Everybody Needs a Nancy

This is the birthday week for my friend, Nancy.   It is sort of like my friends' friends who are always referred to as "Sue and Larry from Phoenix."   If you have spent any time with them, you have vicariously become familiar with "Sue and Larry from Phoenix."  Well, if you have known me for more than, say 30 seconds, you are somewhat acquainted with "my friend, Nancy."  In fact, just about 5 minutes ago, Mr. Lincoln said, "that's something you and Nancy can discuss this week."  He is right too.  It will be discussed.  

 

My first memory of Nancy is first grade.  We may have known each other before that because we each have older siblings the same ages who went to school together.  We were raised in the same neighborhood, so I assume that we at least had met before going to school.  But, my first real memories of Nancy are in Ida Mae McPherson's first grade class.  Nancy was the one who helped me out the day that Mrs. McPherson asked, "Marilyn, do you want to go to the cloakroom?"  I was not sure what I had done to be banished, but being six years old, and not well-versed in the nuances of rhetorical questions, I thought Mrs. McPherson was telling me to go to the cloakroom.  I was mortified as I left the classroom, went to the cloakroom and forlornly sat on a bench awaiting further punishment.  It seemed that I sat back there for hours, although it was probably only a few minutes.  As class progressed, and Mrs. McPherson called on me to answer a question, she realized that I was not in class.  She asked, "where is Marilyn?" I heard a little voice answer, "she's in the cloakroom."  Nancy to the rescue!  Mrs. McPherson came to the cloakroom, full of remorse, and apologizing for the misunderstanding.  I have loved Nancy ever since.  She has rescued me on more than one occasion.

I remember an occasion in elementary school when someone wrote a nasty word on the acquarium in the library.  I sensed that Nancy knew what it meant, but I did not.  I went home and asked my dad.  He explained that it meant a female dog.  I remained puzzled as to all the hoopla surrounding that scrawled word ~ why would someone write the word for a female dog on the acquarium, and why was everyone so upset?  I learned a few days later when I, in a moment of insane ignorance, said to my brother Mike, "Mom is a (insert actual word for female dog), do you get it?"  He replied, "I get it.  Do you get it?"  Well, I got in all manner of trouble for what I thought was a witty remark, and I still did not know why.  So, I went to Nancy.  She explained.  We were sitting in the ditch by the road in front of her house.  I remember it like yesterday.  I was appalled that I had called my mother such a name. I wasn't even upset with her when I said it.  I do not remember if I apologized, but I do remember being grateful to Nancy for explaining things.  I still suffered confusion as to why someone called the acquarium a female dog until Nancy told me it was directed at the librarian.  Well, duh.

I learned things from Nancy sitting in my mother's car in the parking lot of Smart's Grocery.  There were about 6 parking spaces at the store.  They kept their feminine products in the front window...on a shelf above the produce, I think.  I do not know why, but it was a source of great conversations in the car. 

For a while, we had a secret word.  If we did not like something, we would say we "denised" it.  Sadly, a new girl moved into the neighborhood named Denise.  We did not care for her, but our mothers felt it would be a lovely thing for us to spend time with and befriend her.  We tried.  Really, we did.  We found her very unlikeable, so we turned her name into a term of derision.  Nancy sincerely denised lots of foods, but she would eat raw hot dogs right out of the refrigerator.  She introduced me to Welsh Rarebit, cookies called Rocks, and how to use food coloring to paint cookies.  She is the first person I remember knowing who put salt on everything...lots of it.

She once had a wallet that she threw up on, and in one of the plastic picture holders, there was forever a piece of vomit.  We thought that hilarious.  She was a song-writer extraordinaire.   Once in the cafetorium (yep, cafeteria and auditorium in one) at Dalewood Elementary School she made up a song about beans, and their effect on one's digestive system.  I will not be so crude as to share the lyrics here, but again, we would become weak with laughter whenever she sang it.  And, you always, always, want to hear Nancy laugh.  She has the most infectious laugh ever. 

We lived within walking distance. Nancy and I spent many, many days of our childhood together. We played dolls...all the time. We would take doll furniture into the yard and play for hours. Once, when we had all manner of things out in her front yard...ladder, chairs, tables, blankets, pots and pans...her brother came home and was just furious saying something about it looking like gypsies lived there. We just giggled and continued on with our play. She had a dog named Bozo. I think he must have been some kind of chow mix. His name fascinated me because our dogs had names like George and Charlie and Susie. Her mother was the one who had to tell me that our old dog, George, sweetest black lab mix, had been hit by a car and killed. He was the dog that ate moonshine mash from the still down the street, and spent part of one summer intoxicated. But, then that's a story for another day. 

We did grow up.  We exchanged our baby dolls for real babies.  When we were pregnant with these two, we spent many days together, and each of those days involved a trip to Becker's Bakery.  Nancy bought the pastel cookies, and I bought almond macaroons.  No wonder I gained 40 pounds.  As these babies grew, they spent lots of time together.  Maybe that is one of the reasons they are both such unique adults. 

Nancy and I might be the epitome of the old adage, "opposites attract."  She is organized.  I am not.  Once when I complained about never knowing where my keys are, she said, "why don't you put them in the same place every time."  Well, I don't know why I don't.  I just don't.  She likes practical things.  She told me one time that the best gift she had ever gotten for her birthday was a carpet cleaner.  Seriously?  I am often telling Mr. Lincoln that a blender, a vacuum, anything practical is NOT a gift.  Nancy has what I call a "big girl" job.  She is an executive assistant to two vice presidents at her company.  I would have no idea what to do in that job.  I do walking tours with 4th graders.  Trust me, it is not a "big girl" job.  It is more like what a college student might do in the summers.  She does not yell at people with accents.  She does not mind asking me why I do.  I wonder how she refrains.  She waits hand and foot on her family.  Me, not so much. 

Nancy is everything good about being raised in the mid 20th century in a middle class family in East Nashville.  She is kind, and smart, and dependable and responsible and punctual.  She can be counted on.  She is fiercely loyal to her friends and her family.  She adores her husband and her sons.

She goes the extra mile.  When she has had it with you, she has had it with you, but it takes a lot to get her there.  She is compassionate and kind.  She loves babies and children and old people.  After her mother died, she still visited her aunts on a regular basis, one of them every Saturday.  She loves God.  She can sing.  I learned that at a congregational singing at a mutual friend's funeral.  I teased her and told her she could be church of Christ, but she'd miss being in the choir.  She is broad-minded and old fashioned.  She is not a big fan of large screens on church walls or new songs.  She has opinions.  She is conscientious.  She makes a choice to be happy.  When she works for you, you get a day and a half for a day's pay. 

Is she perfect?  Probably not.  It's like what they tell you not to say in a job interview, "my only fault is I work too hard."  Well, Nancy's only fault is she gives too much of herself to everyone.  My life is richly blessed by that friend who walked into my life some 54 years ago.  I am most grateful that in her life of giving I have been the recipient of her love and her laughter.  I look forward to many more years being friends.   

I love this Winnie the Pooh quote, “If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you."  It is a quote about friendship.  It sums up my feelings for Nancy.

So for today, I wish you extravagant friendships, a lifetime of memories, and

blessings

Example?

It is said that we lead by example. I had a conversation yesterday with someone who wants to be sure that her children are good kids.  I meant to say to her, just set a good example.  They will follow.  But then  I remembered going to a wedding, and giving, what I thought, was valuable advice on every aspect of the reception.  Don't pile your plate up with food, use your napkin, one cup of punch is sufficient, no, at age 8 you may not take advantage of the open bar, dirty dancing is not acceptable.  Perfect.  I had covered everything....except the rice.  One would think that if one cup of punch is enough that the conclusion could be drawn that one little bag of rice per person would be the rule.   Not so.  Rice bags were thrown, with great force, in various places and rice was everywhere.  Very little was left to gently toss at the bride and groom.  A pair of 8 year olds had seen to that with their vigorous game of "rice wars."

So, do we really lead by example?  I assure you that Mr. Lincoln and I have never piled our plates high at a wedding reception, although I have been known to gather large numbers of butter mints to "save for later," nor have we dirty danced anywhere, and we are not inclined toward taking advantage of an open bar. We have never waged rice wars against one another, well, at least not in public.  So why did my 8 year old exhibit such conduct? I have no idea.  Sometimes kids just come up with things on their own.

I believe that what we do has a greater impact than what we say.  When my children were growing up, I could wind up some great moralizing speeches.  They could drag on and on ad nauseum.  I am fairly certain that nothing was heard after about the tenth word.  They may not have been listening, but they were watching.  That is very sobering, because some of what they watched, I wish they had not.  Oh, I am a most magnanimous person when talking about masses of people.  I would never slam an entire race of people.  I pat myself on the back for not falling into my church's old (mainly moved beyond) tradition of condemning whole groups of people.  But, oh, I can be hard on those closest to me.  And, there are times that I don't mind pontificating on others' faults.  It is not pretty.  I am not proud.  My children watched that.  I hope when they have children of their own that they act more and talk less.  I know it is what I would do if I had it to do all over again.

I have a friend who says, "if you can't be a good example, be the best bad example that you can be."  There is truth in that.  I have learned a lot about how to conduct some of my relationships by watching others.  George Costanza's theory of "doing the opposite" has helped me in some situations.   I admire my older brother, Mike, a lot.  There are so many things about him worthy of copying.  However, when he was a teenager, I watched and learned.  Doing the opposite of Mike kept me out of a lot of trouble.  I was pretty sure that  his rebellions could not be worth the consequences.  Maybe it was the walk he had to take.  I thank him for the lessons.  I was an excellent vicarious learner.  I sort of still am.

It is fun (and scary at times) to watch my grown children.  I gave Marshall a birthday card that said something like; "we could never be asked to hold the ropes of a large parade balloon because we would both want to know what would happen if we let go."  Everyone in the family understood why that was appropriate.  Marshall and I are the ones who will always, always "push the button."  When Mr. Lincoln and I bought the house we live in now, we had gone over to look through it.  In the master bedroom closet was a button.  He could see the look in my eye, and so he said, "don't push it," but, too late, my brain was in gear (or out of gear as the case may be).  I pushed the button.  Oh, my stars, it was the loudest alarm I have ever heard.  And, it could not be turned off.  We finally had to call the Candy Man to come cut the wires.  Oops.  I once blew the fuses in Mr. Lincoln's car by rolling up all the windows at once.  Who knew?  Speaking of who knew.  At MP's wedding we had sparklers instead of rice (remember the rice incident at a previous wedding) when she and Josh left.  There were a lot sparklers left in a glass vase.  I figured if one sparkler was beautiful, then lots of sparklers would be fabulous.  I was both right and wrong.  It did make quite a scene.  The sparklers did not sparkle.  They became a conflagration, the vase exploded, and people ran in all directions.  Who knew?  Bless Marshall's heart.  Everyone asked him why he did such a stupid thing.  Marshall watched and learned, so now he's a button-pusher,  and a student of cause and effect.  There is always that question, "what would happen if I (fill in the blank)?" 

MP, it seems, has wisely followed examples of her dad.  They do not need to push buttons.  They can think it through and draw conclusions concerning "what would happen if I (fill in the blank)?"  Generally, they are able to figure out what would happen, and so save themselves quite a bit of grief.  If they cannot quite figure out what the outcome of an action might be, then they just decide to forgo the experience.  Although, I do recall an occasion when Mr. Lincoln was on a ladder, prising the house numbers from above the front door, when the hammer slipped, hit him in the head and knocked him off the ladder.  MP would never have followed that example.  I just enjoyed the spectacle.  It was really quite funny.  He was not seriously injured.  MP was a student like her dad.  Poor man.  I introduced him to cutting classes when we were first married, and he was in law school.  Can you imagine  never cutting a class in 4 (no, he did it in 3 1/2) years of college?  Guess that's why they both graduated with 3.9's or something like that. 

I hope I have been a good example in some way for my children.  Maybe I'll have a second chance with any grandchildren I have.  I know Mr. Lincoln set an example of responsiblity, a stellar work ethic, kindness, going the extra mile, and dependability. He taught them how to laugh at life, and how not to take themselves or anyone else too seriously.  He taught them to be straight forward.  I try to tell them that tact is not the same as deceit.  They aren't buying it.   My kids seem to have picked up a lot of that.  I hope I have shown them to explore their creative sides, and how to relax, and to at least sometimes push the button, and pray like crazy that it isn't an ejector seat. 

Do we lead by example?  I think we absolutely do.  We lead with both bad and good examples.  But, sometimes, just sometimes, people come up with their own good (or bad) ideas.  I may have set bad examples at times for my children, but they are adults now, and what they do with them is their responsibility. 

So for today, I wish you safe buttons to push, fabulously unexpected outcomes, and

blessings

Music and Memories

Last week after a particularly unpleasant evening, I repeated to myself, "some things just don't need to be shared on a blog.  Some things just don't need to be shared on a blog."  I refrained from sharing that event and my feelings about it.  Perhaps, part of this blog falls in that category.  I am not sure.  I push forward anyway.

Yesterday, I was driving when the song "When I Get Where I'm Going" came on the radio.  I was almost overcome with grief and sadness.  The song took me to Tulip Street Methodist Church and my brother's memorial service.  His son's father-in-law played the guitar and sang that song during the service.  My thoughts traveled from there to the day my brother died.  It was a beautiful April day.  I had a perfectly wonderful walking tour with Goodpasture.  A father on the tour who was also a police officer got the call.  Of course, he did not connect the report of a suicide in Shelby Park to the person conducting his son's 4th grade field trip.  How could he? 

I keep my phone off during tours.  Ringing phones create terrible disruptions.  When my tour was over, I turned my phone on and noticed several missed calls from my brother, Sam....only one message, "Mellie, call me as soon as you can."  I called him.  There is no way that sort of news can be gently delivered.  Sam just said, "Charlie is dead.  He shot himself in Shelby Park."  My husband was beeping in, and when I answered  he told me to stay where I was, he was coming to get me....such sweet words.  He was coming to get me.

How does one express to a mother how deeply sorry you are for the loss of her firstborn?  How indeed?   At that point it had to be about her, and taking care of her needs.  I remember as the afternoon wore on and details of that horrible event began to unfold, I just sat on the curb in the parking lot of my mother's condo, and Marshall came and sat beside me, putting his arm around me.  He did not say a word.  He was just there.  Countless others came by to express their love for us.  They held us up through that long and agonizing weekend and the days that followed.  Without them, and our knowledge that as we grieved the Lord God Almighty wept with us, we might not have made it.  One song...on the radio...and the memories pour in.

Recently, I heard Rascal Flatts's song, "I'm Movin' On."  That song never fails to bring tears to my eyes.  I do not know who wrote it.  I assume it was someone who had experience with addiction and the long road  to recovery.  I am well acquainted with people who have struggled through addiction, and the truths revealed in that song help me understand somewhat their struggle.  I would never presume that I could ever understand it fully; not without having experienced it myself.  I love the lines, "I'm content with a past I regret" and "at peace with myself."   Those in recovery are not the only ones who benefit by reaching a place of contentment with a past that cannot be changed, and becoming at peace with oneself.  I imagine how true the line about friends meaning no harm but never allowing the person to change.  It is scary to watch others change and overcome that which we ourselves battle.  A song...a haunting melody, poignant words...and the memories pour in.

Lest you think I am in a dark and morbid place, I have many joyful memories sparked by music.  When I hear the Mills Brothers (granted, it does not happen often) singing "Across the Alley From the Alamo" I think of Mr. Lincoln teaching it to Marshall when he was just a wee boy.  This is the whole reason Mr. Lincoln and I do not have "a song."  I would pick something very Motown, and he would pick something very Big Band.  I am fairly certain the man lived an earlier life, died on D-Day at Omaha Beach, and was reincarnated just in time to marry me....fairly certain. 

Marshall loved the song "Elvira," and he would play air guitar, singing to the tops of his lungs at age 2 or so.  Once when "El Shaddai" was on the radio, he was in the back seat joyfully and loudly singing, "Elsa died on a dark and stormy night."  I love that memory.  Another vivid memory of music and Marshall was driving home from Topsail Island, NC (don't go there ~ vacation from Purgatory).  It was an interminable drive.  Marshall's friend, Brian Ray, was in the car with us.  Mr. Lincoln had MP and her friend, Kristen, in another car.  I was fighting sleep as I drove.  We rolled the windows down, cranked up Charlie Daniels'  "Devil Went Down to Georgia" as loudly as possible, hung our heads out the windows belting out that song as we drove through Knoxville.  We got some stares, but it helped get us home.   I remember another time with that song, playing air fiddle, in a boat.  A story for another day, perhaps.

Whenever I hear the Dixie Chicks sing "Cowboy Take Me Away," I am transported to Athens, GA, on a beautiful weekend during MP's Freshman year at UGA.  I had gotten us a room at a darling bed and breakfast just to get her out of that dorm, and away from her roommate, the witch.  No, I am not calling her an ugly name.  She was a self-proclaimed witch named Sugar.  We had such a beautiful weekend together, and apparently that particular song was very popular at the time because every time I hear it I am back in Georgia with MP.  When I hear Sarah McLachlan sing "I Will Remember You,"  I find myself in the DLHS gym at homecoming.  MP was in the court and she had to introduce her friend who had been chosen as Miss Lipscomb.  It was a touching and emotional speech because both MP and Laura had lost a grandfather that fall.  A song...and the memories pour in.

There are other songs and memories, of course.  "House of the Rising Sun," "Louie, Louie" (what is that song about?), both take me to sock hops at Stratford High School.  "Born to be Wild" takes me to cheerleading camp.  I don't know why, because, heaven knows, I was not born to be wild, unless going to bed at 9:00 is wild.  "Oh, Sacred Head,"  sad to say, is the song I would sing when rocking my babies to sleep.  Seriously, I could not have chosen something a little more upbeat than "oh, sacred head now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down?"  It's a wonder Marshall and MP grew up with any sense at all with that as their lullaby.  "Peace, Perfect, Peace" played very slowly on the piano...because I could not play it any faster.  It served as great motivation for the family to get ready and get out of the house in a timely fashion.  One can only listen to so much of that.  Perhaps, that is why my kids are so punctual.  Memories of trying to get away from Mom's Liberace impersonations.

What a beautiful gift music is.  All the memories a song can spark.  So for today, I wish you a serendipitous revisiting of music you love, and I wish you

blessings

The Best of Both Worlds

I live in a city.  It has grown tremendously in the almost 60 years that I have lived here.  We have a world class symphony in an exquisitely beautiful symphony hall.  We have a ballet troup and an opera.  We have many theater companies.  We have festivals of every kind, celebrating multiple nationalities.  We have craft and art fairs that exhibit beautiful wares.  We have art galleries...many art galleries.  We have art museums, one of which has a portion of  Georgia O'Keefe's collection.  We have public parks enjoyed daily by our citizens.  We have a lovely botanical garden. We have churches...oh, do we have churches....of every kind. We have universities with world reknown scholars.  We have hospitals staffed with brilliant doctors who care for patients and who do important research in every field of medicine.  We have NFL football and NHL hockey teams.  We have a AAA major league baseball team.   We have National Historic Landmarks, eleven, I think.  We have a lot of people who live here.  We have traffic!!!  We have crime.  We have gangs.  We have extremely wealthy people.  We have very poor people.  We have the top-selling urban newspaper in North America.   We have  Nordstrom's.  We are known worldwide for our brand of music and musicians and guitars.  We are known nationwide for the way we responded in 2010 when a flood devastated many parts of us.  We are a city.  We are Nashville.      

I live in a small town.  It has a place called the Purple Cow.  It is owned and run by Dan and Debra.  I pay more for my gas there because I want to give my business to Dan.  Dan knows my children.  He asks me about them.  He knows Mr. Lincoln, often inquiring about what crazy exercise routine in which he is engaging. The Purple Cow is my source for The Nashville Arts Magazine.  I buy my Sunday newspaper there.  Dan keeps Sugar Daddies in his store for me.   He is the perfect stop after a walk through Radnor for the daily Diet Coke and granola bar.  He asks me, "how are your babies in Minnesota?"  He remembers Jenny and Julie.  He knows that I love and miss them.  Once when Jenny was with MP at the Purple Cow, MP called Dan by name.  Jenny said, "he has a name?  I didn't know he had a name."  Debra is beautiful.  She loves animals.  She is soft-spoken and kind and prayerful.  I do not know anything about Dan's "religion," but I do know his ethics.  I know that he is kind and considerate and honest and interested in others.  Just last week I heard him tell an elderly man in the store to "give my girl a kiss."  I am fairly certain he was talking about the gentleman's ailing wife.  The Purple Cow, Dan and Debra are an important part of my small town in this city. 

I do not buy a lot of jewelry, but when I do, I go to Draper's Jewelry.  When my son was designing and buying an engagement ring for his wife, he went to Draper's.  Craig, one of the owners, worked closely with him to be certain he got exactly what he wanted.  I went to college with Mary Pat.  Her family has owned Draper's...well, forever, I guess.  When I walk into the door (remember, I do not go there often) she calls me by name.  She asks how Mr. Lincoln is doing.  The baseball field for the university across the street from the store is named Draper's Diamond.  They donated money for it.  Draper's has been giving discounts for students at that school...well, forever, I guess.  It is a small store with old-fashioned fixtures and uneven floors.  It is family-owned and family-run.  I know that family's religious background.  It is very similar to my own.  But, more importantly, I know their ethics and their honesty and their commitment to service; service of all kinds.  Draper's and Mary Pat are an important part of my small town in this city. 

I have shopped at the same Kroger for years.  I see the same people when I shop.  It is comforting to have conversations with the cashiers as they check my groceries.  Always, the gentleman who stocks the refrigerators speaks and asks how I'm doing and tells me he is glad to see me.  Sometimes we chat about the upcoming holidays or how the store is changing.  I should know his name.  I should know more about him.   I don't, but he is part of my small town.

James and Vickie, the Contributor vendors at McDonald's are part of my small town.  The man who runs Chile Burrito is part of my small town.  The McDuffees.  People I see daily or weekly or only occasionally who go about their business, learning their customer's names and stories...people who care about their work, and who do it honestly and diligently and joyfully are part of my small town in this city. 

I am so grateful for all the wonderful opportunites that my city offers, but I am even more grateful for those who show me small town life in this city.  It is truly the best of both worlds.

So, for today, I wish you big city excitement with small town comfort, and I wish you
blessings

Marshall

Thirty-three years ago this week, Marshall was born.  It was my third pregnancy.  It was my first to yield a baby.  Saying I was excited just does not describe the feeling.  It took him a while to get here, but oh, he was so worth the wait.

He came here with his days and nights mixed up.  That makes for a tired mom, but, oh he was so worth the fatigue.  He is the one, being my first child, who taught me what it means to be selfless.  He is who taught me that no longer did my or Mr. Lincoln's needs come first.  There were times when he was older that we failed him in that regard.  Because of selfishness, we did not see signs of pain and cries for help.  But, as is his nature, he has forgiven us those failures.  When I look back on his baby days, it is with sweet joy.

He had a way of getting into things.  When he was about 20 months old or so, I put him down for a nap.  I was pregnant with his sister, and I was tired, so I laid down to nap as well.  After a few minutes of "resting" I saw Marshall out of the corner of my eye.  I did not have my glasses on , but I could see well enough to tell that something was awry.  Yep, he had painted himself with black shoe polish.  I figured that no way had he kept the polish confined to himself.  I was right.  The walls in his bedroom, his sheets, a little trampoline like toy were all covered.  It was not-so-lovely abstract art. 

He could swim to the bottom of the deep end of a pool and grab rings...when he was about a year old.  Once at swim lessons, he walked to the end of the board and decided he did not want to go off.  His teacher let him walk off the board.  I knew in my heart that was not good, so I went to him, walked with him on the board, dropped him off the end into the arms of his teacher.  I told her that he did not ever have to go off the board again, but he could not walk to the end and then back off.  I did not want him to feel he had failed.  He has thanked me for that on several occasions.  I paid for that many times over, however, because until he could really swim, he often jumped in the pool, stood on the bottom, eyes wide open, counting on someone to come rescue him.  One of my sweetest memories of him as a baby is him sleeping on a raft floating in the pool..for hours.  Most of my other friends' children could not sleep at the pool.  Marshall did not sleep all that well in bed, but he slept great in the pool. 

As he grew, he became quite fearless.  I do not know what unsuspecting child may have been teased by the snakes he is holding, but I am fairly certain someone was.  I think he had 12 pairs of glasses in the first year of wearing glasses.  Thank goodness for warranties.  After that, every time he would break his glasses, we just cut the lenses down to fit new frames.  He started out with Harry Carey style glasses and ended up with John Lennon style. 

He could ride a bike with no hands.  I distinctly remember his riding down our backyard standing on the seat. 

In second grade he had a wonderful teacher that he and I both just loved, but sometimes, she would mispronounce words.  Once she was giving out spelling words and pronounced the word "debt" as "debit."  Marshall tried to help her understand the proper pronunciation of the word.  I was called into school, and told that she did not appreciate a second grader correcting her in class.  What's a mother to do?  I told her that I would talk to him, but that he was right. 

Marshall is color blind.  I believe the most upset Mr. Lincoln ever was with a teacher is when Marshall got an F on a coloring page in 3rd grade.  It was a picture of Jubilee Hall.  He colored everything in the picture either orange or red...the people, the building, the trees, the grass.  Did he know that is what he had done?  I do not know.  It is the sort of subtle rebellion of which he was capable, like the time he rearranged the books in the library at school because he was displeased with the librarian's way. 

I look at this picture and my heart just overflows with love for this man.  There are so many things about him that I respect.  He is highly intelligent, and I know he (and MP) must grow weary with the inane questions with which Mr. Lincoln and I can bombard him.  He is creative.  He is meticulous in his work.  When, in elementary school his goal was always to be the first finished no matter how poorly the work might have been, I would never have dreamed what a perfectionist he would become.  He is strong...as an ox...as stubborn as one at times too.  Once when he and I went riding on his four-wheeler (SO MUCH FUN), we got on a hill in an awkward position.  He gently helped me off, and then just man-handled that thing until we could ride on.   

He is a creative thinker.  If something does not work the first time, he jumps in to find another way to solve that particular problem.   He can fix a car or turn a delicate wooden bowl on a lathe.  He has a wonderful sense of humor.  That is part of the thing that got him into trouble at school.  He sees the ironies in life.  When we took glass blowing classes, part of what we did was lampwork.  He has the finesse for the delicate lampwork as well as the brawn needed for the more taxing glass blowing.  He is so generous.  He is forgiving.  He is a deep thinker, and yet, giggles at some sophomoric humor.  He introduced us to Arrested Development, 30 Rock, and The Office.  I always want him to be on my team for Trivial Pursuit, for while he might poke fun at my answers, I can almost always count on him to know the right answer.  I do not see him as much as I would like.  Life gets busy and hectic.  He can, also like his mother, be somewhat anti-social at times and just needs to have no obligations for a while.  He is kind.  Last year in Sanibel when I could not ride bikes or go on the boat because of my back surgery, he actually rode around the island with MP, Sheri, and me on a foot-pedaled surrey with fringe on top.  He did that for me.  It was great fun, and I laughed and loved every moment of it.  He has a deeply spiritual side, and I think at all times a part of his mind is on some other plane. 

Is Marshall perfect?  Like the rest of us, he is not.  But, I would not trade him.  He has brought me great joy, great growth, much laughter, much time in self-analysis, some heartache, lots of excitement, and many, many happy times.  I love him.  He is my son.  When he was born, for the first time, I had some inkling of the Father's love for me. 

So, for today, I wish you much love in birthday remembrances and

blessings 







Mom



Friday, my mom turns 87.  Hard to believe...for her, for me, and for anyone else who knows her.  A few weeks ago, she told me that she probably had to admit that she was knocking on the door of being old.  That may be true chronologically, but in spirit she is no where near old.  She is a lot younger than some 30 year olds I know. 

Her life has been interesting and varied.  It has been filled with joy, but she has dealt with some hard blows as well; normal hurts like losing my father, and tragic loss like my brother's death.  She deals with hurt in her own way, and does not burden others.  In fact, one of the characteristics I most admire about her, is her determination to find someone she can help when she feels she cannot help herself.  Bringing joy to others brings healing to her.  She once had a friend who told her that the only really fun time she had was when she was with my mom.  Maybe fun is the best word to describe her.

Mom has a lot of stories.  Most of them are really funny.  At a friend's mother's funeral, the friend came to Mom and said, "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but your funeral is one I do not want to miss.  My mom was a beautiful, lovely lady (yes, she was.  I loved her!), but the stories, ah the stories they will tell at your funeral.  I want to hear them all."   Well, I am grateful to be telling a few of them for her 87th and not her memorial.

One of the things my mom is sort of known for is her driving.  I remember when she got her license. It was a really big day.  Truthfully, I am not sure how she passed the test.  Of course, acquiring a driver's license is not an overly stringent process here in Tennessee.  One day, we were driving to the swimming pool.  We came upon some men working on the road. There was some big machinery on the shoulder.  The one directing traffic waved Mom through.  She got so close to him, that he had to climb up on top of our car to keep from being crushed.  She looked and his feet were dangling  at her window.  She just pointed and sort of laughed and kept on going. 

She has to be the only person I know who has been stopped by Brentwood police 4 or 5 times for speeding and never received a ticket.  She either sweet talks her way out of it, or she just totally discombobulates the officer until he is no longer sure why he stopped her.  She totally confused a policeman several years ago as she was returning home from her job at the Ryman Auditorium.  She was speeding through Shelby Park when she saw blue lights.  The officer asked to see her driver's license at which time she discovered that she did not have her purse.  She panicked, searching all around to see if it had dropped on the floor or rolled up under her seat.  The officer waited through her frantic hunt.  She convinced him to use his police phone to call the Ryman and she if the purse could be located.  After much confusion and discussion, the purse was found.  The officer told Mom to go on along at which time she asked him, "weren't you going to give me a ticket?" I think he admitted that he had considered it, but it just was not worth the effort.

My dad collected cars.  Not in the spirit of Dirk Pitt in Clive Cussler novels, but rather more in the spirit of Fred Sanford.  We had Hudsons...2 just alike.  Mom was NOT pleased with the second one.  We had a Studebaker.  My brother had a Volkswagen Bug.  He wrecked it in Oklahoma.  My dad drove his car to Oklahoma, gave it to my brother and drove the 99.9% totaled Bug home with the driver's side door missing and the top having been hammered out where it was touching the back of the seat after the wreck.  We had a Buick that had air shocks that malfunctioned in such a way that over night the car sank down over the tires where they could no longer be seen.  Often, several of the cars would not run.  Mom would take the keys out and pray that the vehicle in the back of the line of cars would be the one to start.  If the one in the front was the only one that would, she had to drive across our back yard, down the hill to the neighbor's driveway to get out.  Not terribly convenient.  When Daddy came home with the puke green Gremlin, she sweetly smiled, and told him she hoped he enjoyed driving it because she would not.  I believe that car was returned.  I had a friend who once said she loved riding in our cars because you never knew what would fall off.  I'm not sure Mom was amused, but, nevertheless, she always offered to drive anywhere any of us needed to go.

We lived in a small house with one bathroom. She raised 5 children in that house, however, never did more than 3 kids live in the house at the same time.  She had her first child when she was 19 and her last when she was 42.  My older brothers were married when my sister was born.  She loved (loves) to decorate for holidays.  I remember as a child the wonderful Halloween decorations we had.  The house was always cheerful and cozy.  We all always wanted to just come home.  She used to make huge wreaths for the front door at Christmas complete with a big spotlight showcasing it.  She had florist wire and tape and staples and everything imaginable to put those wreaths together.  She always wears red at Christmas.  One of the family traditions is to go to her house Thanksgiving weekend to decorate her tree.  We still joyfully do it, and reminisce over the various ornaments.  Sadly, last year, I broke the last of the really old ones.  She was very gracious, even though I know she was sad about it. 

Our house may have been small, but there was always room for more, especially at Thanksgiving.  She would set tables up all over the house so that neighbors or elderly family members and friends would have a place to share dinner with us.  I do not think that she has ever in her life entertained without having fresh flowers on the table.  She loves to cook.  She is the best kind of cook.  Do not ask her for a recipe.   It is not that she doesn't want to share, it's that she just does not use recipes.  "Oh, a little of this and a little of that for taste," she'll say.  Or, "stir it until it is the right thickness."  Not helpful!  She always cooks what we want for our birthdays.  It is tradition; one I continue with my own children.  She makes birthdays special. 

There are so many more stories.  So many more things to be said, but this blog is getting very long.  Let me just say that Mom is a gracious, hospitable, forward-thinking, Southern-drawling, compassionate, kind, and entertaining woman.  She is impulsive, which sometimes gets her in trouble...like having more lamps than she needs.  The woman loves lamps.  She loves her children.  She loves her grandchildren.  She loves her great grandchildren.  She loves her friends.  She loves the beach.  She loves chocolate.  She WILL hide chocolate from the rest of us and hoard it for herself.  Otherwise, she is very generous.  She has a style that this daughter did not inherit.  She is tough.  She lives with pain, but it is the rare occasion that she mentions it.  She keeps the things that really matter to her close.  She can be trusted.  She is a loyal friend to many.  She has friends all ages.  She thinks with her heart and not her brain most of the time.  She's never met a stranger.  She likes most everyone she meets.  If I want to know about a new restaurant or a recently released movie, I ask her.  She's eaten there and she's seen it.  She loves to go more than anyone I know. She is always "going to get o'ganized, go on a diet, and work on her memoires."  Her greatest joy is spending time with her family.  I love her.  I hope she has many more birthdays.

So, for today, I wish you joyful times and sweet memories of the mothers in your life, and I wish you

blessings

Influence, a Story of Two Men

I know two men.  They have many similarities.  They love their families.  They have hearts for the downtrodden.  They do not just talk about their hurt for those in the margins.  They both work on behalf of those who know not how to make it on their own.  They both encourage others to share in service opportunities.  They are both very busy men.  They have very different realms of influence.

One of these men is angry.  His anger is righteous.  His anger is on behalf of others.  I do not question the sincerity nor the origins of his anger.  I am sure his anger is justified.  But, for me, his anger creates a darkness around him.  When his name comes up, or he posts on FB, I feel uncomfortable, and not in that good uncomfortable this-is-getting-me-out-of-my-comfort-zone feeling.  I am repelled.  I cannot hear his message because it is so vitriolic.  I never feel that those who respond to his requests for help ever quite satisfy his expectations.  He is often heard railing against the very people and organizations to whom he comes when needs arise.  He has a heart for the disenfranchised.  He seems to despise those who are advantaged, but still have struggles of every kind.  It seems as though he feels that he will never be able to do enough, a destructive form of arrogance.  He is a good man.  He is an angry man.  His influence reaps minimal results because of his anger. 

The other man is joyful.  Even in the midst of his inability to do everything he wants to do for everybody who needs help, he exudes contentment.  Not contentment with the ills of the world, but rather an understanding that he has work to do, and he will do it to the best of his ability, and ultimately God is in charge, a beautiful display of humility.  He has a heart as big as all outdoors, but he uses his head too.  When I want to serve, but because I sometimes think with my heart and not my head, it is to him I go.  He tells me why my heart-thinking makes me feel better, but the consequences are not for the good of those I wish to serve.  When he asks for help, he is grateful for anything anybody does.  He understands that we all have gifts, and that mine do not have to look like his.  He is quick to laugh.  He has a great sense of humor.   There is a light about him.  He enjoys life.  He enjoys his service to others.  His influence garners a great harvest because of his joy.

So for today, I wish you joy in service, an overflowing yield from your influence, and
blessings

Lessons of the Weekend

Some lessons I learned (or was reminded of) this weekend...in no particular order:

that the rare autumn Saturday that Mr. Lincoln is home and not otherwise occupied blesses me.

that I would rather have a Burger King burger in the car with Mr. Lincoln than a 6 course meal in a fancy restaurant with anybody else.  My wish was granted Friday night.

that humans do not change much, and twenty-somethings still smoke, drink too much, and curse loudly in an effort to be noticed.  We hope that they look back on that time, not with guilt or shame, but with a healthy dose of embarrassment so as not to carry the behavior into their 30's, 40's and beyond. 

that the number 3 is not as lucky as I once thought.

that just because a hotel movie has big names in it and is touted as "still in theaters" does not mean it is worth the $15.99 plus tax it costs. 

that sportscasters surely do not listen to what they say.  For example, and I quote, "they played error-free football except for their mistakes."  Couldn't that be said about every team?

that white parasols with little ruffles are much more stylish than a black Totes umbrella, but they both keep the sun off one's face.

that some women leave public restrooms without washing their hands.  Sorry, ladies, but that is just gross!!

that middle-aged men wearing wedding bands who crane their necks to stare at girls young enough to be their daughters are dolts.  As if....

that apparently cleavage is an acceptable accessory to most any attire, and that some women accessorize more boldly than others.

that I have a long way to go before I feel kindly toward wealthy, entitled people who lose their tempers and jeopardize the safety of those around in an effort to keep themselves from being inconvenienced.  Sheesh!!

that it seems the most popular adjective for a lot of people in today's world is a four letter word that begins with "f."  Come on people, buy yourselves a Thesaurus and broaden your vocabulary.  Everyone in hearing range will thank you.

that you just can't beat Cracker Barrel for a good breakfast.

that young girls can stand in 4 inch heels longer than I can stand in my Chuck Taylors.  I bet my feet hurt less at the end of the day.

that someone blowing cigar smoke in my face causes me to have day dreams of upchucking on his shoes.

that a tall man can move through a crowd much faster than a short woman, and I am grateful that he held onto my hand and got me out of there.

So, for today, I wish you valuable lessons, time with someone you love, and

blessings

The End of an Era

For thirty years or more, I have had my hair cut, colored, and, on occasion, permed by Chi Chi.  Yes, that is her name.  No, it is not a nickname.  When asked what her middle name is she will tell you Chi.  Her first name is Chi.  Her middle name is Chi.  She goes by both.  When asked why, she just smiles, shrugs her shoulders and says, "I don't know."  It fits her perfectly.  She is as unique as her name. 

Certainly, I have never been a once-a-week client of hers.  Truth be told, I try to go as seldom as possible.  Periodically, she tells me that I do not make my hair a priority.  Now, if during a deep and theological discussion (I have so many of those ~ really, I'm kidding) my minister said I wasn't committed to my hair, I might feel quite puffed up with righteousness.  When it is the very person who cuts and colors my hair who says it, I could feel deflated with dowdiness.  But, Chi Chi says it with no judgment.  She just works to give me a haircut where I do not have to put my hair on my priority list.  I greatly appreciate that.

Over thirty years, between us we have buried parents and siblings.  We have had weddings.  She is the only reason that I looked remotely put together on both my son's and daughter's weddings.  My daughter was married on a Thursday.  Chi Chi fixed my hair. She would have been at the shop anyway.  My son married on a Saturday.  Chi Chi met me very early that morning to fix my hair.  She genuinely cared that I looked nice for those weddings.  She even convinced me to use hairspray those two days.  When I look at the pictures and see how nice my hair looks in them, I think a little thank you to Chi Chi.

I have had a lot of hairstyles over the past thirty years.  Once, I had my friend, Marlene give me a perm.  I was trying to save money, and my hair was stringy and messy and I thought a perm would really perk me up.  Marlene is an educator.  She is not a hair stylist.  She is not a barber.  As far as I know, she has never even watched a video on how to give a good perm.  How hard could it be?  What were we thinking?   She got out the assorted colored perm rods and began to roll my hair.  We debated as to whether it mattered if the same size rods were aound the front or not.  We decided, erroneously, I might add, that it did not matter.  We discussed if hair sticking out not wrapped around the rod would make a difference.  We decided, erroneously, I might add, that it would be no problem.  Marlene confidently put the solution on my poorly rolled hair.  We set the timer.  We visited and talked about our children as time ticked away.  When the timer went off, the neutralizer was put on; more time to wait; the rods were removed.  Can you say, Harpo Marx??  After a frantic phone call to Chi Chi, and many dollars later, improvement was accomplished.  Lesson learned....or was it?

I used to frost my hair myself.  Mr. Lincoln would pull the strands through the cap with a plastic hook.  Wowser, did that ever hurt.  Mr. Lincoln is a lawyer.  He is not a hair stylist.  He is not a barber.  But, I must say that he did a fairly decent job frosting my hair.  Chi Chi was never insulted that I let him do it.  She knew I was trying to save money.  If I had only stuck with Mr. Lincoln.  There was the day that I was feeling in a bit of a funk.  One should never make important hair decisions when in a funk.  I decided that I could not wait for Mr. Lincoln.  I decided to just use the hair color on my hair without pulling it through a cap.  I am not generally that impulsive, but there was that funk aspect to my day.  I proceed to put color on certain strands of hair, pile them on top of my head, set the timer, panic that perhaps this was not my best plan, wash the color out, and as I sat rocking in a chair in front of a mirror weeping, MP came in  (she was very little) and said, "Don't cwy, Mommy.  You wook just wike Cindy Wauper."  Can you hear wailing?  Well, you guessed it, after a frantic call to Chi Chi and many dollars later, my hair was a lovely array of perfectly streaked golden strands.  Okay, lesson learned!!!

Over the years I have taken her pictures of Meg Ryan, Faith Hill, Jennifer Anniston, Charlize Theron, and more recently, Diane Keaton for possible hair styles.  I applaud her restraint in not saying, "I can cut your hair like this, but you realize, you still are not going to look like Charlize Theron, right?"  I wonder if hair stylists just hate it when clients bring in pictures of what they want to look like.  They know the client hasn't a prayer of pulling off that look.  On occasion, Chi Chi has said to me, "you know if you have this cut, you can't just blow it dry and go."  She was so proud of me when I started using a little mousse on my hair that you would have thought I had discovered the cure for cancer. 

Over thirty years, Chi Chi and I have discussed lots of things. She knows what supplements to take to make your skin better or your hair shinier.  She knows all about every kind of plastic surgery, botox, and laser procedures.  She loves her daughters.  She loves her grandchildren.  She has more friends than you can imagine.  She loves God and conducts her business in a fair and ethical way.  She knows the details of her clients' lives.  She cares about them.  She loves chocolate.  She cannot hide when she is down, and yet, even in the midst of her pain, she cares about her clients' hair.  She struggles with her computer.  She loves to scrapbook.  She has worked long hours, long days, and long weeks "doing" hair since she was in high school.  After 50 years of working, she is retiring.  She is getting married to a man who I hope treats her wonderfully.  He sounds like a really sweet man.  She deserves the time and the rest.  She deserves to be able to go see her children and grandchildren.  She deserves to travel.  Her future husband loves to travel.  She deserves to have time for her scrapbooking.  I hope she finds great joy in this stage of her life.  I will miss her. 

When I was there this week, she asked me how much I wanted cut off my hair.  I said, "about 2 months' worth."  Now, where am I going to find someone who knows what that means?  I also told her to make it a good cut because it had to last until I die.  She laughed.  I hope she knows that I greatly appreciate her.  I hope she knows that, not only will I miss her hair expertise, I will miss her.  I will miss her shining eyes.  I will miss her great laugh.  I will miss her quiet voice.  I will miss her genuine concern for my appearance.  I will miss my good hair days.  I will be grateful for the thirty plus year walk with her.

So for today, I wish you a great hair day, memorable people in your life, and

blessings

Seven Memories...Plus 3

Next week, my sweet friend, Jenny turns seven . Although, I have many more, I will share seven memories....in no particular order.

The beginning of tradition.  This is the first Easter that the Davis family spent with us.  I am so grateful that I served the Whitelaw-Buchi ham.  Jenny's dad loves food.  He really liked the ham.  Thus, a tradition was born  When the family moved to Minnesota, Rick promised that they would return every Easter to Nashville, and have lunch with us. Maybe for the company; definitely for the ham.  I will cook him ham (Mr. Lincoln actually grills it) anytime!  Jenny is four in this picture.  She touched my heart in her Sunday dress and precious pink coat as she joyfully hunted for eggs.  She did, and does, most things with exuberance. 

For her fourth birthday, I gave Jenny tickets to a production of Go Dog Go.  MP and Jenny's mom went as well because she was not totally comfortable with just me yet.  We went to Panera for lunch.  She had her favorite ~ the soft part of a baquette dipped in broccoli soup...and chips.  She really loved the play.  If I live to be 101, I will never forget her sitting on the edge of her seat (she had to ~ she did not weigh enough to hold it down), arms in the air, snapping her fingers, dancing to the music.  Again, just sheer exuberance in experiencing life.

This is Jenny at her Cinqo de Mayo program at pre-school.  Actually, it was on the 8th of May.  I called it Cinqo de Ocho, but her mom thought that Ocho de Mayo made more sense.  I think she was right.  Jenny is doing the chicken dance in this picture.  That girl loves the Chicken Dance.  So much so, that MP and Josh had it at their wedding just for Jenny.  She kept asking Mr. Kenny, a.k.a. Mr. Lincoln, when the band was going to play it.  It was the most participated in dance of the evening. 

Here we have Jenny at "our cabin,"  This is the first time we went there together.  It is Dunham's Cabin at Belle Meade Plantation.  She thought the chamber pots were very funny.  She threw leaves in the air and hung upside down on a hitching post.  We threw rocks in Richland Creek.  We talked a little about 18th and 19th century life.  We tried to identify the plants in the kitchen garden.  We had a VERY expensive snack at the restaurant there.  I never drive by Belle Meade without thinking of "our cabin."

I drove Jenny to school as many mornings as possible after her sister was born.  It started out as a gesture to help her mom because the baby did not sleep well.  It became the highlight of my day.  I would often call Mr. Lincoln to share a "Jenny story" after I dropped her off.  It was about a 25 minute drive, so we had wonderful times together, singing and discussing the thorny matters of a pre-schooler's life.  In October, her school had Friends and Family Day.  I was invited.  Jenny has the most wonderful sense of the absurd, and I am always wondering if she just does things like wear these glasses for the adults around her.  Whatever the reason, she is a totally delightful goof.

This past November, I had back surgery in Minnesota.  Jenny's dad was my surgeon.  I stayed at their house the first few days after leaving the hospital.  Even though I did not feel my best, to say the least, I will always remember it as a sweet time.  The warmth and love of the family and their home will be a memory I hold close.  It was really cold!!  Here, Jenny is headed out to catch the bus for school.  She loves school.  She is a brilliant student.  At almost age 7, she has been reading chapter books for over a year.  She has a Kindle, and one of her favorite things to do is go up to her room and read.  She has an incredible vocabulary, although she told me not long ago that she did not know all the words there are, but she figured I would probably know all the words in the book that she was reading at the moment.  She loves Judy Moody.  I love her.

The last time I saw Jenny was in June.  I cannot believe it has been that long.  MP and I spent a really fun week with the Davis girls.  We went to the zoo and the mall and Jenny's soccer game and just hung out and ate and laughed and played.  I just soaked up the joy of being with them.  Jenny and I took a pretty long walk ~ about 3 miles one day.  We talked about all sorts of things.   I was grateful to have time with her by myself.  She is bouncy and happy and observant and inquisitive. I have left out memories of Dragon Park, Cheekwood, ArtQuest, strolls through Radnor, meals at Cracker Barrel, birthday celebrations ~ both hers and mine ~ sleepovers, craft days, shopping expeditions, and countless other times spent together.   I praise God for the day that MP answered the "nanny needed" ad in OC classifieds.  Little did we know how enriched our lives would be by such a little bit and her precious family.  I look forward to making many more memories in the future.

Plus 3

Julie, Jenny's sister turned three in August.  I was not blogging then, or at least did not think of blogging about her at that time.  So, I add three memories of Baby JuJu.

My introduction to Baby JuJu was when she was a few days old.  I was in Florida when she was born.  As soon as it was convenient for the family, I went over to meet her.  She liked to cry.  She did not sleep.  Sometimes she still has a problem with that.  When we were there in November, she would cry out "night night Mama" 20 or 30 times before she went to sleep.  Everytime her mom would in a sweet and patient tone respond with, "night night, Julie."  If there was a silver lining to her poor sleep patterns, it was granting me the privilege of driving Jenny to school.  Thank you, Julie. 

Julie at Jenny's Ocho de Mayo program.  It was hard to decide who to watch.  So, I watched Jenny when she was on stage, and Julie when other children were performing.  She looks like a little pudge here, but she is just a tiny, little mite compared to other children her age....a perfect, tiny, little mite.  I thought that there was no way I could love Jenny's new sister like I loved Jenny, but, alas, our love does not divide, it multiplies.  I love this little girl to pieces.

In June, Julie and I took a walk ourselves.  She chattered and ran and skipped and held my hand and refused to hold my hand and stopped to study flowers on the side of the path and pitched a tiny little fit when I said it was time to turn around.  I did not want her going more than half the distance she could make since we had to turn around.  She loves to go in the car.  She loves to eat.  She loves sweets.  She will climb on the counter to get to her mom's Diet Coke.  As can be seen in the picture, she has her own unique fashion sense, and is given the freedom to express it.  She runs and runs until she just drops where she is.  One of my sweetest memories is her taking about a 2 hour nap on my chest.  There is nothing more precious or peaceful.

So...memories.  Memories that few of you reading this care about.  Memories that I hold close until I get the chance to make more.  If I have learned anything, I have learned that the stuff of our lives is nothing, and the people are everything.

So for today I wish you sweet memories of blessed time with those you love, the time for more memory-making, and

blessings