Firm Foundations

I've mentioned before that my daddy was a builder. He built houses his whole adult life. He was what I would call a master. He was a perfectionist when it came to something he was going to sell to someone else, I always thought it was kind of funny that he never got around to finishing the inside of our bathroom closet. You know how the old saying goes, "the cobblers children have no shoes". He was just too busy or maybe he just left that one element incomplete for some reason I never heard. I saw many of the houses he built because he would build a house a year at Lake Martin on the weekends then sell it once it was finished. He usually had a buyer before it was done but he would make sure we finished out the summer swimming and skiing and riding in the boat. I wish I'd paid more attention to his skill and knowledge when it came to building. Since I was a girl he never thought to pass along the tools of the trade.
One thing I did learn about the building world from my dad was the importance of a good foundation. I watched him many times dig the footing for these homes with a pick ax and a shovel. He would lay out this elaborate string system with two-by-fours at the corners. Then he would start digging. He never needed to go to a gym, he built massive arms doing this kind of work. It seemed like such hard work just to cover it all up with concrete and then wood. I asked him why he did all that and he told me that a house is only as good as it's foundation. His favorite was the "slab". That's when you poured a concrete sub-floor and built right on top of it. His second choice was a crawl space but he only did that if the lot was impossible to get flat. I remember going with him to look at property for possible house sights. If the land was hilly he often kept on going but if it had at least the potential to be flat he walked it off. He would measure the property with is steps a yard at a time. I was usually waiting in the boat or the truck doing what little girls do, day dreaming, playing with dolls, or picking weeds on the edge of the potential house spot, sometimes if it wasn't too thick with briers he'd let me follow along after him. I couldn't rattle on like I was prone to do though because he was measuring, counting steps. He could imagine a house on a lake front lot like it was already there...I have to think I got some of my imagination from him.
When the lot was purchased he'd start his work, clearing, burning then digging. It would take him a while to get all the digging done but he did it all by himself. He'd lay the brick help the men from the concrete company smooth out the slab and he'd really be off and running. It was amazing to me to watch the progress. He'd usually take about a year to complete his projects but that was working only on the weekends. It bothered me that he never went to church, but I'd hear him whistling hymms from time to time and he loved Hank Williams song "I Saw the Light", he'd sing that one out loud. I felt like his work was a kind of praise to God. He would not have fit in at any of the churches I knew of anyway.
I remember the one time he attended our church. It was a Sunday night and my beloved was getting ordained to preach. Daddy actually came and sat right up front with the family. I waited for the roof to fall but it didn't. He wasn't a church goer that but that was between him and the Lord. He built a firm foundation into my life by being committed to something he loved, his work and his family. Although it was sometimes a point of contention between he and my mom it was something he had to do. He drew his identity from it. He never made the living he deserved, he usually sold the houses far under market value but he put me through college without a single student loan, made sure my mama drove a decent car, had a nice home and plenty of anything we needed. There aren't many men like him left, now dads are more involved in sports and other activities their children are interested in...I'm glad about that for the most part. Dads need to be there for their kids, and kids certainly need fathers in today's world even more than when I was a young. Work is a means to an end...at least in my case it was a good example for life. Do something you love, do it well and start with a good foundation.

A Heroes Welcome

I have a cousin who served in Vietnam. He was nineteen when he first went, just a little older than my boys are now. I cannot imagine the nightmare he experience while he was there. I've heard so many horror stories, the heat,the incredibly dark nights, the mosquitoes, the shear terror of it all. I was all of fourteen when the war ended so I didn't really think too much about it back then, they said it was the first war we could watch on the nightly news but after a while I think we all just got used to it and didn't pay attention quite as much. This was the way it was, we had service men and women in probably the scariest place in the world but it just didn't seem real from our recliners and couches. All I knew was I had a cousin over there and I hoped he'd come back walking not in a pine box . All the soldiers wanted to get back too and dreamed of their families and friends at home. While they were doing this a movement was going on that shocked many when they did get their discharges or furlows. There were people, Americans, who threw stuff at them, spit on them and called them all sorts of horrible names. My cousin experienced this himself. It was not bad enough for a bunch of boys right out of high school to be shipped around the world to endure all sorts of things they would never be able to get out of their heads...they had to come home to a group of people who were loud if not large in number who despised them. What a pity. I wish I had been a little older, understood a little better, had planned a party when my cousin came home. I'm sure there was some sort of quiet celebration with the family, I think I remember going to my aunt's house to see him but I'm sure it was not what he deserved.
Well, better late than never I guess. Another cousin, our hero's sister, called me yesterday with a plan. We are going to throw him a party to celebrate the forty years he's been out of the military. He is somewhere around sixty I think but he has cancer. We don't know how much longer he's going to be with us so we thought a party to celebrate his life would be better than us all grieving his death. This way he gets to enjoy being talked about. He is a hero . He earned the Bronze Star twice and some other medals or honors that I've heard he told the army to put where there is never sunshine. After the way they brought them home in the cloak of secrecy to avoid the radicals who would treat them badly it's a wonder any Vietnam vets have a positive view. I've heard many are homeless, many have severe emotional problems, some have given up on life itself. But some, like my cousin have walked on, they have raised children and enjoyed grandchildren, they have kept their faith and opened up to family or friends about what happened to them while they were in the closest thing to Hell most of them have ever dreamed of.
On the Sunday before Labor Day we will come together as a family with pies, cakes, fried chicken and potato salad to let our hero from the war know we won't forget his service to our country and to us. I'll apologize that my regards are so late.

Dogs of Peace

I've been waking up at 3am the last few mornings. Usually what I do when I can't get back to sleep is pray. I've been really trying to not talk so much but listen to God instead...He obviously has more important things to say to me than I do him. This morning was particularly interesting...I'll try my best to explain what I think he was getting at...somewhere in my praying I slipped into a dream, I think.

Sheep. I have always loved sheep. I have not been around many and I've been told that they tend to smell bad and are not very smart. Well, the same can be said about teenage boys and I usually have a yard or house full of them and love them too. I was once at the home of a friend who told me his mother was cooking lamb chops for dinner...being a huge Sherry Lewis fan, I was having no part in that. (To those of you who are too young to know who she is google her, she had a little friend named "Lamb Chop") I told him I had to leave. I know the people of the Bible ate sheep as well as used their wool for clothing and skin softener, the latter two don't bother me but killing them just makes me a little queezy not to mention very sad. Anyway, I had sheep in my dream but they weren't the main event...no, another animal was the champion of this dream. We had a shepherd, I am certain, now that I think of it he was Jesus, makes sense, he is the good shepherd. But, he had helpers. They were beautiful border collies who weaved in and out of the herd moving them around with great precision. The shepherd walked behind and the dogs did the work....I believe this dream was God's voice to my ears.
I have some very good friends who are those "Dogs or Peace". They are the ones I call on to ask for prayer, usually it's a request for someone they may not even know but they go to work for me. They work together and don't even know it. I have had some very specific requests lately and I see God moving in big ways and directing my sheep herding friends to go left or right, to visit someone who's about to go over a steep embankment, to stop and be still or to be bold and tell the truth in love. It's a beautiful picture of what the kingdom of God really is all about. It's not a church with a tall steeple, or beautiful architecture or the people who go to these establishments to "see and be seen". It's about the sheep....those of us who are smelly and not too smart. It's about all of us who are searchers, dreamers, failures and successes. The shepherd loves us all and the "Dogs of Peace" help guide us home.

This is a song that came to mind when I woke up after the dream.I wish I could have found it to download, it's a rock song but beautifully done by a group of studio musicians who call themselves "Dogs or Peace". The album is called Speak, if you can find it in the back of some record bin or on the net get it. The words of this song are simple but...hey, so are sheep.

Out on the mountain
The Shepherd is watching
Those running from all reason
We can help them see Him

We can do our part
To change the hearts
Of everyone who's
Out there running
Storms are coming
Out there on your own
You call the Spirit
Angels hear it
The dogs of peace will guide you home

We're merely servants
Bowed before the Master
Humbled that He'd choose us
We're amazed that He could use us

To do our part
In changing hearts
Of everyone who's
Out there running
Storms are coming
Out there on your own
You call the Spirit
Angels hear it
The dogs of peace will guide you home

We can do our parts
In changing hearts
Of everyone who's
Out there running
On your own
You call the Spirit
Angels hear it
The dogs of peace will guide you home

To Billy, Teresa, Kelly, LeAnn, Les, Michael, Melda, CarolAnn, and all I have missed...thank you. Keep up the good herding.

Lissy and the Crane

This morning on the way to school, as we were leaving our driveway we saw that the crane that loves to sit on the bank of the pond was caught in a fishing line. The line was left there this summer by someone fishing. I hadn't really paid much attention to it but when I saw the crane I thought maybe someone should have gotten it out of the tree...that someone probably was me but I don't have tons of time to think about the pond or things hanging over it. Anyway, the poor bird was caught at near the tip of one wing, the line had obviously wrapped around it and tightened so he couldn't pull it loose. I felt so sorry for him but Lissy was beside her self. She kept asking me what I was going to do for "Bob", that's what I started calling him because he is a Crane and the only famous crane I could remember was an actor named Bob. Lissy kept saying "poor little guy, we have to help him". It was so cute to see her concern! She even suggested that we call somebody! I didn't know anyone to call at 7:30am to rescue a giant prehistoric looking bird! We got back from taking the older girls to school and he was still standing there waving his wing at us...Lissy wailed, "Mama, we have to help the little guy" again. I called our neighbor Trip who seems to be something of a nature lover himself...I know for a fact he threatened to call the proper authorities to some mean boys in the neighborhood for trying to shoot our owls, why would anyone want to shoot an owl? Okay, sorry, need to focus....he said he would come out and see what he could do...then from the front porch Lissy "directed" Trip...she told him to "get something at yours house and cut Bob's wing loose", and she asked "are you gonna hep him Mssr Trip?" "He is stuck in the fish line, poor lil guy" I was trying to get myself together so I could be out the door for an appointment in just a few minutes so I was listening.I seriously doubt he could hear her but she directed just the same. She cheered when Trip cut him loose. She yelled "Mom, Mssr Trip got him! He got him!" She was so appreciative and excited. I think she really felt empathy for the bird, this is a sweet and wonderful emotion for a four year old. I am so thankful for her kind spirit.

After thought....Matthan felt terrible that he couldn't help Bob before school but he was running late as is his habit. He said he really felt bad when he saw a baby crane there with Bob, perhaps we should change "his" name to Babette.

To Whom It May Concern:

I have been witnessing something for several months. It began as a natural affection for the tiniest human I'd ever seen, much less held in my hands.I am a foster mother, consequently many of my closest friends are foster mothers too. My good friend Kelly brought home a little precious angel...he had been born many weeks early and needed constant vigilant care. Kelly was God's choice for this child because, as with most foster children the biological mother was not able for whatever reason to handle the responsibilities of a high demand, special needs child. I had talked to Kelly many times at length about what it meant to foster and how she and her family was up to the challenge of taking in children and letting them go when the time was right. This little boy is now 20 months old. The physical therapists and doctors said he wouldn't do near what he's doing now. Kelly's family has challenged him at every stage, made him reach farther and work harder to get him to the place he is today. Last night I witnessed him with the family and extended family at a local restaurant, he was walking all over the place! We are all his cheerleaders. At one point he saw me looking at him and he waved his little hand at me. I waved back and blew him a kiss, he put his hand to his mouth to return the gesture. I wanted to cry.
Kelly has said so many times that she wouldn't let her heart be set on adopting this sweet baby because of some factors none of us have any control over. He is a black child and Kelly's family is white...there is no color separation in this little boy's mind, he has decided in his young life to call Kelly "Mama", she didn't teach him to do this, she tried to get him to call her "Nanny Kelly", he heard her biological children calling her "Mama" so there was no stopping this. Children need to call somebody "Mama" I just believe that is born into them....this boy loves Kelly because all his life she has been his mama. Kelly's family has no problem with him being of another race. They have friends from different ethnic groups and backgrounds, they love him because he is the person he is not because of or in spite of his ethnicity, but there are problems with this in the eyes of some. Another reason Kelly has not wanted to get her heart set on adopting this child is there is a "resource" available who is a family connection. I have no reason to think these people are bad or have any wrong motives for wanting custody of this child but they have not been there all his life. He is still very young, but he is very attached to his present family and attachment continues to be the prevailing factor in foster children's learning problems, emotional instability, poor social interaction and many other issues that effect children in the system. I have experienced this first hand! I have done extensive research and I believe if a child can be placed early in his life in a positive environment where he is stable and LOVED he can thrive in spite of his beginning. This child is a perfect case study for my theory.
He really shouldn't have made it....but he did.
He shouldn't have made the progress he has with Cerebral Palsy.....but he has.
He shouldn't be walking yet.........but he can.
He shouldn't be talking yet........but he does.
Where would this child be without a family who has in spite of themselves fallen deeply in love with him?
Where will he go from here?
My suggestion has been all along, some form of co-parenting. If parental rights are terminated for his biological mother, let Kelly's family keep him. Let the family resource be just that, a resource that has some input in his life and plays a part in his upbringing. Every child benefits from more adults and extended family loving him. It is just not morally right to strip him from the only home he's known. We have all seen the heartbreaking scenes on the news of caseworkers tearing a toddler out of another families arms while the child has a total breakdown. Why would anyone want to do that? It is a terribly selfish act on the part of the adults.
Bottom line, I saw this little boy in the middle of his "real" family last night...Kelly's immediate family and those of us who would also grieve the loss if he had to be removed from their home. I know he will suffer a tremendous, possibly irreversible setback if he is not adopted by my sweet selfless friend.
We hear "best interest of the child" all the time....adoption by present foster family IS best interest for this child.

What is Family?

Cub Scouts

When I was little Mama signed me up for Girl Scout, Brownies really . There was a little building in the very middle of the village where we met. I was allowed to walk to the meetings with two older girls, Ellen and Kate. The girls in my grade who walked were Betty, Steffie and me. I remember thinking it was so grown up to walk past the bus and right off the school grounds without even telling a teacher. Most of the kids thought nothing of it but it was new to me and I loved it. Of course Ellen and Kate were totally bored with the rest of us and walked a few feet ahead at all times. They were only escorting us out of some kind of Girl Scout duty, like there was a badge they could earn for babysitting. Their mamas were the scout leaders. They were very nice to us but I didn’t enjoy girl scouts as much as I had Cub Scouts. Our neighbor Mrs Conway was a den mother. They lived across the street and on Tuesday afternoons car loads of boys converged on her carport. She always had the meetings out there…winter , spring, summer, fall…I figured she didn’t want those smelly boys in her house, I didn’t blame her a bit. If I had been in her place I would have made the boys who LIVED there sleep outside, they were the smelliest of all. Mrs. Conway always looked pretty and wore pearls like June Cleaver. I didn’t care for her older boy at all. He tried to kill me once, and if my cousin James, who was bigger and meaner hadn’t stepped in he might have finished the job, he pulled a pocket knife and told me if I squealed on him for saying a real nasty cuss word and using the word Bible in the same sentence he would cut my sissy tongue clean outta my head. He had embarrassed me in front of a bunch of people once too and I had no mind to forgive him for either offense. I just stayed out of his way. But, cub scouts looked like so much fun. They did the best crafts in the whole world. Mrs. Conway would see me hiding in the camellia bush watching from my yard. She would hold up the crafts for me to see, if I seemed interested she would invite me over after. The best one was the seed rooster. It was a piece of plywood with the outline of a rooster drawn on it. She had a bunch of little Dixie cups with seeds in them for me to glue on the board to make the rooster. There were beans and corn like I helped my daddy plant in the spring and there were other seeds I had never seen before. Daddy could identify all of them but I just thought they were really pretty and worked beautifully for a rooster’s tail especially when they were varnished to a golden shine. The crafts were the only part of Cub Scouts they let me participate in, that was fine with me. Mrs. Conway always saved the stuff so when the cloud of smelly boys cleared I could do the craft too….only she let me in her dining room to do it.

The Coat

I know why my children love thrift stores. The girls have heard the story before but I'm not sure the boys know it. It has only been recent that they have showed that instinct toward second hand clothing.
It was mid October 1986. I had just bought groceries at the Winn Dixie which at that time was on Second avenue next to the Burger King.The forecast was changing from the mild temperatures we usually have that time of year to the first possible frost and cold snap. I felt it in the air. It was already windy and felt like the thermostat had dropped while I was in the store. I was feeling sorry for myself because I only had a few dollars left after buying food for the week. I looked at my angels in the backseat. I pulled the car to the edge of the parking lot and put it in park. I prayed, "Lord, it's getting cold and Hannah doesn't have a coat, help me to find her one." As I looked up I saw a sign in the window of the house on the corner across the street. It was a children's consignment store. I had not ever been in one and was curious to see what they had. We tumbled in the door of the little shop to find a nice lady working on some papers at the counter, she smiled at the girls and asked if she could help me find something...I didn't know what they had really so I just told her I'd like to look. We thumbed through the little girl's clothes for a minute or two, the girls playing at my feet, that's when I saw it. A little purple coat on a mannequin above the children's clothes. It was as if someone put it there for me to find...but I didn't know if I had enough money, I checked the tag. It was $4. I almost cried. I grabbed the coat and tried it on Hannah. It fit perfectly. She loved it because it was purple, I loved it because it was a very good coat, like new, for only four dollars. I thanked God, purchased the coat and left the store. I had a warm spot in my heart for consignment stores from that day on. I started checking with those stores whenever the girls grew out of their things. I started donating clothing we didn't need anymore to Salvation Army and Goodwill. The girls started looking at thrift store shopping as a game. One year before they started back to school Hannah took twenty-five dollars and bought her school wardrobe at a Salvation Army, later that year one of her friend's mothers told me that her daughter wanted to dress like Hannah but they couldn't find the sort of things she wore at any stores locally. I had to laugh, I asked her if she was serious. She didn't understand my amusement. I told her where Hannah shopped and she couldn't believe it. Micah soon started the bargain shopping too. They've described it as going hunting as opposed to shopping for outfits that everyone else has. It is so much fun for us to explore a new city...one of the first things someone will ask is "Do they have any good thrift stores?" They all seem to feel that clothes aren't any good until someone else breaks them in for you.
Another concept that my children love is... give with a cheerful heart and it comes back to you. It never failed when they were little, I'd clean out drawers or their closets and give away clothes and usually within two days a bag or two of hand-me-downs would turn up on our doorstep. This was always so much fun for them. They started thinking the best shopping was going through a bag someone had left for them. We would take what we liked and donate anything we couldn't use.
I am not opposed to buying new clothes now and then but the best things I have are most likely from a second-hand store. Even my boys have discovered the fun of hunting for cool t-shirts and old plaid pants in thrift stores...in fact, the other day Micah took our youngest son shopping for school clothes. After looking in several stores at Tiger Town he finally told her he had to get out of that place....he quipped "These clothes are all too new!" Gotta love that.

Falling in Love

I may have mentioned before that I've fallen in love several times in my life...some of those times were purely and obviously "puppy love". Then, somewhere between Michael accepting a kiss from me being silly when we first met to him taking me by the shoulders and saying, "It's ME, marry ME, I'm the one" I definitely fell in love with him. But I have fallen in love four more times since then....each time they put that little squalling newborn in my arms I fell head over heals. That love is just as indescribable as trying to express the beauty of a rainbow to a person who has never had sight. I have tried to tell my kids how it feels but they don't "get it" until they have their own children...one daughter has a baby girl, she understands what I'm saying, our other daughter is expecting her own in the spring and she will surely "get it" too. If Michael is a gauge by which I can measure how the boys will be as dads they will surely be right there with their wives falling for their infants when they are born.
I have just recently discovered I have fallen again. First with my little Aidie, grandchild extraordinaire, who was born in March of '08. Then, somewhere in the last year something miraculous happened...I discovered the fierce mother bear love for my three little additions. It had to happen slowly, we foster mothers have to be guarded or the system will devour us. We aren't advised to love them too much...a judge will reprimand and warn. We are reduced to no more than glorified babysitters and most of the time there is no glory at all. Glory is not what we are after...it's the opportunity to do what we are called to do that we want...to love them as they grow up. So, until we are reasonably sure they are "ours to keep" it is excruciating to give too much of our hearts to these little ones...but sometimes, even before we appear before the judge praying he or she has the wisdom of Solomon we crack. We give in to this emotion to be their "real" mothers and we are thrown into the abyss of black, gut wrenching fear. Most of the foster mothers I know are praying women, it's the only way we survive .
This all came to settle in my brain this morning. I woke up drenched in sweat. I remembered my dream vividly. We had gone to another city to meet some people and eat dinner...we were to be away from home for several hours. I was meeting my family who were all coming in groups in different cars. When we all got to the meeting place I looked around and couldn't find Lissy or Cheyenne. I asked everybody where they were. I started to cry. We had left them at home. In my dream I was trying to find phone numbers for neighbors, friends, anyone close to my house who would go get my babies....yep, you heard me I said "MY BABIES". I could find no one at home or who'd answer their cell phones....I started running. I was getting to those girls or I was going to die trying. It was unthinkable to leave them. I knew they would be afraid, I heard them crying, it was horrible. Then I woke up.That's when I knew.
They are mine.
Someone else gave birth to them. I don't know if she loved them from the minute she saw them or not. She could not or would not protect them and take care of them the way a "real" mother does...they had to be removed and I am truly sorry that it happens that way sometimes...but they never have to worry about the mother they have now. I won't let them be abandoned. I will be here.
This reminds me of a beautiful needlework piece that I first saw hanging above a friend's adopted baby's bed...it said
Neither bone of my bone,
Nor flesh of my flesh,
But mine, just the same.

You did not grow beneath my heart,
Instead, you grew within it.

That pretty much sums it up for me too.

Laptops, Love and Too Little Sleep

I have a laptop...for that I am truly grateful. I used to share the family computer not so long ago and that was fine but I have teenagers...they are a good bit like vultures when I'm on trying to facebook or write something, they circle around me til I'm dead (or give up and leave) then they swoop down into the seat and devour the keyboard. It's a sad sight...My beloved remembered that we had a laptop that just needed a new "cord". He bought the right one, which in itself is a miracle, not that he bought it but that he could find the right one! (Why do these things have to be so complicated? Why can't everything just have the same kinds of plugs and wires and what not?) There are fourteen different kinds of cables in our house for cameras and ipods and you name it.... we've got a cord for it...and they can all be found under the computer. The cord that attaches to my laptop has three separate components. The part that plugs into the wall with the battery thing on it, an "in between" part and a short little adapter part that actually plugs into the computer...stay with me I have a point. At any given time any one of these components might get ticked off at another and decide it wants to "break up" with another part of the relationship....inevitably my computer will notify me of the split by saying my battery is low and I'm endangering my valuable work by not switching to another energy source, as if I could just go ahead and plug up to the sun or something. I usually check my three components, have a little family counseling session and get back to what I'm doing.
This morning there was a different problem...I woke up at about 4:45 to the sound of Precious snoring in my ear...God knows I love this man, when he is awake he is like an angel. Let him close his eyes and sounds I can't describe start coming from his mouth and nose. I always have two fans running just to be able to drown out some of it. Last night I was too busy listening for the sounds of pitter patter of size 14 feet coming through the door to remember to turn on the second fan...the one that kinda sounds like a jet engine. I had been checking my email and put my laptop on it's desk, the ironing board,(what else would I use it for?) and completely forgot to plug in the fan. It's kind of an ordeal to do that anyway. I have one plug on my side of the bed and one of the outlets is taken by the clock. So, that leaves one for the laptop, the iron (haha, like that ever happens)and the jet plane fan. I usually plug it in right before I do my evening rituals...spray my nose with Afrin, put Vicks on my lips, text my boys that it's past their curfew and snuggle up to the freight train and try to go to sleep. Some time during the night I realized I forgot the fan part. I knew it would involve some kind of light to find the plug so I decided to pray for a while and maybe I'd drift back off in spite of the noise....wasn't happening. The ceiling fan started making this little "tick, tick" sound. The chain that controls it was clinking against one of the globes, I had to fix that. I grabbed my phone so I had a light and wrapped the chain around the top of the fan. So much for that noise, until a few minutes later when I heard the chain unwrap itself and fall back to it's clinking position. I knew the night was over...I got up to get the laptop, checked the three parts of the cord once I was back in bed and started typing. I started getting all these notices that the battery was low. I reminded it that it was in fact plugged in!!!! It begged to differ and proceeded to close down everything and went completely black...okay that did it. I got out of bed, checked all the pieces of the cord up to the wall plug it was on the floor....the fan was still plugged up! All I had to do was push a button and the jet fan would have drowned out all the noise. Oh well, I was awake now. So I sat there for the better part of two hours reading, writing and thanking God that I have someone who may keep me awake at night with his snoring but loves me through some pretty crazy stuff that I dish out...by now it was almost 6:00, we had to get up in a few minutes but he was quiet right then...and my eyes were so heavy. I woke up to the alarm a little later snuggled up to my laptop. I looked at my sweet husband sound asleep there and had to smile.

Tree Climbing

My cousin Len was my first best buddy. Our houses were next door to each other when we were growing up. It was Len who brought out every ounce of bravery I could collect when we were five and six. He could climb trees better than anyone I knew and did so with ape-like skill. He could climb anything, oaks, pines, telephone poles...It was Len who first guided my wobbly legs up the fence and onto the roof of my daddy's truck shed to fetch the choice plums from way up high in the tree. I remember stepping on overly ripe ones with my bare feet and thinking I might just prefer catching them as he threw them off the tin building. Yes, Len was my adventure, my courage and I was lost without him. On one particular summer evening we had all been called in to supper and after a plate of garden vegetables and mama's cornbread and my turn at the kitchen sink I went back out to wait for Him to join me for the last couple of hours of daylight. I got this notion that he would be so surprised if he found me in the Dogwood tree between our yards. If you are from the south you probably know that Dogwood trees don't get really big and this one was probably pretty typical in size for a full grown tree. I strained to grab the first limb and dug my dirty foot into the trunk. I pulled and tugged but I didn't get very far. I finally made it to a limb and tried to steady myself but slipped and caught the scrawny limb with my underarms. I couldn't get back up on the limb and forgetting how far I'd climbed I couldn't just let go, I wouldn't be able to hold on for long so I just did what any pitiful southern girl would do in this situation, I started to cry. Now, I'm sure I was quite a sight to my uncle who just happened to be finished with his supper and was smoking his after supper cigarette on their front porch. I'm sure he heard me first but all I knew was he came to my rescue, sort of. He stood there and asked me what I was "caring on" about...then he grabbed my arms, cigarette still hanging from the corner of his mouth and lifted me off the limb to the ground which I'm sure was only inches from my feet. I felt like such a baby. My uncle just laughed as he walked away. I looked up at that limb...right over my head. I decided then and there to only climb trees that Len picked out or maybe I'd watch from the ground.
That night when Len was sitting in the window of his bedroom and I was pressing my nose against the screen in mine he said across the yards.."My daddy's still laughing at you...you big sissy"...ah, I didn't care.

Lessons in Humility

I have had "back problems" lately. I remember as a youngun thinking that was an old person's ailment. When did I become an old person? I still feel young on the inside...I don't think I'm doing so great on the outside. I've spent a good bit of time this week at the chiropractor. Don't knock it if you haven't gone into an office limping and come out skipping ( well, not really, I don't want to be thought old and insane, wait a minute maybe I do...). It really does feel better right after therapy but then I return to earth...like the balloon with a slow leak, down, down, down....ouchiwawa! God does have a sense of humor...he uses it on me all the time. It's not enough to have an aching back. No, my problem is the lowest disk on the totem pole so to speak...so when I get up I have spasms in my butt. I'm sure it's funny to my kids for me to look like I'm getting a spanking from an imaginary hand...a big hand. It's not funny at all to me but when I think about it I have to kind of chuckle. I threaten my little ones with the old "You need a spanking!" I am not allowed to use that tried and true form of discipline because the kids are still "foster" but they sure hear that they need it from time to time . Maybe God is looking at me and making that same proclamation. Maybe he is giving me what I'm really needing every time I get up from sitting too long at the computer. I hope I learn my lesson REAL SOON!

Boxes From the Attic

I ran across a box in my attic. There are many, this one I sort of remembered packing many years ago. It was when we moved from our house on Vernon to the new house my mother fought so against on Dunwall. The box was one I had probably found out back of the "shopping center", I suspect this because it still wears a shipping label from JCPenney. I had amended the label once during it's long life to read "Nostalgia". I knew it held pictures from childhood, my cheerleader letter, some old notes from the only real boyfriend I had in high school, and a bunch of junk I'd collected over the years. I stuffed some papers and things from college in there before I sealed it up and hid it in Mama's attic for the day I had my own house. It made it's way back out the other day. I was looking for something in particular. A poem that would connect me to my lyric writing son. It had won an award in 1977! Honorable mention in the state poetry contest. I found the letter from the judges and the check for $1 that I never cashed.I didn't find the poem, but what I did find was more important I think. I found a part of me I didn't remember. At one time I wanted to be a writer. I did! Why hadn't I remembered that before? I wrote short stories and poetry all the time. I gleefully turned in papers when my friends moaned and groaned about having another writing assignment.
My freshman year of college I had a professor read one of my papers out loud to the class. He didn't say my name first (thank God) but I recognized the words immediately.It was about being homesick and going home. I remember that feeling you get when someone is talking about you and maybe you shouldn't be hearing it. I felt my cheeks go hot and slumped down a little in my chair. I was horrified and elated at the same time. I also remember when he said "Excellent paper" and walked over and placed it on my desk one of the girls from my dorm glared at me....she was one of my first experiences with "mean girls" at college, not much different from the ones in high school, only older and maybe meaner. She made sure my life was not perfect from that moment on. Maybe that is one of the reasons I forgot about wanting to write...maybe I related my really good experience to a really bad one....nah, I just got busy with other things. I was dating an artist. He made me feel, not so creative. I guess when you stand in the shadow of a really creative person it's easy to be intimidated. My creative bend was different but I just let my fears squash anything meaningful way back in my own personal attic.
And now I have that little part of me back. Holding that check, the letter, it all came back...that's what I had forgotten about myself, that I was supposed to write down funny things and dark things and crazy things. Talk about a major distraction!! Thirty years can be a be a real kick in the head...and a wealth of interesting material. As I finish this I can hear my lyrical son playing a "Doors" song on the guitar...very fitting.

Michael's Cookies

The other night my beloved came home in a quiet mood. He is a busy man who carries the weight of the world sometimes. He has had a business for twelve years and has recently become a teacher at our high school, I am very proud of all he does. On this particular night he had slipped into some comfortable clothes and was working on some school work when I remembered I needed something at the store…I mentioned it to him and he kindly volunteered to go for me. When he returned I noticed he had bought some slice-n-bake cookies. “Had a cravin” is all he said. I smiled and went back to what I was doing. He popped his cookies into the oven and waited. One of the kids called him from upstairs. That’s when Micah got her bright idea…she thought she’d get her daddy laughing if she played a little joke on him. When the cookies were done he was back to get them out and wait for them to cool, have I mentioned his patience? He left the room for another minute and Micah went to work. She emptied the cookie sheet of all but the crumbs of two cookies. She then went to the front door and opened and closed it…she made a rather loud comment about how those were Daddy’s cookies and they better leave him some and then went to the back door, opened and closed it. She was certain her daddy heard all of this. We listened from another room when he went into the kitchen. We waited for him to yell or something…but all we heard was the refrigerator open and shut then silence. My heart sank. I knew this was not going to be funny. When we peeked around the corner my sweet husband was standing at the stove eating the crumbs left from his cookies. He wasn’t going to say a word. Micah said, “Dad! What are you doing?!”, he responded “Eating my cookies”. Of course we both wanted to cry! I felt like a jerk for going along with the joke. He thought the boys had walked though the house, devoured the cookies and he was just left with the crumbs…what a prize I have in him….Dear Lord, please let him live at least one day longer than me.

Cluttered and Creative/Neat and Orderly

I am not by nature an organized person. My right brainedness can’t line things up mathematically or order things alphabetically. Heck, I’m even a mess in the library. If it were up to me the cookbooks would be all stacked somewhere between “g” for good eats and “y” for yuck. The master bathroom in my first house didn’t have a laundry hamper…the floor did the job and clothing was washed in order of need, not just when they were dirty. No, I’ve never had the accusation of “neat nick” slung my way. I am, however, drawn to those personalities like mosquitoes are drawn to my lily white legs in the summer. From my earliest memories my best friends have always been “cleanies” .Take my very first BFF, my cousin Len. He would help me clean and organize my playhouse. How did we know he was destined to be an incredible interior designer? Well, I knew because he could arrange a box of toys and dolls to look like a Macy’s Christmas window in under two minutes and that was at six years old! Then, my friend Kathy, she was the one who was a little older and taught me oh so much about life. My mama would put down the law about me going anywhere on Saturday before I got my room cleaned up. Kathy would laugh and say come on, I’ll help you, and she would proceed to work circles around me as I stood there watching in amazement holding my pillow with the Donnie Osmond cover. I was not lazy, I was clueless!
How is it that some people just seem to come into this world with a sense of where things should go? I don’t get that. Unfortunately, I had no gene to pass on to my children. A good friend was lamenting the other day about her child with OCD tendencies. She said his things had to be “just so”, I told her I’d trade him for two of mine….the thought of having just one in a house with seven people who would whip the rest of us into shape was overwhelming! Of course a trade would have been impossible, we would have surely sent the poor kid screaming into the night, needing a lifetime of therapy.
My two grown daughters seem to have acquired a taste of the neat life. They are much better housekeepers than me, like I said they don’t have it in their genes, maybe it comes from shear will to not be overtaken by dust bunnies. But, this is not really a housekeeping issue. It’s a brain issue. I am creative. I love colorful and whimsical and cheery. To this day my mother’s favorite word for my home is “loud”, and she’s not referring to the noise level. My kitchen is “Hello Yellow” with every color of the rainbow stuffed in. How I’ve survived twenty years of white cabinetry I do not know. When we replaced our kitchen floor several years ago my sweet brother in law asked me what I wanted in laminate….my response was, “Got anything the color of dirt”. I was dead serious, he knew it. I now have “faux” terra cotta tiling, that way I beat the outside world to the punch.
Once when I was in college (where I minored in Home Economics…and no, they didn’t offer a class in general housekeeping, I checked every year.) I was involved in a campus ministry. I had a mentor who meant well but bless her heart just couldn’t get it through her head that I was not likely to conform to her sub-religion and worship at the alter of “organization”. She tried to convince me that “Cleanliness was next to godliness” by arguing that God was a God of order! Well, that much is true. But he’s also the Creator!!! He doesn’t make the leaves on the trees all equal in size or shape. He doesn’t line the clouds up or make rivers run in straight lines. His order runs the Universe and it is whimsical and colorful. At the heart of every thing created he’s there. People who dispute this, that God is in all things must have missed that verse in Matthew where Jesus asks us why we worry about what we’ll eat or wear. He tells us that his Father cares for the little birds and dresses the lilies of the field. Being a flower child myself I relate to this. I know God lives in me. He is the God of order, but he’s also the God of the creative. He loves my neat freak friends just as much as he loves me. I’ve stopped beating myself up because I can’t be like them. In fifty years, if he hasn’t heard my prayer to change me into an organized person it must mean he has other, more important things to do in me. I love that he’s drawn me to people like this…they are still helping me get my house picked up so I can go play. I guess some things never change.