Pehaps a Better Tomorrow

I can tell you, this has been one long week.

I'm sure it's been even longer for my mother, except for the part where she was under anesthesia.

I wish I had a list of upcoming funny blogs regarding her hospital stay and her continuing at-home recuperation.

Not a one.

It has been painful to watch. Things are better now, four days out. Although we have taken turns care taking; it has taken a toll on us all.

I can only imagine what it has taken from her almost eighty-five year old mind and body.

Plus, of course, she is ruminating over a family squabble like it is war between Russia and the USA.

Me? I just wish folks would grow up.

I ain't too happy with my own body. It doesn't like unusual places to sit or stand. It really doesn't like stooping. I won't go into detail of nights of leg and foot cramps, numbness that wakes me up, stiffness that won't let me move and zipping pain that seems demonically possessed. It really makes me angry that I can't step up to the plate more and be more confident in what I am doing.

Of course, part of that is there is not one speck of nurse in me. Give me a crazy person and I'm good to go. Physical impairment? I'm good to go there, too, just in the other direction. That embarrasses me to admit. It's like I have some core value missing.

Mother hasn't hesitated to tell each and every doctor, nurse, aide, cleaning lady, and passer by what a terrible shape I am in. They glance at my she-could-plow-the-south-forty physique and mentally roll their eyes. Color me embarrassed.

Of course, Brother of Many Surgeries gets the same amount of stage time, and he looks pretty good too, as long as he ain't naked. Don't get me wrong, I ain't seen him naked, (in many years) but I've heard rumors.

All in all, I suppose we have done the best we can. We've worked and watched, cajoled and encouraged, talked and listened.

And so far, nobody's died.

Tomorrow Is Closer Than It Was

This will be my last blog for a few days.

Tomorrow  Mother is having hip replacement surgery. She is nearly 85 years old, so perhaps you can imagine my anxiety over it.

I have not wanted her to have this surgery, even though she has been cleared by a good cardiologist, dentist, and the surgeon himself.

But you see, I don't know if my unease comes from my own disastrous surgery where many things went awry and I'm stuck with it all, or if it is her age and I'm afraid she won't live through it all, or if it is my fear of my own shortcomings when it comes to helping take care of her afterwards.

All I told my Mother was: "It's your body, it's your pain, and only you can decide what has to be done"

And her reply, "I can't go on living with this pain."

So, there you go.

My hope, my sincere prayer, is that in a few days I'll be able to regale you with hilarious stories of adventures at the hospital, as I have attempted to do in the past.

I ask that those of you who are praying folks to lift my mama up in prayer tomorrow. For the Lord loves to hear our prayers, it is a sweet odor to Him. He loves my mother more than I can imagine, and I ask that you pray with that in mind.

And if you have an extra minute, add me in there, too.

I'm Givin' It Up!

I swan, I am givin' up house cleanin' forever.

A few months ago we decided to have the tabletop of our kitchen table redone. After twenty-seven years of meals, bill paying, card playing, board games, homework, and propped elbows during intense conversations, there were places that were worn to the bare wood.

So, off it went. We hauled my work table from the sun room and dumped everything in there in baskets and buckets and on the floor. Chaos ruled.

The tabletop came back a few days ago. We let it air out some because there was still a faint odor and we plain didn't have time to fool with it all.

Today, we (meaning I) decided the time had come to get order back in the house.

This meant taking apart the table we'd been using to put back into the sun room. This table is very old and hand made, so if you take it apart and don't pay attention, it's very hard to get back together, one piece does not go anywhere at all, it goes one place.

Everything had to be moved out of the way. You have no idea.

The kitchen table had to be moved back into the kitchen and returned to its pedestal.

Then everything had to be put back in its place, out of buckets and baskets and floor and "I wonder where that is...."

The more we did, the more I saw needed doing.

It ain't worth it.

See, if you never get started, it's easier to gloss over the whole mess and ignore it.

Holy cow! How could I live in this nasty environment?

Oh! Daughter just brought in a meatball sub.

Things are looking up already.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

You know how some pictures you see  bring back a flood of memories, while others do not?

I remember seeing a video (reel to reel, honey. We are talking the old days). It was taken at the tag end of some of my first wedding, which took place in 1972. In 1973 we went on a cross country trip with those same people, and he just continued the reel.

About a dozen years later, I got to see the "movie" for the first time. I remembered after the wedding film. But when it switched to the next year and we are all walking around a fish hatchery, I was astounded.

Why?

Because I had no memory whatsoever of being at a fish hatchery.

Still gives me the creeps.

Was I so bored I just blanked it out?

I guess I'll never know.

But then there are pictures that take you right back to the moment.

Like wedding pictures, baby pictures of my one and only chick, that kind of thing.

But I ran across a photo the other day, which is a pretty ordinary picture:

It is late winter. I am thirty-two years old. I have worked all day and grabbed up our then-delivered-to-the-door Atlanta Journal-Constitution newspaper.

I'm sitting at a desk we had just purchased to go in our being-built house.

I knew after we moved in and had a house payment, we wouldn't be able to afford furniture, so I was buying  up pieces I knew I wanted. And I knew exactly where I wanted each piece. Husband would say, "But how do you know it will fit?" or "How do you know that's the right color?"


I just knew.

And I was right!

Everything fit perfectly, everything was the right color.

Picture this: my Victorian Cottage may be small but it is a gift from God. He allows me to live in a home I was privileged to design, decorate and reside in.

Now, that's a pretty picture for you.

Lonliness

I don't know if it's because I can't get out as much since I got hurt - no parties, no shopping/movies/out to eat marathons - or if I'm older and crabbier. But I've noticed I am not getting phone calls like I used to.

And another thing I've noticed: hardly anyone, other than bill collectors, sends me mail.  It seems only yesterday that I was getting lots and lots of personal mail, addressed specifically to me, for me, and with obvious admiration and affection.

It's lonely, really.

Wait - sigh, another interruption - "What is it, Husband?"

Mumbled message.

Me: "Oh."

Husband says the only difference is the election is now over.

Spring in the South

I don't think I ever feel more deeply "southern" than when I'm sitting on my back porch. I think a porch brings to mind lazy days, ice tea, bare feet, wicker, ceiling fans turning slowly in the breeze, and of course, gossip.

Bless their hearts.

I was always a tree climber and sitter when I was a kid, and God has sweetly allowed me to have a back porch that sits up in the trees.

I feel like I have my own tree house.

It's not a big porch, but it's big enough for a little trickling pond, lots of plants, and a visiting bird  now and then.

If I'm quiet and still enough, birds will alight within touching distance. It seems once they get used to you being there, they aren't very afraid.

I've seen a Scarlet Tanager  that just about made me faint. And Rose-breasted Grosbeaks. And humming birds, of course.

I hear the cry of the Cooper's Hawk, the caw of the Crow, the laugh of the Piliated Woodpecker, and the sough of the breeze in the trees.

I smell the forest.

Our God Our Father is everywhere. I can read His Holy Word on that porch and hear Him clearer than anywhere else.

I itch for warm weather so I can get out there to "sit a spell", and I stay until fall gets so cold I have to come in and light a fire instead.

But if you are bored or lonely, come on over. We'll sit a spell, drink some tea and listen. You can take off your shoes, lean back and do nothing.

You know you want to. You know you need it.

Bless your heart.

BAM!

This is daughter. Momma wants me to write that out broadband router was hit by lightening. It was a loud explosion. She will blog again when her hair straightens. Thank you.

The Long Or Short Of It

Here is a little preview of something I've been working on.

My questions are:

1. Is it worth it?

2. Beginnings of a novel or "just" a nice short story?

Who knows, as I asked the other day.

Here goes:

          As he put the car in a lower gear to climb the ever steepening rise of the road, the whole town came suddenly into focus. It was as if a magician had pulled back a curtain and revealed a hidden secret.  And with its appearance, every memory he had hidden from himself for the last twenty years rose to the surface, much like the town had done.

          He took in the bridge, the steeple and the old houses in one swift gaze. Beyond, the entire town was surrounded by the mountains that were at this moment in all their autumn glory. The evening sun shone on them, lighting them with fire from within.

          The little town was where his parents had been born and were raised. All his family had gone there for holidays and summer stays.

          He could never imagine actually living there, but he could not imagine wanting to live anywhere else.

          So many good things were there, including his first love. He could smile and remember how it felt to hold her in his arms. Their first kiss still made a sharp pang zing through his heart.

          Some friends were gone. One lost to a raging storm off the coast, another to a raging storm inside his own body.

          Ready or not, he was here and prepared to stay.

          At least for a while.

Whadda ya think?

What's Tomorrow, Again?

It's Mother's Day, silly!

Hope you all have a wonderful day.

Here's a picture of my mother. I think she was late teens or early twenties.

May I have many more to spend with her.

She's Doing It Again

Alas, dear readers, I need your fervent prayers.

Daughter, after vowing to never, ever do it again, is doing it again as we speak.

She's getting her hair cut short.

Which  means I will hear for weeks on end how it annoys her, it won't stay out of her face, how she misses her pony tail, blah, blah, blah.

Suddenly I long for the days when I did what I wanted to do with her hair and she didn't care, she was too busy watching "Barney".

The good old days, if  you will.

I know it's her hair. I know she is almost (choke) twenty-four years old. I know she needs to please herself with what she does to her hair.

If she would only be pleased.

And she will. For a few days.

Then woe to the house on the hill.

Woe be unto us.

Will the Well Run Dry?

Every time I finish writing a book, I wonder if it will be my last.

After all, I never intended to write a book. Short stories, yes. Poems, yes. Little musings about things in general, yes. But a book? Nope. In fact, I always said I'd never write one, as I didn't have the patience to write something more than a few pages.

Well, I was wrong. At least four times, so far.

Actually, I have two children's books finished (Oh, Husband/Artist....) and enough short stories and poems and musings combined to make a book.  But I'm really talking novels here.

Each book I have written is very different from the other. Sort of like all your children are different from one another; you wonder how could they be so different coming from the same parents and environment? But it happens, every time there is  more than one child, I would say.

I've picked up a little thing I had started on before I came up with "The Year of Nine", the novel I have folks editing for me now.

It's twenty-something pages, and I am not sure, but it "feels" like another book. Don't know yet, though. Could just turn out to be a long short story.

I printed it out the other day to familiarize myself with it again, since my last read through of it had been over a year. I thought it was pretty good, so I tinkered around and have written a few more pages.

Who knows?

I don't see how writing could be as much fun for folks who are trying to make a living from it. Deadlines, pushy agents, demanding people; none of which I have to deal with. Don't get me wrong, I have to make at least a small margin of profit so I can proceed with the next book.

Well, I've done that profit thing (barely), so I guess we're off to the races again.

And if a book doesn't emerge, that's okay, too.

But whatever it turns out to be, I'm taking my time.

Things That Go Bump

I arrived at the book club yesterday just barely on time.

Most folks were already seated around the table, so I rushed over to take my place.

I was given some punch, I sat down, then proceeded to scoot my chair forward, slamming my knee into the two inch thick slanted board than ran the width of the table, acting as the leg.

If I had been at home, I would have cried out, bawled like a baby, held onto my knee and howled.

But, being embarrassed, I blinked rapidly to hold back tears, calmly picked up my punch and sipped, and held my knee with my other hand.

Before too long, I forgot about it.

As far as I know, no one noticed. They probably thought it was just a minor earthquake or a nuclear blast, and weren't worried about it. After all, we were in a bookstore, and nobody knows those exist anymore, right? So what safer place could you be?

I vaguely remember hobbling a little worse to the car, but not enough to register. After we ate, I was browsing in the store, when a sharp pain went straight up my back whenever I put  my right leg down. I remember mentally rolling my eyes and thinking, "What now?"  We left fairly soon, and came home.

After the hour drive home, when I got out of the car, I was in a lot of pain in my knee when I walked. I grumbled to myself that my knees were one of the few things that rarely hurt, and why was my stupid knee hurting?

The longer I stayed up, the worse it got, until I finally complained to Husband. He innocently asked, "Have you hurt it?"

"No - " Then the light bulb came on and I remembered hitting it!

What color is my hair again?

I proceeded to pull up  my britches leg to inspect my knee.

I didn't know you could even get a pump knot on your knee cap.

Well, ice has been applied, over and over.

It woke me up when I would straighten my leg out in my sleep. It hurts to walk this morning.

I'd cuss if it'd do any good.

So far, nothing else has.

The (School) Teachers That Taught Me The Most

Talk about people who mold you! Teachers often have a huge impact on students, especially in the early years, and then I think again, in high school.

My early years were blessed with wonderful teachers. My first grade teacher, Lois Parks,  had the same birthday as I, which I thought made me really special. Harder to grasp was that her mother lived two doors down from me. I couldn't figure out how my teacher could actually have a mother and siblings!

I remember the excitement of learning to print and read. I wanted those books to be an actual part of me. And in a way, I guess they are.

My second grade teacher, Winnifred Hudson, was just as wonderful. It was her last year to teach. I remember when she died I was in my thirties. She was in her nineties. I hope those last years of her life were enjoyable. She gave me a lot of joy. Teaching me how to write cursive, growing me in my reading abilities. I loved every minute of it.

Then there are the teachers who teach you other things. Things that can hurt you if you aren't careful.

My ninth grade English teacher, Miss Dyer, was teaching her very first year. She herself had a lot to learn. She was extremely buck toothed, her eyes were crossed and she was bottom heavy. But you know what? If she had been nice, none of that would have mattered.

Instead, she set her beady little eyes on us and commenced to ridicule us for everything we were. She was from "up North" and had come South to teach the poor ignorant Appalachian children of her mind.

If she heard us say "hey" to each other, she would stop us and remind us that, "Hay is for horses, grass is cheaper."

She had already had the door knob to her classroom graced with a water filled condom. Her shrieks could be heard that  morning as she started to unlock the door, all the way down to the Principal's office.

I don't remember if we had turned in a writing assignment, or if she had confiscated one of my short stories from another student, but she held it in her hand one morning.

What I do remember is she had read it and was accusing me of plagiarism.

Now, as a fourteen year old, I had never heard the word plagiarism, but there was no mistaking the condescending tone of her voice.

When it became obvious to her no one in the room knew what she was talking about (other than she was obviously insulting me), she smugly gave us the definition.

The room exploded in my defense. These kids had been reading my junk since fifth grade. They knew what I was capable of, much more so than she.

I don't think I got an apology.

None of us did for her horrible behavior toward us all.

But she did not return the following year.

Another English high school teacher who was a huge influence on me, this time in a positive way, was Phil Wertz.

He made Shakespeare come alive. He explained it in such a way, had us read it in such a way, practicing out loud, that it became living color for us.

And  no, he didn't make fun of our hillbilly accents.

He introduced us to some really cool fiction, fiction that I would have not discovered (at least for a long time) if not for him.

By the way, he came to my first book signing. Thank you, Mr. Wertz.

Other teachers were kind to me, showed me leniency when I needed it and firmness when I needed it.

Good old Mr. Jones passed me in Algebra with a seventy and one fourth for the year because he knew there was no way on earth I could ever really pass it.

Mrs. Hagopian taught me to love another language. Viva la France!

Mr. Turner was amazed at my typing skills and pushed me to go faster and faster until I was doing 110 words a minute. Good thing he wasn't my driver's ed teacher.

Lee Ellen Newton, my Junior year English teacher introduced me to Tolkien. She even risked her  life by borrowing "The Hobbit" and the trilogy from a fellow teacher who would have killed her if something had happened to his copies.  Those books were almost impossible to find in 1971. She also said I had "incredible" writing skills.

Take that, Miss Dyer.

There are many, many more teachers who protected me, taught me, and even loved me

The few bad apples aren't even worth remembering - except that they taught me things, too.

Who Helped Mold Your Life?

I was thinking about people who have helped me be the best I can be.

Excluding family, because how could they not help mold you? Whether negatively or positively, your family has a great influence.

When I was around ten or eleven, our church hired a minister of music. His name was Ronald McClure. He was the kind of man who always looked like he'd just come in from a windstorm. Tie askew, shirt hanging half out (no matter how many times he shoved it back), hair always slightly out of place.

But boy, did he know how to organize kids. How to listen, how to teach them how to sing. It was the first time in my life I was an actual part of music. I heard how I sounded as one of a group of voices, and how molding those voices made us sound as one.

I was in love with music all my life, but this made me honor it.

The next step of musical growth came about with Hugh  Roberts. He became our minister of music when I was fourteen.

Suddenly he was wandering around, poking his ear close to our mouths as we sang. He asked me to stick around after practice. He told me I  had a special gift, and he intended for me to expand and use my gift.I was thrilled.

Well, I was thrilled until I realized he meant I was going to be singing by myself. In front of people.

I'll never forget the first time I sang a solo. It was Sunday night. It was the Christmas special that the children and youth put on.

Mr. Roberts had saved me till last. By then, most folks were looking at their watches and ready to go. Their darlings had already performed.  My solo was "Gesu Bambino" or Baby Jesus. When I finished, people were no longer looking at their watches. They were looking at me with their mouths hanging open. Nobody knew I could sing until then.

Another gentleman, who I won't name, did everything he could do my senior year to make my singing life miserable at school. What could have been a great finish of  my public school life was turned into a dread of going into chorus, refusing to sing what I couldn't sing because the teacher was, best I could tell, trying to make me look like a fool. But he certainly did help mold my life. I learned that some people won't like you, no matter what.

Another man who greatly influenced my life was my pastor, James Holt. I was twelve when he became my pastor, and he was twenty-nine. What a difference a young man made! I learned more about the Bible at his knee that I probably would have anywhere else. I was fortunate enough for my child to suddenly have him for a pastor when she turned twelve, too.

I consider him my "second daddy" and his wife my good, good friend.

Larry  Fitzmaurice was the best boss anybody could ever have. He taught me so much. He trusted me. He valued my opinion and, I think, cherished my friendship. I know I cherished his. When he died, I felt like a family member had passed away.

Notice I don't have women on my list.

Well, here we go:

My very first grown up job was at the Public Health Department. Eppie Cagle saw that I got hired, I'm pretty sure. She was the public health nurse. I knew her as one of my friend's mother. But she became a very good friend. She taught me how to be a responsible employee. That never left me.

Joyce Sellars was one of my mother's best friends. She was also our next door  neighbor. When my mother became suddenly stupid (I was a little over twelve, I think) and she could no longer "understand" me, I found someone who I thought was smart and savvy. Well, she was. She was warm, accepting, funny and wise. And I'm sure she kept my mother up to date on teen woes. (Or not, I don't know).

Friends that I've had forever: Patricia Cochran, Donna Ray, Denise Davis, Meg Worley. The list goes on and on. (These are all maiden names, I'm old and don't want to remember married names, okay?)

My Yankee Cousin: Robyn Zbuka (her maiden name too!)

My prayer partner, the one who holds me accountable: Janice Evans.

Co-workers for years: Myra, Lisa, Judi, Deb, Beverly, Tracy, Tim (not a girl), Jonathan and Art (also not), Connie, Melinda, Donna, Sue, Myrna, Leigh, Elaine, Lynn, Vicki, Joan, Vel, Nancy, on and on and on.

These people have taught me, good and bad, through their lives and some through their deaths about the person I am and the person I am becoming.

Who am I today?

A part of them, as they are a part of me.

Whether they like it or not.

Ain't That Peculiar

I've seen a lot of peculiar things in my life.

After all, I went to Underground Atlanta in the seventies.

I remember once, standing with my feller and another couple, watching an organ grinder with a monkey.

There was one there when I was a little girl, too. I wonder if it was the same man and monkey.

Anyway, you know the routine; the man plays the organ, the monkey "dances", then runs up to every one with his little hand out. You put a coin in his hand, he tips his hat, and runs back to the man, who takes the coin and gives the monkey a treat.

On that particular day, the monkey held his hand out to a young woman. She bent down to give the monkey his coin and her bosom fell out of her low cut dress. Both of 'em.

Let's just say the monkey was the only one unaffected by this little display.

A few years back I came upon an old beat up pick up truck parked on the side of the road. The driver was a just-past middle age fellow, who was propped up against the side of his truck. His belly swelled appreciatively under his well worn overalls, and his work boot shod feet were crossed at the ankles. He was talking on a cell phone.

I did a double take. Some of you may remember that cell phones are a new thing, and when I saw this scene most people still had "car phones", if that.

At that time in history it was truly a peculiar thing.

More recently on the peculiar scene:

Coming home from the doctor in Atlanta a few weeks ago, we were driving on the interstate and saw an old Ford Ranchero up ahead. It was between a robin's egg blue and a teal.

It had a California license plate.

As we got even with the car, I saw the driver. She was a very young Chinese woman.

She had on an Amish cap. You know the kind I speak of. They are always set a certain way on the head with the ties hanging straight down on each side of the face.

Except instead of being white or brown as the "plain" people wear it, hers was Kelly green.

Go figure.

I pondered on this for a while. Old, restored car. Young, pretty Chinese girl. Amish cap in Kelly green.

Yep, California, all right.

Makes one wonder what peculiar thing one will see next.