Breathing Deep

Warm spring day. Porch fans are turning, everything is green and fragrant. Bees are buzzing, kitten is purring at my feet. The two cottages across the street are blessed with residents who have turned their little yards into havens for wildflowers, birds, and various types of gatherers. Sitting on my front stoop, I chide myself for not doing this every day. My daughter and I chew the fat for awhile on the phone, with chatty baby voices in the background. Four-year-old Ethan announces: "The pool opens in 8 days and then Yaya is going to teach me how to swim!" This, from a conversation he overheard a few months back. Don't ever promise a toddler something unless you plan on doing it (even if he just overheard it). 

I'm so very thankful for the sweet neighborhood we live in. My plan was for our children to grow up in the country, which they did. Then the latter plan, after the Great Downturn of 2008, was to get shed of debt and downsize. We got lucky, upsized rather than downsized, with the cash we had -- to a 3000 square foot ancient Victorian house, smack-dab in the middle of town. It's a great Papa and Yaya house, if I can keep my refrigerator stocked. After all those decades of cooking, I find it way too easy to pop over to town and get food that someone else cooked. The progeny seems content to have pizza, chicken nuggets, and occasionally Yaya's spaghetti. Someday, I might have to get back to the kitchen in a more intentional way. But tomorrow's another day. I'll think about it tomorra...  

One of our conversations on the stoop today was about Cave Spring, Georgia, where we initially planned to have our daughter's wedding. There's a wonderful park there (Rolater) where you can rent the chapel, a two-story old schoolhouse for the reception, and an inn where you can put up your whole family -- all for very reasonable rates. Covid shut the venue down, three weeks before her wedding. We still muse about it a lot...we pivoted and had a much-smaller soiree in our backyard. A blissful, happy day that will sit sweet with us forever. I like to occasionally visit Rolater Park and shop in the tiny town there. There's something kind and gentle about the times I've visited. I might need to go back soon and soak my feet in the spring water that runs out of the hill. 

We've got a loaded weekend ahead -- babysitting grandkids, a funeral for Ken's uncle who died suddenly, Sunday church and then a picnic on Memorial Day (I guess I'll break down and bake a cake). The circle of life parades all around us. Two neighbors ill with cancer; a grandbaby due at the end of next month; uncles dying; plants blooming. To everything there is a season. Turn, turn, turn... 

   

Floodgates of All Kinds

In general, no one expects it to flood (well, there's Noah, and hardly anyone believed him, either). In the great flood that happened here in 2009, we didn't realize what was happening that dark, stormy night. We'd had lots of recent rains, and then it rained a whole 'nother day and night. The sound of it beating on our metal roof was soothing, as we lay down to sleep. Persistent, even roaring, but we thought nothing of it. Ken got up very early to get ready to work, left out while it was still dark. The sky was black as soot and it was still raining buckets. At the time, he was driving a Ford Focus (the really tiny model). He's never been known to take it slow on a curve (yes, that's how I'm going to die), and he hugged the big one coming down the hill from our house at the creek. Well before the bridge, a man in a truck was parked in the middle of the road with his flashers on. Ken skidded to a stop, just in time to see that the creek had turned into a boiling inferno, way past its banks. 

Sometimes I ponder how many times I've nearly been swallowed by many unknown dangers that pass me by. God gave Ken another chance at life that day.

We were stuck at home, Ken, Liz (a senior in high school) and I, for several days until we could get through. We had no idea how many creeks were hemming us in until they swelled up like the Colorado River. Several people died, doing just what Ken almost did. It was surreal, how quickly we reverted a hundred years, without the means or knowledge to truly survive (if the conditions had persisted). I've always thought of us Nortons as tough birds, but then when there's no clean water and your house is completely run on electric power (and there is none), you get humbled real quick. 

There are other floods, tsunamis, wrecks, disasters that come along -- not literal ones, but unexpected sea changes throwing us for a loop. Currently, our church is going through such a disaster, where a pastor has lied, criticized other pastors and even our elders, and had hidden agendas through fake social media accounts. Such a strange way to get dethroned. Usually it's some sexual sin, a hidden affair, embezzling funds that takes down those in leadership. I don't even know if I should talk about it, but it's splattered all over the internet already. What I do know is this: no one is infallible and we all sin, whether we want to admit it or not. "Little" white lies can turn into big ones and can leach the mortar out of a relationship. This I know: man is fallible, God is not. The church is full of hypocrites and I am one. We all need saving, because our hearts continually stray.  "I will lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help comes from the Lord, which made heaven and earth..." from Psalm 121. These are spiritual promises, in the midst of another kind of flood. My heart is seated on the rock, not on shifting sands. 

God's Grace

I will never forget the day that I found out I was a mother. Amongst many details, I knew that my body had shown some changes in recent days. My formerly flat chest seemed to be blooming, and I was literally glowing heat from the inside out. I was afraid to hope, when the doctor drew blood from my arm (which was how they figured these things out, back then). It took days before they called and confirmed that I was carrying our first child. Emotions rushed all over me -- exhilaration and trepidation mixed with the unknown. Could I do this? Could we afford it? How could I, this artsy, fly-by-night semi-hippie have the gravitas needed to be consistent enough to keep a baby alive? How many of my pets lived, only because my Mama fed them? Fears assailed me, but I wanted to stand on the roof and shout with all the joy that came bursting out of my heart. I was of the generation of women who were told that our most important job was to be equal with men, get careers and become "somebody." Domestic bliss was a bad phrase. Mind you, that wasn't how my parents raised me, but that was the message all around us, at school, in advertising, in society. We weren't supposed to be wanting a baby that much. But it was my dream, after all the years of posturing.  

I went to the library and took out books about babies, especially the ones with pictures of what they would look like in utero. I imagined our little bean in there, doing flips and growing tiny fingers and toes. One book in particular got checked out over and over (I eventually bought a copy, during my third pregnancy), because I wanted to keep looking at the changes that would be happening. I felt in my heart he was a boy. We never got a sonogram -- they weren't routine back then. He grew and grew, and I began wondering how I would be able to get him out. The doctors kept saying that he was measuring normal, and would probably weigh between 7-1/2 and 8 pounds, but I knew there was a whole lotta boy in there, and not of mild temperament. He pushed and shoved around like he was ready to stand up. That summer, it was horribly hot and we didn't have central air conditioning. We had an old, rickety window unit in the living room. To my shame, I took to making homemade ice cream (it was a banner year for Georgia peaches) and would sit in front of the A/C eating dishes of it to keep cool. When there were chances to get into water with anybody, I was there. I remember racing my Mama and her friend across the Powder Springs pool, a week late, and winning. These things matter. 

In quiet moments, Ken and I would pray for our baby. We so wanted to raise him right and felt scared and unprepared. My vision for this child was that he would be a light in the darkness, bold and true. We decided to name him Jonathan Uriah, which means "God's gift and flame of God" (and he is just that). He came out flaming and yelling, all 10 pounds, 8 oz of him. Then came the flurry of three more huge babies in rapid succession, with us working on dilapidated houses in- between. During pregnancies, I had a "vision" for each one -- their personalities were strong and obvious, even before they were born. Daniel Josiah - "God is my judge and The Lord Heals" (that man is a wonderful juxtaposition of tough and sweet); Jesse Caleb - "God is real and God is faithful" (our youth pastor son who wholeheartedly loves Him); Elizabeth Hope - "God is my oath and Hope" (our devoted, steadfast, funny girl).  God gives babies to us when we're young, otherwise we'd never make it. Even with my youth, I remember feeling so profoundly tired in those years that all I wanted for Mother's day was a night in a hotel room and sleeping as long as I wanted. Young mothers know what I'm talking about. 

The days are long, but the years are fast, says the old saying, but it's true. In a flash, they were grown and having their own babies. In my youth, I thought of 40-year-olds as old, and grandparents as folks who rocked on the front porch and not much else. Little did I know that youth was fleeting and that there's a whole lot going on besides rocking chairs, then suddenly your babies are the 40-year-olds. I didn't count on not being able to climb scaffolding when I was 100 (it's probably because I quit doing it all along the way). 

What I do know is this: not everyone gets to have babies, and not everyone wants them. My heart aches for those who want them but can't. Our family didn't have a big, fancy party for this holiday, but what I received is simply the best. Four conversations with my four children, some of them deep into the night. Four precious people, flawed and still perfect to me, who make the world a better place. Jewels, money, careers, pfffft. This is the stuff dreams are made of...  

Easter Song and Medicare on the Horizon

I love Easter, the remembrance of Christ's death and resurrection. To me, it's way better than Christmas. And this year, the advent of it seemed sweeter than ever. The trees and flowers (as well as the pollen) have bodaciously sprung forth. The bluebirds are chittering in the trees, everything ridiculously green. Spring and the ensuing Easter always feel like hope personified. 

We've had a lot going on recently -- just got back from a week of camping (with a lot of rain and crabby joints), then the week of preparing for family and all the birthdays surrounding this time of year. There was Good Friday service, then Annabelle's 12th birthday party to be had on Saturday, then Sunday morning church (I bought 3 dresses on Amazon, hoping one might be okay --that's where we are now), Sunday lunch and then the family was coming to our house Sunday evening for our annual egg hunt and baskets and dinner. Everybody throws in and it's the highlight of the year, to me. 

Saturday, I felt icky but kept aiming at getting the Easter baskets ready and the house in semi-normal shape. I couldn't find my ceramic bunnies that normally live in our giant built-in china cabinet. I looked everywhere for them, remembering that I had used them recently for a church tea, and I pondered out loud if I'd ever see them again. Ken just said, "They'll show up eventually." No! I scoured the barn, to no avail. It didn't make sense and my heart fell. I love those silly bunnies. But I know that once again, it's just stuff. By then, I should have showered, but didn't. It was time to leave for Annabelle's party (at the church) when Ken found me in the barn. He usually makes no comment on my appearance except to say I'm cute, once in awhile. I was standing there in my cat-hair-covered outfit that was considered cute that morning, but he said, "Are you going to do something about your hair?" I crabbed, "Of course, I'll brush it in the car on the way." Then he asked, "Aren't you hot? That outfit looks hot. Why don't you change into a dress. It will be cooler." I said, "Why? I thought you liked this outfit" to which he stated: "Welllll, it looks kinda dowdy." This is something he has never said to me in 43 years of marriage. I guess I should have been huffy but I wasn't and just said, "We're going to be late! Nakitta said she wanted me there early to help with Annabelle's cake." "We've got time -- just hurry up and change" said the errant male. I threw on the coolest dress I could find, put a brush through my hair and jumped in the car with Annabelle's present and some chips to help with the meal. When we arrived precisely at 5:30 (the man knows time, which sometimes makes me homicidal), the parking lot was full. Our son, Daniel, met us at the door. I suddenly thought maybe I got the time wrong, but Daniel said that there was an event going on at church and he had come early because he had to get back to work soon. We walked into the door and into the gym, where a dozen boatloads of people cried out "Surprise!" Right now, it is two days later and I'm still trying to process the shock. I literally had no clue that this was going to be anything but Annabelle's party (she was born slap-dab on my birthday, happy-happy day). A throng of our grandchildren surrounded me as we all laughed and crowed. It was the sweetest of times, as Ken and I went around to all the tables thanking old friends and new, and our family. There was excellent, home-smoked barbecue and fixin's, then there was old-fashioned folk dancing on the gym floor (I'm still sore from just two dances) and lots of love and laughter. It was a glimpse of heaven and I'll probably never get over it. Oh yeah, and there were my bunnies, decorating some of the tables...

And if all that wasn't enough, there was Sunday church, with glorious music, scripture and hymn-singing, then more amazing music with the choir along with the children's choir (I might have just floated on up). The message given was one of light and hope and joy, just what you should expect from the Christian's high holiday. Evening came, with our annual Easter egg hunt in the yard and supper, then collapsed in the backyard with kids all around, hyped up with the sugar. By the time everyone left I could hardly move. It will take us a week to get all the crumbs and Easter grass up off the floor, but we are buoyed up for heck, another year or two. 

"He is not here, for He is risen as He said!" Matthew 28:6  But He is now in our hearts and for that, we are so grateful.  

Home Fires

Pinterest kind-of ruined it for licensed decorators. Now we're all decorators, even if it's just a cut-and-paste kind of thing. My years of decorative painting were sometimes done under the projects of professional designers. It was fun to be let loose with their vision of beauty for their clients and I was privileged to work with some amazing artisans. Rarely did they ever hold me back on what I wanted to do in a space. "Space" -- how many times are we going to hear that word on another HGTV program before we lose our minds? Between so much overuse of the the words "space" and "narrative" I might just pop a gasket. 

All posturing aside, a lovely home is a gift to those who live in it. Be it a mansion or a grass hut, when there is thoughtfulness and intention for those who live there, it becomes a base and touchstone, even a reason to go on. I grew up in a very clean, modest home in the suburbs of Atlanta. We didn't even have air conditioning in that small brick oven of a house, but it was as comforting and reassuring as any dream. The real and raw people living inside it were never perfect, but redeemed by the blood of the Lamb. That's what lots of folks don't understand. You don't find Jesus because you've gussied up your goodness enough to be accepted by Him. No, it's the dirty, the unwashed, the unworthy who find Him, when they cry out in their lostness. He covers the depraved with His worthiness and they break free, gifted with new, healed hearts. Still not perfect, but indeed covered. 

When we married, 43 years ago, our church and family blessed us with sweet gifts at our wedding. There were strawberry-infused Melamine plates and sunshiny yellow linens and towels. I augmented everything by scrounging at yard sales and thrift shops, a tradition my family swore by. We're still doing that -- FB Marketplace and Craigslist replaced the Atlanta Advertiser that we perused until it was dog-eared. My Daddy used to leave out on a Saturday, saying, "I'm gonna go see about a dog." Us kids would run to the car, hoping there was something involving any kind of animal, though it usually wound up being about car parts, new-to-us curtains or hand-me-down jeans. 

 In the humblest of abodes, cheer and warmth can be brought to its occupants. A scrubbed floor, a slip of a bright curtain at the window, the smell of lemons and a simple candle...all things to show that someone cares. Home should be a safe place. It doesn't have to be fancy, expensive or matched. The thought really is the thing that matters. I've been at the humble end of things and also at the fair-to-middlin' end of things, but the sentiment is the same. Make it so your people think: "There's no place like home." 

Yellow Snow?

I think we are still not over the effects of the Covid debacle that had us hamstrung five years ago. We were stuck at home so long, were taught to avoid the physical presence of people, figured out how to order all our stuff online or with the touch of a button or two...so we became those floaty people in the movie "Wall-E." Or at least I am heading perilously close to that. I used to enjoy the whole adventure of shopping, but now my patience monitor has gotten extremely short and I can feed the instant gratification monster with a few clicks while I wait for the light to turn. They'll have my hairspray waiting on the front porch by morning, in its own bag. I have guilt, for all the bags and boxes that are flooding over here. Well, apparently not enough guilt to change my ways. It seems to be the human default, to take the easiest path home. 

We have numerous activities looming: a week-long camping trip with family and church family; Easter and the joy of Good Friday and morning service at church (my favorite remembrance of the year - He is alive!); the eventual cessation of the pollen; a trip to Ken's brother's in Florida in May. Then comes the heat... Thinking about what to do, to get moving more. My trips to the pool are too infrequent and the conveniences of restaurants and pre-packaged food might be killing us all. What a dour attitude. Get going, sistah.

My favorite greenhouse is open now: Georgia Bluebird Greenhouses in Rockmart. I have been waiting all winter for them to unlock the doors. Their plants are rich and green, and their staff knows what to do with them. Years ago, I planted Creeping Fig all along the wall that abuts the street. If you don't know this plant, just head yourself to Charleston and note all the vines decorating its beautiful self, the ones that have smaller, sweeter leaves than ivy. That's Creeping Fig and I want it everywhere. Will see if the Bluebird has some to add to my collection, plus some ferns, succulents, groundcover and anything unique to gussie up my Victorian yard. We quit putting weed killer on it years ago and let the clover and moss take over. Now the bees have their way and it's much softer on  bare feet. I'd head there now, but the pollen reading was 14,800 -- 5,000 more than any earlier levels. 5,000. More! We are gonna die. I'll give it a week or two and then head there, so I won't suffocate in the pollen when I go to planting everything.

But it's finally spring, thank the Lord, bringing hope and light and joy (as well as the elephant sitting on my chest from the allergies). There's nothing as dreary as a Georgia winter, but then nothing as wonderful as a Magnolia Street, Villa Rica spring.    

Breathing In the Musky

We recently watched the movie "Hoosiers" again, one of my all-time favorites. I love a good sports movie, where there's the struggle of rising above defeat and the limitations of bodies to find victory. Think: Rocky, Remember the Titans, Rudy, Coach Carter, Glory Road... In seeing Hoosiers again, however, I was transported back to my youth. Even though this movie was set in the year 1951 and my basketball days started in the 70s, there were many similarities. I could smell the musky, dusty, antiquated locker rooms of my beloved McEachern in Powder Springs, Georgia where grades 6-12 were all on the same campus. One of the gyms was a big, white building that seemed to be a hundred years old, with barely room enough around the playing box to even walk. They called it the "Girls Gym" and we did P.E. and practiced basketball in there. It was also the best Battleball arena because the walls were high, with grates on them.  My sister and I played intramural ball of every kind during middle school years in that old white gym. I wish I had those legs back. The larger gym was still older than dirt but was considered the "Big Gym" where games were held. 

The trials of Middle School must be eternal. I remember fifth grade at Powder Springs Elementary, where I was on top of the world. They now say that you should go back in your head and find your ten-year-old self and try to emulate the good things that were going on at that time (this isn't true for everyone, and who is "they" anyway?) But if my life were my a mirror of that season, then the world is my oyster. Confident, fun, successful, dancing on chairs. Then sixth grade happened, not just to me but everyone. My elementary grade friends emerged from that summer, changed, alien, strangers. The world became scarier overnight and the walls fell away. New faces joined us as we started changing classes instead of being cozied up all day with the same teacher. When you are eleven, it seems that the whole world is cavorting away on Friday night at the skating rink while you're stuck watching The Brady Bunch with your siblings. The culture was telling us that everyone who was anybody already had a boyfriend and was applying layers of makeup, while my country self was still combing the fields around us for tadpoles and daisies and playing ball with Daddy and my sister. I'm truly thankful for good parents who kept me grounded. 

It was with great relief that high school finally rolled around, because it affected another sea change in my life. I clearly remember the day it was announced that basketball tryouts were coming up and we were to meet in the Big Gym. The new ninth grade coach was introduced -- strong, tough, no-nonsense, intimidating. That was how I loved my teachers and coaches -- Daddy was our first coach when we were little softball players, and even though he was the sweetest of men, he ran us hard and expected our highest efforts. He believed in us; we were pushed hard and encouraged to the maximum. How lucky could I be, to have that kind of man raising me?

Coach Brown was like a drill sergeant, running us over hill and dale, teaching us Maravich drills and learning to pump iron in the weight room (this was new to women's sports). Before we even touched a ball, he had us in good shape. I couldn't wait until classes were over every day to hear the thumping of balls on the court and face the challenge of stretching ourselves to the brink. Every spare minute at home was spent shooting hoops in the driveway on the plain, small plywood backboard Daddy made. If I missed, the ball would roll down the hill, motivating me to rebound before it got away. 

Those high school years were wonderful. I ate, slept and dreamt basketball. There were so many life lessons learned there -- how to endure beyond what I thought possible, how to give way to others, how to follow leadership, how to see nobility in the daily grind, how to reach deep. Those things translated to so much of what I have had to do as an adult...I've pushed out and raised four strong-willed Viking babies; the slow and difficult constancy of keeping little humans and husband alive and fed; years of fixing up and maintaining impossible houses; all manner of cottage industries done from home; homeschooling said humans despite my frailties and crazy-brain; ladder-climbing of all sorts as I've painted the world; and so much more.

Yes, basketball has been very, very good to me. I miss the musty gym, the sweaty and earthy connection to the struggle. That rangy, coltish girl is still in there. I must visit her soon...