A Tale of Two Thursdays

Last Thursday, I was in Florida.  If you're reading this, you probably already knew this because I posted about it on FB ad nauseam.  Sorry about that.  Anyway, last Thursday dawned with extremely cold temperatures.  When I went to bed on Wednesday night, I knew it was going to be cold, so I contemplated not getting up to walk the beach.  I had "promised" to post a "Twenty Sunrises Over Sanibel" album, and if I did not get up, I would only have nineteen.  Don't get me wrong, I was pretty sure that no one was waiting with bated breath, but it was a sort of promise I made to myself.  So, I left the condo late, planning on just snapping a picture then scurrying back to the warmth.  Sunrise on the beach is like a siren's song to me, so I began to walk through first light as I anticipated the sunrise.  I am so glad I did not miss it.  It was beautiful.

As I continued to walk, I became extremely cold, so I took a shortcut to head back to our condo via the bike path.  I ran into Max and his parents, who were standing on a dock by the Sanibel River (I think).  The Switzer Juniors wanted to go to a little bakery on the island to get a coconut doughnut, which they all love.  I offered to drive, but not being a fan of coconut, I did not participate.  As we were driving to the bakery, I heard from the Hendersons, who were interested in having breakfast.  We picked them up, went to a favorite restaurant for breakfast, drove back to the bakery so Simmy could have a doughnut and where Max got a second one, this time chocolate with sprinkles.  Don't judge, we were on vacation, and I'm Mellie.

Mr. L was running, who knows how many miles, but had finished by the time we returned to the condo.  I had mentioned while we were out that I wanted to go to Ding Darling, a nature preserve, to see what I could see.  Mr. L is not a fan, but everyone else was onboard.  We saw wonderful sights there, mainly birds, but not the typical birds one sees in Nashville.  It was great fun.

  As we drove back, Uptown Funk was played loudly and several times.  I feel fairly certain we were violating multiple island noise ordinances, but it surely was fun.  There's nothing quite like 2 five-year-olds dancing in the backseat screaming "just watch" at the appropriate times, and a two-year-old screaming "uptown funk."  None of us will hear that song without thinking of this trip.

Everyone sort of did their own thing for the next couple of hours, either at the beach or pool.  It was too cold to get in the pool, but Marshall and Max went anyway.  Most of you know that I am a 9 on the enneagram so I stepped out with great courage and suggested a late lunch at Gramma Dot's at the Marina.  The whole group was very kind and agreed to go, even Mr. L, who had his doubts.  Some came in the car, I walked, some rode bikes.  We all arrived about the same time and looked at million dollar boats as we waited for our table.  The waitress said we were the only people who opted to wait that day for an outside table.  It was sunny and cool and the food was delicious and it was just the loveliest time.

It was a Thursday that did not hold a lot of promise as far as weather in Florida is concerned, but it is one of the times I remember most fondly of our trip.

Today, I am in Nashville.  I got up early because I was driving Marshall to an appointment.  After dropping him off, I ran one Balega sock (love these socks) to my sister's house.  She left it in Florida.  Everyone in the family was gone except for my niece, and I had a short, but lovely chat with her. I ran some errands and picked Marshall up.  He asked if I was hungry.  He wanted to go somewhere we had never been, but he wanted a place similar to Sanibel Fresh.  We're having a hard time with vacation being over.  I suggested First Watch and we had the loveliest time together.  I actually ordered bacon and a lightly dressed green salad, mixed the two together, had hot hibiscus tea, and it was delightful.  The company was wonderful too.

Marshall is working at my house, so when we got home, I walked, he worked.  Before he left, we tried a few science experiments of burning sugar and soda.  Lighter fluid was suggested, but I only had acetone (to unglue my fingers when I use SuperGlue).  While the experiments did not work as anticipated, they were still very cool. We also sprayed a little foam around here and there, so when it dried, I could play with it.  Oh, and acetone is the only thing that takes the foam off your skin.  That acetone is quite the handy substance.  Off to pick up Sim from school and get hugs and kisses from Violet.  As I type, I wait for Mr. L to pick me up as we are having dinner with some of my favorite people in the world ~ the staff at Otter Creek.

Two Thursdays.  Very different. Both lovely. As my friend, Josh, says, it is all gift.  I am deeply aware that I do not deserve to have any of these sorts of days.  That is why, I do not want to squander them by wishing I had something bigger, or more, or different.  I pray that I will rest in the sheer delight in every moment, and revisit these peaceful days when life is not going smoothly.

Things Seen and Unseen

I almost did not get up to walk this morning. I did not get to bed until after midnight (4 hours after my usual bedtime) and I laid in bed and read until after one. The late bedtime was preceded by an overindulgence of onion rings, Twix bars, chocolate chip cookies and a very exciting SEC National Championship game where the team I was moderately pulling for lost in overtime. Part of me is happy that Alabama won because my nephew-in-law is happy and I just love him, and partly because I had deep concern for the psyche of Alabama's kicker if they lost. So, it's all good.

I thought about lying in bed instead of getting up. A couple days ago, however, I decided that when I get home I will post an album of "Twenty Sunrises Over Sanibel" on FB. No one would care if I substituted a picture from yesterday for today. Truly, no one would even know. Frankly, I doubt anyone's life would be unalterably impacted if I did not post an album at all. But, for whatever reasons, I got out of bed, dressed, went into the living room of the condo, opened the shade, and saw a sky obliterated by fog and clouds. For a brief moment, I considered going back to bed or flopping on the sofa. I am so glad I did not.

Every morning as I walk across the wooden walkway to the beach I hear rustlings on either side among the sea grapes and ferns. Some mornings in the dimness before daylight, I will see little brown creatures scurrying about. I could never see them well enough to know what exactly they were. I thought, perhaps, they were gophers. This morning, as I walked across the condo common area, I saw at least a dozen little brown bunnies hopping in and munching on the grass. Until this morning they had been mainly unseen, but today, I saw them well. They are much more adorable than the gophers I was imagining.

The lighthouse, which is my daily destination on my walks, was completely invisible, as were all the condos and houses. I knew they were there, but I could not see them. I could hear a crab boat chugging along, but I could not see it. I said a prayer for the safety of the people on that boat because it seems that being out on the water with such low visibility would be quite dangerous. There was no first light turning the sky shades of blue and pink and gold. Everything was gray, but everything was beautiful.

The dolphins were out. I love the dolphins. I wondered aloud to Doree just yesterday as to where the dolphins were this year. There were three of them playing in the mist as I walked by. I stopped to watch, but could not get a picture.  It was a beautiful walk. Had I not made it, I would never have known what I missed, but on some level, beyond my awareness, my day would have been diminished had I chosen not to go.

Somewhere, behind the clouds and fog, the sun has risen. I cannot see it, but I know it to be true.

Inappropriate and Inopportune Laughter

My sister has been here, at the beach, with me. Three other family members were going to come with her, but for various reasons, they did not. While I miss each one who did not come, 2 people in a 2 bedroom, 2 bath condo is far more peaceful than five in that same space. People tell us we look and sound alike. Apparently, we have similar mannerisms as well. It must be true, for both of us have been randomly asked on more than one occasion if we were related to the other.  As I have said before, it is a strong and shallow gene pool in our family with small variations in appearance.

While we may look and act alike, we are very different in many ways. She is a night owl. I am not. I mean, not by the broadest definition could I be considered  a night owl. She likes to sleep late. I cannot sleep late even if I tried. She loves CSI, I am more a Hallmark girl. She enjoys murder mysteries. I love good Southern, slice-of-life lit. She loves college and pro football and knows who won the Heisman when and who is a "good guy" and who has a tendency to be a jerk. I know the officials' names and whether they are flag happy or not and if they give weak or strong signals. She speaks and loves on every dog she passes. I nod and say, "hey, Buddy." She's for Alabama tonight; I am for Georgia.

There is one thing, however, for which we are both known. I mean, we are legends in our own time for inappropriate and inopportune laughter. This sort of laughter does not happen in a vacuum, and about the first time we got out amongst the public, it struck. We were going to the Farmers' Market yesterday, but could not find a place to park. We found ourselves at a restaurant that my son really likes called Rosie's. I remembered that it is not Mr. L's favorite and when Doree inquired why, I remarked that I wasn't sure. It came back to me later.

As we walk into the restaurant there are three men to whom we speak and wish a nice day. Inside the door is a hostess stand but no hostess. On the floor is a small sign that instructs "wait to be seated."  Eventually, our hostess walks up and grabs two menus as Doree and I greet her and ask how she is doing. "Wonderful," she snarls. I do mean snarls. She leads us to our table, slaps the menus down and walks off. As we sit, waiting for her to take our orders, a song comes on. That is one of the best things about the restaurants and shops on Sanibel; they cater to us older folk and play the best music. I comment when the song comes on that I love it. Doree asks who it is singing. I listen for a moment and say, "oh, you know...it's a family of them that sings...they're from Louisiana...he has that big blob thing on his forehead."  She replies, "oh, yeah! It's Robbie something. His last name starts with a D." I look at her puzzled for that name does not sound right. I whip out my phone, Google "Louisiana singer with growth on head" while she is going, "Robbie, D...Dungsten...hmmmm Robbie D..." I smile at her and say, "Aaron Neville."  We giggle, and about that time our frowning, ungracious, possibly troubled hostess/waitress comes to take our orders. I inquire as to what scones they have. She glances across the restaurant and gruffly barks, "he doesn't have any!"  That little hysterical bubble of laughter bursts forth as I say, "okay, then, I will have bacon and a pancake."  By this point Doree is explaining to her that we are not laughing at her, which is not entirely true on my part. Doree continues to explain and explain and explain as I am becoming concerned that I might have an aneurysm trying not to laugh.

When she walks away, there is wheezing and giggling and heads laid on the table. The other patrons, of which there are few, are understandably staring at us. Finally, our food arrives. Let me just say it is rather difficult to eat a pancake with no utensils, especially when it resembles shoe leather. We are both scared to ask for any, but Doree soldiers through. I then ask for some butter, all the while apologizing for bothering our waitress. The butter, apparently, has just come from the freezer so my cold pancake and Doree's cold toast will not melt it. I hold mine between my hands to soften it up, while Doree shreds her toast trying to spread it. We eat, wait another 20-25 minutes after finishing to get our bill. Doree, who tends to get things done, asks the other waitress on duty if we could get our ticket. Eventually, it makes its way to our table, we put the money in the little folder thing which includes a really large tip and we leave.  No time to wait for change. Doree is leaving on Tuesday.

Now, I remember why this is not Mr. L's favorite. Same waitress. Same poor service. Maybe you had to be there, but if laughter is the best medicine, Dor' and I should be well for quite some time.

Glorious Mornings

An email from a friend, wishing me a glorious morning, prompted this blog. It is pretty easy to recognize glorious mornings at the beach. It is true that the past couple days  I have walked in triple layers and a sock hat, but, even so, they have been glorious mornings. It is such a gift to watch the sun peek up over the horizon.  Even the day that it was just the pelicans and me on a gray, drizzly beach with no hint of the sunrise, it was glorious. I have stopped at a favorite restaurant during my walks for pots of hot tea to warm up.  Glorious hot tea in a comfortable environment.  Today, I saw a bird eating a fish in a tree. You don't see that every day. People sometimes ask why we come to Florida in January; "won't it be cold," they inquire.  It might be cold, which is relative because I figure those at home in single digit temps would consider 45 degrees a heat wave, but the cold does not obscure the glory.

I would not like to think that the only glorious mornings I have are the twenty-one I enjoy here on Sanibel Island, and they are not. I want to recognize that every morning I wake up there is something glorious to appreciate. No matter how mundane and ordinary a day is, there is glory to be witnessed. Many mornings, I ride to school with MP, Simeon, and Violet. There is glory in the faces of my grandchildren and daughter; in time spent with them. Recently, I have been very fortunate to have at least one morning a month to spend with Marshall. There, I find glory. The mornings that Max bounds in my back door, grinning from ear to ear....ah, glory. It is all around us. Sometimes it is hard to see in the midst of family strife, financial strains, health issues, the absurdity of the political environment, the overwhelming need in every corner of the world, and countless other distractions that draw our focus from the glory that is there to be seen and enjoyed. I pray for eyes to see the glory that surrounds me.

New Rules of the Road

When one rides in a car for almost 900 miles like Mr. L and I did last weekend, one has the opportunity to observe drivers. I began to notice similarities in driving practices and certain demographics. If you are offended by this post, I apologize...maybe...not really.

Rule Number One:  If you have testosterone levels even the tiniest bit above normal, you may not drive a car. Period! In addition to the written, driving, and eye tests, all people (in an effort to not be discriminatory) will also have a blood test to check testosterone levels. If those levels are exceptionally high, someone will be called to pick you up and you will be on house arrest until you get it under control. This is for your own safety and for the well-being of those with whom you come in contact.

Rule Number Two:  If you have even a modicum of testosterone in your bloodstream and drive either a Dodge or Ford pick-up truck, you may drive with limitations.  You may even drive on the interstate with certain restrictions. You must drive the speed limit or below and you may only change lanes once every ten miles. Guess you better pay attention, otherwise you are going to miss your exit, Buster. If you break either if these rules, well, let's just say, you will be terribly dismayed by the fine you will be required to pay, but then you may get that soprano part in the church choir. They say there is always a positive to every negative.

Rule Number Three:  If you drive and text, woe to you, you irresponsible human being. There is nothing so important in that text that remotely justifies your having to address it as you drive either 80 mph or 40 mph on the interstate. So, your punishment will be swift, and depending on the number of offenses, far-reaching. First offense...your phone will be confiscated. Second offense...I really don't like guns, but...the arresting police officer has the option of firing his weapon at your phone until it dies. As an aside, your insurance will not cover a replacement. Three or more offenses, well, let me ask if you're familiar with the practice of Yubitsume.

While I am open to the possibility that these punishments are a bit Draconian, perhaps they would prove to be quite effective. I will be the first to say, however, how much better it would be if people would just be aware of the responsibility of all humans to take care of those around us. How much better if we would leave in time to get where we are going so we don't feel the need to drive like bats out of hell to get there. How much better it would be if we understood that our text about whatever is not important enough to jeopardize our or others' safety. Come on people. Let's show a little less indifference to the folks around us.

Buckets on a Car

The drive to Sanibel is long!  This year, it was especially harrowing. It was so frightening that I came up with “New Rules for Driving” that I will share in a later blog. I know you will be waiting with bated breath.

So, Mr L and I have been in the car for a while. He’s just getting over a bout with the flu. He had a mild version, but he did not run for seven days which is a testimony to how badly he felt. Even had he been delirious with fever, he would have driven. I think I scare him. I serve as the disc jockey scrolling through my Pandora stations for music that pleases us both. At one point we were listening to John Philip Sousa radio as Mr. L enthusiastically conducted an imaginary marching band. It was quite entertaining.

I am not the best traveler. I get restless, I sleep, nature calls more often than we want to stop, I get hungry then I need something to drink. The only improvement traveling with me over traveling with an infant is I am not inclined toward bouts of weeping.

As we rode down I-75, the car in front of us had three Rubbermaid-type buckets bungeed into a small rack connected to the back bumper. I asked Mr. L what he thought might be in those buckets while listing possibilities such as clothing, toys, and food. I looked at him and he opined, “severed heads?”  Hmmmm....

Me too....sort of

When the news broke about Harvey Weinstein, Matt Lauer and others, women felt safe to reveal their own experiences with sexual assault by men in their pasts. Mr. L inquired if every woman in America had been sexually assaulted, to which I replied, "not all have been assaulted, but I would be willing to bet that almost 100% of women have been sexually harassed."  That was an opinion offered without much thought. I decided to look up the definitions of "assault" and "harassment," and discovered that my answer to Mr. L's question was pretty accurate...to me.  I say, "to me" because I have not been the victim of assault. I imagine if I had, my definition would be quite a bit broader than it is. 

According to Webster, "assault" is: 1. A violent physical or verbal attack; 2. A threat or attempt to inflict offensive physical contact or bodily harm. To "harass" someone, according to Webster is 1. To annoy or bother someone in a constant or repeated way; 2. To create an unpleasant situation by uninvited or unwelcome verbal or physical conduct.  My opinion is all I have here, but it seems to me that the difference in assault and harassment is the level of fear for one's safety, which, in some ways, keeps those definitions fluid. That definitions of certain life events can be fluid according to experience, is a concept I did not grasp several years ago. I wish I had. I try hard to understand that now.  

So, with all the news and in light of my conversation with Mr. L, I tried to think back as to whether I, personally, had ever been sexually assaulted or harassed.  Others may disagree with my assessment, but I have never been assaulted. I have, on a few occasions, been harassed. I had a relative that, as he aged, lost some of his filter and thus some of his sense of decorum. Those who did not know him as the intelligent, dignified young man he once was, might have described him in his later years as "a dirty old man."  When I was a teenager, on Thanksgiving, he came to my room to greet me. He grabbed me, we both fell on my bed. I scrambled to get out from under him, convinced myself that he had simply stumbled.  Later in the day, I told my parents about it and they had a come to Jesus meeting with him. I was disgusted by his behavior, but I was never afraid. 

In high school, I had one date with a boy who, for some unknown reason, thought I was interested in an exceptionally amorous parting at the end of the evening. He was quite persistent. To his credit, he got the message at my second emphatic "no."  He did feel the need to share my frigid nature with everyone at school the next day, but, frankly, I think he did me a huge favor. I was totally grossed out by his behavior, but I was never afraid. 

A young man once exposed himself to me from his car as I walked down Church Street in Downtown Nashville. To say I was shocked and appalled is an understatement. I responded like I often do when I get nervous, I laughed uncontrollably. I was repulsed, but I was never afraid. I have no idea what my laughter did for his self-esteem. 

In college, some male person called me numerous times. He knew things about me. He said the most vile things.  Every time, after the first time, I hung up on him. My brothers wanted me to set a time and place to meet him so they could go in my place and "take care if him."  I was repulsed, and a bit wary, but I was never truly afraid. 

After I had children, my mom and I went to Gatlinburg for a high school football game where my younger sister was cheering. We went to support her. She tried desperately to ignore our presence, and was quite successful, I might add. My mom fell on her patio about an hour before we left town. Later we learned that she had broken her elbow and damaged her knee. All I knew was she could not dress herself nor navigate very well. One of my children went with us.  Unfortunately, on this particular weekend said child was a holy terror. At the ballgame, on a very cold night, I was sent to the concession stand to get snacks for our small motley crew. As I stood in line, a man sidled up behind me and began to rub my backside. Are you freaking kidding me? This on top of all the rest of the misery of this trip?  I spun around and told him to back up. Oh, I wanted to slap his leering face, but I was never afraid. As an aside, on the morning we were leaving Gatlinburrg, I was in the bathroom of a restaurant cleaning up holy terror child from the mess that had been made during breakfast, when a waitress came into the restroom to tell me that my mother had fallen in the dining room. Wow!  

Once getting on an elevator with two nicely dressed business men, one of them said, "you're taking your life in your own hands getting in the elevator with the two of us."  Really?  I thought he was an ass, but I was never afraid. 

Having said all this, let me add that I don't think men can fully appreciate how vulnerable women feel. I have stepped off elevators plenty of times because something just didn't feel right. I get extremely nervous when I hear someone walking up behind me. I lock my doors as soon as I get in my car in parking lots and any time I am downtown. I never open my door to anyone I do not know. I have never been a fan of wolf whistles or cat calls from men on the street. I consider it crude and ungentlemanly. I can only imagine how much more disgusted and fearful I would be had I ever actually been assaulted. I was raised with men who protected the women in their lives. I am fortunate that my naïveté did not get me into dangerous situations. So, yes, I believe nearly 100% of women have been sexually harassed. I suspect it has been perpetrated by a small percentage of men. Ah, for want of the new heavens and the new earth where no one assaults nor harasses. 

Trying on Bathing Suits: An Exercise in Humility

I needed a bathing suit. When I learned that I was to become a grandmother, I made my mind up that I was not going to be the type who sat on the side of the pool with every inch of skin covered, refusing to get in the pool to play. So, heading to Florida anticipating 10 days with my family, I needed a bathing suit. I already had one bathing suit. It is the only one, as an adult, that I have ever really liked. Well, there was that pink one that had a skirt and a blouson top that I really liked. It fit my friend, Kathy's, definition of a "Christian mother's bathing suit." It had so much fabric in it that swimming was difficult, but it was modest and perfect for lying by the pool, drinking Coke and eating chips. It lost some of its luster the day an obviously pregnant lady asked if I was wearing that suit to cover up baby weight like she was. I replied with a tinge of snark, "why, yes, yes, I am.  My baby is eight," followed by a do-you-have-any-more questions look on my face. Perhaps, I could have been more gracious, but that was the best I could muster at the moment.

Bathing suits have always been a trial to me. I never enjoyed wearing a bikini or even a more modest two-piece. As a teenager, weighing about 110 pounds, I tried to keep myself covered as much as possible, you know to hide the fat....oh, brother. I wish I was as fat as I was when I first thought I was fat. Truly, it was less that and more that I was raised by a mother who exhibited tasteful modesty and a father who let me know that real men appreciate that modesty. Modest bathing suits were hard to find. It was the 1960s with Woodstock, free-love and all that stuff and bathing suits reflected the times. My mom had my bathing suits made...ill-fitting bikinis with a cover-up attached. I rarely took the cover-up off, unless some teenage boy, finding himself to be hilariously entertaining, jerked it off in front of everybody. Who wouldn't want to date that guy?

I find myself somewhat dismayed and somewhat awestruck by the very heavy, bikini-clad older women walking down the beach here. The bottom of their suits are almost entirely obscured by a sagging belly flap with the tops doing a mediocre job, at best, covering that which they have been assigned to cover. And, yet, part of me wishes I had a bit more of their confident lack of inhibition. It turns out that I have many more things at which I need to work so that strolling down the beach in a bikini with no embarrassment is not a high priority.

Back to my need for a bathing suit. One suit should suffice except for the fact that while in Sanibel, our pattern is to swim in the morning, go grab lunch, play on the beach, and rest before going back to the pool in the afternoon. Having one bathing suit leaves two unpleasant options - wear a wet bathing suit all day or put a cold, wet one back on in the afternoon. Heaven help me, I live such a life that I found buying a second bathing suit a necessity. Because of the cold and the crowds at the mall right after Christmas, I decided to shop for a bathing suit at my favorite store...Amazon! I perused the many options and found one I thought looked perfect. It was not expensive, it had a skirt, the top was modest, and it was black. I paid an extra $4.99 so I would receive it the day before we left. It arrived. I tried it on. It was far from perfect. How did I not notice that it was horizontally striped? Black and white horizontal stripes!  I looked like a lumpy, college football official who put his shirt on sideways. It is never a good thing when the picture of a bathing suit on a hanger looks much better than the suit looks on a person. I still needed another suit.

Yesterday clouds rolled in over The Gulf so Mr. L and I decided to wander about Captiva. He asked if there was any place I wanted to go and I mentioned the store where I had bought the one suit I have and actually like. I was ready to take out a mortgage on our house to pay for any bathing suit I found that I could tolerate wearing in public. I found two, that I really like, and that were not obscenely expensive. Score! I was literally doing fist pumps in the dressing room. I am fairly certain that Sports Illustrated will not be calling me for their next swimsuit edition, but at least I can feel somewhat confident as I stroll out to the pool and remove my cover-up before slipping into the pool to enjoy great fun with my grandchildren.