There's a Saint Bernard Behind Every Bush

Okay, first of all, we had power failure just before noon yesterday. My husband got the generator up and running for about two hours then it just....stopped.

He couldn't figure out what was wrong, plus it was getting dark, and with hope in our hearts (ha!), we just used poor battery fed lighting, "caught up water" and knew we had a flush in each toilet. We went to bed EARLY, and I was thankful our house wasn't cold... yet.

We also got up EARLY. The sun was trying to rise, the dog was risen and yearning to go out - she went to bed early too, ya know.

My husband broke a rule. The one that starts "I'll never, ever do that again."

He did it again.

He let our American Bulldog, Molly, out the door, unleashed. He said, and I quote, "I looked both ways twice and as soon as I let her in the yard the neighbor lady and her Saint Bernard appeared from behind the bush by our fence."

We ain't got a bush that big.

I  heard the commotion from upstairs WITHOUT my hearing aids. I didn't see anything, and my husband wanted me to wait until we sat down with our coffee to share the story.

We got a fire started in the fireplace first, because we had no other heat, and I heated up yesterday's coffee in a pan on our gas stove.

It was better than nothing.

Apparently, the rest of the story goes like this: Molly, in her bulldog way, barked and growled herself right up to the Saint Bernard, who only outweighs her by, say, 140 pounds. For some odd reason, the Saint Bernard didn't take kindly to this, and they began to scuffle.

Unfortunately, the Saint Bernard was on a leash ( with the wife not the husband, of course). The Saint Bernard outweighs the woman by, say, 140 pounds.

Since all this took place to the left of our house in the road, and my husband said he was hollering at Molly, it took him a moment to realize our neighbor was "laying on the ground".

Now, my husband, being the empathetic counselor he has always been, became concerned. He was concerned he was going to jail, to quote the man.

After asking about her welfare (finally), probably in a Don Knots voice, he found out she hadn't fallen, she had decided that if she laid down she might be able to stop her dog easier.

You seen, her Saint Bernard has the same level of obedience as our dog. That is to say, none.

When the dust cleared, no one was hurt. The dogs postured and snapped a little. Molly got a scratch on her belly from the grappling contest.

My husband says he has learned his lesson and he "will never, ever do that again."

I refer you back to paragraph four.

Auntie Em! Auntie Em! It's a Twister!

Any time I hear that we may be looking at a tornado headed our way, I always think of "The Wizard of Oz".

I'm not being silly, it's true. I also remember a friend telling me the story of when she was a little girl and there being a tornado in Pickens County. Her mama and daddy went to the place where it had struck and she remembers a broom straw stuck in an oak tree, both ends showing, as though the tree had been pierced by an arrow.

The blizzard of 1993 was a lot like a tornado with snow. I remember it coming in and hearing thunder in the middle of the crazy snow and wind. First time for me, and hopefully the last time. I don't live in the South for nothing.

Then a few years later we had a hurricane. Yep, in the mountains of North Georgia.  I mean, really?

And not too many months ago I witnessed a wind storm for the first time. No rain, no thunder, just furious wind, all alone. 

Mother Nature is a dangerous woman.

All my activities for the day were cancelled. Wednesday is my only activity day. I have Bible Study in the morning, a deep tissue massage afterwards, and church activities on Wednesday  night.

That makes the coming storm even more real to me. 

Stay home,  hunker down, make sure you got candles and watch out!

There was Another Anniversary Yesterday

I saw on something or other that ten years ago yesterday was when Clay Aiken sang on TV for the first time, when we heard his audition for American Idol.

I remember him walking out and me groaning, feeling like he was going to be splattered all over the place. It was as though he was trying to look as awkward as possible. You could tell he was nervous. And when he spoke and had the same Southern accent as I do, I almost cringed.

But then he sang. I hollered at my  husband to come in the room. I said, "That boy may not win because of the way he looks, but you won't hear a better voice."

I was right. On both counts. Except there was all the hoopla saying that he really did win, if phone lines had been big enough to take all the calls.

His voice is one that actually does something to me. No matter how long I go without hearing him sing, the minute I do, it's like myself stands up and takes notice. I guess his voice speaks to me somehow. I've had other singers do that from time to time, but Clay Aiken is the only one who does it almost every time.

All my family likes his singing, and we have seen him perform live several times. He is a funny, down to earth young man that engages the audience in a way that makes you feel like you know  him. In fact, the one time I've actually talked to him, it was like talking to my nephew, who is close to the same age and uses the word "whatnot" all the time in speaking.

But then again, I have yet to be star struck. I've never wanted anyone's autograph or anything like that.

I had forgotten that I heard him sing for the first time on my wedding anniversary.

Anyway, music is a wonderful and mysterious thing. So many kinds, so  many singers, so many instruments out there, it leaves almost no one out.

Aren't you glad that the good Lord blessed us with this thing we call music?

I know I am.

And They Said It Wouldn't Last!

Twenty-eight years ago, on January twenty-eighth, my husband and I tied the knot.

He was a thirty-five year old bachelor, and I was divorced after twelve years of marriage to a not so very nice person.

The night before we were to get married (which had been kept a secret to almost everybody), he came to my house for supper. We ate, watched TV, and when he got up to go home, we opened the door to a winter wonderland.

There was already about four inches of snow and ice. It had happened in a matter of a few hours.

I called the gate and asked if it was safe for him to get out. After the guard stopped laughing, he said no, no way, nope. I lived in a community that was made with the houses suspended off the mountainside, and every road was a winding, narrow snake trail. I guess that's why the guard said no.

Well, my husband to be freaked out. He kept muttering "I've waited thirty-five years to get married, and now this." He kept peering out the living room window as though the weather might miraculously improve. He paced, back in forth, in front of the couch.

He called his mama and told her he was trapped (wasn't that supposed to be what he said on our fifth anniversary?) That went over like a ton of bricks. He may have been thirty-five, but he wasn't supposed to be spending the night at some divorcee's house!

We weren't even going to tell our parents we were getting married. I had found out via the grapevine of trustworthy friends that my parents were freaking out, thinking I was on the re-bound from my divorce, and besides that, they didn't know this boy! They (Mother) were trying to find out the goods on him, by hook or crook.

But when my husband was caught red handed with a Service Merchandise Mart catalogue, turned to the WEDDING RINGS, his mama asked why was he doing that? And he said - wait for it- "A friend of mine is thinking about getting married and wanted to borrow this."

I can still, after all these years, hear her eyes rolling practically out of her head.

The final straw for her was when he was trying to sneak his suit out of the house. His mother's house. Can you imagine trying to sneak something as big as a suit out from under your mother's  nose?

She flattened herself against the car door and told him he wasn't going anywhere until he told her if we were getting married. So, of course, he broke down and confessed.

Which meant I had to tell my parents.

One of my best friends (who kept her mouth shut - at least somebody did) agreed to stand up for us. The preacher's daughter was to be the other witness.

Back to the night before: I went to bed, I don't think the future husband did, even though I put clean sheets and quilts on the guest bed.

I called the gate again the morning of the wedding. They said you can't get out. I said, "B-but we are supposed to get married today."

"Well, why didn't ya say so? We'll get you out if we have to use our helicopter!" (they had a helicopter?).
They tracked our every move, waiting to rescue us from driving off a ravine, if necessary.

So, in husband-to-be's rear wheel drive Volkswagen, we crept, and finally saw the gate! WHEW!

But wait! On the other side of the gate was my ex-husband trying to wheedle his way in!!! YIKES!

The guard, who had plenty of girth and knew what was going on, stayed between the two cars, blocking old ex's view. And kept him occupied while we sped away at 5 mph. on the ice.

The groom put the James Bond theme song in the tape deck. We were so cool.

Just before we left my house that morning, the phone rang. It was husband's mama asking if she could at least pay for a few photographs to be taken at the church, since NOBODY was allowed to attend. He asked me, I said, "Sure."

She said, "That's good, because they'll be there at 3:30 p.m." Ha!

We got to the church, after I had begged a florist to make me a small bouquet to hold.

They had forgotten to turn on the heat.

We got married in  forty degrees. I couldn't tell if I was shaking from nerves or cold. It was probably both.

I look back at the pictures, and even though we thought we were old (I was thirty), we look like children, with love and  hope shining from our eyes.

Happy Anniversary, sweet man.

A Little Girl's Voice

You know, writing is a funny thing.

There will be nothing there. I'll be going about my life as usual. You know, a regular life, reading, cooking, singing, bossing people around, whatever.

And then, those characters who have never been heard from before, come alive inside my head.

Now I have found a little girl's voice. Of course, part of  her is me, that's just a fact. But she's more than just me, she's different and has a life of her own.

I have written close to sixty pages, and she still has a lot to say, so I guess I'm writing another book.

It's about a little girl who is nine years old. It's 1963 and in  a tiny town in the South. That sounds like my life. She also has friends and a family like mine were.

But that's where it stops. The people I knew/know, and events that occurred in our lives, are a mere outline to who these new characters are.

I don't delve too far into all that, it might mess up the magic.

But maybe it's how an observer would have seen us. Or maybe some of it is how I wish it had been. Or am glad it wasn't that way.

No one has read any of it yet, but my daughter has agreed to read the first rough draft to do some editing.

We'll see what she says. She's a writer too, and has a good eye for what is "real" in my fiction.

Time will tell.

Dreams, Reality, and a Threat from My Husband

This morning, I was having the coolest dream.

I was at a zoo, and a lady that worked there had a cheetah on a leash walking around, warning people about the cat, "Don't touch her, she doesn't like to be touched."

She and the cat walked by me, and the cat came to me and stared up at me (I was sitting down). Then the cat put her paws in my lap, placed her head up against mine and licked my cheek. She looked at me adoringly. The lady said, "That would only happen in one in a thousand people."

She let me have the leash, and the cat and I were having a grand old time. The lady asked me to stay, but I told her I was having a terrible cramp in my arm and hand and had to leave.

This woke me up, and my whole arm and hand was numb from laying on it. The pain was incredible.

Then I remembered it was supposed to rain/sleet/hail/snow/freeze today and I nudged my husband and told him he needed to get up and go out and crank the generator to make sure it would work if our electricity went off.

He whined, "I've been sick, it's cold, don't make me go out there, it'll crank."

I said, "Okay, I hope you're right." And had foreboding thoughts about how that was gonna turn out.

Anyway, I told him my dream, which I think is fascinating, don't you? and he sorta mumbled, "Knowing you, that will probably happen."

Then I told him my whole arm and hand was numb, and looking at it, I wondered if the whole thing had been a UFO abduction, because the creases all over my arm and hand looked like crop circles.

He told me, quite calmly, that he had not had his coffee, and if I didn't stop chattering and giggling (I do NOT giggle) that he was going to muzzle me.

But just for a little while.

Watch It Now, Watch It now! Here It Comes!

Yeah, right.

We have heard the weathermen cry wolf so many times, the next blizzard will catch us by surprise. We'll be out in the yard raking leaves in our bikinis and the bodies will be found come spring, when the 27 inches of snow melt.

Of course, tomorrow, the ice will really come. That's because my husband and I have tickets to the play, "Driving Miss Daisy" up in Blue Ridge. We are celebrating our 28th wedding anniversary come the 28th of January, and thought this a good way to start up the celebration.

I love snow. I'm careful who I say that around, because rank strangers will either leap up and yell, "So do I!" and give you a bear hug. OR a rank stranger will give me the evil eye and  mutter curses under their breath.

I've always been told to never speak to a stranger, and I guess that's why.

My childhood was full of snow. Every winter we had some "good" snows, that being two inches or  more. I didn't have to walk up hill both ways in the snow to school, because they called school off.

I do remember in seventh grade it snowed so much and we missed so much school that we had to go to school on a Saturday. I was horrified. I kept waiting for some level-headed adult to say, "Sadly, we cannot do that. It is against the law."

At least we only had to go till noon that day.

Another winter, I think I was in third or fourth grade, the school superintendent called everybody who lived in town and asked for those children to walk to school the next day so it could count as a school day, as we had missed so much already.

There are downsides to living in a small town.

I went to school that day. It was so cold, those old radiators didn't work too well, so we sat in semi-circles around them with our coats and gloves on. I think the entire attendance of third and fourth grade fit in those two little semi-circles in one room. Mrs. Dover read stories to us all day.

Maybe it is childhood selective memory, but I have lots of them of snow in my childhood winters. Snow cream, snowball fights, snowmen, trying to figure out how you could go up the sidewalk to visit a friend without splattering yourself all over said sidewalk, because it was so slick where people had packed the snow down into a hard, solid surface.

I remember one snowy day our oil heater, which was the only heat in our big old house, stopped up. My Daddy was lying on the living room floor in his undershirt with his arm shoved up the stoves innards. He was covered in soot and his hair stood straight up. He was saying words that should be reserved for barrooms. I was trying not to laugh; valuing my life, and all.

It took days for our house to warm up after the heater started working because it was so cold. And of course, there was no such thing as insulation in the walls.

Beds had so many quilts on them, it was a concentrated effort to turn over during the night. And you didn't much want to, as you'd lose your warm spot if you weren't careful.

But I loved it. If ice comes I hope it brings snow too, not wimpy freezing rain. That's just dangerous and no fun. We'll stay home on our mountain, maybe build a fire in the fireplace. I've got flannel and wool and quilts and four cats.

Insulation, the old fashioned kind.

Fairy Tales

Ya'll remember Lumpy and them? The Seven Dwarfs?

And stop right there. Don't start prissily naming off all seven like it'll get you some kind of degree. They ain't Santa's eight reindeer, you know. And besides, what about Rudolph?

Anyhow, The whole fairy tale thing has always been kinda strange, but Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs has 'em all beat.

I mean, what kind of woman is wandering around in the woods, enters a strange house, cleans it up, and  moves in with seven - count 'em - seven! men.

Her name sure wouldn't be Snow White! Ha!

And they all have weird names, one of whom is claiming to be a physician, but works with a pick axe in some kind of mine. Really?

And that house must have been fraught with Small Man Syndrome. (If you don't know what that means, look up Bonaparte, Napoleon).

The next thing you know, old Snow White is laid out in some kind of coma in the woods.

Please don't tell me  you are surprised. I know mama taught you what would happen if you started hanging around a bunch of strange men.

Now, get this: some really handsome dude claiming to be a Prince (oh,please!) ambles over on his steed and sees her. I'm sure old Doc rushes over and, hiding his axe behind his back, says something like, "My good man, she suffers from Narcolepsy. Can't be helped."

This fell on deaf ears, and he lays a big old wet sloppy one on Snow White, not even afraid Narcolepsy might be contagious. This wakes her up. No joke. It'd wake me up too if some strange guy riding around in the woods decided to accost me whilst I slept.

She wakes up and - wait for it - marries the guy.

I bet all the little men were in a brow beating frenzy over that one! They probably plotted to use those axes for something other than mining, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

And, mark my words. Some idiot, some day, will come up with that plot line and do a horror movie.

Just ask that new film director, Napoleon Bonaparte.

Let the Games Begin!

My daughter invited me - or challenged me - to a game of Scrabble.

I thought I loved that game.

 I hate that game. I only love it when I'm looking forward to it, missed a few days of playing it, or if I have a Q and U that I can use in a really cool word and get a triple word score for it.

That ain't often,  my friend.

I did get forty something points for one word once. I made her count the score three times before I believed it.

Then we looked up the highest score ever and it was for the word Quixotry. And it was in triple word score place with a few double word counts and the guy got over eighty points - for one word!

He also scored the highest total score ever scored in Scrabble.

Me?

I still think Vyber should be a word.

Is It Hot In Here, Or Is It Just Me?

If spontaneous combustion really ever occurred, I'm sure it would happen to a woman in the middle of a full blown hot flash.

WHEW!

For instance: Sitting in church, all nicely dressed, cozy and comfortable. Then a sudden heat begins to erupt in my chest and I reach for something to fan with. The hymnal is too heavy, my husband's tie too flimsy, plus, when I yank on it, it makes him get too close to me!  Get away! I don't need more body heat.

I reach into the young Mother's diaper bag sitting next to me and pull out a disposable diaper. These are good, they are light weight and can absorb your moisture. (Don't pick up a used one by mistake, they are way too heavy).

Now, I know the pastor may look at you funny, sitting there on the third row, right there on the end, waving a diaper over the top of your head. That's why it's very important that you pick a pastor who is of a certain age, that way he will figure out pretty quick what is going on, and maybe he won't lose his stride or his place in his sermon.

Now, if a diaper isn't handy, I have considered using my skirt, flopping it up and down, and possibly over my head. I'd take off my blouse, but I'm pretty sure that's against the  Baptist by-laws, not that I've had time to read them yet. I've only been a member for fifteen years, and I'm a busy person.

The bulletin is okay, fairly large and sturdy enough that if you don't go into warp speed, it won't bend right in the middle of a fanning.

Once, during choir practice I started having a bad hot flash (not that any of them are actually good!). I was trying to fan with the choir book, which is pretty heavy and unwieldy, but I was desperate. Suddenly I felt a cool breeze on the back of my head, and when I turned, three middle aged men were frantically fanning away. I appreciated it so much I sent their wives thank you notes. They have really raised those men right!

Of course, as soon as that sucker is over and the heat starts to die down, I begin to feel chilled. I smack my husband on the arm and tell him to stop fanning me with his Bible, he's freezing me to death!

Of course that hurts his feelings, and he slams the Bible shut and then he can't find Habakkuk again.

Habakkuk has always been hard to find.

His wife probably  had  hot flashes too, and he's been laying low ever since.

Man's First Temptation

I read somewhere that man's first temptation was with food.

Hmmmm. That's right, although I'd never thought of it that way before.

Satan didn't even have to dangle double chocolate fudge brownies in front of Eve to get her to cave. He did it with a dumb old piece of fruit. Imagine what kinda shape we'd be in, ladies and gentlemen, if he'd had a brownie!

It seems we've struggled with our relationship with food ever since.

Sometimes there is not enough and people worry how they will feed their children, much less themselves.

Here, of course, there is way too much, and way too much of the bad kind.

But we are tempted. We eat it anyway. And we are a country of fatso slobs. I, myself, need to drop fifteen pounds. By drop, I mean make them disappear. With, like, you know, wishing.

We have more eating disorders than you can shake a stick at - and even those of us who do not have an eating disorder, think about, at least occasionally, how we really need to 'cut back' on some food or another. Most of us need to, want to, lose a few pounds.

Being physically disabled, I am unable to participate in a lot of exercise. Being from the South, I have a hard time not participating in anything fried.

But I am a much smarter eater than I used to be. I really don't eat many fried foods, I cook with olive oil, I eat a lot of raw green things. I don't eat as much bread as I used to, and I make my sandwiches with good old wheat bread and about  half the mayo I used to eat.

I've cut out 90% of soft drinks. Only rarely do I imbibe.

But, as Scarlett O'Hara is my witness, I will nevah, nevah, give up sweet tea!

Thank you, Lord, Satan ain't from the South!

Funerals

I went to a funeral today. Standing room only. There was a lot of good, funny stories and unbelievable singing, as I knew there would be. He was a great musician, as was most of his family.

I've been to many funerals when the place was packed. Most of those times it was a very young person, or once, a teacher who had little children.

Once, a friend and I went to a funeral and we were the only two people there except for maybe six family members. The deceased was in her nineties and had been out of the area for some years. I guess folks just forgot about her.

I wonder which one mine will be.

How about you?

Do you want a great big celebration of your life, testimonies as to how  you lived, with lots of family and friends to fill the room?

Or do you want to outlive everybody who really loved you and be remembered by a few old co-workers and one "baby" brother who is almost ready for the grave himself?

And, the last question, does it really matter?

Not to the deceased, I bet.

But to be on the safe side, I'm gonna do my best to come up with some good stories for folks to tell about me!

Feel free to ad lib when the time comes, I'm sure I won't care either.

Housework, Housewife, Dr. House, Household, House

I've been thinking about housework. (Who am I and what have I done with me?) What got me thinking about this: the sound of the vacuum is driving me crazy. Hear that? Sheesh. Why don't they invent a silent vacuum cleaner?

Anyone?

Bueller?

We used to pay someone to clean every two weeks, and the week in-between it was "through the middle cleaning" to get by. But we can't afford that anymore. In the last two years my insurance has gone up over two hundred dollars, and I ain't had a raise on my retirement check since 2004.

So now, it's divided by three and I use that mathematical term loosely. I do what little piddly stuff I can, my husband does whatever he can't keep putting off after DAYS of putting it off and then being so dramatic about how hard he works that I'd just about skip grocery shopping for a week and hire someone again, except I really like to eat. (Shut up)

My daughter does a lot. She is in college and works part of a day at the church, but she's been unable to find a part time job, so I gave her one. The pay is pretty good. She gets a roof over her head and food. It's sort of like living in one of those posh resorts with all the amenities, like running water and stuff.

We are having a guest this afternoon, plus it's Thursday and things really go downhill here by Thursday. Lots of trash, lots of dust, lots of cat/dog/people hair, everywhere. Especially cat hair. We have one cat that can crouch and squeeze her eyes closed and drop four or five clumps of hair on the spot. She's very talented.

And, have you ever noticed, you think your house is clean and then you are going to have company and it's like the whatyoumacallits fall from your eyes? Look at those cobwebs! See that pile of books that haven't been moved since 1989! And where, may I ask, did that come from? Unbelievable.

I cleaned out the kitchen sink with Comet after my daughter cleaned up the kitchen, and I happened to glance up at the window sill in front of me. Oh. my. lord. I usually think of this as a pleasant place. I have a little carved bluebird, a tiny watering can with wild flowers painted on it, a pretty snow ball plant, and Tobias.

Tobias is a beta and he swims around and watches everything we do. He really likes for us to be at the sink and stove; I guess it's entertaining to him.

But the window sill was no longer a nice, smooth cream color. It was fuzzy and scuzzy. I'm a poet and don't know it.

So I took all the aforementioned stuff off the sill and got the old Windex out and cleaned her off.

Now the house is immaculate.

Somebody turn that durn vacuum cleaner off!

Ahh, that's better.

I wonder if I have time for a nap before company....

Of Life and Death

The man who played piano at our church passed away last night after a brief illness.

I remarked on facebook that saying he could play the piano was like saying a Siberian Tiger was a kitty. He had the kind of talent folks are born with - he sort of became one with the piano.

I sing, and if I was having trouble with a note or a key or timing or whatever, he'd say, "Well, don't worry about it. We'll work it out and I'll cover for you if you need me to."

And he always did. It was as though he knew what you were doing before you did it.

He was always complimentary, telling me what a good job I had done after it was over.

His passing leaves a  big hole in our church. The piano has stood silent as a testament to his absence. It makes me very sad.

How will his wife of fifty-two years go on? She will have to learn a completely new way of living. And that scares me to think about having to do that myself, as we never know what the future holds.

The flip side, and I think there always is one, is our Pastor became a grandfather, also last night. I've seen the pictures of the new baby; she looks healthy and fiesty.

It gives me joy to know how happy and excited they are.

So, I've had sorrow and joy side by side today.

A life gone Home, a new life arriving.

Who knows? Maybe she'll play the piano. 

Where The Rain Begins

Which, by the way sounds like a really neat title to a book. Remember that for me, will ya? I might use it someday.

When I was a kid, maybe nine years old or so, we had a very hot, very dry, summer. My granddaddy had a garden, and it was a good sized one.

He and my grandmother had retired and moved to the country after selling the grocery store, and the farmer in him re-blossomed, I guess.

He had a garden up until the year he died, at age eighty-seven, even though he couldn't stoop anymore. He just used an old potato sack to put his  knees on, and crawled from plant to plant to weed.

Anyway, there had been prayers sent up on a daily basis for the Lord to send rain to water the garden, and all one could do after that was wait.

One afternoon I was playing in their backyard when a dark cloud came up. I could hear thunder, but could still see the sun shining too. I stood up and walked to the edge of the yard, right where the garden commenced.

It started raining. Not on me in the yard, but in the garden, right in front of me.

I would stick my arm out and let the rain fall on my hand, and my arm would stay dry.

It did this for about ten minutes, then slowly tapered off, the cloud spent.

Now, I know rain starts and stops somewhere, everytime. It has to. And I've seen pavement be suddenly dry (or wet). And I've 'run into a rain' in a car, driving in and out of it.

But this particular rain was a very elementary lesson to a little girl.

Sometimes God gives you exactly what you ask for.

Nothing more, nothing less.

A Time To Die

I just found out a friend's daughter died last night.

I don't know how she will bear it. My mind balks at the very thought of losing a child to death. I don't care how old the 'child' is. This particular one was middle aged. But who cares, if you are the mother?

God knows, I'd give anything to keep from losing my child. It seems the worst nightmare a person could endure. Not to say I'd keep her here if she was suffering and no hope of recovery. No, then I'd be willing to let her go.

But I know in my heart, I would cry, 'What about me, Lord? What will I do now?'

Some of you reading this have probably lost a child. And I am truly, truly sorry that you have.

This brings to mind my faith and trust in God. Don't I? Well,  yes. I believe He is good. I believe He knows what He is doing. I believe, if my daughter died, she would be in Heaven, a far better place than this. And I believe Heaven is a far better place this this. That's why my cry would be about me, not her.

Grief is, after all, a very self-centered thing. I don't mean that in a selfish way, I mean it is all about what we are feeling, what we are going through, and how we will continue to go on.

Frankly, I don't want to. It frightens me to even think about it.

I'm afraid that's why people avoid those who have lost children in death. They may tell you, "I don't know what to say." or "I just can't stand to see them so upset." But the truth is, I think, they are afraid if they get too close it could happen to them to. Realilty is scary thing to face.

Control? We have none.

So, I'm right back to the top of the page. I'm sorrowful, I'm frightened, and I don't know what to say, or do.

But I do know I am praying. For that Mother. For my own child.

And for me.

I Digress

You know how one thing leads to another?

Trying to put away Christmas decorations can be disastrous. You get all the boxes drug in that are full of the stuff that goes on tables, hall tree, bookcase, mantel, blah, blah, blah, where Christmas stuff sets now.

Here's the trick. You have to have someplace to set all the regular stuff out of the boxes before you can put the Christmas stuff in the boxes.

But first, you have to get The Whites and Mimi off the top of the boxes. Even Lily, (our geriatric cat), gets in on the fun, squeezing her body into a box that does, indeed, make her butt look big. The boys, Frost and Eli are in a frenzy, each on a separate box. They are sticking their paws into the boxes, trying to see in the boxes, and sniffing the boxes to beat the band. Blink, and they've swapped boxes, frantically trying the same thing.

The Whites are big cats. Frost weighs sixteen cough, fat, pounds. Eli is a growing boy of around fourteen pounds. But he is lean and long, not an ounce of  - well, you know - on him.

Either way, it's hard on a box.

You shoo the cats away and you put all this regular stuff in the chairs and on the couch. The living room now  looks like we are preparing to have a yard sale and move.

Then the phone rings. It's, say, oh, I don't know - my mother.

Forty-five minutes later, the cats are back in place, sound asleep on top of and in boxes, daughter hasn't done a durn thing except get on the laptop (I'm waiting on you to tell me what to do, she says). And husband is in the recliner 'resting his eyes'.

Hoo, boy.

Of course, by now, everyone is getting  hungry, it's dinner time. Yes, I said dinner. That's the  mid-day meal in these parts of the woods. Tonight we'll have supper. Got that?  Good.

The kitchen is fairly unaffected by the decorations debacle, dinner is cooked, and my back is killing me. I go to lay my body down for twenty while daughter (who will NOT wait on me to tell her what to do, she's got this one down pat) cleans up the kitchen.

Now, it's mid-afternoon. I haven't written anything in the book I'm working on, I haven't blogged (hope you noticed), and a doctor's appointment stands in the way of getting anything else done. Daughter has to start on  school work, and husband needs to rest  his eyes.

Again.

You know how long it takes to go for a doctor's appointment, don't  you?

So, the evening and the morning were the first day.

Being in God's Will

Wouldn't it be grand if we could just say, "Okay, God. I want to be totally in Your Will now. Amen."

And voila'! We are. No more temptations, no more sin, no more being unsure of what to do next.

Of course, being the ornery cusses we really are, we'd start to wiggle around till we got out of it. I mean, don't we already do that all the time?

And I understand until this age is over, that's the way it will be. And when good old Eternity begins, we won't have to worry about it any more.

I'm looking forward to it.

But for now, even when I am really, really good with God, feeling like I'm in His Will as much as I know how to be, things still happen.

This discourages people, and sometimes, those who are in weak moments, get angry enough at God for this that they turn away. At least for a little while.

But  look at what we've done to poor old nature. When we fell, we took everything with us. And all was innocent in it, except man. And all has suffered since.

I'll be glad to live on the New Earth with the New Heaven.

But until then:

I am all that God wants me to be,

Tall and strong and so lovely.

My branches are filled with leaves of green.

My bark brown as any you’ve ever seen.

I am a tree,

And in God’s will totally.

So why is that axe headed for me?!

And Who Are You, Again?

Since I have started writing a new book, it  has occurred to me that I live in a very strange world.

The characters in my head, which allegedly don't really exist, become more real to me at times than those of you characters who are walking around.

That should scare me.

It probably does scare you.

Now, my characters are usually benign folks, I rarely have the bad guys to write about. Only once have I written a short story that involved a very bad person. And I put off writing that for nearly a year, but as usual they wouldn't leave me alone, and  I figured it was better to get them on paper and out of my head.

For those of you who do not write, and maybe even for some of those of you who do, it's hard to explain this phenomenon.

It's sorta like a pillow that's overstuffed and bursting at the seams, unable to contain it all, spilling out onto another surface. Only different, of course. But I have been accused of  having nothing but stuffing in my head, so maybe it ain't so different after all.


But how do people, like, say, Stephen King, tolerate all that boogied-boogied stuff going on in their heads, not just crazy characters, but evil?

So the point(s) to all this:

1. I have people in my head.
2. At least they are nice people.
3. I'm fine, thanks for asking, and
4. My hat is off to folks who write the scary, like Mr. King.

I may take my hat off, but the aluminum foil is staying firmly put.

Free Fall

Life is like free falling from a very high place –

You sometimes float around and admire the beauty provided.

You sometimes are tossed and whirled about in a frightening show of helplessness.

You sometimes careen toward the bottom, head first and hell bent.

You sometimes glide smoothly, upheld by a gentle breeze.

But always, we are surrounded by a mighty light to show us

Exactly where we are in the moment,

If only we open our hearts to see.

And even if we don’t know why we are there,

We will know it’s a piece of our perfect puzzle that helps complete the why of us.

But the saving grace in this free falling life,
Is the fact we don’t need a rope on which to cling or a parachute on which to depend,

Because the safety net at the end of the fall is wide and sure.

It is eternal, unbreakable and immovable.

It is our Heavenly Father’s Steadfast Hand.

If we are His children,

We can abandon our fears

And fall, fall, fall…

Knowing the truth, that we are secure.

And in falling toward God, we will never fall down.

All we have to do is enjoy the ride. 

Out and About

I really should get out  more.

Today I went with a friend to a neighboring town. They had a store which sells nothing (as far as I could see) but different kinds of olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

Sound boring?

HA.

Did you know there is olive oil that you can dip your fruit into? One was labeled "Three Dark Chocolate Infused Olive Oil." And this is supposed to be good for you.  Lemon, honey, coconut, blackberry. I could go on. By the way, the blackberry infused olive oil was very good. It can be used for putting on ice cream and stuff.

What I wound up with was garlic infused because I could just imagine brushing that on chicken as it was being grilled.

They have these really  big vats in the stores, and they let you pour a little into a cup, you dip your finger in the cup, and taste it. That way you can decide what flavor you might want to purchase. Then they pour a bottle full from the vat, seal it, label it and sell it.

The store had a lot of people shopping there. There was one little chubby boy about age ten, who was telling us which ones he thought were really good. I think he had tasted every one of them!

Now that I'm a woman about town, if you have any questions about olive oil, just give me a call. I'm sure I can answer the most important one, which is how to get to the store.

Everything else, I refer out.

A Tale of Two Cats

A few years back (ha), when I was eighteen years old, my then husband (and thank God for that; which isn't religious humor, it is praise, but I digress), brought home a cat. It was a solid white Maine Coon, with a name of Sir Cotton something or other. But because Sir Cotton liked to take a flying leap, flop down on his bottom, and slide down the hallway on the hardwood floors, I called him Scooter.

Scooter was my shadow, my protector, my bed buddy, my dog-cat. He weighed seventeen pounds.

He was a good daddy cat, raising kittens right along with the mama cat, bathing them, playing with them, teaching them and disciplining them.

When Scooter was a very  healthy twelve year old, something terrible happened, causing his demise. I won't speak of it here, but remember the afore mentioned ex-husband.

My present husband of almost twenty-eight years has tried to make up for this for a long time. A few years ago, he discovered a cattery that had white Maine Coon cats. And a little over two years ago, a two pound, two month old, solid white male kitten came to live at our house.

His name is Eli's King Cotton. Eli is still a growing boy, as Maine Coon's grow for at least three years, some up to five years. He 'only' weighs fourteen/fifteen pounds right now.

Eli is my shadow, my protector, my  bed buddy, my dog-cat. He, too, is a good kitty.

Scooter

Thank you David, for trying to make a bad man's actions into something that belongs in the past and can be laid to rest.

Eli