Let The Mud Fly!

It’s time to gear up for a new Presidential campaign season. Let the melee begin!! It’s old news to anyone who reads my blog that I’m not a fan of President Obama. Never have been, and it’s pretty safe to say I never will be. Digging a little deeper, I have to say that I’m not a fan of our political system at all. I’ll be the first to admit that what I don’t know about politics could fill all the oceans of the earth, while what I do know could, comparatively, maybe fill my coffee cup. I do try to stay somewhat on top of hot-button issues, and whenever possible listen to the broadcast news, both liberal mainstream and conservative cable networks. As I’ve said before, I think the truth lies somewhere in between the two, though IMO leaning more to the right than the left.

I suppose now it’s time for the mud-slinging to begin in earnest. I listened Monday night to ABC’s storyline on Michelle Bachmann, and how her counseling clinic wants to “pray away the gay”. In my humblest, and admitted-not-so-political-savvy mind, I consider this a smear tactic.  It may be the way their clinic operates, but ... read further ...

At the outset, let me say that I am not a gay basher. I have quite a few gay friends, and I love them no differently than my straight friends. I think I shocked my pastor one Sunday morning in Bible Study when I said that I think there are more serious issues that threaten our nation than the fight over same-sex marriage. I read and hear where some believe gay marriage is going to be the demise of our nation. While that’s another post for another time, I beg to differ- the threat and demise of our nation, IMO, is plain and simple: Greed. But I’ll blog about that later. I’m just saying here that, while some of my Christian friends may disagree with me and consider me “less Christian” because of my views, that’s just the way I see it.

But back to Michelle Bachman. I have not examined her platform very closely at all, (does she even have one yet?) but I do know that she is a Tea Party favorite. Which, in my humble opinion, might serve to hurt rather than help her. The Tea Party [again another post for another time] could have had great potential, but I am sad to see that some of their statements and behaviors have somewhat taken away a bit of the integrity and validity of what could have been a potential positive political force for conservatives. So, to many liberals, the Tea Party association is already one mark against her. However, I do think they see her as a threat, and it appears that she is now feeling the force of the liberal political machine as they are aiming their big guns at her.

Last week there was the report of their counseling clinic’s participation in the Medicaid program. I guess that wasn’t volatile enough.

Monday night was the first I heard of the “pray away the gay” scandal that is now in the news. If you didn’t hear about it, Bachmann and her husband operate a Christian counseling service. In a nutshell, they are coming under fire for offering counsel to gay people that God can change them into a straight person. This, of course, is offensive to gays, and I can understand that.

Let’s think about this, though. I do not subscribe to the Christian Science faith, and find some of their beliefs to be odd, at the least. So, let’s say that I’m pregnant, and looking to take a childbirth class. Would I go to a childbirth class taught by this church? Ummm… no, I don’t think so. I’m all about screaming and drugs when it comes to birthing babies… if that’s what it takes to get the job done. Would I expect to find instructions for baking my Christmas crown roast at a Vegan website or market? No. Would I try to buy a battery for my car at a dentist’s office? Then, why, if I were not a Christian who really felt that it was a sin to be gay, and want to be “delivered from my gayness”, would I seek out a Christian counseling service?

My point is this: If Michelle and Marcus Bachmann are out on the street corners, or going into gay bars bashing patrons, condemning them to hell, and telling them that God can change them, that’s one thing. If, on the other hand, they are running a Christian counseling service, and someone comes to them, of their own free will, for counseling, why is it wrong for them to try to “help” the person? Whether or not being gay is determined at conception, or is a chosen lifestyle will probably be debated until the end of time. Are the Bachmanns wrong to counsel people that they can pray away the gay? I don’t know the answer to that. But wouldn’t you expect that to be their take on it at a Christian counseling service?

During particularly tough times in my life, I have utilized professional counseling myself. One was a Christian counseling service, and one non-Christian. I have no idea if the non-Christian counselor was indeed a Christian in his personal life or not… but his counseling service was not marketed as “Christian”. I cannot make assumptions about his personal life. Just as there are Christian entertainers, and entertainers who are Christians, there are Christian counselors, and counselors who are Christian. Looking back on these counseling sessions, were the counselors “right”? Would another counselor have taken a different approach? Over the years, I have also sought informal counseling from different pastors at different churches I have attended. In doing so, I totally understood, and expected, that their counsel would be from a Christian point of view, with involvement of prayer and Scripture. Duh??  I don’t know if the Bachmanns are “right” in their teaching or not. But does it matter, politically speaking?

As I said, I have quite a few friends who are gay. Without exception, in the lives of these folks, there has been a defined moment in time when they “came out”. This leads me to believe, and most will probably tell you, that there was an internal struggle, perhaps religious, perhaps social. Maybe some did seek counseling, maybe not. If their parents brought them up in church, and they had a relationship with God, then perhaps the struggle was more difficult, and they sought Christian counseling. If such was not the case, I think that would lessen the chances of seeking Christian counseling over non-Christian counseling.

All that to say this. What difference does it make what they teach in their clinic? The Bible is clear in its teaching. I would expect a Christian counseling service to glean it’s teaching from the Bible. Just like I would expect the Christian Science childbirth class to base its teachings on whatever book it is that contains their rules. Or the Vegan website to teach a Vegan style of eating, based on their research and reference materials. So, if a gay person is having trouble with their identity, or their sexuality, and they do not place any credence in the Bible, then don’t go to a Christian counselor! The video that was shot and being played on the news appears to be a setup. It is a politically-motivated act to rile up a large, powerful group of people to rally against a candidate.

Religious affiliation and denominations are for the most part a bunch of legalistic entities that point fingers at other people whose beliefs differ from their own (alas, yet another post for another time..haha..) I belong to a church of the Southern Baptist denomination. More so out of convenience, in that it’s where my family goes, where my friends go, and it’s in my hometown, the church I grew up in, etc. The legalistic stuff of any religion bores me and saddens me. I’m not so sure that some of it doesn’t sadden God as well.

It’s even worse in politics, regardless of party affiliation. Pointing fingers, judging the acts and beliefs of others, cheating, misrepresenting facts, etc. And people of faith are some of their favorite targets. The story isn’t complete yet, and I’m sure there is more to be uncovered in this situation. But you can bet the mainstream media spin will do its best to paint Michelle Bachman in the worst possible light. Is she the best choice for Republican candidate? I wouldn’t even venture a guess at this point. Even if she is the worst possible choice, she doesn’t deserve the media spin. The gay community has thousands of supporters who are not themselves gay. This is not a group of people that you want campaigning against you. The left knows this, and will use it. I suspect other potential candidates will be faced with similar accusations, but this particular “scandal” must surely have caused some serious mouth-foaming over on the left.

Some may consider not voting for her based on this. I remember when Mitt Romney announced his candidacy last time around, there was concern with his being Mormon. I also have quit a few friends who are Mormon. The scrapbook industry (which I support heavily), is made up largely by Mormon vendors and business men and women. Because a part of their faith lends them to an interest in genealogy, besides being fun, scrapbooking provides a way of preserving memories and family records. Even my Mormon friends will tell you that their beliefs, while similar in some respects, are quite different from mainstream protestant or catholic religions. Because Romney has beliefs that are different from mine, does that preclude him from being President, even if he is the best candidate? Of course not. Likewise, If Michelle Bachmann’s religious viewpoints differ from mine or yours, if she is the best candidate, should that make a difference? I’m not sure Superman himself could pull our nation out of the tailspin we’re in, and for certain I haven’t decided who will get my vote at this point. I just wish that for all the people who cry “separation of church and state” (church and government, period!), that the decision to choose a candidate wouldn’t be based on religion.

Hopefully, we will be given the facts with regard to her qualifications for president. From what I see, she seems to lack sufficient experience, but, the same argument wasn’t enough to keep President Obama from being elected…

Now, having said all that, allow me to add: Not for one minute do I think that the GLBT community, nor their supporters, would ever consider voting for Bachmann. Her stand on same-sex marriage, and pro-life is widely known. If that’s your beef with her, then by all means, don’t vote for her. All I’m saying is that it really ticks me off how the media wants to spin the way they practice counseling as an issue. For pro-life folks, and those opposed to same-sex marriage, they already know what she stands for as well. We need to vote for her or not vote for her based on her platform and her experience (or lack thereof….)

Can I just say at this point I’m pretty much dreading all the hoopla (and TV commercials) that go along with an election season. The mudslinging by both parties makes me sick. It makes me tired, and it means I have to start doing my homework in order to make the best decision before casting my vote. And if 2008 is any indication, it also means lots of politically-oriented blog posts. My apologies in advance.  :-)

Independence!!

Time has slipped away from me today, and I didn't get my Independence Day blog post written. I'm going to hijack my post from this date in 2008. The message never grows old, and I simply can't let this day go by without recognizing its significance.

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Independence! (Originally posted to CathyB 07-04-08)

October 11, 2001. The one-month anniversary of one of the darkest days in American history found me boarding a plane, heading to the very airport from which those ill-fated planes originated. I was traveling as a chaperone with a group of 10th grade AP US History students to Boston. Though plans had been made far in advance, because of the uncertainty of air travel, we were not sure we would get to make the trip. Fortunately, we were allowed to fly, and so began one of my favorite trips ever.

Now each year when July 4th comes around, I have a new understanding and appreciation for the holiday. It's way more than fireworks, picnics, and a day off work. So much more. While I expected the trip to Boston to be a nice adventure, I had no idea what was in store for me, and how it would forever change my view of independence. Our tour guide (a descendant of John Pitcairn) was a fascinating man with a passion for Revolutionary War history, and he made it come alive. I am humbled to have walked the very ground where it all happened. It made it real. I went inside the church where Robert Newman hung the two lanterns that signaled to Paul Revere that the British were coming. I saw the window where he escaped arrest, the window that has been blackened out to commemorate his heroic act. One late afternoon I sat in a grassy field in Lexington and listened to our guide describe the small, but significant exchange of gunshots that happened on the very ground where I was sitting. In Concord, I walked across the Old North Bridge, site of "The Shot Heard Round The World". I touched the monuments that give tribute to the men who died there. Though I didn't climb its 294 steps, I visited the monument at Bunker Hill, the site of the bloodiest battle of the war. The American soldiers were short on ammunition, and the British soldiers so many, that General Prescott ordered his men- "Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes!" in order to make sure that every bullet counted. I visited the graves of many brave men who were instrumental in our early history- Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, Peter Faneuil, and John Hancock. I saw the building from which the Declaration of Independence was first read to the public. Wow.

The trip was fascinating, and I asked more questions than the students. Admittedly, history was a subject that I loathed while in school, and I remember very little of what I dutifully memorized in order to pass a test. Here in Boston it came alive to me, and much to my embarrassment, several times I found myself overcome with emotion at the enormity of the sacrifice that our forefathers (and mothers) endured to secure our independence. I have often seen and heard the remark that freedom is not free. It never has been. It never will be.

Happy Birthday, America! Thank you, soldiers of the Revolutionary War. Thank you, men and women throughout the history of our country who see to it that our Star-Spangled Banner Yet Waves, Ore The Land Of The Free And The Home Of The Brave!

Mr. Bennett

Getting married to Steve has been a wonderful dream come true. We celebrate our two-month wedding anniversary today, and tomorrow we leave for our honeymoon/vacation!  I love being married to him!!  However, a new name is taking a little getting used to. I’ve been Cathy Bennett, or CathyB since 1980. I love my new name, but quite frankly, I don’t have very many occasions that require me to give my name. I work from home in my jammies, minding my own business. Thankfully, my new husband isn’t demanding in that way, and I just haven’t gotten around to doing the legal stuff required to change it. I have the marriage certificate, so it’s just a matter of getting it done. I think I must first go to the DMV for new driver’s license. I probably have to take some kind of mail correspondence to prove my new address. Once I have my new photo ID, I suppose I can then go to the Social Security office, the HR department at work, (and get a new name badge), the pharmacy, call my insurance company, see my retirement plan administrator, call my mortgage company, my utility companies for The 409, and visit my bank to make the changes. And all the other places that I can’t even think of right now.

My license expires on my birthday in October, and cheapskate that I am, I plan on waiting until then to make the change.

I’m really thankful that Steve doesn’t have a problem with this. I usually pay my bills online, or in person if they are local.  He will occasionally take my payments for me, or pick up prescriptions, etc.

Ever the patient and understanding husband, I am sure he will be glad when my birthday rolls around and I get everything changed. He’s probably growing a little weary of hearing “Thank you, Mr. Bennett.”

Broken Roads

Back in December, when I told Whitney that Steve and I were getting married and had chosen a date, she was so happy for us. After a hug and congratulations, she said “Okay, I’m singing at your wedding!!” Such a sweet and beautiful voice she has, and I was honored that she wanted to sing. A few days later, she asked me what song I wanted. At the time, I hadn’t given it too much thought, and nothing really seemed to be coming to mind. She suggested God Bless The Broken Road, a song by Rascal Flatts. She said, “Mom, it is the PERFECT song for you and Steve.” I looked it up on You Tube, and sure enough, it was the perfect song.

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I set out on a narrow way many years ago
Hoping I would find true love along the broken road
But I got lost a time or two
Wiped my brow and kept pushing through
I couldn't see how every sign pointed straight to you

Every long lost dream led me to where you are
Others who broke my heart they were like Northern stars
Pointing me on my way into your loving arms
This much I know is true
That God blessed the broken road
That led me straight to you

I think about the years I spent just passing through
I'd like to have the time I lost and give it back to you
But you just smile and take my hand
You've been there you understand
It's all part of a grander plan that is coming true

Now I'm just rolling home
Into my lover's arms
This much I know is true
That God blessed the broken road
That led me straight to you

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Steve and I both have traveled some broken roads along the way. We have each had our happy times, and things that we wouldn’t change, but there have been poor choices along those roads as well. Hearts have been broken, former spouses, friends and family have been hurt by some of those choices. In the deepest part of my soul, I believe that everything happens for a reason. While I wish I could take back every ounce of hurt that my choices have caused in the hearts of people I love, I do believe that God takes every piece of the broken road and heals us, and often times leads us to something better than we could have imagined. After a long and bumpy road full of potholes and train wrecks, I was resigned to the fact that having a relationship was simply not in the cards for me. Perhaps it was my punishment for poor choices in the past. I filled my life with my daughter, my grandchildren, my family, my closest friends, and my work. There truly wasn’t time for anything else. And I was happy. At times I would reflect on the broken shards of my life, seemingly scattered about without rhyme or reason. I would wonder how anything beautiful could ever be made from some of the messes I had made. So I shoved them back further and further into the recesses of my mind, where for the most part, they remained quietly in the shadows over the years.

Once Steve and I started dating, and found ourselves crazy in love, the broken pieces started making a little noise, and tried for all their worth to make me feel unworthy and inadequate. The jagged edges tried to pierce into the bubble of happiness that I had found, and tried to remind me that I totally suck at relationships, and that my chance at happily-ever-after had ended long ago. It was frightening, and without DJ reminding me to “Just Breathe”, and without lots of prayer and counsel from a few close friends, I probably would have messed this one up too. And then there was the Sunday morning that I had a sacred epiphany…. And I was finally able to silence those ugly pieces of brokenness for good.

It is true, just like the song says. Every long lost dream, led me to where you are. Others who broke my heart, they were like Northern stars, pointing me on my way into your loving arms.

We’ve both said, just like the song: “I think about the years I spent just passing through. I'd like to have the time I lost and give it back to you.” But we know, also, like the song says, “It’s all part of the grander plan, that is coming true.” It was the perfect song for the perfect wedding.

Have you ever seen a mosaic vase? The artist starts with a pile of broken stones or glass. It looks like a mess, sitting on the workbench in disarray. Sharp and rough edges can cut the hands of one who might pick them up for a closer look. However, with a steady and experienced hand, the artist takes each individual piece of brokenness, and lovingly fashions a beautiful work of art. The rough edges are grouted to smoothness. Each stone is still visible, and represents a facet of a once greater object. But bound together and formed by the Master artist, all the parts become a whole. A new vessel, strong and stable, able to be filled, and to hold safely inside its walls whatever the owner chooses to place.

And so it is with the broken roads that Steve and I have traveled. All the pieces have been formed together into a thing of beauty that neither of us could have imagined. Each piece of broken stone or glass represents part of what makes us who we are. Some happy, some sad, some tragic. We are grateful to The Artist Who has brought us together, and for all our jumbled up, brokenness, has made us whole. Aristotle said it best: “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”

You may remember that yesterday, June 17, was the original date we chose for our wedding. Yesterday we celebrated our eight-week anniversary, and our decision to move the date up by two months. Today should have found us on the road to Myrtle Beach for our honeymoon. Little did we know, at the time we pushed the date ahead by two months, that Steve’s construction job wouldn’t be finished, and we would have had to postpone the honeymoon. All things work together for good. Everything happens for a reason. From a kidney stone to an incomplete construction job, the timing is perfect. This time NEXT week will find us basking in the sun, enjoying a honeymoon without the exhaustion from a wedding the night before. We will return home and resume our life… already settled in and with our daily routines established. We’ve had eight weeks to look forward to our trip.

We are so happy. And so blessed. Whitney chose the most perfect song ever. For God did truly bless the broken roads that lead us to each other.

Perspective

Why do bad things happen to good people? This has long been a dilemma to mankind. Everyone I know has persevered through dark days, and at times has grown weary from bearing the cross(es) laid upon them. Mostly, we come out on the other side stronger for having born them. There’s a saying that goes like this: God will not lead you where His grace will not keep you. The Bible says it like this: My grace is sufficient. (2 Cor 12:9) Sometimes that belief helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. Suffering and perseverance pretty much sucks. Sometimes, once we get on the other side of it, we can see a reason or a purpose for it. Often, though, we can never reconcile it with any purpose at all, and the reasons may never be clear to us. Those trials are, I think, the hardest of all to bear.


My work is all about sick folks. I sit at a desk all day, and sometimes half the night, transcribing dictated voice files into documents. There are a lot of sick folks who come through the doors of our hospital. Most of them recover enough to leave through those same doors. But some of them don’t. It isn’t quite as difficult to understand when it’s an elderly person, or even someone with a chronic illness. However, it is tragic when someone dies unexpectedly, or as the result of an accident.

Most heartbreaking, though, are the cases of the children. Thankfully there aren’t many of those, since we are not a pediatric-specialty hospital, but occasionally there are children who are lost at our facility. Such a nightmare is unthinkable to me. I watched my dearest friends endure 37 days of neonatal intensive care for their premature daughter, only to lose her to a seemingly preventable staph infection. Then a few years later, they lost a son, also born months too soon. Such loving people with so much to give. Friends and family have struggled for years and years with this, trying to make sense of it. The fact remains there is, to our human minds and hearts, no sense to it at all. It is a pain that only a mother and father who have walked the same path can feel. Friends are there to help, support and grieve alongside them, each trying their best to empathize, but hoping they never have to feel the same pain. Years later, it is still painful and no more understood now than when it happened.

Because of the nature of my work, and perhaps also because of the above experience, I am drawn to stories involving health care, particularly those relating to babies or children. I recently heard the story of an infant sent to hospice care. An infant. The baby had suffered an anoxic brain injury at birth resulting in irreversible medical complications. Less than a year old at the time of referral, the baby was not expected to survive past another few weeks. When I hear a case like this, I think of Samantha and Joshua. Having witnessed the journey of my friends, I can only imagine the pain of the parents of this hospice baby. Parents who loved, cherished, and nursed their baby all those months, and then had to watch it slowly slip away. Wondering each day if every sweet little smile, or every goodnight kiss would be the last. What unthinkable agony.

Perspective. It is easier, perhaps, to think of Joshua and Samantha as sweet little cherubs in heaven, than what might have been their fate had they survived. As devastating as it was to lose them, perhaps it was the most merciful thing for everyone involved, though it is really difficult to entertain such a horrendous thought. However, there are worse things than death.

Perspective. Whenever my work day revolves around sick children brought to our facility, I am ever so thankful for my own healthy child, and my healthy grandchildren. One facet of my work involves genetics, and some days I find myself weeping. It is a bitter reminder that the health and development of a healthy child is only one tiny chromosome deletion or variant away from every parent’s nightmare. Today my work involves children with neurological issues. It is days like this that make my job difficult. We become more detached to the normal, routine patients with reflux, gallbladder attacks, and pneumonia. Not so easy with the children. I guess it is the Mom, Greemaw thing, wherein I identify on a deeper level with the peds patients. Sometimes I will Google a particular illness with which I'm not familiar.  And then I wish I hadn't. Yet I am grateful to have even a small part in the provision of their care, behind the scenes though it may be. And though they will never see me, or know that I am doing it, I pray for the children and their parents. Perhaps in some way it will help them. I know it helps me keep things in perspective as to just how blessed I have been.

Perspective. Whatever cross we bear is no less difficult to bear just because someone else got a worse deal than we did. But still, it is good to acknowledge that there are indeed those who do have it worse. And no matter how bad it sucks, it just is what it is. Hopefully we can wake up each morning, and realize that no matter how bad things are, things could always be worse. And hopefully we trust that God’s grace is sufficient to carry us through yet another day.

Say a prayer today for sick children, premature babies, and the parents who care for them. And then sometimes must bear the hardest cross of all, and let them go. 

I Ride My Bike, I Roller Skate, Don't Drive No Car

“I’ve got a brand new pair of roller skates, you’ve got a brand new key. I think that we should get together and try them out, you see.” Does that bring back memories to you like it does to me?


That was a silly song popular the summer before I entered 7th grade. (And now it’s stuck in my head all day. Sorry if it happens to you too!) It wasn’t a particularly favorite song of mine, but the lyrics and tune were quite catchy. What I did like about it was that it made riding a bike pretty cool, and the “person” in the song was probably about the same age as we were that hot summer of 1970. We rode our bikes everywhere. And like the song says, we didn’t go too fast, but we went pretty far. All over Statham, to be exact. The dirt sidewalks laden with centuries-old tree roots were a favorite obstacle course. We’d bounce along, expertly avoiding the roots, or if we felt really brave, we would drive over them, bouncing around like popcorn kernels in a pan of hot oil. The cemetery behind the Baptist Church had one fancy plot that was paved into the shape of an oval, with a cross-like shape inside. We could have joined a circus act, so precise were our patterns and dare-devilishness on this “track”. (Of note, no one was buried there at the time. It would have been disrespectful [and super creepy] to ride there if there had been.) At that time, the streets in Statham were paved, but not with asphalt. I don’t know what it was called, but it was an irregular, gravel-type material, with uneven rocks. I remember this vividly, because the tips of my toes were always getting scraped, and sometimes I’d lose chunks of my big toes to the offending street surface. (Shoes? I never wore shoes in the summertime unless I was going exploring in the woods!!) We knew who lived in every house up and down Broad Street, and even the names of their pets. We’d go as far east as just beyond Miss Nobie’s house, where Broad Street officially ended for us. Our travels west would take us as far as my house. We didn’t often venture further than that, because of the monster hill just beyond my house. And besides, there wasn’t much of interest past that point anyway, just some cows and chicken houses. No need in huffing and puffing up that hill anyway. So back and forth we’d go, up and down the street. Down a few side streets sometimes, but never in the alleys. Everyone knows that bad things happen in the alleyways, and we pretty much stayed clear of those.

Every now and then, we’d spot some cute boys standing out by their cars along the street. We’d try to be so cool and ride our bikes by them with great sophistication, and pretend that they looked at us with the same googly-eyes with which we looked at them. If perchance they actually DID look at us, or catch us looking at them, we’d nearly faint and almost fall off our bikes. (How funny is it that decades later, I have ended up married to one of those cute boys!!)

At some point in our day, we would ride over and visit Mr. Whitlock, owner of “the store” in Statham. We spent many of our pennies and nickels in the candy aisle of his establishment. Banana “Kits” was my favorite candy. The peanut butter ones were pretty good too. He knew us all by name, and better than that, he knew our moms and dads by name too. He had a bubble gum machine with a hand-lettered sign that said “REAL Cigarette Lighters”. Now, none of us smoked cigarettes, but we sure wanted to get us one of those REAL cigarette lighters!! But alas, it was not to be. And to this day, I never heard of anyone who ever got one.

I didn’t learn to ride a bike as early as most kids do. My friends were a year or so ahead of me in that regard. I wanted to do it so badly, but was deathly afraid of crashing. My cousins Sharon and Jeff used to come down every summer for two weeks. The summer before I learned to ride, they brought their bikes. I was torn. I wanted to try. They begged me to try. But I was just too chicken. I was jealous because they would ride all around the yard, and like a pitiful little puppy, I would run along behind them, pretending I was having as much fun as they were. Inside I was heartbroken, and angry at myself for being too afraid to try. For some reason that year, Sharon left her bike at Mama Nay’s house when she returned home to the big city. I would go outside and stare at the bike, lift up the kickstand and walk along beside it, pretending that I could ride. On the rare occasion that a car would come down the road, I made sure that I was walking along beside the bike, happy to think that whoever was in the car would look at me and think “Wow! That girl can ride a bike!” How sad. As vividly as I remember all the bike rides, I’m a little cloudy on the day that I actually did it for the first time. I do remember it was an ugly, old-fashioned, blue bike. It was my dad who ran along behind me, holding onto the back of the bike to keep me from falling, and then finally let go when it seemed like I had the hang of it. I remember thinking that it wasn’t so hard after all. I was so proud! A rite of passage never felt so good. It wasn’t long before I was coasting down Mulberry Street saying “Look, Ma, no hands!!” And then I’d hit one of those stupid rocks, and go tumbling into the ditch. Oh yes, there were many crashes on the bike, and many sudden stops resulting in bruises in places that should never be bruised. Once as I was coasting down the street with no hands, I looked at my handlebars and there sat a praying mantis. Perhaps he was praying for my safety, but it had the opposite effect. Somehow I jumped off the bike while it was in motion, screaming at the top of my lungs. My poor mom thought I was badly injured. Once she was sure I was okay, she threatened to whoop me good for scaring her half to death. Moms are prone to do that, you know.

I remember that I loved riding the bike, but I hated the bike. It was so old-fogey. All my friends were riding the newfangled “banana bikes” with the sleek seats and high-rise handlebars. And I’m still on Old Blue with the wire basket and battery-operated headlight. (Very similar to the picture above, only with an ugly headlight jutting out about 6" on the front looking for all the world like something off the Batmobile.) I longed for a new bike with all my heart. One Sunday afternoon, my brother and I spent the afternoon with Mama Nay and Daddy Bill while Mom and Dad went out riding around. When they returned, they called us out to the car, and made a big production of opening up the trunk to reveal brand new bikes for both of us!!! I almost had a heart attack right on the spot!! I got my snazzy new banana bike with the white wicker basket on front (and no stupid battery-operated headlight). It was hot pink, had a white seat with flowers on it. AND it had pom-poms on the high-rise handlebars. I was speechless. I couldn’t believe that we both had new bikes. I couldn’t wait to show it off to my friends. I don’t expect a teenager with a brand new car could have been more excited than I was with my new bike!!

I would love to know how many miles we logged on the streets of our little town. We all wore out two or three bikes over the years, and would celebrate whenever someone got a new one. We would decorate the wheels with brightly-colored beads that would slide up and down the spokes with every turn of the wheel. Sometimes we’d take playing cards and fasten them on the fork with clothespins. We sounded like a pack of Harleys cruising up and down Broad Street.

Back in those days, the school at Statham went 1st through 8th grade. We always had two classes for each grade. We stayed in the same room all day, and had the same teacher all day. Always female. But as we prepared to enter the 7th grade, we were excited to learn that we would have different teachers throughout the day, and some of them would be MEN!! We were really moving up in the world!! A few weeks before school started, Bobbie Jean and I rode our bikes down to the school house. We went inside to check out the classrooms, and see if we could scope out the new teachers. We went into one of the converted-auditorium classrooms, where we met Mr. Austin. We learned that we would be in his homeroom. He teased us about riding our bikes, and told us we reminded him of the I-Ride-My-Bike,-I-Roller-Skate,-Don’t-Drive-No-Car song. We dutifully informed him that bikes were the preferred mode of transportation for upcoming 7th graders, and we were proud of it. But after that, the bike song was kind of our theme song.

What a different world we live in today. I cherish my memories of growing up in Statham, and bike riding is one of my favorites. Every trip down Bike Memory Lane always takes me to that 7th grade classroom, meeting my first male teacher, and I hear that silly song again.

You don’t see much of that any more, even in small towns like ours. Cars travel much too fast, and parents are not willing to let their kids ride bikes outside the safety of their yards at home. It was a simpler time, when we burned more calories than we consumed. Vitamin D deficiency was unheard of back then, as we spent every summer day that wasn’t raining playing outside. We used our imaginations to entertain us, not electronic gadgets. We helped our parents in the yard and in the garden, we picked up twigs to start a fire for the charcoal grill. We cleaned our rooms (well, sometimes…), and took out the garbage. We played in the sandbox with our siblings. We swam at the pool. We played outside in the yard with hula hoops, and built forts in the woods.

But most of all, we rode our bikes.

God Things

When the moon is in the 7th house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars, then peace will guide the planets… and love will steer the stars.

I’ve never been one big on astrology. Astronomy, yes. The stars and heavens have always fascinated me. The whole “What’s your sign?” thing… not so much. On the astrology charts, I fall into the Libra category. I must admit that some of the characteristics descriptive of Libras fit me to a tee. However, I find it impossible that everyone ever born on any given October 13 is going to share the same daily experiences. Should we all just stay in bed because the planetary alignment bodes for a bad day? Are we all going to find true love in the 3rd house of Mercury? Nah.. I don’t think so. I have heard of some folks who seriously plan their day around what their horoscope predicts. Gracious.

Seems to me that how our day goes depends far more on the decisions we make. For Believers, there is the God Factor as well. Without getting into a theological discussion/debate, I’ll just say… we’ll never understand it. I do believe that God orchestrates the universe, and I also believe that He loves me, and He is interested in my life. And I believe He has a plan for my life. I believe that He sees me every day, and He knows my every thought (yikes!) and deed.

Do I believe that he *controls* everything that happens? Well, that’s getting deep, and into murky predestination waters. It’s a hard concept. God set into motion the laws of nature, which quite often dictates events and circumstances. We ask, then, If God controls everything that happens, then why do bad things happen? Why do good people die, and not-so-good people live another day to do evil and harm? Why do tornadoes and hurricanes destroy the property and lives of good people? Why are loving couples unable to conceive, or give birth only to lose their babies? It’s an unending list.

These are age-old questions of believers and non-believers alike. For the believer, I think, it all boils down to faith. We accept the fact that there are issues we’ll never understand, and many circumstances that we do not, or never would choose. Sometimes it just sucks. We don’t claim to have all the answers. If we did, then we would be God. We are taught (and hopefully embrace) that tough times happen in every life. No rhyme or reason. The difference between the believer and non-believer is that our Hope is eternal, and God will carry us through the tough times. We are not immune from trials, heartache, or tragedy. But we have a Comforter who is with us, and will sustain us through it all.

We are not merely puppets, programmed to love God (or not), and to behave or believe in certain ways. Much of what happens to us is the result of choices we make, or choices made by other people. The food we eat, the activity level we choose, the environment, and heredity plays a large part in the state of our health. The educational choices we make often determine our financial future/lifestyle. To bring it on down, the type of car we drive and/or our choice to abide by the traffic laws, contribute to the likelihood of our getting a traffic violation ticket. The choice someone makes to drive while drinking can take the life of an innocent person. Was it that person’s “time to go”? Could God have stopped it? Did God know ahead of time it would happen? In our minds, it doesn’t seem fair.

But not all of our choices result in bad or tragic things. Just as often, our choices bring about good. And sometimes, things will happen for no apparent reason at all.  Not the result of choices we make, but for whatever reason, things just happen. Some call this phenomenon coincidence. I’ve never been much on the coincidence theory. I normally refer to what most people call a coincidence as a “God Thing”. Might be a good thing, might not. Lots of times it’s just crazy. Like the way Steve and I hooked up after all these years. You already know that story. How crazy was that? We both acknowledge that it was a God Thing. Not a coincidence. We’ve wondered about how it would have been if we had gotten together years ago. But we both know that the reason it’s so dang good for us now is because we are who we are. And we were not those people years ago. We each had to travel our own Broken Roads to reach the place that we were finally ready to build a good life together. That rocks. And it’s a God Thing.

After only a few months of being together, we realized that we wanted to be together even more. As in married. You know that story too. So we set about planning our small family-and-a-few-friends ceremony for mid-June. I was scheduled for time off work, the condo at the beach was reserved for us, and we started our weekly coupon-shopping at Michael’s and Hobby Lobby, for my little DIY wedding. The little DIY thing quickly took on a life of its own, and it didn’t take long to become overwhelmed. As you also know, last Friday night we Just Did It. Can’t explain the reason why… but 10 days prior, we both just decided we didn’t want to wait, and after tossing about several possible dates (one of which was today, Sunday, May 1st), we chose Good Friday. No particular reason, other than it seemed to work out best with the schedules of everyone involved. (Except for BJ and Chris… and I’m still sad that they weren’t able to attend.)

The wedding went off without a hitch, and we were so very happy with how it turned out. Except for the BJ and Chris thing, there isn’t one single thing that I would change. It was perfect. Our first weekend together as married folk was fairly typical as most other of our weekends. (Honeymoon will be in June as originally planned.) On Saturday, Steve helped Hayley and Michael move, I was at The 409 packing some things. A typical Saturday, just doing what needed to be done. Sunday was Easter. We picked up Mary and Leyland and headed to church. Afterwards, it was my first official family gathering with Steve’s family, and we enjoyed a fabulous afternoon at his sister Jenny’s house. This was an extra special treat for me, as I normally work on Sundays.

As we were leaving Jenny’s, Steve told me that he had been passing blood in his urine since Friday night. Lots of blood. Typical of his sweetness, he hadn’t wanted to worry me. Though he had experienced slight bleeding a few months prior, and had intermittent occurrences with it, this time it was profuse. Once I saw it with my own eyes, the word *hemorrhage* came to mind. With my background, I immediately began to think the worst. Painless hematuria can be a very bad thing. While I was thankful he wasn’t in any pain, it frightened me more than if he had been. Monday morning found us fighting with a very difficult provider’s office trying to get seen and obtain a urology referral. After 2 ½ days of frustration, finally a referral was made to Dr. Blankenship’s office. Long story short, after radiology procedures, it was determined that my sweetie had a very large, 11 mm (7/16”.. almost half an inch!) kidney stone. The size and location of the stone precluded traditional hydro lithotripsy, and a cystoscopy, ureteroscopy, and laser lithotripsy with stent placement procedure was performed early Friday afternoon. We were happy to go this route, because it meant a good inspection of the bladder, whereas the hydro lithotripsy would not have included this. Thankfully, internal examination of the bladder revealed a clean examination, thus my darkest fears were alleviated. A noon surgery was successful, and by 3:30 we were enjoying garlic-cheese biscuits at Red Lobster.

Now let me tell you why this entire incident qualifies as a God Thing. As a self-employed contractor, Steve has been without health insurance for some time now. (I have often teased him that he only wanted to marry me because of my insurance.) It had already been established through the HR department at work that I would simply need to come down and sign some papers once we were wed, and that coverage would be retroactive to the date of the marriage. As of April 22, the day he started bleeding, and seven days before the surgical event, Steve was insured.

Wow. Does this mean that God had a purpose for us to bump up the wedding date? I don’t know for sure... But it totally ROCKS! Would it have been easier for God simply to have made the stone go away, or kept it from forming in the first place? Yep, probably so. Do I believe He could have done that? Absolutely, I believe it. So how come He didn’t do it like that? I have no clue. Perhaps He just needed to remind us that He Rocks! Because lemme tell you. In my book, this ranks way up there on my list of God Things.

Truthfully, I don’t always like the God Things. Sometimes I cannot see anything good in them at all. But one of my favorite quotes is “Never let me say, when things are going bad, ‘what did I do to deserve this?’ unless I am also willing to say it when things are going good.”

Becoming eligible for insurance on the very day he started profusely bleeding? You may call it a coincidence. I call it a God Thing. And this one was definitely a good thing.

Dating: It's Way Overrated

I was never one into casual dating.  If I was interested in someone, and he asked me out, of course I would go.  If he then became my beau, we hung out.  I don't understand how some women can have multiple beaus, and date different guys at the same time. I got myself this new beau back in the fall of last year.  You already know that story. We did things the proper way:  We *talked* first.  Apparently this is a prerequisite phase of courtship.  Everyone knows that you *talk* before you date.  So we *talked* for a bit, then we dated.  And it was really nice.  It didn't take long before we knew that we were blessed by God to have found each other again after 35 years, and that what we shared was indeed special. Before long we also knew that we were The Ones for each other, and we began to make plans to be married. By then, our dates had gone from one night a week to three, then three turned into five, then into seven.  We single-handedly kept the oil industry afloat with our trips up and down the road.  Our original wedding date of June 17th in some ways seemed far away, and in some ways it seemed right in front of us.

Those of you who know me, know that my middle name starts with "A", and that the letters following my name are not MD, RN, CPA, but rather CF.  Yes, I have control issues.  It is not my nature to delegate tasks... rather I will go without sleep for weeks (depending on the project) to make sure that my project du jour turns out exactly like I want it.  It's a curse.  Somewhere in the branches of my family tree lived a person with Control Freak tendencies, and their DNA is alive and well within me.  Though not the first marriage for either of us, we wanted a special ceremony.  Nothing elaborate, but unique to us.  This meant:  Hand-made invitations, programs, decorations, and of course the wedding cake.  Now, remember my middle initial, and the CF after my name.  Once I decide on a design, I can make things happen in a fairly timely fashion.  I knew the theme I wanted and the colors.  But the actual design of the invitation eluded me... and kept me awake at night.  I spent hours surfing the internet for ideas, and ordering the craft supplies I needed to make it happen.  I measured, scored, and cut reams of paper, wanting something more than just a standard folded piece of card stock upon which to attach the watermarked, beribboned velum containing the text.  I made list upon list.  I You-Tubed cake-making techniques, and made a prototype.  This is to be my last wedding, and doggone it, I want it to be perfect.  (Besides, it has to look good for the scrapbook photos, right??)

The last few weeks brought about a few challenges: Whitney started a new job, necessitating a little schedule-juggling.  She and Dustin gained custody of Dustin's daughter, so we welcomed a new addition to our household.  One of my clients changed some clinic dates without telling me, creating a glitch in my work schedule, a friend who I subcontract for needed me, and I found myself the proud recipient of a jury summons.  Invitation "construction" should have been well under way.  Yet I still hadn't decided on a design.  Trust me.  A stressed-out control freak is not a pretty sight.  I could feel my level-headed, easy-going, composed nature start to slip away, and I wasn't liking it.

Last Monday, after a long day at the courthouse for jury selection, Steve and I were having dinner on the card table in my room at The 409.  We were talking about our June wedding, and we both just looked at each other and said "Why Wait?"  That was it. We decided then and there to Just Do It.   We looked at some destination packages at the beach, in Helen, and in Gatlinburg.  Destination weddings are wonderful.  Just show up.  Say your words, pay somebody, and be on your way.  I know quite a few people who have done it and who highly recommend it.  And we seriously considered it.  However, we really, really wanted our family and a few very close friends to be there with us.  If there ever was a marriage to be celebrated, we truly feel like this one is it.  And we really wanted our pastor to officiate.  He and his wife have been very supportive, encouraging, and have offered wise counseling, and we wanted them to be a part.  We abandoned the destination wedding and decided to put together a small, intimate ceremony.  I can't even begin to tell you how different it was planning for *this* wedding as opposed to *that* wedding in June.  Though I never viewed it as a burden, I was so incredibly determined for everything to be perfect that the stress itself was becoming a burden. Oh, in true CF fashion, I denied that I was under stress.  Not me!  Superwoman can do it all!  But once the decision was made to bump up the date, it really was like a weight had been removed from me.  And though it was an incredibly busy 11 days, I enjoyed every last second of putting things together to make it happen.

And it happened last night.  Friday, April 22.  Good Friday.  I am now happily married to the man of my dreams!!!  It was, to us, the most perfect wedding.  My betrothed looked so handsome, and so happy.  When he said his vows to me, his eyes burned so deeply into my soul with a love so pure and strong that I almost couldn't breathe.  I've never felt such intense devotion.  A moment so sacred that I was humbled beyond belief.  A moment I will treasure forever.

We were surrounded by family and friends who love us, who wished us well, and are so very happy for us. The one and only thing that I would have changed would be that everyone who knows and loves us could have been there!  There are many friends on our guest list who were absent last night, friends who have been so excited and supportive, and we missed them. We're so happy that we want to share with everyone, but the main thing was the keep the main thing the main thing... so it was short, simple, sweet, and it's done.  I couldn't have imagined 12 days ago that we would be doing this.  Even with the short notice, and all the challenges listed above, it came together so nicely, and even though my cake was definitely NOT what I meant for it to be (another post/another time), I never lost my cool, and the stress level was well below the radar.

To address demographics:  We will be living in Steve's home (our home!) in Winterville.  At some point in the future, we plan to return to Statham.  The hardest part about moving is I will miss my daily dose of sweet baby love. For so many years, Corey and Leyland have been the lights of my world, and I can't imagine a day without impromptu sweet hugs and kisses.  But this is as it should be.  Whitney, Dustin and the kids will stay at The 409.  I will miss them terribly, but I'm maintaining *my room* (the enclosed garage that was my office, bedroom, den, and craft room), so we'll have a place to stay when we have babysitting sleepovers.  I'm looking forward to those.

And so this is it.  The rest of my life our lives can start now.  Remember that saying?  "Today is the first day of the rest of your life". Yes.  It is.  It's going to be a great forever.

Where Does The Time Go?

Seriously.  Where does it go?  I used to hear adults talk about how fast time whizzes by, and I just didn't get it.  Christmas, probably the favorite time of year for kids, seemed to take f-o-r-e-v-e-r to roll around each year, and the time span between your 15th and 16th birthday, while waiting for that magical driver's license, seemed like 20 years.  It is true.  The older you get, the faster it goes.  This past week we celebrated Steve’s mom’s 90^th birthday.  90 years.  Just thinking of how the world has changed since she was born is daunting.  Time flies.

Seems like yesterday that my sweet grandchildren were just babies, and only a couple of months ago that I was giving birth to my daughter.  The gray hair and sagging body parts remind me, though, that much time has passed.  The laugh lines around my mouth and my eyes are witness to the joy, the laughter, and the fun that has played such a huge part in the passage of time.  The jeans that are a little too tight remind me of my bountiful blessings at mealtime.  The jeans that are too large remind me that with time and dedication, I have the strength and stamina to get in shape physically, and take better care of myself.  The gray hair reminds me that I am blessed with people I love.  For sure, I wouldn't be worrying myself gray over people who mean nothing to me!   My hectic, sometimes-crazy-busy days remind me that I am fortunate to have a job, and the ability to make extra money with contract jobs on the side.  The weekends that fly by remind me to be grateful for the friends and family who make my life so much richer.  

Sometimes after school, Leyland will come into my office to play.  Just like when her mommy was a little girl, she loves to play *teacher*.  I am transported 20 years back in time as I listen to her.  So much like her mommy. I am amazed at how smart she is, yet how funny.  She *teaches* her class Bible verses, reads them stories, and yesterday she was teaching them about vowels.  A says ahh, E says eeee, I says ihh, O says aohh, and U says uhhh.  One time she asked "Now class, what are your values?"  Oh my.  Seems like only a few days ago I was powdering that little rump and enjoying the feel of her tiny little body sleeping on my chest.  

Likewise, seemingly overnight, Corey has turned from the sweetest, tiniest baby boy ever, into a rambunctious, inquisitive, bright little fella who has captured my heart with those laughing eyes and a smile that lights up the world. He's All Boy.  The baby is gone.  His vocabulary has exploded, and now he's able to carry on a conversation.  I miss those tiny little baby grunts and sweet morning stretches before snuggling back in my arms in search of more slumber. 

My little munchkins are growing up.  My daughter is a beautiful, talented adult.  Time passes.

I have embraced and fully acknowledge my status as a middle-aged, almost-senior-citizen woman.  In 2  1/2 more years, I qualify for the Senior Luncheons at church!  Yes, time passes more quickly now.  Perhaps it has something to do with that over-the-hill thing... everything seems to move faster going downhill than uphill.  

As I prepare for another life-changing event, with lists of things to do, places to go, people to see, time does indeed race by.  The moments spent with the children playing at my feet while I work will cease, once I am married and working from my new home.  I suppose the up side to that is that perhaps my more scheduled time (for lack of a better word) with them can be spent not working, but doing the Greemaw thing.  Lavishing them with my undivided, unhurried attention.  For things like playing outside, baking cookies, sleepovers with Greemaw and Papa Steve, etc.  I'm really looking forward to that.  The down side is that there will be days between visits with no spontaneous hugs, or sticky kisses from sweet little innocent faces.  I will defy the constraints of time to make sure I am with them at every opportunity, so as to remain a constant in their lives, and they in mine. 

There are times when my wedding date seems far, far into the future, and I really want it to hurry up and get here.  I am totally ready for the next phase of my life.  Well, except for the part where I won't see Whitney and the babies every day... I'm really going to miss that.  It chokes me up sometimes.  But, as above, I know it will make the time I do spend with them priceless, and that can only be a good thing.  At other times, it seems like the date is right before me, and there are still things that need to be done.  And time starts racing again.  

Time can be our friend or time can be our enemy.  We just gotta make the best of it.

"Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong as its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this, too, will be swept away."  ~Marcus Antoninus

Creepy

Okay, so today we are in serious spring-cleaning mode at The 409.  Serious.  When the box of trash bags was empty, I took a little trip down to our local Dollar General Store to pick up some more.  When I entered the store, I saw an elderly gentleman seeking the assistance of the young cashier in locating an item.  When I returned to the register with my trash bags and Magic Eraser, the young girl was squatted down getting something from a bottom shelf.  I heard the old geezer talking to her.  He was right down in her face, and saying things like "I thought you were much younger than that.  You look like you are about 15."  She said "No sir, I'm in my 20s".  He says "Well you sure do look young.  You look real good.  You are good lookin' woman"... etc.  He finally moved so she could get up and come around the register to check me out.  I made eye contact with her, and we both just looked at each other like "What??"  He fell in line behind me, and just kept on talking to her, telling her how attractive she is, and he sure did think she was a lot younger.  Finally, the assertive side of me could stand it no longer.  He said it one more time, and I turned to him and said, "Well, if you thought she is only 15 years old, you'd best be careful what you say to her!"  Then he started in "Oh, I'm not flirting with her, I just think she is beautiful, etc."

Can I just say a few words here?

1.  Gag!
2.  Really?
3.  Creepy!!

I had to hurry home with my purchases, otherwise I would have stayed to make sure the nut-job left  without further (what I consider) harassment. There were three or four other employees in the store, or I wouldn't have left the girl in there alone with the pervert.  I'm quite sure she could outrun him, as he was sort of hobbling along with a cane, but I still wouldn't have left.

The whole thing grosses me out, and though I've never hit anyone in my life, much less an elderly person, I really want to punch him.  Seriously.

Luck O' The Irish

This is an *article* I wrote for the current edition of Sweet Tea, The Magazine That Refreshes.  Be sure to check out both the printed version, available free at multiple locations, or online by clicking the above link.

It's a great time of the year to celebrate my Irish heritage!!  Now, where's my "Kiss Me, I'm Irish!" button?

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Do you ever wonder how you got here?  No, I’m not talking about the cabbage-patch thing.  I’m talking about  your roots, and what brought you to Statham.  Unless you’re of Native American heritage, chances are, somebody hanging from one of the branches of your family tree got on a boat somewhere, sailed across the pond, and set up housekeeping on good old American soil.  Several of my friends are into the genealogy thing, and have traced their roots back to Eve.  Well, maybe not quite that far, but I have seen some pretty impressive family lines, one even dating back to Charlemagne.  Royalty!

It takes little imagination to guess the origin of my family.  With a name like Dunahoo, (variant of Donahue, as in Phil… no relation to yours truly) it’s pretty natural to assume an Irish lineage.  There’s gotta be some ‘taters in there somewhere.  “Dunahoo” is actually the reduced, Anglicized form of the Gaelic name O’Donnchadha.  Sometimes it is Anglicized as Duncan, for those of Scottish descent.  The “meaning” of the name has something to do with a brown-haired man or chieftain, and the word “battle”.    Maybe that means my great-grandpappy 20 times removed was a Fabio-esque, brown-haired warrior, fighting for Truth, Justice, and the American… I mean the Irish Way!! 

Or not.  I have seen photos of some of my ancestors.  There is nothing Fabio-esque about any of them.  It seems they were a rowdy bunch, though, and back in 1825, my great, great, great- grandpappy William Michael Dunahoo decided he’d had enough oppression from the King of England.  He made the decision at the ripe old age of 16 to come to America.  The original American Dream.  The fact that he had no money for passage was only a minor deterrent.  Ticket?  Who needed a ticket?  There was all manner of space within the bowels of the ships headed to America.  In the wee dawn of morn back in 1825, he made his way down to the docks under the cover of darkness.  Looking over his shoulders to be sure no one was watching, he grabbed onto the ropes that moored the ship, and climbed hand-over-hand until he reached the deck.  No Homeland Security personnel to pat him down, or ask for his papers.  Just a few crew members on lookout, snoring softly at their watch.  Stealthily he found his way down, down, down, into the belly of the ship, and settled in among the wooden crates.  Weary from his adventure, he fell into a sound sleep, awakened only by the gentle sway of the vessel as it crept out of the harbor at daybreak.  For several days, he kept himself hidden, surviving on stale bread that he had brought along in his knapsack, and small sips of water from a bottle.  Once he was sure they were far enough out to sea that they wouldn’t return and force him to disembark, he showed himself on deck, and began working as a crewman.    At the end of the voyage, he set foot on American soil, and proclaimed it home.  He never again saw the family he left behind in Ireland.

I’m so glad that Great-Great-Great Grandpappy Michael was an adventurous young man.  I don’t fancy myself as looking so hot in  plaid, and I’m really glad that my daddy didn’t wear a kilt.  (Not dissing the culture, mind you, I simply prefer to see men wearing britches instead of skirts.)  Great x3 Grandpappy Michael had a son named William, who meandered around the south and landed in Alabama for a while.  At some point, he loaded his family and belongings onto a covered wagon and headed east, eventually landing in Jackson County, Georgia.  Soon we find the Dunahoo clan right here in Barrow County, where Great x2 Grandpappy William’s son, Lawrence Edward, would end up in a little settlement that would become Statham.  Great-Grandpappy Lawrence  would have three sons: My grandfather Willie, my great-uncle Ralph, and my great-uncle Clarence.  Lawrence brought his family to Statham, where he purchased the land that is now home to the American Legion.  There he would raise his three boys, and work the land as a turnip farm.  My grandfather, Willie, had found work that took him away from Statham.  He was 24 years old when he received the news that his father had been struck by an automobile on the Atlanta Highway, near the present-day Little League fields, and was killed.  Daddy Bill returned home to take over the turnip farm.   My mother Doris, her siblings Carolyn, Joyce, Sue, and Peggy, were all raised at “The Legion House”, as we now refer to it.  Two sisters, Linda, and Sarah Nell, died as children.  My uncle Ricky was born later, after they moved “to town”.   

My great-uncle Ralph also chose to stay here in Statham, where he would marry and have two girls, Becky and Cynthia.  He was a wood worker/carpenter, and had a great shop in his back yard on Broad Street.  I loved to go in there and smell the freshly cut wood, and play in the piles of sawdust.  Great-uncle Clarence took off for parts unknown and ended up in California.  I have relatives out there whom I’ve never met, and most likely, never will.  Such a small world, sometimes… yet so big. 

Our little town was first known as “Beadland”, because the first white settlers purchased the land for 14 pounds of beads from the Creek and Cherokee Indians in 1784.  When the post office was built, we were known as Barber Creek, then Delay. The town was re-named Statham in 1892, after the rail lines came through. The railroad was built in 1890, resulting in a booming little town that ensured us a permanent place on the map.  

While the railway was being built, fill dirt was needed for the tracks, and lots of it came from the land behind where the Legion House would later be built.  This left a huge hole in the ground that became known as the “Ballas Pit”.  (I’m pretty sure the correct word is ‘ballast’, but part of our Southern Charm is how we pronounce our words--  right, ya’ll?).  My mom and aunts tell stories of great adventures in the giant canyon just over the hill in their back yard.  Exploration of the pit often produced treasures of broken dishes, arrowhead stones, or other discarded items from years gone by.  A giant mound of sand served as the perfect place to play King-Of The-Mountain.  Sounds like a tragedy waiting to happen to me, but I’m not aware of any landslides or cave-ins. 

I guess I never thanked Daddy Bill and Uncle Ralph for setting down their roots, and staying right here in Statham.  Over the years, as the economy wax and waned, there must have been temptations and opportunities elsewhere, but these two Dunahoo men stayed the course, and remained in Statham until their deaths, Daddy Bill in 1989, and Uncle Ralph, who we just lost in 2010.   For sure, I’d like to thank my great-granddaddy Lawrence for coming to Statham to start with, and for having a part in building our little town. 

I used to be jealous of my cousins who lived in The Big City (suburbs of Atlanta).  Life on Broad Street was often boring.  The end of the road where we lived wasn’t even paved with asphalt until I was a young teenager.  My end of the road was riddled with potholes, and the city’s idea of repairing them was to fill them with tar.  That worked fine in the cold weather, but the hot summer days would find us popping the little bubbles in the tar, and riding our bikes over the sticky spots, leaving behind a trail of tire tracks.  There were many days when boredom would take over, and I would form an obstacle course over the potholes, and challenge myself to see how fast I could get from point A to point B, making sure I hit every hole.   My city-slicker cousins never got to do that! Nor were they able to get on their bikes, round up a group of friends, and be gone all day long.  Our mamas knew that SOMEBODY in town would be keeping an eye on us.  We couldn’t get away with much.  There was always someone watching… someone who would tell our mamas if we misbehaved.  We’d stay at this house for a while, then ride over to another house, pick up a few more friends, and off we’d go again.  

On Sunday afternoons, we would pool our nickels and dimes, and one or two brave girls would cross “The Highway” on foot and go to Seagraves’ store.  There we would purchase one can of Underwood Deviled Ham, a small loaf of bread, and if someone had extra riches to share, a small bag of potato chips.  We would then load our stash into the wicker baskets on our bikes, ride through town, hang a left then a right, and coast down the hill to J. S. Hall’s little fish pond.  We’d gather in a little circle, and the picnic would officially begin.  Invariably someone produced a dull kitchen knife, and maybe we had napkins, maybe not.  Sometimes we would wash our hands in the murky water of the pond, sometimes we didn’t bother.  A deviled-ham sandwich never tasted so good, as when shared among a small, tight-knit group of girls enjoying the freedoms of living in a small town.   There were two rules at The Pond.  No Swimming, and No Boating.  There was a tiny little john-boat that was always pulled halfway up on the bank.  For those of you not familiar with J.S.’ pond, it isn’t very big at all-- maybe 25 yards across, at best.  I never knew how deep it was, but I’m sure I could probably stand in the deepest part and not have to worry about drowning.  But to our young minds, it was as deep and treacherous as any ocean, and we were horrified of falling in, and never even once considered getting in the boat.  

Well… we did consider it just once.    One afternoon, we were all feeling a little sassy.   So we decided we would get in The Boat and take a little paddle around The Pond.   Once we piled in and shoved off, we were met with a terrible truth:  There Were No Paddles.  We were stranded in the middle of The Pond with No Paddles.  About that time, a car turned onto Lakewood Drive, and we started to panic.  I was wearing my mom’s watch that day, and I vividly remember being more afraid of ruining her watch in the water than I was of drowning in The Treacherous Pond, or even the prospects of being caught in The Boat.  Thankfully, the driver of the car was NOT one of our parents, nor was it J.S.  (The driver must have been a lost stranger driving through. For sure it wasn’t anyone local, because our mamas and J.S. never found out about The Boat Incident.)   Somehow we used our hands to splash our way back to the safety of dry land, and the adventure was over.  Well, actually,  THEY splashed us back.  No way was I going to chance ruining my mom’s watch by putting MY hands in the water!! 

Such fun memories from days gone by, when life passed at a slower pace, and we took such pleasure in the little things.  Like riding bikes down friendly streets, stopping to talk with folks sitting on the porch.   Taking a break from the sun on Uncle Ralph’s front porch, enjoying the cool breeze and a ride on the famous kiddie swing. At the time, we didn’t realize how truly fortunate we were.  We just felt safe and secure in our little town where everyone knew everyone, and our curfew was “before dark”.  No pagers or cell phones to keep track of our every move.  We had each other, and we had neighbors who cared.

My City Slicker Cousins may have had easy access to the mall (I didn’t even know what a mall was when I was a kid), and more exciting things to do and see, but I feel lucky and ever so blessed that my Irish rainbow ended right here in Statham.  There’s nowhere else I would rather have grown up.  Now, if I could just find that leprechaun who took off with our pot of gold…

[Edited to add]:  A very special thanks to Uncle Ralph's Daughter, Becky, for the family history.  She has done an impressive job of tracing the Dunahoo roots, and she graciously shared the fruits of her labor with me.  Thank you, Becky!  You Rock! 

MT Trainer- ID Please?

MT Trainer- Thanks for your comment.  I can't wait to fit into The Little Black Coat!!!!  Would you please contact me privately regarding some MT industry standards issues? Thank you! bencath@aol.com

The Little Black Coat

While much of the U.S. is suffering blizzard conditions, our thoughts turn toward keeping warm.  Though many of you would trade weather-places with me in a heartbeat, it's still a windy, chilly 43 degrees here at The 409.  I just walked to the mailbox in my jammies, and it was quite nippy.

I hate to wear coats.  For 25 years I have had the same tweed, just-below-the-hips, double-breasted coat that my former husband gave me.  The style has come in and out of fashion a few times, but I still wore it.  It's still in great condition too, save for the layer of dust on the heavily-padded shoulders.  It has hung in my laundry room since I moved here 5 1/2 years ago.  I've had a few light jackets along the way, but for the most part, if I'm just darting about town, I choose to just suffer the few minutes of cold, rather than have to fuss with taking off and keeping up with a coat while I'm doing whatever it was that took me out of my warm house to start with.

This past fall, though, I got a wild hair and decided that I Needed A New Coat.  I shopped around until I finally found one that I liked very much, and I got it on sale at an unbelievable price! It is nice enough to wear over dress clothes, but not too nice to wear every day.  I also found a sweat-shirt type jacket with the most wonderfully soft lining at Old Navy, also at a great price.  This is my go-to jacket when dashing out the door on those sub-zero-degree (Georgia.. haha) days.  I've never even taken the tags off of the other coat.  I considered taking it back, but when I remember what a good buy I got on it, I just can't seem to make myself return it.  What with all this cold weather (as a result of global warming HA!) who knows when I might actually decide to wear it.  Surely as soon as I return it, I'll be wishing I had it.  So, the New Coat will continue to hang in my closet, taking up space, until such time as I need it.

When my daughter was in high school, she found a beautiful black leather jacket that she couldn't possibly live without.  She traded me all of the gift-cards that she received the previous Christmas, in exchange for my buying the Little Black Coat for her.  I loved it, and wanted one too, but couldn't afford to buy two.  She needed an XL and I needed a 3X.  She came home with a Little Black Coat... but I did not.  Her coat was so tight on me that if I tried to stick my arms in the sleeves, I couldn't move them.  So I just continued wearing my tattered old tweed coat, when I absolutely HAD to wear one.

I think she may have worn The Little Black Coat three, maybe four times.  Grrr.  Teenagers are fickle like that, aren't they?  Over the years, I have come across TLBC hanging in her closet, my closet, and most recently the grandbaby's closet. 

Guess who has The Little Black Coat now?  If you guessed me, you're absolutely right.  My arms/shoulders will move about freely inside the sleeves now, and I could even reach out my arms and give you a hug, should you happen to need/want one.

The zipper is still a little problematic.  The left side of the zipper lacks about 2" from being able to interlock with the right side of the zipper.  But, hey... that's PROGRESS!!  When I bought TLBC, the zippers were probably 10-12" apart.  I've come a long way, baby!

TLBC is hanging in a very prominent position in my room (ummm... on the handle of my much-neglected treadmill...) as a reminder to get back on course, stay the course, and make that zipper zip!  It may be springtime, or long after coat-weather is behind us before I can make that sucker zip, but zip it I will!  And then I will be the proud owner of my very own personal Little Black Coat. Yay!

Kissing Frogs

“You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your handsome prince.”  I’ve always loved that little quote.  Several years ago in the gift shop at the hospital they had some cute little pewter frogs with tiny little crowns on them, and a little card that said “Someday my prince will come.” I bought one of the little froggies, and he has kept me company for quite some time now.  I never actually believed it, and I never even particularly wanted a handsome prince.  I’ve had a husband or two, one that for a while was my handsome prince, and one that would qualify as … well, we won’t go there.  I’ve kissed my fair share of frogs over the years, and finally gave up when all I got for my effort was warts.

We live in a fast-paced world, where our days melt together into weeks and months, and when we blink our eyes, a year has gone by.  I find this to be ever truer the older I get.  Life experiences teach us, mold us, and shape us into who we are today.   As a more mature (I refuse to say middle-aged) adult, caution has been the order of my life for many years now, and I simply just gave up kissing frogs.  A recent post tells the story of how I reconnected with a “crush” from the past, and how famously we’ve been getting along.  Let me assure you, though, that there was no frog kissing involved in this relationship.  Oh no.  He came to me already in Prince mode, and every day has confirmed his status as such. 

There’s another little cynical saying that always gave me a chuckle:  “Someday my ship will come in.  And I’ll probably be stuck at the airport.” Today I’m very delighted to report that not only has my ship come in, but I was waiting at the dock, right on time.  On board the ship was not an ugly frog, but my handsome prince, who has completely stolen my heart, yet guards it as his own. 

I will never again have to kiss another frog.  My prince has come.  And we shall be married in June.

 

This amazing man went to my parents yesterday, and formally asked for their blessing.  He spent over an hour in their home, talking about our relationship, about his plans for our future, and how important it is to both of us for them to be on board with our decision to marry.  Wow.  Is that a fairy tale prince, or what?  My parents are delighted that such a fine man has come along to be a part of my life.  I can imagine that they are even somewhat relieved to know that when they are gone, they will be leaving me in such loving, capable hands.  

   

Is it soon to be engaged?  Some will think so.  We do not.  I’ve always heard “when it’s right, you know it”.  And I know it. We know it. Life is short.  We are getting older.  We are never promised our next tomorrow.  During the next few months (177 days, but who’s counting????), we will address the logistics of where to live, etc., spend quality together-time with both families, and set about the task of blending our two families.  My closest friends who have watched this unfold are so excited!  There are quite a few people who have known both Steve and I our entire lives, and these friends are especially excited to see that we have found happiness together.   A dear friend that we visited last Saturday night shared her grief of losing her husband of many years, and her young-adult daughter within the past couple of years.  She encouraged us to not waste a moment, and never take tomorrow for granted.  When we left her home, we looked at each other and pretty much at the same time said “we can’t wait”.  We talked long into the night, and finally I handed him the calendar and told him to pick a date.  Inside the little square for June 17th, he took a pen and drew a little Valentine heart, complete with an arrow sticking through it, with SH + CB written inside, like we used to do in grade school.  So June 17^th it is.   And it can’t  get here soon enough for  me.   

Joseph: How Much Did He Know?

For (hopefully) most of us, Christmas is all about Baby Jesus in the manger. For others, Christmas is simply a time of parties, the madness of retail frenzy, and maybe a warm feeling in the heart.  Not so much about Jesus, yet a happy time of peace and goodwill to men.  For some, Christmas is just a sad time of year to be endured.

Since becoming a mother myself, each year when Christmas rolls around and we focus on the manger, the angels, shepherds and wise men, I have had a much different attitude toward the parents.  Mary and Joseph.  They have become more real to me than before the birth of my own child.  

I've been tossing this particular post around in my head for several weeks.  Time restraints have kept me from completing the task.  As well as not wishing to start any "religious" debates.  I know there are those who read my blog who are polar opposites of me regarding matters of faith.  I don't consider myself a "religious" person.  I'm just a girl who chooses to believe that God matters, and that Jesus is The Way.  Pretty basic.  I detest all the legalism of organized religion and denominations that take our eyes off of what really matters.  It's a huge turnoff to me, and I'm quite sure it is a turnoff to nonbelievers... perhaps one of the reasons for their non-belief.  Whether or not you fall into the category of (my definition of ) Believer, just ride along with me and take what you need/want from the post, and simply leave the rest. These are my thoughts. You probably have your own.

My pastor spoke on a similar subject yesterday, with the focus on Mary.  I'm resting in bed this morning fighting some germs, so I decided to share what I've been pondering. 

The personalization of Mary and Joseph seems to become stronger for me with every passing year.  There's a song called Mary Did You Know that has become popular over the past several years.  Another favorite song about Mary is Amy Grant's version of Breath Of Heaven.  Last night on Facebook someone posted a little video depicting the Social Networking version of the birth.  I thought it was fabulous! Check it out here.  

Mary and Joseph were real people.  Young people. And they were real parents. Do you remember how you felt when you first held your own child?  There is no greater joy in the world. Chances are, though, that your red-faced, squirming, screaming little bundle of joy was wrapped in a clean blanket, after a sterile birth in a warm bed with a host of medically-trained personnel orchestrating the event.  Dad may or may not have been present in the room at the time of the birth, but if he was, his only hands-on involvement might have been cutting the umbilical cord.  The responsibility of the birthing process didn't rest on his shoulders, because the nurses and doctors were there to facilitate a safe birth. Whitney's dad wasn't in the OR when she was delivered by C-section, but I have the most precious picture of him taken immediately after he saw her in the nursery for the first time.  He is hugging his mom, and crying like a baby himself.  I always loved that picture, and it brings me to tears myself whenever I see it.  No doubt about it.  The birth of a child rocks our world, and we discover within us a love that we never imagined existed. 

Mary and Joseph were real people.  I can't imagine how frightened they were.  We women complain about the discomforts of pregnancy.  Can we imagine traveling for miles and miles on the back of a donkey with a baby lying low in the womb?  We have our birth plans all mapped out, and we pre-register at the hospital a month or so in advance.  All we have to do is walk in the door, and our labor and delivery is managed by those trained to assist us.  There was no warm hospital bed for Mary.  I can imagine a frantic Joseph desperately searching for a place to stay as Mary leaned against the smelly donkey, holding her stomach as the pains of birth were upon her.  There were no brightly-lit rooms or warm blankets. There was a dusty barn, likely filled with the smell of animal poop rather than antiseptic soap.  There were no beeps of medical contraptions to surround her, rather the soft breathing of the animals, perhaps the lowing of cattle in the distance, the whinny of horses or bleating of sheep as the background music for the birth of her child.  Young Joseph wearing his dirty travel clothes was her attendant, not a host of nurses clad in clean scrubs.  Joseph, who had no Prepared Childbirth classes, attended Mary as she labored, and at the final moment, received into his hands the Glory of God, as Jesus entered into the world in the form of a flesh-and-blood human.  

I wonder what Mary and Joseph were thinking as they cleaned Him up, and wrapped him in tattered blankets?  Because of the visits from the angels, the immaculate conception, they knew that something Pretty Big was going down.  But.  Did they know?  Did they know What, and Who they were holding? I like to think that God bathed them with grace to protect them from what was coming down the road.  I can't imagine what it would have been like for them to know from the get-go the path that He would take, and what He would ultimately submit himself to.  

There are few things sweeter to me than pictures of a dad holding his baby.  I love a daddy who loves his children, and isn't afraid to show it.  Do we think that Joseph is any different from other dads? Somehow it seems like we just don't think much about Joseph at all.  He was an exceptional young man, called upon by God to do a crazy thing:  Marry his pregnant girlfriend, with whom he knew HE had never been intimate.  Obedient to the voice of God, he was a faithful servant, and did as he was told.  There were no lights or cameras in the stable, but I imagine that Joseph was as overcome with emotion as any other dad upon witnessing the birth of his child, or upon seeing the baby for the first time behind the glass walls of a nursery.  

As Mary slept afterward, can't you just see Joseph gazing into the face of his child, the way all new parents do, wondering at the miracle of birth.  ESPECIALLY THIS BIRTH!!

Last Christmas season, as I was driving down the road, I caught the tail-end of a song on 104.7 The Fish.  I didn't quite catch it all, but it was a song about Joseph wanting the Baby Jesus, just for one night to "just be my child".  As soon as I was able, I Googled and found the song.  It is called Joseph's Lullaby (listen to it here).  Oh my.  This is one of the most moving songs I have heard to date, and it further makes Joseph a real person to me.  

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The Words

Go to sleep my son, this manger for your bed.

You have a long road before you, rest your little head.

Can you feel the weight of your glory? 

Do you understand the price?

Does the Father guard your heart for now,

So you can sleep tonight.

Go to sleep my son.  Go and chase your dreams.

This world can wait for one more moment 

Go and seep in peace.

I believe the Glory of Heaven is lying in my arms tonight.

Lord I ask that he, for just this moment, simply be my child.

Go to sleep my son.  Baby close your eyes.

Soon enough you'll save the day.

But for now, dear child of mine.

Oh, my Jesus, sleep tight.  

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Wow.  If that doesn't give you a new view of Joseph, I'm not sure anything can. Jesus was IS real.  Mary was real.  And Joseph was real.  

I hope this year it all feels very real for you.

Merry Christmas!!