Hanging On

Sometimes the connections dry up. Sometimes things just seem to stand still. Time flies by but then nothing seems to be happening. What is this, the spectre of age, when the efforts of survival finally overcome you? I knew I was slogging uphill, quite awhile ago, with occasional bouts of free-wheeling coasts and breezes on spring-spritzed days. That's why I want to pull my children and all those young people aside and tell them that it really is true -- that they need to eat right and exercise while the gettin's good. I've always been the kind of gal who ate dessert first and then dove in. The diving in is fantastic, but you better shore up those arteries while you can and keep 'em maintained all along the way. Don't make a religion out of it, for heavens' sake. I know people who have no other subject in their head except what they ate, didn't eat or what supplements they're taking. Ditches on either side of anything are a bad idea. 

Go back to your Grandmama's good advice, well some of them, anyways. One of my husband's grandmothers thought that white bread, instant everything and lots and lots of sugar were the best things God ever made, even though He had nothing to do with that. I understand. That stuff tastes so amazing, it's completely out of this world. And it is, it's not from this world. It's from zombies or Planet Zurg or something. She wound up with bad Alzheimers and a terrible end. I don't know if that's why, but I do know she ate from a pitted set of aluminum cookware that was her Mama's...and most of her siblings also came down with the big A too. All this negativity, but it's a part of our world. The sweet part was that even when she was at her worst, full of violence and confusion, you could pull her Bible out and start reading the Psalms...she would immediately calm down and close her eyes and starting quoting it with you. The Spirit was still with her. She is with Him now, whole and at peace. I bet they have stuff that tastes a whole lot better than white bread and sugar.

We're back up here in the mountains for the Fourth of July, at our old campground, with one of our sons and his family. Today's job was to go swimming in the little lake. I forgot how much faith it takes to immerse one's self into a brown, murky lake. I tried to not think of water snakes, but the grandkids kept reminding me of them ("Yaya, there are water snakes in here, but guess what, there's no rattlesnakes!") I'm not so sure about the rattlesnakes either. And I also couldn't help remembering that long-ago movie (before my time but still memorable, even if it was terribly cheesy) Creature From the Black Lagoon. Because I was certain I felt my foot get bumped a couple of times. Either way, the kiddos and I made our way out to the slippery dock. The fresh mountain water was delightful and it was fun to share time with these precious ones. We drank cold water from a spring and they rode on the back of the truck with Papa while I tried to bounce them off. 

Slow down, time. Slow down. 

Buon giorno Italy!

Our fearless conductor brought our band together one night (the Carrollton Wind Ensemble) and announced that we had been invited to play several special concerts over nine days...in Italy, next year! I've had romantic notions of seeing Europe, the Louvre, Paris, and being in places where the history makes America look like a toddler. The art...si si! In truth, however, the thought of travel sounds idyllic but then it scares me. Indigestion. Confusion. Sunstroke. My bucket list has never really included any major travel, as long as we get to go to a beach once or twice a year (and that only a few hours away). But the more we talked about Italy, and the more I heard from people who have traveled there, I began to hope for it. I told Ken that he had to plan to go as well. He tolerantly smiled when I'd bring it up and said he'd carry all the luggage. I immediately arranged to get my passport. When it arrived, I got online and made Ken's appointment to get his. I babbled on and on about what fun we were going to have, wondered what we will play, and basically told everyone I know that we are hoping to go in June 2023. 

Fast forward to our friend's daughter's wedding. Ken's sister, Melissa, is best friend to the groom's mother, so we enjoyed sitting with her and her family at the reception, having a jolly ole time. Melissa is like Ken in a woman's body...very organized, strong-minded, steady, responsible, and loads of fun even though she's so good. She probably understands my husband better than me. So when she leaned in and said, "Rose, don't make Ken go to Italy" I started laughing, because I knew that she understood us better than we understand ourselves. To sum up, she said, "If he goes, he will be trying very hard to make you happy. He'll be doing things just to please you. And you will be holding back on things that you really want to do, just to please him. So you'll both be miserable." I'm getting tickled, just thinking about it now. It's true. I can see it, me trying to drag him out of the room when it's late, to hear some minstrel playing on the street. There'd be fussing, relenting, second-guessing, guilt, and several other factors, especially exhaustion at the end, when all the time, he could be watching a movie in his cool, quiet man cave! We discussed it, laughing, the next day, deciding to go ahead and get his passport and make our final determination later. Several weeks went by, and then the night before his appointment he told me the truth: "I really don't want to go to Italy, Rose. But I'll go if you want me to." And I knew that he would. But I also won't make him. Love is like that.

I'm holding it all loosely. They might make us take shots I won't take or make us swear allegiance to some supreme leader that I'm not willing to follow, or everything could shut down the day before. For all we know, we could be eating beans and rice this time next year (much less be getting on airplanes). Ya gotta consider that anything could happen. Meanwhile, it's a really nice dream and I hope we get to do it. So I'm practicing my Italian, watching the Godfather series and dreaming about cannolis. I don't eat sugar, but if I get to go to Italy, I might just have to...   

Table Talk

I've always had a complicated dance with the table. In a society where only the most perfect bodies are deemed acceptable, (though only one in a thousand people have one of those), my generation of women grew up secretly thinking they could never measure up. Ours was bombarded with such icons as Twiggy. Curvy Marilyn Monroe was passe, fat by comparison. Think about it...how many of us could pass for a twig? This was at the same time that Saturday morning cartoons were starting to be interspersed with ads for sugary, insanely addictive breakfast cereals. We begged our Mamas for the latest cocoa-infused crunchies in a bowl. Crunchies indeed, for they definitely weren't and aren't food. You can eat three-quarters of a box and be ravenous in an hour. While the sugar was ramping up, they were eschewing anything resembling fat. Sugar crunchies, but no bacon, heavens to Murgatroyd. 

I had the happiest of childhoods, at a humble table where very little fake food passed our lips. Very rarely, we drove all the way to Mableton (from Powder Springs) to get a Whopper at the Burger King. There were dipped cones at the Dairy Queen (small, mind you). Desserts were treats, not the usual everyday fare. We grew up mostly outdoors, pell-mell tumbling and playing and working, so any food we ate was used up. In high school, my siblings and I were tied up with sports and band and homework. My Mama still always had supper on the table, and if you were late getting home, there was a pan in the oven with a leftover plate in it for you. 

When I walked down the aisle at 21 years old, my only knowledge of cooking was from watching Mama and others. I knew how to clean bricks and till a garden but I didn't know how to boil water. It seems the will to work is all you really need, however, and a good cookbook. Someone gave me a Better Homes and Gardens one as a wedding gift. Red-and-white checked. I still have it and use it (well, occasionally). One of my last conversations two years ago with my Paula-Deenesque-Mother-in-Law was to ask her forgiveness...I should have humbled myself and learned at her knee. But no, I had to do it myself, smoke and all. Eventually, I muddled through enough that I fed four giant people to adulthood, probably because of a few choice recipes and the ever-pressing need to cut costs by cooking rather than eating out. 

Somewhere along the way, those four people emptied out of our house, marrying and starting their own enterprises. Two of my boys shock me today with their culinary prowess, and a third is a grill master. My daughter is a bit like me...she was a college athlete then waited to learn when she had to. Funny the lives we lead. Now, Ken and I go often to the same three or four restaurants. Many times, we eat a shake or breakfast bar and then only eat one real meal a day, and that at the diner. On Sundays, the waitress knows what we're going to order every time. It's downright shameful. I keep meaning to cook something and then that man just overtakes me with his persuasions. I don't know if it's my cooking or my complaining that's causing all these problems. 

Maybe I'll put that frozen chicken back out on the countertop this morning. I think it's been thawed more than a couple times, but when he sees that thing, we're going to the diner for sure...  

Love in the Sauna

Every spring, I saunter through March, April and May with abandon, forgetting that June's about to smother us. Part of our problem is that the pollen starts flying as soon as Father Christmas leaves out. We're whining and griping about that, failing to be grateful for mild temperatures and the smaller mosquito population that spring affords. Just about the time I finally get around to squirting off the front porch and throwing all the pillows in the dryer on the fluff cycle, it's already too late. The blanket of summer has descended. The dog is shedding everywhere and it's sticking to anything that moves. Ken hates me when I take her to the groomer, because she comes back looking like a hound dog (she's a titled Grand Champion Australian Shepherd), but I can't abide all that fur. I'm aspirating it into my lungs and you can see it floating in the sunbeams coming through the windows. 

Several of the grandchildren were at our house today and they did the old-fashioned thing: Papa hooked up the sprinkler and they played in it and squirted water guns. Who needs a splash pad when you've got a nice, green one in the backyard? The soft clover beneath their feet and plenty of peanut butter and jelly...there's still hope for the next generation. 

We celebrated my sister's sixtieth birthday at our lovely home on Sunday afternoon, with 72 guests. The heat index was near 100 degrees, so I wondered what we'd do with everyone. We put all the food out on the carport, brought out the fans, had lots of tea and ice water, and everyone had a marvelous time. The younguns ran circles and played soccer on the lawn, the old folks sat under the trees, babies were dandled on laps and young men looked wise as they talked politics. A lady commented to me, "You are living the Norman Rockwell life, Rose! Look at all these grandchildren, everyone having such a good time, your enchanting old house. Look at that swing. Why, someone's even put a Solo cup in the hole of your pecan tree. This is just wonderful!" I gazed around at the people enjoying one another, the different kinds and ages all around, the blessings of God from everywhere. It truly felt like the best of Americana and all that is good about the life of our country and our little town. As the evening waned and one-by-one the guests drifted towards their own nests, we savored the day and the relationships that made it so special. It takes a lot of work (and sometimes worry, if I'm honest) to pull off these things, and my nephew's wife carried the lion's share of cooking all that food (with four little kids of her own and another in the oven. If you want to get something done, find a busy Mama). When it's all over, there are crumbs and exhaustion, and I don't whip those things out as easily as I used to. But it was worth it. My dear sister Melanie, who is the most capable Lioness of every worthy event, deserved it and more. She's always pulling out the stops for others and making the magic happen. Even with eleven (count 'em) children (and now lots of in-laws and grandchildren), she's the most hospitable human I know. If you pop in to see her, she's going to get you a coffee and then try to feed you too. I'm bone-weary just thinking about it. I bought her a silly tiara for fun at the dollar store, but she merits a diamond one, I kid not. It's hard, with this many kids and grandkids and life layers between us, to make time to communicate like we did when we were younger. It's easy, I've found, when siblings get to those middlin' and beyond years, to let silly squabbles separate them, to let small pebbles in our shoes become festered sores. I told myself recently, when I realized that she and I had drifted somewhat, just because of logistics and busy lives, that we can't allow that. We have to push past it, to skim past small talk to the things that matter, so we don't wind up with calloused hearts and shallow sentiments. 

"Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends." I Corinthians 13:4-8a 

Bulldozers on the Mountain

I found myself, with several of our grandchildren, at a giant sandbox. It was a kid's dream, where there was a big "dump truck" loaded with sand and lots of Tonka trucks to play with. It was the same one that my own children had played in, many years ago, when we used to stay at Track Rock Campground up in Blairsville, Georgia. I had the chance to camp with my son and his wife and family for a few days last week, enjoying the beautiful scenery and especially the kiddos. I'm not going to lie...this day, however, I became one of the kids myself. When I hauled the three oldest grands up to the playground (ages 9 and two 4-year-old twins) there were a few other children there, with no other adult present. A little girl, maybe 10 or so, and her brother, maybe 4 or 5, was there. Its a fact that sometimes kids bully each other, but apparently Grandmas are fair territory now. When 9-year-old Annabelle began swinging on a big rope next to the "fort," she was told by said 10-year old that swinging wasn't allowed on the rope. I quickly looked for a sign, saw none and told the informant that Annabelle was allowed to swing. The child proceeded to argue with me, said that it wasn't a swing and that she could get splinters if she bumped the pole next to the rope. I stood up to my full, Yaya-esque height and told the child that if someone got splinters it was their own dang fault and to mind her own business. She clamped her mouth shut and sauntered away. There was plenty of rope swinging done, no splinters involved. I was curious about the dynamics of the child's family. But it didn't take long to find out more...

My crew wound up in the big sandbox, busily scooping and building a town. The afore-mentioned young boy (brother of the 10-year-old girl) walked into the area and began telling everyone that they had to take their shoes off. He said that shoes weren't allowed in the sandbox. Again, I looked around for signs, but there were none (I am occasionally compelled to follow the rules, if there are rules). I told the boy that they did not have to take off their shoes if they didn't want to. He stomped around and demanded individually that they take them off. Then I saw something that brought the steam to my ears...a special needs child, another boy, standing tentatively at the edge of the sandbox. He had tennis shoes on, laced carefully. The other little bully boy was telling him he couldn't come in until he took his shoes off. I then directly addressed the kid, telling him that he did not have the right to tell anyone to take their shoes off and that he had to quit saying that to anyone. I pulled each grandchild to the side, and asked them to invite the special needs boy to come and play with them. They all did that, in their own way, and eventually he carefully stepped into the sandbox. He never did play with them but he found a toy and began scooping to his heart's content. My Mama bear scope was up and I watched carefully for any comment from the demon. 

I believe we have to teach our kids how to deal with bullying, but there is a time for adults to intervene, particularly on the front end and the rules are being set. We also have to teach our children by example, to show them to watch out for the weaker amongst us and to also stand up and say no when it needs to be said. In retrospect, I should have not intervened with the bullies, except in having my grands invite the special needs boy to play. I should have pulled my grandkids aside and actually taught them how to speak to the bullies, like my Daddy did for me. 

Freedom

 Every patriotic holiday, we complain about the weather. Our wind ensemble plays at the local veterans memorial park two or three times a year, always a smattering of Sousa marches, rousing sentimental anthems and battle hymns. The park is built right on the top of the crest of a hill, where the wind is always blowing. If it’s hot, it’s blistering. If it’s cold, we’re freezing. I was struck with the irony of the location. Maybe it’s not irony at all…perhaps someone who has faced the heat and discomfort of battle was the one who chose this spot, a tiny glimpse of bleakness on an otherwise spotless day. 

I am a woman in a first-world country, who has never really missed a meal or suffered much. I grew up with my hand over my heart, singing the national anthem and getting misty every time Lee Greenwood came up to the mike. I’ve slept snug in my bed most nights, with the blessings of God and country all about me. But recent days and turmoil have made me think long and hard about the price of freedom. I’ve heard the word all my life, thought I knew what it meant and knew that I wanted to stay that way (free). But complacency and plenty tend to lull the sensibilities, whether they lull the senses or not. Our senses are plenty engaged, too much so…but we’ve fallen asleep in the light of our glorious gift. The pampered lion in the zoo becomes fat and jaded, no longer proud and fit. When it comes time to defend his pack, he is too full of his appetites to notice that he can no longer move. We’ve become arrogant in the victories we did not win ourselves. We don’t even remember what they meant. 

I always worried that freedom of speech would be taken away by a big government ploy, that, like in some communist regimes, a huge hand would sweep in and plunder the people. Maybe we’ve been watching for that, when the truth is, the loss of freedom doesn’t start from the top. It starts from within. It begins when peer pressure rules the day, when children no longer look to their parents for guidance but are ruled by the whims of their schoolmates. It happens when fear of man’s opinions becomes the king. This is where we are.

I want to stand in the battle for truth, to crest the hill, to be willing to stick my head up, even if it gets shot at. We have all become too sensitive, too scared to speak the truth, too willing to sit back and wait for someone else to take the heat. There’s a time to say what needs to be said, no matter the pressure, no matter the cost. There’s also a time to be quiet, and finding the balance between the two is no simple matter. If we live our lives in fear, then we might as well not live. Existing in a cave, while life passes us by, is no existence. Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all….

And better to face the scorn of men than to remain silent.

Batwoman

I was sweating bullets, over a client who wouldn't sign an extension on a large contract we've been working on for a year and a half. My food was hitting my stomach like lead pellets in a tin bucket. When life gets like that, I don't even realize what I'm doing to the others around me. It's sort-of like what an unripe persimmon does to you...it looks nice and plummy, soft and sweet, but then the memory of that first bite will stay with you for an hour or so, all puckered up and mealy. Other flavors and foods don't help. You've just got to roll with it until its over. Being an overly sensitive woman is both a gift and a curse, and probably mostly the latter, if you were to ask my dear husband. The roller coaster life that he has had to lead because he decided to put a ring on it all those decades ago has got to be wearing on him. I know he'd like to live a more lake-like existence, emotionally, that is. But then, what would he do for fun? 

I was working here (sweating said bullets) at my giant desk, in our gorgeous study, by my 120-year-old fireplace when it started raining to beat the band. The problems with the client had apparently been resolved when I received an email back from the buyer's agent, telling me that, after all that, I had signed my part of the document wrong. So me, the redneck realtor, had to put the whole mess through to everybody for re-signing. I admit it, I am blonde, a bit ditzy, and yes, a bit of a redneck, but the real problem was that I was so excited about everything working out that I just got in a hurry. In the midst of this, and the rain, I noticed the nice sound of drumming in the fireplace. It seemed louder than normal. Then there was a mild splat of something that hit my cheek. On closer examination, I saw puddles all around, water streaming along the wall, down the mirror and pooling on the beautiful mantle. After pulling down the massive picture from above, there was a big bow in the plaster that had gone undetected. Then there was wailing and gnashing of teeth as my husband and Viking son scaled the roof (fairly new, I might add) to check it, only to find failing flashing as the problem. Help is on the way.

But this is really the kicker: I keep my Precious right by that fireplace. My Precious is my Haynes Q2 straight-line B-foot solid silver flute, which cost me as much as a decent used car. I sold a nice house and took my entire commission, tithed, paid taxes, then bought that flute.  I haven't bought a new one in 31 years. I leave that flute out, in the open, on a flute stand, so that my lazy self won't forget to practice it. I pet it, clean it, wipe it down, practice it most days, then put it back on its stand. A few weeks or months back, I noticed that my music had gotten all crinkled up and that my flute had little sprinkles all over it. One of the keys even had a wonky way about it. I thought somebody in the house had had an accident with a Sprite can and didn't want to tell me about it. There have been several times I thought I was really having to spend a lot of time working it over with the cleaning cloth. Things are not always what they seem and there just might be bats in the belfry.