To Believe or Not to Believe

Surely all my mother wanted was a nice Christmas picture of me.  I remember this evening like yesterday, exactly what I was thinking of this imposter to an imaginary character.  There were two strands of beads, one white, one purple, which went with this outfit--I couldn't get around wearing this uncomfortable dress, but I did refuse to wear the beads.  I am six years old here.

When my kids were growing up, we didn't go along with Santa Claus, or the tooth fairy and Easter bunny for that matter.  It wasn't a rigid legalistic belief which precipitated this parenting decision.  It was a conversation with my beloved Grannie.  

When a sibling told her there was no Santa Claus, she was hurt deeply, not so much at the revelation, but that her parents had "lied" to her, the word she used.  I perceived through her storytelling, Grannie always told true stories, the hurt she felt so many decades ago.  Grannie never suggested that I not participate in this type childhood wonder with my children and she occasionally made reference to "Sanny Claus."  It was her truth, though, plus the fact that I had always been a Santa skeptic.  

From my earliest memories, and I have memories of wearing high top shoes with bells on them, I had put it together that my daddy took us kids to visit our other grandmother at the same time Santa allegedly dropped by with his stash.  As a tot, I grilled my mother about how he got in the house because we had no fireplace, no chimney for him to shimmy down.  I was aware, even as a very young child, of the inequity of gifts different children received, some receiving none.  

As an adult, I valued truth, and with the memory of my Grannie's disappointment deeply embedded in my heart, I did not want to do anything to shake my children's faith in their parents.  I told them other children believed and it was not our place to dispute their belief.  I'm not hinting or advising that anyone do the same, just sharing a memory.  

It was, and sometimes still is, surprising to hear the strong opinions of those who disagreed with this facet of our parenting, but it's something I have no regrets about, and I have no issue with the majority on this matter.  I was and am capable of believing in the unseen, and along that vein, my children received three gifts each Christmas, the same number as Jesus, the real reason for the season, and The Truth Grannie shared with me.  That I believed!  
  

Throwback Thursday July 24, 2014

Stunt cyclist, 1967ish, 4 years old  

My best guess is 1967, as that is the year my mother cut my waist length hair because of the rat's nests.  That's what she called the massive tangle of curls which was entirely, genetically, her fault.  The tricycle was red and I loved it. It was not long before I got my first bicycle with training wheels, a gold Hedstrom, and I promptly demanded Daddy take off the training wheels.  

I liked a challenge, living on the edge, even when my age was in the single digits.  

In my early teens, I saw a neighborhood boy riding a unicycle, and I decided I must do that, too.  I asked for and received one for Christmas.  I got two paint poles out of the utility room and used them like ski poles for balance until I learned to ride without them.  My Grannie later told me my mother said she didn't think I'd ever ride it, but Grannie told her I would.  

And I did.  I'm 14 here.    

This wasn't enough.  I would sneak off with a friend who had a vintage Harley and go riding with him.  We once clocked over a hundred miles an hour and another time went airborne after hitting a root in the Blue Springs region.  I had to sneak because I was forbidden to ride motorcycles.  My mother had seen some gruesome injuries when she worked in the emergency room, even described them to me.  It made no difference.  I wanted to ride a motorcycle and I did.  The last @$$-whoopin' I got was for doing just that.  It didn't stop me.  

Freshman year, same friend and I were supposed to go to graduation that year and play Pomp and Circumstance for the seniors.  The volunteer band was missing a tuba player and a clarinetist because we, dressed rather nicely, went motorcycle riding.  I had on yellow dress slacks and wedge sandals and I lifted my legs as high as I could when we rode through the dip at Cherry Creek so as not to get my clothes wet.  I got away with it that time.     

I wonder sometimes where this spirited girl went, but there is no question at all it was thoroughly and irrevocably in my genes:

My older son is standing; my baby boy is rappelling.  

More than once, a disapproving comment was made to me about the climbing nature of my baby boy.  To the best of my recollection, I never once tried to hinder him.  How could I deny something I'd genetically bequeathed to him?

I'd climbed my share of tall South Georgia pines, and it was one of my favorite things to do.  I roller skated, forward, backward, and as fast as I humanly could.  

Skating, I can tell you, is not like riding a bicycle.  I donned some roller skates in my mid-thirties, went one round, promptly exited the skate floor and took those off.  I'm 51 now, and have not, won't, try that again.  I will grow older as gracefully as I can, but there is a part of me which still longs for an adventure.  

Not some tacky midlife crisis, but a true adventure.  I look forward to blogging about it, whatever it may be.  

Rich and Spoiled

That's me.  

Not in the Kardashian way, and I'm happy to report I am only vaguely familiar with them, have never watched their television show, which I gather the plot consists of obscene flaunting of material wealth and excess in all categories.  

Surely I'm not the only person 50+ years of age who gets excited when Big Lots has their 20% off everything sale!  My sweet husband and I went there yesterday and bought sixteen bare root roses for a total of $36.00.  For less than the cost of a dozen roses on Valentine's Day, I'm going to have a rose garden.  Suddenly I have been made a very rich woman!

I wasn't too selective, couldn't be really, but chose all the roses which had signs of new growth, and ended up with a variety I intend to label before planting.  I asked my husband only one more thing, to tell me where he stored some five gallon plastic buckets we have so I could soak the roses in them.

This morning, after baking banana muffins, loading and running the dishwasher, feeding the dog, cat and birds, then piddling on Facebook, I went to get on some grubbies to play in the dirt.  I walk into the master bedroom, which has three vertically long windows, and see this:  

On the right hand side of this picture, the white rectangle on the fence is a piece of lattice on which climbs seven sisters roses rooted from a great-aunt's garden.  Hers came from my great-grandparents' farm, my kind of heirloom.

Tears promptly filled my eyes.

Yesterday my sweet husband asked me if I wanted him to put down the material which keeps weeds down, and I said, no, I didn't want to bother him with this, it was enough he bought the roses.  It is hard for me to say I now have more free time than ever in my life when I am aware how many obligations so many others have.

I've lived that season as well, a former card carrying member of the sandwich generation.  There were many days of my life which were scheduled in this manner:

• get up and get kids ready for school
• throw in a load of laundry, then quick pick up of household
• go to my mother's and do the same at her house
• take her to the doctor or grocery store or both
• pick up kids, then go back to doctor's office to pick up mother
• (kids would do homework in doctor's office)
• somewhere between all this, work a little job as a book vendor
• gave up substituting job at the kids' school, had to leave it too many times to take mother to emergency room
• take her home, settle her in from doctor/ER/grocery store
• go home, prepare for ball games of the season
• make supper, clean up
• fall in bed exhausted, slept well, thankfully, save for the times I would take my mother to the emergency room in the night
• get up the next morning and do it all again
• in the midst of all this, I wrote a newspaper column for 12 years and was doing preliminary work on a book
• and when I thought this season of life was winding down, I found myself in a care giving role to an older brother who was dying

I am not someone who prides myself on being a human-doing.  I believe everyone should carve out time to be, to think, meditate, and ponder.  I also realize this is close to impossible in some seasons of life.  

I didn't do all the aforementioned single-handedly; enormous credit is due my loving husband who pitched in above and beyond what any spouse could desire.  As is said about the time our children are babies, these days were long, but the years were short.  Suddenly, it seemed, I was/am looking for things to fill my time.

Each day is not pre-filled for me and I must give thought to what I'd like to do that is of some value.  In the crazy-busy days, the value was always present--what higher calling than raising children and seeing to the needs of the elderly and sick?  And I'm living a season in life now so many long for, having enough time in the day to do what one wants without being rushed.  

There was another season in life which was completely opposite the crazy-busy days, interminably slow to me, growing up.  

As a child, I'd gaze out the window of my elementary school classroom, longing to be there instead of confined to a desk which was no different to me than a chain and shackles.  It took decades, but that dream came true.  

Along with another, a rose garden.

No doubt most people thought that the roses which grew alongside the carport of my childhood home were the work of the women of the house, my grandmother AKA Grannie, or my mother.  That assumption would be wrong. The roses were my father's joy, a man with brawny biceps, around six feet tall, whose life's work included driving a gasoline tanker, working in a pit crew at races, butchering meat on the weekends, and running a gas station while working as a mechanic, chain-smoking all the while.

Those roses smelled a lot better than Daddy's second-hand cigarette smoke!  And they were lovely, delicate, what a contrast to a man with deep brown skin and equally deep furrows in his forehead.  I didn't know their Latin names, didn't know they had Latin names, but to me they were red velvet, yellow with a pink-tinged edge, pink, white, all more beautiful than my senses could contain.  Back in the day, I stopped and smelled the roses nearly every day they were in bloom, full-on face plant, breathing in as much as my little lungs would hold.  

With any luck, I'll eventually be inhaling heaven sent scents.  I have neither the knowledge nor the intent of becoming a pissy rose gardener.  My late mother once told me about a woman who grew roses who was so afraid someone would root one of her roses, she'd gather and discard the clippings.  I simply want to enjoy my Big Lots roses in my own wrong-side-of-town manner.   

God created these lovely plants, and He is giving me the joy now of oversight and arrangement.  Mr. A has demonstrated great faith in me, he who once quipped my black thumb had evolved to brown, lovingly doing the harder work of preparing the soil.  

I sometimes wish he understood that I want to do those more taxing jobs, that I have time to do them, but I must appreciate how rich in love and spoiled by chivalry I am.  

I was never promised a rose garden in this life, but it seems the good Lord, in His awesomely perfect timing, has brought me a second one to enjoy in a season of life when I have time to do just that.  

    

2014, here we go!

The kitchen calendar has just been turned to February, and though I've accepted how fast time flies, I still marvel.  Some nights pass so quickly, I believe the Lord is pushing the fast forward button so He can hurry up and bring us to our forever home with Him.  Of course that means somewhere on the other side of the world, someone's days are rushing by!

My fondness for winter is non-existent, but my heart is warmed midway by the celebration of Valentine's Day on the 14th.  I enjoyed the cartoon Valentine's Day cards exchanged in elementary school and I've relished the romance of grown up gifts of love.  At Sallas-Mahone Elementary School, in a building which no longer exists, we'd color Valentine themes on a paper bag, tape them to the window sill and on Valentine's Day they'd be filled with cartoon cards and if one was lucky, a heart-shaped lollipop would be threaded through one or two.  

In 2009, the older of my two brothers was buried on Valentine's Day, and remarkably, it was one of the sweetest Valentine's ever.  My husband quietly presented me with flowers, candy, and a card on which he wrote that he was so sorry these came on a sad day for me.  His gesture of thoughtfulness was the first thing I saw the morning of my brother's funeral, waiting for me on the dining table.  The way my husband artfully expressed both his love and condolence at once has been one of many beautiful treasures he deposited in my heart.  

I have an affinity for all things heart related which dates to a pink plastic locket my daddy gave me; I wore it proudly on a plain string necklace.  It was perfect for a little barefoot princess who'd rather climb a tree than wear a tiara.  There were roses embossed on that little locket, which may have come from a box of Cracker Jacks, but was a treasure to me nonetheless.

On the first Valentine's Day my now husband and I celebrated, he presented me with a gold floating heart necklace, encrusted with tiny diamonds.  We knew each other barely a month then, and the gift was a sweet predictor of the future we would share together.  I handmade a card for him that year, 1983, and it is now falling apart, but he has held on to the symbol of my love as I have the necklace.

When our love grew our family by two, I began a tradition of making Valentine's baskets, little square red plastic buckets with a chrome handle, lining those with heart-dotted tissue paper and filling them with candy and little trinkets.  They'd be on each family member's respective dining chair Valentine's morning and it appeared they were anticipated with as much joy as the Christmas stockings we'd dig into each Christmas Eve.

I don't recall the year, but my late mother-in-law began distributing important papers and photographs to each of her seven children, and I thought it so appropriate that my husband's baptismal certificate was dated February 14th.  He's so sweet!  I close my eyes and imagine how blessed his mother must have felt holding her fifth child.  She and my father-in-law both said they would have had more children than their quiver full of seven if time and biology had permitted.  Being that I am a fourth child, a surprise baby at that, I've never frowned on large families, but rejoiced in the number of blessings!

Our blessings have grown up in this speed of light passing of time, and one of the things I've done to fill the time suddenly available is work on photography skills.  The picture taken above captured a Valentine the Lord made for me in a 'gator filled swamp, 2012.  I am captivated by the natural beauty of His creation and I was in awe of this unfurled lily pad, shaped in love.  It wasn't until I examined the picture more closely on a computer screen that I saw the shining star, further depicting His ultimate love for mankind, the announcement of the birth of His Son, glowing over Bethlehem.

Sometimes I am overcome by the hate in the world, but February reminds us to look for and express the love!  It's there, and to allow it to be blotted out by unkindness, well, that's a shame.  I need to respect my Lord more than that! This life is spotted with heartbreaks and loss, but His love is expressed so deeply and so dearly, it deserves priority focus!  Like the overwhelming beauty of a delicate lily in a swamp fraught with dangers is His all surpassing love for us as we traverse this world on our way to Him.

Look for all of life's sweet Valentines He blesses us with--all month long, all year long, all life long.          

      

A Kizzie Kind of Breakfast

After I was old enough to have a dining table of my own, I vowed not to put several things on it:  frozen pot pies, Hamburger Helper and Frosted Flakes. Enough time has passed now I realize that was not the proper attitude, but more along the lines the fictional Scarlett O'Hara expressed in "Gone With the Wind":  

"As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again." 

The little frozen pot pies used to go on sale six for a dollar at Harvey's, a southern grocery store chain; after my daddy died, those sales were a delight to my mother who was struggling to get by.  Making ends meet wasn't happening.      

That much, I held true to, none of those little pot pies in aluminum bowls, though Marie Callender's pot pies did make the table.  No Hamburger Helper, but Tuna Helper, yes.  Was there a shade of victory in helping tuna, as opposed to hamburger, get by my declaration?  I think so, twixt my ears.  

And Frosted Flakes, it's a wonder I didn't turn into Tony the Tiger as that was my main fortification before school for many years.  When I finally got daring enough to refuse to eat them in high school, my mother bought some Carnation Instant Breakfast packets and insisted I drink that stirred into a tall glass of milk.  I did--gratefully--and to this day I will consume that for breakfast; there's some in the pantry now.

Once in a great while, before I started high school when my grandmother still lived with us, she'd treat me to the most delectable breakfast I'd ever tasted--an egg scrambled in a small "spider", her word for cast iron skillet, and a piece of "light bread", modern day white bread, toasted on both sides in the spider.  She'd put strawberry preserves on the toast, a little salt on the egg, and I'd pour a glass of milk and enter heaven.

Mom made it clear we weren't to make Grannie do anything; she had health issues and needed to rest.  But Mom left before dawn to go to work and when Grannie offered to make me eggs and toast, I didn't decline!  It was rare, usually by the time I was up and getting ready for school, Grannie had already had her breakfast and taken her medications, we called it medicine then.  Every now and then she was running late and did I cherish those mornings!  

Some four plus decades later, I'll cook that breakfast for myself from time to time, when cereal isn't appetizing.  This frigid weather, called a polar vortex on the heels of Winter Storm Ion, had me in the mood for morning comfort food, a Kizzie (my grandmother's first name she didn't like) kind of breakfast:

I wasn't unhappy with *everything* on my mother's table--Oneida's chateau flatware was her pattern and I liked that.  It's been my pattern as well for nearly three decades.  

The egg was cooked in a Calphalon non-stick skillet, not much bigger than the spider Grannie used, sprinkled with kosher salt instead of Morton's and the bread is an oatmeal bread, not white.  I used a toaster rather than the skillet, less butter on the bread that way, and the preserves had no high fructose corn syrup.  The taste, oh joy!  Remarkably similar to Grannie's!  

Right now it's 29° in Valdosta, GA, unusually cold for this region.  My toes feel like ice cubes, but my heart is warm, very warm, with the memory of Grannie's lovingly made breakfast.  It was 21° when I cooked it!  Mom gets props, too, for it was she who taught me to add a little liquid to the eggs, water or cream.

I wish I could apologize to my mother for being a little food snob and I wish I could thank Grannie for teaching me how to feast like a queen on the simplest of fare.  For now, dear friends, I tell you.  

Stay warm!

Mrs. A        

Reunion with a Relative

As far as technicalities go, she has not been my aunt for around four decades. Still, I could think of nothing more fitting to address her by than Aunt Nancy.

Calling her Nancy would be out of the question.  Though I am a 50-year-old woman, I still adhere to my mother's teachings on proper respect in addressing individuals in deference to who they are.  Aunt Nancy is my senior, by, well, she told me her age, but I shall leave it to her to tell others.  I will say this, she could easily have told me ten less years and gotten away with it.

I cannot remember the year, but I was a very young girl, when I was first introduced to the concept of a divorce.  People didn't do that so often in those days, and only now did I learn Aunt Nancy tried for two years to keep it from happening.  

The details don't matter.  People deserve to have their past be just that.  I have a real problem with people who like to dredge up other people's past anyway. My mother and grandmother, Aunt Nancy's former sister-in-law and mother-in-law were appropriately discreet with information that a child didn't need to know.  What I did know was an aunt who used to visit fairly often didn't come by anymore.  

As years went by, my grandmother was eventually placed in a nursing home and I was happy to learn that Aunt Nancy visited her regularly.  When my still-Aunt Nancy's former husband died, an uncle I loved dearly, I was in the room when my mother telephoned her and welcomed her and her current husband to come to the funeral and be with her children.  My mother's words expressed that she didn't want her and her husband to feel awkward in this situation.    

There was a graciousness in these interactions that isn't as common in my generation, sad to say.

In recent years, my husband and I began to bump into Aunt Nancy and her current husband at dinner time.  All of us were at the stage where it was easier for two to eat out than to cook for two, or maybe we just didn't want to cook, whatever the case, it was good to see them.  I did address her husband as Mr. L--- as I'd never known him as an uncle, and he was an older gentleman, and that would be exactly what my mother would prescribe, so Mr. L--- he was, and each time I'd see them, he would greet me kindly, shake my hand, which again, is what Mom would have suggested I do.  

Long ago, I said to Mom that I'd seen a former classmate and I didn't know what to say to her.  She was in a wheelchair as a result of a self-inflicted bullet wound, a failed suicide attempt.  Mom didn't miss a beat.  She said I should say, "Hello, it's good to see you."  

Oh Mom had a temper from hell, I'm told I'm a bit like her, but when it came to appropriate behavior in polite society, she was as dignified a southern woman as was ever born.  I aim to be like her in that way as well.  

Anyway...I was sending out Christmas cards mid-December, and Aunt Nancy and Mr. Lamb came to mind, so I sent them one.  I was thinking of the lovely cards she would bring my Grannie on her birthday and other special occasions.  Shortly after sending the card, my husband and I ran into Aunt Nancy and Mr. L--- at Olive Garden.  I was saddened to learn that he now resided at an assisted living facility.

Mr. L--- enjoyed collecting Christmas village sets and Aunt Nancy said she still will put them out to honor him.  She invited me and my husband to come see the display, and the picture below she sent me shows but a fraction of the collection.     

This picture captures the essence of the young Aunt Nancy I knew so long ago, pretty, polished and well-dressed.  The lovely scarf, she made.  I know I'm not supposed to compare people, but I can't help myself.  Aunt Nancy wore lipstick and perfume and had her hair done, unlike my mother, who hated the feel of cosmetics on her skin, was allergic to most perfumes, and combed her naturally curly hair into the same pompadour her entire adult life.  Mom's idea of being well-dressed was having "my behind covered."  

I bet most women can remember being a little girl, seeing a lovely woman, and thinking that it was not possible to ever become like that.  With my uneven ponytails, freckles across my nose and tomboyish ways, it didn't seem likely, but Aunt Nancy gifted me with the encouragement of lip gloss appropriate for a child and shampoo decanted from a Charlie Brown bottle, both from the Avon line she sold.

I mentioned the shampoo and Aunt Nancy laughed and said someone asked her son what his mother did, and he informed them she didn't work, she sold Avon.  

She lives in an adorable brick home that belonged to her late parents.  I did not remember ever visiting there, it would still have been her parents' home when I was a small girl, but Aunt Nancy felt sure I'd been there "with your Grannie."  And that is likely so, as where Grannie went, I often went, too.  I once told my Daddy a man came and picked us up and took us downtown.  My Grannie, long widowed at the time, explained to Daddy we'd taken a cab.  

And that is about the level of innocence through which I saw the world along the time the path of Aunt Nancy's life and mine diverged.  It was wonderful to spend time with her again after so many years.  She spoke only briefly and factually about her marriage to my late uncle, and blessedly for both us, without an iota of bitterness or vitriol, another example my generation could take a cue or two from.  

I marveled at how adept she is with modern electronics--digital camera, e-mail, texting, and she even looks at Facebook but doesn't participate.  I don't blame her there as I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook, but that's a blog post for another day.

She took a picture of me and my husband with her Christmas village as a backdrop, then we all went to Cracker Barrel for dinner.  We plan to do that again soon!  

Back when Aunt Nancy used to visit my childhood home, also the home of her then mother-in-law, I had 24 aunts and uncles, plus scads of great-aunts and great-uncles, Grannie's brothers, sisters, and their spouses, who visited regularly.  I never knew who would walk in the door--at our house that was the way it was, doors weren't locked and family didn't have to knock--and was always happy to see whoever it was and who they brought with them.    

Through life's attrition, I have only one living aunt by marriage and she lives in Michigan.  Man, am I ever glad I was wrong about having only one.  

I found another aunt who lives about ten minutes from my current home and to say I'm delighted is an understatement.  She picked up with ease where we left off, didn't stay long there, and brought me up to date with the last few decades of her life.  

The chance meetings we had over the past few years have evolved into something even better, a renewed relationship I will cherish.