinogenic stuff. When I woke up this morning, he had put all the furniture back and the room thrummed with new life. The 90-year-old wallpaper, the couches, the wood, and the stunning stained-glass-windows were at peace with the rug and all was finally well in Rose World. 

I have Guilt, about pretty much everything. It seemed to come on strong after we started having babies. It seems there's always something extra that should or shouldn't be done. I'm learning to rest though, rest in God's plans for my life, learning to rest in Christ's work on the cross. 'Bout time. When I look at His blessings, it's easy to feel guilty. But that's just the devil talking. This morning, as I sat in my lovely dining room and looked at the tree, the garland, the gifts piled up, the gorgeous windows, and yes, the sweet rug, my heart tugged at God's bounty. Not just the physical parts. I've lived like this and I've lived in an old, leaky camper (where we had a foot-high tree and enjoyed it just as much). Like Paul said in the Scriptures: "for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me." - Phil. 4:11-13. I'm not as practiced at it as Paul, but I get it.

I feel like we are always trying to imitate God's creation. There's something in us that pulls towards all things beautiful. We subconsciously wish to bring the majesty of all He has made inside, into our trinkets and playthings. My Daddy used to say that we are born wanting to grasp heaven, and that's why ice cream tasted so good.  There's a vacuum of sorts inside us, sometimes roaring loudly, demanding to be filled. This morning, taking in the light that spilled gauzily on the confections of my house...where you can see at every juncture finely crafted windows, fireplaces, floors, mouldings, ceilings, I think about all the folks that it must have taken to build this place and how it would cost a fortune to replace it. They really don't make them like this anymore. I think art is our subconscious attempt to imitate God. I look through the leaded glass, pulled to the periwinkle winter sky where a bird trills like it thinks it's spring or something. Look harder and see the glorious, bodacious hand of Him everywhere, including the creative works of men in the music I'm hearing, the architecture of an amazing building, the thick velvet curtains falling to the floor. Yes, we are a cracked people, but marked out in the image of God. 

A Handel piece comes on. I wonder if I've died and gone to heaven. For Unto Us A Child Is Born. Paradise lost and regained. Stop and ponder it this Christmas.

Papa Bear Hits One Out of the Park

I think instead of letting me grieve to death (from losing our precious Zoe recently), my dear husband decided to let me have another puppy. There will never be another Zoe. She was as perfect a dog and companion as I could ever have had the luck to experience. But our hearts are so down, every time we open the door to our empty house. The yard feels wrong, without our special dog circling and rolling around in it. I blow a kiss to her grave each time I pass it; the sheer emptiness brings me to tears most days. I know that a puppy can't replace her, but Merry Christmas from Papa Bear and I am on pins and needles until this one gets here.

I said I'd never have a boy dog, but when the litter had two (already claimed) girls and seven boys, my mind began to wander and weaken. They named the boys from my favorite musical: Seven Brides for Seven Brothers! Adam, Ben, Caleb, Daniel, Ephraim, Frank (short for Frankincense) and Gideon.  These puppies are related to my Zoe by blood (their grandma is Zoe's sister)... The Aussie-vixen-lady sent me pictures of the cute, bear-cub-looking boys, talked about their personalities and their natures. But I wasn't getting a boy, so I don't know what she thought she was doing. There was one of them, very big, with a boxy head, Daniel. Did she know I'm a sucker for Nordic-looking men? She's never even seen Ken. He was super cute but I couldn't pick that one. I already have a son named Daniel. My other kids would think I was playing favorites. I stared and stared at the pictures and then another name popped into my head. I could rename him Jack! Then I was in trouble, because all I could think of was a cute Australian Shepherd that looked like a baby bear and his name was Jack. Who in the world could resist that?

So the breeder (greatoaksaussies.com) told me they were having open house, where we could visit the pups. My Mama wanted to go, and then 6-year old Annabelle jumped on the bandwagon too. Liz drove us two hours to Homer, Georgia, which is like heaven on earth, up to this old, renovated farmhouse with all the darling outbuildings and fences, plus a pile of lovey-dovey Aussies and that litter of puppies. We snuggled and cooed with that baby, then had to force ourselves to leave. Later that night, Annabelle kept saying, "Yaya, I just can't stop thinking about the puppy! Why can't you bring him home now?!" No kidding...

He can't come home until after Christmas, but here's to my ultimate childhood dream revisiting me at pert near 60 years old. Hurry up Santa!

Barrel Racing

They'd already been robbed three times. Once, someone busted in a window at their house and took guitars, TVs and such. Second time, it was tools from the garage. This last time, it was my son's big honkin' truck, stolen straight out of the driveway while they slept. The law was called, inventory taken. Then Jon had to head south for a job, so my daughter-in-love and grandbaby were there by themselves.

That evening, just before the sun tipped low in the sky, she called and asked if I could spend the night with them. I packed a small bag and headed there, packing my Taurus 9mm, of course. When I pulled into their driveway, I saw what I will never forget. The baby and her Mama were on the wide front porch. The baby was playing happily, babbling to herself. Mama was sitting in a rocking chair, with a huge shotgun in her lap. She said, "Listen! He's coming back around again. There's a guy in a truck who keeps circling and driving by." Sure enough, I heard ridiculously loud tailpipes coming up the road from a half mile away. I said, "_____ no! Get a bag packed. We are NOT staying here tonight." She really didn't want to leave, because she figured he was trawling for another haul, but I wasn't leaving them there to fend for themselves and I certainly wasn't hanging around to wait for him to do something stupid. We moseyed to Villa Rica town and spent the night at my house. And yes, the creep robbed them again.

When my son married this precious woman, we really didn't know her well, though they had dated a long time. She was quiet, demure, never self-seeking. We knew she was a very good woman, God-fearing and calm. What we didn't know was how she was going to handle our bronco-busting son who was as strong-willed as a bull and over-opinionated about everything. There came a conversation with her spit-fired Grandmama who sidled up to me one day and said, "You ever seen that girl ride a horse?" I said no. "She's the best barrel racer I've ever seen," winking at me. I've seen how that goes -- a fearless, wild woman who whips her horse into a lather and tears around those barrels. I was glad Grandmama cleared that up, because a few things began to make sense. Not that I think it's a woman's job to tame a man, but that boy needed a (loving) hell-cat for a wife. That's what happens when love gets in the picture. In the best loves, both people give way. They die to themselves, they do things they never dreamed they would or could. They just passed their eleventh anniversary, with plenty of mad-dash-rodeos in between. I've seen them go to the edges and back again, but I think they're gonna make it. He loves her something fierce and she loves and respects him back again. She's the good kind, the kind that makes a man better. He's done growed into a real man. I'm his Mama and I'm proud, but I don't know if the results would have been the same if he'd have married a lesser woman. Let that be a lesson to you young fellas. A good man can't ever pull a bad woman up, but a good woman can pull up a fair-to-middling man and make him remarkable. It's old wisdom, passed on to me by folks older and wiser than me. 

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.