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.             

     

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"

Short and Sweet

"Thom, you're about to find out just how much we love you."--Mr. A, speaking to our firstborn over the telephone about the upcoming birth of his first child this fall.  

We women have so much to say and share about pregnancy, childbirth and infant care, volumes are written and spoken.  This, however, is about the most touchingly beautiful thing I've heard, from father to son. 

Mr. A and our firstborn son
an outstanding father
to an outstanding son
1988

 

2012 at our firstborn's wedding
Mr. A, best man
Mrs. A, best mom :D
our firstborn
his lovely bride
our second son, also best man
his then girlfriend, now fiancee
and the 7th person, number of perfection,
now resides in the womb of our daughter-in-love

Psalm 103:17But the steadfast love of the LORD is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him,
and his righteousness to children’s children,
18to those who keep his covenant
and remember to do his commandments.

Happy Family News!

First, a little back story:

http://cdmphotostudio.blogspot.com/search/label/Reed

My firstborn was married October 13, 2012.  He and his wife lived in our home town for about a year-and-a-half, then relocated to Denver, Colorado late spring, 2014.  They honeymooned there and fell in love with the place, one of the main draws being it does not have southern Georgia's steamy sub-tropical climate.  Then there were good jobs, exponentially better pay than our region, and despite a bit higher cost of living, they are able to put back more money for a home in the future.  Presently, they just moved from a sweet little townhouse to a more spacious detached dwelling in the same neighborhood they love.  The extra room is needed, for...

This was the sweet way Mr. A and I were informed we were going to be grandparents.  They were smooth, let me tell you.  It was March 1st, and they were in Georgia for a visit.  They had spent Christmas in Denver, so it was reasonable to me to receive a little flat silver box and be told it was an ornament. They had given us a Christmas ornament from a trip to Helen, GA a couple of years ago, so here was an ornament from Colorado, right?  

I had donned my reading glasses and went to sit by Mr. A so we could look at our ornament together.  Isaiah 49:18, NIV, comes to mind:  "Lift up your eyes and look around; all your children gather and come to you.  As sure as I live," declares the Lord, "you will wear them all as ornaments; you will put them on, like a bride."

These lovely people ornamented our home:

They look like proud parents already, and indeed they are!  

If that wasn't enough joy to fill this mother's heart, my baby boy and his betrothed, also Denver residents, visited about two weeks later.  They will be married this summer. Our family is growing and I am one blessed mother, mother-in-law, and grandmother-in-the-making.  

I have considered Grand-ma-ma, emphasis on the ah, or Le-Le, springboarding from my first name.  If my grandbaby begins speaking in the manner of my baby boy, Le-Le will be We-We.  I'm told grandparents are often called what the wee ones can pronounce, so who knows, Mr. A or I might be "Donk" the name little Sybbie on Downtown Abbey christened her grandfather. 

Exciting, happy times.  I am a blessed woman, in too many ways to count!    
  

All Over the Page

The mother of baby boy's girlfriend and I stood at the entrance of her den where her two grown children, my two grown children, and the two lovely wives of our elder children were all seated.  

"We are blessed," I said, and she wholeheartedly agreed.

Her daughter had walked across the stage at commencement exercises at Valdosta State University just a few hours earlier, the reason for our gathering, to celebrate her success in completing college.  Baby boy flew in from Colorado, reunited with his high school sweetheart after a six months telecommuter relationship for the whirlwind weekend of a pinning ceremony and abundant pomp and circumstance.

 

The Pomp and Circumstance Marches bring on the waterworks for me, but then again, so do altogether too many other things.  I am beyond ready for this phase of life to pass!  At 50, it's a precarious thing to wish any part of one's life away, but I prefer the state of emotional and hormonal being when I could schedule tears for my privacy and convenience.

Anyway...

Like anyone else, I prefer joy to sorrow, so if those blankety-blank tears insist on bursting the dam, I'll share the joy that accompanies them.

Back to the living room full of "kids." 

Every one of them possesses a college degree now.  I believe my generation oversold the power of a degree.  With an economy walking atop greased floors wearing banana peel shoes, our promise of perfect financial security has been broken.  My firstborn recently spoke of an impending crash of the stock market, predicted by a Nobel prize winner. 

During commencement exercises, when the university president spoke of the glowing future ahead for the about-to-be graduates, the same son quipped, "And here's your light bill."  

Is he jaded?  

No, I don't think so.  Even when he said his generation overall will not achieve on the level of their parents financially, I did not think him overly negative.  All too many of us were living beyond our means with too generous credit which led to problems nationwide, worldwide.  It was a façade, and when those crumble, it is time to deal with real issues. 

(my kids get their serious side from me, the photo bomber on the right)

And steering from caution and concerns, I veer back toward joy.  

These kids are taking life by the horns and living it anyway.

Buying a house, moving across the country, finding jobs, supporting themselves with no assistance from their parents, and as far as I can see, not one of them is tattooed or pierced in areas which could hinder them from any job in the public sector.  

They are traveling, taking up snowboarding, adopting pets, and all in all, living life optimistically with a strong dose of realism.

As the Bible describes this life, it is a mist, a vapor.  My husband and I marvel how quickly it has passed, is passing.  We went from our own young life of sailing, driving fast cars, fishing in the sea, playing racquetball to a marriage, establishing a home, having children, helping parents and even a sibling deal with the waning days of their lives, buried them, and survived to tell the story.

It is all in there.  Joy.  Sorrow.  Triumph.  Disappointments.  Accomplishments.  Failures.  Applause.  Tears.    

Blasted tears.  But I must give them their props, they multi-task to cover the good and the bad, the bittersweet.

Baby boy returns to Colorado today, so far away, but amazingly, with a few finger taps, all of us can see him, albeit with the sound not quite synchronized with his likeness.  In a few weeks, his girlfriend will follow him out there, looking for work in her field.  They'll be next door neighbors in an apartment complex with a lovely view of the mountains and a sunny outlook on the future.  

A part of the parents' lives comes to a close and a part of the kids' lives is just beginning to open.  Baby boy's mama coaxes him to move to the mountains in the eastern part of the country, a little closer to home, and his girlfriend's mother tries in vain to get them to put GPS trackers on their phones so she'll know for sure they haven't fallen off a cliff.  

They'll have to be patient with us as we learn how to let go.  We don't do one thing to hinder them from packing their bags and embarking on the life the Lord has planned for them to live; the lag time of the inward evolution, waiting to see that they'll be all right without us, is where we are still trying to grow up ourselves.  

And I know all of us ultimately will be just fine.                

The Nest Is Not Empty

June 17, 2013
journal entry--the handwritten kind

First "ordinary" day as an empty nester.  I am coming to loathe that term already as my home is not empty.  It is comfortable and adequate, well-stocked, even a living thing with people, pets and plants.  Calming classical music plays, a refreshing change from the constant yammer of bad news. 

Where young adults once resided are rooms that house a potential guest, a home library, a computer and photography room.  Their time here, as all adult life, seemed fleeting, and their time to make a nest of their own has come.

I cautiously predict what is to come, as often the Lord surprises us with His plans just as we have formulated our own, but a season to lavish love and attention undivided on my husband may be here.  I know better than to make him my sole focus, but the sweet companionship will be cherished. 

The time has come for us to trust our raising and return our attention to us as a couple.  The season of prayer warrior and advisor (as needed) is here.
-------

Brave words for barely one week gone by of life without any offspring in residence.  It got harder before it got better, and that is said at the five month mark.  The younger of my two sons moved out, all the way out to Englewood, Colorado.  His girlfriend of five years will graduate from the local university the first week of December, and that occasion will also be the first I've seen my baby boy since he pulled out of our driveway on June 10th. 

He began his first post-college job on my 50th birthday, June 24th. 

This was taken the day he and my husband began the cross country drive to Colorado.  The rocking chair was for me, a la Grannie on a 1960s sitcom, "The Beverly Hillbillies".  She moved across the country, too, from southern swampland to Californy, seated in a rocker atop the Clampett family jalopy.  Alas, I and the rocker stayed behind to begin a new phase of my life as well, one that deserves another name that doesn't have the word "empty" in it.

Even his former room wasn't left empty.  It took me all of two days to transform it into a home library/guest room.  As you can see in the picture above, of his worldly goods, only what fit in his Explorer went with him to Colorado.  Tip for the moving--if you drive an Explorer, U-Haul will not rent a trailer to you.   Their policy meant a bed, dresser and night stand left behind, hence the room's new function.

 
After this photograph was taken, I even shipped him the comforter seen in the lower left and replaced it with one covered in roses. 

I can't express adequately how happy I am he'll be sleeping in the guest room at least one night of his stay for the graduation in December and again during Christmas!  I've even ordered a new blanket to go on the bed as I sent all the warm bedding in the linen closet to his new apartment in Englewood.

I can express that there is indeed life, good life, after the children become adults and create homes of their own.  As I type this, my belly is still warm with a delicious potato sausage chowder Mr. A and I cooked together.  As he stirred and I chopped, he gave thanks "for a woman who cooks for a man."  I give thanks that he gives thanks!  It is his policy of helping with clean-up which complements mine, cooking for him and me.  

Earlier, while we were walking hand-in-hand about the property and through the woods on the adjoining land, in family estate, we spoke of the beautiful sunshine-filled day and pointed out small strips of sunlight on the carpet of leaves and straw near the pond.  He had joined me on the last lap of five, each one taking approximately eleven-and-a-half minutes at my heart-strengthening brisk pace, but together we strolled a leisurely twenty, interrupted by a smooch in the woods.  

He asked if I'd ever been kissed in the woods before and I said, "Yes, by you!"  He didn't forget.  He was just checking my memory.  

We haven't forgotten us.  The memories of our lives together and with our children are rich and tangible--we live in the same home we started in over 27 years ago.  We had a child shortly after our first wedding anniversary, but we'd had nearly four sweet years together as a couple prior to his birth.  As we walked, we planned a Christmas celebration for two, visiting nearby Thomasville, Georgia for their Victorian Christmas festivities, a tradition the town began, interestingly, 27 years ago.

We're also planning a family Christmas here at The Ponderosa, and I look forward with great joy to that as well.  I've already begun purchasing stocking stuffers, a big fat hairy deal of a tradition for us and now including a daughter-in-love from my older son and a daughter-in-heart by my youngest.

In the meantime, my life and my home is not empty.  It is an adjustment, to be sure, but Mr. A and I are up for it.