The Seven Sisters Roses

 tea roses originating from my great-grandparents’ farm in Echols County, Georgia, early 1900s

Mr. A. and I sat on our country style front porch built by a friend, Richard Moore, who went home to be with the Lord seemingly far too soon, and a nephew, Joshua A., who, in time, walked away from the building business and into service to our country.

My husband of 35 years and I looked at each other in familiar, yet unknown territory.  How we’ve loved this porch, built in 2008, an outdoor living space as porches are called in modern times, festooned with all manner of container plants for about nine or more months of the year in our temperate subtropical climate which we also love.  

That morning, we were in a temporary phase of life when we were told by the government to stay home and watch television.  As that bad news box often does, it presented the worst possible scenario to which Mr. A., as serenely calm as I’ve ever seen him, gave thanks to the Lord that this virus didn’t appear to be claiming the lives of healthy children, adding that he’d lived a good bit of his and if he was taken out, so be it.  How much more humble could a person be—acknowledging that if life on earth was to continue, it was more necessary that the children live.

Until we learned if we were slated to live or die, we weren’t presently drawn to do exactly what we were told, lounge and watch Netflix.  It was daylight, and as many daylight hours as possible are to be spent outside, at least by us.  If two people had to isolate themselves from the world, we realized there were few better places to do that than our home place called The Ponderosa, acres of privacy where I would walk off miles of anxiety and Mr. A., a few pounds that had accumulated around his waist.  

Mr. A. on a teakwood rocker and I on a swing, both isolated from the rest of the world, looked at each other not quite knowing what to do next.  Anywhere we went outside of this country cocoon, a virus was lurking, lustful for our very breath.  

We read each other’s thoughts well.  Would the business which has supported us for decades survive this mandated shutdown?  When would we see our children again?  They live 1,600 miles away and air travel was not advisable.  It was how this virus got all over the world to start with, though some numbskulls at the National Institute of Health originally said that wasn’t so.

I digress.

One thing my husband doesn’t do well until late evening is sit and watch television.  He could only sit so long on the teakwood rocker before he was compelled to do something, even if he didn’t yet know what that was.  My mind was churning to the point of distress, but what good was that?  

An idea was conceived.

I’d once planted the heirloom tea rose cuttings, acquired from a great-aunt’s yard, along the southern fence of our abode, and they dutifully climbed up the lattice Mr. A. fastened to it, but through the years, vegetation from the neighboring property shaded the roses so well they opted not to bloom.  During that time, Mr. A. would become very frustrated with delivery trucks whose drivers would lazily steer their vehicles to our front porch rather than get out and walk a package over.  When one lives in the unorthodox way we do, outside of a subdivision, the driveway is a “fur piece” from the living quarters.  I had long insisted nothing short of a barrier would stop them from doing so.  

Now was as good a time as any to start that project and the split rail fence began development.  Our government so generously permitted us to go to a hardware store, categorizing it as an “essential” business, so we did.  A woman ahead of us in line wore gloves and a face covering, among the earliest few who could find a mask to wear.  We dutifully tried to stay six feet away from other customers, a whole new consciousness when one was out and about.

Remembering the floundering roses, remembering two wagon wheels we got from the estate of an aunt, the Seven Sisters roses, as my Grannie called them, were given a chance to share their glory again.  Spindly cuttings were placed in the dirt beneath the wagon wheels and tied with string in the direction of the fence.  A discussion was had about placing pebbles around them.  I won.  No pebbles to inhibit their growth and I’d clear the inevitable weeds by hand Mr. A. was certain would come.  

Fast forward two years, bypassing angst, wiping down and washing grocery items, staying home from church, only seeing family on that marvelous invention called FaceTime, family reunions with distant kin canceled, and losing a few people we knew personally…the spindly cuttings thickened into sturdy canes and dutifully ran down the split rail fence.  This year we were gifted with this glorious display, a reward, it seemed, for simply surviving.  

If you’ve read this, you’re a survivor as well, and I’m glad to know you made it through.  Rest in peace to the more than million of us in this country who didn’t survive this pandemic.  You will not be forgotten.  

A Dose of Reality

 

The coronavirus has put us in mortal fear of losing lives that were destined to end anway.  Altogether too many of us have ignored that still small voice pleading for our hearts, that gentle knock at the door by Jesus, wanting to save us from the destiny of the evil one--hell.  As people try to hide from this virus, may they seek the Lord Jesus Christ, the only One Who can safely deliver us from this life to the next, into the presence of God. 

Where Have I Been?

 

How many blogs are hanging around in the world wide web, abandoned, unattended, possibly even forgotten?  

Was there an inspiration disconnect?  Life outside the computer became overwhelming?  It's an unfortunate state for those of us who are driven to write, one that must be conquered.  Showing up yet again for the page is the best of solutions.

I've read explanations for one's blog absence and won't attempt to craft one.  The plain truth will do.  To borrow a relationship description from Facebook, "it's complicated."  Yet it's not; I simply wandered away.

In Pandemica 2020, how many thoughts are lost in the massive stewing pot of word vomitus called social media?  In frustration, I deleted every social media account I had.  Every.Single.One.

Facebook was filled with covid and political angst, people I hadn't seen in decades going on the attack to anyone who dared think a thought different from one traveling through their own mind.  

Instagram, once a haven of domestic loveliness, my account anyway, was turned black in a pathetic act of virtue signaling.  

Twitter, ever the body of warm water filled with piranhas seeking to let blood, features the cancel culture hiding pathetically behind a device, deeming people whose achievements they'll never meet no longer in existence, when it is the canceler whose only claim to fame is an altered picture and unasked for opinions he or she has posted online. 

We curate and fashion ourselves, marketing our core being to a sea of people we never meet in person.  Pandemic survivors have been given over to the place where we lost ourselves, and the irony of writing about it here does not escape me.

We booted God out of school, and after decades of fighting Him, the children were sent home for months.  Mothers who'd long left home and hearth in pursuit of personal and intellectual fulfillment were sent back in the place they sought to escape, wondering what to do.  To their immense credit, they quickly figured out what needed to be done and set about it--women are like that.  

Some of us renewed acquaintance with anxiety, present company included, and after having a belly full of that, determined that is not the company we want to keep.

It's been a tough year, and topping it off on the home front, my beloved Australian shepherd Maggie died, quite possibly a victim of the covid I believe I contracted while traveling in late January/early February.  I went through two international airports to meet my third grandchild, but he decided to delay his entrance to the world by a week, and so exists a beautiful seven-month-old grandbabyboy I've never held.

Across the country also resides two beautiful grandbabygirls I haven't seen in months and because of this dastardly virus, a vacation we'd scheduled in Florida to spend a week with them was also canceled.  

The one souvenir from my only travel in 2020 ticked off many of the boxes of wildly varied symptoms comprising covid--dry cough so intense a muscle was pulled, fever, chills, throat rash, extreme fatigue for starters.

And then...  

My pastor stepped down and I suspected something amiss behind the scenes; I'll call it a coup and leave it at that.  

Then covid canceled church.  

Like everyone else in the world except Antarctica, somewhere I'd never choose to live, my lifelines were snatched one by one by a microscopic virus.  Like everyone else who didn't succumb to covid, I've been treading water madly, and only recently settling into that necessary place of praying for patience while having to wait.

Every bit of this has driven me to the presence of my heavenly Father, my Lord Jesus Christ.  It is here I find hope, and to be perfectly honest, am still seeking rest.  

There is water in my eyes, not enough to spill on my face, but enough for every human reading this--I know they have a similar story.  I have heard some of them, much worse--like friends who cannot go see their parents in assisted living and nursing homes, like relatives who have a category of ailments hauntingly called co-morbidities and must remain in their homes, only venturing out to doctor's appointments, and then in a very real fear for their lives.

More than anything, I miss the freedom to see my friends and family.  I know you do, too.  Faith over fear is a very real challenge, one I intend to meet, and my prayer is you will join me as we complete this journey together, apart.       

      

   

     

Best Meal I've Had in A Long Time

My husband picked up a ribeye and trimmings from Texas Roadhouse after a long, hot July work day.  Their kitchen was already hot and this kept ours cool.

I had plates, forks, steak knives and napkins on the table by the time he arrived home.  No need for takeout to be eaten on styrofoam and with plastic.  While he was getting drinks, I split the baked potato into two pieces and loaded them with the carefully packed condiments, butter and sour cream melted together, shredded cheddar, and bacon bits.  He divided the 10 ounce ribeye into two pieces and forked one onto my plate.  He passed the bread, we said a blessing and began this bountiful meal with our side portion sized salads, house for him, Caesar for me.  

Like most Americans, we've had about all the Hillary and Donald we can stomach, so I turned on the music channel to soft rock.  A number of tunes were from the late 1980s, the era we were married and began our family.  We'd hear the next tune, try to guess the artist and the year.  Madonna's sultry "Spanish Lullaby" played and the year was 1986, the year we said our wedding vows.  We were eating in the same dining room, the same home, in the same spots where we looked at each other the morning after our evening wedding, both silently incredulous we'd indeed taken that permanent step to solidify the relationship we'd been building nearly four years.  

The first dining table, an art deco metal-legged table with a gold-speckled white formica top, was a stand-in for the antique hard rock maple drop leaf table I found in the used furniture section of the local newspaper six months into our life together.  The maple table served our family of four for 28 years, the last two of those years just the two of us again.  Unlike many couples who downsize after the kids are grown, we stayed where we started.  I couldn't get away from the familiar, but I could shake up the surroundings to reflect our beginning again as two, so we now dine at an oak table while seated on bent wood chairs with floral tapestry covered seats, another second hand find, continuing the re-purposing of others' cast offs as we always had, long before it was cool.

I had a clear flashback to our first morning living together as man and wife in early fall, 1986, when we looked at each other in what-have-we-done glances.  I had on a pale pink baby doll top and matching bottoms, a gift received at a bridal shower, and he had on tighty-whities.  We didn't know them by that name then, the fitting description came into our vernacular after our older son was mortified he was the only one wearing them when the boys at school changed into P.E. uniforms for the first time.  I didn't know boxers were cool and tighty-whities were for nerds and old men.  It was an honest mistake.  My father and brothers wore them, my husband wore them, I bought them for my sons thinking it was what I was supposed to do.  

My husband had no need to be cool so he still wears tighty-whities.  The pink baby doll lingerie set is long discarded.  Tonight he had on work out shorts and a shirt with Colorado emblazoned across the front of it, the adopted home state of our children who left southern Georgia's flatlands for a higher elevation in careers as well as hiking and climbing mountains.  I had on work out shorts myself and a plain gray Old Navy T-shirt, so old the collar is frayed, but so comfortable I'm not ready to part with it.  My younger son has a hard time parting with old clothes, not sure where he gets that trait. 

We're at the stage of life where one restaurant meal comfortably fills two and this one ended with me saying it was the best meal I've had in a long time.  The salads were fresh and everything was just right as all was seasoned with gratitude.  Just last week, my husband traveled to bury a brother-in-law, a man who had been in his family since my husband was 11 years old, 51 years gone by since.  I'd already buried a brother in '09.  The goodbyes of our generation have begun.  Eleven siblings combined, almost as many spouses, we marvel we made it this far.  Same house, same dining room, same spouse.  Thirty years come September 21st of this year should the good Lord see fit to allow us to see that day.  We no longer have the luxury of taking that for granted.

He said I should check hotel rates at the beach and book a room this weekend.  I was hung up on why.  We'd taken a short vacation in May and said we'd sit out the heat of the summer at home, then decide what to do toward the end of this year, a trek to Denver at some point, an anniversary celebration, the good Lord willing.  

In my childhood, when someone said something bizarre, my late mother used to say, "You talk like a tree fell on your head."  I was looking at him like a tree had fallen on his head and again asked why.  

We'd been transported to 1986 and landed back in 2016.  Life was wide open ahead of us then.  My husband was thinking of what lies ahead now, the lanes in our road of adventure narrowing.  He finally answered my why with "I'm not getting any younger."  I told him, "I am," and we laughed.  I haven't yet made a reservation.  I wanted to sit awhile longer in the sweetness and sadness combined called life--distilled memories from long ago, vaporized, condensed, then collected again in a new form in the same place we started this journey together.  We had not foreseen this day, but we vowed long ago to get to it.  

It's possible thirty years from now we may remember a song from 2016 and marvel at what has transpired between then and 2046.  It's also possible that day may not come, so we'll bank on a date a little closer and walk down a beach hand-in-hand now.  We still like to do that and it may well be the best walk we've had in a long time.             

     

Not in Polite Society, But on Twitter

I live in an eternal political existential quandary.  It's not a comfortable place to exist.

Here is part of my ideal platform with no one to represent me:

• De-fund Planned Parenthood--not completely.  Let those who want an abortion pay for their own.  Contraception assistance makes far more economic sense than abortion.  I'm not a fan of abortion, but I know it's not going away.  I don't want someone else's blood on my hands.
• Amnesty for Illegals--all for it if evidence of productive "citizenship" is produced.  It galls me the same people who hire them curse their use of our medical facilities.  I bless those who have a hand in putting food on my table and don't wish to see them treated inhumanely.
• Socialized medicine--I'm 100% for it.  I remember the moment that happened.  I was at a restaurant after church and a fellow parishioner, a woman in her 70s said, "Just think about the horrendous waits once everybody has it."  "It" was health insurance coverage, a reference to the Affordable Care Act.  I confess I hated her at the moment for thinking she should be put ahead of any sick person simply because she had more money.  I'm old enough to remember when most people carried catastrophic coverage and paid for doctor visits out of pocket.  When the insurance industry started covering doctor visits, the costs went through the roof.  Those becoming obscenely rich on pharmaceuticals--while people who can't afford them die--should be jailed.  It won't happen, but the thought of justice feels good.
• Immigration--screen intensely, round up student visa overstays.  Patrol the borders for American citizens taking bribes to escort people into the country illegally.
• Stop whining.  Everybody.  Please.  It's unbecoming.  You are not oppressed nor a victim.  There's not a person alive who doesn't get crapped on in some form or fashion, it's part of living in a fallen world. Make your own life work and stop blaming someone else when it doesn't.  Stick up for others when needed, but lift them to their feet, don't pat them on the head. 
• I am unapologetically Zionist and support Israel with everything in my being.  Good God in heaven, what was Obama thinking regarding Iran?  (That really was a prayer, not a vain usage.) 
• Women should not be required to register for the Selective Service.  If they want to serve in the military in any capacity, nothing is stopping them if they meet the criteria.  Volunteer away and thank you for your service.  Those who want to protect their families and homes should not be wrested away from them.
• School choice, vouchers, yes!   
• Overzealous gun control, no!  Thorough background checks, great!
• Manners and decorum:  OK, this will never happen, but those calling others "p---y" or "boy in a bubble" should not be allowed to become president. 

That's enough for now.  I'm not a paid or clever pundit, just an ordinary citizen with a powerful weapon--a vote--which feels to me like a sword about to be fallen upon.  I don't want to sit out an election, so I go vote against some part of myself--every cycle.
    

Geminids Meteor Shower a Bust....

...due to significant cloud cover, but I have been treated to the occasional twinkles of fireflies in the wood and songs of the night by peepers and crickets, snuggled by Ashley, resident kitty, and Maggie, guardian Australian shepherd, is on duty, watching all from the top step of the front porch.  Starbucks Holiday Blend in my Franciscan Desert Rose mug, 70º at 5:10 A.M., gentle breeze, flannel pajama pants, an unneeded down throw by my side...I wish you were here to enjoy these holy moments with me.  All this and the view of our Christmas tree from the front porch looking in has made for a peaceful morning.

My thoughts have been with a young mother-very-soon-to-be who lost her grandmother two days ago.  She is brokenhearted as she was so looking forward to her baby girl, aptly named Noel, meeting her great-grandmother.  My daughter-in-love lost her last grandparent this past week as well; PopPop he was called, never got to meet his newborn great-granddaughter.  

So life goes, cruelly to one generation in agonizing loss, blessedly to another who was in that limbotic place of not being able to live or die.  I had the pleasure of meeting both these beloved grandparents, and as with most who get to live a long life, their bodies had begun to be uncooperative.  I often think of the words of a first cousin of my mother's--does that make her my second cousin or first cousin once removed?--"No matter how old and decrepit they get, it's hard to let them go."

But go they must, and the mantel of historian is passed to the next generation.   My grandmother told me numerous times that her mother was able to identify any bird by its tracks and by its song.  That information must have marinated in my soul, for when the time was right, as a young married woman and mother, I had a thirst for knowledge--I wanted to know the identity of the many birds flitting, soaring and singing in southernmost Georgia.  I bought bird books, I took pictures, I set up bird feeders in my quest to be like the great-grandmother I never met in person, but knew so much about from stories my mother and grandmother told me.

My love for the Word of God came from my "Grannie."  She often retreated to her bedroom to read it and many times I'd find her sleeping, her Bible open and face down on her chest.  The Word found its way into her heart from her bird-loving mother, of whom it was said could hear any passage read aloud and was able to identify chapter, verse and book.  Grannie's Bible, with a completed family history section filled in, resides in a place of honor, on the dresser in the guest room which doubles as a morning prayer room, my prayers said while sitting in a chair which belonged to Grannie. 

I've bunny-trailed in my storytelling, as Grannie often did.  And those young ones who listen patiently to the same stories told over and over, each time anew for the teller, will be rewarded when their own children and grandchildren listen, eyes possibly rolling, yawns stifled inwardly, but words settling in their souls, germinating for the next generation.  

The two aforementioned baby girls will meet their great-grandparents in a different way, but I know they will meet them all the same.

A song of hope, "Hallelujah, We Shall Rise"

I Know It's a Small World, But...

...how is it that today I met someone I knew only by name and circumstance?

Mr. A and I passed the Repeat Boutique on Norman Drive and I told him as long as this has been there, I had never gone in to shop.  A dear friend of mine works in receiving there, the busiest part of the store whose proceeds go toward a ministry which helps pregnant women.  

My friend introduced me to another employee, said her name but I didn't hear it, and added she was from Louisiana.  She, Mr. A and I spoke for a few minutes, and we learned she worked primarily in the book section of the boutique.  We said our it's nice to meet yous and I realized I hadn't retained her name and asked her again.  

It was Freida.

It had to be.  

This was on my desk at home:

I had chatted privately on Facebook with my niece, her husband had just lost his brother.  The parents of both men are still living and though I don't know them, my heart hurt for them and what they are going through.  I asked my niece their names and committed to pray for them.  

My nephew by marriage is from Louisiana.  All the puzzle pieces fit. 

I said to Mr. A, "This is Cajun's mother!"  And I told Freida I had prayed for her just this morning.  I marveled at this God-ordained moment.  

Mr. A and I were enjoying a leisurely afternoon.  We'd had lunch with an old friend and a new, gone to Target to purchase a gift for a baby shower, paid the power bill and upon leaving that location, I suggested stopping at the Repeat Boutique.

I didn't need anything, but I'm always up for a gander at what a thrift store has to offer.  This wasn't a lark or a whim.  It was an appointment from above.  

Being aware of Freida's unspeakably painful loss, Mr. A and I offered our condolences.  She invited us back to the room where the book sorting begins and showed me a poem read at her son's funeral called "Goodbye."

Goodbye to the sun, 
this is the last you will shine upon my face
to the wind and the grass
and everything beautiful around this disgrace

Goodbye to the trees and to this house
to the memories I held so dear
to those that haunted me in my sleep
and the one I’m creating out of fear

Goodbye to the faces I know best
and of those I never did meet
Goodbye to the lives I’m leaving behind
and the life I didn’t complete

Goodbye to my friends and family
you were the reason I held on so long
Goodbye to those that helped me
when my life seemed to always go wrong

Goodbye to my dog, 
my best friend excited to see me every day
goodbye to the living
as my eyes faded to grey

Goodbye to the dreams I might have had
to the love I never met
Goodbye to the passions that died
and the person I was and hope you don’t forget

Goodbye to the life that I once knew
please know I really did try
I love you all

please hold on as I say my goodbye

By the time I got to the part about "those I never did meet" tears began to fill my eyes.  My niece and nephew, Freida's daughter-in-law and son, are expecting a child next month.  The baby will not meet its uncle on this leg of the journey to eternity.     

Of all things, Freida began to say comforting words to me.  At lightning speed, my mind processes the fact that she has buried a son, but is concerned about my tears.  How is she that strong?

I told her I was okay, that I cried at the drop of a hat.  I shared with her that I had lost my brother under similar circumstances, but his death came not in an instant, but from several decades of self-destruction.  

I confided my belief that there are some who are so tenderhearted they have to leave this world to find peace.  She nodded in understanding.  Her son, my brother, they are finally at peace.  And we are the ones left behind to cope, to grieve.  

My understanding and empathy were limited, though, to the cause.  However hard it was to lose a brother, I can only begin to imagine the depths of pain caused by losing a child. 

And I considered how often I commit, via Facebook, to pray for someone.  My prayer life is far from what it should be, yet I do try to remember those who have asked for prayer and those on whose behalf I have offered to pray.  It is not the prayer or the pray-er; it is the God of this Universe to Whom we pray.

Galatians 6:2 tells us that in bearing one another's burdens, we fulfill the law of Christ.  I believe we are instructed to do so because some burdens simply cannot be carried alone.  Today, the Lord granted me an unexpected meeting with someone whose burden I feebly tried to help carry.  I am inadequate in and of myself, so I had to bring it to Him.    

RIP T-Tom 
    

A Whistled Testimony

Scrolling through the newsfeed on Facebook this afternoon, I saw a video of "Why Me, Lord?" performed at the Grand Ole Opry.  It brought back a sweet memory of going to Clark's department store on Ashley St. with my daddy.  He asked the clerk behind the counter for an 8-track tape by Kris Kristofferson saying "Kris Kristahfahson."  

He took the plastic wrap and thin cardboard sleeve off and pushed the cartridge into the after market 8-track player in his red 1965 Chevy pickup with step sides and a tailgate which closed with chains.  I loved that truck and I loved my Daddy.  He whistled in perfect pitch to the heart tugging lyrics, equal parts regret and gratitude.  

I watched and listened, mesmerized as we rolled down Jerry Jones Road toward the Phillips 66 station he ran on Baytree Road.  At home, there was fighting, cussing, and carrying on, but the atmosphere of this truck cab sanctuary, filled with cigarette smoke instead of incense, was different.   

I realized the day he bought that tape and I first heard "Why Me, Lord?" it was his testimony.  We didn't go to church and I didn't know the word testimony, but my little girl spirit recognized one all the same.  

When you live in a home full of uproar, you listen and observe a lot more than you participate.  It's safer that way.  Daddy never shared a testimony in the traditional sense, all remorseful and crying in front of a bunch of people who act like they're stunned at what they're hearing, knowing they've done many of the same things, but after years of hard living--heavy drinking, smoking, swearing, bootlegging, womanizing, at times violent--a strange calm settled on him.  

It was the kind of peace only the Lord can bring to a tormented soul.  

I'd heard a penitent heart cry to the Lord in his own quiet way, humbled, going to the only Source of all he needed on this earth.  Nothing else here brought him any level of peace that I'd noticed.  I learned as much about the Lord that day after a trip to a discount store as one could have learned in 10 years of churchin', my age at the time.  

Daddy's time was drawing near and Jesus, ever merciful, received him home the year following the song's release, 1974.  Here's his testimony, another man wrote it and sang it.  Daddy whistled it and I can still hear the trills if I listen closely.  

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=g2u_rEcWW8M

Random Memory and its Bunny Trails

The memory isn't completely random but triggered by a Facebook post of a cousin who shared a dream of going back in time and seeing a number of loved ones who'd gone on.  

I shared with her I had similar dreams and I considered them a blessing.  I recently dreamed of my mother, she was in her room, but it didn't look like the room which was hers for the last 37 years of her life on earth.  I say on earth because I have a firm belief in an afterlife which makes it truly and simply the continuation of life in Christ.  

In the room of my dream, my mother had both a living but unadorned scotch pine tree and a crystal lalique tree; the living tree seemed to grow neatly out of the floor and the crystal one was on a nearby side table of rich dark wood.  In her time on Earth, she could not enjoy a living tree indoors due to allergy issues.  She wanted and eventually got a green ceramic Christmas tree.  The living dream tree was not sculpted into a traditional Christmas tree shape but was as natural in form as it was unadorned.  The crystal tree was perhaps an extension of my imagination of her earthly desire, a thing of beauty and great worth, its elegant simplicity another reflection of my limited concept of heaven.

My mother's earthly home was full of bric-a-brac and a few items of reasonable worth mingled with.  Every dusty piece was of great sentimental value to her and she imagined it all to have great dollar value as well.  The chromolithograph below was on the wall of her living room from sometime in the early 1990s to the day she died in early 2003.  I've no idea of its current value, but the day I picked it up and paid eight bucks, or was it six, at a yard sale in my childhood neighborhood, was the day my mother pointed to the vintage framed art and told me to "leave that here" when I was taking her second-hand finds off the back floorboard of my old Buick LeSabre. 

She did it with a mischievous smile, one which couldn't be resisted, saying no to the twinkle in her dark emerald eyes not an option.  When I was a little girl, I was terrified of the consequences of disobeying her; as an adult I knew I could refuse her request/command but chose to comply.  I thought I'd bought this picture for myself, but it turns out I'd bought it for her.  

She rarely asked for anything, but took great pride in earning things for herself.  When someone gave her anything, anything at all, she treasured both the item and the connection with the person, almost in awe and always in great appreciation someone would give her something, and in close to all cases she would not let the item go.  In hindsight, I wonder if that was at least one part the Great Depression mentality as her earliest acquaintance with this world was in that era.     

It was both sad and sweet after her death when I lifted the picture off her paneled living room wall which she didn't care at all the paneling was considered dated, she liked it, and finally brought it to my home where it greets anyone who walks in the front door.  It looks like Thomas Kinkade's artistry and being it was almost certainly conceived and brought to life before he was, I am reminded there is nothing original on this earth, merely different perceptions and interpretations of the same beauty.            

As I look at it now, I'm not certain what drew this into my mother's vast and eclectic collections.  She wasn't so fond of all things flowery and frilly as I am.  Maybe it was the frame, unusual shape and old, old was always good in her book, but it, too, is embossed with flowers.  Was it the suggestion of an ethereal destination beyond the stone walk way and marble steps?  There is a place to go, but no one can be seen going there, they must be imagined.  Did it make her think of the loved ones she often spoke of and missed terribly? 

Mom would give people a piece of her mind when she was pushed, when the territory of her business was trespassed upon, but she wouldn't often divulge the depths of her heart.  Along with many other thoughts and confidences, she took the reason for wanting this with her to heaven.

In the photograph of the picture I took this morning, I see a faint image of myself bottom center and a reflection of a McCoy bowl on top of a bookcase across from this yard sale turned heirloom item.  (The bookcase's original life was part of an entertainment center handcrafted by my brother-in-law.  I was delighted when it came to live in my home, its new incarnation one part display case and two parts library.)  A bit of my mother was left on this earth in my form and the bowl was hers as well, an item I've wondered if my first daughter-in-love would like to have for the shade of it, in the aqua family, repeats in her decor.  

I don't know if this picture will be treasured by another family member one day in the future or if another young mother will pick it up at a yard sale for six or eight bucks and her older mother will claim it.  And it really doesn't matter all that much.  One day I won't care, but today I do and this is the story of the picture on my front entrance wall.  

           

Lizard, Lizard, show me...

a red tongue, red tongue, red tongue.

Grannie told me to go on the narrow front porch of my parents' little brick house, this was the late 1960s, watch for a lizard, then chant this to it.  She emphasized the word tongue on the up beat.

I was dubious but curious and mostly obedient.  This was the era when minding one's elders was demanded and arguing and backtalking was quickly squelched, with physical force if necessary.

I'll be dog.  Soon enough a lizard scurried by, slowed for a few moments and did exactly what Grannie said it would do!

Starting this morning on my roomier front porch in the 21st century, I spied a lizard on a table where a fern from my baby boy's wedding now resides.  It looked up at what surely seemed like Mt. Everest, a big black flower pot, surveyed left, then right, and quick as a flash hopped a cascading frond, valuable real estate with the best view on the porch.

My baby boy's observation of a lizard came to mind.  He noticed they did push-ups.  I've noticed they love the eco-system created just for them by the many potted plants which adorn my front porch for eight or nine months of the year.  They hide behind the shutters, skitter along the porch rail, sometimes evading the cat who sees them as toys, drink water droplets from the leaves on the plants, snap an insect for breakfast and make adorable teeny baby lizards.  

I've often said of myself it doesn't take much to entertain me.  

These little chameleon-like creatures are even mentioned in the Bible, "a lizard can be caught with the hand, yet it is found in kings' palaces."  

I don't catch them with my hand, as a matter of fact, when one migrated indoors for the winter, hitching a ride on its plant home, my now daughter-in-love, then girlfriend of my baby boy caught it for me and released it to find a winter home outside.  

Back at my childhood home, a neighbor boy picked up a lizard, was looking at it closely and it latched onto the columella of his nose and hung on for dear life.  I went inside and told my mother there was a lizard hanging from Mike's nose and she told me, "Go on and leave me alone."  

I forgive her now for that, she had four children and worked full time.  I did what she said and went back onto the carport and the husky kid with a crew cut and freckles on his round face was shaking his head, the lizard flinging left and right, he was crying, so I went back inside and apprised my mother of the situation once more.

This time she must have believed me for she got a dish towel, calmly held the boy's head with one hand, grasped the lizard with the dish towel and it unclamped its jaws for freedom.  Little lizard got the ride of its life and the little boy wasn't traumatized, we weren't allowed to be that way either back in the day, and resumed playing.

There's my lizard story, small but significant.  Country living lends itself to little observations like this and my training for this life began at my Grannie's command.

Can't see the lizard and I believe that's the plan.