Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

"I feel your pain." We say that kind of thing all the time—or I do, anyway—often when I'm kidding around with friends or family. But we really do feel the pain of people we care about. We can even feel the pain of people we don't know all that well just by imagining what it would be like to face what they're facing. In the past couple of weeks, I've seen people in my own circle cope with difficult news from doctors—but I also saw one friend surprised and relieved to get very good news. A hundred years ago, when I was a teenager, our youth choir used to sing this song—I think it was called "Would You"—and I can't remember the words, but there was one line that went something like "would you cherish loving arms if you'd never been alone." The gist of the song was this: Would you value the good without the bad? Would you know how to reach out to other people if you'd never needed someone to be there for you? Knowing that difficult times can shape us for the better isn't terribly comforting when we're going through them. We just want the bad times to end, the pain to go away. And then we want to put it behind us. But maybe we're meant to store away glimmers of those memories, little bits of our darker days, so we'll know how to shine a light for people in need who cross our path.

Lady Banks Has Arrived

Dave and I aren't always kindred gardening spirits. He likes order and evergreens. I like a little chaos and anything that blooms. But we're both fans of the Lady Banks rose that takes over our back yard every spring. AND I have recently learned that Dave likes wisteria as much as I do. I know, I know. It's so invasive, it can devour entire ranch houses. But I love the way it just appears in the woods, washing all the trees in fragrant purple. (We're especially grateful for trees in my neighborhood since we lost so many last spring.) Lady Banks was a gift. She was here when I bought the house. And every spring, she drapes over the pathway in our back yard and sprints up the hill by the Story Shack to climb a few trees. No thorns. Just long, graceful willows of pretty yellow flowers. With flowers like that, she can cover anything in my yard she wants to. Except maybe Hank the Cat. Hey, where is that cat, anyway? 

Sunday Morning Serenity

I've been traveling for work most of this week, and when I sat down to write this morning, two songs kept running through my head: "I Wouldn't Take Nothin' for My Journey Now" and "Take Me Home, Country Roads." Opposite sides of the coin, I guess. I've always been what you might call an enthusiastic but reluctant traveler. The process of leaving home—packing suitcases and loading the car and making sure the iron is unplugged—has always made me melancholy. In those last few hours, you could tell me just about any trip was cancelled, and I'd be fine with it. Once I'm actually gone and there's no turning back, I love exploring new places. But I'm always ready to come home. Maybe our spiritual journey is like that. Maybe we started out right where we're supposed to be, but we have to journey, to roam for a while, before we can understand and appreciate our true home . . . 

Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong

["Take Me Home, Country Roads" by John Denver. Image by Chance Agrella at Freerangestock.com] 

 

Hey, Can I Have a Quarter?

 

Remember the joys of slipping a quarter into a metal slot and turning a knob to see what prize you had won? The toy rings would always be prominently sparkling in those little plastic bubbles in front, but nine times out of ten, I'd put in my quarter, hoping for a ring, only to see a rubber spider or a jaw breaker or something equally unexciting come tumbling out. Still, I had to try my luck whenever my folks had some spare change. Of course, that same quarter could also fetch a "ride" in a motorized car or airplane, which basically wobbled back and forth after you put your money in. They used to have them outside grocery stores, and I could usually score a quarter for a ride if I had behaved myself and not begged for too much on the candy aisle. But somehow, those rides lacked the thrill of the bubblegum/prize machine. Maybe it was because you knew what was going to happen. The element of surprise was lost. Cracker Jack understood that. When I was a kid, those Cracker Jack prizes were something. Nowadays, they tend to be of the paper variety—a press-on tattoo or a quiz or something. But in the sixties? Sometimes they required assembly (which is to say, they required my older cousin Richard). We're talking vehicles, fashion accessories—sometimes I couldn't wait to eat my way to my treasure and I'd dump that sticky popcorn into a bowl so I could quickly fish through it. I guess I've always been excited about loot—especially jewelry. When I was little, I had dreadful baby teeth (because I preferred orange juice to milk) and spent many long hours in the office of Dr. Ivan Smith in Childersburg. Dr. Smith was amazing—the calmest, most painless dentist you can imagine. But what made him truly wonderful is that, once you got your tooth pulled or filled or otherwise dealt with, his nurse would lead you to a special closet which held a tray of toy RINGS! And you got to pick one out for yourself. (Take that, bubblegum machine! No quarter required!) You cannot imagine how I would agonize over my choice. It didn't matter how much Novocaine I had ingested or how puffed with gauze my cheeks were, this was a serious decision, not to be rushed. I would hold my hand out and admire my selection all the way home. And so, while the bubblegum machine and Cracker Jack held a certain thrill, over time I came to appreciate the certainty of Dr. Smith and his beautiful tray of rings. I also learned to drink milk.

Daddy Says: "Stuff About Bears You Don't Know"

It's time, once again, for the post-Sunday lunch wrap-up. Alas, cousin Grey didn't show, so we had to carry the discussion without him:

Daddy: Hey, I'll bet there's some stuff about bears you don't know.

Me: Bears? 

Daddy: Yeah, bears.

Me: Like what?

Daddy: Well, there's some stuff they really hate. For example, they hate signs that say "Do Not Feed the Bears."  And signs that say "Keep All Food Out of Reach of Bears."

Me: I guess that's understandable . . .

Daddy: And you know how people say that if you're ever attacked by a bear, you should roll up into a ball?

Me: Okay . . . 

Daddy: Well, you shouldn't do that. Unless you're a porcupine. 

[Grey, where are you when we need you?]  

Daddy Says: "Bad Pond O' Water"

If you've been kind enough to visit Goin' Down to Mama's before, you know that my father has a unique way of expressing himself. Some of his favorite pronouncements have achieved proverb status in our family. I call these Juniorisms. Here are a few:

That's just a lost ball in high weeds.
Translation: Your situation is hopeless; further action would be futile.

You just traded the devil for the witch.
Translation: You just swapped one bad situation for another.
It's Daddy's version of "out of the frying pan and into the fire." 

I'm afraid she drove her ducks to a bad pond o' water.
Translation: I don't much care for her husband. 

Daddy Says: "Thinking About Van Gogh"

Daddy called me this morning with a burning question:

Daddy: Hey, do you ever wake up in the morning thinking about Vincent Van Gogh?

Me: Uh . . .

Daddy: You know—do you ever wake up wondering about the kind of stuff he and his wife might've said to each other? [I'm not at all sure the tormented painter ever married, but we'll skip that for now.]

Me: I can't say that I have, Daddy. What exactly did you decide the Van Goghs said to each other?

Daddy: Well, for starters, she might've said something like, "YOU'VE CUT YOUR EAR OFF!!"

Me: I can see that.

Daddy: Or let's say she's trying to talk to him and tell him something. He might say something like, "Would you mind sitting on my other side?"

Me: That would be because of the ear situation?

Daddy: Exactly! I've got more—you wanna hear them?

Me: Maybe you could just jot them all down . . .

Sunday Morning Serenity

I shall not be, I shall not be moved;
I shall not be, I shall not be moved;
Just like a tree that's planted by the waters,
Lord, I shall not be moved.

[American Folk Song] 

Every time I watch the news or listen to the radio, I hear something outrageous or tragic or infuriating. I think every generation, at one time or another, has said, "This world has just gone crazy." That one's usually followed by, "These must be the End Times." Christians have been looking for the last days since, well, the beginning of Christianity. Nobody knows when that's coming. All we can do is live the lives we've been given. Maybe that's what makes some of the craziness in the world so frustrating. We feel like it's diminishing our time—the time we've been given, however long or short it may be. That's why I think it's so important to lighten each other's load whenever we can, to seek the best in each other and "not be moved" by all the detrimental forces in the great "out there." When I was a piano student in the seventies, my teacher, whom I absolutely adored, focused on classical and church music. So getting a pop song on the lesson schedule took some persuading. One song made the cut simply because my mother loved it so much and wanted me to learn to play it for her. I didn't really get it back then, but I get it now:

When you're weary 
Feeling small 
When tears are in your eyes 
I will dry them all 

I'm on your side 
When times get rough 
And friends just can't be found 
Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will lay me down 
[from "Bridge Over Troubled Water," by Paul Simon] 

Egg Hunt Memories

I woke up this morning to rain-soaked grass and daffodils popping up everywhere and birds chirping away, and all of that added up to SPRING IS COMING! Which made me think of Easter. And while I realize that the Easter Bunny is not the reason for the season, the egg hunts heralding his arrival do hold some special memories for me. Oddly enough—not childhood memories. I really can't remember how the family egg hunt got started, but I do know that the only child involved was my youngest cousin, Grey. The rest of us were in high school, college, or beyond. For some reason, we decided to have an egg hunt after church one Easter Sunday. And we had to remind ourselves that a child was present and that we should hide at least a few eggs where he could find them, because the object of the game was to stump the adults. My cousin Richard was by far the most diabolical egg hider. One year he dug a big hole, put about 30 eggs in there, and covered it up. Over and over, we counted the "found" eggs, trying to figure out what had become of the 30 missing ones. Another year, he put a dead snake on top of a cluster of eggs and scared Aunt Patsy half to death. He hid one in the exhaust pipe of Uncle Chick's pickup and it got stuck. We had to crank the truck to blow the egg out of there. Over the years, word spread. Our friends Sheila and Sandra joined in. (Their parents fed us all every Christmas morning, so it was only fair. Bernice and Bub's  Christmas Day breakfast was famous.) We even picked up a few preacher's kids along the way. The egg hunt was always held either at my folks' house or across the highway at Aunt Joyce's. I'm sure passing motorists must've wondered what all those adults were doing, roaming around the yard with Easter baskets in hand. Eventually, as the older kids got even older and either moved away or had kids of their own to entertain after Easter services, the family egg hunt died out. Still, this time of year, when I look out the window and see yellow flowers everywhere, I get the urge to pick up a box of that Paas dye and a jug of vinegar and decorate myself some eggs.