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.             

     

My Man

A country song to live out with this man

Thomas Rhett's uncle, Brooks Akins, coached our older son in football at the Boys Club level.  The in-laws of another country legend, Kenny Rogers, live across the highway from us.  My man was born in Ohio, not one you'd expect to be a country music fan, but being a transplant to the south it got in him.  

Thomas Rhett's voice is the sound of the south, a drawl and a twang set to music.  I fell in love with this song today, first time I heard it, and in the video is an old Chevy truck like my daddy drove, only Daddy's was red.  (The wedding ring Mr. A wears was my daddy's.)   

I read an article online about the good fortune of marrying a southern man.  I've long teased my man about being a Yankee, but all that is desirable in a man entrenched in the culture beneath the gnat line osmosed to mine.  

At dinner this evening, he looked at me with sheer happiness at my happiness while I was dancing at the dinner table to Thomas Rhett's song.  I told him to hold that thought and he was patient with me while I recaptured his loving expression.

Twenty-eight years and counting.  Our first grandchild is due early this fall and our baby boy is getting married this summer. 

Love multiplies.  

God is good. 

    

  

The Day Before Easter At The Re-purposed Nest

It doesn't take much to make me happy:  

Clean pool loungers, compliments of Lysol All Purpose Cleaner and a pressure washer, our Easter present to each other.  If Lysol would like to compensate me for the endorsement, I'll oblige.  We also pressure washed the front porch, the swing, all the furnishings on it, even the cushions and pillows, plus an anti-gravity lounger.  On the back deck, we now have a freshly cleaned table and six chairs, a metal end table, grill and decorative mini cast iron stove.    

Pressure washing's cool.  Think Beavis and Butthead in the wood shop episode.  Going a bit nuts with a pressure washer is more constructive, though, than a table saw, and at the end of the day, all our fingers were intact.  

The pool loungers, like our nest, have been re-purposed.  The above-ground pool collapsed, the second one we've had to do that, so now instead of lounging in the sun, these loungers are primarily used for viewing the stars and planets.  One iPad with a GoSky app, one blanket, one bottle of mosquito spray, one clear, starry night, and one pool lounger make for a sweet evening.

Mr. A and I bought another anti-gravity lounger at Big Lots yesterday and I commented to him we weren't going to drop about a hundred bucks on filling Easter baskets this year.  I filled Easter baskets for our sons and in time their girlfriends, even to adulthood.  Though it was a tradition I enjoyed for years, yesterday I felt liberated.  "They're making more money than we are," I said to a friend we bumped into from church. "They can fill their own Easter baskets." 

 Here's a photo of my sons and the loves of their lives the last time they were all here for Easter dinner, 2012.  For a couple of decades and then some, it was all about them.  I was fortunate they attended college and lived in the same town afterwards for one year and three years respectively.  Many parents have to get used to this part of life sooner than we have.  I'm not sure which way would be easier, but we now, like them, are learning to lead lives for two. 

Our firstborn arrived ten days after our first wedding anniversary, our second three years later.  It's taken us 28 years to get to the stage of life of discovering how two people live and love together and aside from missing the kids, we're doing a pretty good job of it.  When I was toting furniture to and fro where Mr. A was washing, it crossed my mind this must be what it's like to be newlyweds.  Having been with child just three months into a marriage, this level of freedom is new territory for us.  

Be it ever so humble, we are house proud at the re-purposed nest and get a lot of  joy and satisfaction making it clean and comfortable for the two main guests, during a first season in our married life, ourselves.       

Palm Sunday Siesta and More

He stood so long during mass on Palm Sunday he was exhausted...

Not really...Mr. A usually enjoys a Sunday siesta and now that spring has sprung and the worst of the pollen has stopped in southern Georgia, we lounge the afternoon away in our vitamin D receptacles in the field in front of our home.  Soon enough it will be so hot we'll retreat to the shade of ornamental pear trees.  

The neck pillow was his mother's, one way he holds her memory close.  

The binoculars were used to spot a bald eagle.

The book is mine.

Enough evidence could not be collected to accuse Mr. A of being a book worm. He'd rather chop firewood, rebuild a carburetor, haul away scrap metal...well, you get the picture.  His belly was simply a book rest for a moment while I placed throws on my lounger.  Beautiful and sunny as it was, there was a chill in the air, seems there is always one last reminder of winter shortly before Easter.  

We spoke of airplanes, or rather he spoke of airplanes and I listened.  Military, trainers, experimental, passenger, you name it, he identifies it and never tires of the topic.  My take on a passenger airliner is sardines in a dirty Coke can, but you can't beat it for efficiency.  I loathe car travel, so it's a blessing to go see our children in Colorado in about the same amount of time it'd take us to drive to Atlanta.  (It dawned on me I number among those on earth who knew people from the pre-air travel era.)      

We spoke of parenthood; he said, "There are times you act lovingly when you're not necessarily feeling it."  It was a stripes-earned comment, surprised though, to hear it from him.  He almost always acted lovingly.  I told him he'd given me a tremendous gift with the way he conducted himself as a father.  I could never fault him for the examples he lived; he was a good role model for our sons.  Well, I did on occasion lob a complaint that I was more the disciplinarian than he, but all is well that ends well.  He was appreciative of my compliment and I'm appreciative I can lavish words of praise on him with no worry of him becoming puffed up.

From the visually euphoric vantage point of spring green...

  
(you can see the moon if you look closely at the center) ...we called our baby boy and his fiancee.  We discussed their upcoming wedding and a wedding guest book I created online for their approval.  Being able to talk on a telephone without a cord was unheard of in my childhood, but now we did just that, on speaker, so four people and the dog separated by over 1,600 miles could converse as if in the same room.  Not being confined to a room rocks!  

When the cool afternoon got even cooler, we went inside and another conversation on another device unheard of in my childhood commenced.  My older son and I were exchanging instant messages between his iPhone and my iPad.  I sent him a picture of a collaborative effort with his father, homemade Chicago deep dish pizza:

...and he replied he was booking a redeye.  We agreed to a call later and the call was via another communication miracle, Facetime.  It was dreamed of when I was a child--portrayed in a 1960s Hanna-Barbera cartoon called The Jetsons:

  

And with someone's dream come true, our firstborn took us on a tour of a house he and his wife recently rented, upgrading in size from a pretty little townhouse they've occupied since their move out west last summer.  A gas stove and an outlet on the island, a cook's clever design!  After ten months of dues paying in a smallish galley kitchen, he and his wife will have plenty of counter space for collaborative culinary creations of their own plus room to dance.

Part of me wished I lived close enough to help them move and another part of me could rest easy--as the young people say now, "I got this."  They do indeed have their lives under control and their father and I can enjoy the blessing and security of knowing our children are wholly, completely self-sufficient. 

Plus a potential hernia might be avoided.

After all this glorious sunshine and pleasant conversation with our children, we marveled over that mysterious place where time goes.  We see each other looking not exactly like we did on our wedding day, but still, could we have grown children in such a lightning speed passage of time?  

The book of Ecclesiastes has an entire chapter devoted to the topic of time and it speaks of a gift from God, every man being able to eat and drink and enjoy the toil of his labor.  My labor led to the hard work of childrearing and we were fortunate enough these duties were done with reasonable success.  This blessed Sunday afternoon, we reaped the reward of sharing joy in our grown children's milestones, territory they are navigating beautifully on their own.     

Grilling Out For Two

I'm still in the wrapping-my-mind-around-it phase of re-learning life for two as opposed to three or four and any number of add-ons which accompanied the third and fourth members of our family established in 1986.  I'm getting on my own nerves with this topic as it's been nearly two years since our last nestling flew well and west.  Writing it out seems to help, though.

When the grill-meister, Mr. A, mentioned grilling out, I wasn't particularly enthused, but it was hard to resist his.  The next thing I know I'm kneading some Tastefully Simple seasoned salt and a little water into some ground beef and Mr. A is firing up the grill.  (I'm not a Tastefully Simple representative, so no self-interest in plugging their products.)  After making huge circles of raw beef, trying to accommodate for shrinkage, a generous amount of coarse ground pepper  and fire on both sides, voila!  We had tasty, homemade burgers for lunch.  

Mr. A salted tomato slices and ate them with relish, no, not literal relish, but like he was Georgia born and bred.  He has lived here 45 of his 61 years, so the culture really has rubbed off on him.  I'm not sure of the origin of the stinker in him, whether it was his birthplace of Ohio or his childhood home of Florida, but he doesn't mind wasting a pickle thrown in the dog's direction for the sheer entertainment of watching her immediately spit it back out.  She's not fond of tomatoes either, for the record.  

We rejoiced in the sunshine and we spoke frankly about where we are in life. We've signed all the pull-the-plug papers giving each other the legal right and blessing to do so.  I said to him I never want to be simply a body he has to bathe.  He said he didn't either, but life is a test and it isn't always fair.   

He then said he hoped we wouldn't have to take care of anyone else anytime soon.  That was after I mentioned many people my age, breathing on 52, are in the beginning stage of looking after their elderly parents.  My last parent was buried 12 years ago, so we were bonafide members of the sandwich generation.  Mr. A said we did that well.  Enough of that.    

He earns his relaxation daily by working hard and it's mighty gracious of him to say I earned my relaxation by what I did in the past, caring for children, an aging parent, and in time a brother.  I don't feel like I'm earning mine daily, I said to him, but I did mop the floors yesterday.

"That's important, too," he said in all seriousness following my less-than-serious remark.  It's a beautiful thing he appreciates the upkeep of our home.  I'm the first one to stand up for homemakers and what we do as a vocation, but I also have to admit it seemed to have more value when more people benefited from the labors.

It's a beautiful day to get over myself and any maudlin thoughts trying to creep in.  Lots of sunshine today and lots more tomorrow to stock up on before April comes in next week with afternoon thunderstorms.  Lunch dishes have been dealt with, Mr. A is mowing the lush, spring green grass and the afternoon is mine to do with as I choose.  My mission, this second half of life, is to choose well.  The afternoon's "activities" will consist of a book or two or three, some blessed sunshine and the time for some healthy self-talk, "It's OK.  Relax and enjoy.  You really did earn it."  

My Man Mopping...

...and dancing

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_XZQYiOJgg&feature=youtu.be

Facebook Free, the First 24 Hours

Yawn.  

Really.

The Facebook account bearing my name has been deactivated for the Lenten season.  That's 40 days, count 'em, minus Sundays, until Easter.  

No withdrawals so far.  Those come later.    

Results for the first 24:  Extra time to think thoughts in my own mind rather than randomly consume others' plus myriad videos and tips on how to clean my home.  Add in extra time to actually clean my home as opposed to simply reading about it.    

Today I had contact with exactly two people on a friends list of nearly five hundred.  

Did I enjoy the banter with the other 494?  Absolutely.  

Was it mutual?  It genuinely seemed so.  

Did we enjoy it enough for an in-person get-together?

Crickets.

What about the last six-ish months?    

Let's see...Trinni, she's my niece.  

Lyndal and Keith...they're my cousins.

Jacqueline!  She and her dad surprised me last week with a visit.  I hadn't seen Jacqueline in twelve years.  She was two years old then and that was shortly after the dearest friend I've ever had in this life passed away, Jacqueline's mother.

Instant messaging...regularly with Amanda, and occasionally with Karmen, Linda, Angela and Lesia.  Condolence visits with Stan and Bobbie.  

There was Thanksgiving dinner with Jan and Dennis.  A baby shower for their daughter-in-law Megan, saw their son Brandon that day as well.

And FaceTime with Bill, can't forget Bill, my husband's cousin, what a hoot he is.      

Also with Thom, but he's my son.  Does that count?  

Interestingly enough, my children rarely interacted with me on Facebook, though I do commend them, well one of them, for regular contact with the 'rents.  The other I would classify as sporadic.  I spoke with him on the phone about that, and his recommendation for when I am missing them terribly is to think of the times they were @$$holes.

It doesn't work that way, but that's a blog post for another day.        

A phone call now and then from Diane, another cousin.  Oh yeah, we did have dinner together along with her friend Nina who became my Facebook friend afterwards.  I see Sue and Tracey at church number one I attend on Sunday morning.  At church number two, let's see, there's Judy, Mike, Marlana, David, Cayce.  More than one church is also a blog post for another day.  Suffice to say one cannot get enough of Jesus!    

I've counted twenty-seven people whom I've had contact with outside of Facebook in the last six months, twenty-seven of 496.  If my arithmetic is correct, I have had contact with 5.44% of my Facebook friends outside of Facebook.  

One of my sons is coming to visit this month, and the other is coming next month, but I'll not complicate future calculations with them. They're supposed to come see their mother occasionally when they've moved 1,600+ miles away from her!  These visits will also include a wife and a fiancee, which again would change the math, so I'm not counting them either.  Like their husband/fiancee, can't they be counted on for a visit out of love or obligation?  
    

And my contribution to this contrast of online friends versus the ones I've made the effort to visit in person?  Well, there is George, Sarah, Lesia, Dennis and Jan, Stan and Bobbie. That comes up to 1.41%.   Again, I'm not counting the flight I made to Colorado to see my children.  I'm supposed to do that, too, out of love, obligation, guilt or some mathematically incalculable combination of the three.    

And I just remembered my hairdresser.  I think the world of her.  She's a classmate from high school.  We have much in common, much to talk about, we both have two grown sons, but our friendship is primarily reserved for the time I'm in her chair, a business relationship with perks, I suppose.  

Indictment city?

Or just the non-reality of social media friendships?  Well, not "non" but single digit percentages hover dangerously near that region.  

The people on the other side of the screen liking and chatting online with me are quite real.  I tried to be considerate of their feelings, and the ones whom I'd have the most difficulty doing so with were on the blocked list.  If I'm going to communicate online with people I rarely see in person, I exercise the right to be choosy.   That is one striking similarity to my life on this side of the computer monitor.  

My friendships online were quite warm, loving even, but 95.6% of them didn't involve the warmth of a handshake or a hug.  Meetings of the mind and heart, admiring new grandbabies and giving congratulation where due are all lovely, but the part of me which grew up in the 20th century longs for friendships they way they were then.  

I have my work cut out for me in this busy, busy 21st century world, but my plan is to work harder on relationships in real time.  Therein is my on again off again relationship with Facebook.  I want something it seems not willing to give me, yet I return periodically to give it another chance.  What will it take for me to learn?  Is it so unreasonable to want to be in the presence of those I'm willing to share my heart with by the keystroke?  

My conclusion is I've traveled the lazy road.  With clicks on the keyboard, I racked up nearly 500 friends.  I've made the effort to be with 1.41% of them.  

1.41%.  Something to chew on.

Your percentage is probably higher.  I hope it is.  I could issue a challenge for you to do the same, but I question how many of us are truly ready for the answer.         

     

Holiday Preparations 2014

  (written prior to Thanksgiving, 2014)
              
How it happened, I'm not 100% certain, but before I answered a phone call from the mother of my future daughter-in-love, my husband and I had no plans for Thanksgiving.  By the time I hung up, he and I were committed to having Thanksgiving at her house, low key on the details, cooking a turkey breast I already had in the freezer.  

Jan didn't think a meal at Cracker Barrel on Thanksgiving Day was suitable, not when we, she and her husband and I and mine, could get together.  Her house was already deep cleaned and ready for an upcoming baby shower. The four of us, prior to that call, were Thanksgiving orphans.

But please, no pity.  We're dealing with it--sometimes strongly and often inwardly.  Three of us in our 50s and one crossed the threshold already to 60, our "children" are, in fact, no longer children, but young professional men and woman who've finished college and launched careers in nursing, stock brokering, management, and accounting.  That in itself is an immense gift to be thankful for, all gainfully employed in a wobbly-legged economy.  Still, those careers took our children, their spouses, and a fianceé to regions where their feet will not be under their parents' Thanksgiving tables.  

It's not new for me, actually.  Some years ago, my young men pulled a holiday disappearance the same year at Thanksgiving.  We had to know the beautiful young women they were dating would want us to share them.  Baptism by fire, it was though, and outside that evening by a fire is exactly how their father and I spent it.  How is it we think we can't manage without people we didn't even know when we first fell in love?  Back then, some 32 years ago, "we" were enough.

My husband and I are still re-learning "we."  The teacher in Jan made an executive decision we'd all learn together this year.  Her lesson plan was not disclosed to me, and maybe it was a spur of the moment field trip.  However it happened, here we go.  

Prior to the call where I learned more specifically what my Thanksgiving plans were, I was e-mailing back and forth with a niece by marriage who opted not to have children.  I shared with her:  "It occurred to me while I was showering that I never had a phase of sharing holidays with adults only.  I've shared holidays with my adult children, but you know what I mean.  We had (my first child) 10 days after our first wedding anniversary, so it was always about them.  As silly as it sounds, it's a new learning curve still for me."

The conversation sprung from planning Christmas without either of my adult children "home" to celebrate with us.  My heart is lagging a little behind what my mind knows.  Home to my adult children is Denver, Colorado while I'm in the southernmost part of Georgia.  I've been spoiled to have them at my home each Christmas for their entire lives. Now I have to concede their present state of being, adults with lives of their own, to the Christmas holidays.  

I'm not looking forward to them not being here.  I know they'll miss us, too, they've said as much, but they've fallen head over heels in love with Denver and snow and a city and...they have completely, responsibly embraced adulthood.         

My childless by choice niece described an adults only holiday to me.  "There's a peace and solitude that is soothing. No worries about how many presents or who got what...it's about sharing the holiday with that person and making the day special for them.  There's a freedom in spending the day with your loved one and watching them make memories- I can't explain it, but it's nice."

Thanks to the wisdom of someone who has already learned to navigate holidays without children and a teacher's spontaneous invitation, I take another step into this territory called life, a phase of life I wasn't completely prepared for, but what a blessing:  God in His kindness saw to it that my husband and I wouldn't have to go it alone.  

We would have been fine, but we got to go, bearing food gifts, to someone else's house where the Christmas tree is already up, hug necks, share a nice dinner, and resemble a little on Thanksgiving Day those sappy Hallmark Christmas movies we've been watching.  

I already had in mind part of what my niece said, making the holidays nice for my husband, not wanting to give in to the sadness that is and inevitably will be there as we are transitioning, read catching up to reality, to "us" again.  I'm not completely maudlin about it and genuinely have Christmas spirit--I already bought the dog a present and a few items for adult children's stockings I'll be shipping across the country.  

I'm shopping for a smaller Christmas tree.  I'm looking forward to decorating less for Christmas.  And for Thanksgiving, downsizing from an entire turkey to the breast, well, I didn't even have to cook that.  A friend of my husband's had smoked turkeys and gave us one late Wednesday evening.  Thanksgiving Lite was already easy enough and this gift was from the Lord was confirmation of it all, letting me know it's right and good to shed any and all guilt over not going all out for the holidays.    

There's something in this for the parents, after all.  My niece pointed it out to me.  A bit more "freedom."

Before I tapped out my thoughts and feelings, I'd already cooked the cranberry sauce.  I didn't have to thoroughly clean the house for guests.  I could go into a room which once belonged to a child but evolved into a woman cave of sorts and ruminate awhile before I leisurely moved on to the next dish. 

Herein is a reward for faithfulness in years past and I want to receive it gratefully, not overlook it for focusing on what has changed.  Change is ceaseless in life.  While I didn't ask for this specifically in a prayer, God gave me a desire of my heart:  I don't want to be stuck where I am wishing to be where I was.  Change is hard, but it is good.  It shakes things up, keeps us from growing stagnant if we flow with it.  God won't let me rest on the laurels of having finished raising my children.  I still have a lot to learn!   

Facebook inspiration

(written late 2014)

My first waking thought this morning was of the time when my children were under my roof; every day brought something new.  I didn't have to do anything but show up for my responsibilities and I would have a full and interesting day.    

The afterthought was a mini-epiphany, realizing the harder challenge for people like myself, formerly stay at home parents of now grown children, is to put fresh energy into our own lives.  It's easier to give in to the jet lag of mind and heart, sadness that this part of life is over.  People who've traveled this leg of the journey of life are sympathetic, acknowledging the hard part, assuring that the passage of time will make it all easier to bear.

It will, and it does.  That said, I know it's not a one-time-and-done grief.  

But that is not my point.  Anyone in my shoes could blather on and on about the sweet times of having one's children safely at home, but the truth of the matter is from the moment they were expelled from the womb, they began working toward independence--if all goes well, but that's another story, thank God, that I haven't had to tell.  So far, so good; neither have boomeranged.     

The point is there is not a soul on this earth who will do the work of energizing this phase of life but me.  

Some of the posters on Facebook are ghastly, sappy, poorly worded, but as simple as this one is, it spoke to me where I am now.  I am ordinarily a thankful person; that is not much of a challenge.  I'm still learning anew, though, to intentionally make the best use of a day without the luxury of having it pre-planned by circumstances.  I must plan and set out to use each gifted day in the best way I can.   

(written prior to first Christmas spent without my grown children)

I told him
I didn't 
want
him to think
he wasn't
enough,
I 
wanted
them, too.
People
who
didn't 
exist
when we
fell in love
now 
pieces of our heart
walking about
outside of us.
My friends hurt,
too
Husbands, gone.
Children, gone, 
and not
just
across
the country
Siblings, gone.
People
left out,
excluded,
no money
for
presents
Unbelievers
taunted, 
accused 
of trying
to take
Christmas
from us
in places
where
excess
which has
nothing
to do
with You
takes place.  
I've
been given 
so much
and
my shame
humanity's shame
is
we want 
that
which 
we cannot
have.
I pray
for courage
to make this
the best
holiday
I can
for 
the best friend
I've ever had
in this life.
I look
out my 
bedroom window
and see
the tea olives
blooming
Shrubbery
my mother
told me
to plant
by the window,
by the door,
for the
sweet scent
and of course
we do
what 
our mothers 
tell us.
I am
reminded
of her
strength
her losses
widowed young
carrying on
still blooming
and 
telling me
to do
the same
with the 
sweet scent
of hope.
I hope
for the
revelation
of
the time
when time
no longer 
is counted
and
goodbyes
and
I miss yous
are
no longer.

Then and Now

(written on September 30, 2014)

On the anniversary of the eve of my first son's birth, I recall a startling truth I chose not to absorb at that time:  Two women, one of them my mother, the other an older co-worker from the bank where I was previously employed, stood at the foot of my bed on the maternity floor, looked at each other and solemnly spoke of how quickly children grow up.  I see them clearly, but 27 years gone by have made the one who spoke and the one who agreed interchangeable in my memory.  Their message is ever present at this phase of my life--they uttered the truest thing ever spoken about children.  

Earlier today I was puttering on the front porch and in the front yard, washing bird feeders and watering plants, and though it's been close to six years since I have had any heavy responsibilities for a person other than myself, another truth still startles me:  I. can. take. my. time.  There wasn't a reason in this world to rush because it would be hours before the next thing was expected of me, cooking dinner, and even that is not an expectation--if I asked my husband to pick up dinner, he would gladly.  

 My older son married a good cook and he often proudly tells us what's for dinner at their townhouse in Denver, Colorado.  In an unusual turnabout in sibling adventures, it was my younger son who led the way, first answering the call to go west, young man.  Shortly after he moved away, someone not known for thinking before speaking said, "He may never come back,"  then laughed heartily.  It hurt.  Thoughts ran through my mind like 'what a bitch,' and 'how mean' then the realization of what goes around, comes around reminded me it already had.  The speaker has yet to be assured of the competent and complete independence of her long grown adult children.

My sons, as of tomorrow and the 29th of November, will be 27 and 24.  Those ages jump out at me as I was 24 and 27 when I gave birth to them.  In a whirlwind, they were grown and gone to seek their fortune, and I found myself in a phase of life which feels remarkably similar to how I felt after high school graduation--not knowing what is ahead, realizing the potential for adventure is immense, only now there is that urgency of fewer potential years ahead contrasted with then.  

Confusing things is the fact there is nothing urgently needing to be done at the moment.  Anxiousness about that in our human doing, as opposed to human being, culture is tempting, but I plod along, learning to yield to the sacrament of the present God-given moment, and the Lord has seen fit to give me a long season of rest after a two decade season of the exhausting sandwich generation, heavy responsibilities for generations before and after, 

There is still that jet lag of the mind to contend with, and acclimating myself to the present reality is a journey very unlike the long, straight roads of my roots, the coastal plains of Georgia, and more like the scary hairpin turns of an ascending road of a Rocky mountain my elder son drove up in August, entirely too fast for my comfort!  I was a mere 45 when I was no longer responsible for a minor child and six years later at 51, the evolution to adult friendship and adviser-as-needed-never-unasked-for is still, well, evolving.  

Here, to this point, I have meandered.  I am blown away with pride and joy these boys are in fact men who have stepped up to the plate of life, grabbed every opportunity they could, and set out on an adventure when all too many play it safe, biding time in uneventful existences.  As much as I enjoyed the time they were safely under my wings in my nest, I am delighted to see how well they have flown, in fact, so far, knock wood, neither have boomeranged to the nest from which they launched, a good thing as their bedrooms have been converted to an office/craft room and a library/guest bedroom.  I vowed I would never sit among Legos and K'nex and cry for what was.  I've cried all right, but not in a shrine to what will never again be.

Still, I am fiercely protective of what, for 18 years apiece, I thought was mine, and when someone was trying to give an opinion on the career of one of my sons, I heard myself say, "Back off!"  I felt (and feel) a little bad about the abrupt delivery, but I backpedal not one inch on my sentiment:  The boy is a man, an autonomous being who does not need the insult of a helicopter parent.  He can make his own decisions, and whether they are the absolute best or not, they are a) his to make and b) thrive on or c) learn from.  

That was a moment of opening my mouth and my mother coming out.  I haven't yet met another soul who valued independence as much as she, and she lived without hypocrisy the virtue of not meddling in my life as an adult.  My opinion seems not to be blurred or skewed as my husband affirms gratefully what I have said.  She likely knew she trained me all too well and I would have told her to step back over a line had she crossed one anyway.

It is my turn to give this grace and freedom to my sons.  It is not a one-time and-done gift; it has taken the rehearsal of the half-decade plus of not being a parent of a minor to keep on giving.  I speak as if I had a choice.  I would not and did not try to discourage my sons from following dreams that led them over 1,600 miles from their childhood home.  I am humbled when I think of two dear friends whose children are entering the Army and Navy respectively.  Talk about relinquishment.  Relinquishment implies ownership, though, and that is never the case with our children; we are stewards and only for a few brief years.  

In any case, as I type out words to cement in my mind what is real and now, I think of the labor I went through to bring my first child into the world and I thank God that I don't have to do that again tomorrow!  As it hurt when each of my sons launched from my womb to my arms, it hurt when they launched from their childhood home into the world, but in both instances, the joy of watching their development brings an unending source of pride in their accomplishments, and now I in mine.  There are two handsome, hard-working, adventurous young men in this world I am privileged to hear call me 'Mom'--without all the responsibilities that title once entailed.             

Meeting of the Minds?

More like passed each other in the intersection.

From time to time Mr. A mentions how his mother cooked cubed potatoes in a skillet for breakfast, a delicious home-cooked memory for him.  

This morning I decided to cook some like that for him, knowing full well it wouldn't be as good as his mother's, but I tried anyway.  There was slicing and chopping; potatoes, onions, and sausage were involved, a sizzle from the drizzle of olive oil in the skillet, then a few cracks of eggs, and a nice breakfast materialized.

He was still coming to consciousness at the table, one of many aspects of opposites attracting us being I'm wide awake at first light, but he said something that resembled acute cognitive awareness, "I heard you in here playing Chopin."

I thought and said how clever that was, the symphony of kitchen clangs creating the music of his breakfast.

He said, "How it's spelled."  

I said, "C-H-O-P-I-N."

He said, "Yeah, choppin'!"

Then, "You'll never figure out how my mind works."

Probably not, but it makes me laugh, every day.

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