Thinking about My Grandfather

I've been going through old pictures at my Mother's, and ran across several I don't recall ever seeing.

Of course, when you are young, you look but  you don't really see. I imagine that's the case.

One of the pictures is my grandfather in his World War I uniform. These are the things I know about him while he was in this war:

He was a sharp shooter.
He was trapped in the Argonne Forest in France with nothing to eat for quite a while.
He was also at sea when they ran out of food and ate what they could catch. (If he started into our house and smelled fish cooking or that had been cooked, he turned around without a word and left)

I barely know these facts, because he did not talk about the war to me. I think in his later years (he lived to be eighty-seven), he talked about it some with other soldiers of time past and a bit to my brothers.

What else do I know about him?

Well, he was born here in this county in 1895, and his great-grandfather owned over ten thousand acres. (My house resides on some of this land, but not because I inherited it). His great-grandfather also owned twelve slaves to help farm the land. I was embarrassed when I found this out a few years ago, but there ain't much I can do about it. He was either Irish or Scots, depending on if you are reading about the crest, the name, or where a book said he came from. His wife was Dutch. He died in this county in 1864.

When my grandfather became a young man he wanted his part of the inheritance because he did not want to farm. He bought a great deal of land in town and ran a general store, which was really a grocery store.

I've heard some really sweet stories about his childhood, some I used in "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree".

He had several brothers and sisters, he was somewhere in the middle. His mother was from a neighboring county and I've been told she was half Scots and half Cherokee.

He began courting my grandmother before he went to war, came back, courted her some more and they married. She was born in 1900. Her family came out of North Carolina down into Georgia and were from Scots/Irish decent also. Her mother was half Cherokee.

Apparently  he was a very stern father, and from what my daddy told me, would be accused of child abuse by today's standards.

But when he was my grandfather, it was quite a different story. He was gentle, loving and kind, and I truly thought he was the perfect man.

I know one of his brothers was murdered up north, where he had gone to find work. I also know my grandfather and some others went up north to dole out justice, just in case it wasn't going to be done. I understand they were successful.

I've also been told he joined the army because he had killed a man who was stealing their horses.

Trying to put those two men together in my mind to make up the man I knew as my grandfather is nigh to impossible for me. I can't imagine him being cruel to his children, or killing another man - even in war - which he obviously did.

In World War I it was  hand to hand, eye to eye, not from some far away plane or pushing a button or dropping a bomb.

But for me, he was the  man that told me stories while he picked beans, let me name the cats and puppies and "help" with the baby chicks and gather eggs and sleep late as a teenager, even though he didn't believe in it.

He's the one who took me to church and showed me a real man read the Bible and studied over it and prayed out loud.

He's the man who showed me how to love a wife, baby her, please her, cook side by side, clean side by side, worship side by side.

He suffered a lot the hours before his death. He begged God to take him, to end his suffering quickly.

And God finally took him home.

Do I believe I'll see my grandfather again?

You betcha.

Do I think he paid for wrong he had done while here? I think we all have consequences in our lives, good and bad, even when we are forgiven by those we love and by our God.

Maybe he mellowed with age to change into the man I knew. Or maybe he was convicted of some of the harshness he displayed in his early adulthood.

Or maybe he never saw anything wrong in his behavior, as he was a part of the Victorian era where children were treated quite differently than they are treated today.

I don't know.

But I still miss him, all the time. And he's been gone almost thirty-one years.

I imagine  he'll be one of the first to greet me with a grin and a big old hug.

Some days, I just can't wait.

Home Sweet Home

A few days ago someone knocked on the door. It was a tiny, middle-aged Chinese lady. She barely spoke English, and she was all by herself.

We finally pieced together that she was trying to find downtown.

Boy, was she a little off the beaten path!

Husband finally got in the car and she followed him back to town, because trying to give her directions...well.

This isn't the first time we have had strangers knock on our door because they are lost, or their car has broken down, or they "just love our house!"

It is the first time, I have to say, someone from China has come a-knocking.

There are many houses in our settlement now, but I venture to say we get the  most of the knocks. I think it's because they see our house and think, "That's a safe place. I can ask them."

I'm told over and over how our house feels like home, and people say they want to stay when they come!

What a compliment!

One reason, I think, is it looks like "grandma's house":

 And while most folks don't choose to build this style house, it does seem to make folks smile.

 

One of my prayers is for our house to have the spirit of hospitality. I believe God wants us to have a home where people are welcome with open arms.

 

So,if you get lost, come see me. We don't do directions very well. But if we know where you are trying to go, we'll try to take you there!

 

 

 

 

 

Pain is a Funny Thing

Obviously I don't mean funny ha-ha, but funny odd.

For whatever reason, I have been in more pain than usual today. Blame it on the weather, blame it on how I slept, blame it on whatever you so desire.

I remember after surgery I would have terrible days, when things had been looking up. I'd wrack my brain trying to figure out what I'd done wrong.

Unfortunately, there is no rhyme nor reason as to the upswing of pain. It suddenly becomes a beast that only yesterday was an irritant. And maybe (hoping) tomorrow it will go back to being just an irritant.

When I get in this shape, I fantasize about the time that will come when I won't have pain anymore, that I will  have a whole and healthy body. I try to remember this part of life is only for the blink of an eye, nothing compared to what is to come.

God provided a miracle yesterday in our family. I am still hungover with being awestruck from that. When I called people to tell them the results of corporal prayer, many actually laughed out loud with joy.

A taste of what's to come.

So, what do I blame my bad pain days on? The fall (of mankind).

And yes, I am aware of the pun.

Say a prayer for me today, and never hesitate to ask the same from me.

We can pray, no matter what.

Conjured Up

As most ya'll know, I am working on my sixth book.

This book is told in first person by a nine year old little girl.

Now, the more I write, the more real she becomes. I know a lot about her, more about her than you ever will, even if you read the book.

Because you can't put someone's whole life, their whole self between the covers of a book.

I believe if you have a character in a book who seems real to the person reading, then that character must be fully born, not a cardboard cutout.

For instance, I know she has an inny, not an outy. I know she doesn't like  her chin, but it isn't something she talks about to anyone for fear of hurting someone's feelings. I know she hates to pee at someone else's house, but is too polite to say so.

None of those things are in the book. But they are there, because that's a part of who she is.

I know how she turns out all grown up, more or less, but the book ends at the beginning of her tenth  year.

If you are a writer, you know exactly what I mean, you get it.

If you are not, you are pretty sure I'm just as crazy as you suspected.

I have people look at me and shake their heads, saying they can't even imagine what I'm talking about - characters in my head, not knowing what they might do in the next chapter, behaving in a way you don't expect them to.

I think they half admire me and half feel relief that they aren't that way at all.

So, the next time you pick up a book, think about the author for just a moment.

That's their baby you're holding in your  hands.

Standing on My Head in Search of

I don't know what nostalgia smells like to you, but to me, it smells like a cedar chest.

I was looking for a particular picture of my mother, which I had in my hands not long ago.

I made the mistake of giving it back to her. When I called and told her I needed it for a column I was writing, she said: "I put it up somewhere."

Lord, help me.

Of course, I spent several minutes with my head in the cedar chest, knowing full well that wasn't where it was. I tried to get her to let me look in her closet where I am almost positive it is, but Noooooo. It was the cedar chest first.

(Is she hiding something/someone in the dang closet so that I'm not allowed in there???)

But, boy, did I find some neat stuff. Her report cards for one! Which proves without a doubt that generational curses exist. Just look at her math grades, my math grades and Daughter's math grades.

All look the same. All looked cursed.

Anyway, I also found a picture of my daddy I'd never seen before. He looks about ten or so. What a cutie! But it blows my mind the way they used to "paint" photos. So he has these rosy cheeks, they've lightened his hair and darkened his lips a little.

My baby pictures are the same, even the professional portraits done of my family when I was around seventeen are 'painted up'. My brothers and myself have sort of a mahogany color to our hair, when we were blonde. Weird, huh.

There were a few more pictures of Daddy I'd never seen, as well as some of my mother.

There is a case that has my great-grandmother's shawl in it, along with her obituary. In her obituary, her name is never mentioned! It says Mrs. William  Sawyer or "granny", but never Samintha. Now, when she died, of course everyone knew who she was because she was a mid-wife for so many years. But, I mean, really? Not mention the woman's name? Weird again.

I found baby clothes, caps, shoes, books, and blankets. Some mine, some my brothers.

Of course primary school work done by all three of us.

Bibles.  Several.

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution's coverage of the 1993 blizzard, mostly of Atlanta and the surrounding areas.

Did you know at one point during the blizzard, ALL of our county was without electricity?

Blairsville reported the deepest snow at 35 inches. It was 27 inches deep at our house.

I think a great deal of the Eastern part of the U.S. was pretty much at a standstill for a few days.

Mother nature is very powerful, without a doubt. And speaking of weird, how weird is it to have a blizzard in the deep South?

I found a book "The history of Gilmer county: 1875 to 1975." That should be fun to look through.

When I brought a bunch of the photographs home so I can scan them into the computer, Daughter said, "That smells like Maw Maw's house."

Maw Maw was Husband's mother. She was right! How weird is that?

Every house has its own smell. Husband's mother died more than half a dozen years ago, but Daughter remembers.

I think what we record as children stays with us, especially smell. I can close my eyes and recall the smell of my grandfather's car I rode in when I was very little. I think he sold that car in 1963.

There was also a heart shaped box that had belonged to my grandfather's sister, who died at age sixteen when her appendix burst. That happened in the early 1900's. Inside the box was her thimble.

I saw a picture of a young man dressed up in his navy uniform. He was my great-grandfather's sister's son. He committed suicide, Mother said.

I ran out of time as I had a dinner date, so I had to come back and clean up the mess. As I put things back into the cedar chest, I was flooded with so much emotion. Seeing my mother and daddy at different stages in their lives, seeing my brothers in baby pictures, identical cherubs laughing at the camera, seeing my own baby self having a grand time too, it brought back the idea that time flows so quickly that it sifts through out fingers like sand. My great-grandmother's shawl, a soft pink that was probably her Sunday best, tucked in a box along with her obituary. A sixteen year old's thimble that she probably never used with the plans she had when learning to sew...

Laughter, sorrow, time passing...all in a little cedar chest.

Weird,huh.

Bad Things Come in Threes

I've heard this superstition all my life.

Now, most superstitions I can shrug off. They seem pretty silly to me. But this one is harder to ignore, because, well, because it seems to be true, dagnab it.

I've seen tragedies in families in threes more often than not.

If we break a glass or dish in the kitchen, it doesn't seem to let up until three things have been broken.

I cut my hand last week. Then I bruised it badly. Then some weird insect bit me on the very same hand.

We had car trouble. Then again, different car. Then AGAIN, different car.

My parents had three children.

SEE???

I looked up on google  researched thoroughly where this alleged superstition came from. It seems that Americans think in threes. (signed, sealed, delivered - ready, set, go -  three strikes, you're out - third time's the charm, etc.)

Indians (Native Americans) like the number four better and Chinese like the number five.

If we're talking about bad things coming, I'll take number three any day.

I read that servants used to deliberately break two fairly worthless things after one valuable thing had been broken, so as to ward off other valuables crashing to the floor.

I wonder what they did if a loved one died...

I guess the moral of that story is never have three servants. Hire two or four, right off the bat.

And me? Well, I'm gonna start breaking the cheap stuff from  now on.

Private Grief in a Public Place

My father  had been quite ill and in the hospital for several days.

I  had a few hours of sleep and was getting ready to head back to the hospital. I was very tired, but my hair was a mess and I wanted to wash it before I went back.

Just as I got it washed, I heard someone pull up in front of our house. At that time, if someone was on our road, they were either lost, trying to find a private place to park for who knows what, or they were really coming to our house.

It was a cousin, who parked frantically and ran to our front door. He said I needed to get to the hospital right away, Daddy had taken a turn for the worse - much worse.

The cousin had tried to call, but they were working on the lower road and had accidentally cut the phone lines.

So with soaking wet hair, he took me to the hospital. Husband followed closely behind, as soon as he could lock up the house.

When we got there, I saw three people simultaneously.

The first was one of my mental health patients. She had bi-polar disorder with psychotic features, and I knew if she was hanging around the emergency room door, things weren't going well with her. She was staring at me as I got out of the car. I guess she'd never seen me in an old t-shirt and dripping wet hair.

The other two people I saw were my twin brothers. They had an identical look on their face, and they didn't have to say a word.

I knew my daddy was gone as soon as I saw them. The one standing nearest me (I can't remember which one)  opened his arms and I flew into them, sobbing. My other brother stood, patting me on the back, as we three cried for our daddy.

There was a separate part of me very aware that I had an unstable patient watching me fall completely apart. And somewhere in my brain I felt concern for her, hoping this would not make her go off the deep end.

Grieving like this, hearing something like this, in a very  public place is a terrible thing. There is nothing you can do to control what you do because you can't control what you hear and know.

The next day (or maybe that evening) I talked with someone from work and told them what the patient had witnessed, telling them to check on her.

But you know what? She had already called my office and warned them about me and the terrible state I was in.  She told them they needed to check on me and pray for me because my daddy had died.

Well, what do you know. She had been listening. She had learned how to behave appropriately in a sad situation. She had learned to set her own woes aside for the moment and think of someone else.

What she saw was a growing experience for her. It actually helped her.

What I came away with from that story is people are a lot stronger than we give them credit for. Our children are stronger, our elderly parents are stronger. Heck, even our mentally ill folks are stronger.

There's hope in this world, isn't there?

Because we know how to pull together when we need to the most.

So let folks know what is going on. Don't keep them in the dark to "protect" them from bad or sad news.

Give them the chance to grow.

Give them a chance to show you they can be strong too.

Birthmarks

DISCLAIMER: This blog is not meant to offend. I am talking about the way people used to believe and behave. It's just the way it WAS, not the way it IS. 

Mother and I have been looking at some old photographs that I had somehow become the keeper of. I won't say owner, 'cause, heck, if she wants 'em back, I ain't gonna tell her no.

Anyway, She doesn't know who two-thirds of these people are, and I surely do not. All she knows is they came out of her mother's stuff, so they must be Mulky's.

There was one picture of an older man who was dressed up like a cowboy. By the nature of the photo, it was easy to see this was taken at a carnival of some sort.

Mother said yes, and she named the man. I barely remember  him, and the reason I do is because  he was "different".

I always remember him sitting on his sister's front porch. Now, obviously the man didn't stay there all the time, but in childhood I think our memories are sometimes like photos themselves, and this is the image I always have of him.

He had a pretty severe speech impediment, he was probably  moderately mentally retarded, and he walked with a terrible stagger, usually with assistance.

I now know he was born with Cerebral Palsy, but when I was a child, I just knew something was wrong.

Mother began to tell about how her father was always very good to this man, and brought him treats. He was the one who took him to the fair and had his picture made of which I speak in the above paragraph.

But get this: My mother explains his plight in this way, "They say he was born the way he was and walked like a drunk man because his daddy was drunk when his mama got pregnant."

Now, this gave me pause.

I did not smart off like I so badly wanted to ("How did "they" know exactly the moment of conception?" I mean, I know this is a small town, but, geez!), but  instead said, "He had Cerebral Palsy."

Mother shrugged it off and went to the next picture.

But it reminded me of other things I've heard all my life regarding being marked before or at birth.

One of my best friends has always had a silver dollar sized white circle in his hair. It shone when we were little because he had fairly dark hair. It's not so noticeable now, because like the rest of us, there's lots of white hair present when you are pushing sixty. At any rate, I was told all my life that he was marked as an unborn child when his daddy slumped over and died on his mama during her pregnancy with my friend. I don't know if he was told this all his life, and I'm pretty sure he reads my blogs, so I hope this isn't a surprise. Let me say this: as a child I was in awe that  his daddy could leave him a gift to carry with him the rest of his life, even though he wouldn't be present to watch him grow up. And he has grown up into a fine man his father would be very proud of.

I have a distant cousin who has a port wine stain that looks exactly like a strawberry on her forehead. I've been told her mama craved strawberries during the whole pregnancy and, so of course, she was born with the mark of a strawberry.

Come to think of it, her  hair is strawberry blonde, too.

There was a freak show (as they called them) in town, which I think amounted to a bunch of gypsy type people coming through and camping at the river. They charged people to look at this poor creature they had chained to a peg which they drove in the ground. My daddy said he looked half human, half animal and that you couldn't get near him. Of course my mother wanted to go see this (I mean, like, who wouldn't, right?) EWWW.

Daddy wouldn't let her because she was pregnant with me and he was afraid the sight would mark the baby.

Let me repeat: Mother did NOT see this pitiful sight, no matter how marked you think I am.

I bet you all could add weird stories to this right now.

People were obviously  more superstitious fifty years ago than they are now - at least in Appalachia.

I'm thankful my port wine stain is on the back of my neck. I'm thankful my parents weren't more superstitious than they were, given other stories I've heard.

The only thing I can figure my mother craved was a salt lick. Because, man, I have cow licks all over my head!

Ambushed by a Broken Heart

Emotions amaze me.

Today I was in a Bible study, and during it, the youngest of us tearfully started telling us her husband of thirteen years had announced he wanted a divorce.

And suddenly, I was thrown back into my own history. The anguish, the grief, the suffering I went through many years ago when  my twelve year marriage finally broke, the last feeble thread fraying beyond any kind of recovery.

Tears sprang to my eyes as my heart rate sped up, my stomach churned and I began to shake. I thought I was going to start sobbing.

I pulled myself together because she is the one with pain in the present. Mine belongs in the past, and stays there almost always.

I truly thought I'd never feel that pain again.

After all, I have been re-married for nearly twenty-nine years. Husband is nothing like the one who really doesn't deserve to be called husband anything, even ex; he doesn't deserve the honor or title of that word.

I guess seeing that young woman's raw sorrow, the look that said, "I don't know what I'm going to do." broke my heart all over again.

And through my broken heart for her, I felt my own, where the scar lives. I may have healed, but the scar is there.

If you are a praying person, please pray for this young woman. She has a long way ahead of her full of the kind of misery you can't understand unless you have lived it.

Time will make her heal. Perhaps she'll find another man who will actually be a good man, a real "Husband", as I did.

But her scar?

It will be there forever.

Dale Evans & Roy Rogers

Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys

Last year when I read to all the fifth graders in the universe (okay, Gilmer county, but you try it), I read a short story out of the book I wrote, 'The Christmas Closet and Other Works", called "The Christmas Closet". This story is about a little boy in the early sixties who adores Roy Rogers.

Now, before I could read the story, I had to make sure the kids knew who Roy Rogers was.

They did not.

One teacher did not know.

Just shoot me now.

Anyway, Husband decided I should read a book written by Roy and his wife, Dale Evans (Queen of the West).

Usually I poo-poo whatever Husband wants me to read because our tastes are very different, but I wanted to at least take a gander at this book.

It was published in 1979 and was very interesting. I learned things I never knew, including the sorrow of the couple losing three children during their lives.

It was not the first marriage for either of them, Roy being a widow with three children and Dale being divorced twice, with one son.

I knew there were lots of movies (a hundred) a TV show, a restaurant, and every possible marketable thing a child could possibly dream of  having. the "Roy Rogers Lunch Box" was the first lunch box for children.

I learned that Dale Evans wrote many of the songs they sang and recorded, including Happy Trails To You. If you've never heard this song, you need to hear it.

Roy had a love for children and often visited orphanages and children's hospitals.

Five of their children were adopted.

the only biological child they had together died just before her second birthday. Dale had contracted German Measles in her fourth month of pregnancy and the baby was a "Mongoloid" child, with severe heart deformities.

Another daughter was killed in a bus accident.

A son died from being dared to drink while in the service in Germany and died from complications of being extremely intoxicated, when  he had never even had alcohol before.

They both came to know God during their marriage, and developed a very deep abiding faith. They loved each other and from the way they wrote this book, it is obvious they both had very well developed senses of humor.

Trigger (Roy's horse) was a member of the family, and they had many other animals that surrounded their lives.

And so, like most of us, Roy and Dale had ups and downs in their lives. Roy died in 1998, Dale passed away in 2001. They were good, kind people, and they live on in many, many hearts.

I want to thank them someday for the joy they brought to my childhood. I believe I will have that opportunity. Until then, Happy Trails.

Annoyed Much?

Even though they are the loves of our lives, does your husband/wife/aardvark/talking parrot, ever annoy you, just a wee bit?

Like, when you are sleeping soundly after tossing and turning for an hour, they wake you by shaking  you gently (read earthquake) to tell you that you are "breathing too loud."

I asked, "Do you want me to stop breathing?" And assuming that he does not, "Leave me alone!"

"But you are making a noise and I can't go to sleep."

This coming from a man who snores so loudly neighbors have called to complain.

So what if I am making a small snoring snuffling  lilting sigh? Perhaps I was dreaming about running through a field of flowers, who knows? I never will, for sure.

And if I wake him up to tell him he's snoring? Once he said, "Are you sure?" Once  he said, "Are you sure it was me?" I told him no, I wasn't sure, maybe it was the guy on the other side of the bed.

Sheesh.

And then there's the way he doesn't get out of the car. I've had other women mention this about their husband, too.

I can be in the house (and I gimp, remember), feed the cats, do a load of laundry and floss. I look out the window and  he is finally exiting the car, going around the entire vehicle making sure all the doors are locked. They are, and the keys are in the ignition.

Again.

The silver lining to that is it's the only time he knows where  he left the keys.

How about the way he asks if I've washed the apple, tomato, whatever I may  have just offered him a piece of? I mean, really? "Nope," I say, firmly, "I never wash 'em. Eat 'em dirty, that's what I say," as I chomp a big old bite.

Oh, and he's Columbo, too. He always reminds me to lock the front door behind him, but I don't. Not right away.

Because he always comes back before he actually gets in the car and drives off.

 At least twice.

And what about the way  he drinks water?

Oh my lord!

He fills a glass. He takes two swigs. He empties the glass. He fills it again. He takes two swigs. He empties the glass. He fills it again....you get the picture.

He drives me crazy sometimes.

And yet....

I'd go crazy without him.

They Say God Doesn't Give You More Than You Can Handle

This is a phrase that has become very popular in the past few years. I've seen Mother Teresa given credit for it, and maybe she did say it first. The rest of the line is "but I wish He didn't trust me so much." It sounds like, if she did say it, she was joking a little.

But as far as I can find, it isn't particularly biblical.

And I don't like it much, because I don't think it's exactly true.

First of all, it suggests that God gives us bad stuff to see if we can handle it.

He doesn't.

I'll be the first to tell you He allows bad stuff in our lives.

We live in a fallen world because we chose our own will over God's will, and that's the consequence of where we are in history. The Bible says it rains on the just and the unjust. All of us will get wet once in a while. There's been times I was sure I was drowning.

And God certainly does test His children. But that isn't to see how much you can handle, rather that is a test of your faith. Do you trust Him? Will you obey Him? And, if you fail the test, you get to take it again. And again. And again.

But God never tempts you. Temptation only comes from Satan. And when  you submit to the temptation old Satan is one happy camper.

Even if your get forgiveness and repent, that is, decide to turn away from whatever that temptation was and never do it again, there still are consequences. God rarely takes those away.

Of course you are going to have more than you can handle in your life. Probably more than once.

That's where God comes in.

He says He is strong where we are weak. He wants to work in us with our weakness so that when His strength prevails through us it glorifies Him.

That's why we are here, after all.

So next time you are in a place where you don't think you can handle it, think about turning to Your Father. He's always eager to lend a Hand.

Please

                          NEVER  FORGET                       
9/11 (OF ANY YEAR)

My Trip Through The Amazon

I'm sorry I don't have pictures.

All I wanted to do was read the book I had downloaded on my Amazon Cloud.

Hey! Hey!  Hey! Hey! Get offa my cloud!

Oh, excuse me. My mind wandered just a little.

Anywho, one is supposed to be able to read these jewels from any computer location.

May I take a moment to say: Ha!

I've been sick (like you didn't know that!) and wanted Husband to walk out to the studio with me so I could read from my Cloud.

"Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Get offa-"

Dang!

But he insisted I didn't need to wobble out there. "Just get it from my laptop." He said. "You can read your book anywhere." He said.

May I take another moment to say: Ha! Ha!

After fifteen minutes of mysterious travels that got me absolutely No Where, Husband insisted I move out of the way and he'd find it for me quickly.

Let's do a triple Ha! Ha! Ha! and get it over with.

Finally, our Amazon Guide, Bwana, determined Husband did not have the right browser to open my cloud and read my books, and Husband was in no mood to change browsers for fear of losing the books he had downloaded on his precious "Cloud Two".

By the time all this rigmarole was over, I could have read the whole dang book.

You can see why I didn't take pictures on my trip through the Amazon.

The lens would have been too steamed to focus properly.

UGH

I don't mean the 'ugh' like the Indians ugh.

But they probably did say that when they saw the white man invading their land. (Although some of them stopped saying "Ugh" long enough to say, "The rabbit died" or else I wouldn't be here).

No, I'm saying ugh because at one a.m. I woke up feeling....irritated. Hot. Mean. Husband was asleep with his glasses perched on the end of his nose, his book laying on his chest and the lamp on. I told him if he'd turn off the light I could sleep better.

Then I stomped into the bathroom where Daughter was STILL in the bathtub after, like, six days or something. I grumbled at her too.

And then it started. I felt something welling up inside me and I  yelled at Husband to get the pan! He knew what that meant, and he got there just in time.

I threw up.

You know the drill, you pour sweat, you shake, your vision gets black spots. Husband scooted the chair in front of me so I could lean on it.

Now, Daughter hates puking. She literally runs from it.

But she was trapped in the bathtub. Awww. after only six days.

Anyway, Husband helped me get back in bed, where I had a chill. Then I went to sleep.

And woke up at two a.m. and started all over again.  Except this time Daughter had escaped to the down stairs. Her bedroom is too close to the gagging sounds.

It's afternoon, I'm not sick anymore, just a pounding headache and weak. My head feels like it weighs a ton and my eyes don't want to stay open.

So you'll pardon me if it's a short blog.

Ugh.

Woodpeckers (The Bird, People, The Bird!) Sheesh

You knew I was talking about a bird?

Oh.

'Scuse me. I've heard too many vaudeville jokes for my own good, I guess.

Ahem.

Moving right along:


On our walk this morning, my poor ears were attacked by a very loud, raucous cry from above. I knew what it was before I looked, and hoped I could see what I was hearing.

Sure enough, the bird was flying toward me, and landed in an old dead tree just above me. Its cry proceeded it, and I guess they holler as they fly.

It was a Pileated woodpecker.

Now, I've seen these birds as tall as a chicken, but most of them are about the size of a large crow. When I see them around the house, they are usually in pairs.

But seeing (and hearing) the one this morning brought to mind a family story.  Here goes:

When Daughter was twenty-seven months old I put her down for her nap. It was fall, the weather was perfect, and I'd opened windows.

In a half hour or so, I heard her crying, and I went into her room. She was sitting up in her bed, those blue eyes of hers as big as the sky.

I asked her what was wrong. Did she have a bad dream? She looked at me, still mute, and I could tell she didn't grasp what "dream" meant.

So I re-worded. "Did  you have a scary thing happen while you were asleep?"

She nodded eagerly.

"Do you want to tell me what it was?"

By now I was sitting on the bed next  to her. She leaned close and whispered, "It was a wickerpacker!"

Our pileated woodpeckers had been carrying on at the edge of the wood, and with the window open, I'm sure the call they made infiltrated my baby's dreamworld, scaring her half to death.

Of course, nap time was over for the day, and I tried to soothe her fears.

But, as you probably already know, woodpeckers, to this very day, in  our house are wickerpackers!

Panic and Solution to Problems

Last evening when I 'went to blog' I found out I couldn't.

As far as I know, there are no medications for this. I wasn't 'blogged up' or anything.

There just weren't any little doo-hickey places to click on to get me to a place for a new post.

I wondered if someone was trying to tell me something.

Had I blogged the highest number I was allowed to blog? Had I used up all my cyberspace? Can one use up cyberspace?

Perhaps a disgruntled reader had come in and sabotaged the doo-hickey so I couldn't blog anymore.

What did I ever say?

Maybe some neighbor nearby got wind of my plans.

What are your plans, you ask with eager anticipation (after all you didn't have the opportunity to read my golden words yesterday).

Hold on. I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Anyway, my plans are to go door to door all up and down this here road and ask people to leave.

Why, you ask?

Well, before there was anybody living up on this mountain with the exception of my little family of three, we were never bothered by wildlife.

In fact, we seldom even saw wildlife. Only squirrels. A random bunny late at night. Maybe a deer on occasion.

But now that there are  houses everywhere, we have seen bears (as you  may have noticed), our fox,George Clooney,  turkey, quail, mountain lion, deer, raccoon, and even one bobcat.

I wouldn't mind seeing them. It's the actual up close, too close for comfort, and destruction of my property that bothers me.

So, don't you think it's reasonable to ask everyone else to leave?

I mean, we were here first.

Us and the wildlife.

Books A Zillion

I have read somewhere around a bajillion books in my lifetime.

I know you may find that number hard to comprehend. I, myself, who have reached such a number, find it hard to grasp.

My family, on the other hand, would probably tell you it's more than that.

I love fiction.

The only time I read non-fiction is when I'm researching something for a book I'm writing, working on teaching a Bible study lesson, or can't find anything else.

Because, you see, dear reader, I am a bookaholic.

I'm no fool. I know this: I CANNOT stop any time I want to.

Not that I would ever want to.

You remember the Y2K scare?

The first fear I had? Starving? Nope. Freezing in the winter? Nope. Outdoor toilets? Nope. (that was second).

Not having enough books was number one on my list.

I figured I could read the hundreds I have at home over again. Then I could figure out a way to get to the library, break in if necessary, and cart away as much as I could haul in a wagon or something.

I am not kidding.

The only time in my life I have stopped reading for any length of time was after my back surgery.  I had falsely believed that I would be lying around a lot so I could read a lot.

Oh, ha.

I was lying around all right. In agony. I couldn't read anything. It was a terrible time.

But that, like everything else, passed.

Right now? I'm reading what I call a "filler". I don't have anything exciting at the moment. I'm waiting on a library book.

I have a big basket of books that folks have loaned me. They are paperbacks, and not something anyone is in  a hurry to get back. Sometimes I start one, shake my head slowly in sadness and wonder how the heck that slop got published and close it quickly.

But sometimes these books turn out to be pretty good.

I know a friend or another friend, somebody, will come through soon and call me excitedly and tell me about this book I just have to read.

And I will eagerly obtain it as quickly as possible and read it.

Which reminds me: if you have a great book, let me know. I'm always looking forward to reading something I know someone else has enjoyed. If I don't like it, well, I know how to close the cover.

Speaking of closing, I'll close for now, I'm in the middle of a chapter of a filler.

And this filler happens to be pretty good.

Happy reading, world!

When Other Friendships Have Been Forgot, Ours Will Not

I had lunch with a bunch of friends Friday. It was in celebration of "the baby" quitting her job with our old company that was once paradise that turned into you know where.

The rest of us had been long gone.

There are all sorts of reasons it took her longer to leave. She interned with the agency and then was hired. She'd been there fourteen years.

But looking at all the women around the table, I saw a lifetime of friendship. Most of them I've known since my twenties.

The others at least a dozen years or more.

We've watched each other go from young adults to....um, what we are now. The ages range from the baby being in her late thirties (no! I've watched her graduate, get married, have children....) to early sixties (no again!).

I supervised all these women but one, most of them for many  years. Our workplace was a family. We loved each other, we prayed for each other. Sometimes folks even fussed with each other, but usually got over it.

It was a joy working with these women, and it's a joy to have them as my friends.

Sometimes it would appear we have more differences than things in common. But as I've said, true friendship is forever, in spite of differences. Because love bridges those differences, every single time, in a true friendship.

We laughed and talked and tried to hear what everybody was saying at the same time and not miss a thing. We don't get together often enough. In spite of some of us already retiring, we are all so "busy", you know.

Don't get me wrong. I think all of us talk to each other from time to time. I try to keep in touch regularly with each of them.  These women are "mine" after all. I was responsible for them for years, and I guess that feeling  never leaves. When  you feel responsible for someones welfare for a long time, that feeling stays forever.

Ask any parent.

I'm  not saying they were my children. They are my peers. But at work, in order to be a good boss, you must have responsibility for the welfare of those who answer to  you. It's your job, and if you are a half way decent boss, it should be your passion.

So, anyway, we had a great lunch. We gabbed and laughed and ate when we weren't gabbing and laughing. But to be honest, I could have been eating sawdust. I was too busy having a good time to notice.

I could ponder on where time has gone, like everyone else has done, but we all know.

TIME MARCHES ON.

And it's marched all over my face!