Star Spangled Thanks

I woke to the sound of hammers and men shouting this morning. I threw on my clothes and walked the dog to see workers on top of the old mansion across the street, the "Marchman" home that has been embroiled in much controversy over the years we have lived in Villa Rica. Opinions seem to fall in two camps: Save It - or - Tear It Down For More Parking Spaces. As a lover of all things antique, I want to save all the old houses that need saving. But just because I want that to happen doesn't mean that it's going to happen. Unless I put my money where my mouth is (or my labor), I can't expect the world to just manifest my wishes. I see a lot of people protesting, but until they are willing to put boots to the ground (or dollars), the point is pretty moot. Meanwhile, somehow, I pray this beautiful old place gets restored to its former glory. Ken and I have offered our mad construction skills but no takers yet...they might think ours have expired and they might just be right.  

It takes a lot to keep up these ancient homes. Ours is now 122 years old and there's always something trying to give way or sag or rot. We've owned many domiciles over the years, though, and the truth is that the 2nd law of thermodynamics applies to every house, old or new. If you don't keep applying energy to said structures, they will eventually rot and fall down. Add to that the constant American urge to update everything every few years, and it just costs you, whether you do it yourself or not. 

As we sat on our insanely wonderful front porch last night, with sweaty, grungy grandkids running circles around the yard, classic childhoods complete with lightning bugs and cousins...I gave thanks to God for so many things. Grateful for the many veterans who have given their lives to buy and keep our freedom, grateful that somehow we've been able to own our homes these many years, grateful for the gift of grown children and their wonderful spouses, and grateful for the hope that grandchildren bring. They are growing up in such volatile days -- I worry that they might see more trouble than I've seen, that their lives might face trials and tribulations that are unbearable. Then I remember that they were born for such a time as this and their purposes are in God's hands, no matter what wild imaginations I might conjure up. 

We enjoyed our zany Memorial Day, full of food, dessert, laughter, love, deep discussions and not a little dirt on the floors. Speaking of Veterans, we parsed out some of Ken's Dad's things (he went to glory last month) to the kids. It was fun to look at the pictures and memorabilia and to think of him without pain and with a right mind. He was military (a Navy SeaBee) to the end, everything seen in black-and-white, all rules, no gray. That can be quite aggravating, when you're butterfly-ish or taking a road less traveled. But we need those people. We need the ones who will stand on the wall for us, do the hard things, be willing to lay down their lives for the greater good. It's not Happy Memorial Day, just Memorial Day. Hand over heart.  

I'll Think About It Tomorrow....

My sister and I are examining ourselves as to why we have a problem with food, except I'm pretty much done with navel gazing. I see that it protrudes more than it should, and then it recedes. Then the cycle begins again. In the 70s, we were all lean and nobody went to CrossFit. There was literally one big lady in our church, and I wondered why she was so fluffy and her husband was so skinny. Now we're mostly all fluffy. If you spend any time on the internet, you'll find all these reasons -- from food addiction to gut biome. If you just buy this supplement or sign up for yet another plan, you will finally get victory. And don't get me started on "the shot."

Why is food so good? And why does obsessing about anything just seem to make it worse? Yet, when I don't obsess, I get basically the same results, just quicker. Back in those 70s, we ate ice cream, popcorn with lots of margarine (yikes, maybe that's what clogged our arteries -- butter disappeared for a few decades), plenty of carbs and real food. There was lard in the homemade biscuits, real bacon, cobblers made of blackberries we picked out in the field. But not Twinkies, specialty coffees, Coca-Cola (except the rare occasion, and that in a tiny little glass bottle) or McDonalds. I believe the first time I ate at a McDonald's, it was on a field trip in high school. It seemed strange to me, somewhat lifeless and generic. Along the way, however, Pizza Hut and ice cream loomed large. 

My sister does not look like she needs to lose much weight. She gains her pounds all over, instead of being isolated to one particular spot. It's probably because she never stops moving. Add to that she has five-gozillion kids (well, only eleven) and maybe a couple dozen grandkids, and her propensity to cook for everybody instead of going out... sometimes I tell her she needs to chill for a minute. Alas, her highly-motivated self is going to Overeaters Anonymous and reporting back to me each week. I need to go too, but I'm too busy contemplating the universe. We're having interesting talks about food and our childhood and why we love the taste of Chick-Fil-A in the morning.  We're in our golden years and have been having these conversations since high school, and the answers are as elusive as ever. Ironically, back then, we thought we were fat. 

I haven't held back from living my life, just because I don't look like Twiggy. Swimming, climbing ladders, going to all the things, laughing loud and being in the moment are important enough that I'm not waiting around until the elusive svelte side of me decides to re-reveal herself. I'll keep aiming for what I should be eating, keep fighting the good fight...but I'm starting to think we're missing some key ingredient and there's just no figuring out what that is. Discipline, calories-in and calories-out, eating in moderation, fasting, keto, 12-step-programs...I've done them all and am still wrestling with the devil. I'm tired, just thinking about it. 

I was supposed to lose a trillion pounds this past year, because I'm going to Italy with the Carrollton Wind Ensemble next month. Didn't happen. I took my eye off the ball and now I'm limping around the bases, praying my bum knee holds out for the duration. But I have a plan: As the Lord wills, I'm going to eat, drink, enjoy all the people and sights that I can stand, flop my feathery self all over Italy. I'm going to be grateful for every little thing, even the hard things (I hear that finding bathrooms can be quite the adventure), because I'm probably not doing this again. They say the light there is amazing and the coffee is to die for. There's amazing things to see and good friends to see it with. Viva Italia and Carpe diem (that's not Italian, I'm pretty sure)!    

Fireworks On the Lake

We did the dreaded cleanout of my Father-in-law's apartment last week. I've been privy to many of these scenarios, as much of my real estate career involves the sale of estate homes. Often (unfortunately), there's crabbiness, hurt feelings, competition for the bits of things left over after death. I've seen normally-sane people reduced to toddlerhood when the grabbing begins. Thank God, this wasn't how our weekend went down. I don't know how this is possible, but my husband, his brother and sister are all Alphas. That means they're strong-willed leaders of whatever pack they find themselves in. Each one is bossy, opinionated, almost military in their ability to organize and get things done. There's The Chairman of the Deacons, The Manager, and The Teacher...they have other titles too. My life with the Chairman has been fraught with mutiny and convoluted versions of Capture-the-Flag. Job One is to keep things off-kilter just enough to keep his brain from turning into one giant, immoveable groove. I think often of that old movie, "No Time For Sergeants," (hilarious) where the head Sergeant aims to train his unit so that everything is quiet and peaceful, like a lake. Similarly, Ken's Dad, Ken and his siblings all have had this desire to level all the worlds around them to run smoothly. It's really best you go along with their plans. Now think about three of these Alpha dogs in one room. Seal the door and just imagine what kinds of fireworks could conspire. But God...

We had the sweetest of days. Everyone rustled through the necessaries, speaking up when something mattered to them, but also giving way to the others. A spirit of cooperation made the work light and the feelings kind. Trips were made to Goodwill, the trash was placed at the street, boxes and bags made their way to our trucks, as if we need one. more. thing. We finished up our time up in a loud, bustling restaurant and talked, laughed, ate. As we wended our way back to our vehicles, my thought was that the day could not have gone better. 

Now my house is crowded up with things to hand out to our children and maybe the Goodwill store. One thing we brought home was a giant credenza that needed paint. Ken knew that I was toast, so he set everything up on the carport, even bought the paint and primed the boombox with one of my playlists. It was a cool evening and he promised to sit out there with me while I worked. He knows that my FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) is pert-near a sickness with me, and the best way to get me to do something is to make a party out of it. He is not allowed to get near a paintbrush in my presence. This is not because he's sloppy, oh no, far from it. He takes extreme care not to make a mess and paints very carefully. One time, we were painting about 20 doors in a new house. I painted five doors and went to check on him. He was still on his first one, with nary a drip anywhere. But the paint on the door was so thin, I had to do it all over. That's the day I fired him from ever painting again. Sometimes I suspect this was actually part of a grand plan and I am the one who has been duped for the last fourty years. I'll take it. I love the smell of paint in the morning. Or pretty much any time. Now I have a beautiful, creamy white credenza for our lovely guest room and we had our little soiree on the porch. Meanwhile, Dad's having a party up there, with his very own serene, quiet lake and Jesus. Life is good. 

Jupiter Singin'

There's not enough people playing the really good music that's in the world. I love all sorts, from current pop (some) to bluegrass, from hymns to 70s rock, from folk and soundtracks to classical....and everything in between. When I have grandchildren in my car, I like to expose them to all manner of songs. Sometimes they like it, sometimes not. We talk about what the song is discussing or how it makes them feel. As of late, the winners have been the soundtracks to "Top Gun: Maverick" and "Rudy," along with the suite of pieces from Gustav Holst's 1916 "The Planets." Our wind ensemble (Carrollton Wind Ensemble) played some of the Holst a couple of years ago, and I fell in love with the complicated and rich tapestry of his compositions. I'm a barefooted country girl at heart, still wandering through this world picking up the wondrous pieces of artistic genius that drift across my path. How lucky I am, as are you, to live with so much beauty around us. So easy to forget it's right there within our grasp. 

It was on a recent weekend that two of our grandchildren were staying with me (Ken had to work). As we went about our errands, I played the Holst pieces, us all agreeing that "Jupiter" was our favorite. Fashioned after the Greek gods, Jupiter is jolly, boisterous and fun. At a long 7+ minutes, it never gets boring. For us flutes, it's nigh impossible to play with all the trills and runs. The brass play, answering the woodwinds with their pompous and proud postering. Then suddenly, in the middle of it, there is the loveliest hymn in the solar system: "O God, Beyond All Praising."  We sing this often at our church and I love the tune and the words. I heard it first on a Charlotte Church album, where she sang the original patriotic British version: "I Vow To Thee My Country." At that time, I knew nothing of Holst or The Planets. I just knew I loved the haunting melody and the noble words that plucked at my heart strings. Yes, there is music that makes you want to stand up and be brave. 

Maddie and Caiden loved Jupiter and we played it numerous times. After errands and lunch, they plopped in front of the TV to watch Bluey while I snuck in a nap on my recliner. Maddie piped up, "Yaya!! It's that song again!" They were playing the hymn from Jupiter, right there in a Bluey episode. We couldn't believe our windfall. Then it was time to leave for a wedding and we had to play it again on our way (children like grooves). Entering the lovely setting of the church -- fresh flowers and lovely young people were everywhere -- we sat quietly as the prelude played. When it was time to seat the parents and grandparents of the bride and groom, a now-very-familiar hymn began to play. I thought my two enthusiastic grandchildren were going to knock over their chairs. The weekend wound down and I met up with their Mama to deliver them. We told her about our musical escapades, laughed, and went our separate ways.

I know I shouldn't ever do this, but when my grown children text me during church, I can't help but look. During Sunday School, I got a message from my daughter-in-love. She and the children had gone to church that day with their Mimi. As they were sitting quietly during the prelude, Mr. Holst inserted himself into the hymnody. Maddie and Caiden squirmed and giggled as they pointed out the obvious. 

Why things like this line up sometimes, I'll never know. Maybe there's a divine intervention going on. I might need to print out the words of that hymn and get studyin'... Either way, my grandkids know a bit more of the delightful parts of life.   

The Piccolo Wars

My Grandma Betty often said: "You get what you pay for. Always!" I didn't believe her, as I was growing up by hand, where we grew things from the dirt, and did great treasure hunting in thrift stores and through the "Atlanta Advertiser" (yesterday's answer to Craigslist). Everything I learned from my parents about surviving was earthy, frugal, resourceful. Grandma was the antithesis to this: elegant, exciting, cultured.  She had her hair "done" every Friday after work. There was a spare bedroom fully committed to some of her clothes (there were more in her regular bedroom) -- a walk-in closet full of shoes, another closet full of formals, and a big chest-of-drawers filled with her costume jewelry. She would let us girls dress up with her things, amazingly.  She was the exact opposite of my other Grandmother (MawMaw) - who was country to her core, could raise a heavenly garden and flowers, heck, she could put a stick in the ground and it would grow. I'm half MawMaw and half Grandma Betty, yielding a Yaya who is not Greek but behaves like one. There is nothing in the world like the love of a Grandmother -- if she's a good one, there's all this unconditional love, plenty of fun and wisdom, and lots of slackness when it comes to food or time constraints. I remember my two Grandmas looking deep into my eyes with that knowing bond of timeless love. I now do the same for my grandchildren. And the world keeps turning.

Back to the frugality of my childhood and early adult years...it is imprinted in my DNA that I must seek out the cheapest price on anything I am purchasing. I start there and work my way up (or perhaps abandon the whole idea, if need be). For this story, it all started with a little glimmer that existed in my lizard psyche, going way back to high school. I played flute in the band, but when we marched I borrowed and played one of the piccolos that were supplied by the school. It's pretty useless to play a flute out on a football field. You're dirtying up your instrument with extra grime and sweat for nothing, if you are a flutist. Nobody can hear you-- you're just a warm body in the scheme of things out there. Our band director tried to get me to play a fluglehorn during marching season, for heavens' sake. I'm still not certain what that is. I just know it resembled a trumpet and I was having no part of such strange contraptions. So the piccolo it was. I loved playing that little thing. It looked like a toy, kind-of sounded like a toy, and could rip a high B-flat like nobody's business, particularly in "Stars and Stripes Forever" -- which is, as our Maestro tells us, "the happiest tune ever written." I've always secretly wanted one, all these decades of continuing to play my flute. I even rented one once, for a church cantata. It seems so decadent, so indulgent, to own something that I know for a fact I will only play once in awhile (for various marches, patriotic days, and particularly the Stars & Stripes). We already have a wonderful piccolo player in our wind ensemble -- we don't need another one. But I kept chewing on that bone, for years. 

When my tax lady told me that I was actually, miraculously, getting a refund this year instead of having to pay the IRS, my brain fixated on the idea, since we're going to Italy in June to play four concerts. I mean, we're playing That Aforementioned Song, which begs for as many piccolos as you can muster. And I'm probably never going to Italy again. I decided to live a little and started scouring Facebook marketplace and second-hand shops for a used piccolo. I impulsively drove to downtown Atlanta one afternoon with three grandchildren in tow, bought a crappy old piccolo and immediately regretted it. I mean, when my car rounded the corner from picking it up, I almost called the fellow right then with buyer's remorse. When I found out (hindsight) how much it would cost to make the thing playable, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But it was cheap! 

Sometimes there is grace, in the land of the living. The nice man met up with me a few days later and gave me my money back. I drove straight to Ken Stanton Music (well, after stopping by the bank, there's that...), the same place my parents bought my first flute some 50 years ago. I played four of their piccolos and slapped that cash right down on the counter for the one that sounded the best. Forget frugality, forget cheap, forget buying anything used. I bought a spankin' new piccolo and even bought the maintenance agreement. I can see my Daddy up in heaven, laughing up a storm. Now that he's up there with Jesus, he has to know that sometimes, Grandma Betty is right.    

Sunbeams

I got the last-minute chance to go to the beach last week -- my daughter-in-love was texting me during church, making plans and a packing list. Don't tell Pastor David. Ken rushed me home and I threw a bag together while wolfing down tacos from the drive-through. I hot-wheeled in on over to Newnan and we looked for all the world like the Clampetts, with all kinds of flotsam piled on top. I almost didn't go, because I was coughing like an old stovepipe. But the sea air did my lungs and bum knee a heap of good. It was beautiful to see the dolphins and stingrays flinging themselves out of the surf, the soft sand between our toes, the children jumping pell-mell into the frigid water. Thankfully, the pool was heated, so Yaya jumped on in too. Got burnt toasty while I was at it.

We were staying at the place we took our kids for all of their lives -- Laguna Beach Christian Retreat -- but now it has a fancier name, something to do with Cottages or some such. They've painted all the block buildings with beachy, sherbet colors, but you still have to bring your own pillows and bed linens. We have such happy memories of weeks at the beach, with lots and lots of our family and other friends getting their own cottages at the same time. The kids ganged up and played volleyball, basketball, swam, hunted crabs, got sunburned and hung out with cousins and close friends. It was the best of times. Us adults would visit on our front porch (#7 -- we went so often, we thought it was ours), laugh and drink coffee. When the sun went down and supper was over, we'd congregate with more beverages at the old pool. The bigger boys would have contests where they stacked up chairs and dove over them into the water. We did this for nigh-on two decades. Now my adult children are so tall, they don't fit the full-size beds there (6'6", 6'5" and 6'4". Liz makes me the shortest now, at her 5'10"). They prefer places that have king-size beds. But this son, Jesse, and his family decided to go for a few days anyway, and invited me along. Papa had to work, poor thing. I like these arrangements (not Pa working, just the fact that I got to go). 

While granddaughter Eden (11) and I were riding home together, she said, "Yaya, can I say something? I hope that I don't offend you... I've noticed that Nortons, well, they talk a lot." I love the directness of children. If you don't want to know, don't ask. I reminded her that she was a Norton too and we had a good laugh.  She's the eldest grandchild (of 12) and I'm keenly aware that these days of early childhood are fleeting. Kids get busy with all sorts of things and we have these brief windows where they are still somewhat fascinated by their grandparents. I better tighten up. But then, with the recent death of my father-in-law, I was amazed at the sweet stories that his grandchildren told at the funeral. There's an unconditional love that is truly special. Some people don't get grandchildren, it's just a fact. Check around for a family that might need a surrogate Papa or Yaya. There could be no better investment.   

Crazy World

During our craziest season of life, thick with budding children, homeschooling, lots of relatives and friends and responsibilities....we decided to jump off a cliff and move into an old, leaky camper with our four children onto our land. We were young and idealistic, full of energy and dreams, seeing ourselves as pioneers in a new land. People seem to be doing this a lot these days, but back then we were unique, it seemed. And the campers back then were not as bougie as the fancy ones now. Our only had a sleeper sofa and two single beds in the back. We bought it anyway, even with that many kids. Our boys were 12, 10 and 8, our daughter was 5. The man-sized 12-year-old slept in one of the beds, the 10 and 8 year olds slept together on the other one, and our daughter slept on a pallet on the floor each night. She's now 32, with a husband and two young children (and one on the way) -- I recently asked her if she was traumatized by those two years of sleeping on the floor. She said it was the happiest of times for her, getting to be right in the mix with her crazy-fun brothers, listening to their antics and stories, sleeping right there where she could be a part of it all. That's some relief to me...we had the best of intentions, but after everyone's grown you worry about these things. They certainly learned resilience, how to work hard, and saw first-hand how good things don't just magically appear without someone laboring for them. 

Before we physically moved our camper to our land in south Douglas County, systems had to be put into place: electrical lines, septic system, a water line and some grading. We moved into a kindly-run campground that was right across the street from Six Flags theme park in Atlanta. We learned that many of our neighbors at the campground were long-term campers as we joined the ranks of the homeless. It sounds scary but it really wasn't. I was shocked at how quickly one can adapt to small spaces. Our heater and refrigerator didn't work, but the air conditioner and water heater were first-rate. We adapted with small space heaters and a big cooler (not fun) but if the air and water heater hadn't worked, it would have been a heap-lot harder to do this.

Many eldest children in families tend to think they are co-equals with their parents. They also are usually more obedient and responsible, but not always. This personified our oldest son -- he was (and is) very smart, quirky, and the most inquisitive human I've ever met. He learned very early that he could figure most things out by himself. His Father (my dear husband) also had the attitude that our kids should be allowed to climb 40-foot trees, scale mountains, tunnel into dangerous places, and basically be withheld from nothing that appeared dangerous to their Mother. Many times, my freaking self would be at shrieking level when their Dad would touch my arm and say, "Let 'em go, Rose"... Amazingly, these feral children grew up with lots of opportunities to get wrecked, but they rarely ever got hurt. Ken also expected them to work hard and be his minions, so they learned early how to do things...but when it was play time, the world was their oyster. I'm now grateful for how it went down, now that they're all thriving and able to actually survive as adults. God is good. 

One of my most memorable mornings during those days was when we were still living at the campground. Ken had to get up around 5:00 a.m. to get ready for work each morning, so we'd talk and eat before the kids got up. That day, right after he left, I decided to walk across to the camp showers and clean up real quick. I had done this many times, and the kids welcomed some more time to snooze.  I locked the camper door and proceeded to shower. Before I even turned the water off, I heard a familiar sound driving by the showers. Our conversion van, which had a unique rumble. I thought, "Did Ken have trouble with his truck, so he's come back and is now taking the van?" I quickly dried off and dressed, and ran to the door to see our van driving around the corner, making its way up the hill of the campground road. I looked left, there was no Daddy truck. The camper lights were not on. As the van made its way back down the hill, there is our 12-year-old son scooched up tight to the steering wheel, driving. He jerked to a gravelly stop, rolled down the window and explained why he was taking his life into his own hands: "Hi Mom! I woke up and you weren't in the camper. I didn't know where you were, so I thought I'd search with the van." Though I was imploding internally, I calmly told him to put the van into park. This is the child, who at many times in his life would say things like, when there was general mayhem: "Mom, what are we going to do about these kids?!"  Or -- "Mom, don't you care about Elizabeth's soul? She is getting old (she was 4) and she's not saved yet. What if you have a wreck and she dies and goes to hell?!" This one was born full-grown and full of sauce, and the rules didn't apply to him (still don't). My vision for him, while he was being formed in my womb, all 10 and a half pounds of him, was that he would be a light in the darkness. 

On that particular summer morning, however, he might have just barely squeaked through to live another day...