Easters of Yesteryear

Daughter's first Easter was a happy time...

Okay, Easter # 2 was better. She was almost two and really liked her Easter "basket"

At almost age three, she became engrossed in the chemistry experiment called egg dying...

 But we cleaned up pretty good the next morning for church!

At age almost four she was more relaxed in chemistry.

 And look what a beauty she was coming down to see what the Easter bunny left.

 At almost five, she got a big surprise! (and notice how the  newel post has "shrunk" from last year)

Who could resist these Easter cuties? Daughter and first cousin.

Almost seven: She loved this doll!

 And we skip a year to almost nine: Cheesy smile and all. When I said, "Smile!" the dog did too. But she sure didn't like being the Easter Mastiff.

 And just for giggles, this is me, age six. Ain't I purdy?

 And  my Daddy, around five or six., 1934 or 1935.

HAPPY EASTER!

Before They Knew Sunday was Coming

 Easter is coming up Sunday.

I always think about the Friday before, and what a horrible day it was.

Jesus, The Christ, had suffered physically more than most of us will ever know. He suffered spiritually more than any of us will ever know.

The people who loved Him suffered too. His mother, watching the agony He went through. His disciples, afraid, ashamed, confused, they too in agony over this horrific scene.

How could this have happened? Didn't He say He was The Christ? Didn't He say, "If you have seen Me, you have seen the Father?"

If that was true, how could this have happened? How could He have allowed Himself to be captured and tortured and slain?

Had they all been wrong about Him after all?

True, He had said as much. He said He must suffer and die. But they hadn't really wanted to hear that, you know? They focused more on what He did - all those miracles - and the kingdom He talked about.

They wanted to hear the good stuff. Forget the hard stuff. After all, God is love, right? And Jesus did all sorts of stuff that no one else could do...and wasn't that enough?

But now....they were hidden upstairs in a locked room, fearful for their lives. Every noise was imagined Roman soldiers coming for them.

They grieved, and grieved deeply. But they were also ticked off. How could He do this to them? How could He have left them...alone and with no hope?

Where was He?

The women in Jesus' life apparently feared less, or had less to fear...for they went to the tomb to better prepare His body.

And to their utter dismay, the body was gone. The stone rolled back, discarded. The burial clothes were rumpled, the face cloth neatly folded, and laid aside.

Someone had stolen His body! Where were the Roman guards who were to prevent this?

Where could He be?

And then one of those miracles happened...young men, dressed in white, encased in bright light told them not to be alarmed. "You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth. He is not here. He is risen!"

And then the world was changed forever.

He is risen! He is risen, indeed!

Here Comes Peter Cottontail.....

As a child, I received many live gifts for Easter.

No matter how much my mother pleaded, pouted, demanded, etc., her father got me live animals.

Always there were the colored chicks. Cute!

When I was three, my mother relates she was in the kitchen and I got "too quiet". All mothers know exactly what this means.

She found me sitting on the couch with a baby chick in my fist, it's head to the side, neck broken. She said that before she thought, she cried out: "Oh, you killed it!"

I looked up tearfully and said, "I was just loving on it."

Anyway, the chicks that survived turned into bad-ugly adolescents whose feathers gradually turned white with color just on the tips, like an old lady who needs to go to the hair dresser, posthaste.

At that point they would mysteriously disappear.

Then there was the year that with along with the chicks I got a baby duck. My mother named it "Waddles". Apparently I was too little to do the name thing yet. But I do remember the duck. And it grew quickly from a fuzzy yellow ball into a giant white quacking/squirting poop machine.

At that point, he mysteriously disappeared.

I fondly remember the year that, along with all the colored chicks, I got a baby rabbit. My mother named it "Troubles". (Can you see it coming?)

Wasn't long before this "I chew everything in my path to smithereens" became a bigger "I chew everything in my path to smithereens."

At this point -  you guessed it - he mysteriously disappeared.

Good thing I didn't get our cat, Blackie, for Easter. He wouldn't have stuck around for long!

I asked my mother, years later, where did all those animals go? After she blew off steam about my granddaddy not listening to her and giving me living things every year, she said they went to my great-uncle Sam's farm.

Sounds reasonable.

To give my mother credit, she has never given any of her grandchildren live animals, for any reason.

But she has spoiled them and done what she pleased about how to treat them, give gifts to them, and what to let them get away with. As in just about everything.

It's sort of a grandparent clause that says you don't have to be a responsible adult anymore.

It's got me to thinking.

Someday, I hope I'll be a grandparent (but not too soon!). Because I am already plotting on how to be an irresponsible, smug, behind-the-parent's-back kind of person.

I can't wait!

Happy Easter!

Her Legs Go All the Way to the Floor

I am long legged, and I've heard that remark many times. I've always had rather shapely legs (why, thank you!), but let's  just say they ain't what they used to be.

I was always tall for my age. Group childhood pictures show my friends and me. They all seem to come to my shoulder, at best.

I was always put in the back row. I was the tallest person of all the students when I was in seventh grade.

Skirts were either too big around ( I was skinny) to be long enough, or way too short to fit around. And when the mini-skirt was in vogue, it took a lot to be too short!

My best friend now is six feet tall. God bless her. I am 'only' five feet eight inches tall, so I guess I don't look so tall when we are standing together.

She really is all legs, her inseam is 36 inches. She used to have extreme difficulty finding pants long enough. She always went to the boys jeans section to buy jeans, and as you know, they don't fit quite right if you ain't a boy.

But now, boy howdy, we've both been overshadowed.

I just read about a woman named Svetlana Pankratova. She's six feet five inches tall. Four feet four inches of that are her legs. She holds the world's record for the woman with the longest legs.

I know you'll be shocked to hear she is a basketball coach in Virginia.

I know I was - about the Virginia part, anyway.

She has received a lot of publicity for this, and no wonder. But I do wonder what kind of toll this has taken on her. Was she made fun of as a child? Does she have difficulty fitting into theatre seats, pews, airplanes, etc.?

I watched a video of some talk show. Although they were speaking Russian, I got the gist. A guy measured the legs of the two girls who were the hosts of the show, then Svetlana comes out and the girls come up to just below Svetlana's shoulder.

Just like my childhood pictures.

This world isn't made for the extra tall or the extra short. It's even an inconvenience for left handed people.

But I admire Svetlana for taking her life and the 'different' she is and liking it. You go girl.

But I'll stick with my legs, just the same.

Great Things Come From Small Beginnings

Twenty-nine years ago this week my nephew was born.

He was due in May.

He basically fell out of his mother.The doctor wanted badly to air lift him to Atlanta, but it was during a raging storm, and nobody was going anywhere by air.

So, his mother was left at the local hospital, and my brother, the nineteen year old terrified father, followed the ambulance down to Georgia Baptist.

My nephew weighed two pounds and ten ounces. Twenty-nine years ago there were no tinier babies that survived often. In fact, babies his size and at his developmental stage many times didn't survive without severe, lifetime repercussions.

My brother had picked out a boys name, naming  him after our grandfather. We were already calling him John or Johnny.

But the next day my brother tearfully announced he would not name the baby John because "I can't lose him twice." So he named the baby after both my father and the baby's mother's father.

The first time I saw Eddie he was in the 'fetal ward', not yet considered a 'baby'. The contraption he was in looked like a fish tank. I couldn't touch him, but I held my hand up to the glass. His leg was the same size as my finger. He had long, clear hair all over his body.

I left, feeling very sorrowful. I did not see how something this tiny, this - unformed - could survive outside in this world. He just wasn't ready.

But survive he did.

The doctors said they had no idea about developmental problems he might have. He could seem perfectly normal until school started, for instance, and then have learning disabilities. Nobody knew for sure. But they discharged him at just under five pounds -in May - when he should have been considering whether to  make an appearance from the womb.

He was always tiny. The smallest child in his preschool class, the smallest child in first grade. He once confided in me when was about six, that he was afraid he would be the smallest man in the world when he grew up. I assured him he was already bigger than the smallest man, and told him about Tom Thumb.

He had a very heavy southern accent, so we knew he'd be all right. There were never any learning disabilities, he's always been extremely bright.

His baby teeth had no enamel, so the back ones had to be replaced with ugly metal caps, but his permanents came in fine.

As an adult, he has a hearing impairment. But so does his mother, and her mother. The doctor says it's a double whammy.

He now has a little boy, himself. He weighed in close to nine pounds, and is almost two years old.

My nephew is a strong young man who grew to about five feet nine inches, I think. That's not so bad when you start out  at seventeen inches.

I love him very much. I tell him he is really my first child because he spent many, many hours with us.

He works hard, he's a good guy, and he can do anything he wants to do.


But he'll always be a baby I can hold in one hand, up next to my heart.

Happy Birthday, Eddie.




HERE HE IS AT AGE SEVEN MONTHS:

Where Am I Again?

Raise your hand if you've ever been lost.

Well, at least I ain't alone.

Now, there are scary losts: As a child, another child and I got lost in the woods (not for long) while the adults set up camp. I don't think they ever realized we were lost.

But the fear and panic we  felt were certainly real.

I'll never forget the relief that swept through my body when we came upon a road and our daddies just happened to be passing by on their way to the old hut to buy fishing bait!  Whew!

Another time, I was visiting a relative and she had taken me to a department store to shop. I guess I was about eight. I was enthralled with the escalators, because obviously our town had none.

Still doesn't, come to think of it.

Anyway, I was given permission to ride up and down on it while she shopped.

I  must have gone down, then down, or up, then up, instead of down, then up, because suddenly I had no idea where I was.

I was afraid and went straight to a desk, where a kind lady figured out where I should be.

Once again, the adult in my life wasn't concerned about how lost I was.

I guess this was before there was a kidnapper behind every bush.

And there is the embarrassed lost (I have lots of them). Getting turned around inside the mall, and just knowing you are coming out the same way you came in. Same store. Same department. No car. Because you are trying to go out the east side instead of the way you came in, which was the west side.

Once Husband and I did this. It was late afternoon, it was pouring rain, and no matter how diligently we searched, we could not find our car. It got so bad security started getting suspicious and following us in their little cart thingie from a safe distance.

I finally waved them over and told them we thought someone had stolen our car. They asked the make and tag number, talked on their two-way radio, and took us straight to our car.

And last, but certainly far from least, is the funny kind of lost.

My husband was attempting to do a home visit a few years ago and got hopelessly lost. He said for over an hour he had been rambling around who knows where without seeing a soul.

Finally, up ahead he saw two figures walking around in a yard of a house trailer.

It was two Teletubbies.

To give the man credit, he did NOT stop and ask for directions.

A few years back, Husband, Daughter, a friend, and I were in Gatlinburg. We decided we wanted to go to the Dixie Stampede in Dollywood.

Everyone said we couldn't miss it. May I say double ha?

What tricked us, see, was the Krispie Kreme hot sign blinked on as we were driving past and we got all excited about that. It is directly opposite old Dollywood.

So we drove on a little ways, figured we'd missed it, turned around, looked longingly at the Krispie Kreme hot sign (again missing Dollywood), but didn't want to spoil our supper, if and when we ever got to Dollywood. So, finally we pulled in a little strip mall parking lot. Husband got out, intending to go into one of the stores to ask someone.

But as he exited the car, an elderly gentleman came out of the store, carrying a small brown bag of something he had recently purchased and started across the parking lot in husband's general direction.

So, naturally, Husband stopped him and asked the older man how to get to Dollywood.

Now, my husband tends to get tangential, and I could hear him tell how we had  been looking, Krispie Kreme, blah, blah, blah.

The old man nodded thoughtfully through the whole session of what should have been a simple question.

The he looked at my husband, squinted, pointed to the right and said "asl;kflsjf a;ljfljfdl;ajf ;lsdj l;dfsj df."

Or something like that. It was the Cherokee Indian Language.

Satisfied, he walked off. My husband thanked him profusely, got back in the car, and told all of us to "SHUT UP LAUGHING!"

The moral of the story is this: Do not go anywhere with my family.

Well, not if you want to get there on the same day.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

I can't go in chronological order, so bear with me.

The Bad: Best Friend's Father becomes quite ill and is taken to the emergency room. He is then admitted to the hospital, and because his kidneys are in bad shape has to wait before they can do a heart cath. He has a mild heart attack while awaiting the cath. When kidneys are cleared to have the cath, he has another mild heart attack during the procedure. 

Doctors recommend open heart surgery to this 87 year old, kidney diseased man, whose heart, by the way, has 3 or 4 total blockages while the rest of his heart blockages are 80 to 90% blocked. Surgery? I should have titled this The Good, The Bad, The Crazy, The Greedy, and The Ugly.

The Ugly: Doctors (all of them) have been barely civil to the elderly patient and his wife. His wife was asking a question to one of the doctors and he WALKED OUT while she was in mid-sentence. 

There has been no ice or water in the water pitchers. Family has to go down the hall and fetch it themselves. A nurse might help the patient onto the potty, but by golly, there is where he stays unless a family  helps him clean up and go back to bed. 

When the patient told the doctor he decided he was not going to have open heart surgery, the doctor became angry. "You know if you walk out of here I can guarantee fifty-fifty odds you will die a sudden death."

Patient tells doctor: "Son, are those the best odds you've got? I prefer one hundred percent guarantee of a sudden death. Besides, I've got a son I ain't seen in two years, and I am looking forward to seeing him and My Savior both." The doctor WALKED OUT without saying another word.

And you might guess only two out of a dozen or so doctors could speak the native language well enough that family could understand them.

The Good: In a word, hospice. They were there on time, they had the room set up before the family got home, they  have been respectful, clear, and kind. 

They told my friend's daddy that from  now on he was back in charge. If they suggested something he didn't like, he could tell them so, and they would suggest an alternative. They've made him comfortable. They've explained everything from  how the bed works to medications. They are pursuing possible veteran's benefits that the family didn't know about. 

And more important than that - or anything else, for that matter - they have truly listened to two elderly people that need to be listened to. They need to tell their stories.

They need to be heard.

To all you folks out there in the medical field: Is that too much to ask?

Where There's a Will....

What a week!

As you know, I've finished the tax torture.

I'm still working on the shoes.

And tomorrow we go to an attorney and update our wills.

We haven't had a new will since Daughter was a wee babe, and she is now a twenty-two year old babe.

No longer in need of a legal guardian (legally, at least), we need to get busy and update stuff before we croak.

We aren't getting any younger, you know.

It's  not too difficult since we only have one child, unless there are specific things we want to leave someone else, say a nephew or a niece. And even that's  not hard, it's just getting it done.

Then there is the what-if-we-all-three-get-killed-at-the-same-time scenario. Who gets what then? I have one niece and one nephew, but Husband has forty-eleven of 'em. How do you do that fairly?

And what about siblings? We each have two. Do we leave it to them and let them distribute our vast wealth? (snicker).  They can't do anything to us in retaliation if we are already dead.

Death is complicated! Just think, what if we really were rich? We don't have much stuff that is worth anything, but boy we do have stuff.

Maybe we'll just leave it all to the cats.

It happens, you know.

My Dance Card is Full

I  have had a very busy day!

First, I rendered unto Caesar. See two previous blogs.

And, on top of that, I am breaking in a new pair of shoes.

No one should have to have the rigorous schedule I've had today.

My back is killing me from the rendering and my feet are killing me from the breaking.

Doesn't it sound like I've been involved in some sort of governmental torture program?

I mean, one of the definitions of "render" is as follows: to try out fat or blubber by melting.

SEE??

A pound of flesh, indeed!

They even got blood out of this turnip.

And they said that couldn't be done. HA!

Plus,  my dogs are barking.

I have neuropathy in my poor tootsies (can I hear an amen?)

All shoes are awful, barefoot is worse.

But the very worst is breaking in new shoes. Even if they are house shoes, and I kid you not.

Oh, well. Enough of that.

Back to rendering and breaking.

Saying Good-bye

I am tore up, as we say in the South.

My best friend's daddy is dying. He's had an unspeakable time since Friday and told his wife he wanted to go home this morning.

She has  had it with the hospital, too, so she told him if that's what he wanted, that's what they'd do.

He looked at  her through tear filled eyes and said, "I don't mean that home. I mean my real home."

He's been a stubborn, independent man all his life.

And now he's a helpless, pain riddled old man. He's tired. He wants out.

Maybe, what he really wants is in.

I watched my own daddy suffer. It is a terrible thing to behold. When he died it was also terrible, this time for us - his children, his wife.

He was fifty-nine years old, same age I am now.

There are times, twenty-five years later, I still miss him.

Of course, being me, I have written about death. Sometimes about people I knew, sometimes characters in my head. But even if I'm making up someones death, there's still a little pang inside.

Grief is not pleasant. And most of  us have felt it's sharp pangs at least once in our lives. I don't think it's ever welcomed, but it is sometimes embraced.

I've lost co-workers, a great boss, friends, and family to death.

I've even come close to dying a few times myself. Once it was peaceful, once it was not.

Makes me wonder how I'll go when I really go.

But the main thing is, I know where I'll be going.

Do you?

Sprang Brangs Flares, Don't It?

One of my grandmothers was a real flower nut. She planted all sorts of blooming things, my favorite being the Hyacinth. Man, those flowers smell good! Husband has planted a few for me, to bring their fragrance into my kitchen. Pink ones smell the best.

Every year, my grandfather would put us all in the car, and we'd take a trip to a mountain where he knew he could easily access rich, black dirt. He'd pop open the truck, get out his shovel and feed sacks, and fill them up. Meanwhile, my grandmother would set out the picnic lunch she'd packed for us, and we'd have a feast before we set off for home.

They dug in the dirt a lot. My grandfather had a big garden behind the house in town. When they sold the grocery store and moved to the country, he had a huge garden.

I guess it was in their blood to grow their own food.

I wish I'd paid more attention.

Husband's parents were the same way, and he paid about as much attention as I did.

However; we attempted our first garden last year, and all in all, it was a success. We are eager to do this again.

Well, I'm eager to watch him do it again.

Back to flowers: My other grandmother liked to have a garden, too. She'd rather be in the yard and garden than the house any day.

Much of my book, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" comes from true stories. One of which is about my grandmother. As I said, she'd rather be working outdoors. And when my grandfather told her father he wanted to marry her, he said, "Well, she ain't much fer house keepin'. But she's the best little hoer in Gilmer County."

When Husband and I first built our house and started planting stuff in the yard, we knew that yeller bell is really Forsythia. Hydrangies are hydrangeas. And so on.

But we looked two seasons for Cannies until we stumbled across them at a hardware store. They are really Cannas. But with our deeply rooted Appalachian language, who knew?

And to make things really clear, it is not pee-AH-neez it is pee-ON-es.

Please, people. Get it right!

Moans and Groans

One of my many ailments, Fibromyalgia, has been acting up.

I'm sure you've heard of Fibromyalgia. It's the syndrome that doctors and scientists denied its existence and made fun of the poor people who presented with the issue, until one of them developed the symptoms.

I reckon then it was all over but the shouting. It suddenly became a terrible illness right up there with Rheumatoid Arthritis and Lupus.

I woke up around six this morning to visit the powder room. When my feet hit the floor I realized my body felt like the day after aerobics when you haven't exercised in a long time.

Let me clear this up: I ain't done aerobics in, oh, say, seven or eight years.

What did I do? Let me shrug (ouch!) and tell you I don't know.

I try  not to whine, but I  know I do. And groan. And moan. And whimper.

And sometimes I write poetry when it gets to be so much I have to pour my heart out to the good Lord.

If I did not  have a relationship with Him, I truly don't know  how I could tolerate some days. But I know He has a plan, and I am part of it. So, I look for the part He wants me to be.

The following was a hard week's report. And acknowledging the solution:

The Storm

                                                                                    

Father, without You I am shipwrecked.

It seems at times this vessel is too damaged to go on.

The stormy seas You’ve set me on play too rough.

The clouds are so dark I can hardly see Your Hand in front of my face.

I’ve called Your name for direction to safety.

But the winds are so fierce I can’t hear You.

Oh Father, Abba, rescue me!

I’m being tossed about in pain and fear.

Standing at this helm I see nothing but trouble.

Holding on to steer is hurting so much

I’m white knuckled with effort for control.

Where are You? What have I done to deserve desertion?

Your Word promises You won’t leave me.

Your Word promises I am Your child.

Your Word promises You will be in control of my journey.

Your Word, Father, Your Word.

Is it true?

If I release my grip from this effort to direct,

If I stop shouting long enough to listen,

If I close my eyes and look inward instead of out toward the storm,

If I trust instead of doubt,

Will You be there?

I need Your love and protection, Lord.

I need Your presence and peace.

I need Your touch to steer my life.

You crafted me, inside and out.

Creator who calms the raging sea,

Creator who breaks the darkness with Light,

Creator whose Hand stops the violent wind,

Creator who created

Me.

So whether I come crashing to the shore

Or drift slowly in on a wave,

Whether it’s tomorrow or fifty years from today,

I will look at Your Face and know that Your Arms

Will be thrown open wide to welcome me.

And I will stand from the deep waters to meet Your gentle gaze,

Take wing, and fly into Your waiting embrace,

Forever healed, forever whole. Forever. 

The Chef is Out....Way Out

I received an invitation to a bridal shower the other day. And tucked inside was what has recently become in vogue; a card on which  for me to write down my favorite recipe for the bride.

Well, this leaves me with a dilemma.

I still have the recipe "Betty Jo's Burnt Toast". I've tried it a few times, but frankly it makes me too nervous. I'm always afraid the toaster oven will burst into flames.

And then there is "Brenda's Boiled Water". This seems like a cinch.  But as you may already know, a watched pot never boils, and I just don't have time to stand around.

Now, I can cook taters. Fried, mashed, stewed, baked, cheesed, garlicked, you name it.

I can bake, broil, roast, fry, and use chicken in creamed sauces.

I make a mean spaghetti sauce.

T-bone steaks, watch out.

I can cook a pone of cornbread.

Green beans, field, blackeye, crowder and icky green peas, I can cook.

Biscuits taste good, but I can't get them to stick together.

I see a recipe in a magazine and the name of  it sounds good. The magazines says something like "Throw Together  Dinner in Eight Easy Minutes"

As follows:

Pre-heat oven to 450 degrees.

I can do that. Well, technically, I can't. My digital thingie that controls the zero and the nine won't work, so I have to put it on 448.  Then the oven beeps at me and changes it to 450, as if to say, "Fool! I don't do 448!"

But by the time I start reading the ingredients, I quickly see something I don't only not have, I have never even heard of the ingredient in all my 59  years.

I quietly close the magazine, hunt up Domino's coupons, give them a quick call,  and pick up my latest book of fiction.

I suspect the recipe is fiction, too.

Maybe I can write on the bride-to-be's recipe card about 'whop 'em' biscuits.

You  know you have to hit the cardboard exactly right on the precise edge of the counter or you won't be able to open them correctly.

That right there could be a chef's worse nightmare, that could.

Day Two...

Today, I will finish tax preparation. Even if it kills  me, and it most likely will.

The  mirror reflects a haggard expression in the eye, a pale face, stooped shoulders and a shuffled gait.

I have that haunted, hunted look.

I hardly ate at all yesterday. Only a deli turkey sandwich (with pop chips), a baby spring lettuce, tomato, and onion sandwich (with pop chips) and a banana sandwich (with ruffled chips). Oh, and three or four pretzels dipped in white chocolate.

That's very sad.

There's a fine tremor to my hands that wasn't there before, and I know holding the pen will be even more difficult today.

Numbers and feared results have made me quake with anxiety.

 I probably need to see somebody.

It has even affected my cat,  Eli. He was sound asleep, lying just on the edge of the paperwork, when he suddenly jumped up, went into fight stance, bared his teeth, laid back his ears, and  hissed like the hounds of hell were right there in the kitchen.

It was really the tax man, but who can tell the difference?

Riddle of the Day

Riddle: When does dusting, mopping, vacuuming, and cleaning the toilet sound like a really fun day?
Answer: When you have to get your taxes ready.

I have put it off as long as I can. So I have been running (okay, gimping) around gathering bank statements and W-2 thingies and interest stuff and uninteresting stuff like an ancient harvester run amok.

Of course, I don't actually do our taxes.

I don't look good in orange.

I listen to well meaning friends tell me I need to go on-line and just fill those forms out instead of paying an accountant to do my taxes.

I nod and smile, thinking all the time, "You won't look that great in day-glow orange, either." But I just smile and nod. It's futile to argue, their minds are made up,  you can tell by that smug look on their face.

We itemize, plus I have the business end of my writing (that's a terrible thing to say, that right there is.) I don't even want to think about trying to put a bow around that mess and send it to our darling government.

So, here I go.

Pray for me.

If you don't hear from me in three days, send somebody after me.

Preferably a CPA.

The Great and Powerful Oz

I have seen "The Wizard of Oz" at least 20 times in my life. I saw "The Wiz". I have seen "Wicked" on stage.

And now, I've seen "Oz: The Great and Powerful". They did a really good job. The Wonderful World of Color and Disney's Castle were in black and white. They kept the movie black and white until Oz landed in Oz.

It struck me as funny that at first the black and white seemed so drab. Then I started noticing little things - like shadows playing in the background, how much more ominous the clouds looked. I got used to this, and when the color burst onto the screen, it was too much. It looked fake, it irritated my eyes.

I'm sure that certainly wasn't the effect they were going for. I'm sure they wanted the color to dazzle and invoke awe.

I've noticed photographs are like that too. When I was shooting photos of my daughter for the cover of my book "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree", they were in color. And they are beautiful.

But the black and white are more dramatic. They invoke an older time, which of course is what I was going for.

I was happy to see the local theatre brimming with business. Both movies (the other was "Jack the Giant Slayer") were family friendly. And not only that, I don't imagine there's many people in the country that weren't raised on the fairy tale of "Jack and the Beanstalk" and the movie "The Wizard of Oz".

Parents with little children, adolescents, young teens on dates, young adults, middle aged folks, and the geriatric crowd were there. And everyone was having a good time.

But back to Oz. I wonder if L. Frank Baum had any notion when he wrote the first book that he was onto something. Probably not.

But then again, I believe most authors write thinking they are on to something.
 
And we are, really. There are tales to tell, stories to rehash, 'you ain't gonna believe' stuff that we can't wait to share.

Story telling has been going on since we've been here.

Can you imagine the ones we'll hear in Heaven?

Bird Song

Several years ago I went rushing out of the house to get to my car to go to work. It was about 7:30 in the morning. But by the time I got to my car, I was frozen in place.

We live in the woods, and at that time it was mostly our house and no one else.

It was in the fall of the year, the  morning was cool.

Suddenly, there was a bird singing in a tree, then another joined it. Within a few seconds, hundreds of birds began to sing.

I have  never heard anything like it. I was in surround sound bird song, a symphony straight from the good Lord.

I flung my head out and my arms up and absorbed it as intensely as I could. Tears filled my eyes. I not only heard the music, I felt it.

Believe it or not, I never saw a single bird. They were all high up in the trees, I guess.

The singing lasted a minute or two, and then gradually the numbers lessened until there was no more singing, just the usual twitter here and there.

I suppose it was a group migrating for the winter.

I wish I could have seen them. 

But then again, maybe not.

There is no way they could have lived up in looks compared to the way they sounded.

A symphony from God or a prayer to Him.

It sure sounded like praise to me.

One Woman's Trash is Another Woman's Treasure

Many years ago  my first job was with the public health department. Back in those days, besides dodging dinosaurs, we worked with VISTA volunteers.

I became friends with one(a volunteer, not a dinosaur).Her name was Jenny, and her parents were first generation over from Czechoslovakia. But she had never lived anywhere except the wide open spaces of Texas.

Needless to say, living here in the North Georgia Mountains was a huge change for her. She froze half to death when fall arrived, and she was plumb pitiful when winter got here.

I was with her the first time she saw snow. What a treat that was! We both ran outside (in a very professional  manner, of course) and stood in the parking lot. Her face was turned to the sky, her hands were held out as though receiving a blessing, and her smile was as wide as those Texas spaces she missed.

After some time, she confided in me that the mountains I loved were smothering her. "Everywhere I turn, all I can see are mountains. There is no space, my vision is stopped no matter which way I turn."

Huh. I had been to Texas once, and saw all that space she missed. It seemed void, vacant, lonely, empty. How could she miss that and feel uncomfortable within the confines of my majestic, protective mountains?

But as I have aged a little bit (shut up), I have seen how different we creatures can be from one another. One person loves dogs, another would rather die than touch a  dog.

One person loves chintz and organza, another steel and glass.

One loves the water, the other fears it.

The one common denominator we all have is the empty hole in ourselves that can only be filled by God. Many search other places for it, and many deny its existence.

But it's there, my friend, it's there.

I think the longing we feel sometimes is for the Home we are missing. The Home we were meant for, but messed up.

Thank God we've been given a second chance.

What a Day This Has Been....So Far!

You know, you plan a day. Right? I mean, is that so bad? Sheesh.

First off, I went to bed not feeling well...like I had a low fever, runny nose, throat sorta sore - not really sick, but not all that great either. And I still feel that way today.

And I'm worried sick about my child. Yes, I know she's twenty-two, so what? Her throat is swollen almost shut, there is white nastiness on  her tonsils. And these symptoms flared up WHILE she was on antibiotics! She is exhausted all the time.

Doctors say it's strep, no it's  not, it's the mono recurring, no it's not, it's tonsillitis,  no it's not. Last time this doctor said it was strep and mono, but when I got the paperwork it said influenza.This time he said the cultures from two weeks ago had no pathogens. But then wrote on the paper tonsillitis! And recurring. What??? She's had tonsillitis once in her life.

Boy, I love doctors.

And these are the people who want to do surgery on my child!  Stand back. I have a gun!

So, I've waited too long to eat breakfast this morning. As I start into the kitchen, I hear the lovely noise that means our dog is having a big old seizure. In the middle of the living room rug, no less. I try to get the coverlet under her bottom, but she has already let loose her bladder.

Our living room now looks like we are having a sock hop this evening. rug is pulled back drying, chairs, tables, etc. are up against the wall.

Filter had to be changed on the well water, so of course, we had no water for a while. Right in the middle of laundry day.

I decided to make bar-be-cue chicken today. Went to the freezer. We don't have any chicken.

And, hey! It's supposed to snow again tonight.

So, get here early!

 You don't want a little snow to interfere with the sock hop, do you?

Don't Give Me Any Bull, But Give Me A Bulldog Anytime

I love bulldogs.

I don't even care what kind of bulldog.

When I was a toddler, and on into childhood, we had a Boxer Bulldog named Jinx. I have thought a lot about her in the last little while because of the book I am currently writing. She was fawn with a black  mask. My mother tells me when I was very small, they could let me play in the yard without watching me too closely, because Jinx babysat. If she thought I was getting too close to the street, she'd grab the back of my diaper and pull me back into the yard.

Up into my adult life, I thought Jinx was a boy. We were talking about Jinx at the super table one night, and I called Jinx a he. My daddy looked at me like I was crazy and informed me Jinx had been a girl. He shook his head at me, hardly believing I didn't know.

Well, I didn't.

Our neighbor, two doors down, had a male Boxer (for sure). I think his name was Winston. My parents used to love to tell the story of me slipping off from the watch care of one grandfather and going to the grocery store down the street, owned by my other grandfather. This of course, scared grandfather number one and made him angry. As he was marching me back to his house, holding me firmly by the hand, Winston trotted up to us and took my grandfather's hand in his mouth. I was crying, he was being stern, and I think the  Boxer just decided to be on the safe side he would supervise the whole thing. He didn't like the way my grandfather was handling me, but on the other hand, he knew him and didn't want to react too harshly. The dog wouldn't let go until my grandfather got us back to the house.

My daddy had Pit bulldogs off and on all his life. Most of them were gentle, intelligent animals. Only one in my memory became too territorial and Daddy had to get rid of  him because we lived in a rather congested area and he became fearful the dog was going to bite someone who came too close to the house.

I  have pictures of my daddy at different ages when he was a kid, and he's always  hanging on to some white Pit.

I have a picture taken sometime in the early 1900's or late 1800's. I don't know the people's names, but I know they belong to my daddy's side of the family. There's a white Pit in the picture.

The last car my daddy owned was one of those "land yachts" of a Cadillac. I was visiting them one day and parked behind his car. I noticed his white Pit, (notice a trend here?) Snowman (my brother's named the poor dog when they were little) was asleep, with his head snuggled up to the rear tire of Daddy's car.

Just as I started to get out of my car, Daddy came out the door and motioned me back in my car, saying he had to run to town. He got in the Caddy, cranked it up and his tail lights came on.

I freaked out, seeing what was about to happen, as the dog had never moved. I screamed, blew my horn frantically, but it happened anyway.

Daddy ran over Snowman's head. As Daddy rolled over the dog's head, he realized what had happened, stopped the car, and leaped out, white as a sheet.

I got out of my car, crying hysterically.

Snowman got up, shook his head, growled at my daddy and stalked off. Pouting over the incident, he would have nothing to do with  my daddy for over a week. But the dog finally forgave him.

Right after my  husband and I got married, we purchased a female Boxer, named Samantha. Of course we called her Sam. She was sharp, sweet and 'my dog' for sure. A few years later, Husband rescued a male Boxer from the dump, who was nearly starved to death. We named him Buster. He was dumb as a box of rocks, but lovable. Sam was the boss from the start. Buster died from cancer at age eleven, but Sam lived on till she was almost fifteen years old.

I remember when we brought our newborn daughter home, Sam became guard and nursemaid. She wouldn't let Buster near the baby for weeks. He stayed cowed behind a chair almost the whole time, trying to figure out what the heck was going on.

One day Sam came out of the woods with a wallet in her mouth and dropped it at Husband's feet. We called the owner and he came and got his wallet, fascinated that Sam had done the right thing, when a lot of people would not have.

The day she died I got home from work and noticed she was lying half under Husband's car. She never did that, and I found it odd. She looked so sweet from a distance, her cobby head resting between her paws. But as I got closer, I realized she had died.

The next dog we were blessed with was a Bull Mastiff. At a 127 pounds, she was a giant of a dog and her heart was about as big. She was the smartest dog I've ever had, and I do believe if God had "loosened her jaw" she could have carried on quite a conversation. Belle was a good girl. She terrified people, even if she was asleep on the porch. I have several funny stories of grown men practically weeping at the sight of her.

Then, for a brief five months, we had a giant Boxer named Sampson. He weighed in at 95 pounds, which is huge for a Boxer. He was absolutely stunning. He'd never been socialized or house trained and he was already seven years old. But he took to all that like a duck takes to water. He was a real clown, and kept us laughing. He loved to hear Clay Aiken sing "Solitaire" in the car. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP: After the long note that Clay sings in the middle of the song, Sampson would press the re-wind button and listen to it again. I have witnesses to this, people.

Sampson was stolen from our front yard, being left alone less than five minutes.

Probably by Clay Aiken.

Next came Molly. She was an American Bulldog. Half white face, half black face (except the black side gradually whitened with age). She was white with black spots, sort of Dalmatian like. She weighed about 110 pounds, was low slung and broad, and loved the cats.But she hated dogs.

When Molly passed away last year, I fully planned on another Bull Mastiff. But I was caught off guard by Husband who found a free nine month old American Bulldog named Bonnie. For the first three months she drove me crazy. She was almost a feral dog, having known nothing but a ten by ten pen with an aggressive brother.

After those few months of agony, she has settled. She weighs around 85 pounds and is still growing.

Who knows what will be in our future? I want a Dogue de Bordeaux but they cost. A lot.

If you don't care for dogs, you are now in a zombie like trance, never to be resuscitated.

But if you are like me, I hope you have a smile on your face.

Clowns to the Left of Me

One of the most magical characters to me as a child was a clown.

When I was three and I went to the circus with Bob and Meg, I saw the clowns from a distance and could not wait to be spotted by them.

Bob started crying (I guess he wasn't looking forward to it as much I was), but the clown came over anyway and talked. I think he gave us some bubblegum.

To be honest, the only clowns on my own radar were:

 Clarabell the Clown from The Howdy Doody Show, and I don't really remember this firsthand, only from people talking. I was just a smidgen too young. But to my horror, I found out Clarabell was Captain Kangaroo in drag.

Go figure.

Of course, Bozo the Clown was, and I guess is, still famous.

And don't forget Ronald McDonald. Or maybe you should...

And you should really forget Pennywise the Clown from the horror novel, "It" by Stephen King.

Emmett Kelly has been named the most famous of all clowns. He was "Weary Willie" the sad clown who tried to sweep up the spot lights after the Ringling Brother's acts were over. There is a whole market of stuff featuring his sad face, from figurines to coffee mugs. His daughter is/was a pharmacist in Ball Ground, Ga.

Ringling Brother's also had Blinko.

There was Lou Jacob who was an American Circus Clown and is believed to have invented the clown car gag.

Did you know Slim Pickens was a rodeo clown before he became a film actor?

Remember Chuckles the clown on "The Mary  Tyler Moore Show"? In the most watched show of their history, he was trampled to death.

Flunkie the clown from the David Letterman Show read junk mail on the show.

Mr. Noodle on "Sesame Street".

Loonette the Clown on "The Big Comfy Couch"

Buttons, played by Jimmy Stewart in the movie "The Greatest Show on Earth."

When I googled famous clowns, I got names like Abbott & Costello, Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplin, Keystone Cops, Laurel & Hardy, Pinky Lee, Martin & Lewis, the Marx Brothers, the Three Stooges, Lucille Ball, Paul Rubens (Pee-Wee Herman), and the guy who plays Mr. Bean.

The one name that really stuck out for me was Red Skelton. Man, I loved him! Clem Kadiddlehopper, The Mean Widdle Kid, Freddie the Freeloader, and more were showcased every week on my television. And Mr. Skelton would get so tickled at his own jokes, he would break down in laughter before he could tell the whole story.

He was also an artist who painted different clown images, sometimes making famous people the clown in the painting.

Whether you like 'em or hate 'em, clowns are for some strange reason, an integral part of our society.

Well, I'm tired of clowning around for now.

As Red Skelton would say, "Good night and God bless."

Movie Moments

There are movies that I have seen throughout my life that have had "moments". Moments where I have been touched, stunned, angered, awed, amused or saddened beyond what a movie should be able to do.

I came up with my top ten. You  may disagree. You may have not seen some of these movies. That's okay. If you want to do it differently, you certainly may. On YOUR blog.

Okay,  here we go:

1. My favorite movie of all time is "To Kill A Mocking Bird". The most powerful moment for me is at the end of one scene where Atticus has done all he can defending his case. The courtroom has emptied, except for the balcony and Atticus, who is putting all his papers in his briefcase.

The balcony is full of the black townspeople, and both of Atticus's children, Jem and Scout.

Atticus never raises his head as he starts out of the courtroom. But in twos or threes or one by one, the people in the balcony start to stand. Scout is on  her knees, watching her daddy through the railing. A dignified gentleman, who is standing by her, looks at her and says, "Miz Scout, stand up." She looks confused, but does as he asks. Then he says, "Your father is passing."

Gives me chill bumps right now.

2. "Gone With The Wind": Prissy has just disclosed that in spite of popular belief, she is not an ob/gyn. She gets slapped for her truthfulness because Ashley's wife (the last man with that name, it got changed to a girl name, somehow), Melanie, is in labor and not doing well at all.

Scarlett goes in search of the doctor. The camera pans out, and we are suddenly exposed to wounded, dying, and dead soldiers as far as the eye can see. There seems to be no end to them. The flag, tattered and worn, is waving in the forefront.

It made war real to me, for the first time in my  life.

3. "Hook": Peter is all grown up and doesn't remember that he is really Peter Pan. He has developed a fear of flying, but is going to take a plane ride to England for Wendy's big birthday to-do. He is at his office and everyone is comforting him and telling him everything will be all right. Peter (played by Robin Williams) steps into the elevator and someone tells him not to worry, he wont' go till it's his time to go. Peter, deadpan, says, "But what if it's the pilot's time to go?" and the elevator doors close.

But my favorite "moment" part of this movie is once again a panning out of the camera. Peter's kids are kidnapped by Hook and he goes back to Never Never Land to save them. He is an out of shape, middle aged guy. And what he sees before him is an endless supply of pirates and ships. It instantly reveals to the viewer the hopelessness Peter is feeling.

4. "Out of Africa": my moment here (and I'll have to take another) is when Redford washes Streep's hair. Whew!

5. And speaking of Robert Redford:  "The Sting": The moment comes at the end. Well, you think it's the end, when everyone is lying there in pools of blood, deadern a doornail. But then the real end occurs. Very, very cool.

6. "Steel Magnolias": When all the ladies are leaving the graveyard after burying Shelby. And M'Lynne, Shelby's mama, played by Sally Fields (who, by the way, is one of the greatest actress of our time and for some reason nobody acknowledges this!), goes nuts. She begins to weep and wail and in the theatre you could hear everyone weeping right along with her. I may have sobbed out loud. And when she ends her rant with she just wants to  hit someone so they might feel as badly as she, Ouiser is offered up for the usage, and suddenly, one is laughing as hard as one is crying. Great moment.

7. "E. T.": The death scene. Not a dry eye in the house.

8. "The Princess Bride": The wedding is about to take place. The cathedral is stately, huge, impressive. The Princess and the Prince look like small dolls as the camera pans in. The Bishop stands before them, dressed in his red and gold robes, the great hat-thingy on his head making him look seven feet tall. You can hear a pin drop in this serious moment. The Bishop (played by Peter Cook) looks at them solemnly and then says, "Mawwidge: Twue love " who knows what else he says. I was laughing so hard at this I couldn't hear more.

9. "The Nativity": This rather dark and serious telling of the Christmas Story is very moving and realistic. There are many moments in it, but the "moment" for me is when Joseph and Mary are traveling to Bethlehem and they are both exhausted. Joseph has kept Mary on the donkey and he has walked. When they settle for the night, Mary sees his poor feet. Regardless of her exhausted state and her large, pregnant self, she gets water and begins to wash Joseph's feet.

What struck was the depth of symbolism. Her servant's heart, her kindness and love...I think she taught her son, The Son, well.  I cried.  I do believe the Father was well pleased with this movie. I know it wasn't biblical, but man, it was biblical.

10. "The Wizard of Oz": Okay, I admit there isn't a moment in this movie, the movie itself was the moment for me, every year. When I was a child, the movie came on one Sunday night a year, and it was as exciting for me as any holiday. The movie mesmerized me, terrified me, held me spellbound every time. And when I was older and saw the  movie turn from dull black and white into brilliant color, when Dorothy opened the door to Oz, why, I could have been delightfully knocked over with a feather.

It was the perfect cherry on top.

That's my ten. What are yours?