the most powerful thing

Mowed the "back 40" again today. Spring has brought wild roses and honeysuckle and hibiscus to full bloom, blackberry vines everywhere, orange day lilies line the road to the mailbox, and strange little yellow flowers peep up among the wind-blew-them-in grasses. Good thing there are no neighbors close-by to see me out there in the still cool morning hours, manicuring around the larkspur and thrift I didn't plant but enjoy so much. They'd think me nuts. Guess I am a little. All this time living alone. Twenty years of penance. Father Behan says I'm harder on myself than God ever would be.

Discovered alcohol was neither the problem nor the solution. And just for today suicide is not a viable alternative. But I'm convinced the scars on my body healed a lot quicker than the scars on my heart. I guess it had a lot to do with living alone and learning to like it.

I never told the children how much I hated it when they left to do their own thing, one taking an apartment, the other joining the Army. I know, they couldn't live with me all their lives, but I felt so abandoned. Everybody I'd ever loved had left me, one way or another, and I didn't like it one bit. I hated living alone. My self-pity grew by leaps and bounds. That's when the drinking really started kicking in. The only comfort I had was with cable TV and a bottle at the end of each working day. I didn't go to bed at night, just passed out in the papa-san chair in the living room, coming to in time to brush my teeth and dress and get to work next morning.

So what do you do when you can’t figure out what else to do? You give it over. Sitting in the bathtub one night, water grown so cold I no longer felt it, I cried out for God to please do something, anything, just please take me out of the pain. And what a change God wrought! With that one sentence, my entire life changed!

I learned to love my life, understanding that I couldn't really love anybody else if I couldn't love myself. Mom had said, in one of our weekly calls, that she didn't see how I could live alone, why didn’t I get married again, yada yada yada. Enjoyed solitude was totally beyond her ken. Rather than embrace hers, she hated it, knowing only that years of living alone had not been her choice. Although she had no one to answer to, she never recognized the joy of doing what you want when you want.

Today, for me, it's all about choices. If I want to eat asparagus cold from the can for dinner, that's my choice. If I want to sit in the sun with a cup of hours-old coffee, that's my choice. If I want to play computer games or write in my cyber-journal, that's my choice. And if I want to be alone, that, too, is my choice. If I don't want to dress, well, then, okay, that's that. Some days I look like something the cats dragged up and the dogs won't eat, but there's nobody here to say it should be otherwise. I bought a sapphire and diamond wedding band a couple of years ago, and wear it proudly. I told Barbara, "I want to be married to myself, find out who I am, without catering to somebody else's whims." I was determined that neither Mom nor anyone else would railroad me into another marriage. Once was quite enough, thank you very much. Alone is not necessarily lonely. Sometimes it’s a blessing. The most powerful thing on earth for me, today, is not rockets, or tornados, or even love - - it’s the right to choose.

it was a dark and stormy night (kinda sorta)

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, not really, but that’s how Snoopy says the best novels start. And while this post won’t be quite as long as a novel, it may qualify for novella status before I finish.

It was a dark and stormy dawn. I departed just after 6:30 am, fighting rain from the minute I left my drive. The mall at Town East had opened at 7 am and by the time I got to that section of 635 the backup was already half a mile long.

Now, knowing from past experience that the worst drivers are also the last ones to shop, I had armed myself, both literally and figuratively, with appropriate-to-the-occasion-protection, just in case, along with energy bars and bottles of water. No, I wasn’t expecting any trouble, but ya never know; the last thing I wanted to think about was being stuck somewhere, miles from friends and family and anyone who could help (since Jim was at work and incommunicado).

Somewhere around Dalrock Road, a car behind me began speeding up and dropping back, speeding up almost to my tailgate and then dropping back several car lengths, weaving slightly from middle of the road to right shoulder. I started praying, “Lord, whoever this is behind me, they’re either sleepy or full of holiday cheer, please keep me out of harm’s way.” About a mile later, the car’s right turn signal came on. And stayed on. And, despite the many exit opportunities on that stretch of highway, the turn signal stayed on and the driver continued to follow me.

When I reached my exit, I purposely did NOT give a signal but at the last minute swooped from the highway onto the frontage road.  The car stayed behind me, continuing to repeat the speed-up-slow-down process, right turn signal still blinking merrily all the way. At my street, I had to slow down because it's sharp, and turned right. The car followed.  I'm beginning to remember that 18-wheeler movie with Dennis Weaver.

Traveling down that little narrow avenue, the blankety-blank car got into the left lane, sped up, and pulled even with me; I hit my brakes, hoping they'd just glide on by. But the strategy failed - the driver did not take that opportunity to pass and continue on without me being in front. N-o-o-o-o-o! They stopped, too. And began to back up. I floored the accelerator, shooting rooster tails behind me.

At my left turn I didn’t give a signal, made it a whole lot faster than I’d ever thought possible without two wheels leaving the wet pavement. Color me well and truly frightened. My nemesis TURNED THERE, TOO, and continued to follow.

I finally reached my destination, pulled crossways into Mike’s drive, put my foot on the brake but left my car in gear so the doors stayed locked, looked to my right and saw the car had pulled up RIGHT NEXT TO ME. By now my prayer had changed to “Lord don’t make me use drastic measures to get this person to leave me alone.”

But instead of reaching for my “little friend” I pulled out my phone. A woman got out of the car and wailed pitifully, “I’m lost.” I shook my head no and said, “I can’t help you” and speed-dialed the magic number. Woman said, “I need to find 190.” I yelled, “You need to go away from here!” Rebecca’s phone began to ring. The broad said again, “I’m lost!” I yelled, “I don’t care!” and just then Becca answered.

At her hello I yelled, “I’m out here in front of your house and there’s some crazy woman next to me” and then screamed, “COME OUTSIDE NOW!”

The obviously-to-me-deranged woman kept repeating, “I’m lost!”

And then things happened very rapidly, but to me it seemed slow motion. On my left I saw Mike come out the front door of the house and head in my direction; on my right the woman got back in her car, slammed the door, put the car in gear, and roared away, turning at the next available intersection. I put the truck in park, and opened my door. Mike asked if I was ok. “Uh, NO!” By then Becca was outside, too, barefoot, as I got out of the car and related the events of the past twenty minutes. (Was it ONLY 20?)

Mike watched in case the car came back around, but evidently seeing someone other than little 'ole gray-haired me was enough to convince the “lady” her presence was required elsewhere - post haste.

So now, Christmas presents delivered, seven hours later, I'm back at the ranch. And my most-often-stolen-make-and-model-vehicle-in-Texas is parked where it belongs.

I had stopped shaking as soon as I went into their lovely home, seeing the beautiful tree, lights shining cheerfully in the corner, feeling with gratitude the warmth of love and the hugs of family. But reliving the events as I started to write this post gave me the heebee jeebees all over again.

And now my prayer is, “Lord if I missed an opportunity to be kind, forgive me; but next time, please don’t make it so scary!”

p.s. I'm glad there are no more presents to buy, no more shopping to do  - - I think I'll just stay home until Christmas Day. When Jim will be with me.

 

Ghost of Christmas Past

Ours was not a “Santa Claus” family. There were always gifts under our Christmas tree in Birmingham, but never more than two per person. Our custom was to open one on Christmas Eve after coming home from the requisite trip to Anniston, and another on Christmas morning, unless it happened to fall on a Sunday, in which case you had to wait until after Church and after dinner and THEN and ONLY THEN could you open that last present.

One year we packed up the relatively new ’53 Plymouth and headed out. Knowing that the weather in North Alabama that time of year could turn vicious in less than a heartbeat, we always traveled with blankets and candles and a thermos of coffee and a jar of peanut butter.

Our arrival was celebrated with hugs and kisses and proffered orange candy slices Granny always kept for us kids. To get away from the grownups, cousins Lynn and Sue and Phyllis and I soon went off to the back bedroom to share girlish giggles in the dark. Phyllis, the youngest of our crowd, was all aglow and began to tell me what she expected to get from Sandy Claus the next day.

“There’s no such thing as Santa Claus!” I informed her. I saw her face crumple. She dissolved into tears and ran from the room.

Cousin Lynn, from her grown-up perspective of two years my senior, shook her head and said darkly, “You’re gonna get it for that one.”

“What did I do?” I was beside myself. I understood that my youngest cousin was upset, but could not understand why. I stood in the doorway between the rooms and saw Phyllis sobbing into Granny’s lap. Granny was smoothing that beautiful long red hair, saying, “There, there! Yes there’s such a thing as Sandy Claus, of COURSE there is. You just pay no mind to what Patsy Lee said, she don’t know no better.”

We left shortly after that, the weather having (fortuitously for me) deteriorated. And good thing, too. The gentle white flakes of the Saks community soon turned to angry gray pellets; coming down the mountain was hairy, the long narrow Coosa bridge treacherous. By the time we got to Woodlawn, Dad was white-knuckled and Mom had bitten through her lip; I was surprised there was no hole in the floorboard under her right foot.

We did not open any presents that night.

Next morning, sitting on the floor in front of the cheerily blazing hot gas space heater, I opened my one present, was appropriately appreciative, then set it aside and asked the meaning of last night’s incident.

Mom got up and went to her domain in the kitchen, leaving Daddy to do the dirty work. He cleared his throat several times, then explained to me, gently, firmly, succinctly, that it was time I understood something very important in life, that not all people believe the same as I. He “suggested” that in the future I withhold my personal beliefs on any subject until I knew the lay of the land upon which I stood.

As far as I was concerned, that was not a suitable explanation. The importance of Phyllis’ tears faded because by then it really was ALL ABOUT ME. In a few short sentences Daddy told me that he and Mom had decided early on not to raise their children with a belief in Santa, and gifts on just one day, but instead practice giving as the need arose, no matter the calendar. And then he got up and left the room, putting a firm end to the conversation.

Flash forward fifteen years, to a Christmas when oldest brother Larry and I sat midst the detritus of ripped paper and shredded ribbon and watched our children play with their new gizmos. I brought up the ghost of Christmas past to him, and without hesitation he gave the real reason.

Growing up, I didn’t know we were poor, but evidently, compared to most in our community, we were. There was always food on our table, even if it was not a lot, and even if it was just fried potatoes and cornbread and beans; my clothes were homemade, but beautiful; and I always had two new pairs of shoes to start the school year (although one pair was only for Sunday). But because of the circumstance of our income being dependent on that of his policy-holders ability to pay the monthly premium, rather than have us suffer disappointment from unrealistic expectations of a myth, our parents chose to minimize the material and maximize the spirit of the day. It made perfect sense. But it did not prevent me from letting my children believe. For as long as they could. For as long as they would.

This Christmas there are no children, no grandchildren, to share the day with us; no presents under my tree, and no stockings hanging on the fireplace. But there's a Santa on the hearth, in all his little stuffed rotund glory. God bless us, every one.

 

GBA

The discussion panel at the Veterans Celebration consisted of five Vets and a moderator. The first question was: What's the most memorable event for your time in service?

The first panelist talked at length and by the time he finished we knew his entire military history. #2 did better, going all the way back to prep school and worked his way forward to now. Both were enjoyed.

#3 was a hoot! She was 25 years old, living at home with her parents, not working; she and her Mom had gone to the mall one day, shopping for she didn't remember what, and she noticed a recruiter at a table in one of the alcoves. She made some excuse and sent Mom on to the next store, but then she went back to see the recruiter. She never said anything to her parents about it, but one thing led to another, she took the ASVAB and scored (she said modestly) pretty high, 2 weeks later she raised her right hand and swore to defend our Country against all enemies foreign and domestic. She went home right after that, knowing she had two weeks before she had to leave for boot camp; when she walked in the door Mama said, "Whatcha been doing today, Honey?" She answered, "Well, I got a job!" Mama did a jig, while Daddy sat and rocked and grinned. And then she dropped the other shoe and told them what the job was. (We all pert near died laughing.) Mama was not exactly happy but Daddy was delighted. (Lots more laughter. OK, I guess I'd have been overjoyed, too, if my 25-year-old was still living at home with me and not working.) Anyhow, she went to basic training and then on to tech school, thoroughly enjoyed her time in the military, and at the end of her four years got out with a great civilian job.

#4 was a wonderful man who I, personally, have grown through the years to love and respect very much; he spent his entire time talking about Vets he has known (not a word about himself; why am I not surprised?).

And then we got to #5. Now, before I go any further, let me tell you he was in a wheelchair, half his face palsied, speech so difficult it was really hard to understand him, all due to TBI when he was active duty. In answer to the question, he said, "Well, I don't know that anything much of note happened to me, except I did get blown up, and I did think I was going to die; but I didn't, and I'm here, and that's pretty good. (The audience erupted in applause.)

It gets better. The moderator’s second question was: What would you like to say to another Vet, or, what advice would you give to a new soldier? This time he started with #5, who bent into the microphone and said, "I would say the only thing that matters: God Bless America."

I don't remember anything anybody else said after that; and I could not see for several minutes; I went through my entire stock of tissues.

Yep. God Bless America.

coming home

Anniston, Alabama
30 Nov. 1944
Dear Aunt Maydale:

You know that Buddy came home last week. We all wanted to give him a wonderful Thanksgiving. We'd been saving coupons forever, stashing them in the Mammy cookie jar. Soon as we got word that he was coming home we put on our hats and gloves and rode the streetcar to the butcher shop. We gave him our coupons and came out with the finest piece of beef this side of Texas.

Oh, Auntie, it was beautiful, don't know when I've seen a piece of beef that looked so good, our mouths were watering all the way home. We put it in the icebox and then all day yesterday we picked roashineers and everything else the V garden holds, though that wasn't much considering the time of year, but it's been a late winter and still pretty enough, so there were a few things out there.

We got onions and potatoes from the cellar and then we went into the pantry and pulled out canned apples for making fried pies, Auntie you know how you go on about my fried pies. And there was tomatoes, okra, beets, watermelon pickles, snap beans, everything we could find that we know Buddy likes.

We let Buddy sleep late, Lord knows the boy looks like he could use more than one good night. You should have seen us tiptoeing around the house trying to be quiet but getting a fit of the giggles at just about everything. Anyway, we started cooking long about sunup, I'd started some bread rising yesterday and the kitchen smelled so good. We were talking about other Thanksgivings. Even though I'm thirteen now I can't remember much from before this war. Seems like we've always been at war.

Speaking of which, it took our last coupon to buy butter. We had decided we wanted real butter for the bread, but it took a while to find some. Every place we tried somebody would ask if we didn't know there's a war on, but it didn't stop us and finally we found some. You should have seen us on our way home, we took off our shoes down at the bottom of the hill and walked barefoot carrying our treasures. I don't think I've ever enjoyed a trip to town and back as much as that one. But then today when we brought out the butter and set it on the table Grandma said if we'd kept the churn we wouldn't have had to buy it.

She's right, but nobody knows where the churn got to, we haven't used it in years, I think it must be the same place as the lemonade crock, wherever that is. Anyway, she went off into the parlor mumbling about never missing something until you need it. But there was no help for it, so we kept on a cooking.

We put the beef in the blue-speckled pan you gave us for Christmas last year and added potatoes and carrots and onions around it, put the cover on and set it in the oven. All morning the smells of cooking were driving us crazy with hunger, but we didn't eat, we wanted to save ourselves for the big meal. Although I think Marilyn must have snuck some of the cornbread, but she's little so we didn't say anything to her.

Long about one o'clock the roast was ready and everything else was ready. Buddy was up by then. We made him and the rest of the fellas go into the yard. Raymond came over, too, you know how he idealizes Buddy. They were sitting out there smoking and spitting and telling stories. I wished I could have been out there with them, but there were things to do still, so I got the big platter down from the top cupboard. When I pulled the roast out of the oven and took off the cover the cloud of steam that came out smelled so good I almost fainted!

It looked so pretty, the potatoes just going brown and the carrots cooked but not soggy, the onions you could almost see through.

Martha put the best linen on the dining table and borrowed a couple of chairs from next door. It took four trips to get everything on the table. By the time we finished it looked like we'd cooked enough to feed Coxie's Army. When it was all set, we took off our aprons and marched outside.

The boys joked about not being hungry. Buddy even said he'd wait until we fed the babies, but we knew he was just putting on Sunday manners, and we finally persuaded them it was time to eat. Daddy said we'd say grace in the yard, since there was more room. So we all got in a circle and held hands and Daddy prayed one of the most beautiful prayers I've ever heard. He thanked God, first for Buddy being home safe and sound, and then for everything else he could think of, from the sky overhead to the fertile soil under our feet. Then we all sang Blessed Assurance, Jesus Is Mine. We girls were teary, and it was so wonderful.

We all hugged each other and then went into the house, laughing and joking, the boys jostling each other for position. Everybody stopped short, though, at the door to the dining room. I thought they were admiring the candles and flowers and food, but I was hungry so I pushed past them and you wouldn't believe what I saw.

Old Blue was sprawled out asleep under the table, and if a dog could wear a smile, he had one. The roast, our beautiful roast beef, was gone. I'll give you three guesses where it went and the first two don't count. I yelled at that dog, called him every dirty word I'd ever heard and I think I invented a few. He skedaddled out of there right quick. We all stood there staring, absolutely speechless. Daddy kept clearing his throat, like something was stuck way down inside.

And then Buddy started laughing. He laughed until the tears rolled down his face. Then Daddy started laughing, too. Jeanette laughed so hard she had to sit down.

I said I failed to see the humor in the situation. Buddy said you couldn't blame a dog for being what he was. He said some boys in Europe reminded him a lot of that dog. Grandma said we might as well eat what was there. So we did.

The potatoes were as good and the bread just as good and the butter was wonderful. I guess on the whole the meal was a success. An hour later we were all still sitting around the table laughing and talking. And then Daddy said we should pray again. So we all stood up and got real close to each other and he thanked God again for the day and the food and our dear Buddy being home.

Auntie, I guess the secret of this day was not the roast we didn't have, or the food we did, but that we are all together again.

Someday I'm gonna laugh about this, but not today. And I'm gonna kill that dog if he ever comes out from under the house.

Lovingly,

Your Ruby Jean

Road Trip - August 2014

Set out from home at 3 am Saturday headed for Birmingham and my 50^th high school reunion. I don’t like to drive in the dark, but I knew I’d still be in Texas, and therefore sorta on “home turf” by sunrise, so wasn’t all that concerned. Because I was traveling alone, I kept to my normal schedule of stopping for breaks only at welcome centers; they are patrolled and there’s someone looking out for my best interests 24 hours a day, which gives me a sense of safety (ok, well not totally, but then I’m always hyper aware of where I am and who might be around me no matter my location). Gasoline is always purchased at a known station, so that’s within my comfort zone, too.

One of the biggest problems with being on the road alone for more than 8 hours is that I tend to get bored. NOT a good thing. Plus, knowing I would be driving another 12 or more hours coming home on Sunday, again leaving pre-dawn, I prepared myself for the long haul. I keep the radio on until I run out of decent fm reception (no way Jose am I getting on the am band), and was fortunate enough to hear a 93.7 broadcast of the Pledge of Allegiance done by a children’s class. When there’s finally too much static to bear, I switch to my own music, choosing from travel kit CDs, each with at least a hundred mp3 files, all songs I enjoy hearing, or comedic skits to laugh at, old favorites to sing along with, or amusing myself by conducting my own personal private orchestra performance of Grofe, Stravinsky, Chopin, Beethoven, Strauss, Copeland, and Souza (can’t imagine what the folks in the lane next to me think of that!); it keeps me awake and involved but doesn’t divert my attention from the task of driving.

Several bottles of coffee in the cooler and a plug-in mug to keep it warm (thank you, hubby) along with half a case of water and other assorted liquid refreshments kept me hydrated, cheese crackers and yogurt raisins kept me from starving to death, and thoughts of “oh thank God it's only another 100 miles to the next rest stop” kept me sane. Hahaha!

Another thing I discovered is that with this new camera I can take pictures while I drive; just set it on the steering wheel and push the shutter button.  Got some interesting shots of sunrise in Louisiana. The low-lying eerie bayou fog topped by a rising neon sun was amazing. The bugs on the windshield not so much. Running out of washer fluid even less so. Huge thanks to the service station attendant who did NOT charge me for not only refilling it but also showed me the hood release button when I stopped for fuel. (Yes, we've had the car since December, but I rarely drive it and some things I just simply don't notice until I need to notice.)

This sign always makes me smile. And then I say a prayer for him, wherever he is, whatever he's doing, and the young men and women on active duty.

Because people worry about me when I travel, I take a picture of the current rest stop and send it as a text message to the three most involved with tracking my progress. Sometimes they respond, but they know they don’t have to, and it makes everybody feel better. Unfortunately not all the rest areas have adequate cell service within the rest room stalls, so I sometimes have to take a few extra minutes, shooting random pics while I wait for confirmation that my message was successfully sent. The drought in the US has really affected the level of the Mississippi river at Vicksburg, way down below where it should be; poor pilots had a hard time navigating the barges.

I also record verbal notes on my phone, and then play them back after I return home to remind me of things that particularly got my attention during the trip. For example: the pungent reek of freshly-riled polecat somewhere around Tyler; the merest sliver of a moon both mornings in a sky dark as a Cracker Barrel dining room at 4 am; little one-interchange-towns that waft the smell of old grease from the ubiquitous always-open truck stop; Monroe still smells like money; a bloated javelina pig, feet in the air, on the shoulder just west of Marshall; the warning sign with a blinking light above a picture of a bear (no, I’m not at all sure what it means and was not about to stay around to find out!); a long line of cars sporting National Guard license plates exiting the highway in Meridian headed for a Sunday morning drill; front bumpers severed from automobiles in what must have been ghastly accidents and then abandoned by the owners; the absolutely positively frightful condition of one I-20 welcome center contrasted with the well-appointed, nice-smelling, CLEAN beauty of another in east Texas.

And this trip something new; the signs may have been there for a while, but it’s the first time I noticed that two of the I-20 interchanges are named for local soldiers fallen in combat. Sgt. Joshua Tomlinson and Sgt. Josh Madden. God bless the government for saying yes to this tribute, for the folks who raised the money, and to all those who remember them; I thank them and their families for their ultimate sacrifice, made to keep my home (of the brave and land of the) free for me and all who travel through it.

http://www.shreveporttimes.com/article/20120703/NEWS01/120703053/Sgt-Josh-Madden-Interchange-dedicated

http://projects.militarytimes.com/valor/army-spc-joshua-a-tomlinson/4635354/

it's in the eye of the beholder

A few days ago a call came in on my landline. Now, normally I don’t answer that phone, because anyone who knows me and wants to talk to me calls my cell; and if they don’t know my cell number then 99 times out of a 100 it’s someone I don’t want to talk to.

Also, if no one picks up my landline, on the fourth ring it automatically goes to an answering machine. I listen to the message, just to see who it is. (This comes in particularly handy during election time.) Normally it’s someone I don’t wish to converse with, but if it is a “person of interest” then I pick up.

On that particular day and that particular occasion the voice that came over the speaker was that of a woman whom I went to school with and have not seen in several years. I picked up the receiver and said, “I’m here.” She immediately gushed out several sentences about how long it’s been since we last saw each other, and how much she misses me, yada yada, and then just as she began to gasp for air asked how things are going for me. 

I said, “I can’t complain.” And then purely from rote I said, “And how are you?”

She said, “Well, not so good, I’ve been sick off and on for the past few years and things are not good with the marriage, and my children don’t care anything about me…..” With each sentence the whine in her voice got louder and more pronounced and I began to regret my decision to pick up the phone. I finally interrupted her to say I had been on my way out the door and that I was late to an appointment in Cedar Hill (I did not lie, I actually HAD been on my way out the door and I really DID have an appointment) and asked if I could call her later.

She said, “Well, ok, I guess, but you promise me you’ll call.” I said I would definitely call her later and then said goodbye.

Off and on since that day I have thought about the phone call. At times I have chastised myself for not calling her back. But then immediately I find myself making excuses to myself for not calling. Examining my motives, I find that I have neither the need nor the desire to buy into what promises to be a long and involved pity party. You see, I discovered some time back that I’m what is referred to (in terms you’ll not find in the DSM 5) as a "fixer."  And I have, to my detriment, spent way too many hours listening to somebody gripe and complain about one thing or another and voice their general unhappiness with life when there’s actually nothing I can do to help that person, much less relieve their pain; and while I become the ear they need (yes, we all at times need an ear), all I really accomplish during those sessions is making myself depressed.

There are people who are on my list of facebook friends who seem to document every five minutes of their life, no matter how mundane. Still others have a penchant for “sharing” every cute little cartoon or saying about doggies or kitties or birdies or (insert the name of your least fave animal) from every Tom, Richard, and Harvey who also shares every little thing with them in what seems to be a never-ending spiral. (One friend used to forward to me everything that came into her email box; these days she has a wider audience and shares those same items with all her facebook friends. My joy is unbounded.)

Now, I’m not yet comfortable enough with actually “unfriending” someone but I did learn that I can “unfollow” them and that way I simply don’t have to bother clicking and saying I don’t want to see that particular post. Too bad all of life is not managed as easily, because no matter how you dress it up, drivel is still drivel, and I simply don’t have the time.

Items of interest, like beauty, are in the eye of the beholder. Yes, I'll call her later. But there's no telling when that "later" might be. The "fixer" in me is retired; I hung up my superhero cape quite some time ago. And I refuse to feel guilty about it. So sue me. 

Texas, My Texas

Texas is a state of mind, a culture, a never-never land with all the hopeful romance of The Crystal Chandelier, the grungy despair of a South Dallas flophouse, and the slightly acerbic wit of the Debonair Danceland.

Texas begins with a river and ends with a gulf, starts with a cool green pine forest and stops with a blast furnace. In winter, you'd swear there's nothing 'tween us and Canada 'cept a bob wire fence, and half of it's down.

This State is a mystery, even to experienced insiders, the native-born Texan. It is a rigorous mathematical puzzle created by TI and simultaneously the most emotional and irrational of states.

Cowboys come and go (but not to the Super Bowl), Native Americans come and then hurry to Oklahoma, Yankees come and sometimes stay, native-borns move away. But Texas endures.

Texas is a series of renamed streets and reconstructed highways so enormous, so contrived, so frustrating that no one has uncovered the secret of how to get from work to home in under thirty minutes.

Texas is fueled, not by oil, but by greed; and oiled by cupidity. The slightly-less-than-sonic boom of Spindletop has hushed to a whisper, as quiet as the shuttle hangars in Houston.

There are many fine buildings along I-35. Some house prestigious firms whose probity cannot be questioned. And then there are the concrete barns with stalls for cash cows and others for spavined beasts not worth the feed to keep them alive, although they continue to exist until fatally stricken by Chapter Eleven.

The people of Texas have come up with a few sayings to explain the economy.

1.  If it sounds too good to be true, it is too good to be true.
2.  Never panic - - but if you do, make sure you're the first to panic.
3.  Happiness can't buy money.
4.  I've been rich and I've been poor; rich is way better.

So just what is all this leading up to? A friend of mine suggested I should write down some of the colloquial gems I've heard since I moved to Texas fourteen years ago. Especially from the seniors who have seen more than they care to remember - most of them can remember twenty years ago much better than they remember yesterday. (I'm fast getting that way myself.)

As we moseyed along the corridor of her residence, when asked about her wedding ring, which was all scarred up, and almost worn through on the under side, my darling little white-haired friend said, "Yeah, this one's been through the ricks." I asked her to explain, because this saying, like most, was foreign to my Alabama-born-and-bred vocabulary. She described hay baling in Marshall, her home town, and the way the rick wound up with little bits and pieces of everything along with the hay. I guess her marriage was like that, too. (But then, truth be told, aren't most of them?) She stopped her amble for a little while, smiled to herself, and then slowly walked on up the hall, aided by a cane in one hand, and a conveniently-placed wall rail in the other.

I despair of ever having hair as beautiful as my friend's. But one day, God willing, my wedding ring will look like hers. And I hope I'm still here, in my Texas, when it does.

old soldiers

And so the absolutely awesome TXDAR Patriotic Prayer Breakfast is now a part of my history. Talking to Kathleen and Sheila yesterday, sharing stories about my part in the Vietnam Airlift, I realized that the reason Old Soldiers don’t talk about their experiences is not so much that we’re not willing to share, it’s that in our hearts we feel the person asking might not really want to know, that it’s just so much lip service.

My father-in-law was a ball turret gunner in WWII. He shares a few stories eagerly, but for the most part not so much, usually nothing that requires more than a three-word answer; and especially not with a civilian; but, given the opportunity, and the time, his hesitancy at the beginning disappears and before you know it hours have passed. His recent experience at the new Museum in Florida is a perfect example. Things he had never shared with his wife or sons came to light with no reticence because he was engaged in conversation with others actually working on the planes, guys who not only cared enough to ask, and actually wanted to hear his response, but also were delighted to listen to what he had to say. There’s a vast difference between hearing and listening.

Talking with BFF Ginger about her time in the sand box, it’s much the same. She shares, but only if there’s time to get into the subject fully. For how can you explain to someone who has not lived it the hours and days of tedium interspersed with seconds of fear and minutes of lightning-reflex response to a clear and present danger?

It’s like trying to explain to the visually impaired the peachy light of a Back Bay afternoon, or the many hues of green in an East Texas spring, or the sparkling facets of the ocean at dawn on Newport Beach.

It’s not that we don’t want to talk. We do. Some of us are really quite desperate to get it out. But we’re afraid you might be offended at the depth of our emotions. Of late it seems we, as a people, don’t handle emotions very well, not our own, way less those of another. When you are kind enough to ask, and we begin to answer, we see your eyes glaze over after a couple of minutes. We know it’s not that you don’t want to know, and we understand it’s not that you don’t care, it’s simply that we are cognizant of the fact that the uninitiated have no frame of reference.

The gentleman standing next to me yesterday morning during the photo op made a comment about what he had done in his war, and then he asked me how I had served. Just a few words out of my mouth and I saw the light in his eyes grow brighter. No, we had no actual experience in common. He’s a man and I’m a woman, we were in different parts of the word, and at different times, with the United States Navy. But there was and always will be a common bond between us – the eagles on our arms and the flag in our hearts.

At each of our DAR meetings we recite the American’s Creed. In part, it says, “I therefore believe it is my duty to my Country to love it, to support its constitution, to obey its laws, to respect its flag, and to defend it against all enemies.” I silently add the words “foreign and domestic” because that’s the oath I swore when I became a member of the United States Armed Forces, and renewed that very same pledge each time I re-enlisted.

We old soldiers – we’re all cut from the same cloth, wearing garments made at different times. And to a man – or woman – there’s not a one of us who, if requested, would not gladly do it all, and MORE, again. If you don’t believe it, just ask us. We’ll tell you. But only if you have time for our answer.

full belly

Today is Mardi Gras. I am reminded that not everyone in the United States, much less the world, will go to bed tonight with a full belly. For that matter, not everyone in the world has a bed to go to, much less a roof over it.

Some years back I met a homeless man standing on the street in front of the Dallas shelter. He asked me why I was there, and when I told him we were bringing brown bag lunches for him and other temporary residents, he responded, "I help people, too. I use the experiences I had in a field hospital in Da Nang to help my brothers on the street every day."

"Until you've been without a home, you can't know how the homeless feel. If you've never been down in the trenches, you don't know what it's like to have bombs going off over your head. And until you've been hungry, I mean really hungry, not just the normal little twinge and tummy rumble at noon, it's impossible to know the true meaning of not being able to meet the most basic human needs."

Strong words? Yes, and some of the most heartfelt I'd heard in recent memory. He continued, "If you never had to rummage through garbage cans for a meal, or if you never felt the warmth of a newspaper blanket on a bitter cold night, you just don't know. It doesn't matter how many movies you see or how many books you read, until you've been-there-done-that-threw-away-the-tee-shirt, you don't have a clue."

Wondering where this diatribe might lead, and knowing that discretion is not only the better part of valor, it's also the best way to keep my nose from being broken, I backed away slightly from the bearded gentleman in his second-hand boots.

"Now you take Moses, for instance. He wasn't all that great a negotiator, because he couldn't persuade Pharaoh to let the people go. Well, at least he didn't get anywhere until Yahweh brought out the big guns. And even though Moses was willing to try, before he could try, or even understand the need to try, he had to have a change in his living circumstances. Only after he lived as one of the common people did he understand why they needed to be free. Only after he'd had his own back lashed did he say 'enough is enough, I'm done talking, bring on the frogs.'

 "You see," he warmed to his subject, "it all happened just the way it was supposed to. I figure the Children of Israel never would have listened to him if he'd still been the spoiled brat riding around on his chariot all day. And he never would have felt their pain if he'd only seen them from a position eight feet above their bent heads. But God let Moses kill the overseer so he could understand what it felt like to be hunted, on the run, and homeless. And then, to top it off, God put Moses into a desert so he'd know what it was like to be hungry. Before he could be any good for his people, Moses had to learn that it's one thing to sympathize, but another to live the nightmare."

"That's why you people try but you just don't really get it. All you know is what you read in school and what you hear in Church. You've never lived it, and all you do is give lip service to the world's problems. If you guys were more like Moses, and less afraid to dirty your hands, you might be surprised what you could accomplish."

His words came back to mind in the next few days. Do we do our good deeds armed with a want-to attitude but no real-world understanding to use for ammunition? But must we become homeless ourselves to understand their plight? Do we have to be hungry to understand the depth of emotion in the voice of the jobless woman sitting in front of us, toddlers scooting around her feet, a baby clutched firmly in her lap, as she describes her needs? Must we live through the death of a loved one to know what it's like for the new widow who finds herself standing in the middle of the floor trying to remember why she went into the room in the first place?

Was the man in the ragged camo correct in his assumption? Do we have to live in the same circumstance, as one of the cold, tired, poor, hungry, or spiritually defeated huddled masses, in order to be able to give more than lip service to their plight? Is experience really the best teacher? I was convinced the answers were, in order, no, and not necessarily. But for days afterward, I felt I was missing something, some little thing that niggled at the back of my eyelids as I drove my car to work, dressed in down coat and gloves, replete with freshly-brewed coffee and granola bar.

I turned to yet another source for inspiration. Listening to my then-teen-aged granddaughter tell the story in her own words brought a different spin to the age-old tale. "Gramma," she said, "the most important thing to remember was that at first Moses kept on saying he couldn't do it. He said he was afraid of public speaking, he said he had nobody to help him do the job, he said he had no family to look after his needs while he went out every day to be at God's business. But for every I can't that he brought up, God handed him an I can." She said more, but those were the words that still stick in my mind.

Unlike Moses, it is not a matter of what I can do, but what we together can do. In his own way, the gentleman in the tattered field jacket is as much a social worker as Moses. While Moses relieved his people from physical bondage, that Vet relieves homeless brothers from the bondage of their spirit.

And shouldn't we do the same, one hour, one person, one can of soup for the Boy Scouts, one bag of new for donation to the VA underwear, at a time? 

trip report

Wednesday; 0545. Would have left at 0530 as planned, but loving hubby spent a few minutes making sure the windshields and mirrors were free of road grime. Lots of deer on the road in the East Texas cloudy misty dawn, rounded a curve near Hideaway and saw three of them. Guess that’s what they do for entertainment, stand on the shoulder and watch the cars go by. Didn’t see any on the way home, but probably due only to the time difference.

An hour or so out of Dallas, heard a beeping sound. No lights on the dash, but it's a new car and all, just couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Then, eureka, realized the cooler in the front passenger seat was probably heavy enough to require a seat belt, so dropped my speed back considerably from our 75 limit and pulled the seat belt across it. No beep. GOOD! Until a couple of minutes later the beep was back. I’m thinking, well, maybe one of the back doors didn’t latch completely after I loaded the car. But at a quick glance it didn’t appear that was the problem, so continued to try to identify the source. It was only when I ran out of broadcast range for Jody Dean, I was able to determine the sound was coming from my cell phone. DUH!! Brother had sent me a good morning text, and the little phone was valiantly trying to get my attention. Acknowledged the message, and voila! No more beep.

Louisiana welcome center offers free (heavy on the chicory) coffee, but the State has some by-george corduroy roads; woulda spilled more than I could drink. Took a pass on that.

 

Saw the planes flying at Talullah, but no onions at Vidalia.

 

 

The Mississippi Welcome Center perched on the hill above Old Man River was exactly that. Love the huge American flag flying high and proud above the railroad bridge.

 

It's a miracle! No road construction all the way from Dallas to Birmingham except for a half mile on the MS bridge, and again just west of Tuscaloosa. But as far as I’m concerned, the Alabama roads should ALL be under construction, this winter has been really hard on them, and the potholes are not just potholes, they’re bear traps.

Ginger welcomed me into a home warm with love and the most amazing original art on all the walls. She should open a gallery. I cannot thank her enough for not only her hospitality, and an awesome Wi-Fi, but also for some of the best (non chicory) coffee I've ever tasted.

The Memorial Service was incredibly moving. Not just because Renee was my niece, but because everyone there knew her smiles. The lady from the Power Company, who grabbed my hand during the prayer, said she’d never seen Renee when she wasn’t smiling, not even at the very end. Ginger overheard one of the attendees say, “She’s family; ain’t no blood, but she’s family.” That was probably the most endearing tribute anyone could ever pay.

Family and friends gathered at Bill and Kaiki’s house for nourishment. Pictures taken, great nephews loved on and laughed with, hugs all around and especially from Dear Sweet BonBon, and said farewell.

 

Storms that night must have gone all around us, but other than a stiff breeze, we weren’t touched. Lots of water on the road, and heard the Easy Listening station D J talk about several places with downed trees and power lines, but none in Ginger's neighborhood. Thank you, God, for traveling mercies.

Friday; 0430; a 5/8 moon shining down. The Eagles are right, "There are stars in the Southern Sky." Namely, this time of year, Venus. So big and bright I thought it was a plane until I determined a plane doesn’t have lights like that. Comforting on my left shoulder until well past dawn. And with the rosy fingers came the lovely sight of dew on newly-planted magnolias on the easement. And before I forget, the eastern Mississippi Welcome Center has some awesome employees. The rest room attendant and I spent a couple of minutes talking about pre-packaged oatmeal; we decided it gets a thumbs up. (Yes, I WILL talk to just about anybody. ha!) Sitting in the car for a few minutes catching up on text messages, heard a knock on my window; looked up and there stood the night security guard. Once I found the control to lower it (again, that new car thing), that sweet, sweet man said, “I just made a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll get you a cup if you’d like.” I thanked him but declined the offer; no, I wouldn’t take something from somebody I don’t know under any condition; but more, I don’t drink coffee when I travel because it makes me stop too often. For you guys who can’t identify, trust me, it’s an age thing.

And then continued on the roller coaster I’ve come to identify with I-20 through middle Mississippi, and on to the next State. Just before I got to the LA line, saw a billboard advertising a champagne brunch at one of the casinos. The waffles with fresh fruit looked quite appetizing, but the fried chicken (yep, fried chicken) also pictured, well, not so much.

I cried all the way from Meridian to Monroe. Don’t ask me why. I guess it was simply time.

Took pics of the signs for Garrett Road, westbound and eastbound. Love that grandson!

 

 

The Welcome Center in Texas was exactly that. Lovely building; the great sign on the door and the statue in the courtyard both warranted an extra minute to snap two more pics.

 

Somewhere around Mesquite I realized I’d totally lost track of what day it was. And then, finally, home. Twelve hours out, eleven hours back. Still can't figure how that worked out.

OK, by now you're probably wondering about my choice of stops. Because I normally have to travel alone, I will not leave my car when I stop for gas (mid-State) and so depend on welcome centers for rest room breaks, where security guards are always on duty. God bless them, every one.

The car was filled with the sounds of Dixieland Jazz and Harry Connick, Jr., through the bayous and rice fields of the Pelican State; old fashioned country love songs in MissMeSomeSippy; music from my high school years in AL; and Marshall Tucker and Mason Dixon and Linda Ronstadt's Canciones de my Padre in TX. Jesus gives me joy, I simply have to recognize it for what it is.

I'm glad to be home. But I wouldn't trade the trip for all the world. Anytime I can reconnect with family is a God-sent favor. No matter the reason.

Finally, I can never say thank you enough to all the friends and sisters who prayed for my family and me this past three weeks. Specifically, Ginger, Sheila, Elizabeth, Annell, Bobby, Terry, Cindy, Geneva, Kat, Karen, Judi, two Connies, Stephanie, Virginia, Sally, Sandy, Sandra, Denise, Hayes; I felt the presence of your love the entire time. ¡Dios te bendiga!

taking care of bidness

This morning, in the few minutes we had together before he left for work, Jim said, “You know, if, God forbid, something happens to you, I wouldn’t have a clue who to notify. You have all the stuff on me, but you don’t have a personal emergency contact sheet. Would you put one together for me?”

No, I DO NOT anticipate he’s going to need it anytime soon, but it does raise the issue of women who take care of everyone else except themselves. While I flew all over the country with a job in a previous life (haha) there was always a list on my computer desktop that he could pull up, just in case.

The crash of the old system last year not only left me without precious pictures and music saved over the course of several years, but also without the files I had so painstakingly put together containing my wants and wishes for my home-going celebration, a digital copy of my will, and a list of phone numbers for people I thought might want to know of my passing.

And so today I have created a file with an updated list, containing not only phone numbers but also email addresses of the people dearest to my heart. And, additionally, and probably just as importantly, the passwords for my phone, my computer, my email, my facebook account, my blog, and the bank. I did NOT store it on the computer. One crash was enough to teach me the value of hardcopy.

And then I printed it. Signed and dated it. And put it in the lockbox. Right next to my will.

Female friends, just saying.

white(out) knights

We are indeed a family of writers. Could not resist sharing below from one of us who does not do it often enough. Thank you, Darling Jan.

I work 7 minutes from my house.  Tuesday it took me 4 hours to get home.  Had to leave my car about halfway and walk.  Husband’s 79 year old mother and 85 year old aunt had met up with me and we walked together.  Sweet hubby was at home---he had worked nights and was sleeping.  He drove as far as he could and then walked to meet us.  I guess we only had to walk about a mile or so---but in the driving snow, when you are not dressed appropriately, any distance is a challenge.  Mom stayed with us until the roads cleared.  Youngest son was trapped downtown at UAB.  He spent Tuesday and Wednesday night as a “refugee” in the campus rec center with all the other stranded students and faculty.  We were just VERY grateful that he was indoors.  Many, many people spent close to 24 hours in their vehicles gridlocked on the roads.  I had made him put a “care package” in his car the week before.  It consisted of some pop tarts, peanut butter crackers, bottled water, toboggan and face mask and a blanket.  All the eye rolling he did was quickly forgotten once he realized he was stranded.  The blanket came in pretty handy.  J (Maybe he will realize that Mom really does know best.)

Believe me.  We will all have a severe weather kit in our cars as soon as I can assemble them.  They will have inflatable pillows or air mattresses, blankets, non- perishable food items and some sort of contraption to ensure that bathroom issues will not complicate things further.   We will also have gloves, extra socks and water proof boots for long distance walking. 

Several of my coworkers have small children that spent the night at their schools.  God bless the educators that kept, loved on, and entertained them. 

I left my car parked in a local nursing home lot.  The staff there was extraordinary, offering food and drinks, access to a land line phone and any other items that were needed. 

Wonderful snow angels emerged through it all and helped their fellow man in any way they could.  Any time I now question the very basic humanity of most people, I only have to remember the snow---and all those wonderful folks that opened their homes, businesses and hearts to all of us.    (I especially thank the good ole boys on their 4-wheelers and trucks with chains who appeared like white-out knights on "horses" to the rescue.)  

Take care and know that I love you.