Bless the Great Weaver

 It was to be my next-to-last trek into Rome for a client buying a house there, doing a walkthrough a couple of days before the closing. We needed to make sure the junk left in the house had been cleared, and I was also helping them come up with color choices for the walls (my favorite job!) The car was loaded up with samples and paint fans. There's a spot on that trip, where the speed limit suddenly drops to 45 then 35...and there are danger signs all around, because you find yourself dead-ended into a big four-lane highway. Even though I've made that trip many, many times, I am never quite prepared for the sudden stop.

I was stopped, sitting behind two cars who were waiting for the traffic. There were also two cars behind me, when I heard a loud screeching of locked-down brakes. I looked quickly around, not sure where the sound was coming from, but thinking "Somebody's about to have a wreck." In my rearview I saw a big utility truck (with a large trailer attached) barreling down the hill. I heard several crashes, then knew I was next. I was rear-ended by two vehicles, one on the right panel and another who ran right up under my bumper. There was a car over in the grass, and two others behind me. There's nothing like the shock that hits you after an accident. My head was buzzing, neck already seizing up. I sat still, trying to relax and wait for the next things. It seemed only a couple of minutes and we were surrounded by firefighters, EMTs and policemen. I called my people, and within ten minutes our firefighter son Daniel and Ken were there to check on me. Ken insisted that I be assessed in the ambulance, where it took a battalion of people to fight the hill that the gurney and fluffy Yaya were placed on. How humiliating. I saw so much kindness and tenderness by those who cared for me. There is much good still left in the world. I decided to go home with our son (with Ken following) because it was a mere bit of whiplash and nothing serious. My daughter-in-love fed me soup while we sat on their front porch. The wind was blowing and I watched our grandkids playing and enjoyed the love of family and God while my brain settled and we went home. 

What struck me that day was the precise timing of all of it. I had redirected my steps earlier, where if I had not done that, I would have "avoided" this wreck. So then it seemed as if this was meant to  happen to me, if you believe like I do, that everything happens for a reason. For all I know, my redirection kept me from something much worse. Or, as it is, God is weaving much tapestry from what did happen. I have to know that the latter is true. That mysterious tapestry that goes beyond the things that I plan, the steps that I take, the places I go. It's a lot to think about.

As for today, I'm thankful. My car is shredded and the insurance is complicated. But I'm still here in one piece, the wind is still blowing and hope brings forth another day... 

Rearview Mirror

The first time I saw her, she was standing in the middle of her garden in the early weeks of a hot Georgia Fall, picking tomatoes. She had on a giant floppy hat, a full face of makeup, a long-sleeved double-knit pantsuit (that she made herself), replete with painted fingernails and kitten heels. She was my fiance's grandma, affectionately known as "Babe." When she saw us, she threw up her hands in glee and practically ran to the car. She welcomed me as if she'd known me all my life. I was shown around their huge, rambling farmhouse and grounds, then she and I settled in the kitchen to prepare lunch. The ceilings must have been 12-feet high, the walls made of ancient beadboard. I loved it and her immediately. I quickly learned that, in her eyes, Ken could do no wrong. I think that if Ken had up and murdered somebody, she'd have blamed the other person. She loved him to pieces and for that, I am grateful. 

Peggy Ann, her only child, tragically died of pneumonia at 24 when Ken was 2-1/2 years old and his brother was five months. Babe and Pop kept the boys for three years, until the boys' Dad remarried. In the many years following our engagement and marriage, Babe could not bring herself to speak of her. If the subject was broached, her eyes would well up and she would excuse herself. I can only imagine the pain behind those eyes. Her only, beloved child, lost so young. She did tell me that those two boys saved her life after the tragedy. It gave her something to live for and a purpose in the midst of the worst of days. 

Pop and Babe lived at the farm where he grew up, tending cattle and farming a huge garden. Much of their sustenance was home-grown. They knew how to do and fix most everything. By the time I came along, however, Babe thought that modern conveniences and the whole plethora of food shortcuts was manna from heaven. She particularly loved the ideas of canned biscuits, whipped topping and orange juice concentrate. We could make a recipe book out of the different ways she used canned biscuits. She made all sorts of goodies out of them: pigs in a blanket, fried pies, fried donuts, chicken and dumplings, for starters. One time, when I mentioned that we were planting a garden at our house, she said, "Don't do that! Just go to the farmer's market!" She didn't assign any merit to going back to the land. I guess she'd already done her time and was ready to be done with it. She also loved sugar, which happens to be my drug of choice. I've never seen anyone as sugar-obsessed as her.  She put it in and on everything. Her iced tea was more like syrup than a drink. She loved to bake and would make several different kinds of cakes, all on the same day. There was coconut cake, vanilla cake with chocolate icing, fruit cake, orange slice cake, chocolate cake, pound cake, and several others I can't remember. She would bake the cakes, and while they were cooling and before they were frosted, she'd pour boiled sugar syrup all over, and poke holes in them (to let the sugary goodness penetrate the whole cake). After everything was cool, she'd frost the cakes and then slice them. She'd fill up tupperware containers with various slices, sandwiched with waxed paper in between. These then went into the freezer. After any meal, maybe even breakfast, out would come a container filled with all the different kinds of cake. You'd eat until you were bursting, and then she'd start in with wondering why you stopped. She kept her house blazing hot, summer and winter (she must have had a refrigerator inside her spine, because she was always cold)...after her gut-busting meals we would all sit around the living room, fighting the urge to nap. But Babe was no napper. Her word box was eternally full, with strong opinions and suggestions and optimistic views of life. She was a sober-minded Christian, one who did good for others and helped when she could. Her and Pop both read their Bibles every day. They were the salt of the earth people, content with little and good stewards of all they surveyed.

I think the Alzheimers started years before any diagnosis. Pope knew, and sold the old farmhouse and moved into a little house right in town. She was naturally a bit OCD, with little variance in her routines or daily life. She was tidy and feminine, with the strength of a farm wife. Her house was minimally-decorated (she might have thought I was a little wacky with all my painting and rearranging) and clean. Food and meals were ordered and of very high importance. Her disciplines and methods were streamlined and simple, but over time, the grooves were laid down and the disease took over. She began to repeat herself incessantly. I was young and yet to understand it all. I sometimes thought she was purposely trying to irritate me. She would call me "Annette" (my husband's stepmother) over and over. Pop began to call and say that he was going to need help with her. We would make the 2-1/2 hour trek there with our four children and Ken and the boys would work on the yard while I did things in the house with Liz and Babe. She would be chipper and happy when we got there. We wondered at why this was hard for Pop, as she seemed pretty easy to deal with. We weren't seeing the daily of it, which was actually hellacious. 

Ken and I bought land and moved our four kids into a leaky old camper onto our land and proceeded to start the build on our house. This was no typical project. We were literally building the house ourselves from the foundation up to the rafters. It was right about when we got settled on the land, that we got a call. Pop had to go into the hospital with a stress heart attack. Taking care of her had finally called his bluff. I drove to Lincolnton with our four children, to watch over Babe. I had no idea what the next weeks would entail. She never slept more than 15-20 minutes at a time, wandering through their tiny house all night. I had the children lock themselves in their bedroom so they could sleep. When Ken's aunt relieved me for a week, I won't even tell the crazy story of our trip back home. Suffice it to say, I was so sleep-deprived that it's just the mercy of God that I-20 was mostly deserted that morning. 

The next five years were torturous, to say the least. We didn't have any choice except to put them in a nursing home close by, as we were six people living in a camper at the time. Pop never walked again and only wanted to go home to Jesus. Two years later, he did just that. Babe lived another three years past him, living in that smoggy half-life zone that is Alzheimers. She was internally so fractured, violent, frazzled. The only peace she had was when scripture was read to her. She could be in a crazy fit, but if you pulled out a Bible and started reading, she would sit down quietly, close her eyes and move her lips to the words. The Spirit was there, even if her brain was not. 

I think of them often. They rescued my husband and his brother, instilling in them the meaning of unconditional love, the goodness of the Lord, and what it means to be constant and devoted. I am sometimes ashamed of my aggravation, of not understanding her disease, of my lack of faith in the face of such a difficult season. Death, disease, diminishment come to us all. The world and our fragile flesh are cracked and in need of redemption, especially when our strength ebbs. How grateful I am that they trusted in Someone higher than them.    

Laborin' in the Love

If you've already heard this story, please forgive me. It floats in my head like a melody and I can't help but repeat it every once in awhile. They say that if you are ever having marital trouble, you should go back to your beginnings, to the things that attracted and brought you together. We aren't having marital trouble, but I find that thinking of those early days is always a boost to our collective love story. Every Labor Day holiday brings it back around... 

In the summer of 1980, our Daddy moved us to a different church. He said that he wanted to go somewhere where his children would be able to meet their spouses (which all three of us did!). I had come close to marrying someone (definitely the wrong someone) while away at college, and came home bereft of emotions and resilience. I needed to stay home with the safe haven of my good people, to heal and remember who I was, that 10-year-old-self combined with new life lessons. I worked during the day, went to community college classes at night and hung out with my family. And went to church, where I saw Ken and knew that he was it. He was a whirling dervish, newly saved and full of life, handsome and strong, funny, charming, and always saying the wrong things because he had no filter. I was dating someone else at the time but told my Mama, "I think that that is the guy I'm supposed to marry." She said, "What about Jeff?!" He was swiftly dispatched, as I knew that if I could be that distracted by someone else, I had no business dating him. 

But we didn't date, except for about a month, where things were awkward. We were both still recovering from past serious relationships. It was decided we wouldn't, so then we commenced becoming the best of friends. He, his buddy Brian and I tooled around town. We went places, ate together, they picked me up for lunches from work, talked for hours and had just general fun. The girls who worked with me asked which one I was dating and I said, "Neither!" This was a precious gift to me, to help me believe in mankind again. They were like brothers, but I always had Ken in my heart. There was a raw but very masculine vulnerability in him that called to my empathetic nature. 

The guys were always teasing me and the sarcasm was thick. Brian started dating my sister, which put an odd twist on our socializing. Us four wound up together a lot. One evening, Brian and Ken dropped by my parents' house on the way to a mutual friend's home. Brian asked Melanie if she would go down the river with him (the Chattahoochee) on the upcoming Labor Day. She said yes, and Ken turned to me and asked if I wanted to go as well. I said sure (nothing out of the ordinary for our history). I didn't see this as a date. Ken, with his smart mouth said, "Well good.  I already asked everybody else and nobody could go. I knew you would go." They then left, with the steam rising in my ears. I gave it ten minutes, long enough for them to get to their friend's house, then called. "Hi Ricky, can I speak to Ken?" I proceeded to rip Ken a new one, stating that I was not one of the boys and was highly offended at his words, said I was NOT going, then hung up on him. Our family left right after, to go to a movie together. When we got home around midnight and Daddy was unlocking the door,  we heard the phone ringing. Daddy said, "That'll be Ken. Now it begins." I said, "huh?" Sure enough, Daddy handed me the phone and it was him. He said, "I've been trying to call you for hours. I am so sorry for how I spoke to you. Please forgive me! I don't know why I said that, because you're the most fun one and I didn't mean to hurt you. Please, please go with us down the river." I begrudgingly said okay and that I forgave him.

Labor Day was warm, beautiful and pleasant, but I was still grumpy about Ken. I barely spoke to him and just enjoyed the rafting. For whatever reason, for Ken, now it was on like Donkey Kong. He pursued me like there was no tomorrow and it didn't take much before we were engaged (like, a month). his poor Mama was flummoxed. We were already very close friends and it took just a spark to get a fire going. A short engagement (3-1/2 months), 4 kids, 14 grandkids and now 43-1/2 years later, God's goodness to us in the land of the living still astounds me. 

That is why I love Labor Day.    

Pratfalls and the Universe

We are in the thick of a hot, sticky summer, even though school is already back in. In my  mind, summer doesn't really end here until October or some-such, no matter when they say it's "Fall Semester." We did have a breezy few days last week but the mosquitoes aren't giving up. I was sitting in church yesterday, trying to keep my paws off my itchy legs...the result of Friday night's backyard swinging with some of our grandchildren. What a weekend...

Saturday morning I headed out early to show houses, all organized and ready. I thank God for technology (some days) because the fancy tire doohicky on my Ford Explorer began to show me a rapidly-deflating tire on the left front of my car...all while I was doing 75 miles an hour. When I stopped at a nearby gas station, I saw that there was a hole blowing air on the sidewall of the tire. If the car hadn't told me I was getting a flat, I'm pretty sure it would have blown out and I'd have been in a much worse situation. Our firefighter son, Daniel, happened to be ten minutes away. I was in a dress and in a hurry to meet my clients and he headed right to me. Meanwhile, I pulled the spare out of the back of the car and tried to get the jack untangled and ready, grease getting all over my hands. I heard a loud whistle from across the busy parking lot of the gas station emanating from a heavily-bearded man. He gestured at my clothing. To my horror, I realized that my dress was tucked up into my underwear. Every middle-school-girl's worst nightmare. He didn't come over and offer to help me with my flat tire, but I guess he did help me in his own way.

Eventually, our son got there and fixed me up and I headed out again, though limping with that spare. I had a long drive and plenty of time to lower my blood pressure and think about the many embarrassing situations I've found myself in. I am often preoccupied, not careful about my physical surroundings. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I sometimes forget to eat and forget to pay attention to anything but my thoughts or the conversation I'm in with another person or the job I'm working on. This leads to some mayhem. 

Clothes being tucked up into my underwear is no stranger to me, and back in the 70s, when those silky shirts were a thing, I've been known to suddenly expose my bra to unsuspecting people. 

Then there are the falls. Ballards are a real hazard in my world. I've tripped over several, while vacuuming out my car, loading up groceries, going into the doctor's office and arriving for  parades. Once, I face-planted on asphalt at a baseball game with my daughter because we were hurrying and I didn't see an object in my path. That one made me hurt for months. Then there was one of my daughter-in-love's shower, where I was in the midst of countless strangers. As I began to sit down, I narrowly missed the chair and took out two church ladies (but miraculously didn't lose any of my lemonade in the process. I might have priorities...). The absolute worst was when I was on tour in Italy with our wind ensemble and I nearly fell in between our gondola and the dock, into the inky black water beneath (it was late at night)...but instead knocked over one of my friends in the process. There's a theme here and I imagine I might need to get myself in gear. Time's marching on and takes no prisoners. I don't think of myself as clumsy...I was heavily recruited to play college basketball, am an artist and musician, using all those physical tools, but apparently I might still be a klutz and ding-y at times, despite my protestations. 

What embarrassment does for our character is keep us humble. About the time we think ourselves masters of the universe, a little dog poop or toilet paper invariably makes its way onto our shoes. When Mr. Beard hailed me about my unholy underwear and dimpled, white, unsummered legs showing, I did the best thing I could -- wave and laugh. If you can't chuckle at the absurdity of life, well, you're just missing out. But I might need to pay more attention to those ledges and stairwells, just sayin'...   

Market Pandemonium

Us homemakers have been the "consumers" of all things domestic since the beginning of time. There's no need for any market tests. Just go ahead and ask us. I have long been able to predict the failure or success of any new store that pops up. It's contingent on interest, location, products, product placement, and pricing. Any savvy gal who has been on a budget and raised scads of kids can give you a real quick market analysis. Just ask the Mamas, people. You'd save a lot of money and have boots-on-the-ground information you could actually use. 

I was given a tour of the fanciest day spa I have ever seen in my life. It was beyond beautiful, classy and sleek, comforting and luxurious (look, Pa!), everything I imagine you'd find in New York City. They offered a monthly club deal and reduced rates for those lucky individuals who can afford it. But naw, I need grocery money. And real estate is wonky right now. And, oh yeah, this is a small town, not NYC. I wish them well and I hope they will succeed beyond their wildest expectations. I am pro-Villa Rica! But my spidey sense is going off and I'm afraid they might not make it. Hopefully, they will. But I do have a record...

Then there's the subject of real estate. I've been in this for eighteen years (how can that be true?!) I've seen the roller coaster ride that is the market -- starting with the downturn of 2008 to the riding-high of the COVID years (super low interest rates and subsequent bidding wars). Homes, construction, neighborhoods have always fascinated both me and Ken -- for fun, we have ridden around looking at all that for the last 43 years. Which brings us to the current strangeness... after the escalation of prices and then higher interest rates, it is much harder for first-time home buyers to get into a property, and also hard for other folks to move "up" when even a lateral move would mean a doubled payment, thanks to doubled interest rates. Lenders don't like true fixer-uppers, so cash is king, but then there's lots of folks with cash wanting to low-ball everything so that they can flip properties and make a profit. What I see right now is an old-fashioned standoff. Homes are sitting on the market for weeks and months, with Sellers hoping for last year's prices. Buyers are bidding and trying to wrestle the prices down so that the interest won't kill them. Us agents are in the middle, working harder than ever to come to agreement on both sides. I'm tuckered out with all the wrasslin', but unless it closes nobody wins. 

What nobody tells you is that being a Realtor is kinda like being a lawyer, but without the degree and without the respect. And it's kinda like being a counselor, without the credentials. Then it's kinda like being a Mama, breaking up fights between two kids. And some days, because I deal with a lot of estates, it's like holding back the tide on decades of infighting. Some are holding out for that inheritance day that may not pay out as much as originally hoped. Nobody wants to pay top dollar for Grandmama's treasured antiques, and her house is in poor shape, so nothing pans out like anticipated. Sometimes I list a house for more than I think I should, because the family always thinks that it's easy to come down but not easy to go up (well, that's impossible, actually). But in the end, if it sits there, the internet sees it and so does everyone else, and everybody's mad at me because it took so long to sell. I tried to tell them...

I love my clients, however. I pray for them, develop a relationship with them, ride down beautiful country roads for them. If I keep my eyes on that, then we are okay. I think we will get through this and then I'll take a nap.    

Amazing Graceland

I've never understood why there are so many movies about road trips. The plot is usually some exhausting setup where there's bound to be plenty of conflict and trials, usually involving deep childhood trauma and toxic bitterness. Worse than that are the game-shows that combine a race and a road trip...don't get me started. My cortisol levels are peaking already and the thought of watching someone else run in contrived circles makes me nuts. Races are great -- there's a beginning and an end -- everybody hurries and somebody wins. It's when you put stops and starts and strange side hustles in that I exit, stage right.  

I have been on many a road trip. As a child, our vacations consisted of an annual or bi-annual visit to our Grandmother's home in Illinois. Back then, it took better part of a day to get there from Georgia, mostly on Highway 41. We got to see the goat man most years (he traveled up and down that highway with a passel of goats, looking pretty forlorn). Daddy always stopped at Stuckey's on the way, where he bought a giant pecan roll and doled it out to us a chunk at a time. I still pick one of those up (despite my better judgment) when Ken and I travel and it reminds me of my fun Daddy and a rollicking childhood. That's my problem. I need to grow up and quit eating contraband. Those trips were usually done with five of us in a tiny Volkswagen or Ford Pinto, without air conditioning, us kids curling up and sleeping much of the way. We played games (Punchbug!) and sang stupid songs. There were no tablets or movies, just our imaginations and the Sandman. Our folks were content and frugal, but happy. That upbringing still serves me well. Now, the simple things are enough, and the extras are a delightful surprise.

Last week found us on another road trip, this one with Ken's sister and our brother-in-law to visit their brother and his wife near Daytona. We took Ken's monster truck, despite the fact that three of us needed the ladder to get in and out. Sometimes I get brave and twist myself in there without it, then I wonder what is wrong with my reamed-out right arm in the middle of the night. Melissa and I rarely get to talk for long periods of time, so we commenced the ratchet-jawing and didn't stop for some eight hours, with potty breaks, then repeated the same on the way back home. I really love her and enjoy her no-nonsense Norton-ness, which is counter to all my fluff. Besides being smart and level-headed, she is an amazing conversationalist and there is no one-sided exchange. She asks good questions and is interested in what others have to say. She also deserves extra crowns in heaven for taking good care of Ken's Dad the last few years of his life. 

The subject of siblings is always a mixed bag. There are so many dynamics, good and bad, that affect the relationships. There are different seasons of life, spouses, jobs, children, difficulties, and what appears to be luck-of-the-draw that can change literally everything when emerging from childhood. We all take our different roads, leading to who knows where, and we also take pieces of our people along with us. Sometimes it seems like life is laying down a track in our souls, a recording with bits and bobbles of the folks and the circumstances we encounter along the way. This trip included three siblings with very different paths, albeit with similar core values of work ethic, morality and faith. They couldn't be more different in expression, but each as strong-willed as bulls, with a lot of potential for conflict.

And there has been that. I've often wondered what would happen if you put these three strong souls in a room and sealed the door for a week -- who would come out on top? Melissa laughingly says, "Me!" Hopefully, we don't ever have to test that scenario. Without going into too many details, I have seen  forgiveness, humility and mostly the grace of God enable these three to come to peace. Often, death brings out the best and the worst in people. About half of my real estate business deals with estates and the fallout from probate court. I've seen angels but definitely more devils, when it comes to dividing up the old folks' stuff and facing unresolved conflicts in a family. 

We drove, ate, bobbed in the pool while the guys worked on projects, ate some more, talked around the table and just had a generally great time. That grace of God is a very, very good thing. I highly recommend it...  

Larger Than Life

In our little town of Villa Rica (well, it used to be little but something is happening), there's an anomaly sitting on the side of Hwy 61, right as you roll into town. It's a 9-foot-tall bunny named Mr. Atterholt, sitting on the side of a hill next to the cutest cottage imaginable. I am friends with his caretakers, Pink and Red. Pink is an artist who carves whimsical and delightful scenes and characters out of wood. She also has the most creative and quirky eye for decorating I have ever seen. Her cottage is a delightful, eye-watering confection. Each time I've been invited in, I stumble around with my mouth gaping -- her ability to see and find the things that bring joy and the unexpected goes beyond the pale. I don't get jealous, but sometimes I do when I visit Pink, such is her cleverness. What a treat for the eyes, and also a treat for my soul when I spend time with her. She is hilarious, irreverent, sassy and straightforward. I love people that tell it like it is and then make you laugh.  Her husband, Red, is a retired fireman and appears to be completely on board with her outrageous ideas and projects. He builds, paints and kits out whatever she comes up with. What a sweet partnership.

Mr. Atterholt's history is a long and convoluted one. Many years ago, the town of Odessa, Texas had a jackrabbit problem. The citizens fought them valiantly at first but then decided to embrace their dilemma. The humble jackrabbit became their city mascot. Similar to our University of West Georgia project, where multiple fiberglass copies of their mascot, the Wolf, were scattered about Carrollton, with artists embellishing each one with different designs -- a boat manufacturer in Odessa created a giant jackrabbit mold and created six copies of the Odessa Texas mascot. One of them sits in the center of Odessa, but the others have made their way to new homes -- New York, Kansas, and our own Villa Rica, and Pink is not sure where the other two reside (or have met other fates). At some point in the past, a man named Mr. Atterholt purchased one - he owned a daycare in Smyrna, where he displayed him. He eventually sold his business and moved to a horse farm on Villa Rica-Dallas Hwy in Powder Springs, and set the bunny up in a conspicuously-placed pasture. Teenagers at McEachern High School (go blue and gold!) would steal him and move him around, putting him in hilarious spots around town. The Atterholts would retrieve him and put him back in his spot. This went on for years in good fun, until Mr Atterholt died. In 1998, Pink and Red bought him from an estate sale. The bunny had a broken ear (probably from too many late-night raids on the farm), but resourceful Red fixed his ear and the bunny became Mr Atterholt, replete with his own sign. In 2008, the whole troupe moved to downtown Villa Rica, on the corner of Walker Street and Hwy 61, where he reigns as prince of the town for all to see.

As the turning of the years and seasons go by, Pink's creativity and Red's ingenuity transform Mr. Atterholt into different characters. He has been seen as an alien, scarecrow, beach bum, Irish shamrock, Valentine, Princess Leia, Easter bunny, gardener, bus driver, and many more creations. I live here and go by him multiple times a week, but always have to notice what he's got going on. Our grandchildren squeal and want us to drive by, particularly in our golfcart, for pictures and to see what new role he is playing. 

On occasion, Pink has asked me to paint him. Red gets the "base" color and then I embellish various things onto his person. That has always been a blast, and Pink asked me to help last week. What I thought would take an hour or two turned into a half-marathon, because who can stop, when the company is engaging and fun, and Pink's ideas bring the magic to the project? We made him into a debonair gentleman, with white fur and a Alice-in-Wonderland-worthy vest. Fresh nose and eyes and fluff to the fur, and he was brand new. Pink says that he has about 36 layers of base paint, since they bought him in '98. 

I told her they can't ever move, because Mr Atterholt, their quirky cottage and their wonderful personalities bring so much joy to Villa Rica. Thank you, Pink and Red, for a spot of fun and happiness on our way to everything else!