Time Machines and Sign Posts

My husband rarely gives up the steering wheel, but last weekend's road trip had me driving and his Dad riding shotgun while Ken napped in the back seat. It had been nigh fourty years since I'd been the one to drive that trail back to the town where Ken's folks first met as teenagers. His Pa is having a slow look-back of sorts as time starts to steal the B-Bs from his brain. Heck, it's stealing my B-Bs too. I'm just able to bluff a little better, for now. Even though it's April and the cicadas aren't out, it always seems like the bugs are buzzing louder along that route on I-20 east towards Augusta. It's hotter, lonelier, more desolate. There are miles of farmland, but few cows and fewer crops. Beautiful, old farmhouses dot the landscape and I wonder where the young people are going. Because they certainly aren't sticking around, though it is as pretty as a picture out there and the land is cheap, if you can get anyone to sell you a piece of it.

Ken's Mama died suddenly when he and his brother were babies, leaving a massive hole in the universe, a crater that never really healed. This trip was about visiting her gravesite, honoring what had been left quiet for a long time. Sometimes things are too difficult to face and they get stored away, but then the days turn to decades. We bought three small pots of flowers -- two of them little rosebushes and one of fresh daisies. Ken dug out three spaces in the hard dirt and watered them in. I prayed that God would bless those plants somehow, that they'd thrive without us there to look after them. It don't matter. It really was the thoughts that counted. And we thought about her, her Mama and her Daddy, all resting under there waiting for the Lord to call their bodies to meet up with their spirits in heaven someday. If you don't read the Lord's book, you might oughta.

A kindly man let us inside the church, the place where Ken's Daddy and Mama married, where his grandparents rose up to life and went down to death. There was no sallying forth to places unknown. It was down the road and back to town. A simpler place and time, and truthfully not much has changed even in the fourty years I've been coming here. After riding all over the countryside and reminiscing about many things, we met up with family and had a delicious meal and much talk. The goodbyes were prolonged and repeated. You never know if we will see each other again in this life, so you learn to not take those for granted. 

The next morning, after a quick sleep at Ken's dear aunt's "town house" (no, it's not a condominium, it's a little house, in town), I felt like we were literally driving back through time. Away fell the fields, the old barns, the houses with their peeling paint, the glorious farms with their columns, tractors shedding their coats...gradually we encountered a car, then three, then more, then came Atlanta and its ribbons of lanes. We whooshed through and took Ken's Dad back home to Marietta. The time warp was over. When we pulled back to our old Victorian in Villa Rica, I felt drained, exhausted, overwhelmed. Life just keeps pulling. The past is sometimes like the signposts on the highway, whizzing right by. You look back and see them, wondering what the messages said. We need to pull off and walk, get out and read them, know them. I don't want to miss a thing.  

Yaya Said It

It's the soft things in life that beckon us. A cushy sofa, mashed potatoes, white bread, fluffy socks. It's the yummy resting place that keeps crying out for the snooze button. The cold morning warrants a turn back into the toasty covers. The hot midday calls me back inside to the frosty air conditioning. All the extremes cry out for a countering relief. I lean towards what comforts me, not what makes me inconvenienced. None of this is good, in the long run, because it makes us soft ourselves, less useful, less mobile, less ready, in a world that needs us ready. 

I'm digressing here. What I am worried about, as us mature ladies are allowed to do, is all these babies growing up around us. I seem to recall, back when I was a child myself, old ladies saying similar things. So either we're getting worse all the time or it's something old ladies just say. But these chillun are getting soft. Too many of them look like they have never encountered mud pies or cat hair. With the last couple of insane years we've had, we all need to go roll around in the dirt, whether you're a kid or not. There's entirely too much hand sanitizer (there ain't nothing natural about that stuff), too much fear, too many news feeds (turn 'em off, they're getting paid to scare you), not enough spankings and hardly anybody telling their kids no. Dear heavens, tell your kids no. They need it. There will come a day when they walk out your door (hopefully, before they're ancient) and someone else will tell them no. They need to be ready for that, and it's better coming from you first. The most miserable kids I've ever seen were the ones whose Mamas tried to give them a sanitized, pampered childhood. It always seems to produce whining, ungrateful children, and takes away the pride and accomplishment of hard work, also stealing the joy that comes from simple play. Children need less toys, more time, more outdoors (lots more outdoors), they don't need those screens (I'm serious, they don't - that's hijacking their brains), and they need you to love them. The Good Book says that if we love our children, we won't contribute to their death by not disciplining them. Their death. It's that serious, that important. I have been young and now am old and I have seen it with my own eyes. Simplify that child's life, say no and mean it, say yes to the good things. Ask God for help. Get you and that baby to a God-fearing church. Time's a wastin' and babies don't keep.

Spring Has Sprung

We had a sweet weekend. I told Ken I felt like it was Old Home Week, where we had company over (I actually cooked, good ole country cooking, with beans and a hamhock, cornbread slathered with butter, slaw, sweet tea and peach cobbler). We hugged nine of our ten grandbabies (got to grab up that tenth one soon), went to church and had a fellowship meal afterwards with lots of awesome people, breathed in some freshly-mown-lawn-air, and slept like teenagers. Tonight, we drove over to Newnan to see three of those grandbabies, hung out on the porch at Cracker Barrel for an hour or two, then drove home with the stained-glass of a sunset spilling all around us. I thought I might marry that man all over again. Full of food and thought, you don't have to say much after all of that. His big, rough, craggy hand covered mine like an old bear's over a pine knob. Sometimes I'm mad at him for no reason at all, then other times I love the stuffin' out of him. It's not fair, not ever. Getting old is for the birds. I'm not admitting to it, I'm just saying... It hurts, it's grumpy, it can seem hopeless and like you're going down a road with no return. Well, you are. You thought you could just decide one day you'd lose some weight or start exercising and then you'd feel better. Well then, you do that and then you see that, phooey, you're too late. Or maybe it wasn't the weight all along, you were just getting old all along. I always blamed it on the fat. 

Either way, since apparently I'm stuck with this body until Jesus comes back or I take my dirt nap, my only alternative is to laugh. And maybe roll around in the surf, if I can get anyone to agree to bring a come-a-long to help pull me out. I remembered in the last day or two how much that ole' boy makes me laugh, and how silly I am to hold the stupid stuff against him. The Bible says in Ecclesiastes all kinds of things about seasons and toils and trouble, but it also talks about enjoying your spouse and the sunshine and the wine and all that. We could spend our days crabby and hoping for our wrinkles to undo themselves, but I'm thinking we better just slap a coat of paint on it, get to cuddling and head on out to the porch.   

Wash That Pollen Right Outa My Hair

I thought the doldrums of winter were about over, until we woke up today to a dreary, cold morning, where the dripping rain seemed to me like the sky was crying. Our princess diva dog, Sadie, seemed to think that she should not be subjected to puddles, even though she lived the first ten of her thirteen years out of doors. Her pitiful eyes looked at me as she stooped to do her business, cruel Yaya on the porch demanding that she go potty. I think that Georgia winters are the most malevolent, because we get hints of spring all the way from Thanksgiving through April, shot through with thunderstorms, icy days, cold spells and full-on summer afternoons. There's no rhyme or reason, but lots of hope. Thank God, winter is short here. I wouldn't talk so much about the weather except I just can't help it and I'm getting maturer. That's what we'll call it. 

Two of our young grandchildren stayed with us over a protracted spring-break weekend (that means long), with Papa and I playing tag-team a dozen times. God made him a lot more resilient than me. I get bumfuzzled over whether to have barbecue or Mexican, much less how to get everyone dressed while getting dinner on the table. I used to do that easily, with four young children, but apparently lost the skill along the way. I wish I could be one of those super organized, crafty Grandmas who have things laid out and ready when the grands come to visit, but that will never be me. I have accepted this. I am more like my own MawMaw, where we were lucky to be found alive after a weekend with her. Our favorite activity at her house was to dam up the nasty creek behind her house and make a giant mudpuddle out of it. Our second favorite was to put pennies on the railroad track by her house and wait for trains to run over them. Third favorite was to hunt for Coke bottles all over town, take them to the grocery store and return them for nickels and then get ice cream cones at the local diner. At my house, grandchildren have free range in my art studio, and there will be paint, paper cuttings, lots of trash everywhere, and usually very little TV watching (no, that does not involve imagination...we're not having that). We also have music. But sadly, there's nothing cutesy. I wish I had the energy. 

Yesterday, little Caiden (4 years old) asked me why we didn't have goldfish in our small pond anymore. I told them they had all died when someone sprayed stuff on the yard awhile ago (it was me; maybe I can bring myself to tell him sometime). I felt duty-bound to find him some more fish. We hauled ourselves along our paths yesterday to get some of those cheap little feeder goldfish. They only cost 16 cents each and will eventually grow to be gigantic, given time, food and a little luck. Last night, Papa consented to one more place to try our hand at finding them (after a very satisfying supper at Hudson's BBQ), so we pulled into Pet Smart. He parked the vehicle, put on the sunvisor and promptly went to sleep while the kids and I went inside. We hit paydirt and got 20 tiny goldfish. Caiden and his sister, Madelyn, also picked out gifts for one of my client's cats (for a closing tomorrow -- she'd rather have that than a restaurant card). When we got home, we acclimated the fish bags to the pond water then released them. They darted to the bottom, where they'll wait for winter to quit acting up. 

Easter is a-comin' -- I can feel it in my bones...   

Being the Harp...

It was a cool, brisk Friday night, and rather than veg at home binge-watching something I probably shouldn't anyway, I took the long trek to the other side of town. I picked up my sister. We rarely get to hang out anymore. Between us, we have 15 grown or nearly-grown children, scads of their spouses, grandchildren, puppies, activities, responsibilities and drama. Our paths diverge into fantastically beautiful splinters and then converge into meaningful similar trails. It's just a lot. So I'm really grateful for any us-time that we get to carve out. On this night, we went to hear a lovely lady play a senior recital's worth of harp music. Yes, there are Harp Doctorates. And after hearing this magician, my chin was on the floor. I kept thinking, "How many actual hours did this take to master?" And you don't get to rest on your laurels. That stuff doesn't just stay there. You have to keep practicing, growing, learning, and changing or it turns to rust. I'm a mature woman, and have been playing the flute most of my life, and have really just starting seriously practicing scales and such. No. I'm a toddler. I'm trying to figure out what planet I've been living on, because I'm seeing that there is a whole lot more to know. And there's also some more kind-of ceiling to things. Just because you practice, you might not get to be that great. You might not have the greatest ear, or the best eyes, or the nicest idea about rhythm. God has to give you that. Then a great teacher might help a lot. And luck...you might get lucky and land in just the right group of folks or school that help you learn the right skills. And on and on. But no matter what, you could make perfection your goal in life, work your fingers to the bone, wear out all your tendons, spend all your money, be an obnoxious diva to everyone you know, be outrageously skilled and famous, and still never get it. 

As this young lady started to play. she stilled herself. She closed her eyes, laying hands on either side of the harp. It seemed an eternity before she began to play, but then her swift fingers ran over the strings, nary missing a beat. What I noticed, maybe even more than the individual notes, was the way that her face immersed into the spirit of the music. Forgetting the audience, she became the song, be it classic, quirky, folk, quirky, fearful. Her pure-hearted preoccupation with the music was a thing of beauty. It was why we show up for these things, isn't it? It's why we listen, in the end. Ah, music...  

Villa Rica Partying

The family had gathered, partied...all the energy had risen, crested and then fallen back down to a quiet murmur. Most everyone had gone home. Papa was back in his recliner, some of the Nortons were nestled in their beds in the back of the house, Yaya and Jesse and his wife and clan were in the kitchen, snacking and trying to keep it to a small roar with the giggles of their three children. These are the days, the times that mean the most. The words that squeeze out are the meaningful ones, the ones that you don't waste. 

I'll try to sum up what our son said to me last night, without ruining the meaning of it...  he said, "Why do we waste our sorrows? Why do we waste our days, our years, on grief? When our loved ones die, our loved ones who love Jesus, who are safely in heaven...we spend too much of our emotions and time left on earth grieving them when we could be using that to tell others about Christ, to love others and to win others to Him." Wow! He specifically talked about his Grandpa (my Daddy) and how he would bemoan us dragging our feet over his death, when we're going to see him very soon. Life is a mere breath. Eternity is looooooooong. We're way too transfixed on the here and now and tend to get morbid on what was rather than what is gonna be. 

I do know this: it sure was fun to see a little 9-year-old country girl running around on her birthday, eating her favorite meal (beans, cornbread, slaw, and collards -- yes!) with her cousins, just like we used to do. It makes you feel hope for our country when you see things like that again.  

Noble Reasons To Live

 We had Blackberry Winter this past weekend, waking up to icy steps and blustery winds. I grabbed a container of Kosher Salt and sprinkled it all down the deck stairs, thinking how smart I was. Now we can't get that mess out of the house. It's everywhere. The dog coincidentally decided to eat something strange, causing piles of unmentionables all over the house, for days. And days. Then Ken's truck acted up and he missed work today. After countless cleanups, a trip to the vet, transporting vehicles to and fro to the shop, and trying to figure out the apps for Ken's new job, we rather collapsed on the couch,  which turned into naps while the TV blared. (If You Give A Mouse A Cookie...) Life in first-world countries is exhausting. What if we had to actually forage for our food? We might need to be thinking about that soon.

I moved some of our plans around, when our daughter said she would be dropping by...and then our son-in-law was going to meet her here, after he got off work. And of course, the real treat was getting to squeeze 1-year-old Ethan in the mix. We sat in the living room, enjoying their company and trying to decide on where to eat ('cause Yaya don't plan too well). Liz whips a white plastic stick out of her purse and you know what that means...I saw two pink lines and squealed, "You're pregnant!" Yes, it's #12 grandbaby. Yes, it's not their first. Yes, you'd think I'd get tired of this. But no -- it's the most wonderful gift that God gives people when they're done raising their children: grandchildren. Our society has been down on having children for quite some time. They say you can't afford them (I mean, if you have too many you might never get to go to Disney World, poor dears. I haven't gone yet and I've had a wonderful life). They say they are a liability. How in the world will you pay for their college (we don't - they paid as they went or got scholarships or were wildly successful in a trade)? They say that people are nuts to bring kids into this evil world (remember, we're taking over). They say you should enjoy yourselves and limit bringing those big carbon footprints into the world (how about raising them to be energy-givers?)

Having risked all these "dangerous burdens" and birthing four, who are now grown, responsible adults (who've married well, thank God), I have to say that there is no amount of money, fame, career or treasure that could compete with the joy that our children and grandchildren have given us. Those early years were sheer exhaustion, right along with the fun parts of it. I didn't know that I would re-live my own childhood through their eyes, that all their firsts would be like buds on the trees and flowers in springtime. I had no idea how much I would laugh (and cry) because of them. I'm still tired, but would love nothing more than to have the ability to just rotate my time around to each, one at a time, then start over. I'm guessing that's some of what eternity is for. Once, I did a study on all of the words "children, seed and womb" that are found in the Bible. Did you know that God loves children, that He always says they are a blessing from Him, and that Jesus is really keen on them too? They are our future. We need to teach them to be tough, raise them right and love the fool out of them. And pray a whole lot.