Morning Walk

My dear friend and co-worker, Cheryl, hooked me up with a daily e-mail called God's Minute.  She is in the midst of treatment for breast cancer, and has shared how this daily e-mail has often hit her right where she needed it (much the way I feel about my Jesus Calling book).  I signed up for it, and most days will give it a quick look, though I must confess, some busy days I just delete it without reading.  I almost deleted it today, because it has been a busy morning, but I opened it for a quick peek.

I absolutely love it when I come across a little love-note, seemingly written especially for me.

Tucked amidst the affirmations and Scriptures, I found this little poem.  And it spoke to me.

And, as it so often happens, this one is perfectly timed for my reading... on this particular date.

Morning Walk

          Amidst the dew of early dawn,

          I took a morning walk.

          And along with me, I took a Friend,

          For I felt a need to talk.

          I unburdened both my heart and soul,

          And spoke many things:

          Of plans gone wrong, of failure's pain,

          And how to live with shattered dreams.

          My Friend just listened quietly,

          And uttered not a word.

          For it was His time to listen,

          And my time to be heard.

          His sympathetic ear brought peace,

          As we walked this earthly sod.

          And I learned to trust life again,

          On my morning walk with God.

                                    

Poet, Barbara Cagle Ray

Soggy Tumbleweeds and The F Word

Yes, it's another day of rambling thoughts.  And if I don't tell you now, I'll forget.  It's stuff I want to talk about.  I have a few hours of down time from the job, and I know you're just dying to read what thoughts are tumbling around in my brain.

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Mushrooms:  Odd little statues of fungi!  I've been joking for several days about 
the crop of mushrooms sprouting in my armpits.  The rain and dark skies just keep ON hanging around.  The ground is saturated, many basements have flooded, including at My Parents' House and the Bernius House, and yet the rains keep coming.  The Oconee County Sheriff's Office Facebook page posted this yesterday:  "BOLO (be on the lookout for) a large wooden ark said to be occupied by two animals of every kind. Ark is piloted by a man named Noah who may be releasing doves. The ark was last seen heading in the direction of Mount Ararat. Any contact, either hop aboard or follow to high ground."  

I'm beginning to think it is a personal lawn mower conspiracy against me - my 30-day return guarantee will expire before I get a chance to try it out, if this keeps up!!  The yard is a mud-jungle of soggy dandelion shoots, that would probably burst forth in tiny yellow blooms, if the sun would only shine long enough!!   A little bit ago I walked over to talk to my neighbor for a few minutes.  As we were chatting, I happened to notice this mushroom standing tall and proud underneath the pine trees between our houses.  I've seem them everywhere lately, even invading my flower beds, but mostly the ones I have seen are a whitish-tan color.  I do believe this is the first black mushroom I've ever seen growing around here.  It is quite large.  The dome is probably a tiny bit bigger than the palm of my hand.  I'm wondering if we've discovered a Shiitake farm?  I don't think I'll be adding it to my salad, or cooking it on the grill, though it's about the size of a Whopper patty.  There are a few smaller ones growing nearby, but I think I'll just let them grow in peace. Well, as peaceful as it can be here in The Hood - with kids and grandkids and golf carts and puppies and kitties... and all such manner of things that make up Home Sweet Home here in The Hood.  The only thing missing is a fat, green toad sitting nearby.  But we all know how I feel about toads, so....  

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Penmanship:   Before The Great Mushroom Discovery, I walked swam down to the end of the driveway to put some outgoing mail in the box. One of my clients sends me a written contract each year that I have to sign and return.  The old fashioned way.  With pen and ink, on a real piece of paper.  I can still sign my name fairly well, but as I started to address the (paper) envelope, the pen felt somehow odd in my hands.  I have arthritis in my hands/fingers, and the damp weather has made even the simplest tasks a little bit uncomfortable, but I think it was more than that.  I had to stop and try to remember the last time I had even held a pen in my hand and did anything other than jot down a phone number, or a patient name, or something really quick.  I was shocked to realize that I do not remember the last time I wrote anything of significance by hand. I'll admit it.  I'm totally electronic-dependent.  I make my grocery lists and Notes To Self on my cell phone.  I "write" correspondence via e-mail.  All my work is done on the computer. Today I have learned that I'm in trouble without my keyboard, and my handwriting is chicken-scratch.  Though my penmanship has never been what you'd call "pretty", it has always been pretty much legible and uniform.   Being able to type fast is my bread and butter, and as such, I can type up a three page report way faster than I can hand-write one paragraph.  I think I need to get back to the basics, and stop being so dependent on all these electronic gadgets.  How sad that holding a pen and writing was almost painful, and that the writing looked so hideous.  Maybe Corey and Leyland will let me use their writing pads for practice.  

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Pizza:  Have you ever wondered whether it makes a difference if you remove the cardboard thingy before putting the pizza on the pan to cook?  Nah, me neither.  But in case you ever did wonder, let me just go on ahead and tell you.  Yes.  Yes, it does.  Right now I'm having lunch, and I'm munching on my very own personal Freschetta Naturally Rising Pizza. I even added more veggies and mozzarella cheese on top to upgrade things a little bit.  The top looked nice and brown, the cheese was all bubbly, and the crust had done its "self rising" thing.  Took it out of the oven to find that I had forgotten to remove the cardboard.  In my defense, the cardboard was much smaller than the pizza itself, and the pizza so thick that I just didn't even look. It still tastes pretty good, but the center crust didn't get quite as done as it should have.  So, yes.  It matters.  Let me type write myself a note to remember to check next time.  

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All or None:  This issue may have been resolved and a decision may already be in the books, but I have a gripe with the Barrow County School System.  Mary will be attending the new middle school here in Statham this fall, and there has been talk about school uniforms.  I personally think it would be a simpler and less expensive (in the long-run) alternative to wear uniforms.  But - there's that rebellious part of me that says "why should the government tell us how to dress our kids."  I know there are lots of good arguments FOR uniforms.  No problem at all if you send your children to private school.  That's pretty much standard practice.  But I'm still not comfortable with the thoughts of the government taking away yet another "choice", or "freedom".  What's even more heinous than that, is there is talk that wearing uniforms to the new middle school might be "optional".  OPTIONAL?  SERIOUSLY? Aside from the initial expense, what parent wouldn't opt for uniforms?  No more arguing over what to wear to school.  No more missed buses because Jane can't find her designer jeans, or Harry can't find his Falcons football jersey.  Laundry would be greatly simplified - dump a week's worth of school clothes in the washer/dryer and be done with it!  Less pressure on the not-so-fortunate kids to measure up wardrobe-wise.  But, optional?  Who wants to be the kid wearing school uniforms (because their parents made them), while other kids continue to enjoy self expression in their fashion choices?  Honestly.  I hope the issue has been resolved by now. If not, then we need to refer the People In Charge back to that all wise and wonderful Dr. Seuss concept we learned about in The Sneetches.  That should set them straight.  Do it, or don't do it.  But do it the same for everyone.  Mandate it (which I still disagree with), or Forget it.  

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All or None Part 2:  And while I'm being grumpy about the schools, I also have a bone to pick with the State.  Pre-K.  I'm not saying Pre-K is a bad thing.   (But we do realize that our children are being raised 14 years of their lives by the government, right?  They are taught what is right and true and real... based on what our government wants them to learn.  Kinda scary!!)  But I digress.  Here again - Pre-K should be an all-or-none deal.  My grandchildren were fortunate enough to get selected, by some kind of random lottery system that I can't explain, to attend "free" Pre-K in the public school.  This program is funded by the Georgia Lottery folks, the same ones who fund the HOPE scholarship for college tuition.  Okay, that's a cool thing.  But let's be fair about it. We have a friend whose child (along with many others) didn't get selected in that random lottery thing, and these kids didn't get to go to the same Pre-K program that all the other kids did.  Their parents had two choices:  Pay to put them in a private program, or don't go at  all. That is absurd.  How unfair to the children, to the parents, and to the Pre-K teachers! Either make it a law to go to Pre-K and have all children go, or take it out of the school system altogether.  

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HOPE:  I have long said that being able to go to college is a wonderful thing, but it is not required by law.  Children are required by law to attend school.  One study quoted by the AJC is that out of ten students who enter college with HOPE, only three will hold onto it the entire four years.  I understand that HOPE is the only way some kids could ever *hope* to attend college.  But... I wonder if that money wouldn't be wiser spent on better educating kids in grades K-12.  Even if it meant dropping Pre-K. College and Pre-K are not mandatory.  Again, I understand the wonderful opportunity that HOPE gives to a lot of kids, but many of these kids can't keep HOPE simply because they are in culture shock when they go from hometown high school to college.  Just because a kid has a 3.0 GPA in high school, does not mean they are ready for college.  And it seems an awful lot of money is *wasted* (for lack of a better word) on a few semesters of college, when that money could have been spent to better educate the student during K-12. However- Hear me clearly on this:  I am NOT laying any of the fault of crappy education on the backs of teachers.  Teachers are my heroes.  There are so many amazing teachers in Barrow County. My grandchildren have been blessed with the most amazing teachers on the planet, and we love them and truly appreciate them!! Unfortunately, they are restricted by what they can and can't do, or say, or teach.  Political Correctness trumps truth and common sense nowadays, and teachers are caught in the middle.  I say they do a fabulous job within the restrictions of the government, but WOW how different would it be, with technology today, if teachers were free to teach like back when I was a kid!!

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The F Word:  We all know the word of which I speak.  The one that stand-up comedians love to use, and that Hollywood loves to weave into movie scripts.  The F-Bombs that get bleeped on awards shows and late-night talk shows.  Well, imagine my shock and horror when one day my mom called me up and informed me that "Corey said the F word today."  Whaaaaaaaaaat???   But hold on a minute... GiGi's idea of the F word is a little different from everyone else's.  She has always hated the word *fart* and just cringes and almost goes into seizures whenever one of us says the word. (So, of course, we do it just to get her riled up....) I do believe she hates it almost as much as the "real" F word.  Nowadays the word is considered part of everyday language, and ... well, it just is what it is... and isn't even considered a funny word any more.  But yeah, it is kinda funny when Corey says it because of they way he pronounces his "r" sound.  So when he says "faht", it rhymes with "hot".  And my mom just goes off the deep end.  It is so hilarious.  So yesterday, I get an e-mail from Amazon.Com about a free Kindle download.  I have Kindle reader on all  my devices, so I went to Amazon to check out the free book.  Because I'm all about some Free Stuff.  I nearly fell out of my chair when I saw the title of the book:  The Boy Who Farted and Flew to the Moon.  I kid you not.  So of course I simply HAD to download the book.  It is hilarious, and uses the word so matter-of-factly in the story that, unless you had been raised all your life thinking it was a *bad word*, you just wouldn't think anything about it.  I couldn't wait to call my mom and read it to her.  She almost choked on her sweet tea. Then I called my Aunt Peggy, who absolutely adores the word, and we got my mom on a three-way call. Right there on the phone, I read them the story about of Tommy, a unfortunate kid with a serious flatulence problem, and how he turned it into an outer-space adventure.  It seems like silly stuff, although a subject that some (like Dear Old Mom) would find highly objectionable in the children's section of the library, and of little value literature-wise.  However, I say if it will get kids to read, and since it's not a foreign concept to ANYONE (we all do it, whether we talk about it or not...) then let 'em have at it.  There are some subjects, of course, that are inappropriate reading for children, but I think you'll hook more kids with a fart book than you will The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck.  (No offense, Ms. Buck - but I detested every nanosecond I was forced to read from that book!!!)  If a kid learns to love reading, it is their ticket to the universe, and they need never ever be bored in life.  So, Fart On, Tommy!!!!

For your own free Kindle version, visit Amazon.Com and type the title into the search box.  I think it will be available for free download until midnight tonight.  

And with that final shout-out to literacy, I shall wrap up this version of Tumbleweeds.  

Sunday Night Church (From A Deeper Story)

You know sometimes when you're thinking a particular thought, and you ask yourself "what in the world made me think of that?"  And then try to trace it back to the original thought that made you think that? (or am I the only dorky one who does that?)

Like:  Because I forgot to put some water in the fridge, I didn't have anything cold to drink. So I put a bottle in the freezer for a quick chill.  Knowing I would forget about it, I set the timer on the stove, because we know that liquid freezes and can sometimes break the container that it's in.  And then I thought about the cocker spaniel puppy we had when I was a kid that got locked up in the smokehouse and got drunk on some homemade wine my daddy made, because the jar froze and burst in the winter time.  Then I thought about the switches that my parents would cut (to stripe my legs!) from the bushes outside that smokehouse.  That lead to thinking of one time when we were kids and my brother told my parents he got bit by a kitten, and his finger was bleeding.  But the "kitten" was a tiny mouse that he found in a little nest underneath a bush out by the front of our house.  One thought just lead to another. 

So, when I found myself thinking about my brother's bleeding finger, I traced my thoughts back to my unchilled bottle of water.  Frozen things break containers.  Puppy dog got drunk from a burst container of homemade wine.  Bushes that grew outside the smokehouse had some awfully wicked switches.  Bushes in front of another house were home to a nest of mice.  My brother got bit by one of them.  Bloody finger. 

More often than not, these days, I can never make it back to the original thought that launched me to wherever I find myself.  Either I get distracted, or I stinkin' forget what the thought was that I was trying to trace.  Oh the joys of getting older!!!!

And now, I'm frustrated because I can't even remember why "retracing my thoughts" was an important introduction to this blog post.  ......sigh......

Maybe it will come to me before I push the "publish" button, but if it doesn't, well, there's just another glimpse inside the mind of Yours Truly.  

tick tock, tick tock.. minutes pass...

Oh, yes!  I remember now!!  Today I'm going to share a post by one of my favorite bloggers, Jen Hatmaker.  She is one of a group of people who post to a website called A Deeper Story.  I "discovered" Jen from someone on FB who posted a link to a story she had written about being a horrible mom by the end of the school year.  I loved the article, and her writing style, so I kept clicking links until I ended up at Jen's FB page, and ultimately The Deeper Story website.  (Incidentally, a Jen was recently a guest on The Today Show, after her horrible-mom article went viral on the Internet.  It was so fun to see her *in person*, after reading so many of her articles!)  

Her article is titled "Sunday Night Church."

It has been years since I was a regular Sunday-night church-goer, though I do have many fond memories of the days when our youth group was large and active, and we occupied the three or four benches in the back of the church.  We passed notes, secretly held hands with our sweethearts and sang the songs with gusto, at the top of our lungs.  Only occasionally did we get in trouble with our parents for giggling or talking, though I'm sure the pastor would probably have liked to call us down a time or two. Over time, I just got out of the habit of going.  When Whitney came along, we did family stuff on Sunday nights.  Then, for many years, I worked on Sunday evenings. 

We recently got ourselves a new preacher at SFBC, and that rascal occasionally does this thing where he does Part 1 of the message on Sunday mornings, and Part 2 on Sunday nights.  Now, I can't speak for the others, but I'd personally rather he just go on ahead and finish the message on Sunday morning, even if it means staying a little bit longer, because I really want to hear the conclusion. About noon-time you start hearing the muted beep-beep-beep of some folks' watches or cell phones, and no doubt he hears them too.  There's not many Baptists who are much interested in staying even one minute after 12:00. For the most part Pastor Mike has us out of there before, or shortly after, the alarms start beeping, especially on those days when he has a "to be continued...." sermon.  I'm sure I've missed some mighty fine Part 2 messages by not attending on Sunday nights.

But... there's this thing we do.  You all know that one of my most favorite places on the planet is DJ and David's deck.  Weather permitting, Saturday mornings usually find us outside drinking coffee (sometimes covered in blankets, our breath forming visible vapors when we talk)  This is our haven of peace, and the place where our souls connect with the universe, the place where we see rainbows and unicorns.  (Well, not so much on the rainbows and unicorns any more - maybe in the olden days when our cups contained something other than coffee...)  

For many years, DJ and David have had Family Night Dinner at their house on Sunday evening.  For those of you who do  not know, DJ and I are not actually blood related.  Yet we share the same families, by the scientific concept of osmosis.  I belong to her family, and she belongs to mine.  It's the most fabulous thing!!  And though I have been "family" for a very long time, it is only since I have been living in The Hood that I have been a regular attendee of Family Night Dinner on Sundays.  

Sadly, the passage of time has resulted in some empty chairs around the table, and we are missing loved ones.  DJ lost her dad, her mom, and her sister all within a short span of time.  Of course she has her husband, but two nieces, a great niece and nephew are her closest blood relatives.  To say family is important is to say we need oxygen to breathe.  There is no quantifying the level of "importance".  

So, we skip Sunday Night Church to maintain the tradition, and keep strong the ties that bind.  

Today Jen's post is titled Sunday Night Church.  When I read it, I felt an immediate kinship, and have a perfect understanding.  This is so us.  (Well, except for the part about the wine....)  And I wanted to share. 

Sunday Night Church

by Jen Hatmaker

If you didn’t grow up in Christian subculture, this will probably make zero sense. But for you who did, do you remember Sunday Night Church?

Listen, any yahoo could manage Sunday Morning Church, but SNC was for the die-hards. Having barely snuck in an afternoon nap, it was straight back to church at 6:00pm for the dyed-in-the-wool Baptists like us. We didn’t even play, man.

SNC was the canvas for looser programming, having already pledged allegiance to the choir, Sandi Patti-esque soloist, and senior pastor in the a.m. SNC was the space for traveling evangelists, missionary testimonies, Youth Group Camp Reporting Night, and my dad’s favorite…quartets. (To this day, I can pick out a bass line in a gospel ensemble in one bar.) You knew it was a whole ‘nother deal when the pastor wore his casual khakis and no tie. With those sorts of liberties, we were but one emotional outburst away from clapping.

But I’ll tell you why I loved SNC. As you might have surmised, it wasn’t the guest preachers or hand bell concerts. In fact, it had nothing to do with the programing at all. It was simply this: the youth group “went out” every Sunday night after church. We begged $5.00 off our parents and put one dollar of gas into willing drivers’ cars (<–true story) and unleashed a whole gaggle of young evangelicals onto the unsuspecting city of Wichita, Kansas. Mr. Gatti’s, sand volleyball, swimming, whatever. Once we rented a movie and one guy accidentally chose a horror flick with a little T&A, and as self-respecting True Love Waits graduates, we shamed him until he drove away in a huff.

These comprise some of my favorite memories.

I don’t even know if Sunday Night Church is still a thing, but let me tell you how we’ve carried the tradition forward. Our little hippie church doesn’t have a night service, but we get together with our two best couple friends virtually every weekend for “SNC” on one of our porches, which we’ve all named with inventive tropical irony. We know that after the big lunch has digested and the naps have been taken and the littles are put to bed, it’s time.

After sussing out the details over texts, we gather on someone’s patio with wine and cheese and leftover desserts, and we have us some church. We’ve solved practically every problem on earth, or at least hashed it out real good. Usually SNC is for laughing and pure folly, such as watching funny YouTubes like a bunch of juveniles. Sometimes one of us is in the weeds, and we do a lot of listening. Occasionally we wade into theology and orthodoxy, as we’ve all stretched further than we ever thought these last few years. Or we watch football and pledge to finally break up with the Cowboys.

The same connective thread remains 20+ years after my youth group days: If Jesus is the heart of the church, people are the lifeblood. There is a reason He set us in community and told us to practice grace and love and camaraderie and presence. People soften the edges and fill in the gaps. While believers can wound each other beyond measure, they can also make up some of the best parts of the whole story.

We live in a strange, unprecedented time where face-to-face relationships in actual time and space are becoming optional. It’s tricky, this online connection, because it can be so meaningful and true, and I’ve personally experienced it give way to actual in-real-life friendships I treasure. But it can also steal from friends on porches, the ones who know your middle name, talking about real life over cheese and wine. I fear it is no substitute for practiced, physical presence, and it will certainly never take the place of someone looking you in the eye, padding around in your kitchen in their bare feet, making you take a blind taste test on variations of olives, walking in your front door unannounced, without knocking.

Maybe it’s time for you to start your own SNC. Perhaps it won’t start until 8:30pm like ours because of All The Kids. Maybe it will be a MNC or a WNC or a standing breakfast date on Thursday mornings where you become so regular you have “a table.” Whatever the opposite of fancy is, that’s what we’re talking about here. 90% of our SNC dates are in pajama pants.

Don’t imagine that because connecting doesn’t take place on a church campus it is any less sacred. Prioritizing each other and creating a space to belong is holy territory, whether a Sunday School class or a back porch. In a media world with a thousand accounts and profiles, life can still be crushingly lonely. When my online world has gone off the rails and folks misunderstand me and all the internet chatter is just too much, nothing fixes me right up like sitting on a porch with old friends, Texas country on the speakers, real life taking its rightful place again.

So here is my invitation to establish your own version of SNC…traveling evangelist optional, although I highly recommend the hand bells.

~Jen Hatmaker

Tumbleweeds

Disclaimer:  this post is being written from a mobile device and will most probably be fraught with typos. I seriously suck at typing without a real keyboard. But it is presently storming and the PC is safely unplugged. And I'm too lazy to fire up the laptop. My apologies.

I titled this post tumbleweeds because my thoughts are scattered and tossed about like ....  well, like tumbleweeds.

It was a great day today. Started off the morning with an early wake-up call from the very loud garbage trucks. The holiday this week got them off schedule, so instead of pickup on Friday, we got to enjoy the noisy process this morning. That's okay, though, because I got up early enough to join DJ for coffee and girl time. David had to work, so we had several hours to ourselves. I love that girl, and treasure our time together.

The kittens had to go in today for their rabies shots. They were too young to get the shots when I adopted them, so the AHS folks gave me a voucher to take to their clinic. Poor babies were distressed by the trip, and we were all glad to get back home.

I had to do a little grocery shopping after that, then stopped by Whitney's for a second to drop off some things.  She has been in ultra crafty mode lately, and a few days ago tried her hand at some acrylic painting. She has designed and painted a couple of really nice pieces for herself, and after seeing that she really has a knack for it, yesterday I mentioned that she needed to learn how to paint palm trees (my favorite decor theme). Last night she texted a  picture of her latest piece - and I was so surprised!!  I am so impressed with and  proud of her talent!!!  I had no idea when I asked her to "learn to paint palm trees" that within a few hours she would create this gorgeous piece!! She never ceases to amaze me!!  She gave me the picture today, and I have added it to my stash of decor items (that I have yet to hang/display - even though in a few weeks it will be the one-year anniversary of my return to The 409.)

Sunset Palm - by Whitney B. Veal

After errands  all afternoon, I was pretty tired and not much interested in cooking. A quick trip to my garden netted a handful of cherry tomatoes, so I decided a grilled chicken salad would be the perfect dinner.  Thanks to Tyson's clever packaging of pre-cooked southwest chicken fajita strips, my "cooking" consisted of boiling an egg and heating the chicken. How sweet is that!!  And how exciting - to make a salad with cucumbers and tomatoes that I grew myself!!

The only bad thing to report about this day is that my microwave did not survive the electrical disaster of Thursday morning - and was probably the source of the horribly loud popping noises I heard.  While I'm  not happy that it happened, I am ever so grateful that my house and all other major appliances seem to have escaped damage.  It could truly have resulted in much greater loss.

Something else I confirmed this week. Diet Cokes make you fat.  I came off them cold turkey, and haven't had one in over two months. (Well, except for week two when I did a Wendy's drive through and ordered one out of habit.). I have been drinking water.  Lots of water. A week or so ago I weighed at a friend's house, but wasn't that confident in the integrity of the scales. They looked older than me. But I liked the results. On Friday while I was at the hospital working, I weighed on some "real" scales, and the results confirmed what I had seen earlier on the old, antique scales at my friend's house. Since coming off the diet Cokes, without any other appreciable change in my eating, I have dropped 12 pounds!!  While that may not sound like much to some, it is a miracle of Biblical proportions to me!!!  Especially since it takes me longer than that to lose 12 lb when I am TRYING!!  So, I'm hoping to start making other changes as well and lose a bit more. :-)

Well, the gozillianth rainstorm of the day has just passed, this one complete with thunder and lightning, and all seems quiet outside The 409.  I think I shall go have myself a shower and maybe go to bed.  My idea of  the perfect Saturday night.  Quiet and uneventful.  I guess I'm getting old, but that's just how I roll these days.  Just a tired, old, dusty tumbleweed.  :-)

Toro! Toro! Toro!

Okay.  So we have established the fact that I can’t keep a husband or a working lawn mower.  It’s a conspiracy.  Seems like whenever I had a husband, I didn’t hafta worry about a lawn mower.  I already told everyone (and God) that I don’t want another husband.  But I really would like to be able to have a working lawn mower. 

If you’ve followed my blog, you know that I have personally killed about four lawn mowers since I have lived here at The 409.  I didn’t abuse them, I promise.  I have always taken good care of them.  I won’t bore you with the details, but if you are so inclined, you can do a search on this blog for “lawn mower”, and you can catch up on my turbulent relationships with lawn mowers (and husbands, if you wish.)  The most recent mower was purchased toward the end of last summer, and I absolutely love it. A shiny red Toro self-propelled one.  I love that I can crank it with one pull of the rope, even after it sat over the winter, and each subsequent time out of the shed.

Happy Cathy!

Unfortunately, first trip out of the shed this summer, and the self-propel mechanism went out.  It was only about six months old, and had only been used three or four times at the end of last summer. So in good faith, I returned it to Home Depot.  My first moment of angst was when they told me it would take four weeks to repair it and get it back.  They were not impressed with my grumbling and eye rolling, and told me "four weeks, ma'am, at least". Thankfully, my dad was willing to take care of the mowing, and as it was early in the season, every couple of weeks was plenty enough.  My second moment of angst was 4 ½ weeks later, when I was told I would be charged $52.00.  Even worse, no one could tell me why.  They would be able to tell me once it was delivered and we would look at the ticket.  A few days later, one phone call said the mower was ready to be picked up, and arrangements were made to go get it.  A few hours later, another phone call said, no, in fact, it had not  been delivered to the store, but because it was en route, the paperwork had been completed, and the service call marked as done. So they assumed it had been delivered. Still no explanation on why there was a charge.  Finally, the moment came for me to pick up the mower, and I learn that the problem was not in the motor, rather the belt that operates the self-propel thingy had burned up.  And we all know that “belts” are considered routine maintenance, and not covered under warranty. My blood pressure is starting to rise.  The sweet young lady behind the counter had no idea as to why they would have kept my mower for four weeks, and then fix it, and charge me for a repair that was not covered by the warranty, without at least a courtesy phone call first.  My dad could have fixed the belt, and I wouldn’t have been without my mower for over a month.  I  stomped my foot a few times, but I realized the young girl behind the counter was not at fault. The gentleman from “Receiving” agreed with me that it did't seem quite right, and gave me the number of the folks in Atlanta who do the repairs. He felt I should not have been charged at all, under the circumstances. I knew I'd never see the money refunded, but I sure wanted to voice my displeasure with the way it was handled.  I called and left several messages.  So far, I have yet to hear from them. 

The busy days of summer were in full swing, and with lots of stuff going on, I simply forgot to follow up on it.  I was just happy to have my mower back home, in perfect running condition.  My dad had just cut the grass a few days before we picked it up, so I was good for another couple of weeks.

With all the rain we’ve been having, the grass has been growing at a very fast pace, and has required mowing on a weekly basis.  Today was either my third or fourth time using the mower since I got it back from the repair shop.

Not quite halfway through the job, I noticed that it seemed like it was moving awfully slow, and I was having to put forth an effort.  I tilted it onto the back wheels and... Oh, no!  The front wheels were not turning.  Again.  I don’t know if you’ve ever tried pushing a self-propelled mower without the self-propel thingy working.  There’s something about the way it is constructed that makes it more difficult to push than a regular push mower.  Oh, it’s a breeze when it’s working properly; sometimes I have to almost do a little trot to keep up with it.  But when I have to use my actual strength and muscles to push it – that’s a different story altogether.  

Clearly, if I had wanted a human-powered push mower, I’d have purchased one of those in the first place.  No, I wanted a self-propelled mower, so that's what I purchased. 

I do love cutting the grass, errr… walking behind the mower and guiding it across the yard.  It’s a nice workout, and one of the few times I work up a sweat and get really dirty.  I crank up the iPod, and listen to music.  I sort things out in my head, I pray, I have imaginary conversations with people, and sometimes vent my anger and frustration at whatever has me angry or frustrated.  So, it’s truly not that I don’t like cutting grass.  I do.  I just HATE it when the equipment doesn’t work.

And did I mention that I had to cut the remainder of the yard (the entire back yard) the old-fashioned way? By actually pushing the mower.  But, it was worse than the old-fashioned way, because it was harder to push than a regular mower.  Whine. 

So, here we are in the middle of a hot, rainy summer, and my mower is broken again.  I gotta say, I’m pretty pissed about it.  I’ll be calling Home Depot tomorrow, and hope that I will wait patiently while they page the manager.  I hope I will be sweet and kind, but firm and expectant.  I hope that I will be a happy customer when it’s all said and done. What I’d really like is for them to tell me to bring my mower in, and they will give me another one.  What I am afraid they will tell me is to bring it in and they will send it off.  Ummm. No.  We won’t be doing that.  Not unless they will give me one to use for the next four or five weeks that it would be gone.  And not if they are going to charge me another $52.00 to “fix” it. 

"Tora! Tora! Tora!" was the code word the Japanese used during the attack on Pearl Harbor.  I'm really hoping I don't have to resort to "Toro! Toro! Toro!" with Home Depot over my mower.  But, I am ready to assume attack mode if necessary.

I would ask you to pray for me tomorrow – but it might be better if you pray for the Home Depot Man.

I’m just waiting for that one as-yet elusive summer where I can make it through the entire grass-growing-mowing season without my mower spending half the summer in the shop. 

Seriously.  Ain't nobody got time for that!

I'm far too cheap and poor to hire a yard man.  So if I continue to have problems, I guess I will end up taking boyfriend/husband applications.   And it’s SO not worth it for three hours a week in the summer just to get my yard work done…

The Sounds of Silence

It’s not that moments of inspiration to write have ceased to find me, it’s that I deny myself the time to indulge in them.  It does seem, though, that the moments come at the most inopportune times – such as (mostly) when I am working, driving, playing with the children, or visiting friends.  Times when it is either inappropriate or impossible to jot down notes of inspiration.  Jotting down notes is crucial. There is no doubt  I will forget what it was if I don't jot it down.  This is a certainty.

Because of intermittent bouts of insomnia, and the habit of going to bed late (why bother going to bed, if I can’t go to sleep?), by the end of the work week, I’m pretty much in full sleep deficit mode.  So sleeping in on Saturdays is not only something I look forward to, pretty much it's a necessity.  I’ve stopped having the kids come for Friday-night sleepovers, because Corey gets up with the chickens, and is ready to start the day about the time I’m entering serious REM sleep.  It works much better to have them come on Saturday night, since I’m getting up for church on Sundays anyhow.  Depending on how bad the lack of sleep was the prior week, I’ll get up somewhere between 9 a.m. and 2 p.m.  Yes, it is sad.  Sleeping away my one free day of the weekend.  But at my age, I have found it absolutely necessary.  The only thing I really hate about this is that I miss my Saturday mornings on the deck with DJ.  That has become a tradition through the years, and I seriously miss my girl time with her. 

In an attempt to create my own little personal sanctuary, I’ve been working on a little patio project of my own.  Even though it’s not the same as being on DJ’s deck, there is no reason that I can’t still enjoy a cup of coffee outdoors on the patio at The 409. 

This morning was an “early” morning, as I got the day started about 9:45.  Though I have tons and tons of chores to do today, I decided to treat myself to a little “me” time.  With my coffee, cold bottle of water, and my phone in hand, I stepped out into my little retreat-in-progress to enjoy the late morning. The bright sunshine wasn’t conducive to much activity on my phone, so I simply put it down and sat.  

And watched.  

And listened. 

The big puffy marshmellow clouds overhead were floating off to places unknown, and the critters were enjoying the warm summer sunshine. The neighborhood kids were still indoors, and there were no lawn mowers, leaf blowers, or weed eaters to disturb the silence. An occasional car driving down the street was the only noise I heard, besides the sounds of nature. The bees were busy feasting on the clover in my yard (do they know I’ll be cutting it down a little later today?), and another buzzing insect came by to investigate the fence panel I had installed to better define the sitting area.  The birds were all trying to outdo one another in their loud chorus of chirping.  Some were obnoxious.  Some were subtle.  Further up the street, in the woods behind DJ and David’s, the neighborhood owl, not wanting to be left out of the concert, added in his very distinct “whooooo” every now and then.  Three crows flew back and forth between two trees on either side of my yard, casting a mid-flight shadow over the grass as they flew.  It wasn’t even necessary for me to tilt my head to know they were flying… their squawking racket and the quick shadow let me know that they were once again on the move.  Beneath my feet, the earth trembled slightly as the rumbling sound grew closer, and then the shrill sound of a whistle pierced my ears as a morning train chugged its way through town.   Normally I wouldn’t even have noticed.  Trains are as much a part of our town culture as anything else, and after so many years, they are hardly even noticed any more.  (Unless of course one is stopped on the tracks, and you have to drive down the road until you find an open place to cross. And this only happens when you’re in a huge rush, like if you have to pee, or are running late. It’s just kind of a law, or something.) 

As I was enjoying the moment, I was compelled to write about it.  But I knew if I came inside for my laptop, I’d get distracted by all the chores inside that needed doing, or the kittens would distract me with their adorable frolicking, and entice me to play with them. 

So I didn’t.  

I consoled myself about letting the moment of inspiration pass by reminding myself that if I became so engrossed in writing about enjoying the sights and sounds of nature in my own back yard, I’d be too busy to enjoy the very thing about which I was writing.  So I took a chance that I’d still be able to remember some of the thoughts I had while sitting outside in the stillness.  And that I’d somehow find the inspiration later on to write them down. 

In moments like those, it is easy to believe that all is right with the world.  No matter the turmoil that simmers just beneath the surface of everyday living over every job, every bank account, every marriage on the rocks, every worry over the future of a wayward family member, the fear when facing health issues, the pain of loss,  moments like this seem to soften the edges of worry and anxiety. It is easy (for me), to push aside the thoughts of all the wickedness and evil in our world, the greed and theft, the lack of integrity, and the downfall of our nation.  I think about how billions of people all over the world fall into the light of the same sunshine as me, and gaze at the same stars as me.  Do they think these thoughts, too?  Do they wonder why there can't be peace on earth and good will to men all year long, as I wonder?  But just for a few moments, in my tiny little corner of the universe, all is right with the world. 

Of course, all is not right with the world, and we know it.  However, in moments like these, before we stir from our reflection and once again assume the mantle of “being human”… if we are quiet, and listen carefully, we will hear it.  “Be still, and know that I Am God.”  And there is hope.  

"Hey Y'all" (And Other Stuff Paula Deen Says)

Let’s be real.  If you were born in the south, and you are over the age 20, I’d say chances are about 99.9% that you have used the “n” word at some time or another in your life. 

I do not consider myself a racist.  I have many friends of African descent, several of whom are on my FB friends list.  I’d just as soon sit down to dinner with them, or invite them into my home as I had any other person with whom I am friends.  And this is coming from a girl who grew up before integration, and lived through the turbulent years that followed.  

When I started 1^st grade, there were separate schools, separate water fountains, separate waiting rooms, etc. for black folks and white folks.  During my 2^nd grade year, the process of integration was implemented, and I remember distinctly the first few black children who came to our school.  I am still friends with many of them, and see them occasionally around town.  I was just a little kid, and it didn’t matter to me.  I was too young to understand how difficult it was for the older kids, and what I am sure was a nightmare for so many.  I remember the times being unsettling... the George Wallace thing, and the Martin Luther King thing, and some of the social upheaval that followed.  Back in those days, though, my school went 1st through 8th grade, so by the time we were in the 8th grade, we were all used to each other, and coexisted quite nicely - at least in my memory. I do remember in high school there being tough times, and a good bit of disparity, but then, we were out of our comfort zone in our little school here in town. 

I believe that every person is precious to God, and the soul inside knows no color.  The soul inside learns the culture of the home and family in which it is raised, and we all would agree that there are cultural differences among different ethnic groups. "Different" does not dictate "better", or "more important than" someone else. I believe in the equality of all mankind with respect to the value of a person.  However, I also expect every person to be a productive member of society, regardless of race.  Every. Person.  Granted, all people are not born equally into opportunity.  Most people have to create their own opportunity through hard work and determination.  Every person is born with potential.  

Paula Deen is just a woman who loves to cook, and has made tons of money with her shows and her books.  I’m not a fan, but I don't NOT like her, either.  I don’t watch her show (haha… how funny would that be…) and when I do venture into the kitchen, I certainly don’t cook like her.  (and I use the word “cook” very lightly here…)  My closest encounter with Paula Deen was to stand amid a throng of people in the store on Black Friday to help Whitney get a set of her cookware.  

Today, though, I find myself feeling a little badly for Miss Butter.  

The thing is, back before I was ever even aware that blacks and whites didn’t get along, it wasn’t  considered a “bad” word.  The acceptable word to describe a black person was “Negro”.  Which, to my mind, seemed a bit more sophisticated than “colored”.  Apparently it was a much more sophisticated word than most southerners cared to pronounce, and it evolved to the “n” word that is now hated by so many.  To say someone was a “n”, back in those days, just meant they were of African descent.  I’m not sure at what point it became so objectionable.  Well, I guess when it began to be thrown at them with a tone of disgust.  You can pretty much make any word sound hateful if you want to. It wasn’t that long ago that someone said “I love you”… and while those are the words we most love to hear… I was insulted.   In many cases, it’s not “the word(s)”.  It’s the intent of the heart, the actions of the person, that make the word(s) good or bad. 

 I've said it.  And you've probably said it too.  And while I maintain that back in those days I said it in the innocent way - in the way of identifying an ethnic group, I also admit that I have said it in a hateful way.  THAT was also our culture.  No excuses.  It was wrong.  They called us hateful names, too. Doesn't justify any of it, but you know... it just was what it was. 

That said, I totally agree that to use the “n” word in today's world is inappropriate, and offensive. (Unless you are an African-American person.  I’ve never understood why it is so acceptable, popular, even, for them to call each OTHER the “n” word, but for someone of another race to do so is considered highly insulting and unacceptable.) Example:  Earlier today I read a comment on Ms. Deen’s FB page from a mom who says “…my children didn’t learn the “n” word from Paula, but from two African-American kids referring to themselves to it in the park”.  

Just sayin’ … seems to me if a group of people (ANY group) does not wish to be identified with any particular label or name, they shouldn’t go around calling each other that which they find so offensive coming from another group of people.

Things had changed drastically by the time my daughter reached school age, and now even more so with my grandkids.  We’ve really come a long, long way.  There definitely still exists prejudice and racism, especially in the south.  But to be fair, it’s not just against black people.  

I expect that if mankind still walks upon the earth as we know it in another couple hundred years, the definition between races will be so fine it will be difficult to tell ethnicity without a DNA test. As generations die out, and as more and more people cross racial lines to marry and procreate, then one of these days, we’ll all be the same. 

May I also add that while I do feel badly for Ms. Deen about this absurdly ridiculous lawsuit, and the ensuing media frenzy, I kind of also feel that her apology has more to do with trying to save her business than it does with saying something offensive 20 years ago.  I see the image of Jimmy Swaggart crying rivers of tears on television confessing that he was wrong.  Others come to mind as well.  I just kinda think that if these people truly felt badly about their behavior, they’d be crying long before someone exposed their sin, or filed a lawsuit against them. 

And at the risk of sounding like I am a racist – to the person who is bringing this suit… REALLY?  This is your classic case of - "If you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen."  I’m just so sick of all the PC crap in our world.  Everyone wants to stand up for the First Amendment and speak their mind – until they are offended by something someone else says.  I guess what really irks me is that the media, the public, the movie stars, the ACLU, the *important* people in our culture will fight to the death against anyone who says a negative word about LGBTs, Jews, African-Americans and most ESPECIALLY against Muslims.  However, anyone can say whatever they want to say about a person who loves Jesus. Yes, I totally realize that there are many Christians who are goobers and do stupid things.   I also acknowledge that there are a lot of believers who are haters, especially against LGBTs, and that is atrociously wrong (another subject for another post)… but people of faith are on the receiving end of jokes, ridicule, and downright hate, too. But that's okay, we really don't need the ACLU or movie stars taking up for us,  We have our own Defender.   Seriously.  People who live in glass houses should not throw stones.  If you don’t wanna be talked about badly, don’t talk badly about other folks.  No matter who you are. 

When I offend someone, (and I do it far more than I would like), I do my very best to apologize and make it right.  As quickly as possible.  But is it necessary to apologize for something that was part of everyday culture even as late as the 50s and 60s?  In my opinion, no.  Those were the birth pangs for some very difficult times in our nation, especially here in the south.  My goodness.  If I had to apologize for everything I did wrong in the last decade (much less the last five and a half decades), I'd never have time to do anything else. 

If we could look in the closets of every CEO of every company, there is no doubt we'd find some skeletons.  Something he or she did in the past that they are ashamed of.  Do we strip them of their credentials and/or titles?  Heavenly days!  I don't see the E! network canning the Kardashians for their indiscretions. Rather, they are celebrated.  The highest office in our land was tainted by a stain on a blue dress - yet that incident (and the lies told to cover it up) resulted in less "punishment" than is being handed down to Ms. Deen.  What is WRONG with this world?

Instead of stupid lawsuits like this, that will end up costing probably millions of dollars, incite arguments and perpetuate feelings of resentment, I propose this:

Spend the money on a new textbook to be used by every school in every state no later than first grade.  Required reading.  Book reports and skits.  The whole nine yards. It will take some time, but eventually the message will be received, and as the older generations die out, the concept will become accepted.  The book?

“The Sneetches” by Dr. Seuss

If you’ve never read it, stop what you are doing right this minute and either dig up your library card and go to the nearest library TOMORROW, or go toAmazon.com and buy your own copy.  Read it.  And read it again.  Read it to your children, and to your grandchildren. And if you're blessed enough to have them, read it to your great-grandchildren.

  

And Baby Makes Three!

It’s true.  I’m well on my way to becoming The Crazy Cat Lady.  And that’s just fine.  I seem to do better with the feline species.  I’ve always loved kitties, and except for a few very short chunks of time, my household has always included my four-legged kitty friends.  When we were kids, my brother and I would carefully consider the names with each new litter of kittens.  We quickly grew tired of the common names like Kitty and Fluffy, and branched out into TV Land for some of our theme-related names.  Example – one litter was Gilligan, Skipper, Professor, Ginger, etc., while another was Wally, Beaver, Eddie, Lumpy, (with no regard to gender) or another - Spanky, Alfalfa, Buckwheat, Darla.  You get the idea.  It’s hard to imagine life without purrs and meows… oh, and cat hair on the furniture.  I saw a little plaque one time that said “No outfit is complete without a little cat hair.”  I suppose it’s time to hang one of those in my house. Because soon the cat hair will overtake the dust bunnies, and even they will begin to scurry for cover.  I have adopted two new kittens!!  Cooper is the sweetest, affectionate, most lovable kitty.  And while I do adore that sweetness, in order for us to eat and live indoors, I must sit at my desk and work.  As you may have seen in my many Facebook pictures, Coop loves to sit on my desk (on my keyboard, on my printer, underneath the little shelf that holds my monitor….).  He thinks he is helping, and he just wants to be near me.  Then when I’m unable to sit and hold him all day, he wants to bat at my fingers as I type, or chew on the multitude of cords underneath my desk.  I decided a while back that he needed a playmate.  I suppose it would have been better if I had adopted his sister back when I got him, but at the time, I was being selfish – looking only for a new critter to love, who would love me back, never leave me, and be loyal to me.  It was a tall order, but he met the challenge, and was a true comfort to me during a really rough patch.  At any rate, I only adopted him, and since then, it has been just the two of us.  Oh, except when the kids are here.  They adore Cooper, and he is such a wonderful, big ol’ loveable fella that he will allow them to haul him around like a ragdoll.  His foster mommy had children at home, so he became accustomed to having kids around from the beginning. 

Most all of my kitties have been strays, or taken from the litters of friends.  A few of them, though, were kittens with “papers”, (Himalayan or Persian), purchased from licensed breeders.  They were beautiful kitties, and I loved them very much – but no more so than my other kitties.  Years ago, Whitney and I adopted a flame-point kitty (like Cooper) from the Athens Humane Society, which was my first official rescue.  It felt really good knowing I had given a kitty a home that might otherwise have met his Kitty Maker through the stab of a needle.  That’s why they call it Rescue.  Cooper was my second Rescue Kitty.  I got him from Jackson County Humane Society.  The people over there were wonderful!  We communicated several times before the pickup date, and they were very helpful both before, and after the adoption.  The day I picked him up, I was a train wreck.  So very excited to get him, still so very shaken at the turn of events my life had just taken.  As soon as I laid eyes on him as I was walking across the parking lot, my eyes welled up with tears, and when the kind foster mommy put him in my arms, I just started weeping.  (They probably wanted to reconsider adopting him out to this crazy, crying woman…)  But then I told her in 10 words or less, what I was going through, and she got tears in her eyes and hugged me tightly, and said… “Then, you need Cooper as much as he needs you.”  It was truly a match made in heaven, and he has been the best companion!!

Fast-forward to now.  I’ve been keeping my eyes open for a calico kitten.  I’ve had a couple of calico kitties in the past, and there’s just something about that crazy color pattern that I find adorable.  I love all kitties, and would bring them all home if I could.  I’ve seen some cute ones these past couple of months since I’ve been looking, and considered one or two of them, but kept holding out in the hopes of finding a calico. I had found several beautiful adult calico girls, but I felt Cooper would do better with a kitten, than to bring another adult cat into his domain, of which he is the undisputed king. I had almost given up hope, and in fact, had scheduled a visit to the Madison-Oglethorpe Animal Shelter to check out two cuties at their facility.  

Then, one afternoon as I was about the walk away from the computer, I saw where AHS had just that very moment posted pictures of two new litters of kittens they were getting ready to release.  One litter was polydactyl kitties (extra toe – Hemingway kitties!).  I clicked to get a better view, and there… buried underneath the tangle of paws and tails, I saw the tiny little head of a calico kitty!!  Immediately I called the shelter, and they agreed to put a “hold” on her until I could come in the following afternoon to meet her.  (Good thing, because they have had many calls about her since then!)  When I went to meet her the following day, it was totally love at first sight.  We bonded immediately – and then one of her siblings kept peeking at me, and once I held him, it was a done deal.  They don’t release the kitties until after their spay/neuter, and they can’t do that until they weigh 2 lb.  On that day, Scout weighed 1.88, but Boo Radley only weighed 1.38.  Scout’s surgery was scheduled for Tuesday May 28th, and I picked her up the following day.  By then, Boo Radley had gained up to 1.76, so we are anticipating his surgery and homecoming this next week.  

Scout

Boo Radley

Since her arrival at The 409, Scout has been hanging out in the master bath.   She has done really well.  I was afraid she would cry all night, missing her siblings.  I put the shirt into the kitty bed that I had worn that day, to give her a familiar scent.  Before I left her for the night, she was snuggled in the kitty bed, had her tail wrapped around to her face, and was suckling on the tip of her tail, ‘making biscuits’ on the fleecy inside wall of the kitty bed.  Of course, I didn’t have my phone to video the insane cuteness, but trust me… it was adorable.  She did very well during the night, no crying at all.  Next morning, she had transitioned back into the carrier for snoozing.  I guess that felt a little safer, with the walls and such.  I had put a box with a towel inside it in the bathroom, in case she wanted to hide from the world.  The carrier seemed a better choice, though, as it has mesh sides, so she could still see out, yet feel somewhat more protected from the unknown dangers of my bathroom.  I will have to put the carrier away, though, because she’s using it as a playscape.  It’s probably good to have her scent inside, and maybe it will be a comfort to Boo Radley during his separation from the rest of the litter, and the scary car ride to The 409.  He should be very happy to be reunited with his sister! 

For a few minutes last night, I brought Scout into the living room so Cooper could see her.  He’s been sniffing my clothes and hands for the past few days, and he has heard her in the bathroom, so he knew something was about to go down.  They were pretty funny.  A couple of non-threatening hisses, but no growling or aggressive-type behavior, which was a great relief to me.  I think Cooper was more nervous than Scout!  He has been without kitty company for so long that seeing another feline was a bit new for him.  They sniffed each other, and crouched carefully a foot or so away from each other and played the staring game.  When one would move, the other would startle.  Too funny.  Then it was back to the bathroom for Scout, and bedtime for Cooper and I. Though I was afraid it would be a long night of howling at each other behind the closed door, Cooper wasn't interested.  He was probably just glad to have his mommy back all to himself, and it seemed he snuggled a little extra close to me on the bed.

This morning, Cooper and I went into the bathroom together to spend some time with her.  They were so cute! (Video below) They are still a bit wary of each other, but it seems that very soon they will be best of friends.  I’m so happy!  I’m not quite ready for Scout to have total run of the house, so I’m still keeping her confined, I left the door open into the bedroom to give her more room to roam, and time to acquaint herself with a little more of the house.  She’s still a little skittish, and there are too many places for a tiny kitten to hide throughout the house, so we’ll take it slow in that regard.

I'd also like to do a commercial for the Athens Humane Society. These people are amazing!!  Everyone is so kind and helpful. They do such wonderful work with the kitties.  Their attention to detail is very impressive, and the facility is immaculately clean.  They are very careful with the adoption process, and make every effort to make sure that their animals go to good homes.  I would totally recommend anyone considering adoption to check them out.  Scout and Boo Radley are coming from the Mars Hill shelter, which is in the same building with the medical clinic.  There is also a cat shelter out near the Athens Airport that also houses cats and kittens available for adoption.  I don't anticipate bringing any more kitties to The 409 in the near future, but if/when the time comes, I will definitely go the Rescue route again.  No more spending money to buy a registered cat, when that same amount of money could save the lives of many kitties!!  

So… The Crazy Cat Lady life begins anew.  And a warning to anyone who would visit:  Be sure to bring your lint-roller with you, because if you sit on my furniture, you’ll get up with cat hair.  >^..^< 

Here's a video of Cooper and Scout “playing” this morning.  Sorry about the messy bathroom.  The video was shot before chores.

Cooper and Scout 06-01-2013

Some Gave All - My Confederate Soldier

Twenty-five years or so ago, my mom presented me with a family heirloom.  Though we’re not exactly sure when it was built, we believe it was crafted in the early 1700s, or perhaps maybe even a little earlier.  It’s a beautiful blanket chest with two drawers along the bottom.  Constructed with the dovetail technique, it is complete with a little “secret compartment” inside.  Legend has it that early on the tradition was begun that the chest would be passed along to the youngest daughter of each generation.  As my good fortune would have it, I have fallen into that lineage.  When my grandmother received it, it was in a sad state of disrepair, and spent many years in storage.  My mom wasn’t that interested in restoring it for herself, but because I was fascinated with it from a young age, she surprised me, and had it restored for me.  The tradition is safe for two more generations following me, as I have a daughter, and she also has a daughter.  I hope that when I’m gone, they will both love the chest (and its heritage) as much as me. 

When my grandmother inherited the chest, inside the “secret compartment” were found some brittle hand-written letters, a Bible, and some kind of medical booklet.  The letters are fascinating.  They were written using the quill-and-ink method, and the characters were written in a very fancy font.  The spelling, grammar, and punctuation were atrocious (leave it to the Grammar Nazi to notice that), but the document was pleasing to the eye, what with the fancy font.  Tattered and worn, some of the words were illegible, and the paper so fragile that we only took them out on one or two occasions that I remember.

The letters were written by an ancestor, a confederate soldier in the Civil War – the son of the woman who was, at that time, in possession of the blanket chest. She kept them all tucked safely inside the secret compartment, and I like to imagine she would read them each day, perhaps holding them close to her heart, burying her face into the folds, washing the ink with her tears.  There is no love and devotion like that of a mother, and this we know - the mother of a soldier in battle fights her own war with fear and dread every second of every day until her child is safely home.  The letters told about “hiding from the damn Yankees” in a ditch, and about drinking bootleg whiskey smuggled in by another soldier.  He spoke of his love for her, his siblings, and his home, and longed for the day that the war would be over, and he would be reunited with them.

One day the dreaded news arrived that he had been wounded in battle.  His mother, weak and frail from having delivered a baby just a few weeks earlier, was determined to go to him.  When she found the name of the hospital where he was being treated, she persuaded someone to drive her in a wagon to be by his side.  (I always think of the scene in Gone With the Wind of Mellie and baby Beau in the wagon fleeing Atlanta as it burned.)  Their journey lasted for days, but finally they reached the hospital.  Only to learn that her son had died a day or two before. How tragic a loss! 

Our family has been very fortunate with regard to KIA losses during my lifetime, which must also include my dad’s stent during the Korean War.  Though obviously before my lifetime, I wouldn't even be here without his return from duty.  There have been many conflicts and battles since then, and countless soldiers have died in distant lands, far from the arms of their loved ones... but thankfully my family has been spared from death or injury.  That is somewhat miraculous, considering the roll call of soldiers among us.  My dad Luther Carroll, my brother Michael, Uncle Bill, Uncle Billy P, Uncle Gene, Uncle Billy W, and Uncle Ricky.  So very thankful for their service and their safety!!

There are so many others, though, who gave the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom – standing tall on the Lexington Green in Massachusetts, shivering in the snow on a cold German country road, on a ship in Pearl Harbor, landing on the beach at Normandy, crawling through a rice paddy in Viet Nam, or in the hot desert sands of the middle east.

This is the only story of battle casualty in my family that I know for sure, though.  Today I’d like to honor the memory and the life of that young soldier, my ancestor, hardly more than a boy himself, who hid from the Yankees and drank bootleg whiskey.  His blood stained the dirt of a country divided, and he gave his all. 

Today we honor those who gave all. We remember the fallen.  Those who are buried in a foreign grave, or who returned home in a flag-draped box, or whose bones lie unmarked and forgotten, here on our own soil, or in faraway lands.

Memorial Day 2013.  Hopefully, for a while yet, Freedom Will Ring throughout the land.  But it comes at a very high cost.  Thank You, God, for those willing to pay the cost.  As we enjoy a holiday filled with parties and barbecues, may we never, EVER forget the lives lost, the families ripped apart, all in the name of purchasing and securing our Freedom.