What Matters

Close to five years ago, our world got turned upside down. An unknown, unseen critter spread like wildfire across the continents, arresting our brains, bodies and mental health. I remember being horribly scared, reading and researching to discover how to be prepared for the worst. I had a plan to sequester the sick, even down to duct-taping doors shut against the sickroom. Ken was out in the middle of it with his job at a building-supply place...thousands of people breathing by every hour. He would stop on his way home and get our groceries. Each day when he got home, I begged him to strip down and throw his "contaminated" clothes in the washing machine. I washed, yes, washed the groceries. I slathered myself with sanitizer (which cost a fortune) and stocked up on N95 masks. We had virtual church for awhile, and sometimes just sat on the front porch and listened to the neighboring pastor yell angrily from his perch across the street. I'm not sure he's read his Bible in context, because God has more than one side. He is both love and truth, and much, much more. 

We were scared. Well, not Ken. He refused to be afraid, put his boots on every morning and went to work, mask hanging off his ear. He wasn't stupid, but didn't let anxiety draw him up into a twist like I did. I am still grateful for that leadership, and I slowly began to relax and realize that I couldn't put life on hold. Better to live or die, than to shrink up into a corner. 

Here we are, these years later, but still affected by what happened. Our social lives changed, our trust changed, we became more cynical and way more attached to our devices. We learned that we could drill into this little 3x6 inch screen and have all the entertainment, information and music we ever wanted. We all contracted ADHD in short order, unable to focus for longer than a few minutes. In places where we were required to wait -- doctor's offices, the queue at the DMV, the fast-food line in our cars -- we pulled up our phones and lightning-scrolled through reams of information and sound bytes. No need for eye contact or interaction with other humans. They were busy doing the same thing. News, weather and "truth" were all obtained and possibly manipulated by various entities. We gathered like moths to an enticing, warm flame, unaware that we might be burned. 

I'm trying to quit all that, but it is nigh impossible. My business, contacts, emails, calendar, maps and news all feed through that little monster. It's marvelously convenient and helpful, but like all good things, too much is counterproductive. I'll do better one day, only to spend most of the next day in the ozone of social media and not get my kitchen cleaned up or the laundry done, much less talk meaningfully to anyone. I'm usually busy, but when I'm filling in the spaces with basically meaningless drivel, what have I done with my life? It takes over when we least suspect it. So enticing, the quick fix of all these bites of information. 

Over the course of a trip with a good friend, my phone refused to work. A few stray texts drifted in, social media was nonexistent, and there seemed to be a fence between me and any incoming or outgoing calls (even though I paid the extra for access). I lost three client deals because I was just not there to do them and couldn't communicate. When the boat landed and I assessed the damage (which was considerable), I agonized, chewed, fretted and summarized what happened, including my faults in this scenario. Then a pleasant, settled and happy balm spread through my heart. I had a week without interruption, time with an old friend, laughter and contemplation and good, old-fashioned human interaction with her and also the many kind people on the trip that we encountered.  We lived to fly another day, clients got what they needed, and the world didn't stop turning. Joie de vivre.   

Float, Sweat, Laugh...

My good friend, Patricia (we wore our fancy names), and I cruised to the Bahamas this last week. After navigating the Miami airport and figuring out where all the food was on the boat, my ankle started to hurt. Specifically, my Achilles tendon, which swelled up like a big goose egg, along with much pain. Pat insisted I go to the medical station on the boat, where they promptly gave me a shot of something and hauled a wheelchair into the room. Yes, I spent my vacation being pushed around by my friend. I was heartbroken, because we were on this cruise to give her a much-needed break from the care of her husband and the weight of the loss of her son. Here she was, taking care of yet another human being.

The wheelchair was tragic for a minute, then became our ticket to the front of the line everywhere we went. Everything became an adventure, meandering through the halls and restaurants. We got dropped off at Coco Cay, an island where we floated all day in a giant lagoon-shaped pool, sipping cool drinks and talking about everything and nothing. The next day, they dropped us off in Nassau, where we had rented scooters. I thought, "That was fortuitous -- now I won't have to worry about the wheelchair. I'll just scoot all over the island!" Word to the wise: Don't ever assume you're paying for actual things, if you can't see them. We were scammed on the payment of the non-existent scooters. My heart was sick, as the sweat dripped down my back and our hopes for the day were dashed. No wheelchair, no scooters, no fun. As we sat dejected on the sidewalk, a nice fellow walked by with a laminated flyer in his hand, a flyer with pictures of scooters. He looked skeptically at us, saying that he didn't recommend us renting that type of vehicle. But why?! He said the word Mama several times, in that delightful Bahamian manner, specifically stating that he would not put his own Mama on one of those scooters. For a small price, he had two of those granny-devices that you see in grocery stores and such. He was certain we would be happier on them than a gasoline-fueled accident waiting to happen. We were highly offended at first, and then thought about my pitiful ankle and so opted for the granny-mobiles. He gave us instructions, an extra battery apiece, and then we were off. In short order we were hooting and hollering at every corner. They were so small, we could navigate inside stores and alleyways. There was a fella hawking Cuban cigars and said we should follow him. You would think I would have learned not to do these things. The further we got from the main street, the more I began to question my sanity. But alas, we were not kidnapped or robbed that day. He probably took one look at us and decided we already knew about the dropping-dead tricks and were way past caring what means it would take to protect ourselves. Don't mess with Mamas who've already plowed the back fourty. We wended our way to the beach, where a golden-toothed gentleman promised to watch our granny-mobiles, then yelled at us when we touched a lounger as we climbed over the sea wall - "This is a private beach!" We floated for an hour then didn't tip the guy because he never once looked at our bikes. We tipped ourselves and howled with laughter, dripping wet and hungry. Eventually we found a restaurant full of very jolly people, where there was a shouting DJ, playing horrid and loud music. He offered free shots of alcohol to anyone who would stand on their chair. There had to be a hundred folks in that place, and 98 of them stood on their chairs. We were content to eat nachos and laugh at the crazy people.  Then there was the straw market, where we found ourselves deep in the bowels of a building with a sweet vendor girl, full of the same stuff that we saw all over Nassau.  The wheels of my Yaya-mobile wound around a decrepit tarp and we like-to have pulled the whole place down. There were expletives from ancient Bahamian women, but we escaped with trinkets and bags anyway, losing what was left of our cash. On the way back to the pier area, an old man sitting on the street was singing. He had been serenading me all afternoon, waved us over and asked who we were voting for, Trump or Harris? He then sang my choice as his buddy strummed a guitar. We were laughing so hard, my ribs were beginning to hurt. 

I've known Patricia for around 30 years, but never knew that she was a Jedi. For the duration of the cruise, she would wave her hand and tell people what to do and they would simply do it. We encountered servers, customer service staff, strange characters on the streets and security personnel. All of them obeyed her, with a smile on their faces. We whizzed through lines and got most everything we wanted. Everywhere we went, they kept remembering our names, as if we were memorable.

The last night, we opted for showers and our room, preparing to leave the next day. There were photos to share and things to talk about, the fatigue took over. Lights out and alarms set, then the quiet... One of us, in the dark, started talking about the trip, about all the absurdities and foibles we had encountered. Before long, the cackling started. I was concerned about making too much noise, but the mirth was overwhelming. You only get so many of those nights, where the windows open and the gales of laughter make the troubles fly away like giddy seagulls. 

Yes, there was some money spent, some troubles had, some sweat spilled, some tears shed. Life is short. Laugh when you can.   

Floaty Thoughts and Bucket Lists

The water is beckoning. It's so stinkin' hot right now, who wants to take walks around in it? I should, but I don't. Still needing to exercise and having crabby knees and joints, I took the literal plunge and joined the pool in Carrollton. I get wet, cool, and can't even tell I'm sweating. It takes two hours out of my day, but who's up at that time anyhow? Swimming is much nicer on the bones, but gives a fantastic workout. I did this years ago and lost a good many pounds just by treading water in the deep end. At that time, there were deep-water aerobics classes, where ladies strap on a flotation belt and float around. They would mock me because I wasn't in their class. I was in my own lane, over my head, with no flotation belt. I wasn't doing laps but I was wearing myself out just keeping my head above water. Don't be a mean girl. 

Over this last month, I started meeting up with a girlfriend (not a mean girl) three mornings a week and we yap while we manage to stay afloat. An hour goes by quickly when you're distracted. This week, I had to go it alone and it wasn't nearly as easy. I took up chatting with one of the lifeguards and it helped. A very good plan. My body is already starting to feel better, walking is easier, and I think there's hope for the cranky parts. This is all in preparation for more water and lower A1Cs.

Speaking of water, Monday, I get on a big boat with an old friend. She lost her 30-year-old son last year to suicide, a hugely unexpected twist in her life. Meanwhile, her husband is declining way earlier than anyone could expect. He can no longer turn himself or do basic tasks. She had to put him in a facility where he could be helped. As we were grieving over that one recent day, nearing the anniversary of her son's death, she said, "What I would love right now is to just get on a big boat somewhere and float." I said, "I'm your gal." So we got to planning and are leaving day after tomorrow for a short cruise. We chipped in extra for the balcony. Our idea is to simply laugh, cry, rest, laugh some more.  We are not going to worry about calories or the advent of anything chocolate. We will think about that tomorrow. Or next week...

I thank God for the goodness of water. Of course, we can't live without it. But the cooling, buoyant properties of water have always made my insides feel serene (except when plunging into murky lake water, there's that, but I ain't doing that again). Is there anything so pleasant as slipping into a cool, clean pool and letting the cares of the world drift away? I'm a mermaid, undulating my fins, left alone with my thoughts, no phone, no TV. In these days of multiple assaults on my brain, with social media and Netflix marathons and endless news feeds, it is really nice to have an excuse to disconnect from everything and help my body (and brain) in the process. 

I spent many, many years teaching children to swim and then lifeguarding. I've been musing about the idea of taking (expensive) training to become a certified ISR swim instructor, where I'd teach little kids and even babies to float, to be safer in the water. A friend of ours lost her baby to drowning, and these things are weighing heavily on my mind. I have 12 (#13 in the oven) grandchildren too. Even though I've taught some to swim, I can't help but think about taking it further. Musing on that this week. Bucket lists and goals...and mermaids.  

Maggie, Part Deux

Not long after we moved to Villa Rica, there began to be talk about using golf carts on the streets. We were going to be the next Peachtree City. We'd pop over to the local grocery store and I would see people tooling around from the subdivision around the corner. That seemed like a fun idea, and since we lived right in town, I had visions of grandkids and I whizzing about in our own little vehicle. Golf has never been a realistic game for our family -- it seems to me a mysterious life full of money, lots of clingy, collared sports shirts and boring conversations about imaginary birds. All over a little tiny ball that has to cover lots of ground and drop into a miniscule hole. No offense to those who have attained the ability to play it. They say it's almost addictive, it's so enjoyable. I've known a few Golf Widows. 

I've also found that there's an entire culture around the carts that carry people around to those little holes on the golf course. There are utilitarian ones, though those are inevitably the ancient models that are still limping. Very rare and apparently expensive to maintain. Why not just take out a second mortgage on your house and get a new one? Well, we don't do new. We do cheap. 

I began scouring Facebook Marketplace for a used golf cart. Some slick Eastern European gentleman in Peachtree City persuaded me to purchase one such ancient E-Z-Go model. The charger didn't work once I got it home, but he did at least provide another one. That should have been a clue. Ken named her "Maggie" -- a shortened version of the name of our house (Magnolia Rose). She started out a scuffed-up navy blue, with all sorts of plastic curtains hanging around her. A few years later, when our son Daniel and his family lived with us, he stripped all the extra stuff off her, painted her a jaunty red and black (even with him being a Tech fan) and applied party lights and safety gear. We began acquiring stickers from the places we visited and plastering them to her red self.

You take your life into your own hands when you decide to travel the streets of Villa Rica in this manner. The grandkids think it's the best thing since sliced bread. They know the drill: buckle up buttercup and hang on. I have been known to resort to the sidewalks when traffic is high. We're supposed to only travel on the 25 mph streets, but sometimes have to cross the other ones. It's high adventure on a Saturday night. Lunch dates with girlfriends and my family often include a whirlwind tour of the town. It's so much fun I can hardly stand it. 

There's been a great deal of prayer involved with Maggie. You're never quite sure that she's going to make it back. I've found myself stuck in the middle of traffic or on the side of the road too many times. It is no fun to be hauled off the street by any of my enterprising sons who seem to always have ropes and contraptions available in their trucks for such breakdowns. Why would we get a trailer or a wrecker, when it's so convenient to just pull Mama home with a handy vehicle? Somebody has to steer for that, and you can guess who that is.

Over the years, we've put a good bit of money into keeping her limping. Lately, she's been completely MIA because none of us could figure out what was wrong. We finally surrendered and took her to the shop, where she stayed for weeks without a diagnosis. $250 and a lame repair left us worse off than before, but a different shop and two days later we had the answer. Her engine was fried and the repairs were not worth it to us to try to keep her going. After much gnashing of teeth, we traded her for a new model, the "Eco" model, which sounds like it might have something to do with economy but I don't think it does. We don't buy new, but yes we did. What it does have is sparkling, state-of-the-art everything and a two year warranty. Maybe I won't be as easy a target for big trucks barreling around the corners of our town now and we can keep our little ones a bit safer when we take to the road. 

Either way, everyone's delighted and wanting to take a spin. Golf carts are a whole lot slower than motorcycles, so I have a new idea for a bumper sticker: Check THRICE - Save a Life - Golf Carts Are Everywhere. 

I sincerely doubt it's going to help.    

Zippity-Do-Da

The plant where my husband works shuts down for maintenance once a year, the week of Fourth of July. It's hot as Hades in Georgia about that time. I'm not as resilient as I once was, and rarely enjoy the fireworks anymore. I could do it, if I really wanted to. I get multiple invitations, usually from my children or sister and her family. I was the one who used to light the fireworks in our front yard or at the beach, bringing horror to the nieces and nephews because "Aunt Rose is smoking!" A lit cigar is the absolute best way to set off fireworks and you have to keep puffing that thing in order to keep it lit. That's my story...

The thought of all of it is marvelous -- patriotism, fun, watermelon...and the FOMO is real when I think of any kind of party ensuing. In recent years, my current lazy, chunky self can't seem to work up enough willfulness to brave the sticky, smothering, sweat-filled events involving celebrating the birth of our country. It would have been so much better, in the South, if the Framers could have dipped their pens when it was October, or hey, the April before. But then again, most of those dudes were from the Northeast, weren't they? Some bright people went on and invented air conditioning and ruined us for summers forever. 

No matter, Ken was home all that patriotic week and volunteered to stay outside, every day, to help our kids work on their properties with his DR. I don't know what DR stands for, but it involves this thing that looks like a monster lawnmower and acts like a bush hog. He pushes it around and it cuts down fields and small trees. He does it for fun and love. Our kids think that the Dear Redneck is an angel. So by week's end, he was toast. His next week at the plant wasn't much easier, putting in 20K+ steps a night on 12-hour shifts. He asked me to plan something restful for the next weekend. 

I looked at all the sites for somewhere to stay close-by, but they were charging a fortune for not-much. I wanted a pool to float in, and that seems to double the rates. It's July, people. Help me here! Google was spying on me and sending pop-up ads for places, when I saw the words "Banning Mills," which is less than a half-hour away. I had heard plenty about it, even gave one of our sons and his bride a gift card for their wedding night there several years ago. They have options for chocolates, champagne, food, what-have-you. It's a cool place with a lodge, cabins, yurts, and camping. They are known for an amazing network of ziplines criss-crossing their massive acreage. And they have a pool.

I booked the cheapest room they had with a King bed. It included breakfast as well as an option for a fancy dinner the night before. I clicked on that and made our choices. It was going to be a short getaway, but we were committed.

We threw a few things in our bag and made the quick trek there. Even though it was only minutes away, the stress and troubles fell off our shoulders as we wound through the countryside. Before the hour was out, Ken was lounging by the pool and I was floating in it. This is our way: him observing and me immersing. In short order he was fast asleep, as he should have been. I floated unhindered, watching the beautiful trees, the puffy clouds and azure sky. When my toes got perfectly pruney and Ken got perfectly relaxed, we cleaned up and headed to dinner at the lodge. It was a lovely place, rustic and soaring, with views all around of the forest. I felt like we were in the mountains somewhere, but no, we were very close to home. The food was scrumptious as we enjoyed talking with nowhere to hurry to. The next morning, breakfast was over the top. I was figuring on some muffins and juice, but it was a full-on meal, brought to our table by a sweet young lady. 

Life is short and often too fast. We're busy then we're tired. We rush and then we laze around, recovering. It was a blessing to hit the pause button, even for such a short visit. A week later, I'm still feeling the serenity from our magical little expedition. It's good to remember each other across the table. 

As to the ziplines, we heard them and we saw cute little behinds as they zipped right over the pool. We were not compelled to participate in such goings-on.  Naw, we floated.   

Naturally, Politically Incorrect

I was the gal who showed up with scaffolding, ladders and paint brushes to change out the colors in fancy houses and businesses. There are many places that now have hand-crafted logos, done by my hands. What started as a mural and art business morphed into a regular-Joe-type painting trade when the downturn of 2008 changed everything we knew about "normal." Wealthy people quit opting for Renaissance-type dining rooms and started dulling down everything into neutral and updated, just in case they decided to sell, if the market ever came back. It turned into a four-or-five year grind before we saw anything ease back into hope, or at least that's what our family saw. When we look back at our Social Security reports that start coming when you hit your 50s and above, it was astonishing that we didn't starve to death. Especially during those tough days, I got kicks and giggles when I'd show up to a job (often with my young daughter, Elizabeth). I had numerous paint shirts that had scads of colors on them. The owner or contractor would look at me and ask what I was there for. I'd glance down at my shirt and say "I'm the painter." They would usually smile and tell me how unusual it was to have a woman painter. One supervisor, at a snooty university where I was hired to paint, seemed miffed that I was a woman (he said, "But you're a woman." I said "yes, and I'm the best painter you will find.") He refused my entrance to the job site until I put on an "appropriate" shirt. I asked him what was considered appropriate, since I was a painter and paint tends to get onto clothing. He said I needed a collared shirt that was clean. I left and went to a local Walmart and found an ugly, huge, collared shirt. My job was, of course, on point and there were no complaints, but I charged him for the time, the mileage, the shirt and the extra aggravation of making me start late. I looked around as I was working that day at the other contractors, who had outfits just as "dirty" as my original shirt. My only conclusion is that he was aggravated at me being a woman painter, even though that had never been a problem in my past. I am not a feminist, far from it. In fact, I think that all this goings-on about girl power and women empowerment might have done a whole lot of damage. God made us all different. We're simply not the same. I don't see but a tiny fraction of women picking up our garbage or standing on the top of skyscrapers. In my prime, I was physically stronger than any woman I knew, but an average-strength man could have still whooped me at arm wrestling. But then watch him try to birth an 11-pound baby. Not happening. God gave us gifts, some of them crossing gender roles, some not. But I say, viva la difference. 

Daddy never treated my sister and I as china dolls -- he taught us to work hard with him in the yard and garden, pushing past what we thought we could do. He also loved that we were girls and would tell us: "Be a tiger on the court but a lady off it." He liked for us to be femininely dressed on game days. I loved the idea that I could enjoy my dresses and then go all out when they threw up the game ball. 

As I age and see the beauty of the way we are made differently, it means more and more to me. I have been blessed with masculine men all around me, but the idea of masculinity being toxic has not been my experience. The men in my life are very masculine and would tear into anyone who tried to harm a woman; they also cry at births and funerals and they love their Mamas and wives, starting with my Daddy. I think of my Dad, my husband, our boys, my father-in-law and the extended men in our family. Heaven help anyone who tried to traverse that wall of heat to hurt one of us. I am lucky to have these examples around me, but I'm afraid our society has lost sight of those kinds of men and are not teaching their boys the things that matter. Wake up. We need them on that wall. I might be inviting heat when I speak these kinds of words in this culture. Some would have us believe that we are all simply the same. We are not. We are uniquely designed to fit together, physically, mentally, culturally.  

There was no dividing up of tasks...my baby brother came along much later, but learned the same work ethic. By the time he was born, my sister and I were playing ball in the front yard, digging the garden with Daddy and scrubbing toilets with Mama. We had plenty of time for play and contemplation, but everyone had to help. Many hands make light work. 

Maybe the reason I am cavalier about feminism is that I had a father who loved us so deeply, valued our femininity and at the same time taught us to work in the mud. Career wasn't job one. God, family and cooperation were. We learned lots of ways to earn and save money, but the job of raising good people with character was more important than the almighty dollar or the "appropriate" degree. When you can adapt, work, and have lots of skills, you can always find a way to survive. At the heart of this, my parents' simple and profound love of God was the meat of our existence. We looked to Him as our provider, as we labored and played through our days. Every concern or word of thanks was directed to prayer to God, day and night. He always answered, one way or another. He still does. 

In our extended family, which is now huge, this is still the Way. The diverse directions we have taken include fancy degrees, eclectic careers, homemakers, differing kinds of schooling, some extremely successful, some average, some struggling more and some less. The thread that runs through it all is the dependence on Christ, the heart that seeks and looks to Him for their answers. You will find Bibles in all these many homes, and the heart of them still runs true to the roots that grew this tree. The marriages are intact, the babies keep coming, the fields keep getting plowed and the seeds sown. We're all sinners, but saved by the grace of God and not our own goodness. Miracles still happen.     

Adventures in Kidnapping

Contemplating a cruise always brings up our first-ever trip to Jamaica. Ken had won a trip, alongside other guys and wives who were building houses (this was before everything melted down in 2008). We climbed onto a big plane to Miami. I still remember the couple in front of us, 10:00 in the morning. Giggling and ready to party, they managed three beers apiece before we even got to our destination. The flight home was a far different sight. 

 I clung tightly to Ken's elbow. My only other flight had been to New York City, where the turbulence resembled a corkscrew in the sky. He said, "If we crash, I'm gonna need that arm back." 

We had a fantastic time, feeding stingrays on Stingray Island and snorkeling with colorful fish. But when we got to our excursion in Jamaica, my knee decided to act up. We were supposed to climb a set of massive falls (Dunn River Falls), where groups of people helped one another not to fall to their deaths. There were steps and landing spots to the left side of the water, so I opted to use them instead of slip-sliding my way to certain knee surgery. 

As I climbed up, I got far ahead of the folks navigating the actual falls. Ken was doing his usual gentlemanly part, helping everyone up the precarious rocks. I came to a large landing deck, where I was quite alone and also close to the end of the excursion. A large man with an official-looking uniform came up to the platform. He asked me if I wanted to party. I politely said no thank you. Then he asked me if I'd like some rum. He rhapsodized about the different kinds of rum he could treat me to. Then he asked if I'd like some home-grown herbs to smoke. I repeatedly told him that I was not interested, and that I was simply waiting on my husband. He seemed to not believe me, and began tugging on my arm and trying to pull me from the platform. I was literally about to start screaming when I looked down and saw our group coming into sight. I gesticulated wildly as I pointed out my beefy husband to the uniformed crazy man. He decided to run away rather than take his chances with Ken Norton, Neanderthal hunk man that he is. 

At dinner that night, we told the story and a couple at our table said, "That's why we didn't get off the boat today." They had gone on a similar cruise the year before, having a similar story to ours. The husband climbed the falls while the wife worked her way up the steps and platforms. Instead of a man approaching, a little Jamaican woman came up to her and offered to braid her hair for a cheap price. For some strange reason, she decided to do it. The lady led her down a little path to a hut nearby. She chatted while she braided her hair, telling her that her husband would be told where she was (if he got through before she did). 

Meanwhile, the husband arrived at the end of the excursion, with no wife in sight. There was, however, a large man waiting there. He told the husband that if he wanted to see her again, he had to give him $5000.00.  The husband said, "My money's on the boat!" to which the kidnapper said he would gladly take the husband's Rolex watch instead. In shock, and not really thinking clearly, he took off the watch. The kidnapper grabbed it, pointed down a trail and said that his wife was down there, and dashed away in the opposite direction. The husband instinctively ran down the trail, to find his wife sitting alone in the hut. 

I don't know if Mr. Uniform had similar notions, but it's possible. I've often thought about the scenario and what I would have done, had he succeeded in pulling me off that landing. Firstly, it's always smart to never find yourself alone in foreign places, and secondly, it's probably a good idea to at least pretend to faint. I've tried lugging a floppy body around and it never goes well. Don't ask...