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.  

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.             

     

Simple, Often Repetitive, Always Funny

In my perpetual overthinking, hazard of one with abundant time on her hands, I hesitated to post my morning laughter on Facebook.  It begs to be told whether or not there is a listener, so the world must know how feeding the birds can be fraught with danger...and funny.

I've been watchful for snakes which sometimes view my bird feeders as their hunting grounds, slithery mooches.  This morning, I heard a soft buzzing near the base of a crepe myrtle, one of two where I place seed for my avian visitors. 

I try later to describe the sound to my husband, telling him I was at first looking for a baby rattlesnake, then theorizing it might have been an insect of the night winding down as the sun rose.  

"It talks to you, too?"

Great laughter, the sort which would wake a neighbor if we had one in earshot.  Yes, I suppose the crepe myrtle has begun talking to me now.  

His sweet zaniness never grows old, even as we do.
  

Mother-in-Law! And other in-laws, too

(written December 2014)

A blog post which inspired a blog post: 

http://thepioneerwoman.com/blog/2014/12/ship-of-hope/

Let me start by saying my post is not directed at any individual, but thoughts inspired after reading this lighthearted post by Ree Drummond, AKA The Pioneer Woman. 

I'm sharing this because I appreciate her holding her mother-in-law in a positive light.  I had a good one who lived to be 91 years old and I'm trying very hard not to be the type mother-in-law who causes constant grief to her children and their spouses.  No one is perfect and I'm sure I'll err, have erred-- I'm very new at this--but most mothers-in-law aren't completely evil as they are often stereotyped.

I have welcomed my daughter-in-love and future daughter-in-love to tell me if and when I step over the line.  Long before my sons were even old enough to consider marriage, I puzzled over the vitriol automatically assigned mothers-in-law.  That person, in most cases, is the one who had the most influence in shaping the man/woman a person fell in love with and wants to spend the rest of their lives with, and for that she deserves respect.  

I would say to young married men and women to look ahead and plant good seed for the future.  One day, odds are, you will be a parent-in-law and most people realize the truth of reaping and sowing, some call it karma.  Treat your in-laws the way you will want to be treated.  

To mothers-in-law, including myself, honor your children's "grownness" and their boundaries.  Respect is deserved, but it is also earned.  Trust how you raised them and unless they are breaking the law or need a substance abuse intervention, butt out of their personal business.  We figured out how to conduct ourselves in our own relationships; give them the same breathing room.  It is not our role or place to be involved with every detail and decision in their lives.

If you/I slip, accept their "no."  Biblically, our grown children are to respect us, but they are no longer obligated to obey us.  If we are trying to make our grown children obey us or worse yet, trying to meddle in or run their lives, then face it, we're being manipulative and the Bible regards manipulation in the same realm as witchcraft.  Don't act like a witch!  It won't get you stoned to death as in Old Testament times, but it carries a potentially strong and unbearable penalty, emotional distance from your grown children and their families.    

Their primary relationship is with their spouse and must be respected as such.  Remember, especially with the holidays upon us, we must now share them with their other families, and it's still humanly impossible to be in two places at the same time.          


  

Monday Morning Musing

Morning light

peeking around perimeter

of bedroom blinds

wakes me

Another night

swiftly gone

and again

I marvel

I am rested

Birds to feed

dog and cat

too

roses to visit

geraniums to prune

porch to sweep

dewy, dirty paws

to brush

before

going inside

to raise dining room blind

Husband's 

soft snore

I go back

to the front porch 

to look in

I praise

the Lord

for a sunny day

and 

a few

tears

slip

down my cheeks

for a son

moving away

I wipe them

on the sleeve

of an inside-out

night shirt

and smile

inwardly

that woods

surround

unseemly dressing

and

selfish tears

I wait

for bedroom blinds

to raise

A bed-headed boy

inside

a man

of six decades

smiles

and signs

I love you

He'll join me

slowly

silently

on the rocker

while I

sway gently

on the swing

my mind

full throttle

his

floating peacefully

along

a river

He's always thankful

for the good

the bad

while I 

petulantly

demand

the good

and

explosively

fight

the bad

Will he

ever

rise up

with fists

and

will I

ever

glide peacefully

along

with what

each day

presents?

Alone,

no, 

but together

yes 

We are one.

Day Trip to Fernandina Beach, Florida (Tuesday, May 6, 2014)

I had been miserable with a cold and thought the salt air would do me a world of good.  Mr. A decided to take the day off and this was our view when we arrived shortly after lunch time.

This is another view of our view.









Not a purse or a rucksack, but my camera bag.  This man loves me.

After we ate lunch, priced for the view, not necessarily the cuisine, Mr. A posed with this cute pink shrimp.  Prior to this moment, he leaned on the chain and almost took a tumble backward.  His caption for this picture is, "'Bout busted my ass!'"  I laughed.  I'm sorry.  But so did some other patrons.  And he still loves me.  There were rockers from this vantage point and jazz played over the speakers, a seaside version of Cracker Barrel. 

Rebellion and living on the edge, AARP style.

Our sons have moved/are moving across the country, so why not, Mr. A?

We met this gentleman in downtown Fernandina.  He sold us a pineapple for twice what we'd pay at Sam's and my sweet husband willingly obliged.  In addition to a very nice pineapple, we were treated to a "Woop, woooop," then a well played song on his harmonica.  I could tell he is a fixture in Fernandina.  The UPS man called to him, "Woop, wooooop!"  Felix the pineapple and mango selling Peanut Man answered with the same call.

He politely accepted my request to take his picture.

 Entrance to another downtown Fernandina business

Requisite selfie

Architecture appreciation, dents and chimneys, Wadsworth's Men's and Women's Apparal.  Nope, didn't shop there, but we did pick up a couple of hats at Wal-Mart, a straw floppy one for me with a raffia bow and a plain khaki weathered one for Mr. A.  Beach businesses surely make a tidy profit on items people forget on impromptu road trips.  

And finally, the real purpose for this trip!

  

Toward the end of the day, there was a little fellow playing nearby and when his parents called him, he dug his cute heels into the sand and stubbornly said, "I want to stay here."  They insisted he go with him and he shot back, "I'm staying here!"

I felt the same way.  

We dined on peanut butter and strawberry preserve sandwiches, mandarin oranges and spring water, then reluctantly folded up the loungers and headed home.  And for what it's worth, I'm much better, healed by the place where the ocean meets the shore.    

A Perfect Day

camera in hand
flowers, birds
sun reddened
faces and arms
walk in woods
hands in earth
volunteer magnolias
replanted intentionally
two stewards
resting on
still cool ground
a bit of land
temporarily
called home
looking up
dazzling sun lit filaments
golden glow
pine pollen
renewal, rebirth
windmill squeals
change
gentle breezes
love does not mind
dirt and sweat
head on chest
arm encircling
shoulder
and reflects
children
parents
simplicity
in purpose
now cherishing
a moment
no one 
needs them
freedom earned
after
beginning
long ago
and tries
in vain
not to think 
how quickly
this life
passes

Tater Tots, Waffle Irons, Pumpkin Bread, Internet Outage and One Serious Reflection

My original plan for this blog post was to be inspired while cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg wafted throughout the household from the two loaves of pumpkin bread with dates I baked this morning.

The Internet wasn't available, so instead, the scentspiration of the spices involved in the wafting was used while I was on elbows and knees under my desk, trying to see the brand of the modem while talking to a computer I reached when I telephoned Mediacom.  I'm going to guess the computer is a woman of a certain age plus a decade or two as she was a tad hard of hearing. 

I'm thankful no one was around to photo-document me with my bottom in the air yelling, "Continue!"  Couldn't she be more attentive and listen the first time?

Anyway, at nine months past my fifth decade, I should be giving thanks I can crawl under a desk and yell.  While I was in that ridiculous posture, this was happening in the oven:

Your eyes aren't fooling you.  One loaf is shorter than the other because Mr. A and I had to determine already if the efforts to make pumpkin bread with dates were worthwhile.  Indeed they were!  

This was where the action really was this morning, island adorned with mise en place, to use a little high school French, or in other words, covered with bowls, spices, measuring cups and ingredients needed to make this baking dream come true.

Whether it was the rainy day or the expiration date on the pumpkin, the end of this month, this is how I spent the better part of the morning, certified amateur computer technician duties aside.   

My morning started on a dare, seeing if tater tots could successfully be transformed into hash browns with a little coercion from a waffle iron.  Be dog, they could!  It took a little woman-handling to get the iron to close around the still frozen potatoes, but it made four adorable little hash browns. I did not photo-document that either, so I hope you'll take my word for it.  

I was a little dubious about the outcome as I have tried other things on the Internet which ended in a mess, like melting soap slivers in the microwave. Mr. Bubble can't bubble up as high as the Ivory soap slivers which didn't melt and I wondered if a little gremlin inside my computer was laughing its dastardly little face off.  I'll beat those gremlins yet as I've read of other ways to reduce those soap slivers into re-purposed compliance--maybe on another rainy day.

This rainy day started with as much sunshine as I could muster.  Mr. A didn't have to be called to the breakfast table and when he arrived I pointed to his orange juice with extra pulp and said that was all the sunshine he'd be getting today.  Good-natured thing he is, he said I was his sunshine, then we broke into song instead of the blessing, and sang "You Are My Sunshine" all the way through.  

I then said, "Amen," but Mr. A found this prayer insufficient, so he went ahead with, "Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen."  Neither of us address the Lord with "Thy" other than blessing time, but it's one of those old ways that gets inside a person and stays.  Thy it will be prior to mealtime, from here until we eat at the Lord's table in heaven.  Maybe it'll still be Thy then, but I won't try to figure that out right now.

My figuring out presently is largely in the category of what to do with the rest of my life.  I recently wrote out a list of twenty-five things I wish for, categorized in do/be/have.  It was an exercise from a book entitled "Becoming the Woman I Want to Be" and one was supposed to list quickly without thinking long on it twenty-five things to do/be/have.  

Part of me thinks that sounds silly at my age, but the part of me that didn't plan this far ahead, past the time the children were raised and launched and all the parents cared for until Jesus took over that job, has work yet to do. Raising children was my career, and when that is done correctly, one works herself out of a job.  The good Lord knows I miss them, but I wouldn't have it any other way.  I cannot imagine the pride they must feel having completed college and found jobs in which they can support themselves.

But now, what to do with myself?  I forewent the framework of a 9 - 5 and worked as a freelance writer most of those years.  In another book by the same author who suggested the do/be/have list, I just noticed that spells "do behave", she had her readers to write a personal vision statement.  Since my previous mission was accomplished, I did her bidding and wrote another:

"My primary purpose is to be a godly woman, wife, mother, mother-in-love, and in God's timing, grandmother.  I am to love the Lord Jesus with all of my being, and to be a willing vessel to write inspirational books, stories, articles and poetry that direct people to God, encourages and makes them laugh, and most importantly reflects God's redemption and restoration."

This blog is one of the time fillers and it has brought me a creative outlet for a passion which never dies in a writer.  I enjoy photography, so I can pitch that in here as well.  My do/be/have list, which is an outline for what remains, surprised me pleasantly.  

There were only four things on my have list.  One of them was a tiller.  Really. There was a time in my life I'm certain I could have used all twenty-five counts for haves.  I've had so much in my life, even without being a wealthy person, I realize the material things don't satisfy for long and in time they are discarded, obsolete or gathering dust before they're en route to Goodwill.  

One of the be's is to be a more disciplined cook.  Pumpkin expiring this month, pumpkin cooked, check.  A do was to consume far less Internet. Before the Internet was imagined, my late mother often called me scatterbrains.  If you know me aside from my writing, you know there is a ring of truth to that at times.  The Internet doesn't help that condition.

In my handwritten journal, I expounded a little on that theory.

December 1, 2013

"The antithesis of social media and Internet surfing is meditation on God's Word.  In the former, unrelated pieces of information are randomly consumed; the latter brings deep thought, understanding, even a meeting of the mind with the Lord.  Choose this day whom you will serve.  

One captures and enslaves; the other creates a deep, heartfelt desire to willingly, happily, serve and obey the God of this universe.  One can easily divert one's worship to the gods of intellect and consumerism, jealousy, competition and evoke feelings of inferiority.

The other brings about appropriate worship and an inner knowing that sufficiency is found in Christ alone.  Each has the awesome capability to guide and govern one's approach to the entirety of life.  Do we desire an orderly structure that leads to peace or incohesive absorption of material maladaptive to a productive life?"  

I get upset with myself when I fall to random media consumption, which I suspect does not help a soul with attention deficit disorder, and then there is that feeling of loss, time which can never be regained, spent without a mission online.

It's a conundrum I'm addressing this Lenten season, hoping to sacrifice some of the time spent online to more productive time spent with the Lord.  I don't expect to emerge a super-saint, but hope to be more engaged in my own life, in the lives of those I love, while not tethered to a keyboard and computer monitor.

As my late mother-in-law used to say, "Time will tell."  
-----------
P.S.  This rainy day entry is actually being published on a sunny day due to the Internet outage.

Mrs. A       

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.          

      

The Ponderosa's Version of Cialis Bathtubs

More than one or two people have observed my tendency to think very literally; saying concretely could be sketchy because an image of a residential driveway would immediately come to my mind's eye.

Each time a Cialis commercial broadcasts, I tend to ask silently, 'Who the heck has two bath tubs outside?' 

Mr. A and I have two vehicles, but we have not succumbed to the two outdoor bath tubs in order to keep up with the Joneses, or, in this case, the Woods.  Two zero gravity loungers--now that's a different story.  Those we have. 

We also have altogether different ideas about romance. 

I usually occupy the zero gravity lounger on the left, often with a pile of books in my lap.  Mr. A's spot is on the right, sans books.  Sunday afternoon, after a brief visit from baby boy before his departure to Colorado, we retired to the front yard for some much-needed rest. 

I suppose I should explain the location.  During the cooler weather, we drag the loungers from their summer home beneath a Bradford pear tree toward the front of our almost 7 acre spread dubbed The Ponderosa.  Those rich in the language of literature might call our property a glade, but really, it used to be a chicken farm.  Anyway, our bit of the earth the Lord has blessed us with to enjoy during our sojourn here faces east, so this location grants us as much possible time in the rapidly setting fall and winter sun.

My book of the day was Susan Branch's "A Fine Romance:  Falling in love with the English Countryside".  If Susan's books aren't your cup of tea, I'll fill you in.  Her handwriting is her own font, her whimsical drawings, and sweet photographs fill the pages.  This book is dotted with quotations, often written along a wave instead of in line. 

Not so long ago, I read an obituary of a woman who'd found truest love, and one of her joys was the deep, intellectual conversations she and her husband would have.  It was one of the sweetest micro love stories I'd ever read, that obituary. 

My husband will sometimes humor me and listen while I read, though when I hear a snore or a fart, I realize he may not be concentrating.  Don't you dare think badly of him for not caring to read!  He can pilot small aircraft and put a carburetor back together, so there.  Have you ever seen a carburetor completely disassembled into its three gazillion pieces?!  

Back to the book.  One of the wavy quotations was from Ella Fitzgerald:  "The only thing better than singing is more singing."

Mr. A wasn't snoring or farting, but fully enraptured and he lifted slightly from his reclined position and said, "It's like that with sex, too."

Odds are I won't travel to England in an ocean liner, own two outdoor bath tubs or have deep, intellectual conversations with Mr. A, but our take on those bits of other people's lives works for me.  Without Cialis pills.  Those things could make you go blind, ya know!