BeeMusing

2011-04-01T13:23:00.002-04:00

You see, there's this conference: http://shespeaksconference.com/

I want to go because I want to get better at sharing whatever it is that God calls me to share. They're offering scholarships and I'm hoping my little six-word story will help me win one. Here it is: "Please?" said I. And He did."

2011-02-14T11:57:00.002-05:00

♪ ♪If you want to know if he loves you so, it’s in his kiss. ♪ ♪

At least that’s what Aretha Franklin said. And she told us it’s not in his eyes, his size, his face or embrace. According to the song, it’s not even in the way he acts. Well, while I have a lot of R-E-S-P-E-C-T for Aretha, I think she’s wrong about this. Let me tell you how “I know he loves me so.”

It was in the scrambled eggs he made me when I was really sick. (Best scrambled eggs ever!) It’s in his hand resting on my knee as we’re driving down the highway. It’s in his telling me to quit a job I hate, even though we could really use the second income. It’s in the way he says nothing when his sisters say, “Thank you for marrying my brother. I know you put up with a lot.” (Because I know he puts up with a so much more than I do.) It’s in how he can just be with me without either of us having to talk; or how we can talk about everything. It’s in the way he says my name, whether he’s calling me Bee, or Beverly or Mama. Nobody says it like he does.

I know he loves me when he doesn’t run screaming for the hills when I ask him to remodel the house with no more than a circular saw and a screwdriver. I know he loves me when he does odd jobs for my mother; simple jobs that are made aggravating and not-so-simple by her husband’s fumbling attempts to help. I know he loves me when he makes sure the oil is changed and the tires on my car are safe

I know he loves me when, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, instead of watching baseball, he’ll come and sit beside me on the bed. He’ll take the jumbled mess of fabric in his hands, hands that are strong and nimble and meant for guitar playing, and help me figure out just how you use this toothbrush handle to make a rug. And he’ll keep trying to help, even when my frustration wells up inside of me and spills all over him.

And I know he loves me when, just before we go to sleep, he tells me so. It doesn’t matter if I’ve been ~~a total bitch~~ a little touchy all day, he says, “Goodnight, I love you.” And kisses me on the cheek. So, I guess It’s In His Kiss, after all!

I never did make that toothbrush rug!

Thanksgiving Day - Reprise

2010-11-26T00:34:00.004-05:00

It was before sunrise when I woke up this morning. The only light in our bedroom was the soft glow from the little lighthouse nightlight on JD3’s chest-of-drawers. In spite of the swish-whirr of the ceiling fan, the low hum of the heat pump, and the not-so-low snores of Prissy, our little Shi Tzu, the room was quiet and still. Reluctant to be fully awake, I burrowed deeper into the covers, warmed by the knowledge that, for now at least, all was right in my little world.

My sweet baby girl was home and sleeping in her own bed. Herman, her big white cat, was snuggled up close to her side. Keeping watch at the foot of the bed was Gracie, our goofy, immensely lovable 60lb puppy. Percy, our wild-child kitty-cat, had refused to come inside the night before and was asleep in his secret warm place outside. In our room, the previously mentioned noisy one had made herself into the small ball of fur that was snoozing in front of the bookcase. And sleeping beside me, hiney-to-hiney, was JD3, the man that I love and am growing old with. All the pieces to the jigsaw puzzle that is my life were in place.

As I lay there, trying to convince my bladder that I really didn’t need to be up yet, JD3 stirred and turned over. He tucked his knees into the bend of mine, threw his arm around me and settled back into sleep. It was no big deal, something married people do all the time. I’m not even entirely sure he was aware of it. But I knew that in that simple touch was the essence of everything that I am most grateful for in this life.

I know that I have family and friends who are always ready to throw their arms around me or hold my hand or hug me or pat me on the back or just sit beside me and make me feel safe and loved and part of something good. I have sisters who make me feel like I belong when they sit beside me and we talk about stuff; our childhood, our children, other people's children who aren’t quite as special as ours are; just stuff. I have a mother who hugs me good-bye and makes me know she’s glad I was there and she hopes I’ll be back soon. I have a husband who makes me feel treasured by simply putting his hand on my knee as we ride along in the car, (or by throwing his arm across me in his sleep.) I have a daughter whose good-night kiss can right all the wrongs of the day. I have nieces and nephews whose hugs just plain make me happy.

What’s really exceptional (at least in my opinion) is that I have friends who give this kind of love long distance! These are the friends who held my hand as I worried about Anna after that awful wreck. They sit beside me every day and we talk about our families, our homes, our hopes for the future. If I’m having a bad day, their words make me feel like I’ve been held close in what one friend calls a “big ol’ boobie crushing hug,” the best kind of hug there is. With gentle pushes, they encourage me to try things I’ve never done before and then pat me on the back when I succeed. The fact that we’re so far apart seems insignificant. They’re my best friends and I’m oh, so grateful for them.

Yes, I’m thankful for my family. And I’m thankful for my friends. But what I’m most thankful for is God‘s presence in my life. During hard times, He wraps me close in His arms and, while I’m crying on His shoulder, He says, “Don’t worry. I’m here and I’ll never leave you.” He holds my hand when I’m walking through dark places. When I need direction, He puts His arm around me and says, “Listen, Bee. This is what I want you to do for me.” (Sometimes, I wish He’d just talk a little louder.) When I mess up, as I often do, He hooks my chin with His finger, tilts my face up to look at Him and says, “No, that’s not how I would have you do it. But I love you and I forgive you. Just try and do it my way from now on.” And I do try. I try every day to be the kind of person he wants me to be.

Thanksgiving Day is now officially over. Anna, Gracie and Herman are settled in for the night in Anna’s room. Percy, of course, is outside in his secret place. In a few minutes, I will turn off the lights here in the kitchen and head off to bed, where JD3 and Prissy are waiting for me. The room will be dark except for the glow from the little nightlight. I’ll crawl beneath the covers and hear the swish-whirr of the ceiling fan, the hum of the heat pump and the snores of my beloved little dog. As I lay there in the stillness, I’ll be warmed by the knowledge that all is right in my little world. I’ll know that I’ve been blessed beyond measure, and as I fall asleep, I’ll know that, for me, thanks giving day will never be over, but will come again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day. And every day.

It’s been two years since I wrote this. Once again, Thanksgiving Day is officially over. Anna , Herman and even Percy have settled in for the night in Anna‘s room. Soon, I’ll turn off the lights here in the kitchen and JD3 and I will head off to our bedroom, where Gracie, the 80lb Wonder Dog, will curl up in her big-girl bed on the floor beside me. The room will be dark except for the glow from the little stained-glass turtle lamp in the corner. I’ll crawl beneath the covers and listen to the swish-whirr of the ceiling fan as it sings along with the silky, soothing guitar music coming from the CD player. In my heart I will hear the snores of my little dog and I'll wish that she were still here with me.

As I lay there in the stillness, I’ll think that even though life has changed in two years, it’s still so much the same; that in spite of hurts and losses and difficult times, I am still blessed beyond measure. And I still thank God for them every day.

"Who Knows Where the Time Goes?"

2010-03-13T13:36:00.002-05:00

It’s happened. There was nothing I could do to stop it. The sun is shining and the birds are singing in celebration. Messages are coming in by phone, by text, by Twitter and facebook. In a while, family will gather and share food and drink and memories. Today, my Anna - my baby, my child, my little girl - officially becomes an adult.

And me? I want to stand on a mountain and wail. I want to tell God, “No wait, I need more time. I need to rock her to sleep once more. I need to brush those long, soft curls and twist them into thick braids one more time. I need to tie her shoes and tie ribbons in her hair again. I’m not ready, Lord. I’m just not ready. I do want her to set the world on fire and do great things. Really. I do. But I want her to do it tomorrow. I need her to be my little girl for just a while longer. Please? Please?”

But I'll dry my tears, put on my happy face and join family and friends in a private room at a local restaurant for a quiet evening. (At least as quiet as our family can be.) There will be no laptop slideshow in the corner looping photographic evidence of the cuteness that is Anna. There will be no DJ playing all of her favorite songs as background music. There will be no fireworks in the backyard after dinner. There will, however, be love and laughter and ice cream cake as we celebrate her 21st birthday.

No, no slideshow in the corner. But there’ll be one playing in my head. I’ll see her as a 3-year old, standing in front of the television, a pacifier in each hand and one in her mouth, head bobbing as she sings along with The Little Mermaid. I’ll see that look of silent laughter on her face; the one that means something is so funny that out-loud laughter is darn near impossible. I’ll see how she looks when she’s trying very hard not to roll her eyes and scream when I still don’t get what she’s trying to explain about Photoshop or how Office is different from Works. I’ll see how she looked laying on that stretcher after the wreck and how she looked as a baby sleeping in her crib.

The background music that plays will be heard only in my heart. I’ll hear There’s a Hole In My Bucket for the 100,000,000th time. I’ll hear Hanson and The Backstreet Boys. My ears will bleed when I hear POD and I’ll smile when I hear the Beatles because she and her daddy love them so much.

I’ll hear other music, too. I’ll hear her little girl giggles and her grown up laughter. I’ll hear the excitement in her voice when she talks to me about her life now and her plans for her future. I’ll hear her call Mommy for the 50th time in twenty minutes. I’ll hear her sing when she doesn’t think I’m listening. And I’ll hear her say, “Love you, too.”

And, it turns out, there will be fireworks. The same fireworks that have gone off in my soul since the day she was born. The same fireworks that explode in my very spirit when I think about how blessed I am to be her mother and her friend.

♪ ♪ Who knows how my love grows?
And who knows where the time goes? ♪ ♪
~Sandy Denny

Lyrics written by a woman about her lover, but quoted by a mother who’s love for her daughter is boundless and who finds herself, today, wondering where the time goes.

Sticky Messes

2009-12-23T20:46:00.002-05:00

This is a story I wrote a little while ago. Since it’s been so long since I’ve had an actual blog post, I’d thought I’d share this one with you. I’ll be back after Christmas, refreshed and ready to write.

We were sitting on my sisters’ bed playing Monopoly when we heard it. “Girls.” It was Daddy and he was using that voice! The quiet, scary one. The one that meant somebody was in big trouble. “I need y’all to come in here.” We hustled off the bed, ran down the hall and crowded into the tiny bathroom where Daddy stood waiting for us.

It was my most favorite room in the house. Once, all four walls had been the exact same color as a yellow Crayola crayon. But earlier in the week, Mama had spent a few precious dollars and a whole morning covering the splashed and spattered wall behind the sink with Contact paper. It now bloomed with hundreds of little yellow flowers and tiny green leaves. Being in there was almost like being outside on a warm spring day.

Which would’ve been a good place to be. “Does somebody want to tell me who did this?” Daddy asked, moving aside and pointing to the pretty flowered wall. And its newest decoration - an intensely purple, well-chewed, globby wad of grape bubblegum. As ugly as a big ol’ pimple on the nose of a prom queen, it had been smooshed into the wall just above the hot water knob, and had started a slow, stringy drip toward the floor.

“Well…? I’m waiting.” He was still using the voice.

“Not me, Daddy.” “I didn’t do it.” “Wasn’t me.”

“Girls, your mama and I don’t chew grape bubblegum. It had to be one of y’all. I want an answer. Now.” The look he gave us made us wiggle. It made us wriggle. It made us shuffle our feet. Still, no one confessed.

“All right,” he sighed. “If y’all aren’t going to tell me who did it, I’m going to have to punish you all three. For two weeks, there’ll be no going out of the yard, no having friends over and no bike riding. And bedtime will be at eight o’clock.” (Oh, no! Not that! That meant no Brady Bunch!) “Now, go put the game away and get ready for bed.” Like the losing team leaving the field, we trudged back down the hall, each trying to convince the other two of her innocence.

For two weeks, we stayed in our yard and played with each other. For two weeks, our bikes stayed parked in the garage. For two weeks, we went to bed at eight o’clock and for two weeks, we missed the Brady Bunch! But every single day, Daddy laughed with us and played with us. And every single night, he tucked us in bed and kissed us goodnight. He had been angry and disappointed that one of us had lied to him. But he never, for one minute, stopped loving us.

That’s the way it is with people you love. No matter how sad they make you or how much they disappoint you, you just keep right on loving them through all of their sticky messes.

What It Meant to Me

2009-11-07T08:38:00.011-05:00

“I am sooooo not in the mood to be nice to anybody who’s callin’ my house at this unholy hour of morning,” I snarled at phone where it lay on the kitchen table. Now, it may be, that in your world, 10:00am is not considered an unholy hour. But in my world on that day, it was positively blasphemous. Too much caffeine, twitchy arms and legs and an insomniac Little Dog had made it impossible for me to fully participate in that ever-popular nighttime ritual known as sleep the night before. By the time my body parts had worn themselves out and the dog had finally found the spot on my feet on which to sleep, the alarm hollered, letting me know that it was, in fact, time to get up.

With every chromosome in my body urging me to stay right where I was and let the day go on without me, I struggled (and it was a struggle) to stand beside the bed. I patted blindly around the bookcase for my glasses and groped my way to the bathroom, where I somehow managed to do little girl things, wash my hands and brush my teeth without drowning. Amazed that I could actually put one foot in front of the other, I trudged down the hall to the kitchen and began the morning performance of the Bee Family Circus.

I made JD3’s coffee. I made his lunch. I let the cats in and fed them. I took Gracie out and waited for her. And waited. And waited some more. (She won’t go unless I’m there to say, “Good girl.” That’s why I have to wait.) Just when I was about to rudely awaken the entire neighborhood by bellowing, “Will ya pee already?!” she found that elusive, only-one-in-the-whole-backyard, perfect spot and did just that. We went back inside and I let the cats out. I let the Little Dog out. I let the cats and the Little Dog back in and gave all furry critters their morning treats. I let the cats out again. And back in, again.

When JD3 gathered up his coffee mug and his lunch box, I opened the door for him, kissed him goodbye and sent him on his way. As I turned back into the room, I heard growling and hissing. And it was scaring the dogs and cats. It was clear to me that if I was going to make it through the day without biting somebody, I needed more sleep. So, I put the cats back out, dangled Puppy Cookies in the dogs’ faces so they would follow me and I went back to bed.

Two hours and a trip to The Twilight Zone later, I woke up with a dry mouth, a full bladder and a headache. For the second time that day, I tumbled (and it was a tumble) out of bed and zombie-walked to the bathroom. After I brushed my teeth, I put the toothbrush back in the glass and just stood there trying to get both of my eyes to open. When it became apparent that tea was not going to come to me, I hobbled down the hall to tea.

I was taking that first, life-giving sip when the phone rang. Clearly not understanding that I wanted it to Just. Shut. Up. it rang again and again. I side-stepped Gracie, stepped over the Little Dog and scooted a cat out of the way. Thinking nasty, evil, mean thoughts about the nasty, evil, mean person on the other end of the line, I answered the phone.

It was Mama. “Guuuuuuud mornin’! What’re you doin’?” she sang in that voice. The voice that used to irritate us out of bed on school mornings. The voice that woke us up at six o’clock on summer mornings asking if we’d like to go pick peas and butterbeans with her. (As if we had had a choice.) The same voice that, then and now, had me wanting to break Commandment 5 by breaking Commandment 6.

“I’m drinking tea and trying really hard not to step on the zoo inhabitants. What are you doing?”

“Well, he’s gone uptown and I need you to come over here. I want you to see my curtains. Can you come right now?” Immediately, a heated debate broke out between Bad Bee and Good Bee.

Bad Bee put her hands on her hips, cocked her head to one side and said, ‘You can’t go. You haven’t even finished your tea yet, for Pete’s sake. And even if you had, just how do you think you’d get there? Walk?! Remember, JD3 took your car to work because his has that funky bump thing in the right rear tire. And girlfriend! Have you looked in the mirror? I know you’ve brushed your teeth, but you haven’t washed your face and your hair looks like an unraveled pot scrubber. It’s, uhmm, actually kind of scary. Besides, he might come home early.” (He is my mother’s husband and we are having some issues and find it best to avoid each other for the time being.)

Good Bee shook her head, sighed in exasperation and looked at me over the top of her glasses. “You have to go. She’s your mama. You can finish your tea while you’re getting ready and you can always have another cup when you get home. JD3 said it would be all right to drive the car if you needed to. Just don’t go over 50mph. Heck, the speed limit for most of the drive over isn’t even 50! Now, go wash your face and pull your hair up into one of those ~~sloppy~~ casually elegant twisty things. Put on a bra and some shoes and get on over there. And don’t you let him keep you from visiting your mama!”

Darn that Good Bee. “Ok, I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I told her. “But I won’t be pretty.”

I sloshed down the rest of my tea and headed off to get ready. I washed my face, brushed my teeth again and manhandled my hair into a ‘do that wouldn’t scare small children. I even put on a bra AND shoes. Back in the kitchen, I asked Gracie to please not eat any of the furniture while I was gone, grabbed my purse and keys in one hand and the door knob in the other.

I didn't get very far. “Crap! These are the wrong keys. I need JD3’s.” His key didn’t like the crowded conditions on my key ring, so it doesn’t live there any more. Instead, it hides out in a black hole that is suspended between 2 brown leather straps; a really scary place known as My Purse. When I couldn’t seem to grab the slippery little boogers by merely reaching in, I turned said black hole upside down and shook my very important stuff out onto the counter where I could see it. Aha! There it was, under 3 weeks worth of grocery receipts, 2 flashlights, an Almond Joy wrapper, a pair of scissors, and some random dollar bills. “Ok, here we go.”

As soon as I opened the door to step out, Gracie, thinking that “Ok, here we go,” really meant we, slinked out around me and trotted off into the back yard. How a 75lb dog with a chest like a bulldozer can slink anywhere is beyond me, but she did. So, I waited. And I waited. (Can you tell where this is going?) Finally, she finished and I took her back in the house, again told her to be a good girl, walked out and closed the door behind me.

Before my foot hit the bottom step, I thought, “Just hunky-dang-dory! My cell phone is in there on the counter!” Back up the steps I went. I unlocked the door, walked in and grabbed the recalcitrant little piece of electronic technology and, after giving Gracie the look, the play-nice-with-the-others-and-don't-eat-my-socks look, I left the house.

At long last, I sat down in the driver's seat of the car and heaved the 3-ton door shut. After buckling my seat belt and adjusting the rear view mirror, I slid the key into the ignition and started the engine. It was then that I heard it. JD3 had left the radio on and the haunting, dulcet sound of a flute spilled out of it and poured itself all over my very bad mood. Along with the music came the lyrics; words that I loved but hadn’t heard in years. ♪ ♪ Snot running down his nose. ♪ ♪ It was Jethro Tull! It was Aqualung! Suddenly in a very good mood, I rolled the window down, put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway.

I know. Aqualung is most definitely not a happy little song. But it didn’t matter what the song meant; it mattered what the song meant to me. For just a few minutes, I was no longer a grumpy 51-year old woman with messy hair driving a limping, ~~old~~ vintage Volvo to visit her mother because she felt guilty. For just a few minutes, I was a happy 16-year old with wind-tousled hair driving the ‘bu across the causeway to the south end of the island. There, I would spend my days babysitting and my nights sitting on the dock star-gazing and listening to great music. ♪ ♪ Feeling like a dead duck! ♪ ♪ Life was good!

I know I’ve unwrapped my musical moment on a Saturday morning. But I’m still going to send y’all to Tuesdays Unwrapped over at chatting at the sky. A lot of nice people unwrapped some of their own special moments and managed to actually do it on a Tuesday!

I Hope It Gets Here Tomorrow

2009-10-09T13:17:00.004-04:00

She felt every bit as weather-beaten and time-worn as the splintered, gray wood on which she stood. Sitting down on the top step, she rested her elbows on her knees and, with both hands, brought the pretty red and white polka dotted mug to her lips. As she sat sipping her morning tea, she watched the dog she loved so much sprint after a rabbit she would never catch. Neither the quick-like-a-bunny bunny nor the big, silly dog was aware of the chain link barrier that separated them, assuring one’s safety and the other’s failure.

“This isn’t right,” she thought. Labor Day was a memory. The big sweet gum tree that she hated, (and loved,) had decorated the back yard with a smattering of citron-colored leaves. Just down the road, a happy-faced scarecrow and a family of pumpkins sat beside big pots of luscious, colorful mums on the neighbors’ front porch. Officially, it was autumn. But it was too hot. And too humid. “It should be cooler than this. I need it to be cooler than this.”

An almost smile ghosted across her face as the dog gave up chasing the rabbit to dance with a butterfly that waltzed just above her nose. Across the road, the trees shivered with excitement at the touch of a light, mellow breeze. The sky was blue, birds were singing and morning glories were blooming on the fence. In spite of the clinging, soggy heat, it was a pretty day. Yes, it was a very pretty day, but it brought her no joy.

Summer had been hard for her. In the season when the very clocks had been manipulated to ensure plentiful sunlight, her days had been dark. Like an over-protective mother, the humidity had knit a sweater from melancholy and draped it snugly around her shoulders. Oh, she was tired of feeling this way. She needed the crisp, cool darkness of autumn to wash over her and refresh her soul.

When the little wind tired of playing with the trees, it tiptoed over to where she sat steeping in her gloominess. Wrapping its soft, warm arms around her, it kissed her gently on both cheeks and then leaned in to murmur in her ear. “Hold on, my friend,” it breathed. “Fall is coming. It won’t be long.”

She took the last sip of her now cool tea, stood up and called to the dog. “I hope it's tomorrow,” she said as she turned to open the back door. “I hope it gets here tomorrow.”

Because...

2009-07-18T08:51:00.005-04:00

...I've been busy beginning a new chapter of my life, I'm posting another story from an earlier chapter. Until I have new stories to tell, I hope you like the old ones. Jo, at Mylestones is telling some pretty good stories, too! Maybe you could stop by.

All Boxed In
She walked toward the door facing her at the end of the long hall. The house was quiet except for the squeak of her left tennis shoe on the dark hardwood floor. She paused at the arrangement of family photographs hanging on a wall that was precisely the same color as the organic butter she bought every week. She adjusted two of the frames and, satisfied that they were once again positioned the way she wanted them, continued down the hall, humming her favorite song.

Standing in front of the door, she reached out with her right hand, turned the knob and pulled it open. She flipped the switch on the wall just to the left of the door and a pale, golden light illuminated the closet . There, on five shallow, evenly-spaced shelves climbing the back wall, sat the boxes filled with her things, all of the stuff she needed to keep her life in order. She smiled as she took it all in. She loved that shelf paper; had chosen it because it was covered with tiny little flowers that matched exactly the wall color in the hall and coordinated nicely with the soft, muted red fabric covering the boxes. (Even people who had known her for a long time were surprised that red was one of her favorite colors.)

The arrangement of boxes reminded her of a regiment of soldiers, immaculate in in dress uniform, standing at attention before its commanding officer. There were two boxes per shelf, each placed exactly the same distance from the front edge. Their sides were parallel, the amount of space between a box and its neighbor the same as that between the box and the side wall of the closet. Centered on the front of each box was a creamy white label printed with bold, block letters proclaiming it’s contents and warning anything different to keep out.

Boxes marked “BLUE,” “RED,” “YELLOW,“ “GREEN,” “BLACK,” and “WHITE” were placed on the shelves at her eye-, shoulder- and waist-level. It was here, within easy reach, that she stored familiar items that could be relied on to function the same way every time she needed them. These were the things she used to keep her life running smoothly; to make sure there was a place for everything and that everything stayed in its place.

Two “BROWN” boxes occupied the bottom shelf. These boxes were, in fact, filled with things from her husband‘s past. Early in their marriage, he had shown it all to her. The things that she could use, she had put in the easiest to reach boxes and everything else had been packed away on this less visible shelf. Occasionally, he would want to take the things back out and tell her more about them, and she'd sit with him and listen patiently because she loved him very much. But she didn’t like the way it made her feel and was glad that he didn’t want to do it often. (It made him as uncomfortable as it made her. )

On the upper shelf, accessible to her only if she stood on the wooden stool that her husband had built for her, were boxes that were rarely opened. The one marked “WILD COLORS” held gifts that had been given to her over the years, gifts that made her feel unsettled and insecure. She didn’t know what to do with them or how to use them. But she knew that , somehow, they were important to her and that she shouldn’t throw them away. Sitting beside this box , was one marked “PLAID.” In it were the things from her past that didn’t belong in the life she had now. They, too, were important because they had contributed to the person she had become. The things in these two boxes were messy and hard to control so she kept them up high, where she wouldn’t be tempted to take them down and expose herself to all of that chaos.

Lately, her things had become unhappy being confined to the boxes in which she had placed them. They wanted her to know that there was more to them than red or blue. They wanted to show her that even plain old black and white had wild color talents and that they could do wonderful things if she allowed them to work and play with each other. But each time they tried to show her something special they had created, she would lift the corners of her mouth in what might have been a smile, murmur “That’s nice” without meaning it and put them right back where she thought they should be. There was no light in her eyes, no joy or celebration, no appreciation of what they could do.

Now, unaware of the hurt and disappointment that lingered there, she reached into her neatly organized closet, took the “BLUE” box from its shelf, removed the cover and checked the contents. When she was sure that everything there was trying to do no more than be blue, she replaced the lid, turned on her squeaky shoe and started back down the hall to get on with her day; a day which would, for the most part, go exactly as she had planned it. Her things would make sure of it. Just as they always did.

2009-07-11T09:01:00.007-04:00

Although I didn't write it until November, this story is about being out and about on a rainy August afternoon. For about 5 minutes this morning, as I thought about all the unsettled-ness of my life lately, I changed my mind about knowing what's up ahead and around the corner of life's highway. But, I've decided I still like surprises.

I'm linking this story to Jo's Stories in My Pocket over at
Mylestones. You should go visit.

Reflections at an Intersection

The light changed from green to yellow as she approached the intersection. If it had been a bright, sunny day, she might have tried to “squeeze the lemon,” her daughter’s way of saying, “Give it some gas and hurry on through before the yellow light turns red!” But it wasn’t a sunny day. Rain was spilling steadily down from a fuzzy gray sky that seemed to sag with the weight of all the water it held. She adjusted the windshield wipers from Intermittent to All-the-Way-On, and, instead of squeezing that lemon, she pressed gently down on the brake pedal and came to a soft, easy stop just as the light changed to red.

She loved weather like this. The pavement was as black and shiny as the brand new, patent leather Mary-Janes she‘d worn every Easter when she was a little girl (except for that one year when, for some unknown reason, she‘d worn white.) The shimmery reflections of the red and white car lights on the wet street sent a little shiver of Christmas spirit right through to her soul, even though it was a warm September day. She had turned the radio off and the patter of the rain on the roof of her car had muted all of the normal busy-day traffic sounds. She felt secluded, happily cocooned in her own little world with just her thoughts to keep her company.

As she sat there enjoying the wait for the green light, it occurred to her that whether she turned left or right or continued straight ahead, she’d still get home, her favorite place in all the world, in about 20 minutes. And, no matter which direction she chose to go, there would be something to see along the way that would make her smile. Of course, no matter which direction she chose to go, there would the possibility that something would annoy her and make her scowl a bit, too.

If she turned left, she could cross the little creek that ran through town. Always lovely, it was especially pretty in the rain. After making the turn, she’d drive straight for about a mile, at which point the road would curve and she would cross a kind-of-bridge. The houses that lined most of the street would fall from view, making her almost forget that this was a residential area and not a country road. On both sides of the bridge, she’d see lush green ferns and willows and that plant with the pretty white flowers; the one she didn’t know the name of. (Granddaddy would have known what it was.) She would see trees standing straight and tall in the dark water, with kudzu and Spanish moss wrapped around the trunks and hanging from the branches. Maybe, if she was lucky, she’d see an ibis or a crane. The surface of the water, more graphite-gray than black, would be sprinkled with thousands of little pewter-colored rain dots. But - and there was always a but - that mile before you got to the creek had a reputation for being a speed trap; a well-deserved reputation that she could personally vouch for. And, once you crossed the creek, the country road once again became a city street lined with non-descript, (some down-right ugly,) houses and businesses.

If she turned right, she could ride by her favorite house in town, the little cottage with the stained glass windows hanging on the porch. A picket fence enclosed an overgrown garden filled with late-blooming flowers, birdhouses and quirky yard art. The owner was in the process of painting, so the house was half pink and half green. And had been for years. Though they had never met, she was sure that the woman who lived there - and she just knew it was a woman - had embraced her inner Bohemianess just as she had, and must be quite a wonderful person. The thing was, to get there she’d have to go through that goofy intersection, where she’d have to cross a busy street at an odd angle, zigging to the right, then zagging quickly to the left. You had to be very careful there because, when the light turned green, drivers unfamiliar with the area, thinking there was no opposing traffic, would turn left smack dab in front of you making you call them and their mamas ugly names.

Straight ahead, the road was lined on each side with massive oak trees whose branches met overhead and formed a lacy green tunnel. Traveling through it, she’d pass some of the town’s oldest houses; houses that were built when this area was still considered “way out in the country.” On her left, she’d see the new built-to-look-like-an-old-farmhouse house with the oh, so cool tin roof. A little further up on the right, would be the pretty white house and it’s wrought iron trellis that was all but hidden beneath a big yellow-flowering vine. What would be her most favorite thing to see, though, was the little garden that had been planted on land bequeathed to the town by the Shack Lady. For a long, long time, and to the consternation of her affluent neighbors, an old woman had lived in a broken-down, not very pretty little house on a much desired, very valuable piece of real estate. After her death, it was discovered that she had been quite well off and had owned the land outright. In her will, she deeded the aforementioned real estate to the townspeople, with the stipulation that no houses would ever be built there; that it would become a garden, instead. Now, instead of being ugly and unkempt, it was one of the prettiest places on the pretty tree-lined street. But - here’s that infamous but again - those pretty trees had big ol’ roots that had buckled the pavement in places and years of bad weather had caused pot holes that had never been repaired properly. The bumpy street just plain needed paving. AND, it headed straight into Five Points, the intersection where six, (not five, but six,) of the busiest streets in town came together. The state-of-the-art traffic light did a good job of keeping things sane, but sometimes you had to wait what seemed like forever for your turn to go.

While she was sitting there trying to name all six points that came together up ahead (much like she sometimes tried to name all eight of Santa’s reindeer or Snow White’s seven dwarves,) the light changed from red to green. She slid her foot from the brake to the accelerator, pressed down, and for no better reason than just because, went straight. “Hmm,” she thought. “Wonder what it would be like if life were like this; if every time you chose a particular life path, you’d know ahead of time just what was ahead, the bad as well as the good.” In her heart, though, she knew that it wouldn’t be a good thing; that fretting over all the bad that could happen would keep you from fully enjoying all the good that was to be had. And besides, she just loved surprises.

Those Three Little Words

2009-07-07T10:34:00.003-04:00

I know you’re thinking, “I love you.” And, actually, at that moment, I did love this woman. I would have happily kissed her on the mouth if she had been standing next to me in my house instead of sitting in a doctor’s office way across town.

I had called earlier, hoping that the results were back before I left for a day of shopping with Anna. The receptionist very nicely explained that the results usually took 7-10 business days and somebody would call me when they were available. “But the nurse at the hospital said five days,” I whined. She kindly offered to put me through to the voice mail of Dr. Meanie’s nurse and I thanked her.

I left a message and explained that I would be gone most of the day and was hoping to hear something before I left. Leaving my cell phone number in case the call came while we were on the road, I ended the call and woke up Miss Anna so she could do listen-for-the-phone duty while I got dressed. “Is your phone charged?” she asked. Well, ~~of course, it is~~ no. I plugged it in and headed for the shower.

I forced myself to shower slowly. I took extra time with my hair and skin care regime, and actually put on mascara. As anxious as I was for answers, I also dreaded getting them. It was the same way I felt when I got my State Board exam results after nursing school. I would pick up the envelope and put it back on the table. I would grab it and start to lift the flap and then throw it back down. I knew that what was in that aforementioned envelope could possibly change my life for the worst. What if I had failed? I would lose my job! How would I make my car payment?! That's how I felt today. What if the results were bad? It would most definitelychange my life for the worst. Did I really want to know that right before what was supposed to be a fun day of shopping with my sweet baby girl?

All dressed up with somewhere to go, I went to my bedroom and picked the phone up. The tiny little words on that tiny little screen told me that I had not one, but two missed calls from Robin, the nurse. I checked the voice mail and she had, indeed, left a message. “Please call me back when you get this. Tell the girls up front to have me paged.” Have her paged?! It must be really bad, I thought.

Hands shaking, I dialed the number and waited the 5 hours and 33 minutes it took (at least it seemed that long) for her to come to the phone. Actually, in less than a minute, I heard her cheerful (was that a good sign?!) voice on the other end of the line. She said something about last Thursday and the office being closed Friday and a letter that had been mailed to me and scar tissue and blah, blah, blah. I heard bits and pieces and this and that, but then I heard those three little words: “The polyps were benign!” Ok, maybe two of those words were big words, but hearing them was every bit as sweet as hearing I love you. They were benign!

Happy ending, right? Well, of course it is. But there’s more to this story. Last week, I wrote here about how afraid I was and how I could barely think of anything else. Very soon after I posted that story, I was wrapped up in love and support and held up in prayer by friends I’d never met. Their words of encouragement and concern were balm to my aching spirit. One friend beautifully advised me to ”let that fear go out that all may unburden you a bit. and let that fear remind that we are gifted of every moment.” I did let it out and I was unburdened and reminded. And myy heart was filled with those three little words. I love you, my friends.

For more stories of precious gifts, go see Emily at chatting at the sky.

2009-07-04T12:59:00.003-04:00

I’m Scared

“We removed three polyps – one big one and two little ones. “ He stood at the foot of the stretcher with his hands on his khaki-covered hips looking somehow older than he should have. His hair was dark; his lightly tanned skin, smooth and unwrinkled. His oxford blue shirt was as unwrinkled as his face and the creases in his pants were sharp. His eyes, partially hidden by trendy dark-rimmed glasses, held no sparkle and, had his voice had any tone at all, it would have been one of arrogance. He explained that the polyps looked okay, but that, of course, we’d have to wait on the biopsy results to be sure. If there had been something bad, he was sure that the removal of the meanest looking polyp would have gotten it. “You’ll need to be scoped again in a year,” he explained and he turned to leave. “You’ll hear from me when we get the results.”

He would have been gone if I hadn’t stopped him to ask what I could do to keep the polyps from coming back. I’d be willing to bet that he thought I didn’t see his shoulders slump with irritation as he turned back to answer my question. And answer he did. He gave the Universal Physician Response, the Med School 101 answer to all patient questions, whether it’s about treatment for ingrown toenails or how to keep hair from growing out of the bottom of your feet. “Lose weight, exercise and eat lots of fruits and vegetables.” And then he really was gone.

Feelings of every color created a vibrant collage on the canvas of my psyche. I felt dislike for the wooden-faced doctor. I felt gratitude for the kind, proficient nurses who had cared for me. I felt giddy and fuzzy thanks to the lovely medication that had been shot into my IV prior to the procedure. I felt warm, gooey love for my sweet daughter who had waited with me, talking grown-up talk and telling me about the plans for her life. I felt hungry and thirsty and ready to go home. But I didn’t feel fear or worry.

After Dr. McNotdreamyatall finished his ~~totally-without-feeling lecture~~ talk, I was free to go. I made the bumpy wheelchair ride (I really could have walked!) down to the car and climbed into the passenger seat. Anna put the car in gear and we left the hospital. Mr. Fear and his friend, Ms. Worry, were nowhere to be seen.

Nor did they show up for lunch at our favorite Mexican restaurant. We ate quesadillas and talked and giggled and enjoyed being together. When we finished, we stopped into the grocery store next door for the always needed just a few things and then headed home. I took a long, delicious nap undisturbed the troublesome pair and woke up feeling refreshed.

Later, JD3 came home from work and I told him all about my day. Fear and Worry didn’t try to interrupt or give their account of the happenings. I don’t know where they were, but they weren’t hanging around when we decided that we needed Japanese food for supper. They didn’t ride to the restaurant with us (yes, we ate out twice in one day!) they didn’t join us at our table and they didn’t ride back home with us.

But they were there in all of their hateful glory, Fear and Worry, waiting for me when I walked in the back door. They had sneaked in through a tiny crack in my faith. Each picked a shoulder to sit on and there they’ve been ever since. Sometimes, they’re very quiet and I’m just vaguely aware of their presence. Sometimes, when I’m minding my own business and just doing the things I do, I can feel them breathing down my neck. Sometimes, I feel like I’m just being silly and that they were never there at all. That’s when they dig their claws into my shoulders and whisper nasty, mean things in my ears; “What if…” and “It could be…” And once again, I’m scared.

2009-07-03T21:14:00.000-04:00

I Miss Him

2009-06-24T14:48:00.002-04:00

I miss hearing him whistle. I don’t remember ever hearing him sing, but I heard him whistle just about every single day. To me, it was as sweet and lovely as any birdsong.

I miss his hands. Big, strong, hardworking hands that could fix anything, yet were soft and elegant and neatly manicured.

I miss how he used to point at the three of us when we hadn’t been his little darlings. His ring finger and thumb would form a circle while each of the other fingers aimed straight for the heart of an errant little girl.

I miss how handsome he looked in baby blue.

I miss how he combed his hair. Not his hairstyle, but how he combed his hair.

I miss how he called his truck, his “cruck.”

I miss seeing him drive; how he leaned into the door, left elbow hanging out of the window. His right arm extended loosely up and over the steering wheel which supported his wrist while his fingers hung between it and the dashboard.

I miss how he used to run “up the street” or “around the block” and come home later with three tiny little brown paper bags filled with bubble gum and brightly wrapped candies sure to make the three of us very happy and the dentist very rich.

I miss answering the phone and hearing him say, “Hey, Bebbo…” or, “Hey, Bebby.”

I miss hearing him call my daughter “Anniebelle.” I wish he could know her now.

I miss hearing him say, “be sweet,” because I knew that really meant “I love you.” For some reason, those words came hard to him, but I didn’t need them. I knew I was loved and loved well.

I miss playing cards with him and hearing him holler with laughter when he “whupped the pants off” of us again and again. And again!

I miss his version of Br’er Rabbit and the Tarbaby. Nobody did sound effects like he did.

I miss calling out to him and hearing his cheerful, clipped, “wut?” in reply.

I miss getting birthday cards signed “Pop” in his tiny, neat handwriting.

I miss how he loved America and John Wayne and Foghorn Leghorn.

I miss how he loved squirrels; how he’d sit on his deck for hours and feed them peanuts, trying to make friends with them. I don’t think he would like it if he knew that she hated them now.

I miss his quietness; how he didn’t need to fill silent spaces with chatter. When he did speak, it was worth listening to.

I miss everything about him. I know that he wasn’t a perfect man, but I loved him with all of my heart and longed to chase his demons away. I wanted to know what caused that quiet sadness that was a part of him and somehow make it all better. Some days, the loss is bearable; no more than a vague, dull ache way in the back of my heart, barely noticeable over the happy clatter of my life. But some times, like this weekend, it’s loud and sharp and raw and it hurts and I would do almost anything to have just one more hour with him, to hug him and tell him I love him. I miss him.

For the last two days, I’ve ridden around town in a little blue truck with the other man in my life. As we’ve gathered plywood and 2x4’s and screws and paint and all the things to set our girl up in housekeeping, I’ve had a chance to think about just how much he’s like my daddy. He has the same values and morals and politics. He, too, has strong, hardworking hands that can fix anything. He doesn’t whistle, but he sings like an angel. He’s a quiet man who loves America and John Wayne and Foghorn Leghorn. And me. He chases my demons away and makes it all better. I am blessed to have found him and will celebrate that every single day for the rest of my life.

For more celebrations, please visit
chatting at the sky

2009-06-20T18:23:00.005-04:00

I just linked up to Jo's Stories in my Pocket series over at Mylestones. There're some good reads over there. You should stop by.

Just Under the Hypothalamus

2009-06-17T18:51:00.006-04:00

It was a dark and stormy night. Undisturbed by Nature’s temper tantrum raging just outside her window, she slept deeply and dreamlessly. The previous day’s events, although not catastrophic as she had feared they would be, had left her bone-weary and emotionally drained. Knowing that this was not a night for mindless television nor meaningful conversation, she had kissed her family goodnight and headed off to ready herself for bed two hours earlier than usual. After brushing her teeth and washing her face, she had put on her favorite worn pink T-shirt, turned the fan from low to medium and crawled between the soft, floral sheets.

Within minutes she was soundly asleep, oblivious to all that was around her. Hours later, when her husband clicked off the lamp, turned on the music and slid into bed beside her, she was unstirred. The snores of her little dog, which usually had her wishing for earplugs, were unheard. The thunder boomed and the lightning flashed, and still she slept. Aware only of the fact that she was sublimely comfortable, she let out a small sigh that sounded like “Ahhhh,” turned onto her left side and snuggled her cheek into the cool spot on her pillow. Suddenly, the walls shook and a shrill, terror-inducing wail sliced through the night air, making her bolt upright in bed.

Ok. It wasn’t stormy and it wasn’t night. (I just love saying, in a deep voice British accented voice, “It was a dark and stormy night.”) It was, however, dark. The “shrill, terror-inducing wail” was actually the alarm clock’s annoying little beep beep beep waking me up waaaaaay before I was ready to be awake. I, in fact, did not “bolt upright in bed,” but reached blindly toward the bedside table and felt around for my glasses. Once I finally found them, and every other unnecessary necessity that cluttered the surface, I poured myself out of bed and headed off to the bathroom. I already knew this was going to be one of those days.

I had spent most of the day before fretting and worrying about my 1:30PM appointment with ~~doom~~ my doctor. The very appointment where she would tell me my cholesterol was so bad that nothing short of an IV infusion of Drano could possibly lower it. The same appointment where she would say to me, “No, no. You don’t need to lose weight. You just need to grow 12 inches.” And the appointment where she would look at my blood sugar results and determine that the only thing sweeter than I am is a Krispy Kreme donut covered in chocolate syrup with whipped cream and sprinkles on top. As is turned out, my cholesterol was great, I had lost 5 lbs and my blood sugar was darn near close to normal. What a waste of all that fretting and worrying!

Of course, after a good report from the doc, I felt invincible and eager to attend the Extreme Couponing workshop scheduled for later that evening. After all, a healthy, vibrant, intelligent young thing like me should be quite capable of grasping even the most complex couponing strategies. Excited and sure that I would soon learn to feed my family gourmet meals on a budget of $0.29 a week, I signed in, (with a borrowed pen because mine dried up before I had even completed the B in my first name!) Two hours later, I left with a full bladder, a toothache from clenching my jaw and a head that felt like spiked ping-pong balls were bouncing around in it. I guess I had expected Extreme to mean extremely easy to understand. I guess I was wrong. I went home, took a Goody Powder and went to bed. And slept “deeply and dreamlessly” until that hateful alarm clock woke me up.

As I stood there in the kitchen making coffee, I talked myself into a really nasty mood. “Why does he need coffee, breakfast and lunch?” (I didn’t mention to myself the fact that, in just a few minutes, he would be heading out to work 12 hours in a hot steel mill.) “Am I the only one who ever fills up the sugar dish?” “Could these animals be any needier? I mean, why can’t they just go to the bathroom like the rest of us and then get themselves a Pop Tart or something?” Clearly, my CPABC (The Center for Promoting Awareness of Blessings and Contentment - it’s a little glob of nerves in your brain right near your hypothalamus. Trust me, I’m a nurse.) was malfunctioning. Otherwise, I would have remembered that it was not only a privilege, but one of my greatest joys to take care of my family at any hour of the day.

With a great deal of effort, I got everyone fed, watered and off to work. As soon as the door closed behind JD3, I locked it, called Gracie and we went back to bed. Where again, I slept “deeply and dreamlessly.” And again, a “shrill and terror-inducing wail sliced through the air.” The telephone. It was Mama. “Are you up?” she sang. (I am now. And I want to hurt you.) “What time do you want to go shopping this afternoon?” (Oh, crap. I did tell her I would go with her to buy curtain fabric, didn’t I?) We talked just long enough to set a time for ~~my next appointment with doom~~ her to pick me up.

Since there would be no more sleep, I decided to ease slowly into the day. I made myself a cup of tea and sat down to check my email and read my favorite blogs. I played with the dog and let the cat out. I made my breakfast and forced myself to drink a big glass of water. About an hour before the appointed time, I took a shower. About 45 minutes before the appointed time, Mama came bustling through the back door.

“I know I’m early but you’ve just got to keep Stan’s Father’s Day present here for me.” (No, I don’t mind. Really. I’d be glad to.) “I just love your new canisters let me show you what I got for him I started at Kohl’s but didn’t really like the sale they had going so I went to Penny’s instead where the sale was better and I got all of this for less than $80 so you say a friend sent you those canisters well wasn’t that nice of her they look real pretty there I’m ready anytime you are.” I was pretty sure she didn’t hear me when I told her that I also was in possession of the pretty salt and pepper shakers that matched the pretty canisters.

As soon as I was dressed, we got into her little blue truck (it’s really purple, but she says “blue”) and headed down the road – the middle of the road! I tried with all of my might to lean hard to the right, in hopes of pulling her back into her lane, but I was unsuccessful. The looks of sheer terror on the drivers of oncoming vehicles left her unmoved. Because she was looking at me, telling me all about her kitten and her doctors’ appointments and why she was driving the truck that made her knees hurt to climb in and out of it and how Stan was home working on the car now and she sure hoped he could get it fixed soon (I was doubtful, because he is decidedly un-handy) because this power steering didn’t seem at all like power steering to her.

Surely, Guardian Angels were with us, because we arrived at Hancock Fabrics unscathed. However, we didn’t find exactly what we were looking for so we got back in the truck and went to check out the fabric department at Hobby Lobby. There, we found the perfect fabric, only there was a good deal less than the 20 yards she needed. The nice sales lady informed us that her supervisor could order it for us if we’d like. We told her that yes, we would like and off she went in search of Miss Tallulahbelle. (The names have been changed to protect the kind and very patient innocent.)

While we were waiting, Mama decided that she would get 22 yards “…just in case. I’d rather have a little extra than not enough.” Agreeing with her, I told her that if she did have left over, she could always use it to make napkins. “Ooh, that’s a good idea,” she said as Miss Tallulahbelle walked up the counter and asked if we were the ones who wanted to order 20 yards of this lovely blue and white fabric. “Yes,” Mama says,” I’m making curtains for my kitchen she’s going to help but I think I’m going to get 22 yards instead because that way I’ll be sure and have enough and I figure if I have any left over I can make matching napkins.” (Didn’t somebody just say that?) “Good idea,” says Miss T. “Now, I’ll need a name a phone number?” When she heard Mama’s name, she said that it sounded familiar and asked her if she was from around here. “Well, my husband was born in Oklahoma but grew up in Texas and then spent 30 years in the Navy and then moved around quite a bit so we say he really is the man from nowhere.” I don’t know if Miss Tallulahbelle was at all interested but she smiled anyway. Since I’ve heard that story 9623 times, I was not so inclined.

Fortunately, Hobby Lobby is next door to Lowe's so it was a short, safe drive to our next stop. We were in search of PVC pipe (or PCV pipe as Mama chooses to call it,) curtain clips and cup hooks, which we were planning to use as hardware with which to hang our beautiful new curtains. We made our way to the window treatments, where we looked at some pretty, but expensive metal brackets and decided against them. Sticking to the original plan to use cup hooks, we put three packs of clips in our buggy and went in search of pipe.

As I stood in front of a bin holding 5-foot sections of half-inch pipe, calculating how many we would need and which connector we should use to make a rod long enough to span the big, middle window, Mama motioned for me to “come here. Here it is in 10-ft pieces. We can just get one of these.”

“I don’t think it’ll fit in the car, Mama.”

“But we have the truck.”

“I don’t think it’ll fit in the truck, Mama.”

“Oh, sure it will.” Undaunted, she wrangled that 10 feet of flop-doodling PVC pipe out of the bin and into the buggy, (well, sort of into the buggy.) Somehow managing to maneuver to the cup hook aisle without impaling anybody on our pipe, we looked for a big ol’ hook that would accommodate our half-inch pipe. (I knew it was half-inch pipe because there, in bold black letters right beside the bar code it said, “1/2 inch PVC .”) It seemed that any thing that was big enough to hold the pipe would also leave a ghastly hole in the wall. Thinking that I needed to think this out some more, I suggested to Mama that we just get what was in our buggy and we would figure out the rest later.

“Oh, no. Let’s just ask this nice man.” Well, this nice man was not. Nice, I mean. Apparently, his little red vest was too tight in the arm pits. Or he was busy wishing he had stayed retired. Or maybe his moon wasn’t aligned with Jupiter or something. But he wasn’t nice. He sighed, turned his pinched little face towards us and, sounding like he’d rather be counting his screws, asked what he could do for us. I explained to him what we were trying to do and what we were looking for to help us achieve our goal. Faster than Billy the Kid, he whipped out a tiny steel tape measure and measured the pipe. “You have half-inch pipe here.” (Really? No kidding?) “I don’t think there’s anything here that will help. You should try over in Window Treatments.” I explained to him that we had already looked there and really didn’t want anything that expensive. “Well, I’m just trying to find something that will help you,’” he snipped. Well, you didn’t, but if I ever need to scare small children, you’re the man I’ll come looking for. Before I could say anything out loud, Mama took me by the arm and led me to the check-out.

When we got to the truck and tried to put the 10 feet of still flop-doodling pipe into the bed, about 4 feet of it hung out of the back. “I don’t think this is going to work, Mama.”

“I’ve got bungee cords. And we’ll tie that hat to the end of it.” Said hat is a now-pink Santa hat that has been riding on the passenger head rest for over 2 years.

“You can’t bungee PVC pipe, Mama.”

“You don’t think? I know, let’s try to stick it in through the passenger window. That might work. You’ll just have to hold on to it.”

It didn’t work. Instead of hanging out of the back, it was now flailing out to the side of the truck. Knowing that howling at your mother in a public parking lot is not only breaking the Fifth Commandment, but is probably also considered trashy and therefore, socially unacceptable, I calmly told her that I didn’t think we were going to be able to get it home in this truck. So what did she do? She marched back in Lowe’s with pipe in hand and exchanged it for 4 5-foot sections and one connector. Can you say, “Aaaaaaarrrrrrgggghhh?!”

When our goodies were secured totally in the back of the truck, we decided it was time for a late lunch. After mulling over all of our options, we made the short drive to Zaxby’s for one of their great grilled chicken salads. It was a short drive, but I had plenty of time to fear for my life as did the man who happened to be leaving the parking lot as she was driving in. For some reason, he seemed bothered by the fact that she was turning into his lane! Passing a parking spot that she could have simply driven into, she chose one that required her to pull in and back out. And pull in and back out until she was within her white lines. It was, after all, two feet closer to the door.

Part of the reason we had chosen Zaxby’s and salads was that earlier, we both had talked about eating healthier and taking better care of ourselves. So, when the cute little girl behind the counter asked if she could take my order, I said, “I’ll have the blackened Bleu Zalad,(they call them Zalads, isn’t that cute?) no dressing and a cup of water.” Mama then said, “I’ll have the House Zalad with extra Ranch dressing. And sweet tea.” Shaking my head, I chose a table for us and waited on them to call our number. Soon, the salads were ready and they looked delicious – fresh green lettuce, orange carrots, purple cabbage and bits of white cheese sprinkled about. The kind of salads that you see in magazines and advertisements. Three servings of dressing later, Mama’s looked more like potato salad than the healthy one she had chosen from the menu. We asked God to bless our food (and I added a silent request for my safety on the trip home) and ate our lunch.

Finally, the day was over and I was on my way home. When the truck came safely to a stop in the driveway and I climbed out, I tamped down the urge to fall to my knees and kiss the ground. Because she had consumed a lot of tea, Mama came in to use the bathroom and as she walked by the table, she said, “Oh look. I didn’t know you had the salt and pepper shakers, too. Aren’t they cute?!”

It had been a long day. But when I got home, my sweet Annabanana had been standing on the back steps with her arms open waiting to give me a hug. Gracie was standing just inside the back door, her whole body vibrating in greeting. She, too, had given me a hug, albeit a painful one. JD3 had driven up just as Mama was leaving. Here they were, this family that I had groused about taking care of early that morning; these people (and animals) that I love more than anything in this world and who were as happy to see me as I was to see them. They listened and laughed as I told them about Hobby Lobby and the “PCV” pipe and the mean little man. As I told my story, I realized how blessed I am to have a nearly 70 year-old mother who is healthy and able to take care of herself and drive me nuts on a regular basis. I guess my CPABC wasn’t malfunctioning after all.

Please stop over at chatting at the sky for more Tuesdays Unwrapped

Why I Believe in God

2009-06-04T13:07:00.003-04:00

Why can’t I write this? I asked myself that question about 193 times yesterday. I mean, the subject matter was important to me. I had prayed about it. I had googled how to say, “Oh, my God,” in about six different languages. I had looked up passages of scripture and then decided how best not to use them. I was ready to write and it was going to be great! It wasn’t going to be a theological dissertation or a scientific presentation of evidence proving that He exists. I wasn’t going to proselytize, evangelize or, worse yet, criticize. I was simply going to tell everybody why I believe in God and then, when non-believers read it, they were going to believe in God, too!

Well, I sat and I wrote. And I deleted. A lot. “Maybe I need a little break,” I thought. So I made myself another cup of tea. I went outside and played Slime Ball with Gracie. A lot. I sat here and looked out of the window and made cloud pictures. I even called my mother. But somewhere between my brain and the screen, my thoughts would scatter and refuse to fit into the words that I had chosen for them. Finally, when I had worked myself into a really nasty mood, I decided that today was just not the day. I saved my notes, closed the program and set out to do some mindless chores around the house.

I made spaghetti sauce for supper. I washed and dried some strawberries and put them in the freezer. I unloaded the dishwasher and hand washed a few special pieces that were in the sink. I played Slime Ball some more. Eventually, I ended up in our bedroom changing the sheets on the bed.

As I tugged and tightened, I talked to God. I talked to Him about friends and family who were in some sort of crisis or the other. I talked to Him about my plans to save money. I talked to Him about JD3 and Anna. And I talked to Him about how aggravated I was with myself for not being able to write this. Then, out of nowhere, there was a brilliant flash of light!

Ok, that’s not entirely true. There was no flash of light. But I did have a moment of crystal clear understanding. I realized that it’s not really a matter of why I believe so much as it’s a matter of how could I not believe. I mean, He’s my best friend. He’s here with me all of the time. When the sky is blue and the birds are singing and all is right in my world, He’s here. When the sky turns dark and the storms rage and the music stops, He’s here. I can’t tell you that I’ve ever heard His voice or that I’ve actually seen Him in person. But I can tell you that when I stood crying in the shower because life had become too much and I called out to Him, I felt His presence and I was comforted.

And He’s not here because I want him to be here. He’s here because He wants to be here.

Here’s how I see it: God created the world. (Now, you may come to me and say “Oh, no. Here’s a scientific explanation for the whole thing.” And I would probably say, “You know. You’re right about that!” I just happen to believe that God was the scientist behind it all.) After He created the world, He created us because it was so beautiful, he wanted to share it. While he was building our bodies and our minds, he hardwired a Belief chip deep into the mainframe, so that we’d want to share it back. So that we’d want to be with Him.

But, we messed up. We messed up the earth and we messed up each other. And when we couldn’t clean up those messes, when we couldn’t keep children from dying or innocents from being slaughtered or people from starving, some of us tried to turn off that little chip, saying, “If there was a God, He wouldn’t let these things happen.” But it can’t be turned off. This embedded instinct keeps working, even in non-believers. Instead of a belief in God, it becomes a belief in Fate or Karma or Luck or even Science. No matter what it’s called, it’s still a belief or a reliance on something bigger and more powerful than we are.

While it saddens me to hear someone say they don’t believe, it is never my intent to cram my God down anybody’s throat. And I hope that these heartfelt words are not taken as invitation by non-believers to prove to me that I’m wrong. All of your arguments and evidence wouldn't change the way I think, anyway. I just wanted to tell you why I believe in Him.

I know I said that I wasn’t going to quote a bunch of scripture. That would be like trying to prove the theory of evolution using only articles written by Darwin. But, since I did all of that research and I hate to see it go to waste, I’d like to leave you with these two passages:

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
Psalms 139:14

And you shall seek Me and find Me when you shall search for Me with all of your heart. Jeremiah 29:13

I'll Never Look at Dandelions the Same Way Again

2009-06-02T10:03:00.004-04:00

I'm unwrapping another Tuesday at chatting at the sky

One day last week, I was outside with Gracie. It was a gorgeous spring morning. Even with the sun shining brightly, it was just cool enough and there was a soft little breeze whispering to the trees. Still, I was feeling more than a little aggravated. I hadn’t had my tea yet and I wanted to be inside just sitting, being for a few minutes before I started the day.

As I stood there waiting for her to bring me the stupid ball, I looked down and there they were - a little family of dandelions, swaying in the gentle breeze as if they heard music that I couldn’t hear. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sun and listened. I didn’t hear the song, but my grumpies went away.

Part of the reason they made me smile was that they are just so darn pretty. What little girl wouldn’t love to have a frilly, yellow skirt like that in which to dance and twirl and celebrate spring mornings. “A weed,” some say. “A wildflower,” I say.

But that was only a small part of the reason they were able to adjust my attitude. As I watched them there, I thought of Tuesdays Unwrapped and Emily's Picture from last week. I thought of the times I had laughed and cried with women that I’ve never met. Women who, sometimes in the midst of great sadness or difficulties, have shared such special moments in their lives and have, in doing so, touched mine. I felt connected. I felt un-aggravated.

It's In His Kiss?

2009-05-26T10:12:00.008-04:00

I'm joining everybody at Chatting at the Sky as we discover that, most of the time, it's through the little things that we learn how much we are loved.

♪ ♪If you want to know if he loves you so, it’s in his kiss.♪ ♪

At least that’s what Aretha Franklin said. And she told us it’s not in his eyes, his size, his face or embrace. According to the song, it’s not even in the way he acts. Well, while I have a lot of R-E-S-P-E-C-T for Aretha, I think she’s wrong about this. Let me tell you how “I know he loves me so.”

It was in the scrambled eggs he made me when I was really sick. (Best scrambled eggs ever!) It’s in his hand resting on my knee as we’re driving down the highway. It’s in his telling me to quit a job I hate, even though we could really use the second income. It’s in the way he says nothing when his sisters say, “Thank you for marrying my brother. I know you put up with a lot.” (Because I know he puts up with a so much more than I do.) It’s in how he can just be with me without either of us having to talk; or how we can talk about everything. It’s in the way he says my name, whether he’s calling me Bee, or Beverly or Mama. Nobody says it like he does.

I know he loves me when he doesn’t run screaming for the hills when I ask him to remodel the house with no more than a circular saw and a screwdriver. I know he loves me when he does odd jobs for my mother; simple jobs that are made aggravating and not-so-simple by her husband’s fumbling attempts to help. I know he loves me when he makes sure the oil is changed and the tires on my car are safe

I know he loves me when, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, instead of watching baseball, he’ll come and sit beside me on the bed. He’ll take the jumbled mess of fabric in his hands, hands that are strong and nimble and meant for guitar playing, and help me figure out just how you use this toothbrush handle to make a rug. And he’ll keep trying to help, even when my frustration wells up inside of me and spills all over him.

And I know he loves me when, just before we go to sleep, he tells me so. It doesn’t matter if I’ve been ~~a total bitch~~ a little touchy all day, he says, “Goodnight, I love you.” And kisses me on the cheek. So, I guess It’s In His Kiss, after all!

2009-05-25T12:12:00.002-04:00

Photo from art.com

Stop and Smell the Roses - Lessons Learned from my Dog

2009-05-20T18:32:00.008-04:00

If you know me at all, you know that I’ve been completely besotted by a big, goofy brown dog with beautiful amber-colored eyes. From the day that ~~colossal jerk~~ mysterious benefactor dropped her off in our front yard, she has lived in my home and in my heart. I am head-over-heels, make-you-act-silly, can’t-stand-to-be-parted, totally in love with her.

Even when she comes to me 532 times a day asking to go out and play. (Yes, asking. She talks to me.) It doesn’t matter to her if Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks are about to kiss and live happily ever after. She doesn’t care if it’s raining a rain like Noah saw. She’s sorry, but undeterred, by the fact that a little man with a jackhammer is at work in my head trying to break up the concrete of my brain. Gracie wants to play! If I try to put her off, she’ll walk around the kitchen table/island, jump up to look out of the back door and then come back to sit at my feet, where she’ll gaze up at me with those big wet, puppy-dog eyes. (What did you expect?!) Unable to resist her for more than a minute or two, I stop what I’m doing and say, “Let me get my shoes.” When she hears these words, she starts laughing and singing and dancing around the kitchen, because she knows that when I put on shoes, it means that she’s worn me down and we’re going outside. (Well, maybe she doesn’t laugh and sing, but she does dance.)

Out the back door we go. I take up my position at the top of the deck steps, while Gracie lumbers on into the yard. There, she scoops up two tennis balls and heads back to me, looking very much like some kind of mutant, radioactive chipmunk with huge neon-green cheeks. Just before she reaches the bottom step, she turns and proceeds to trot and canter around the back yard like a riderless dressage horse performing before the judges. Back and forth she prances between the swing and the sweetgum tree. When she’s satisfied that I’ve watched and appreciated her presentation, she runs up on the deck and doesn’t give me the balls. You see, as brilliant as Gracie is, she failed Puppy 101 because, while she was very good at fetch, she never quite caught on to release. Meaning that every time I reach for the balls, she turns her head away. (Just like I do when JD3 is trying to kiss my cheek after he’s said something really stupid and made me not like him very much.) As we’re playing this reach-and-turn game, her tail is beating out a rhythm on an old chest that sits there patiently waiting to be refinished. Todda, todda, todda. She wags and turns. Todda, todda, todda. I reach and miss. Eventually, drawing on my super powers, I use lightning speed and gymnast-like agility to reach over and grab both balls from her mouth. I need them both so I can throw one and use the other as a bargaining chip. Now, we can play!

Sometimes, I throw a ball high into the air, sending her bounding off of the deck after it. She spins around once or twice while she tracks the ball. When she has it in sight, she throws herself toward the sky like a dolphin at play and catches it before it hits the ground. Other times, I throw it low so that it bounces a few times on its journey to the back fence, which is covered with honeysuckle and neglected rose bushes that, not realizing they’re neglected, are blooming anyway. As soon as the ball leaves my hand, Gracie dashes after it like a hunter in pursuit of survival. I keep throwing and she keeps fetching until the tennis balls reach MSC (Maximum Slime Capacity.) Then we go inside, get a treat and have a little rest.

One day last week, on a particularly pretty day, we had gone outside to play. Having made it through the preliminaries, we were in the I-throw-the-ball-and-Gracie-brings-it-back part of the game. I took the ball in my right hand, drew it back, and like the world’s greatest bowler that I’m not, sent it bumping along the grass towards the fence. Gracie, like she always does, took off after it at a dead run, making me worry that she wouldn’t be able to stop in time and would end up with her snout wedged firmly in the tiny bit of chain link that wasn’t covered in vines. But she was able. She came to an abrupt stop, ignored the ball and stuck her nose right in the center of one the roses. She stood there for almost a minute, smelling first one and then another of those dark, pinkish-red flowers. Then she picked up the ball and leisurely trotted back to the deck. We played for a few more minutes and then went back inside for our treats and our rest. But not before I realized that I had learned a valuable lesson from Miss Gracie.

What I learned was that, even in the middle of the busiest of days, there’s always time to play a little. And that, even when you’re in hot pursuit of something very important to you, you need to stop and smell those roses.

Once again, I'm a day late in joining everybody at
Chatting At The Sky in unwrapping the special in the middle of the ordinary. If you click on the button below, you can go read the stories of those more punctual than I.

She's Home

2009-05-05T10:16:00.014-04:00

Please join Emily and the others at Chatting at the Sky , where we're unwrapping the extraordianary gifts found in ordinary days. You can get there by clicking the button below.

JD3 and I woke up early Saturday morning with a plan. We would drive to College Town, take our sweet baby girl to lunch and then, while she was taking one of her final exams, we would visit with my mother-in-law. When she had aced the exam, (which I was sure she would do,) we would meet her at her dorm, load up all of her non-essentials, kiss her goodbye and drive home. She would stay behind with just the bare necessities and come home Tuesday after her last exam.

That was the plan. This is what happened. We did drive to College Town, and we did take our sweet baby girl to lunch in a beautifully converted old train station. While she was taking her exam, we did, indeed, visit Granna (my dear mother-in-law.) She had just moved in to a new apartment, so we spent some time unpacking boxes and moving furniture. And talking. And talking some more. We talked about family - the good, the bad, and the ugly. And the just plain weird! We talked about the contents of the boxes and whether the couch should go here or there. We wondered which lamp would look better on this table and would the cord be in the way if we put it here. We talked about lots of things, including our plans for the day. At some point during all of this talking, ~~Granna wondered why we couldn’t~~ I had the brilliant idea to just move Anna and all of her things home while we were there. College Town is just over an hour’s drive away. She could come home for a long weekend and then make a day trip back Tuesday to take the exam. So that’s what we did. We loaded up the cars, waved goodbye to dorm living and headed for the green, green grass of home.

Once again, three opinionated, stubborn, sarcastic people, (two of whom are hormonal females,) are living in our little house. Once again, the bathroom shelf, (the one in the only bathroom in the house,) is too small to hold all of the schtuff we need to make us look pretty and smell good. We run out of toilet paper faster. Groceries cost more and mornings are 5’ 9” grumpier than they were before. A mini-refrigerator is living in the back of my car and I have the unparalelled good fortune to have a driving coach, (“You know you can change lanes, don’t you?”) and an editor, (“Do you always double space there?”) living in the same house with me!

I love it! I love it because she’s home! Home for what may be the last summer that she actually lives here. In July, she will move into her first apartment and I know that this move will be one more little snip in those old apron strings (not to mention these old heartstrings.) But, being the good little Southern girl that I am, I'm in touch with my inner Scarlett O’Hara, and I won’t “… think about that today. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow.”

Today, I’m going to celebrate our renewed three-ness. I’ll get a goodnight kiss every night and I’ll go to sleep knowing that she’s just on the other side of that wall. I’ll boss her around and I'll let her boss me around. We’ll laugh and cry and talk. And every morning, when I walk into the bathroom, I’ll smile. Because her toothbrush will be right there in the glass beside mine and her daddy’s. It’ll be a little gift to unwrap every day, a little reminder that, for at least this summer, she’s home.

Gracie's Eyes

2009-04-30T08:41:00.004-04:00

Last Monday was not a good day. In fact, it was probably a day like that which gave Monday it’s bad reputation in the first place. When I tell you about it, you may roll your eyes and cock your lip up on one side and say, “That’s what you call a bad day?” But it was, I tell you. It was bad.

The bad actually started on Sunday night. I stayed up past my bewitching hour to finish a blog post in time to enter it in a writing contest. It was a hard story for me to write; the subject matter was deeply personal and more than a little painful. Even though I had already begun to question the wisdom of sharing something so tender with the world, I published it anyway and emailed the link to the contest site. I shut down the computer, turned off the lights and went to bed.

And did not sleep well. Even though Monday was the beginning of a down week at JD3’s job and I was able to sleep a little later than usual, I was still up before sunrise. Unable to shake that uneasy feeling, I stumbled to the kitchen and made myself some tea in my favorite red and white polka-dotted mug. I let the big white cat out, sat down and booted up the computer, then headed off to meet my friends for our morning chat. When I got there, I found that the not-so-long-lost friend who had returned yesterday to stir up trouble had had tremendous success with her endeavor. She had turned what started as a little joke between good buddies into a sinister conspiracy designed specifically to make her look bad. Singing, “I Am Victim, Hear Me Roar,” at the top of her lungs, she chastised us all for being shallow, mean-spirited women. And she continued to do so for most of the morning, long after we had given up the futile attempt to prove that, in fact, we were not shallow, mean-spirited women.

In spite of the fact that I was ~~in a really bitchy mood~~ not my usual cheery self, I decided to go see Mama. Now, you know I love my mama, but sometimes she - and her husband - can be irritating. Bless their hearts. (For those of you north of the Mason-Dixon line, here in the South it’s ok to say something bad about somebody as long as you preface it with, “Now, you know I love so-and-so, but…” And then you must end the statement with, “Bless her heart.”) But I went anyway. I oohed and ahhed over the new curtains and pillow shams in the guest room, did some more oohing and aahing over their cute little kitty and then settled down in the den where we actually had a pleasant visit. Until the talk turned to the economy.

They told me all about Dave Ramsey’s course and how excited they were that their church had offered it. They told me about all of the positive steps they were taking towards being financially secure in an insecure world. I heard about the new freezer and Mama’s plans for fruits and vegetables. I heard about their budget and how they were really sticking to it this time. They were excited and not nearly as gloom and doom as they usually are. But I felt gloomed and doomed. “We aren’t doing any of that!” I thought. “Why aren’t we doing any of that?!”

I drove home convinced that by Friday, I would be living in a tent, eating cold beans out of a can with a plastic spoon as I guarded the shopping cart that held all 15 of my worldly possessions. I walked in the back door, put my purse on the table and laid my keys beside it. I took one step towards the den and then I heard it. The news channel. I hate the news channel. I hate it all of the time. But I really hated it right then because the subject was, of course, the economy! I couldn’t seem to get away from the bad that had become my day.

Hoping to find a happy place where I could, at least for a little while, ignore all of the ugly in the world, I sat down at the computer and logged on to the internet. My plan was to read only my friends’ blogs; lighthearted places that would make me smile or maybe even laugh out loud. I would see what cute things their children and grandchildren were doing. There was a chance I’d get a good recipe from one of them or read about somebody’s vacation plans. I’d read my darling daughter’s journal and see what she was up to in College Town. I might even get to see pretty pictures. It would all be nice and it would make me feel better.

When the home page came up, I scrunched my eyes and turned my head a little so the news headlines were blurry and unreadable. Using just my right eye, I searched my bookmarks for the first blog, clicked on the link, and waited for the pretty page to load. “Oh, good,” I thought. “She has a new post!” My spirits already lifting, I leaned in to read the title and… had my heart broken. She had shared something personal about herself; something that, to others would have been no big deal, but left me reeling. I knew I needed to say something, to tell her how I felt. I struggled to find the right words, but they just weren’t to be found.

It was only 7:30pm and I was ready for this day to end. That funny feeling about my story hadn‘t gone away. My friends’ and my character had been attacked. My head had been pulled from that nice, warm spot in the sand in which I had buried it and I
had been forced to listen to, horror of horrors, the news! And I still needed to talk to my friend. It was too much. I needed Divine Intervention and I needed to go to bed. After asking all of my friends to pray for me, I took my little rain cloud and did just that.

I fell asleep hoping for a good night’s rest and a better tomorrow. I would wake up and find that my story had at least garnered an honorable mention. The world would know and acknowledge that my friends and I were truly wonderful people.
JD3 would get a huge bonus in spite of the economy and our future would be secure. The words that I needed, so beautiful and eloquent,would be pasted to the back of my eyelids when I woke up. The birds would sing, the sun would shine and all would be well.

What I got, however, was not much sleep and a monster headache that had me getting out of bed at 4:00am. The only words that came to mind were, “I need pills!” and I groped my way to the kitchen where I swallowed a handful of ibuprofen and a Benadryl,
and sat down to check the contest site. I didn’t win. I didn’t get an honorable mention. And what’s more, since I was one of the last to submit an entry, the link to my story was waaaaaaaaay down on the bottom of the page. I sat there wallowing in pain and self-pity. I was a failure; an inarticulate, untalented, un-frugal (is that a word?) middle-aged, wrinkled, gray-haired,chubby woman with a headache. (I was really into my wallowing!) With a deep sigh, I leaned back in my chair, looked out of the window and saw a falling star. Sure that it was a sign of great significance, I ran out to the back yard and poured my heart out to God. Feeling a little better, I went back in the house, went back to bed and slept until late morning.

Now, you’re probably expecting me to say that when I woke up, all was right with the world; that everything had, indeed, been worked out. It hadn’t. Tuesday was just a continuation of Monday. But when I sat down in the kitchen and put my head in my hands, thinking, “Oh brother. Here we go again, “ Gracie came to me. She put her front paws on my thigh and looked at me with such love that, for a few minutes, all was right with the world. It was quiet and peaceful and no words were needed. She wagged her tail and nibbled my ear and I felt taken care of. She looked at me as if she knew how I felt and all she wanted was to make me feel better. She expected nothing more of me than that I love her back.

And I do. We weren’t looking for another pet when she came into our lives. If we had been, we probably would have gotten something smaller than a 60lb Pit Bull mix who thinks she’s a lap dog. But somebody made the mistake of not wanting this precious animal and dropped her off in our front yard. His loss is one of my most precious gains. Because, when things are falling apart and I’m having one of those days, I need only look in Gracie’s eyes and I’m comforted.

I know this is Thursday and that it's Tuesdays Unwrapped over at Chatting at the Sky. So, I'm a little late. But I think Emily's message is a good one all of the time:
In every bad day, there's a little gift of something good if you take the time to unwrap it. Gracie is my every day gift. You can see the stories and see the pictures of those who do things on time if you click on this pretty button.

Write Away

2009-04-20T00:03:00.002-04:00

Scribbit is having a writing contest and this month's theme is "Mom." I hope y'all will visit there and read all the stories about motherhood.

A Mother's Arms

2009-04-19T23:58:00.002-04:00

This post was removed to protect the memory of someone I loved very much.

2009-04-12T08:19:00.000-04:00

Words

2009-04-01T21:38:00.005-04:00

“All our words from loose using have lost their edge.”
Ernest Hemingway

I’m pretty much a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl. I go to bed when I’m sleepy. I do laundry, not on any particular day of the week, but when we‘re out of clean underwear. We eat supper at whatever time it‘s ready, which is usually after I’ve spent a frantic hour or so deciding just what it is that supper is going to be. The little dog gets her hair cut when I can’t see her eyes anymore, and I make an appointment for my annual check-up only when my daughter reminds me that it’s been well over a year since I had the last one. In short, I am a woman without a routine.

Except for early mornings. Even my most chaotic, un-schedulized, let’s-just-see-what-happens day starts with a routine. With few exceptions, I get up before the sun rises and make the coffee. While it’s brewing, I make JD3’s lunch and feed, water and ~~yell at~~ love the animals. When all of that’s done and I’ve kissed my honey goodbye, I make myself a cup of tea and sit down at the computer. After reading my email and checking in with my Board Buddies, I farm a little on facebook and read Anna’s latest post on livejournal. And then I begin my daily visits in BlogLand.

One of my first stops is Mary Carroll’s photo blog, In A Soft Light, where every morning, Mary posts one of her beautiful photographs. Often, she pairs the photo with by a quote chosen to complement the picture much like the right wine does a great meal. One morning last week, it was as if she had chosen the picture and the quote just for me. Together, they seemed to speak right to my heart. Anxious to tell her how moved I was, I quickly scrolled past the comments of others, clicked on the “Post a Comment” button and waited with poised fingers for the comment form to appear. When it did, I…had absolutely nothing to say. All of the words that I wanted to use sounded shallow and worn and insincere. It was then that I realized the full import of Hemingway’s words; that, just as we have with our beautiful earth, we’ve carelessly and casually used up one of our most valuable resources. Our most powerful words have become platitudes, useless for conveying great thought and emotion.

Consider the word awesome. “Oh, you can come to dinner Friday night?! Awesome!” Or, “I just got an awesome deal on a new car.” How about, “You look awesome in that dress?” Can any of these experiences come close to making you feel what you feel when you see the Grand Canyon or watch the sun set over Key West? Is getting a great deal on a new pair of shoes even remotely akin to the experience of holding your little baby for the first time?

What about love? I don’t just like snickerdoodles, I love, love, love them. (Three times the love!) I love polka dots. I love red. Or, as we Southern girls say, “Honey, I love ya new hayah-do!” (That’s hair for you Northerners.) Really? Love? Isn’t love that wonderful and profound feeling I have for my husband, my child, my God?

Which brings me to Oh, my God! In my opinion, those words should only be uttered when calling on the magnificent Creator of the Universe, not to convey excitement and delight because some TV decorator has just re-decorated your whole house with $35 and a glue gun! They should not be flung out so that others will know just how shocked and disgusted you might be, as in “Oh my freakin’ God, did you see that guy she was with?!” Excitement can be communicated without saying, “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod! He’s so cute!” These words should be said in worship, in supplication and in wonder that yes, He is my God.

Imagine Heaven. The sun is shining down on the polished streets of gold. Flowers of every color are blooming in front of the many mansions. The angels are at choir practice and their beautiful song fills the air. In the distance, on a hill covered with soft green grass, sits God on His brilliant white throne. Just to his right, with His hand on His Father’s shoulder, stands Jesus. Together, they are looking down at the world that they love so much. Sometimes they smile. Sometimes they wipe away a tear. Sometimes they laugh out loud. Jesus leans down and says to God, “Father, I hear Susie calling your name.” God shakes his head sadly and says, “Son, Susie isn‘t really calling me. She’s just excited. She got some awesome new furniture and she loves, loves, loves it”

Yay!!! It's Monday

2009-03-02T08:54:00.003-05:00

Do you know what this means to me? It means that last week, that perfectly awful, most hateful of weeks, is now part of history. The week that lasted two hundred and thirty-two days, seventeen hours and eleven minutes (It did!) can no longer wreak havoc in my psyche. No, nothing catastrophic happened. The toilet didn’t overflow. I didn’t break my most favorite dish in the world from when I was a little girl. I didn’t attempt, and, subsequently fail, to bake bread yet again. I just felt, all week, like some unseen cosmic force bumped into the tablescape of my life and dis-arranged everything so that when I reached for my Spice of Life shaker, it was just to the left of where it should have been.

That cosmic jolt was hard enough that it caused my body to revert to PMOS, or Pre-Menopausal Operating System. After 9 months of thinking that I was totally through with that part of my life, (and being quite happy about it, I might add,) I had an honest-to-goodness period, complete with cramps, bloating, and ~~bitchiness and tears~~ a slight decrease in cheerfulness. As if that were not enough, I got what was either a cold of epic proportions, monster bronchitis or a really nasty flu bug. Whatever it was, it knocked me on my asthmatic butt. I spent most of the week puffing on my albuterol inhaler, eating Mucinex and ibuprofen and squeezing my knees together so I wouldn’t wet my pants every time I coughed. I still haven’t found the baseball bat that JD3 must have used to beat me about the head and chest when I went to sleep at night.

It must have been a lack of oxygen to my brain that caused me to string words together into stupidity and direct them at two of my most favorite people in the world, one of them being my daughter. I said what I said to her out of love and concern for her happiness, but it came out all wrong and I hurt her feelings. My motives were pure and I said it kindly, but I was waaaaaaay off base. When I think about it now, I think JD3 would have been justified if he really had beat me up with a bat.

I hurt my friend by being insensitive to her feelings on a particular issue. I laughed at and participated in a joke, which on the surface, seemed innocent enough. However, when viewed through the window of her life experiences, it wasn’t funny at all and made light of something which is very special to her. And then, I tripped over my clumsy apology and landed right smack dab in the tender spot that remained from the original hurt. She told me that “No, it didn’t hurt,” that I had been a part of it. But I think it did and I still feel awful about it.

Yes, I’m glad that week is done and I can start on a new one. After all, today is the first day of the rest of my life. And I have big plans. Today I get on with the business of starting that simple life I’ve been yammering on about for so long. What better way to begin than to join Peggy Hostetler at The Simple Woman's Daybook in taking a little look into the day plans and thoughts of those of us who are focusing on simplicity...the beauty of the everyday moments around us.

March 2, 2009

Outside my window... It’s gray and windy and cold. But it’s not snowing like they said it would.

I am thinking...that I really, really, reeeeeally want it to snow.

I am thankful for...my husband. I don’t think he realizes how much I love him and appreciate him.

From the learning rooms... It is very quiet. No, I didn’t home school my daughter, but when we were together, we were always learning from each other. She’s away at college now and I miss her very much. This past week has been especially hard.

From the kitchen... I think I will get one more cup of tea.

I am wearing...jeans, my favorite paint-spattered pink T-shirt and pink socks. The pinks are not the same color!

I am creating... a dishcloth and a pillow cover; both of which I plan to finish this week.

I am going...Wednesday to have lunch with a friend I worked with at Hospice.

I am reading... The Secret Life of Bees - very slowly. Very, very slowly.

I am hoping...that Anna feels better this morning and that there was a 2-hour delay in her class schedule so that she could rest a bit longer.

I am hearing... house noises - the refrigerator running, the heat pump humming. And an occasional car on the road in front of the house.

Around the house... the pets are sleeping peacefully.

One of my favorite things...peacefully sleeping pets!

A few plans for the rest of the week: I plan to clean and organize. Then sit down and actually write out goals for the week.

Here is picture thought I am sharing...

One of my goals for the week is to bake a prettier loaf of bread than this one!

16 Things About Me

2009-02-09T14:21:00.005-05:00

A while back, when I logged on to my FaceBook page, I found I had been tagged! “Oh, no. What does that mean. And Anna’s not here to help me!”
(I tend to panic over computer stuff that I’m not familiar with.) And then I noticed that it was Anna who had done the tagging! So of course, I called her up and asked her what to do.

She led me to her Notes where I found this, her entry entitled Dang Memes! 16 Things About Me. These were the instructions:

Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 16 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 16 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it’s because I want to know more about you.

Well, if you know me at all you know that it takes a minute (or day or week) or two for me to get my thoughts together. By the time I was ready to post my own note, I noticed that people everywhere - or at least on FaceBook and in BlogLand - were doing 25 Things About Me. So, to be loyal to my sweet baby girl AND keep up with the newest meme (don’t you love that word?) out there, I decided to title this 16 Things About Me but actually tell you 25. And they are:

I am a Christian. I may not talk about it all of the time because I believe, as Benjamin Franklin did, that “A good example is the best sermon.” I have a real problem with those who call themselves Christians and quote scripture and speak fluent Christian-ese from atop their pedestals of self-righteousness, but don’t show the world any joy, or love or compassion. That, to me, is most un-Christ like.
I have been married for twenty-one years to a man who, although not perfect, is perfect for me. (Shhhh! I’m not perfect either!) We have one daughter who has grown into a beautiful young woman in spite of her goofy parents.
My sisters are my best friends (besides my husband and daughter.) They always have been and always will be.
I want to be a writer when I grow up. I’m so grateful to have a daughter who believes in me and always encourages me to go for it. (The writing. Not the growing up. I don’t think she has much hope for that.)
I have good friends, really good friends, that I have never laid eyes on.
Except for an occasional weekend or day trip with JD3, I’d rather be home than anywhere else.
My favorite place in the world, outside of home, is the mountains of NC. The thing is, it’s the mountains of NC. Mountains are high and I’m afraid of high. It’s a real love/hate thing.
I love hearing my husband play guitar and sing Neil Young, early Beatles and Moody Blues songs. Well, I like hearing him sing anything, but those are my favorites
If I ever won the lottery, I really would give most of the money away. I‘m happier now than I‘ve ever been. My life is simple and good and I don’t want it to change.
I spend an awful lot of time (and energy and flour) trying to make bread. It‘s not going well and I’m beginning to feel like a failure at Domestic Goddess-hood. I will, however, continue to fight the good fight and hope that one day, I can make a loaf of bread that will have my husband begging me for more and telling that his work day is intolerable if he can’t have a baloney sandwich made with my bread.
I cook for my dogs. I make their dog food and their treats. They always eat it all. They always want seconds. And they don’t care if it didn’t turn out just like the recipe said. (I’m way better at this than making bread.)
I think I sing better than my family thinks I sing. I know I sound good in the car and in the shower
I have big feet. Not clown-sized, can-we-borrow-your-shoes-to paddle-down-the-river big. But big.
I can blow spit bubbles off the end of my tongue. I don’t know the mechanics of it exactly, but I can form the perfect little round bubble right on the tip of my tongue and then, by exhaling and sliding my tongue back in at the same time, I can send that little darlin’ out to play with all the other little bubbles of the world. It’s a nice talent to have while waiting in a long drive-thru line.
I try really hard to be a kind and loving person. But sometimes, the mean that is in me rears its hateful head and I become quite impossible to live with.
I hate, hate, hate talking on the phone
I Love A Rainy Day - No, not the song. I really do love rainy days and I don’t care if rains every day for a week Except when the septic tank backs up. Then I don’t love it so much.
I’m going to paint my house red in the very near future. Bill Blass said that “Red is the color of happiness.” I have a happy house and I want it to look that way.
I like getting power tools for gifts. For Christmas, I got a drill press. For Mother’s Day, I’ve asked for miter saw.
In my glorious past, I was a runner. I ran 5 miles almost every night. Then one night, I didn’t. And the next night, I didn’t. And now… Well, I don’t run every night.
Like my daughter, I am a grammar snob. It makes my eardrums bleed when I hear someone use I when they should use me and use bring when they should use take.
I’m ambidextrous. The really important things in life (eating and writing) I do left-handed. Some things I do right-handed. Most things I can do with either hand. I can’t use scissors at all!
After almost 30 years of drinking coffee, I have switched to hot tea and like it so much better. Why ever did I wait so long?
I collect old doorknobs, old tablecloths, old dishes and quotations.
I’m one of those GRITS - Girls Raised in the South - and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But, and I hate to admit this, I like oatmeal better than I do grits. In fact, at this point in my life, I’m not even sure I like grits at all. Oh, the shame.

One thing I didn't tell you above, is that I am a world class procrastinator and nowhere is there more evidence of the fact than here, at poor, neglected little BeeMusing. I have things to say that I just don't get around to saying. Bear with me, friends. I hope that's getting ready to change.

The Stranger Within

2009-01-06T11:21:00.006-05:00

There’s another woman living at my house. I hear her more than I see her. I hear her laughing and talking with JD3 and Anna. I hear Gracie make that “Oh, yeahhhh” sound she makes when someone scratches her behind her ears. I know she makes Wild Kitty and Big White Cat purr. And I hear her giggle when The Little Dog does her tap-dance routine in demand for another treat. She feeds the pets and washes dishes and makes beds and cleans the bathroom. Sometimes she even cooks. Although I’ve never been introduced to her, much less spoken to her, I feel as if I know her well. I would even call her my friend.

She’s a middle aged woman, a little taller than average and wears glasses. She has shoulder length, salt-and-pepper colored hair - more pepper than salt, except at her temples, where it’s snow white. Her eyes are a green-brown hazel and look their greenest when she’s been crying. Her lips are full and, although they appear to have faded some with age, they’re still a soft pink. She has a few wrinkles around her eyes and a vertical crease in her forehead right above her nose, but her skin is clear and smooth and soft-looking. And she’s extremely overweight.

I know what she looks like because, even though I don’t talk to her, I do see her, both here at home and in town. I was in The Olive Garden once when she and her family came in for lunch. When my friend asked for a booth instead of a table, the unsmiling hostess looked at her right square in the abdomen and, with a little sigh that said, “I don’t think you’ll fit, but…,” led them to their seats. I wonder if anybody else saw the look of anger mixed with hurt and embarrassment that slid quickly and quietly across her face.

Once, we were both in the same fabric store. I saw her pause and look at ticking-stripes and toiles and plaids. I saw her run her hands gently across velvets and chenilles and moirés. After she walked the entire perimeter of the huge, warehouse-like space, she went to the counter, presumably for help. When I noticed how the sales lady just ignored her, I lost interest in looking for curtain fabric and gave them my full attention. After waiting a few minutes, my friend laid her keys not so gently on the counter and cleared her throat. The sales lady, who’s big red hair, thin red lips and aqua polyester clothes clashed in such a way that it made my eyes hurt, slowly rose from where she was reading a magazine and offered her assistance. When my friend told her what she was looking for, the woman crossed her arms and grasped her elbows, revealing bony - Oh, my Goodness - red-tipped fingers. “We don’t have that and we can’t order it,” she said. “You need to go on the internet to look for it.” Thanking her for her assistance, my friend turned and left the store.

The next time I saw her was when I was shopping for a birthday gift for my daughter. Because it was her 18th birthday and I wanted something special, I was shopping in one of the few upscale jewelry stores in town, something I don‘t usually do. Beautiful gemstone jewelry was displayed quite elegantly in glass cases lined with black velvet. When my friend asked to see “those earrings. No, no, the pretty tsavorite garnets,” the sales lady’s my-hair-is-better-than-yours-my-clothes-are-better-than-yours-and-I’m-thinner-than-you-so-I’m-better-than-you attitude changed to one of surprise, and it showed in her face. She obviously didn’t expect my friend to know anything about gemstones or jewelry. We both left the store without buying anything.

Someday soon, I hope I’ll be able to sit down with her over a cup of tea and listen as she tells me her story. This is what I think she’ll say:

You know, what they think they see when they look at me has absolutely nothing to do with who I am. They see a fat, frumpy middle-aged woman without much going for her. But I look at them through the eyes of a young-at-heart, mostly happy woman with family and friends and pets who love me and whom I love back. My home is a warm and caring place that reflects my quirky personality. I like to work with my hands. I can knit, I cross stitch, I’ve made pottery, and I’m learning to make bread. I collect old junk and fabric and quotations. I love the way some words and phrases feel as you say them. I like to read and I like to write. I’m smart and funny and compassionate. As a Hospice RN, I’ve held the hand of a dying man and, later, held his daughter in my arms and cried with her as she grieved. Yes, I wear ugly clothes, but it’s not because I don’t know what looks good. I love jewelry and know that there are at least six colors of garnet, my birthstone. I love God and try very hard to live the life He wants me to live.

I know I shouldn’t blame them for not seeing the real me. How could they in the little snippets of time that we have together? It’s just that I’m so tired of it all. I’m tired of not being taken seriously. I’m tired of them being surprised when I say something intelligent or meaningful. I’m tired of being looked at like I don’t matter. I’m tired of the ugly clothes and the one-size-fits-all that doesn’t fit me. I’m tired of an aching back and sore knees and shortness of breath. I’m just tired.

Then, as she gets up to leave, she’ll look into my eyes and she’ll know that I know exactly how she feels. She’ll take my hand in hers and she’ll say, “Maybe it’s time we did something about this.”

Merry Christmas - 2008

2008-12-24T22:52:00.000-05:00

Raindrops on Roses

2008-12-08T08:13:00.013-05:00

While wandering around Blog-land one day, I discovered Chatting at the Sky and it quickly became one of my favorite places to visit. Today, Emily is encouraging us to celebrate the small things, to "unwrap the gift of the everyday." You can participate or read what others have to say by clicking the button below.

One of my favorite movies when I was a young girl, and one that I watched over and over again, was The Sound of Music. In one glorious, Technicolor scene, a violent storm raged in the Austrian countryside. The frightened Von Trapp children had run to Maria’s room, knowing that she would make them feel safe because she was the absolute most wonderful nanny in the world, (except for Mary Poppins, who was practically perfect in every way.) She taught them, in song, of course, that the bad times won’t seem quite so bad if you remember your favorite things; the little every day things that bring you joy.

We all have our stormy times, days that seem to go from bad to worse. And even more worse! But if we look, we’ll find that there are little pockets of sunshine all around us and all we have to do is reach in a grab some. Here, in no particular order, are my little pockets of sunshine, the everyday joys that help me through my everyday storms:

Polka Dots

Big puffy clouds

A big ol’ golden maple tree backlit by a setting, early November sun

Mail - email or real mail. I just love getting mail.

Hugs and kisses from Gracie, my 60+ pound puppy - the hugs can be painful and the kisses are really sloppy, but they make me feel loved.

The sound of the heat running - On cold nights, when I’m all snuggled up in my bed and I hear the heat turn on, it makes me feel secure, content that everything’s ok.

Standing outside on a breezy early spring day - I like to tilt my head back and look toward the sun, squeezing my eyes tightly shut so I can see all the little red squigglies that happen when you do that.

Percy’s purring - he’s our wildish kitty, who must have lived with some bad people before he came to our house and he didn’t purr for a long time. So when he does, it makes me happy for him.

Water - lakes, rivers, puddles, oceans, streams. rain. I just love water.

Kudzu - I like it. I just do. (As long as it grows in somebody else’s yard!) They tell me that it blooms and that the blossoms are edible. I’ve never seen a kudzu blossom, but I’d bet that I’d like it, too.

Raindrops on a windshield

JD3’s or Anna’s number on caller ID

Yarn - especially big balls of soft, red yarn

Baby lips

The Smell of clean laundry

Engagement ring rainbows - like when I’m riding in the car and the sun catches my ring and makes little rainbows all over the dashboard and the top of the car.

Hearing JD3 playing guitar and singing a song he knows I like

Looking at the Christmas tree with my glasses off

Cows - not the cute little black and white collectible kind, but the fawn colored ones that looks so soft and have those big, wet eyes. I love to see a whole bunch of them standing on a hill just doing what cows do.

Full moons - even better if they're shining on water!

Picket fences - especially if they have pansies or daisies planted in front of them.

Comments on the blog

Oh, and I like Raindrops on Roses, too.

Thanks Giving Day

2008-11-28T01:12:00.008-05:00

It was before sunrise when I woke up this morning. The only light in our bedroom was the soft glow from the little lighthouse nightlight on JD3’s chest-of-drawers. In spite of the swish-whirr of the ceiling fan, the low hum of the heat pump, and the not-so-low snores of Prissy, our little Shi Tzu, the room was quiet and still. Reluctant to be fully awake, I burrowed deeper into the covers, warmed by the knowledge that, for now at least, all was right in my little world.

My sweet baby girl was home and sleeping in her own bed. Herman, her big white cat, was snuggled up close to her side. Keeping watch at the foot of the bed was Gracie, our goofy, immensely lovable 60lb puppy. Percy, our wild-child kitty-cat, had refused to come inside the night before and was asleep in his secret warm place outside. In our room, the previously mentioned noisy one had made herself into the small ball of fur that was snoozing in front of the bookcase. And sleeping beside me, hiney-to-hiney, was JD3, the man that I love and am growing old with. All the pieces to the jigsaw puzzle that is my life were in place.

As I lay there, trying to convince my bladder that I really didn’t need to be up yet, JD3 stirred and turned over. He tucked his knees into the bend of mine, threw his arm around me and settled back into sleep. It was no big deal, something married people do all the time. I’m not even entirely sure he was aware of it. But I knew that in that simple touch was the essence of everything that I am most grateful for in this life.

I know that I have family and friends who are always ready to throw their arms around me or hold my hand or hug me or pat me on the back or just sit beside me and make me feel safe and loved and part of something good. I have sisters who make me feel like I belong when they sit beside me and we talk about stuff; our childhood, our children, other peoples children who aren’t quite as special as ours are; just stuff. I have a mother who hugs me good-bye and makes me know she’s glad I was there and she hopes I’ll be back soon. I have a husband who makes me feel treasured by simply putting his hand on my knee as we ride along in the car, (or by throwing his arm across me in his sleep.) I have a daughter whose good-night kiss can right all the wrongs of the day. I have nieces and nephews whose hugs just plain make me happy.

What’s really exceptional (at least in my opinion) is that I have friends who give this kind of love long distance! These are the friends who held my hand as I worried about Anna after that awful wreck. They sit beside me every day and we talk about our families, our homes, our hopes for the future. If I’m having a bad day, their words make me feel like I’ve been held close in what one friend calls a “big ol’ boobie crushing hug,” the best kind of hug there is. With gentle pushes, they encourage me to try things I’ve never done before and then pat me on the back when I succeed. The fact that we’re so far apart seems insignificant. They’re my best friends and I’m oh, so grateful for them.

Yes, I’m thankful for my family. And I’m thankful for my friends. But what I’m most thankful for is God‘s presence in my life. During hard times, He wraps me close in His arms and, while I’m crying on His shoulder, He says, “Don’t worry. I’m here and I’ll never leave you.” He holds my hand when I’m walking through dark places. When I need direction, He puts His arm around me and says, “Listen, Bee. This is what I want you to do for me.” (Sometimes, I wish He’d just talk a little louder.) When I mess up, as I often do, He hooks my chin with His finger, tilts my face up to look at Him and says, “No, that’s not how I would have you do it. But I love you and I forgive you. Just try and do it my way from now on.” And I do try. I try every day to be the kind of person he wants me to be.

Thanksgiving Day is now officially over. Anna, Gracie and Herman are settled in for the night in Anna’s room. Percy, of course, is outside in his secret place. In a few minutes, I will turn off the lights here in the kitchen and head off to bed, where JD3 and Prissy are waiting for me. The room will be dark except for the glow from the little nightlight. I’ll crawl beneath the covers and hear the swish-whirr of the ceiling fan, the hum of the heat pump and the snores of my beloved little dog. As I lay there in the stillness, I’ll be warmed by the knowledge that all is right in my little world. I’ll know that I’ve been blessed beyond measure, and as I fall asleep, I’ll know that, for me, thanks giving day will never be over, but will come again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day. And every day.

Reflections at an Intersection

2008-11-05T12:53:00.006-05:00

The light changed from green to yellow as she approached the intersection. If it had been a bright, sunny day, she might have tried to “squeeze the lemon,” her daughter’s way of saying, “Give it some gas and hurry on through before the yellow light turns red!” But it wasn’t a sunny day. Rain was spilling steadily down from a fuzzy gray sky that seemed to sag with the weight of all the water it held. She adjusted the windshield wipers from Intermittent to All-the-Way-On, pressed gently down on the brake pedal and, instead of squeezing that lemon, came to a soft, easy stop just as the light changed to red.

She loved weather like this. The pavement was as black and shiny as the brand new, patent leather Mary-Janes she‘d worn every Easter when she was a little girl (except for that one year when, for some unknown reason, she‘d worn white.) The shimmery reflections of the red and white car lights on the wet street sent a little shiver of Christmas spirit right through to her soul, even though it was a warm September day. She had turned the radio off and the patter of the rain on the roof of her car had muted all of the normal busy-day traffic sounds. She felt secluded, happily cocooned in her own little world with just her thoughts to keep her company.

As she sat there enjoying the wait for the green light, it occurred to her that whether she turned left or right or continued straight ahead, she’d still get home, her favorite place in all the world, in about 20 minutes. And, no matter which direction she chose to go, there would be something to see along the way that would make her smile. Of course, no matter which direction she chose to go, there would the possibility that something would annoy her and make her scowl a bit, too.

If she turned left, she could cross the little creek that ran through town. Always lovely, it was especially pretty in the rain. After making the turn, she’d drive straight for about a mile, at which point the road would curve and she would cross a kind-of-bridge. The houses that lined most of the street would fall from view, making her almost forget that this was a residential area and not a country road. On both sides of the bridge, she’d see lush green ferns and willows and that plant with the pretty white flowers; the one she didn’t know the name of. (Granddaddy would have known what it was.) She would see trees standing straight and tall in the dark water, with kudzu and Spanish moss wrapped around the trunks and hanging from the branches. Maybe, if she was lucky, she’d see an ibis or a crane. The surface of the water, more graphite-gray than black, would be sprinkled with thousands of little pewter-colored rain dots. But - and there was always a but - that mile before you got to the creek had a reputation for being a speed trap; a well-deserved reputation that she could personally vouch for. And, once you crossed the creek, the country road once again became a city street lined with non-descript, (some down-right ugly,)houses and businesses.

If she turned right, she could ride by her favorite house in town, the little cottage with the stained glass windows hanging on the porch. A picket fence enclosed an overgrown garden filled with late-blooming flowers, birdhouses and quirky yard art. The owner was in the process of painting, so the house was half pink and half green. And had been for years. Though they had never met, she was sure that the woman who lived there - and she just knew it was a woman - had embraced her inner Bohemianess just as she had, and must be quite a wonderful person. The thing was, to get there she’d have to go through that goofy intersection, where she’d have to cross a busy street at an odd angle, zigging to the right, then zagging quickly to the left. You had to be very careful there because, when the light turned green, drivers unfamiliar with the area, thinking there was no opposing traffic, would turn left smack dab in front of you making you call them and their mamas ugly names.

Straight ahead, the road was lined on each side with massive oak trees whose branches met overhead and formed a lacy green tunnel. Traveling through it, she’d pass some of the town’s oldest houses; houses that were built when this area was still considered “way out in the country.” On her left, she’d see the new built-to-look-like-an-old-farmhouse house with the oh, so cool tin roof. A little further up on the right, would be the pretty white house and it’s wrought iron trellis that was all but hidden beneath a big yellow-flowering vine. What would be her most favorite thing to see, though, was the little garden that had been planted on land bequeathed to the town by the Shack Lady. For a long, long time, and to the consternation of her affluent neighbors, an old woman had lived in a broken-down, not very pretty little house on a much desired, very valuable piece of real estate. After her death, it was discovered that she had been quite well off and had owned the land outright. In her will, she deeded the aforementioned real estate to the townspeople, with the stipulation that no houses would ever be built there; that it would become a garden, instead. Now, instead of being ugly and unkempt, it was one of the prettiest places on the pretty tree-lined street. But - here’s that infamous but again - those pretty trees had big ol’ roots that had buckled the pavement in places and years of bad weather had caused pot holes that had never been repaired properly. The bumpy street just plain needed paving. AND, it headed straight into Five Points, the intersection where six, (not five, but six,) of the busiest streets in town came together. The state-of-the-art traffic light did a good job of keeping things sane, but sometimes you had to wait what seemed like forever for your turn to go.

While she was sitting there trying to name all six points that came together up ahead (much like she sometimes tried to name all eight of Santa’s reindeer or Snow White’s seven dwarves,) the light changed from red to green. She slid her foot from the brake to the accelerator, pressed down, and for no better reason than just because, went straight. “Hmm,” she thought. “Wonder what it would be like if life were like this; if every time you chose a particular life path, you already knew what was up ahead, the bad as well as the good.” In her heart, though, she knew that it wouldn’t be a good thing; that fretting over all the bad that could happen would keep you from fully enjoying all the good that was to be had. And besides, she just loved surprises.

I apologize...

2008-11-03T19:24:00.003-05:00

to all of you who left such nice comments on Anna's story. When I posted it, I somehow got something out of order and she wanted me to fix it. The only way I could do it, it seemed, was to delete the whole stinkin' thing and re-post it. Just as I was hitting that blasted Delete box, I realized I would lose all of your lovely comments. I'm so sorry. They mean so much to both of us and I would never so callously delete them on purpose.

2008-11-03T19:14:00.004-05:00

Since I am a notoriously slow blogger and my sweet, baby girl is something of a writer, herself, I asked her if I could share some of her work with you. I’m so glad she agreed.

Impressions of College LifeBy Anna L.

So, this last week I was anticipating a lot of questions about college life. It was this anticipation that prompted me to write down my observations. Without further ado, here is my little dabble into pseudo-editorial writing. I guess.

The rain forests aren’t in danger of disappearing. They are just in the process of migrating to Columbia, SC. Don’t believe me? Let us consider the similarities: The rain forest is a humid place. Columbia definitely has that area covered. I don’t believe there has been a single day with humidity below 89 percent. The rain forest is abuzz with the sounds of birds and insects. Indeed, Columbia, or at least parts of the USC campus, seems to demand the use of earplugs. Yes, animals, I understand that it has recently rained and is unbearably hot, but must you serenade us students as we hike to our different classes? And if you absolutely must, is there any reason that you can’t keep it down to a level slightly below ear-bleeding? Yes, Columbia is what one who has never been outside of the continental US might imagine the rain forest to be like: Hot, muggy, humid, steamy, hot, noisy, wet, hot, unpleasant, hot.

Speaking of animals, the squirrels in Columbia are just a little too comfortable with people to lend one peace of mind. Truthfully, the little buggers are downright terrifying. Should you be unfortunate enough to come across one of the furry fiends, DO. NOT. MAKE. EYE. CONTACT. Especially if they happen to be holding any kind of food – an acorn, a stray French fry, the remains of that freshman that just couldn’t get away in time. There is some sort of genetic quality about these squirrels that is just off, they don’t look like regular squirrels; they are more like the carnival workers of the rodent world. Sure, you know what they are by looking at them, but you still don’t quite know what else they could be. The squirrels are only rivaled in numbers by the cockroaches. All the t-shirts and posters that say “Go Cocks”? Yeah, those are actually shortened versions of “Go away Cockroaches.” If not, they should be. The little critters are everywhere. But if you see one at night, your new friend will kick them. Because he has a new mohawk and that’s the kind of things guys with mohawks do. Maybe.

A world of dining opportunities await you…in theory. Having a meal plan is a pretty nifty thing. You just swipe your card and voila! Your meal is paid for without the hassle of waiting for change, or even signing a receipt (a feat that not even Visa has managed yet). But speedy paying is about where the convenience ends. Should you want lunch, there are a few on-campus options with a decent location. You have an always crowded cafeteria, which those pressed for time usually avoid. Then there are your “fast” food options. Old favorites like Burger King, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, and Chick-fil-a are in a line just waiting for you to choose. Of course, everyone else has to choose too, and as we should all expect, everyone else also just happens to be in a cheese pizza mood. On days when you don’t particularly feel up to the limited selection of the steady familiars, there are some slightly slower options, that are just as frustrating. Pandini’s is a “fast” food Italian restaurant, similar to Fazoli’s. Word of advice: don’t get the pasta. Even if it has just come off the stove, through some natural phenomenon, it will be cold. The pizzas are pretty good, but ridiculously large for a single serving. Then there is the joy of supper, or lunper as I like to call it (because it comes at that odd time between lunch and supper). Yes, lunper is available (at Preston anyway) from 5:15 until 7:45. Which makes sense, because everyone knows that college students are all in bed by ten or eleven, and couldn’t possibly be hungry again by that time. Preston dining is good for certain types of people. You know, the ones that will randomly sit with a stranger, introduce themselves and strike up a conversation, all while you have grains of rice stuck to your lips. If, like me, you prefer to keep socializing and rice eating (I say rice because it is always the first thing in the line of food), Preston dining is a place you go to eat (because you have to) and awkwardly stare at your friends, who are also enjoying some sort of rice dish.

Meeting people is not so much a difficulty as it is an annoyance. Believe me, I never lack for companionship. In fact, I look forward to the times when the only person I have to talk to is myself…not that I…do that. All sorts of people will shove their way into your life, whether it be the indie music obsessed Yankee that thinks you are musically deprived because you, like most everyone else on the planet, haven’t heard of such obscure bands as Smoosh or TV on the Radio. Then there’s the guy of indeterminable age, who dropped out, but still likes to hang around campus and publicly kiss his girlfriend. (“You can’t spell “pretentious” without “Preston.” Actually, Chief? You can.) And don’t worry about no one knowing your name. In some of your smaller classes you will be forced to go around and introduce yourself. Repeatedly. Sometimes using visual aids! Not enough personal contact for you? How about assigned seating in a class of almost 400? That way you will be sure to meet your neighbors over the course of 15 weeks.

Reliable internet service? We don’t need no stinkin’ reliable internet service. Apparently a college campus – the campus of the state’s flagship university, no less – is not able to keep its servers up and running. Have there been some mysterious power outages? Solar flares? Maybe the wires are just melting in the heat. Whatever the problem may be, they really need to get their act together, as the professors - You know, the ones responsible for passing or failing the students - Yeah, they kinda like to give assignments through the internet and e-mail.

You will walk. A lot. This will not be lessened by associating with people who live closer to the state of Georgia than they do to the rest of the campus. These people will, for some reason, want to hang out with you. At their place. Oh, and did I forget to mention the stairs? As South Carolina is not a plains state, and as Columbia is in the Sandhills region, there are a lot of hills. Many of these hills are far too steep to be traversed using sidewalks alone. No, they must have stairs of varying widths and steepnesses (have a new word). Elevators do not help. Why? Because to use one without looking like a jerk, you must either have poor or no usage of your legs, or be a human version of a pack mule. What if you don’t fit either qualification? Then take the stairs you pansy! If you are fortunate enough to be on semi-level ground, you still have to beware of the bricks. Brick walkways are nice to look at, but they lose some of their appeal when they are coming towards your face at the speed of “trip” because you decided to answer that text message while walking. Enjoy your concussion, Grace.

Dorm living is very much like staying in a hotel. The walls are thin, and there always seems to be some idiot running up and down the halls at one in the morning. Not that you are asleep. The fan – which is your only way of controlling the temperature – has most likely done its job overly sufficiently and has thus turned you into an icicle. If the cold hadn’t woken you, the person flushing the toilet two floors above you would have. Which brings me to the plumbing: like all hotels, the shower head in the bathroom is designed for people under five feet and six inches. The water pressure is sufficient, but it won’t be winning any awards. Of course, the fact that the water is always hot makes up for this. Except for the early mornings, when it isn’t.

Washing dishes in a dorm room sink sucks. Yep, it really, really does.

Being a scholar does not improve your sense of direction. At all. In fact, it may make things worse. Imagine, if you will, a person who has had to drive everywhere since they got their license. Naturally, this person may get lost a few times, but as she (or he) would have to drive all of the time, she (or he) would quickly learn where to go. Now place this individual in a setting where she (or he) doesn’t drive but about once a week. This is just asking for the person to never become acquainted with a city that is, in theory (a theory which I don’t buy anymore) laid out on an easy-to-navigate grid. Ha! I say. Ha.

College doesn’t really change you. At least not right away. You will still think and believe the same way. The same things will still annoy you. You won’t go to sleep any earlier. You will still like the same books, movies, shows, and music. Your family will still be the most important thing to you. You will still be a picky eater, and you will still prefer cereal over a hot meal. You will laugh at the same things. You will still be the crazy person that you have become in your life thus far. No, you don’t really change. What does change is the atmosphere. Though you will still think the same way, you may be more open to someone else’s opinion. If something annoys you, you won’t be as quick to roll your eyes. Sleeping habits aren’t something that are really up for debate, but you will appreciate the need for sleep a little more. Your tastes will be the same, but you might be a little more willing to branch out if that means a better conversation with someone in the future. Family ties won’t change – they are too solid, but you may take more of an effort to stay in touch. You may be a picky eater, but you may try to behave like an adult and actually attempt to eat a vegetable every now and then. You will laugh at the same things, but may find yourself laughing more often (sleep deprivation has a tendency to make everything funny.) You won’t magically become sane; you will just realize that there are a lot of nut jobs that are worse off than you are.

Missing Anna

2008-10-23T12:53:00.004-04:00

This is dedicated to my friend Joanne, who has sent her own beautiful daughter out into the world. I‘m sure she‘s feeling a lot like I do right now.

The afternoon sun was shining on her hair through the back door window, making her curls look all shiny and coppery. She stood there with her purse over her shoulder, holding her keys in one hand and the doorknob in the other. As she leaned forward and kissed me on my cheek, she said “ ’Bye. I love you.” “I love you, too,” I told her. “Be careful and call me when you get there.” We had stood in this same spot and spoken these same words so many times before. Only this time, she wasn’t meeting Lauren at Starbucks or going to hang out with Chloe; she wasn’t running the Mama-forgot-a-bunch-of-stuff-at-the-grocery-store errand or picking up supper for the three of us. This time, she was headed back after her first weekend home from college.

I followed her out of the door and stood on the top step as she walked to her car, threw her purse in the passenger seat and got in. The glare on the windshield kept me from seeing clearly, but I knew all of the little things she’d do to get ready for a road trip. She’d start the engine to get the air conditioner going, then decide if she was going to listen to XM radio, her iPod, or the CD player. When the decision was made, she’d push the appropriate buttons or turn the right knobs and queue up her music. She’d put on her sunglasses, buckle her seat belt and adjust her mirrors. If her daddy had been the last one to drive her car, she’d let out a little snort and say something caustic about him “messin’ with her seat and mirrors!” Then she’d shift into reverse and be on her way.

After a minute or two, she was all set. With a little wave and a half-smile, she was backing out of the drive way and heading down the road, the road that was taking her away from me. As I stood watching her car get smaller and smaller, I opened the picture book in my heart and watched my little girl grow up. There she was on the day we brought her home from the hospital, surely the most beautiful baby in the world, lying there on the new quilt her grandmother had made for her. I saw the toddler with the soft, golden curls and a red pacifier in her mouth that proclaimed, “I love Mommy.” And there, smiling back at me was the gangly 10yr old, the one with crooked teeth, 2 long braids that couldn’t quite contain her wildly curly hair, and glasses that were much too big for her face. (What were we thinking?!) I saw her grow from an awkward teenager with braces to a lovely young woman with a beautiful smile.

It had all happened too fast and I needed more time - more time to be a better mother. I wanted to go back and say, “Yes,” every time I had said, “No,” because I was tired or busy. I wanted to take that quilting class with her even though “quilting wasn’t really my thing.” I wanted to read Splishy Splashy Day one more time and I wanted to watch her as she watched The Little Mermaid over and over, again and again. And again. I wanted to play games and bake cookies and draw on the sidewalk and play dress up. I wanted a do-over as much as I had ever wanted anything in my life. Hoping very much that she had heard more of the “yes’s“ and less of the “no‘s,” I turned and walked back into the house.

I stood there, in our spot, and looked around the kitchen. There was Herman, Anna’s big white cat, still sleeping in the ugly green computer chair ( a yard sale find that was going to find its way to the dump very soon.) Our magnet collection was still scattered across the refrigerator and Anna’s funny notes were still written on the chalk board over the pantry. The only sounds were the rickety-click of the ceiling fan and the hum of the appliances. Everything seemed the same as it had 10 minutes earlier. But it wasn‘t. It was different. Very different. It was as if the room knew that, this time, our lives really had changed forever. There was a hint of melancholy in the air - a longing for the good old days when the three of us were here together almost every day. It wasn't the same as the raw, visceral grief that I felt last year when she went away. This was a softer, more mellow sadness.

Imagine passing down your great-grandmother’s ring to your daughter, a treasured family heirloom that you’ve worn on the third finger of your right hand every single day for over thirty years. You know it’s time to let it go and you’re thrilled to carry on the tradition. It makes you happy to see how pretty it looks on her hand and to know that she loves it as much as you do. You’d never dream of taking it back, but you really, really miss the feel of it on your finger; your hand feels empty without it. Well, I’ve given my treasure to the world. I know it’s time to let her go and I’m excited to carry on the tradition set by countless mothers before me. It’s a life I want her to have and I’d never hold her back, but I really, really miss the familiar feel of her being here with me.

If you ask her what it is I miss so much, she’ll probably say that I miss my errand girl and computer geek. And she’ll most likely tell you that I hate not knowing where she is and what she’s doing every minute of every day so that I can make sure she’s safe and happy. She’ll probably know that I miss talking to her about everything - reading, writing, movies, pets, family, friends, God, love, marriage, fashion food, and sometimes, even sex. Everything. She might know that I miss watching Psych with her; that I won’t watch it without her because it’s just not the same unless she‘s here laughing as hard as I am.

Yes, she could tell you all of that and she would be right. But I don’t think she knows how much I miss the little things. Things like looking out of the kitchen window and seeing her car parked in its spot. Or seeing her toothbrush in the glass on the bathroom counter. She might not know that I miss being a happy third-wheel when she and her daddy are discussing music or baseball or NCIS; or hearing them howl with laughter at some stand-up comic that I just don’t get. I don’t think she knows how much I love her in the mornings, a bit grumpy with wild hair and wilder pajamas. I miss hearing her call "Heeeerrmeeee,” her cat, and I miss the way he loves her. I miss those times when we’re not talking, when we’re just quietly together in the house. I even miss the obnoxious ringtone of her cell phone, because when I hear it ring, I know she’s home.

I miss how, without notice, the ordinary becomes extraordinary. Like it does when, in the middle of one of our everyday talks about everyday things, she turns to me and says, “You’re my best friend.” How sometimes she seems to read my mind and say out loud the very thing I’ve been thinking. Or how, in the middle of an ordinary supper out, I look across a candlelit table and am absolutely gob-smacked by what a beautiful young woman she’s become. (How can this be my child?!) But, perhaps the best extraordinary ordinary moment of all comes at the end of the day, when she lightly kisses my cheek and says, “G’night, Mama. I love you.”

I know that it’s time for her to go and develop her grown-up muscles. I know that it’s time for her to learn to handle life’s little speed bumps on her own and that I need to become more of an encourager and less of a do-er. I know that it’s right for parts of her life to be totally separate from mine; that our hips need to be un-joined and that I really don’t need to know “where she is and what she’s doing every minute of every day so I can make sure she’s safe and happy.” In my heart, I know that she will always, always be my sweet baby girl, but it’s time now for my treasured heirloom to sparkle on the hand of the world.

Yep, I know all of this. But I also know that I’m missing Anna.

There have been several weekends home since that first one. And every time she leaves to go back, I still feel that little pinch around my heart.

2008-08-02T14:26:00.004-04:00

Sometimes I Knits and Thinks, and Sometimes I Just Knits

Sometimes, I get lost in the rhythm of the needles and the feel of the yarn as it glides through my fingers. The pattern becomes my mantra as I focus only on what my hands are doing. “Knit one, purl three, knit two, purl four,” I chant out loud. To myself. The world around me becomes softened and blurred like an out-of-focus photograph and the sharp edges of the day become rounded and smooth. It’s only me, the needles and the yarn working together to make something pretty.

Sometimes, though, the gentle click of the needles as they tap against each other becomes a soft drum-beat, keeping rhythm for my thoughts. No longer a mantra, the pattern becomes more like a song playing on a radio that has the volume turned way down low; just a quiet murmur in the background. Once again, the world melts away. Only now, my fingers move as if they don’t need me telling them what to do; it’s the needles, the yarn and my hands that are creating, and my mind is free to wander down whatever path it chooses. I think about what I’m going to cook for supper, how much cuter the dog looks with her new haircut, why won’t my sister clean up her house?! I write, solve problems and plan our lives while I’m sitting there, looking for all the world like I’m just knitting.

It was this thinkin’ kind of knittin’ that I did a few Saturdays back. There was nothing going on that needed my attention. The animals had been fed and watered and let out and back in. And out and in again. The house was clean and tidy. Anna was out of town and JD3 was on the couch watching something on TV. Well, he looked like he was watching TV, except his eyes were closed and coming from somewhere around his head was a noise that sounded a lot like a lawn mower about to run out of gas. I headed off to my room to knit, thankful for the me time

The sun shining through the window cast a pale, golden light on the bed. The only noise in the room was the sound of my way-cool, retro-style fan; it was turned on low and positioned so that just a whisper of a breeze would blow onto my face. I climbed up on my high, black iron bed, folded my legs under me and leaned back on pillow cases softened by many trips through the spin cycle. For one precious minute, I just sat there and snuggled in the quiet and peacefulness that wrapped around me. Even the ugly pink walls didn’t seem quite so ugly. I leaned over to my bedside table and picked up my latest knitting project, a gift for a dear friend. As I ran my hands over Friday night’s stitches, I thought again about how much I liked this red yarn. I began the next row with “Knit three“ And I started to think.

I thought about how my newest writing adventure is coming together almost by itself; how the characters are so real and warm and funny, and how they seem to want me to tell their story! This is different from my usual writing and bigger than anything I’ve ever done before. Even though I know it’s not going to land me on any best-seller list, I’m pretty darned excited about it.

I’ve been writing for a long time. In high school and college I wrote essays, research papers and short stories. When I was an angst-ridden twenty-something, I had stacks and stacks of journals (actually spiral-bound composition books) that bared my soul to, well, no one, because I wouldn’t let anybody read them! But my soul was bared, none-the-less. As a Nursing Supervisor, I wrote policies and procedures. As a young mother, I had great fun making up super silly stories that were sure to have Anna burbbling with laughter, making the glorious sound that only little girls can make and that makes a mama’s heart melt like butter sittin’ on a warm stove.

All along, hidden away on a dusty shelf in the back of my mind, was the idea that maybe, someday, I could write something that the whole world might like to read. Over the years, encouraged by my one and only fan and critic (aka Anna) I would take that idea down and play with it for a little while. But Fear and Insecurity, old pals of mine, would snatch it out of my hands and put it right back on that shelf. “What if you fail?” they would say. “Nobody in your family even knows you want to do something like this. What if they laugh at you?” Convinced that they knew best, I would leave it where they put it and head off in pursuit of some other creative outlet.

“So why do you think you can do it now?” you ask. “Why do you think you can take that idea down, dust it off and make it into something shiny and pretty? What brought you from the town of No-Way-In-Hell to the quaint little village of I-Think-I-Can?” Well, the short answer is knitting, satellite TV and the internet. But you know me. I’m going to give you the long answer, too!

When I was a little girl, we lived in a neighborhood where all of the mothers stayed home and practiced the philosophy of “it takes a village to raise a child.” Because all of the children played together, the mothers being played together, too. (Except for that bleached-blonde hussy that lived down the street!) When they weren’t cleaning house, fixin’ supper or passin’ out Kool-Aid to yet another thirsty child, who may or may not have been their own, they crafted together. And for a time, their favorite craft was knitting those cute little bedroom slippers; the ones with the fuzzy, bobbly pom-poms on top. They all used the same pattern and most of them used the same yarn; but each lady had her own way with the pom-poms or the length of the toe or the top edge that set hers apart from the others .

We didn’t care how cute or creatively unique they were. We just knew they made great skates for sliding across hardwood floors. And we wanted to make our own! I don’t know why she did it. It might have been a rainy afternoon and she had to either give us something to do or kill us; or it might have been that she just had some extra time that day. Whatever the reason (I tend to favor the rainy day theory,) Mama taught us all how to knit. Even the boys. Now, truth be told, none of us ever made a pair of slippers; in fact, most of the kids never even got past casting on, which is how you get the very first stitches on the needle. But I had learned a new craft. For most of my adult years, it was a sometime pastime. About 5 years ago, the needles and I took our relationship to the next level, as they say, and began a passionate love affair.

During those early days of Kool-Aid drinking and hardwood floor skating, my sisters and I almost never watched TV. Oh, we watched Captain Kangaroo in the mornings and on very special occasions, we were allowed to stay up past our 8:00PM bedtime and watch Family Affair. But it wasn’t a big part of our lives. Then, when I was 10, we moved from Small Town, USA to Teeny Bit Bigger Town, USA and got cablevision! Suddenly, we had a lot of TV that we could watch. AND we could stay up later and were allowed to watch more shows! We could watch The Brady Bunch every time it came on, not just on special occasions! And it got better and better. We got HBO and later, MTV! For twenty-plus years, I had the TV world at my fingertips.

Then I got married and moved to the country. Where we had no cable! Where we had no antenna! Where we had almost no programming for our viewing pleasure! With the help of our VCR, we persevered about 3 long years before we decided enough is enough, and got a satellite dish. Oh, it was wonderful! Suddenly, we had choices again! It was like going to country buffet after being on a low-cal, low-fat, no-taste diet and being told you could eat all of the biscuits and gravy you could hold.

It was then that I discovered craft and decorating shows. My new anthem became, “I Can Do That!” and Carol Duval became my hero. She even had shows that featured, (gasping with delight,) knitting! When I wasn’t going to be home, I’d set the VCR and, later, the DVR (when cable finally came to the backwoods) to record m’shows so I wouldn’t miss a single idea-spawning episode. Life was good! We had each other, we had our health, we had a roof over our heads and food to eat, and we had HGTV! What more did we need?!

As it turned out, we needed a computer. Somehow, in spite of my best efforts to keep it from happening, Anna had grown up and started to school. They were teaching computer skills in class and sometimes assigned homework that required the use of one. After a day at work, I was usually tired and irritable and did not enjoy schlepping back to town in search of an available CPU and it’s buddies so that she could do that homework. We did, however, want our little soon-to-be computer geek to do well. So, when our income tax refund came, we paid a visit to the Gateway store.

From the minute it came in the back door, I hated it. It was ugly and took up way, way too much space in my kitchen. I hated the amount of time JD3 spent parked in front of it. I hated that I couldn’t figure the darn thing out after sitting there for 5 whole minutes. I. Just. Hated it. And it knew I hated it. So it hated me back. It would snarl at me. Really, it would; it never made those noises at JD3. Or it would just sit there and not do a blessed thing while I frantically pushed keys trying to get it to respond. We had declared war on each other! I finally decided that if I couldn’t get this hateful piece of technology to work for me, I’d just stick with my trusty TV!

The thing was, repeatedly during my favorite shows, I would hear the host say, “For more information, check out our website.” Over and over again, I heard it. And sometimes, I needed that “more information.” I needed to know where I could get the double-sided tape that would stick Jello to the wall. I needed a step-by-step pattern for knitting a car. I NEEDED THAT INFORMATION! I had to have access.

So I negotiated a truce with the computer. With the help of husband and daughter, I learned how to connect to the internet. I learned to Yahoo and google. And I learned how to find all the information I needed by “checking their websites.” One day while I was checking the HGTV site, I discovered they had forums! And a whole special little forum dedicated to knitting and crocheting. I could go there and talk with other knitters. I could ask questions and get answers right away. Or I could answer someone else’s questions. It became part of my routine to “check the board” every day.

One day, when I found that nothing new was happening on the knitting board , I decided to check out the decorating board. I was instantly hooked. It was all about feathering your nest; they discussed which paint was best and what color was hot and how to make curtains that wouldn’t cost you a kidney. They even had pictures! Pictures of the most beautiful homes, from big mansions to tiny cottages. It was a very active board with oodles of new posts and pictures every day. I added this forum to my Favorites list and when I checked the knitting board every day, I checked here too.

One day, I clicked on a link that took me to a place that would change my life. Now, I know that it sounds a bit melodramatic and more than just a bit weird to say that an internet decorating forum 'changed my life.' But it did.
It was so much more than decorating. As I said here, I met some amazing people and made some really good friends with whom I have laughed and cried and worried and rejoiced; friends that I love and that I hope will always be a part of my life.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you say. “You found this wonderful place with these amazing women and you’ve grown to really love some of them and you hope they love you back and yadda, yadda, yadda. What does that have to do with what you’re talking about now?!” Well, I’ll tell you. It was here, in this wonderful place, that I discovered blogs, those wonderful little mini- web sites where ordinary people like me could write about almost anything and publish it for the whole world, (or at least a teeny tiny little part of it,) to read. How had I missed this?!

I also discovered that two of those amazing women - you know, the ones that I’ve really grown to love and who I hope love me back - were bloggers.
They were writing about their daily lives and the things that were important to them and, by doing so, were sharing themselves with me. It was wonderful. And I wanted to do it, too. I was taking that idea off of the shelf and I was going to write.

Inspired by my friends, I went to the hosting site, set up my blog and wrote my first entry. Because I admired these women so much, they were the first ones (except JD3 and Anna) that I invited to read it. More than a wee bit nervous, I waited on their responses. When they came, warm and encouraging, it was like Santa had finally brought me that pony that I’d always wanted. Thinking that if they liked it, others would, too, I made it public.

And here I am, ready to take that big step and write about something other than myself. Because of the encouragement I’ve gotten from one of those dear friends and my own sweet daughter, I actually think I can do it. Fear and Insecurity are going to have to find somebody else to bother.

Did I get to this place in my life as a result of a random series of every day events? Or were those everyday events part of a plan to get me to this exact point in my life? I don‘t have an answer for that one. I guess what really matters is that, after all of these years, I’m here. It’s like Douglas Adams said, “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

My Year in Review (a little late!)

2008-04-03T08:14:00.003-04:00

Life is often described as a road, a highway. Usually, when I hear this analogy, I get a real Ansel Adams-esque picture in my head; one of a long, straight highway slicing through the desert, disappearing into a beautiful sunset. And I just know the sunset is wonderfully, wildly colorful, even with the whole Ansel Adams, black-and-white thing going on. I also know that, even though I can't see them yet, nice little towns full of friendly people are right over the horizon. And me? I’m cruising along in my convertible, honey at my side, the warm wind blowing my hair. And I know that I'll be met in those nice little towns by warm smiles and big bear hugs and “Gosh, it‘s good to see y‘all.”

Imagine my surprise when, instead of a nice, straight, smoothly paved interstate with a clear view of what‘s ahead, my trip through 2007 and early 2008, turned out to be more like a ride down the part of Highway 64 that stretches between Hendersonville and Murphy, NC. For those of you who don’t know, this little bit of highway, (and I use the term highway very loosely,) also runs right through Highlands, NC, whose official elevation is 4118 ft. above sea level. So when you travel this road, you’re riding way up there in the clouds on a road which, on a map, looks a lot like the loopy handwriting of a teenage girl - all swirls and swoops and curlicues.

A couple of years ago, I had the opportunity to attend a folk school in the beautiful North Carolina mountains and Highway 64 was going to take me there. I was confident I could make the drive there and back with very little difficulty. I was oh, so wrong. In fact, it was one of the most frightening experiences of my life. The scenery, when I could look, was spectacularly, awesomely beautiful. I don’t know how I know this because the only time I was actually able to take my eyes off the road was when I pulled over (at every available opportunity) to let the locals whiz by me at dangerously high rates of speed. Ok, the state of NC felt that 20 miles per hour was not dangerously fast, and had posted this as the speed limit. I, however, felt like 7mph was plenty fast enough for a narrow mountain road with more twists and turns than the plot of a bad soap opera. As I drove, I gripped the steering wheel so hard, I lost feeling in my hands and my forearms.

After days of driving (or so it seemed) I finally reached the school. I climbed out of the car and stood on shaky legs. It was all I could do to not drop down on my knees and kiss that blessedly flat, smooth parking lot. I was scared to speak to anyone for fear I would throw myself into their arms and sob with relief that I hadn‘t plunged off the mountain to my death, leaving my sweet baby girl without a mama.

After a bit of deep breathing, I was able to pull myself together, check in, and make my way to the first lesson in making toothbrush rugs. I was still anxious, but determined to make the best of it. And it was a wonderful weekend! I made new friends (who helped me find another way home!) learned a new craft and fell in love with the John C, Campbell Folk School. However, as I stood quivering by my car on that first cold, gray afternoon, I had no hope in hell that it would turn out that way. I was tired, scared and completely overwhelmed by the thought of facing that drive back home.

And that is how the year 2007 left me feeling - tired, scared and overwhelmed. It started out like most of the years before it. After a merry Christmas spent with those near and dear to us, we celebrated our anniversary and quietly rang in the New Year, as we usually do. I knew that, with daughter dear graduating from high school, there would be some happy-sad, emotion-charged times ahead; but I also knew that, with love and support from my family and friends, I would get through them without crying and screaming and gnashing of teeth (or at least, very little of that.) What I didn’t know was that those emotional times would conspire with family crises, as well as health and job issues to make it a very difficult year.

Early in the year, both of JD3’s (my dear husband) parents became ill and had to be hospitalized. His mother was quickly diagnosed, treated and sent home in the care of her family. PaPa, however, was just too weak and frail to fight for his life. His death should have brought the family closer together to comfort each other and mourn his loss. Instead, it completely unraveled it. Years of anger and resentment between two sisters erupted into all out war and the rest of us got caught in the cross-fire. The one who was really hurt was my mother-in-law; she was all but forced to choose between her two daughters. The sad thing is, if you were for one, you were against the other. In their minds, there was no middle ground. Although it‘s quiet on the front now, I suspect the war is far from over.

My daughter - my sweet baby girl, the source of immeasurable joy and recipient of more love than I ever thought I could feel for another human being- has added her part to the chaos that surrounded us this year. Some of it was good; some of it - not so much! She celebrated her 18th birthday and graduated from high school. As she walked to the podium to give her valedictory speech, I was so full of pride that it bubbled up in my chest and ran in streams down my face. More than a few of those tears, though, were from sadness. Gone forever was the little girl who, with a pacifier in her mouth and one in each hand, long wild curls swirling around her head, could stand in front of the TV for hours watching The Little Mermaid. In her place was a poised, articulate young woman. One who would soon be leaving me to make her own way in the world.

In late summer, in possession of everything we thought a hip and happenin’ freshman should have, she went away to college. And, after one very long, excruciatingly painful week, she came home from college. She was homesick, most definitely NOT into having a roommate and disillusioned with the course of study she had chosen. Thinking that our local university would better suit her needs, she came home, got a job and prepared to start classes in the spring semester.

Registration day arrived, cold and wrapped in a thick, fleecy fog. Like most mothers, I was a little anxious about the weather, but I kissed her goodbye, told her to be careful and sent her on her way. About thirty minutes later , she called and told me that she had been in a wreck, but she thought she was ok. I threw on some clothes and rushed out of the door. She had sounded a little shaky on the phone, so I expected to find her quivering and scared and needing a hug from her mama. I was NOT prepared for the sight that smacked me in the face when I drove up - an ambulance parked on the side of the road and her car, crumpled and bent, with the driver’s side door smashed into the seat where she had been sitting. There was a small group of people standing by the car, a group which did not include my child! My blood stopped flowing. “Oh, Dear God!” I thought. Those kind strangers must have seen the terror on my face because, before I could even get out of my car, they were at my side telling me she was in the ambulance and that she seemed ok.

And she was ok. She had a few little cuts and some mighty strange bruises, as well as a broken clavicle and a tiny little fracture in her pelvis. But she was alive. I know that God’s hand was on her that day. I know it, she knows it, and a lot of other people know it, too. Everyone, from the paramedics to the owner of the tow truck, said that it was a miracle she had even lived through an impact like that. They told us that, on first seeing her car, they had been sure the driver had died. One of the paramedics, as he was leaving the ER, started to say “Have a nice day.” Instead, he stopped mid-sentence, looked her straight in the eye and said, “You don’t know it, but you just had a good day.”

I try not to think about it, but sometimes the thought of how she must have felt right before that truck slammed into her sneaks into my head and takes my breath away. Then I hear her voice on the phone saying, “Mama, I think I’ve been in a wreck,” and fear of what could have been makes me want to run to her, grab her and hold her tight, just to feel her being alive. Part of me would like to keep her home forever so she would always be safe. The rest of me, though, wants her to live life to it‘s fullest. So I let her go, and I worry.

While everything else was happening, my dear mother was happily pursuing her hobby of having surgery and visiting doctors‘ offices. I say “happily" because she revels in it. She even has a dresser drawer in which she keeps her “good, in-case-I-have-to-go-to-the-hospital" nightgowns! The idle rich plan their lives around social engagements. Mama plans hers around doctors’ appointments. In the past year, she has had both knees replaced and her left foot “worked on.” Again. This makes the 4th time. Even now, with the bandages still on that foot, she is looking at a toe on her right foot thinking it needs to be surgically straightened! She’s had her “esophagus stretched,” a colonoscopy, an echocardiogram, and quarts of blood drawn. What the doctors have found out, much to her surprise, is that she’s a very healthy woman.

Now, you may wonder why does this bother me so much? I mean, if she’s healthy and it’s not hurting her, what’s it to me? Why does it make me want to spank her and ground her for life? Because she wants it to consume MY life, too. Her husband, who on a good day ain’t knittin’ with both needles, has mistakenly placed her on the wrong pedestal, complete with a plaque below that reads “Fragile Southern Belle.” Nothing could be farther from the truth. But that‘s how he sees her and, cheered on by dear old step-dad, she has come to expect her three daughters to keep her there. She expects us, who knew her way before she assumed the role of she-who-must-be-pampered, to play the roles of those-who-will-cater-to-my-every-need. Because she is Mama and we do love her, we try to keep the ruse going. But sometimes, I just don’t have it in me. Sometimes I’m sick, or tired, or worried. Sometimes, it needs to be all about me. Or my sister. Or my daughter. Or somebody else.

In order to keep my nursing license active and to bring in a little extra money (gotta make those ends meet,) I’ve had to keep working, at least a few days a month. This past year, however, dissatisfaction with my career, has reached an all-time high. Simply put, I hate it. (No use in beating that dead horse by delving too deeply into the reasons.) I've spent many sleepless nights wracking my brain to come up with an alternate career; one that I would actually like and would still bring in that little extra cash. It must have been sleep deprivation that made me think I would like to clean houses. Convinced that this was the job for me, I started cleaning for a living. Soon thereafter, I stopped cleaning for a living. Again, simply put, I hated it.

What I found out though, was that I like cleaning my house. I like dusting and mopping and vacuuming and even scrubbing the toilet. I like getting up before dawn and making coffee and packing a lunch for my husband. I like washing his clothes and folding them. (I still hate ironing!) I like making sure daughter dear is up and out of the house on time. I like being here in the afternoons when they come home. I like fixing him a cool drink after a long hot day at work. I even like cooking supper. (Those of you who know me can stop laughing at any time. I really do!) As archaic and hopelessly un-liberated as it sounds, I like being a housewife. At last, I’ve found my perfect career.

Most of the time, I think JD3 is whistling the same tune as I am; that he likes me being home and doing all those June Cleaver-type things. But there are some days, days when I’m feeling a little blue, that I feel like maybe he just took the path of least resistance; that having less money is easier than listening to me bitch and moan all the time. So, on those days when I’m feeling insecure, I ask him. Just to make sure. And he says all the right words and does all the right things to convince me that, of course, this is how he wants our lives to be; has always wanted it to be. Still, there are times when I feel like he’s not saying everything; like he’s holding back on me and not telling me what he’s really thinking. This, in part, is why I ping-pong back and forth between feeling like a wonderful, loving wife and mother, to feeling like a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker.

Also responsible for the ping-pong effect, is the fact that my body has turned on me. Those little gremlins that live in a woman’s body and make her, well, a woman, have launched full-scale menopause. My periods are so irregular that when I’m finally convinced that I won't have any more (the only true blessing of menopause,) I spring a leak and bleed for a month. I have night sweats and hot flashes - hot flashes that make you feel like your blood has turned to lava and your face is on fire. I’ve spent a lot of time this winter sitting in front of an open back door - I grew to love 20* weather!

But the worst part of it is having your body possessed by the spirit of a mad woman. One minute you’re irritable and mean, blaming every thing bad on the person closest to you; everything from global warming to the fact that your pants don’t fit anymore. Then, without warning, you feel like crying because the family of little juice glasses that you love so much had to be separated and put on opposite sides of the dishwasher. The tiny little part of your brain that is still rational knows that glasses don’t have feelings, but it just can’t convince the rest of your brain. So you unload and re-load the dishwasher until you can get them all on the same side. You walk into a room and forget what you're doing there. You can't complete sentences. At least this is how it's been for me.

In September of 1989, Hurricane Hugo made landfall near Charleston. When he was through destroying lives and property there, he marched relentlessly inland, reaching my little corner of the world in the wee hours of the morning. While our little baby lay sleeping, JD3 and I spent the night listening to the wind howl and the trees snap. Our little house shook with the force of it. We lost power quickly and were plunged into blackness. In spite of the darkness, we paced back and forth between the safety of the hallway and the window in the back door, hoping to see what was happening outside. I had never been more scared in my entire thirty-one years of life. After what seemed like days instead of hours, the winds died down and the sun came up. We had lived through it! Our yard, however, was a mess! There were limbs and small trees everywhere; one big pine tree lay across our driveway. Roof shingles littered the grass. But we were alive and unhurt and still had a roof over our head.

Just as we did after the hurricane, we’ve had to clear away the debris left by the events of 2007. Anna’s broken bones have healed and she’s in school, making plans for the future. JD3’s mother, completely blind now from Macular Degeneration, has shown a strength we never knew she had and is doing well. I, with the love and support of family and friends (and a trip to the doctor!) am making my way back to me; the me that writes and knits and decorates and loves her family and friends. The me that I like. The mad woman has been banished, hopefully for life.

Like South Carolina after Hurricane Hugo, the landscape of our lives will forever bear evidence of the storm that passed through in 2007. There will be new growth and new experiences, but we’ll view them from a heart that remembers how things used to be. And we’ll know that we weathered the storm, and have become stronger for having done so.

All Boxed In

2007-11-26T13:35:00.000-05:00

She walked toward the door facing her at the end of the long hall. The house was quiet except for the squeak of her left tennis shoe on the dark hardwood floor She paused at the arrangement of family photographs hanging on a wall that was precisely the same color as the organic butter she bought every week. She adjusted two of the frames and, satisfied that they were once again positioned the way she wanted them, continued down the hall, humming her favorite song.

Standing in front of the door, she reached out with her right hand, turned the knob and pulled it open. She flipped the switch on the wall just to the left of the door and a pale, golden light illuminated the closet . There, on five shallow, evenly-spaced shelves climbing the back wall, sat the boxes filled with her things, all of the stuff she needed to keep her life in order. She smiled as she took it all in. She loved that shelf paper; had chosen it because it was covered with tiny little flowers that matched exactly the wall color in the hall and coordinated nicely with the soft, muted red fabric covering the boxes. (Even people who had known her for a long time were surprised that red was one of her favorite colors.)

The arrangement of boxes reminded her of a regiment of soldiers, immaculate in in dress uniform, standing at attention before its commanding officer. There were two boxes per shelf, each placed exactly the same distance from the front edge. Their sides were parallel, the amount of space between a box and its neighbor the same as that between the box and the side wall of the closet. Centered on the front of each box was a creamy white label printed with bold, block letters proclaiming it’s contents and warning anything different to keep out.

Boxes marked “BLUE,” “RED,” “YELLOW,“ “GREEN,” “BLACK,” and “WHITE” were placed on the shelves at her eye-, shoulder- and waist-level. It was here, within easy reach, that she stored familiar items that could be relied on to function the same way every time she needed them. These were the things she used to keep her life running smoothly; to make sure there was a place for everything and that everything stayed in its place.

Two “BROWN” boxes occupied the bottom shelf. These boxes were, in fact, filled with things from her husband‘s past. Early in their marriage, he had shown it all to her. The things that she could use, she had put in the easiest to reach boxes and everything else had been packed away on this less visible shelf. Occasionally, he would want to take the things back out and tell her more about them, and she listen patiently because she loved him very much. But she didn’t like the way it made her feel and was glad that he didn’t want to do it often. (It made him as uncomfortable as it made her. )

On the upper shelf, accessible to her only if she stood on the wooden stool that her husband had built for her, were boxes that were rarely opened. The one marked “WILD COLORS” held gifts that had been given to her over the years, gifts that made her feel unsettled and Insecure. She didn’t know what to do with them or how to use them. She felt, though, that they were important to her and that she shouldn’t throw them away. Sitting beside this box , was one marked “PLAID.” In it were the things from her past that didn’t belong in the life she had now. They, too, were important because they had contributed to the person she had become. The things in these two boxes were messy and hard to control so she kept them where she wouldn’t be tempted to take them down and expose herself to all of that chaos.

Lately, her things had become unhappy being confined to the boxes in which she had placed them. They wanted her to know that there was more to them than red or blue. They wanted to show her that even plain old black and white had wild color talents and that they could do wonderful things if she allowed them to work and play with each other. But, each time they tried to show her something special they had created, she would lift the corners of her mouth in what might have been a smile, murmur “That’s nice” without meaning it and put them right back where she thought they should be. There was no light in her eyes, no joy or celebration, no appreciation of what they could do.

Now, unaware of the hurt and disappointment that lingered there, she reached into her neatly organized closet, took the “BLUE” box from its shelf, removed the cover and checked the contents. When she was sure that everything there was trying to do no more than be blue, she replaced the lid, turned on her squeaky shoe and started back down the hall to get on with her day; a day which would, for the most part, go exactly as she had planned it. Her things would make sure of it. Just as they always did.

I’ve stayed in this box since she put me here all those years ago. Small attempts to step out of it have been met with indifference and coolness.Since I stayed willingly, I guess it’s unfair of me to be angry with her for not wanting to see all the colors of my soul. But I am.

Thanksgiving

2007-11-22T08:55:00.000-05:00

On this warm Thanksgiving morning, I am sitting here attempting to string together pretty words and phrases into sentences and paragraphs that will tell the world how truly grateful I am for all that I have been blessed with. It’s that time of day that I like most - the sun is just barely up and it’s almost quiet in here ( HoneyPie is up earlier than usual and has turned on music.) My little family, including the pets that we love so much, is with me. My heart is full of love and gratitude.

As I think about my life and what is important to me, I find that the things I am most thankful for are not really things at all. Oh, I could list forever objects that I am happy to have in my life. I mean, indoor plumbing is wonderful . And sliced bread. And coffee makers. And my Goodness, computers!!! All good things that I am oh, so glad are a part of my world. But it's not stuff that makes me feel blessed way beyond what I deserve. What makes my life as rich and wonderful as it is, is living daily with my God, my home and my family.

As a child, I was taught religion and doctrine, but not much about the character of God. As the years went by, I thought about Him from time to time, but never really made Him a daily part of my life. In the last year or two, though, I started feeling like my life was a little off-kilter somehow. It was a good life, it was just missing something, a connection to something greater than me. I began to actively seek God and there He was with open arms. It was like coming home! I could almost hear Him saying, “What took you so long to get here? I’ve been waiting.” Now I am glad to have Him with me everyday. I try be the person He wants me to be but I mess it up really bad sometimes. Even then, I know He still loves me and just wants me to do my best. At last, I understand what people mean when they say they love God. I find myself ending my prayers sometimes with “I love you, God. Amen.” Kind of like I’m telling a family member, “Goodbye, I love you.”

When I tell you I am thankful for my home, your first thought is probably that “She said things weren’t important. But she’s thankful for her house. That’s a thing.” Well, I am thankful for my little house; it keeps out the rain and cold. But that’s not what I mean by home. It’s not a building at all. It’s a feeling of love and acceptance and “a safe place to land” as one of my friends puts it. It’s a circle of three, holding each other up when we’re tired and discouraged and holding each other’s hands to dance in happiness.

And then there’s my family. More than a litte eccentric, they are like characters in a TV sit-com. The three sisters, a bohemian, a spit-fire and an enigma, gave birth to five beautiful children: a drama queen, a scholar, a teddy bear disguised as a tough guy, a cloud collector and a little one whose still trying to find his place in the group. They all speak fluent sarcasm and use it to tame know-it-alls as well as to say “I love you” without being seen as too much of a softy. If one of us hurts, we all hurt. If one of us does well, we all celebrate. Children are shared. We can be ready to strangle, bite and kick one minute and huggin’ and kissin’ the next. If my "circle of three" is home, then this quirky group is where I go on vacation!

I once heard a motivational speaker, when giving advice for life, say “Try to have one exquisite moment every day.” In a little while, we will travel the short distance to Mama’s house where we will have the traditional Thanksgiving meal. There, gathered in one room, will be all of the most important people in my life. My step-father, who is given to making grand proclamations before a meal, will do so and then he will lift his arms towards Heaven and thank God for all that we are blessed with. If, as he sometimes does, he asks each of us to share our thoughts on this occasion, this is what I will say to my family. I will tell them that they are the ones responsible for most of the exquisite moments in my life; that I love them so much that it sometimes feels like my heart will swell right out of my chest. And in the middle of that exqusite moment, I will tell them that, as we pray, I will be thanking my wonderful God for each of them. Just like I do everyday.

In Real Life

2007-10-24T15:57:00.000-04:00

I’d like to tell y’all a story about a remarkable group of women. They came together In the beginning because they all liked feathering their nests. And they liked helping others feather their nests. And, when all the nests were prettily feathered, they liked getting together and “oohing and ahhing” over all of the said featherings.

Now, if you saw them all together, you would be right in thinking that they were quite an odd assortment of folks. Among them were young mothers caring for their first babies as well as grandmothers who knew all there was to know about raising children. Some commuted to work, while others stayed home (and worked!) There were single women and newlyweds and those who knew the agony of a painful divorce. There were those who had been married to the loves of their lives for many, many years and those who had found that, for them at least, love really was sweeter the second time around. Some had lots of money while others struggled to make ends meet. They were tall, they were short. They were blonde, they were brunette. Thin, not-so-thin. They were as different as they could be. Yet, as different as they were, they became fast friends.

Oh, the fun they had! All of the “aunties” rejoiced when a new baby was born into the group. When children cut their first teeth or went to first grade or graduated from high school or college, everyone shared in the bittersweet excitement of the event and were amazed anew at “how fast they grow.” When there was a wedding, they all became Maids and Matrons-of-Honor. Everything was a cause to celebrate, from new jobs to new cars. Mostly, though, they celebrated each other.

Just about every night, you could find these smart, funny women gathered together at their meeting place; some with a cup of tea or coffee, others with a beer or a glass of wine. They just enjoyed being together. Some loved it so much, they brought along their family members who were welcomed warmly and made a part of the group. They shared recipes and weekend plans. They debated who was sexier, McDreamy or McSteamy and who should be the next Design Star. The only rule for conversation was “if you can’t say something nice, stay out of the discussion;” snarkiness would not be tolerated. Ladies, all of them, they were also given to great belly laughs and slapstick silliness, which was obvious to anyone who had been at the party where being properly dressed meant you had a pair of panties on your head.

What knit the fabric of their friendship together so tightly, however, was something more profound than fun and laughter. Ulysses S. Grant said, “The friend in my adversity I shall always cherish most. I can better trust those who helped to relieve the gloom of my dark hours than those who are so ready to enjoy with me the sunshine of my prosperity.” Had these women been his friends, he would have treasured them above all others. When one of their own was in the midst of dark hours, they gathered around and became a great well of caring and compassion. When a son or a daughter went to war, not only did the friends offer up prayers, good thoughts and a shoulder for Mama to cry on, they sent letters of encouragement and packages of goodies to the soldiers. When illness or death overtook family or friends, they became the wall of strength on which the worried and the grief-stricken could lean. When life became too much to handle for whatever reason, they became shelter from the storm, offering words of encouragement and sometimes, if needed, gentle admonition. Their arms were quick to hold and their ears were willing to listen.

You may be thinking that this is certainly not exceptional behavior for very close friends; indeed, it happens all the time. But what you don’t know, what made this group of friends extraordinary, is that, with a few exceptions, most of them had never been within 100 miles of each other. Their homes dotted the map on both coasts and all points in between, from the cold north to the deep south. Most of them, in fact, had never heard the others’ voices nor seen the others’ faces. They had come together on an internet message board to share decorating wisdom and had ended up sharing their lives.

I am one of the lucky ones who have actually met a few of these precious cyber friends. Each time, as I was preparing for a trip to meet one or two of them, my family spared no words in letting me know what a hare-brained, dangerous adventure I was about to undertake. Shaking their heads, they said things like, “You don’t know anything about them. They could be ax murderesses or perverts!” Or, “Are you sure you want to do this? Bad, evil things could happen to you!” I knew, that under other circumstances, their concerns would be justified. I just couldn’t make them understand that this situation was different; that these women were not internet predators setting me up for some horrible crime. “How do you know?’ they asked. “I just know,” I said. It was difficult for me to explain how, in fact, they are as real to me as anybody I know in real life. You see, I’ve been on the receiving end of their love and support and encouragement. I’ve laughed and joked and had fun with them. I look forward to talking to them every day. My only regret is that I met them too late to be a part of the “panty party.”

Follow Your Bliss

2007-10-17T20:35:00.000-04:00

I am not the person I pretend to be. This bit of information is going to come as a big surprise to some people who think they know me; even a few who think they know me really well. It’s something that my husband and daughter have only recently discovered and I think even they were more than a little surprised at first. You see, after all these years, I am admitting that I am not a nurse. Never have been, really. And I’m tired of playing that role and I’m oh, so ready to step away from it.

Oh, I went to nursing school, got a degree and took the big test to prove I knew what I was supposed to know. When I answered enough of their questions accurately, the State Board of Nursing for SC saw fit to issue me a license. They didn’t know I wasn’t a nurse, either. So, for twenty-three long years I have pretended to be one of those noble women who care for the sick and the dying. And they are noble, these women who choose this career for the right reasons. I have nothing but respect and admiration for them.

My reasons for choosing nursing as a career, however, were far less than noble. I wasn’t one of those little girls who dreamed of wearing the starched white uniform and the little pointy cap when I grew up. I never had the lofty notion that I wanted to help people in that way. I had never had role models who were nurses. Heck, I don’t think I even knew any nurses. I’ve always wanted to make a difference in the world, but not necessarily in the field of healthcare. No, I chose nursing for a very pragmatic reason.

I had been at a liberal arts college for 3 years. After taking a year off between high school graduation and the start of higher education. Because I had done so much babysitting, everyone thought early childhood education would be the "just the thing" for me and that I would be “simply wonderful” at it. So I took a few classes and, while I enjoyed them, decided that, no, it wasn’t "just the thing" for me. I then briefly thought about History and English majors. For about a week, I entertained the notion of being a sociology major. Well, more like a few days. Certainly not long enough to take any classes in that field. So you see, I had really no idea of what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I was certainly enjoying college, though. I renewed a friendship with a girl from high school and we became best friends. I had recently lost seventy pounds and was enjoying the attention of the opposite sex for the first time in my life. I spent more time in the student center playing Spades and Ping Pong than I did in class. Thank goodness there were more than a few apathetic professors who didn‘t care if you went to class or not. I had friends who would tell me what the day tests were given and I went to just enough classes to get the needed notes. Miraculously, I managed to keep a decent GPR and not get thrown out. I was having a blast!

But I wasn’t even close to graduating and Daddy was running out of patience with his darlin‘ oldest daughter. It became clear that it was time to either fish or cut bait. BestFriend was in the same situation as I was. Her mother was an office manager for a physician and BestFriend did some filing for them a couple of days a week. While there, she talked to some of the nurses who told her that nursing jobs were abundant and the pay was good. “We can always go to nursing school,” she said to me one day. “Why not?” I answered. And that’s how we decided to become nurses.

Almost from the beginning, I knew that I had made a really bad decision. I never looked forward to going to work. That's a bad way to feel about something you will probably have to do for a long time. I was afraid every day that something awful would happen, something that I couldn’t handle and then everybody would know that I was an imposter. I called in sick often. I came up with lame excuses about why I couldn't be there. “I’m sorry I can’t work tonight, but my cat is having emotional problems and I really can’t leave her alone.”

In spite of the fact that my attendance was less than perfect, my job performance was great. I managed to keep jobs. As I grew older and life happened, my attitude changed and I went to work whether I wanted to or not. Not only did I need to make sure I kept a job for financial reasons, I began to see that it was just the right thing to do. However, the fear and the dread never went away.

Eventually, I started working for Hospice. During the first few months there I thought, “Oh, wow! At last, the nursing job for me!” But I came to realize that, actually, it was still nursing and I didn’t want to be there, either. Even so,I stayed the course and even managed to get promoted to supervisor, which only made things worse. After twelve years, I finally felt like I had couldn't do it any more; I had to make some changes. I felt like I was losing my mind. So, in May of 2006, I handed in my resignation and felt peace for the first time in many years. In June, however, knowing that I still needed some income and that this was a sure thing, I went back to work as a Hospice nurse. It was only one day a week, but it was still nursing.

So, here I am twenty-three years later, playing the role I was never born for. I’ve always told myself that I stayed in nursing because of the money. I needed to work, jobs were available and it was something I could do without further education. Good reasons all. Lately, though, I’ve come to realize that I was getting a whole lot more than a paycheck out of it. I was feeding my pride.

There’s a certain cachet in being a nurse. Some people rank nurses right up there with the angels. They put us on very tall, wide pedestals and some of us don’t dare peek over the edges for fear we might fall off. We hear the reverence in our mother’s voice when she says to her friends, “My daughter is a nurse!” Former patients and their family members come up to us in public and tell us how much we mean to them. When we shop while wearing our uniforms, people look at us differently, almost like we're something holy. They assume that we are good and pure and only interested in their well being. It’s very easy to buy into that feeling, to believe you own press, so to speak.

But I’ve started feeling like I’ve sold tiny pieces of my soul in order to stay on that pedestal. I took the path of least resistance and kept doing a job that I hated because I was good at it and I was paid well for it. And people were constantly telling me how wonderful I was. I liked it when my boss got letters from families extolling my virtues and saying how they didn’t know what they would have done without me. I loved it when the other nurses came to me asking for advice. “Let’s ask Bee. She’ll know what to do.” And I puffed up with pride when the boss asked for my help on special projects or assignments.

“Besides," this must be God’s will for my life,“ I told myself as I began to grow spiritually and seek His guidance. As a Hospice nurse, I was meeting some extraordinary people who were such blessings to me. I was invited into their lives at a time when other strangers wouldn’t have been. I heard their stories and I laughed with them and cried with them. I felt like I made a difference. I felt that if God had given me the talents required to minister to these people, then surely I was where I was supposed to be, doing what I was supposed to do. And I would just have to learn to function in spite of the misery.

But what if I was wrong? What if Satan was using these talents against me, filling me with pride and self worth, making me cling to a job that made me miserable. And what if in that misery, I whined and cried so loudly that I couldn’t hear God’s voice telling me what He wanted me to do? And if I couldn’t hear him, what if I thought He had forgotten me? That he didn’t care what I did anymore? I decided I should start praying a little harder and searching for what I was really meant to do.

Joseph Campbell said, “When you follow your bliss … doors will be open to you where you would not have thought there would be doors, where there wouldn’t be a door for anyone else.” I will be 50 years old in just a bit over 2 months. I think it's time, with God’s direction, to seek out my bliss and those open doors. And maybe buy back those tiny pieces of my soul. I’ve looked over the edge of the pedestal and have found, not a sharp drop off as I had feared, but a staircase with sturdy handrails that takes you back to the bottom. And there,standing at the bottom step, are the two people I care most about, ready to catch me when I stumble.

And I am stumbling. Those doors haven’t started opening yet. Although I have my own ideas of what I would like to do with my life, I haven’t heard that still, small voice of God saying, "Yes, this is what I want for you, too." I pray daily for his answer and I know that, in time, it will come. It’s just very hard to wait.

Whatever I end up doing with my life, I will do it with my whole heart and I will praise Him as I do it. I think that’s what God wants most from us, anyway. The people who matter most to me won’t care that I’m not a nurse anymore. To them, I will still be the woman they love and who loves them fiercely in return. My family will remain the best part of my life; my soft place to land. And I’ll be most glad to be off of that pedestal. After all, I’m afraid of heights!

The Wonderful Gift by Bee L. for blog action day

2007-10-15T05:31:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time there was a boy. Because he was much loved, he was given a wonderful gift - a large crystal sphere wrapped in a cloth of finely woven silver threads. It's intricately faceted surface sparkled with a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors; rich, warm reds, golden yellows and oranges, lush greens and spectacular blues, from the lightest icy hues to the darkest midnight tones.

It‘s breath-taking beauty, however, was only a small part of the magic of the sphere. The boy needed only to keep it clean and polished with the silvery cloth and it would provide him with all his needs. When he was hungry, he could reach inside and find nourishment. When he was thirsty, he could pour from it clear, cool water and drink until his thirst was quenched. When he was cold, he had only to hold it close and it would glow from within and warm him. When he was hot, he could lie down beside it and a gentle breeze would blow from it to cool him. During times of trouble, he could gaze into it’s depths and be comforted. And if he was lonely, he could roll it gently back and forth and a choir of angelic voices would sing to him.

Time passed and the boy grew older. As a man, he began to take his wonderful gift for granted. The cloth became trapped under a stone and he left it there, not wanting to lift the heavy rock to retrieve it. He used dirty hands to reach into the sphere for food or to pour his water and he always took more of each than he needed. He treated the sphere roughly and scratched it both inside and out He left fingerprints all over it’s sparkling surface.

Before long, the food was less abundant and less nutritious; the water became murky. The warm glow wasn’t as warm as it had once been and the cool breezes brought with them a stench. He could not see into the depths to be comforted any more and the voices no longer sang. Instead of sparkling and gem-like, the sphere’s colors were flat and dull.

Eventually, the man had a boy of his own and wanted to share the wonder of his gift. He looked at it now through clear eyes, eyes free of the scales of greed and apathy. He was deeply ashamed of how he had neglected the sphere. He was saddened to think that his son would never experience it’s magic.

It was then that he remembered the cloth. He rushed to the stone that held the cloth captive. Because he was older and the stone had become set into place, he had to work hard to pry it off of the cloth. When it was finally free, he shook it clean and looked at it. In the corner were embroidered the words “hope and diligence.” With tears flowing down his face, he went to his gift and began slowly polishing each facet one small surface at a time.

His son, who had been watching his father, understood the importance of what he was doing. He went to his father and held out his tiny hand. The man tore a piece from the cloth and gave it to him. He taught him how to use it and, together, they began the long task of saving the sphere from years of neglect. Others that had either known or heard of the original wonder of the sphere, gathered to offer their help. Soon, thousands of hands had taken small pieces of the cloth and were working steadily to restore it’s magic and beauty.

It wasn’t an easy thing to do. The sphere had been neglected a long time and the damage was great. Some came to jeer and make fun of them for working so hard. They urged the man to continue taking and taking from the sphere without thought given to the toll it might take. But the man and his helpers had grown wise and didn’t listen. They continued their work, steadfast in the hope for a complete restoration. Little by little, their diligence was rewarded. Once more, with sparkling gem-like facets, the sphere gave freely of its gifts. There was abundant food and fresh, clean water. The people were warmed and cooled and comforted. And once again, the angelic voices sang their songs.

Instead of being content to live ‘happily ever after,’ they continue to diligently clean and polish the sphere. And they teach their young to do the same, in hopes that all generations will be able to experience the wonderful gift.

It is my personal belief that God, indeed, gave us a wonderful gift - the earth. It’s beauty and grandeur far surpasses anything that man has created. It has provided us with all the necessities of life - food, water, shelter and yes, comfort. I know I have looked out over the Smoky Mountains and felt hugged by God. I love the song the earth sings to me, with it’s waterfalls and oceans and trickling streams. I love the colors it shows me in sunsets, sunrises and stormy skies.

Yet, for many years we have not kept it clean and polished. We have left our dirty finger prints all over our precious gift. I’m not talking just about major corporations dumping filth into our rivers or logging companies clear cutting our forests. That is certainly part of the desecration. But it’s also the little things that we, as individuals do on a daily basis. We take long showers, we fill our landfills with things that could be recycled. We think nothing of throwing cigarette butts out of car windows like the world is our personal ashtray. We drive when we could walk. Thousands of little things that add up to big abuse.

I am not a scientist with a magic plan. I have no statistics to spout off and show everyone exactly how much damage we are doing to our world. I am not even your typical, tree-hugging environmentalist (although I welcome the label.) I am a 50 year old, overweight wife and mother. I am, in fact, just one ordinary person. But I believe that if enough of us “just one persons” band together we can make a huge difference. We can walk more, take shorter showers. We can recycle and buy recycled goods. We can build “green” and use renewable resources to decorate our homes. We can adopt that zero-tolerance attitude towards litter and pollution. If we join together to polish it one facet at a time, we can help make our wonderful gift sparkle again. For ourselves and for our children.

Sleeping with a Gun!

2007-10-10T06:19:00.000-04:00

It was a dark and stormy night… Ok, it wasn’t stormy but it was dark. Dear John worked shift work and every third week meant night shift. Because he knew he would be gone so many nights, he taught me to use the shotgun; how to load, unload, cock and un-cock, and fire. I, of course, thought I would never need it, but still considered it useful information. And if I did happen to need it, I certainly wasn’t afraid of it. I was a brave girl; had always been the one to chase down things that go bump in the night with a baseball bat or whatever was handy while my mother and sisters huddled together in the dark saying “Be careful!”

But when I got pregnant, I lost my mind. I became the biggest scardey cat in SC. I heard birds in the chimney one night and stayed awake all night staring at the fire place, waiting on the aliens to come and get me and my baby. They already had my brain, after all.

On this particular night, I had gone to bed with all the lights on, like I did every night during my early pregnancy. It was around midnight or a little later (even back then I didn’t sleep much) when I thought I heard something in the back yard. Now, we live in the country. We have neighbors, but none I could really call to come and check all the little things I heard and none who should’ve been messin’ around my backyard. I listened for a few minutes and decided that, yes, there was something out there and I was not going to sit there and be a, well, a sitting duck. I got up, got the shotgun which was already loaded and hauled it into bed with me. I wasn’t a girl scout, but I still believed in being prepared, so I cocked it. And waited.

And waited a little while more. Of course, nothing happened. The few brain cells I had that were not suffering from PHT (pregnancy hormone toxicity) banded together and convinced me that sleeping with a loaded, cocked shotgun was a bad idea and that I should un-cock it. The one wee problem with that plan was that I had forgotten how to do just that. But I forged ahead until BBOOOOOOMMMMMM! It was no longer an issue. The walls rattled, my ears rang and the mattress smoked. Well, it didn‘t actually smoke. But it was missing almost the entire right lower corner (I had had sense enough not to point it in my direction!) The closet door, which was on the wall facing the foot of our bed and just to the right, was open. So Dear John’s one good suit (we were young bohemians who didn’t dress up often) got peppered with birdshot, as did the closet wall, some other clothes and a vintage Samsonite suitcase (although I didn’t know it at the time - I wasn’t into vintage then) that had been given to John by an uncle.

I sat there and waited on the neighbors to come rushing from all around and the police to come barreling down the road with their blue lights flashing and tires squealing to save little ol’ me . And nothing happened. Nothing happened! “Well,” I thought. “Good thing I wasn’t really in trouble!” After wondering for a bit how I was ever going to explain this, I turned the lights out and went to sleep until time for my sweet honey to come home.

It was still dark when I heard his key in the lock. The lights were on behind him and, as he came down the hall toward the bedroom, all I could see was his silhouette. (Good thing I knew it was him and didn’t have that gun all ready to go again.) Before he actually got in the room, I said, in a grave voice, “John, turn the lights on. I have something to tell you and its bad!” With his right arm, he reached to the wall beside his left shoulder and flipped the switch for the over head light. The look on his face was heartbreaking. It had drained of all color. The dark circles which he normally has under his eyes were darker than usual; a combination of steel dust and lack of sleep. And his expression was one of horrible expectation. I flung the covers back, exposing the wounded mattress and said, “I’ve shot the bed!”

I don’t know what he was expecting to hear, but that obviously wasn’t it. He sank to his knees at the end of the bed, dropped his head in his hands and slowly shook it back and forth. “Beverly, Beverly, Beverly!” he said. Only with a Southern accent it comes out, “ Bervly, Bervly, Bervly!”

After he recovered, we went back to sleep for awhile. When we got up, he was able to repair the mattress with iron-on patches and fishing line. The sheets and blanket, however, did not survive. It was then that he told me that if anybody ever did break into the house that I would have to club them to death with the gun because I wasn’t allowed to ever load it again.

The next week, when we were telling his mama what happened, I was touched by her care and concern….for the suitcase. “It was Samsonite!” she said.

Our Saga Continues

2007-10-09T09:36:00.000-04:00

Move in day was set for August 17th. The week leading up to that day was kind of surreal. It was like we were cutting our own tails off a little bit at the time, all the while hoping that the final snip-snip would hurry up and the ordeal would be over. Excited dread, I guess you could call it. I was happy for Daughter Dear, excited with her about this giant step she was taking. But I knew it was going to be very hard to let go, to drive away and leave her there.

The whole family had come together the Sunday before for the going away party. What a bittersweet time that was - lots of laughter and tears. Aunt K read aloud a story Anna had written about a disastrous girls weekend trip that we had taken. The trip where 3 grown women had managed to get in a huge argument over what to call the various versions of fried eggs. (That trip is still referred to as “The Egg Trip” and makes us all howl with laughter- now. Wasn‘t so funny then.) Everyone brought little tokens to put in her conscience bag, a Crown Royal bag in which, as a child, she had placed all of her secret little treasures and carried it with her everywhere. She said she had named it that just because she liked the way the word sounded. The new treasures were to remind her of us when she was at school and feeling homesick. She could pull out one of the offerings (which included a plastic fried egg) and have a memory of a family who loved her very much. It was my job to present each one and explain it’s significance. I could barely speak through my tears as I explained the meaning off each little gift. After that, being the good Southern family that we are, we ate. And took lots of pictures. Ate some more. And laughed and cried a lot.

The next few days were spent getting everything together. We bought things we had miraculously forgotten to get - things that, until this point in her life she had never had a use for, were all of a sudden something that she couldn’t live without. If the kitchen table had had eyes, they would have bulged from the strain of everything we piled on it. We visited people who wanted to see her before she left; those who, like me, felt as if she were going to college in Siberia. We washed and folded clothes and packed them in clothes baskets and suitcases and boxes. We stayed busy and we talked. A lot. But we tip-toed around the proverbial elephant in the room. Not once did we mention the reason for all of this activity.

On August 16th, we finished with all of the preparations and loaded the cars. They were packed as full as they could be without stuff squishing out of the windows. Then we ate supper at home, watched a little TV together and went to bed very early. So we could get up very early. Insanely early. At the same time insomniacs who haven’t been to bed yet are awake. In other words, early!

The big day dawned. Well not really; dawn was still a long way off. But the date arrived. As is usual in our house, I was the first one up. I showered, made the coffee and, for a few minutes, I just enjoyed that peace that only comes before day breaks. The language of my house, those little noises that are unique to every home, comforted me; the refrigerator hummed, the ceiling fan clicked, the coffee pot sputtered. The lights were low. Everyone, including the dog, was asleep in their own little spot. The man of my heart and the dog were having their usual snoring contest. The cats had just started to play their in-and-out game. Everything was as it always was and it felt right. It occurred to me that this was the last time it was going to feel right for a good little while.

I got her up to and sent her off to the shower and, while my dear darlin’ husband slept a wee bit longer, I sat down at the computer and poured my heart out again to my board buddies - wonderful women who are as real-life to me as any friend I have in, well, real life. They had been so supportive and caring through the choosing of the college, the high school graduation and through all the preparations for the move. I was glad they were there that morning! Talking to them kept me from going nuts while I waited on everybody to get ready to go.

And finally, we were ready to go. We each went to our assigned travel positions and hit the road to College Town, USA; Man O’Mine driving my car, Daughter driving hers with me in the shot-gun seat. We started out under dark skies and arrived at the college in bright sunshine. And lots of heat. And lots of people. Lots of busy people. Everybody looked like they were late for something. Hurry here and hurry there. Like ants on an ant hill that had been run over by a lawnmower.

The roommate was already there and had the bed put together, so it was easy to make it habitable. The girls and the moms unpacked schtuff and put it away while the manly daddies ran cables and hooked schtuff up. I, of course, felt like a failure as mother because Roomie had a rug to put in front of her desk and my sweet baby didn’t. How could I have not gotten my wonderful, beautiful child a rug?! “Well,” I thought. “I’ll just remedy that situation the first weekend she comes home!”

Soon, the room was done and it was off to the scheduled activities. That whole “Parents Depart” thing was getting closer and closer. Daddy and Daughter went to the bookstore to get a couple of things that we were unable to buy earlier and I went to the auditorium to wait for them and the Welcome Celebration to begin. The first thing that caught my eye when I walked in was a huge banner strung across the lobby screaming “Welcome home to LRC.” They wanted all of their students to feel like this was home?! I was so afraid that she might do just that, that I started crying. Then 2 of the biggest football players I had ever seen (Ok, in retrospect, they weren’t really that big) sauntered in acting all cool and looking dangerous and I thought, “How can I leave her here where people like that are free to just be anywhere? Whose going to protect her?!” And I cried even harder.

I saw them come up the hill and tried to wipe my eyes, but they knew that, once again, I had been blubbering. They wanted to know what had prompted this round of tears and when I explained it to them through fresh sniffles, they gave each other that look. The look that’s like a secret handshake between them. One that I could be jealous of, but that I think is so special I can’t find it in myself to be anything but awed touched by it. We went into the auditorium and found seats and the Celebration began. The campus pastor prayed a beautiful prayer and several people had nice things to say, and all of a sudden it was time to go. I felt like I couldn’t breathe! “ How can I say ‘goodbye’ in just a few minutes? Especially with my chest hurting soooo bad? How can I stop hanging on to her so tightly? Why won’t my arms move from around her?”

But my arms betrayed me and let go, and she turned and walked away. I will never forget that sight as long as I live. My child’s back as she walked away from me. Towards a new life, sure. But away from me. I turned and walked as fast as I could to the car, surprised at the families laughing and waving goodbye and acting like this was just another day, Another sleep-over at a friend’s house.

The newly created empty-nesters got in the car and headed out. We stopped for lunch, where I cried and cried and the waiter kept giving Hubby Dear dirty looks as if he might be responsible for my tears. I stopped crying after we had been on the road for a bit and felt much better when I realized that I could text her right now if I wanted to. So I did and asked her if she was ok. She texted right back and said she was fine and asked if I was ok. “No,” I told her. “But I will be.”

That’s when I decided to kill my husband. “Y’all know you aren’t going to be able to do that all the time, don’t you. It’s too expensive. You’re going to need to find another way to communicate.” I saw lights flash before my eyes. White hot anger surged through my blood stream. My first instinct was to reach over and put my hand into his chest and rip his heart out. Only two things kept me from following through: 1. The seat belt had done that hateful lockey thing where you can’t move forward even a centimeter, much less reach across the entire front seat to commit murder. And, 2. The knowledge, floating somewhere out there on the periphery of my anger, that tomorrow I would probably love him again and still want to spend the rest of my life with him. Plus, he most likely would have lost control of the car and I might have been hurt. It was a long, roaringly quiet ride home.

The first weekend there, she was homesick, she said, but felt like it would get better when classes started. She didn’t like all of those “forced socialization activities” as she called them. When I asked her if there were any sororities that she was interested in, she informed me that most of those girls had seemed like the ones she made fun of in high school. She had made a couple of friends and they were hanging out together at the activities. One of which was a pool party, the kind of thing my non-nature loving, sun-a-phobic daughter hated.

Monday she had some free time and decided to ride around and look at the country side. It could have been a lovely, relaxing way to spend the afternoon. Only she rode by a “patch of kudzu that looked just like the turnoff to Boykin," home to one of our favorite places to get a burger. So, instead of lovely and relaxing, it made her more homesick.

Tuesday, she resorted to the wildly expensive text message for communication. I was puttering around the kitchen trying to feel normal again when I heard my phone beep. I picked it up, pressed the SHOW MESSAGE button and read, “These grits suck!” So much for feeling normal! I wanted to fix a pot of grits and drive them up there to her. And deliver the recipe to the cafeteria.

And so the week went. We used every form of electronic communication known to us. We text messaged, talked on cell phones and land lines. We emailed and IM’d.
She even set up a little chat room where the 3 of us could talk together. I emailed the campus pastor and asked him to please pray for her, because she was so homesick. Every night I went to bed worried, hoping that in the morning I would hear from her and she would have turned that elusive corner and found contentment. Every morning, I woke up and talked to her and was assured that today might be the day. Every afternoon, I talked to her again, and knew that, in fact, it hadn’t been. I told her on Tuesday night that I would come and pack her up and move her back on Wednesday if she really wanted me to and was sure she wouldn’t ever be happy there. “No, no!” she assured me. She thought she should just tough it out for the first semester and see what happened then. I agreed with the plan, but was still uneasy.

Then, on Thursday night, we had the conversation that I had been hoping to have. The one where she was like her old self. She seemed lighter, happier. She joked with her daddy and I felt like, at last, we could all move on. I went to be and slept peacefully for the first time in a week, happy knowing that my baby was ok now.

As I said earlier, I usually get up very early, before sunrise on most days. I did the same things as I had done on the Friday one week earlier. I made the coffee, I packed Hubby Dear’s lunch . I let the dog out and the cats in. And out. And in again. I sat down at the computer and checked my email.

And there was the letter from my daughter, explaining very eloquently why she wanted to come home. Now. The letter she had been writing as she talked to us the night before! She had been praying all week and really seeking God’s guidance in a way that she hadn’t done in a long time, she said. And she felt like she wanted to leave there and come home and go to college here in town. She had thought it through and knew she still had time to withdraw without penalty and what she could do between leaving LRC and starting FMU. She wanted to do it now, but said she would stay the semester if we thought she should. But after one semester, she wanted to come home.

“Oh, shit!” I said out loud as Mr. I-don’t-talk-much-ever-but-even-less-in-the-mornings went to pour his second cup of coffee. “What?” he wanted to know. I asked him to come look at the long email and see what his daughter had to say. He said, “Paraphrase it.” So I told him that she wanted to come home and that I had a gut feeling it was the right thing to do and that I was going to get her today.
“Ok. Be careful.” And he kissed me goodbye and went to work.

So that’s how I spent my Friday. I went to College Town, USA one last time and picked up my daughter, who was waiting outside the dorm like a little girl whose mother was late picking her up from the first day of school. She was pale, and shaky and afraid that we were going to be disappointed in her. “Never in a million years,” I assured her. We loaded the same 2 cars up that we had loaded before and headed home, which is always a good way to go. But first we stopped and I fed the child who had been so homesick that she had barely eaten all week. It was there that I asked her, "What would you have done if I had told you you had to stay the semester?" "I knew you wouldn't tell me that," she answered.

She had expected some good-natured ribbing from all of the family members, young and old alike. None came. We are family of fairly bright people who have all made some wild decisions over the years. Including many having to do with college educations. We all felt like she was just carrying on family traditions. And everybody was gracious and welcoming and glad to have her home. We even had a girls’-day-out luncheon to welcome her back. (Nobody ordered eggs!)
Her adventure was short. Not more than a single stitch in the tapestry of her life. But, like those single stitches add to the color and texture of a tapestry, Her time away will add dimension to the woman she will be. And although she was only gone a week, she changed. She came back with not only a clear plan for her future, but with what seems to be an almost reverent appreciation for home and family. We know that she will leave again one day. But none of us are in any hurry for that to happen. As long as it’s healthy for all of us, she knows she has a place here.

“The more things change, the more they stay they same.” I don’t know who said that, but I know it’s true. At least in my case. I wake up every morning before the sun comes up. I listen to my house as I make the coffee and the lunch. I feed and threaten bodily harm to the always in-and-out cats that I love. My husband and daughter and little dog are asleep in their beds. I sit down at the computer and read email and check in on the board where I say good morning to all of my friends. Once again, all is right with my world.

Parents Depart?!

2007-07-31T07:48:00.000-04:00

It all happened innocently enough. We were back home from our trip to register for classes at college. I was still giddy from being told by my wonderful daughter that she was glad we had the relationship that we did; high on knowing that we like each other outside of the whole mother-daughter thing.

In an effort to be helpful, I was perusing the college website, looking for recommendations on the best lap top, what she would need in the dorm, meal plans, etc. All those things that parents want to know so they will be sure their babies aren't lacking anything that will make college life easier. It's a pretty website, with bright colors and lots of pictures. And there I was just leisurely looking around. Not expecting to be broadsided!

"Well, while I'm looking," I thought, "I might as well go look at this "Prologue" thing and see what move in day will be like." You know.To find out things like what time we had to be there, where we were supposed to go, would we have help with the heavy stuff. Those kinds of things that you need to know to make it a smooooothh experience. "Oh look," I said to myself. "There is a whole schedule of the days goings-on. How cool! I think I'll check that out."

And that's where those hateful words were hidden in seemingly innocent text. They were in bold faced type and they practically screamed from their place on the page. "Parents Depart." Or as I read it, "Go away. You are no longer needed." Right after the "New Students Welcome Celebration" we are expected to just casually go away and leave her there. Without us. All alone in the big bad, world!

"Parents Depart," just words on a page to them. Words meant only to move the day along from one event to the other. They didn't know! When we leave that day, life as we know it will change forever! For over eighteen years, it's been the three of us. Of course, there have been other changes in our lives during that time, but it's always been the three of us facing those changes; together - under one roof! We've had our individual interests and friends and times away. But those were all transient things and we knew that when we were finished with those, we would all come together at home and be "the three of us' again.

That will all change now. There used to be such a feeling of "rightness" when she, he, I, and both cats and the dog settled in at bedtime. I knew where everyone was and that they all were safe. Hard times might come in the morning, but for that little while, all was as it should be. How can I live with a change this profound?!

But how could I hold her back? This is what life is all about. A very wise woman I know always says that you give your children wings and that you have to let them go. And she is right. "Parents Depart" so that their child can become independent and strong, using those wings to reach amazing new heights. Secure in the knowledge that she will always have a safe place to land at home.

So I will leave her there, this child that I have loved with all my heart since the day she was born. I will depart, so that she may start on the next chapter of her life's book. And in doing so, I will start on the next chapter of mine. The chapter all about the empty nest and how it, too, can be a good place to live.

Grief?

2007-07-28T07:45:00.000-04:00

My uncle died yesterday. My mother's only brother, 2 years her junior. He was the one who rode me around on the tractor when I was a toddler. He blew up a big yellow balloon and gave it to me when I cried for the moon. He was our favorite babysitter. He was a sailor, very handsome in his Navy uniform. He traveled to lots of places and always brought us wonderful surprises from all of them. He served in Viet Nam. He taught me to sing "Do, Lord." At that time, he was bigger than life, a hero in my young eyes. I could never understand why Daddy never liked him. Daddy always thought he was mean and more than a little "off." Even before the Navy and Viet Nam.

As we all grew older and he married and became the father of four children himself, I began to see what Daddy had seen all along. He was a mean man. A bully. So full of self-righteousness that he would tolerate no way but his and he meant, by God, to have that way by whatever means he deemed necessary. He beat his wife and children. He beat his wife in front of his children. Often. He controlled their every action. Everything they did was out of fear of how he would react to it. They wouldn't even eat the last of anything in their pantry for fear he would come in and want it. Fear that he would want it. They didn't save it as loving children would save something for their loving father.

In spite of being offered safe haven at my parents house over and over again, my aunt stayed with him. Far longer than I would have. But eventually, she had had enough. When her youngest child graduated from high school, she left him. Her children gathered around her and helped her make a good life for herself. And, they managed to grow into productive, wonderful people. People who still believe in good and doing the right thing. In spite of all he had put them through when they were young, they wanted to try as adults to have some kind of relationship with him. But each attempt was disastrous. He blamed them all for the trouble he had in his life and for not coercing my aunt into coming back to him. He continued to feel justified in all that he had done to them. Somewhere in his sick mind, he thought he had been the kind of husband and father that God wanted him to be.

His abusive behavior wasn't limited to his wife and children. For years, after Daddy died and Mama remarried, he bullied her about the way she took care of Grandmama and Granddaddy. (She did an excellent job and he had no reason to complain.) He physically threatened my step-father on several occasions. After Grandmama and Granddaddy died, Mama didn't have to put up with it anymore for their sakes, so she didn't. She also severed ties with him. It's been three years since she last spoke to him.

And so, he died alone in his bed. The cleaning lady found his body yesterday morning when she came for work . He had charted the course of his life and it had ended just the way we all thought it would. I remember being very angry with him once when, as a teenager, I listened to him berate his 9 year-old son for losing a football game, promising him a beating when he got home. I was so mad I could barely breathe but before I bolted out of his car, I managed to choke out, "You know, they're going to hate you one day and you are going to deserve it." I don't know if they actually hated him or not, but of the 4 children and 7 grandchildren he had, not one of them had any kind of relationship with him. He had 3 grandchildren that he had never seen.

I find myself now wondering how I can feel no grief at all. No sorrow whatsoever that he isn't in the world anymore. No sadness for the passing of my childhood hero. I feel lots of anger toward him for the way he treated my mother and the hell he put his wife and children through. And I am still outraged at the lies he told more distant family members about my aunt and my mother. I feel like he died just like he should have - all alone. But I feel no sadness at all.

Does this make me a bad person? One with a hard heart? I know Jesus commanded us to "love one another." On occasion, I did feel pity for him and sorry that he had made his life what it was. And I never wished him harm. I hope that means that, on some level, I was able to love him.

"Jumpstart"

2007-07-18T12:27:00.000-04:00

To me, the word "jumpstart" implies a quick action. A force intended to move things along at a faster pace than they would move on their own. A course with less obstacles. And I guess that's what it was in this case. The college where my sweet daughter will begin her higher education this fall had a whole day they called "Jumpstart." A day to start the college ball rolling. A day for registering for classes, getting lots of information on college life and some initial interaction between the students.

It was also a time which (here's that word again!) jumpstarted a subtle, yet profound, change in our roles as mother and daughter. Mapquest tells me it was about a 200 mile trip which took us about 3 hours to make. It was a pleasant drive to a new place in our relationship. We went from being mother and needy teenage daughter to mother and young adult, daughter and friend.

We made the trip up the day before the actual event so that we wouldn't have to leave home so early in the morning. Neither of us are really morning people and we probably wouldn't have talked much during the ride if we had made it a one-day trip. In fact, one of us would probably have slept the whole way!

As it was, we left in the late afternoon, just the right time to run smack-dab into Charlotte rush-hour traffic. In spite of the tense driving, we were able to talk. And talk. And talk. When we had finally gotten off the interstate and were getting close to our destination, she said the words to me that I will treasure for the rest of my life. She looked at me and told me she was getting ready to have a "mini-mushy moment" and said, "I am so glad that we have the relationship that we have. So many of my friends don't have that." Well, my heart darn near swelled out of my chest. All those agonizing moments of second-guessing my mothering skills, all those regrets for things I should have done, all that beating myself up was gone...at least for a while.

After that, we just talked about trivial things. We even joked about sex which is something we had NEVER done before. It was trivial, but it was different. It was during these conversations that I realized my daughter had truly become my friend. She has always been my buddy, my pal-around gal. But now, she was my friend!

I knew when I saw her walk down the aisle at high school graduation, that she was no longer a child, but the ride to "Jumpstart" was truly the defining moment for me, I think. We are still very much mother and daughter, a fact that always makes me very happy. I don't know why God chose to bless me with such a wonderful child, but I am so very grateful that He did.

2007-05-28T10:52:00.000-04:00

Why a blog? As I grow older, gracefully of course, I keep having these profound thoughts about all kinds of things. At least they seem profound to me as I drive down the road, or stand in the shower, or lie in bed at night waiting to fall asleep. For some time, I have felt almost compelled to write these thoughts down. To preserve them so that in the future, my progeny will know what I loved and hated; what I found sad or hysterically funny. In other words, so that after I am gone, they can still know me.

Initially, I thought I would keep a handwritten journal. One with little doodles in the margins that, along with my handwriting, would give them further insight into what makes me me. I know I like to see how people form their letters and how they decorate their writing. Do they dot their i's or do they make little circles, hearts or smiley faces over them? Do they print rather than write? I thought my family might feel as I do. Surely they could get past the fact that my handwriting ain't what it used to be. So I bought a journal. A really lovely one. It has a finely pebbled black leather spine and back cover with a flint blue sueded front cover. It is filled with BLANK parchment-colord pages. And it has been BLANK for about 2 years now.

The problem with my thinking, I discovered is that the journal (or blog) should really be to help Me see what makes Me tick; to get in touch with the kinds of feelings and thoughts that make me driven to write them down somewhere. To read something I've written a year from now and either re-affirm those musings or smack myself in the head and say "What was I thinking?!"

I could still do that with pen and paper. But I have this perverse notion that other people may want to know about me and my journey to understand myself. I belong to a message board, a cyber home-away-from-home, if you will. While I have many friends there, two ladies in particular have touched me with their blogs. Their writings have made me cry, smile and laugh out loud. They write about their "Eureka!" moments when they discover something profound about life, either theirs in particular or about all of us . In sharing those moments, they allow me to know them better. It is these ladies who have inspired me to blog and someday, when I am more comfortable with this whole process, I hope to be able to share mine.

I want to avoid trying to "pretty" things up so that I sound like a fancy-schmancy writer. If I am pissed off about something, then I want to say, "I'm pissed off!" . If I am mad as hell at my husband, I want to spell it out, even if I know he will read it and maybe get his feelings hurt. I want to be eloquent, but I want to be real. That's just the kind of girl I am. (And I guess it wouldn't be bad at all to sound like a fancy-schmancy writer if I stayed true to myself.)

So, I begin my journey. We will see where I go.