Goin' Down to Mama's

Daddy Says: "Tin Roof and a Dog"

Daddy continues his critique of the American cinema:

Nowadays, there's not too many movies good enough to hold my interest. But I'll tell you this: If you see one where the opening scene has an old shack with a tin roof, and there's a dog on the porch, it'll be good. I guarantee it. Also, you should watch just about anything with Walter Brennan in it.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Lately, I've been spending a lot of time with my maternal grandfather—Grandaddy McCranie—which may sound strange, given that he died in 1947, many years before I was born. (That's one of the few pictures I have of him, above.) He has always been a mystery to me because Grandme never talked about him. And my mother was only 10 when he was killed in an accident, so she can't remember very much about her father, as much as she longs to. The few family memories I've gathered over the years, like occasional plums falling from a tree, were all fond—that he was kind and affectionate; that he worked very hard to support his family; that he loved to read, especially Western novels; and that if any one of his kids even thought about "sassing" Grandme, they would hear from him in an immediate and memorable way. He and Grandme were apparently polar opposites. For some reason, it has become important to me to try and understand the two of them and their life together, just as I want to know as much as possible about my Great Aunt Effie—another tragic loss in our family.

So I've been spending some time on Sunday afternoons with Uncle Bud, my mom's older brother, whose memory capacity could rival anything in Apple's product line. I can't believe I didn't have sense enough to do this with Grandme when she was still here, though I don't know how much she would've told me. She could be very guarded about some things, and Grandaddy McCranie was one of them. Maybe it was just too hard for her to travel back to that life, in memory. I guess I'll never know. I just know that his life meant something, that he had a story I wish I could read. It's like following footprints, tracing Grandaddy and Aunt Effie. Here's a life they touched, here's another; here's one memory and one or two more; here's their handwriting on a postcard; and then . . . the trail just ends. I can't know as much as I want to, but maybe I can know enough. 

Not only is Uncle Bud a treasure trove of family memories, but he's also a thoughtful, life-long Bible scholar. Many of our conversations drift from the family to my first (I'm ashamed to admit) journey all the way through the Bible. I am just beginning to explore territory that Uncle Bud has crossed, mapped, and revisited many times. And it occurred to me this morning that these two pursuits of mine are linked, especially now that I'm in the Gospel of John, written by one of the Apostles closest to Christ. I want to understand THIS life—the life of what some would call the "historical Jesus," but I would call the personal Jesus. What was THAT life like, here on earth? For the people closest to Him, what was that personal walk really like? How do their different perspectives help me color in the whole picture of a life, a walk, a message?

There's a moment in John, when Jesus is explaining that He is the bread of life and that His followers must "feed on" Him to have eternal life. And many of those who had been following Him, listening to His teaching, at that point said, "This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?" (John 6:56-60) Some of them couldn't grasp the whole picture because they knew Jesus' family—his earthly family—and so the reaction was "How can you say you come from heaven when we know your parents?" I've been known to have the opposite problem: "If only I had lived back then and could've seen You in person, I would understand everything." 

Of course, I wouldn't have understood everything, any more than those ancient followers did. But I hope I would've understood enough. Now, centuries later, I can't know everything about the life of Christ. But I can know enough. 

I have spoken to you of earthly things and you do not believe; how then will you believe if I speak of heavenly things? No one has ever gone into heaven except the one who came from heaven—the Son of Man. Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life. For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.
(John 3:12-17)

Seize a Big Ole Piece O'The Day

In some ways, age makes you more cautious. Would I now enroll in a university I had never seen before, as I did at Baylor? Why, no. Would I strike out across Texas at 2 a.m. because I was so eager to get home to Alabama? Absolutely not. I'm just thankful that old Ford and I survived it. On the other hand, the years make you aware of risks worth taking, moments worth seizing. Like living in London for three weeks. (OK, I had to be shoved into that one.) Or the time Granny and I abandoned  the other tourists on the main deck of a glass-bottom boat and rode in a little crow's nest (remember that scene with Kate and Leo in Titanic?) as we ripped across some breathtaking water in Key West. I was sure it was against the rules. She convinced me that under the right circumstances, the rules don't matter one bit. When Dave's Aunt Shirley told us she was coming for a visit—and that her plane would arrive during rush hour—we immediately set about finding a way to turn that situation around. Aunt Shirley is full of mischief and fun, and we couldn't imagine welcoming her to Birmingham with bumper-to-bumper traffic. So we hit upon the notion of a limo. And not just any limo, but a loooooooooong white stretch limo. We were channeling Vegas. But how to make that happen? We called my friend and agent, Gary Wright, who ALWAYS knows somebody who knows somebody who can do whatever outrageousness you can dream up. Gary put us in touch with his friend Emory Hubbard, owner of Elite Limousine of Birmingham, and Emory, who retired from law enforcement and started his own business, gave Aunt Shirley an arrival she says she'll never forget. (That's the two of them pictured above.) It was like one of those Visa commercials, where they tell you the price of everything involved in creating an experience and then label the experience itself "priceless." The look on Aunt Shirley's face when she realized the long white car was for her? PRICELESS. Aunt Shirley, Dave, and I HIGHLY recommend Emory, whom you can reach at  (205) 856-4111 or [email protected]. We also highly recommend at least one limo ride in your lifetime, preferably during rush hour, so you can recline in your plush leather seat, gaze out an expanse of tinted glass, and feel sorry for all the "little people" battling traffic in their Lexus SUVs and BMWs. How ever do they STAND it?:)

Daddy Says: "Add Water and Stir"

Daddy's take on a movie he and Mama recently saw on TV:

Daddy: I didn't think too much of it. If you ask me, it was one of those add-water-and-stir movies. Not a lotta thought went into it.

Mama: Add water and stir?

Daddy: Yeah.

Mama: I never heard of that.

Daddy: That's because I just created it.

Sunday Morning Serenity

One of the most important skills a writer can have—and one of the most difficult for anybody to master—is the ability to listen. Not the half-hearted listening I'm sometimes guilty of, but true listening, the kind where you're completely focused on what another person is saying and feeling, the kind where you're acutely aware of what's happening around you. Years ago, I had an amazing opportunity to participate in a writing workshop led by a wonderful Native American writer named Joseph Bruchac. He taught us a listening exercise that I still use. You pick a spot outside, sit down, relax, and close your eyes. Imagine a tight circle right around you. What do you hear, just inside that circle? Now imagine a slightly bigger circle, a little farther out. Listen in there for a while. Now a bigger circle and a bigger one . . . like ripples widening out from a rock tossed into a creek. It's amazing how much we miss all around us because we don't take the time to pay attention. I think that's especially true in my own relationships with other people. How much are friends and family trying to tell me that I don't hear because I'm thinking about what I'm going to say next or where I need to be next? How often am I in such a hurry to get to what SEEMS important that I completely miss what really IS important? I heard a Nobel Prize-winning astrophysicist interviewed on NPR not long ago, and he said that all the planets and stars and moons and galaxies that scientists have identified make up just a tiny fraction of what's in the universe. Everything we know, everything we can name and understand, is just a tiny piece of what's actually there. True of the universe, true of each other . . . and  infinitely true of God.

God is our refuge and strength,
an ever-present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam
and the mountains quake with their surging.

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
the holy place where the Most High dwells.
God is within her, she will not fall;
God will help her at break of day.
Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall;
he lifts his voice, the earth melts.

The Lord Almighty is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Come and see what the Lord has done,
the desolations he has brought on the earth.

He makes wars cease
to the ends of the earth.
He breaks the bow and shatters the spear;
he burns the shields with fire.

He says, “Be still, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth.”

The Lord Almighty is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.

[Psalm 46]

 

Definitely Not Fighting for Position

This just in, McCranie cousins. Mama and Uncle Bud corrected me on birth order yesterday. I have always thought Ronnie was the oldest of us "firsts," but they tell me there were three McCranie kids born that same year. Apparently, the two girl cousins who made it to Labor & Delivery a few months ahead of Ronnie are MORE than happy to let me hand him the "oldest" crown:) They even volunteered to polish it. I'm feeling pretty fortunate, having spent Sunday afternoon visiting family and talking with family  about—what else—family. And I'm especially glad that Goin' Down to Mama's has helped me connect with all the cousins, near and far, some older and some (MUCH) younger, who are so special to me. I'm officially very blessed. (And Ronnie, I've been calling you the oldest for 50 years, so if you don't mind, I'll just keep it up:)

Sunday Morning Serenity

Where do you find your truest self—the way-down-deep Real You? Where do you connect with the you who isn't making adjustments for anybody else, who isn't influenced by what other people think—or by what YOU think is expected of you? That's what I've been trying to figure out as I read the Gospels. So many times, Jesus reminds both his followers and his detractors that it's the true nature of your heart that matters. What you do isn't enough—it's often the "why" that divides good from evil, honesty from hypocrisy.

When I'm polite to that cashier at Publix, am I doing it out of genuine kindness, or do I just want the people around me to know Mama raised me right? When I give away things I don't use any more, am I doing it out of real concern for people in need, or do I just want to clean out my closets? Last year, I traveled on business with an old friend who's also my book agent, and the big joke of the trip was how he drove me CRAZY by having a lengthy conversation with everybody we met—from a lost trucker who took the same wrong turn that we took, to every waiter in every restaurant we tried. We stopped in a quick mart for a road snack, and before we got out of there, he had gathered the entire personal history of the cashier, down to where she and her family had spent the past weekend—with me standing there fidgeting and willing him to WRAP IT UP, ALREADY! I have to admit, his many personal connections have helped me more times than I can count over the years. But he doesn't make them with any purpose in mind—he truly wants to know . . . everybody.

Back to that "truest self"—where's mine?  I can see and hear the real me—warts and all—in some pretty disjointed places. Playing sacred music . . . in an empty church. During moments of prayer . . . when I'm not talking. In a swimming pool—which is odd for me, because I'm not a very good swimmer. But it's not just any pool—it's the indoor one at Gold's Gym, when there isn't another soul in sight. There's something about the echo in that big room and the sound and movement of the water that clears away the static so I can really "tune in." These are all solitary moments, without distraction.

Luke records how crowds of people followed Jesus, coming to hear His message, to be healed, to understand grace and forgiveness. And in the midst of those crowded moments, Luke also records this: "But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed." (Luke 5:16) I wonder if those moments reflect the divinity and humanity of Christ—divine communication with His heavenly Father AND a very human need to escape the throngs of people, all with their own view of who He was or should be, and get to a solitary place of truth and peace.

Hoping, this week, for moments of prayer in lonely places. 

[Image anonymous, from Freerangestock.com]

 

Home to Meet the Family

Last night, I saw a Facebook post from my much younger second cousin. (Or is it first cousin, twice removed? Always been a little fuzzy on that.) Anyway, Heather was wishing a happy anniversary to her mom and dad and to her brother and sister-in-law. That "happy anniversary" to her parents brought me an immediate and wonderful family flashback.

Heather's dad, Ronnie, is the oldest of about 14 first cousins on my mother's side of the family. When I was a child, I had Ronnie on quite a pedestal. He was the oldest—very cool. He drove a Mustang, for heaven's sake. And his family lived in this faraway place called "Atlanta." I had never been much of anywhere, so living in Atlanta was like living in The Emerald City. It was this glittering, distant place I could only imagine. All I knew about it was that it was big—really big—and that it didn't fare so well in Gone with the Wind.

Back then, it was an event when the Atlanta relations came to visit because people didn't zip back and forth from state to state the way they do now. It became an especially momentous occasion when word drifted over from Georgia that Ronnie was bringing his intended to meet the family. Oh, who are we kidding? He was bringing Jennifer to meet Grandme. The rest of the clan was just along for the ride—and for a huge dinner.

Bless Jennifer's heart, there must've been 40 or more of us spilling out of that old shotgun house the day she first stepped in—and 40 or more of us staring at the happy couple. Can you even imagine facing that? I can still see all of us crowded into Grandme's living room and adjoining dining room, with Ronnie and Jennifer sitting together on this ginormous gold ottoman that Mama got at the Green Stamp Store "for extra seating." I remember thinking Jennifer's SO pretty and—Sigh!—they're SO in love! And I wondered if I would EVER grow up and EVER bring anybody home to meet the family. (Happy to report that I did. I was 30-something, but I managed to pull it off eventually:)

I get very nostalgic for those days when my grandmother was still with us and our family was huge, and there was still a certain ceremony involved in adding a new member to the clan. My mother has always said, "You don't just marry the person—you marry the family." Wise words, Mama. Wise words. I'll bet Jennifer would concur:)

Sunday Morning Serenity

Have you ever thought about how different your life would be if even one curve along your personal pathway had turned in a different direction? I've been thinking about that a lot lately, in part because Dave and I have been spending a lot of time with family, so I'm extremely aware of generational differences. I look at our teenage and 20-something nieces and nephews, and I remember being that age, when absolutely anything seemed possible and I believed that I was going to decide the course of my own life. You have to live some life to realize that you never held the reins as tightly as you thought. You make your own decisions, you live with your choices, but there's something higher and greater happening, something divine that we're completely unaware of at the time. It's only visible in the rear-view mirror.

For example, what if you had been raised by different parents? What if you had never met your best friend? What if you had never bumped into that old college roommate who happened to know somebody at the company you wanted to work for?

Even the simple things you enjoy—where did they come from? Reading has always been easy for me because I was taught well—and early—by a gifted first-grade teacher named Fannie Hinds. My mother hoped and prayed I would land in Mrs. Hinds' class, and I did. Music has been one of the great joys of my life because I was taught well—and early—by another gifted teacher named Jenny Glenn, someone I never would've met if her husband hadn't been called to pastor our church when I was a child.

Looking back on my college years, I was always a bit of a square peg at Baylor because the master's program in English was aimed at prepping students to pursue a PhD, which I had no intention of doing. But while I was there, I got the opportunity to work on an academic journal—my first professional publishing experience—and made lifelong friends who have helped me over many difficult bumps in the road. One of them, Maridith, had worked at Southern Living and introduced me to HER friend Martha, who gave me a summer job—and an education in publishing—at the Southern Living Cooking School. Later, when I was pounding the pavement, looking for full-time work in a horrible job market, I would stop by Martha's office and say, "Tell me I'm not a total loser." And she would give me the boost of confidence I needed to keep going. 

I first saw Dave at an intramural volleyball game that I attended only because a friend talked me into it. Dave and I actually met for the first time at a group tennis lesson he was teaching—again, only because friends at work talked me into it, right after I finished my master's degree. They thought I needed to "get a life" (not to mention some exercise) after all those months of working full time, finishing my thesis, and studying for the oral exam. I definitely got a life—and develped a pretty decent backhand:)

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't believe in coincidences. There's a purpose and an order to things that we can't always see. We just have to trust God to reveal it to us in time:

God is working his purpose out 
as year succeeds to year: 
God is working his purpose out, 
and the time is drawing near; 
nearer and nearer draws the time, 
the time that shall surely be, 
when the earth shall be filled with the glory of God 
as the waters cover the sea. 

 From "God Is Working His Purpose Out," Psalter Hymnal, lyrics by Arthur Campbell Ainger, 1894