Autumn Leavings

Our children gave us a gift for our fourtieth anniversary...it was an official family photography session. Our anniversary is in February, but it took us until mid-October to finally do the deed. The photographer had us meet at a local park (Clinton Reserve) at "golden hour" -- that time of day where the sun is moving down in the evening sky and everything looks magical. My daughter and three daughters-in-love commiserated and planned for months about what we were all going to wear. A color scheme was shared, "fall" colors of course. My complexion looks like the day of the dead when I wear those colors. I remember, in my past, a brown prom dress, gorgeously hand-made by my skilled Mama. I put it on and my face turned a shade of light chartreuse. Then there was an orange silk blouse, a hunter green wool sweater, a yellow bathing suit. Sad chapters in my clothing life, though I didn't understand why they didn't work. Then some brilliant person woke up in the 1980s and started giving parties where they draped you in your "colors" -- they sold you makeup and gave you a customized little color palette that fit neatly into your purse. Color Me Beautiful was the rage and we all figured out whether we were a Summer, Winter, Spring or Fall. I was a Summer, which included all the colors of the sunset that I already loved -- shades of pink, purple, blue, creamy white (not white-white), reds (with a blue undertone, not cherry, mind you), never black, but navy was amazing. All the planets aligned and I saw the fashion universe in a whole new light. I knew that I looked like a frump in that green sweater, and now I knew why. For the record, I often cheat and wear other season's colors. I've never liked to just stay in my lane, but then again, hunter green on me might deserve incarceration.  

So back to photos...I had had months to think about an outfit, and all I could come up with was some sort of denim. But my denim jacket has really tight arms and makes me claustrophobic. Two days before the big day, I strolled into Walmart for milk or something, when I happened upon a packed-out double rack of dresses and tops. When did prairie dresses come back on the scene? Because I already did that, back in the 70s, and it didn't turn out so well. Back then, we had a hippie moment and then everything suddenly went sporty. I missed the 80s, because I was getting married and raising four kids and didn't care one lick about current music, fashion or trends. I stuck to Beethoven, Dan Fogelberg and Chicago, blue jeans and t-shirts and that worked out fine for me while my main priorities were diapers and nursing babies. I blinked, they were grown, and I'm still trying to catch up. So here's this rack of clothes and I had to admit they were kind-of adorable. I didn't want to deal with the sweaty, sticky job of dressing and undressing in Walmart, so I bought two dresses and two tops and took them home to try on. I felt real fancy doing that, like one of my old rich friends used to do. Except she was shopping somewhere much more dignified than Walmart. Either way, I was pleasantly shocked that the dresses fit nice and were really cheap. I might have also figured out that I no longer have a waist, so you just kind-of make one up and that seems to work. The tops didn't fit, so I took them back the next day. The whole rack of clothes had sold out, except for one top, which was just my size. What is Walmart thinking? Cheap and cute clothes?

So for the photo session I wore the blue dress, and Papa Bear decided at the last minute to wear his overalls. He was hunkier than the Marlboro man. It was heaven, because all of our perfect grandchildren were there, along with their gorgeous, though imperfect, parents. The photographer was brilliant, coaxing all sorts of love and giggles out of everyone. Then we retired to Jon and Nakitta's house, where she had made several delectable soups. We all brought side dishes, and after stuffing ourselves, there was a bonfire, s'mores and we cut designs on our pumpkins. It was as perfect a night as I could ever imagine.  

Nights like that are like a glowing sphere in my mind (maybe it was the jack-o-lanterns, maybe it was the bonfire, but it was probably those people). They don't happen every day or we'd not appreciate them. I sat my big pumpkin, with vines carved all over it, along with Maddie and Caiden's (they're living here, with their parents, while they build their new house), on the front porch. It took two weeks before they succumbed to the elements. One of the guys threw them away yesterday, leaving a trace of moldy gourd on the porch rug. Rotten pumpkins are just tragic, no matter how much you try to puzzle through their demise. I've smiled and had warm thoughts each time I've passed that spot on the rug (you'd think I could get a warm, soapy rag and clean the mess up, but I digress...), just thinking about that lovely day that we had together and blessing God for His mercies and gifts that have nothing to do with what I really deserve. When I opened the stunning pictures from the email I was sent, I boohooed. I'm so happy that this world is not all there is...but sometimes God pulls back the curtain just enough to let us see a bit of heaven.  

Eight Days A Week

"I'm in a full pucker position," said Judge Adams. He was up on a very high-pitched roof with my husband when he said that. They were helping a friend finish his house. We laugh to this day about that expression, and every time we're in a tight spot, it gets said again. That's how I felt today, when I was trying to get out of downtown Atlanta after a closing. Folks were jockeying for position like it was a NASCAR race. I try to arrange closings with more local attorneys, but don't always get to choose. I hauled it home, ate leftovers and decided to hit the hay early, only to find that the sheets were still in the washing machine. Life is just like that sometimes. Our first-world-problems..... 

I sold my dear little camper this weekend to the sweetest lady. Ken hauled it to Newnan and fitted it into her teeny-tiny backyard (with his massive truck attached). It took an hour and a half to get it finally situated, without ruining something in the process. I was sentimental as we pulled away. I had taken that very ugly camper and turned it into something Barbie could be proud of. People would knock on the door when we camped and ask to see the inside of it. I left the dishes and pots and pans in it. How could I not? They matched the turquoise, coral and cream color palette. We had some fun in that thing and I hope the new owner does too. These Neanderthals are too big for a Barbie camper, so we got us another one, bigger and with bunks for grandkids. 

This next month might prove to be my undoing. I have to decorate a ladies luncheon, a wedding and a mansion (for Christmas), then a mural to paint for soon-to-be-present baby London Grace. We have two concerts with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble in the next few weeks (don't forget them scales!) Then there's my day job. And Thanksgiving and Christmas don't wait on anybody. I've been having trouble sleeping at night, wondering how I'm going to get all this done if London decides to make her entrance on time (she's due November 8). Her brother was three weeks late, so hope springs eternal, not that I want to wish that on my daughter. But the apple doesn't fall from the tree and the four of mine were at least 2-3 weeks late. I see Liz in all her glory, beautiful and shaped like a very ripe pear, miserable, but with all her dreams coming true. 

Dear Lord, You know I ain't got time to do all this stuff. I remember there's somewhere in the Word where you stopped time for, like, a whole day. I'm not asking for anything like that, but I'd appreciate it if you could slow everything down, just a little bit. It'd be just peachy if You could hold off London until at least November 13. And while we're at it, and since we're asking...our little Maddie is turning 9 this week and she'd like to know if You'd speed things up for her, just until Wednesday. Thanks in advance.   

Grounded

A few weeks ago, I listened to a fascinating podcast "In the Red Clay." (Not a children's podcast, I might add).  It concerns a man (Billy Sunday Birt) who was considered a hit man  for the so-called "Dixie Mafia." I never knew there was such a thing, though my early days were traversed all over dirt roads in the great countryside surrounding Atlanta, where much of this activity was rumored to have occurred, in the 60s and 70s...my very growing-up years. While listening to the tales spun out of this podcast, however, I began to think about how closely I certainly came to the characters that are introduced. I wish Daddy were still here (but of course, but he'd never come back now, after all he's seeing). I can just imagine him connecting a lot of dots from some of his people back in the day. His Daddy was known to be a rounder, with plenty of brushes with the law, usually having something to do with alcohol. The Dixie Mafia was all about hauling moonshine. I believe PawPaw had an old still across the street from their house in Smyrna, but I could be wrong. It involved a radiator, that's all I'm sayin'... There were some bad cousins, one using my Dad and Uncle's print shop after hours to make false documents. Arrests and a murder or two in my family, and you have a dingy, dusty veil of Southern gothic mystery back there, roaming the back roads that were still not quite civilized. It doesn't seem that long ago, but I guess nothing is, if you can still remember it. 

The Red Dirt story also involved a local hero: Douglas County's Sheriff Earl Lee. I don't know much about him except that he was an amazing lawkeeper -- putting the fear of God into people while keeping the peace and respect of most everyone. He was (and is) revered and kept his jurisdiction on the straight and narrow. But he was first and foremost, a man of God. The word is that Billy Sunday Birt was paid to murder Sheriff Lee one Sunday, while Lee was coming out of church. Though Birt has been credited with as many as 56 or more murders, something made him pause and reconsider. Lee lived for many more decades. Years later, Lee allegedly led Birt to Christ and arranged for him to be baptized in a country church. Yes, truth is stranger than fiction.

Irony runs along my lifelines as well. My PawPaw was nothing like the tender-hearted, God-fearing man who raised me. Many years after he died, MawMaw told me that she sometimes dreamed PawPaw was still alive, that the law was pounding on the door. She said that when she would wake up, she'd be relieved he was gone. In the next breath she was talking about how she had always loved him, no matter what kind of mayhem he was dredging up. God uses whatever He likes and PawPaw's blood runs through these veins just like my Daddy's does. I guess I've got a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. But I sure do love my roots, deep in that Georgia red clay.   

Camping, Kids and the Passage of Time

Camping was our childhood version of Disney. We would head a few miles down the road to Lake Allatoona, and spend a night or two in a tent at King's Camp, where the lake was muddy and murky. When we waded into the water, we had to make our way past all the stumps that lurked in the thick mud. That final push into deep water was a mercy. But there was nothing more delicious than the eggs and bacon Mama fried on our Coleman stove the next morning, or the smell of the campfire and the hiss of the Coleman lantern that Daddy hung from a nearby tree. He made it magical, telling us stories and being in a perpetual state of boyhood himself. When you have no money, but you have love, a mud-slide on a hill can be paradise.

Ken and I's camping adventures of late bear no resemblance whatsoever to my childhood adventures. I surprised him with an old camper a couple of years ago, a little thing that is adorable (since I turned it into a turquoise, coral and cream Barbie camper). We fixed it up and took it a few places, only to finally admit that we are two barbarian-sized folk that need not only space to spread out, but room to escape in times of peril. Ken felt hemmed in by the little tiny bed in the back. He never likes to have only one escape route. It's a wonder he wasn't in the military. He'd have been a 5-star general by the time he got done. Our last trip was the tipping point and we realized we would either have to quit camping or get a bigger one. So we took the latter option and found a nicer, newer, bigger camper a couple of weeks ago. It has two exits and a bed that's not the size of a Chiclet. You also don't have to climb over anyone if you have to make a midnight run to the bathroom. We're taking it for a practice run in a few weeks.

In the meantime, I went with my son Jon and his family for a several-day trip in their camper, to visit the Ark Encounter in Kentucky. We call their rig "The Split Level." It's huge and boujie, with a big ole refrigerator and multiple ways to sleep, not to mention its own outdoor kitchen. You could almost forget you're camping. Almost. 

 They planned this trip many months ago, to celebrate their twins' fifth birthday. Little Addison said, "It's a grand adventure!" We drove miles and miles to get to Kentucky, which might as well be Outer Mongolia, when you're traveling with four young children (one of them a baby). It really took us two days before we pulled into the main event: The Ark Encounter. We parked, waited in a long line, boarded a bus, then walked a ways until we passed through a big arch (remember that God put a rainbow in the sky after He promised to never destroy the earth again with water?) The kids were going nuts as we looked up and saw a gargantuan replica of Noah's Ark, right there in technicolor. The kid in me stood, gaping at the sheer size and reality of the thing. Tears came unbidden as so many memories and versions of the biblical story tumbled out of my brain. Faith became a sort of sight as this legend came to life in front of me. There are over 300 cultures that have flood stories. It's not a children's tale, if you think about it.

Jon and Nakitta had several friends staying nearby at the campground. Each night was filled with the squeals and games of children around the campfire. After the kids were put to bed, the men would head back out and stay late into the night talking. Yaya curled up in her bed, read books and slept like an old lady, without apology. It was pretty blissful. 

The role of Grandma is so precious, it defies explanation. When God gave us our four children, I felt like I had won the lottery. I had wanted them from the time I was a little girl and then I got to have my very own. I kissed and hugged and drank in their childhoods. They're all grown now and probably have no idea how nuts I was and am about them. My and our job was to raise them, so there were the tough years where you had to make them mind and teach them all the things...Because you love them. So they might not know how much every inch of their sweet skin and bunny eyes made me happy. 

Then God gives you grandchildren. It's like winning the lottery, but with double prizes. 

Rise and Shine

Most every morning, I take my breakfast at my favorite spot in our lovely old Victorian house...in the living room, snuggled up in my big, comfy chair. There's a large, round, tufted ottoman with my favorite books piled on it. I settle there with my coffee, Bible, a bowl of something warm to eat, maybe a book or two and my phone (to catch any pressing emails or messages from the last night). The phone is a distraction. I wish I could ignore it, though my job requires a constant vigil on the blasted thing. My squirrel brain sees some interesting tidbit within the bowels of the email box and I'm off to the races. But this morning I awoke to literally hundreds of new emails. Somehow some "European business connection" bot got hold of my address and is now flooding my inbox with various numbers of vendors and requests. If this goes on, I might have to finally retire my ancient email address. Wouldn't that be tragic? I don't even know how that works. 

The worst thing about this morning is that when I sat down to my snuggly warm spot in the living room, the golden, dappled light that is always there is no more. Our delightful and huge Water Oak tree, just outside these windows, met its demise yesterday. Our son Daniel rented a bucket truck and carved it down into pieces. Ken and another son, Jon, joined him late afternoon to finish the job. Our beautiful tree had split in half about two years ago during the aftermath of a hurricane, but was hanging on despite missing half of herself. We believed the best of it, though we were told it would eventually die and fall. It was showing signs of faltering, so we bit the bullet and let her go. Now our dear house is exposed, harsh, cold. It will take many years before shade will come again to these windows. 

Life and death circle us all our days. Births and deaths bring new chapters, some delightful, some devastating. I often say that the death of my Daddy made a giant hole in the universe. So here's our new hole in our yard. The gothic wrought-iron fence was damaged. There's a big mess to clean up. How will we adjust? 

Life moves on. The little Sweet Bay Magnolia we planted two years ago will now have more sun, more room to grow. I plan to plant the biggest River Birch I can afford, a bit over from where the Oak was. We'll mulch and pay attention to the yard over there, giving it extra love. I've been nursing a whole army of Creeping Fig along the retaining wall there for many years. It will now have better sun...it thrives in heat. In my mind's eye I can see all these things thriving, growing, reaching to the sky. I will smile at the morning sun that beams in my windows. I will thank God for the comings and goings, for as the world turns, so will I...  

Red and Yellow, Black and White, They are Precious in His Sight

"I'd like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony..." went the famous Coca-Cola ad that I grew up hearing. There were a bunch of hippie-type folk with candles, multiple colors and nationalities of people, all swaying and singing together. The 1970s world I was living in was learning to adjust, grappling with the issues of all the changes going on in our culture. There was integration-by-design, logistical problems of bussing children to different districts so that there would be "equality" and racial balance in the schools. It was a strange time, but there needed to be change. Whether it was done correctly or not, I'm not here to judge. 

But what I do know is that God talks about this subject thirty-four times in the Scriptures. He calls people to Himself from "every tribe, tongue and nation." And until they are all represented, it says that Christ will not return. Being from the deep South, where some folks seem to think the devil lives (well, he IS the prince of the power of the air, that, but it's not limited to the deep South), there were so many wrong deeds and evil done. If you're living on the planet Earth, from any place anywhere, at some point there has been (and is being done), much evil. There is no single people group anywhere that is immune to the depravity of man. 

When I think of that idyllic commercial, with the pretty people of all races and creed singing together, I think about the makeup of heaven. Let me tell you, if you will look, you will find that within the simplicity of the Word of God there are the keys to peace, to unity, to so many of the world's questions. This Sunday morning, as I sat in church (I sit down front beside the piano, so I can see out there really good)...I wanted to weep. Because all across our quiet, gentle, kind, Word-centered church were all manner of people sitting together, worshipping God. I saw threads of Irish, English, Ethiopian, African, Scottish, Hispanic, Greek, German, Dutch, and the always essential Duke's Mixtures of humankind. In the end, we are all a "Duke's Mixture." Another simple story from the Scriptures, that most young children know, the one about Noah and a giant boat...not truthfully a children's level reading, because it's actually pretty gruesome, where only a few people (and animals) make it through a big, bad storm. There were eight folks on that ark, four human couples plus two of every kind of animal (seven of every clean animal).  They got through, made it out and then repopulated the earth. Look at it -- we're all cousins. Even the secular world has proven it out in science...that we all hark back to a simple human line...they even call that first mother "Eve." So guess what? We're all related. All. Of. Us. There are many, many cultures, but we are all kinfolk. We are all human. The concept of race is really a cultural construct rather than an actual race. We are the human race, with a beautiful range of colors and hues, faces, eyes, fingers. I heard a dear, young pastor say that our big problem is that we don't know God and we don't know each other.

And that's the real goal...to love our neighbor as we love ourselves. All these biblical themes...amazing that He wrote all that down for us. We need to read it and heed it. It's all there.

The Fruits of the Prosaic

Practice! The dread of it was real. I was an 11-year-old dreamy-eyed girl when Mama signed me up for piano lessons with our neighbor. I got off the bus on Thursday afternoons, waited at Elsie's house for my turn, then went into a tiny back room to learn the piano. Elsie was amazing. When she played, the world began to swirl around my head. It was like peering into the Milky Way, seeing things I had never seen before. Something in my heart opened and the music seeped in like honey. She loved classical music, which I had recently discovered from two albums Mama bought me at a yard sale, Beethoven's Fifth and the Pastoral Symphony. After I learned a few basics, Elsie put me on a book with lots of little Mozart pieces --wiggly, happy forays that made you think of sprites and fairies in springtime. 

I have ever been a busy girl, easily distracted and in need of various, tortuous types of accountability. What else does an 11-year-old need in order to practice? But it was, and is, the challenge of my life. There were fields and kittens to explore, my sister and the neighbor girls to ride bikes with, basketballs and softballs to throw, grass to be mown. A week would go by so very quickly and Thursday's bus ride was filled with sad contemplation of a poor lesson, all because I had failed to practice enough. "You have promise!" she said. I knew it was true. The notes flew easily from my long fingers, the interpretation flowed like a river from my heart. But when the mundane reality of scales and consistency broached my life, I fell short much of the time. Why be humdrum, when there were so many sparkles elsewhere? Six years of lessons can only take you so far, when you don't apply yourself. Basketball, high school band and my new flute, track team, clubs, socializing and the ever-circling spectre of boys kept a lid on any serious piano goals. Fired by two good teachers, I missed the gold that was there under my phalanges. 

Here we are, how many decades later? I somehow stuck with the flute all these years. It's simpler, sings with a voice and is super portable. I've kept up the practice, though without much real knowledge and no lessons. I finally bit the bullet and paid for lessons during the plandemic, with a wonderful lady from Los Angeles. Whoever knew we'd be Zooming instructions from across the other side of the world? I realized, for the first time in my life, that scales were indeed the magic sauce. And that all the workaday parts that I dreaded were the very thing that laid a foundation for everything else. If you do your scales, the other stuff is easy. Who knew? 

I play with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble every Tuesday night. We do multiple concerts all year (fall concert is October 13th at the Carrollton Fine Arts center, ya'll), difficult pieces that make my head swim. I complain every semester about the level of impossibility that our conductor, Terry Lowry, hoists upon us. I mumble "how am I supposed to do my day job?" pretty much every time the new music is introduced. I agonize over my distractions...very real, important ones... grandchildren, children, husband (the hunky one that still circles) , job(s), church, friends (socializing is good for your soul) and of course my Mama and siblings. Every turn of the seasons, I question whether I should continue to try to hang with this ensemble, constantly forcing myself to do the requisite practicing and treks to rehearsals and performances, when I have so many other noble obligations. Some weeks I practice nearly every day, then others I might get one session in. The agony weighs on me sometimes. Or often. 

In stressful duty mode, I pick up my flute and begin the banal scales. I sound like a rusty tin whistle. The playing starts to clear out my throat and sinuses. I begin to breathe deeper, opening up my head and lungs. The fingers relax and move, remembering patterns. Before you know it, I've worked through the scales and arpeggios and everything begins to flow. Then comes a lovely etude and the sound starts to warm, the rich silver of the flute coming alive. The deep, sonorous tones from this lovely instrument (that I sold a house for) are like liquid gold. I stop and thank God for it, even though I often feel guilty for having bought something so expensive. Then I remember that I really did work hard for it and maybe it's okay. For God so loved the world (and me)... Then the honey seeps in and I recall why I do this and what music does for my soul. Besides, it's all over the scriptures, about singing, instruments, even God's ideas about it. Heaven is gonna be full of music, the expression of the heights of the glory of God. I'm so happy we get to go ahead and start early, down here.