Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

Yesterday I went to a memorial service for Rosemary Wyatt, the wife of my mother's first cousin, Frank Jr. We didn't get to be close because they lived in Chicago, so I only saw them a few times a year, when they came South to visit Frank's mother, my Aunt Nannie Lee. And yet, I have vivid childhood memories of those visits.

Rosemary was very exotic to me. Everything about her was different—her Chicago-native accent; her stylish updo; her sophisticated "city clothes." No one would ever mistake her for a country girl. I remember exactly what she sounded like—and how I couldn't wait for her to talk, when I was a kid, so I could hear that accent, which completely fascinated me. 

During the service, her family talked about how much she loved Chicago and enjoyed showing the city to her nieces and nephews when they came to visit. I never thought about it when I was a child, but it's pretty amazing that someone who was such a city girl could come out to my grandmother's farmhouse in Harpersville, Alabama, and seem completely at home. But she did. Always smiling and laughing with the family, never any hint of "oh my gosh, get me out of these cotton fields and back to the city." 

I need to be more like that—more open to embracing wherever I happen to be instead of "I can't wait to get back home, back to what's familiar."

Last week, I had to make an overnight trip to New York. I don't enjoy air travel. Let's just put that on the table. On my return trip, the Atlanta-to-Birmingham leg got really choppy as we started to descend. And as I tried to discreetly put a vice grip on my armrest and get my prayer life in order, I looked across the aisle at a little girl—no more than three—who was looking out the window, gleefully kicking her feet, and letting out an occasional "whee!" when the plane took an unexpected dip. 

Granted, she was far too young to know about wind shear or tropical storms on the Doppler. But she, like Rosemary, gave me food for thought. Often, the difference between fear and excitement is perspective—how we interpret our situation. And the difference between enjoying an unfamiliar place and merely enduring it? The same. Perspective. It's all about how we choose to see it. 

Prayers for Rosemary's family this morning.

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

I know I’m supposed to be thinking about fathers today, but I’m thinking about brothers instead—Daddy and Uncle Jimmy. In a way, the two of them taught each other how to be good fathers because they loved each other unconditionally and were always there for each other, which is the best thing a father can do for his children.

Neither one of them ever cared much for rule-following, which is why I got to wade in the fountain at Eastwood Mall when I was little (and Mama was occupied Christmas shopping), and it’s why every kid who visits my parents is offered ice cream, which Daddy thinks is more fun to eat while sitting on the living room carpet, in front of the TV. It’s also why Uncle Jimmy’s first grandchild grew up calling Toys R Us “Toys For Us” because the two of them would go in there and play with everything together. I could tell, when all of his grandkids were together a few weeks ago, that each one of them had a unique, special relationship with their Pop.

I don’t know why, but both Daddy and Uncle Jimmy always seemed to think that a child’s primary mission in life is to have fun. For years, I begged Daddy to let me get a summer job, but he would always say, “You’ve got the rest of your life to work—have fun while you can.” And whenever Uncle Jimmy stopped by Mama and Daddy’s with my cousin Amy’s boys, they were usually on their way to some adventure, often persuading Daddy to come along for the ride. (Amy took one of my favorite pictures of Daddy and Uncle Jimmy while they were watching one of her boys play ball.)

The Fraser brothers, I think, always liked to show kids possibilities. You wish you had a horse? Well, let’s go get you one. You'll need boots and a hat, too. You wish you had a chimpanzee? Daddy’ll look into it. Anything’s possible.

Not long ago, I came home from visiting my folks and told Dave, “Mama says I’m just like Daddy.” He laughed. Really loud. And said something like, “You think?” The truth is that as close as I am to my mother and as much time as we spend together, nobody has ever told me that I’m just like her. It’s always, “You are just like your Daddy.” (Maybe that's why Mama likes to hang out with me. LOL) I’m not sure what they mean when they say it, but I guess Dave will just have to live with it—and the possibilities.:)

Happy Father’s Day, June Bug. Love you always, Uncle Jimmy.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Friends, we have entered Dream Come True territory. This is the cover for my first novel, which will be released early next year. And I can brag on it because I didn’t have a thing in the world to do with it—the creative team at Baker Publishing Group’s Revell Books developed the concept and design. I think it’s beautiful. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the title change—the book was originally called Glory, Alabama—but when I saw the new title with this cover, I jumped right on board.

Here endeth the blatant self-promotion. But I would like to share a few things I’ve learned on this journey.

I was still a student at Auburn (translation: young) when Uncle Chick and my cousin Stanley told me the story of a local field hand who vanished. There was speculation of foul play. That story kept my imagination fired for years. I tried to write it so many times, but nothing worked—for literally a couple of decades.

Lesson 1: You can’t write a story if you don’t have anything to say. My uncle and cousin had given me a great situation to work with, but I was way too inexperienced to know what to do with it. It’s the same in everyday life—God uses the experiences we have to teach us how to interpret and learn from our circumstances.

Fast-forward to 2008. After many years of coaching from great storytellers at Southern Living, my home away from home got obliterated when the recession provoked a reorganization of our company. Hundreds of employees—friends—lost their jobs. People were crying in the hallways. We never knew, when we left for work in the morning, if we would still have a job that afternoon. A workplace that had always been happy and secure and familial was suddenly chaotic and scary. I developed severe insomnia and watched more episodes of Law and Order at 3 a.m. than I could count. Eventually, I got tired of spending my mornings at the precinct and decided to do something—anything—productive. Early one morning while Dave was sound asleep, I dug around in some old files, fished out a version of that story I had been trying to write forever, lit a candle, and popped open my laptop in the guest room. Away we went.

Lesson 2: When you feel stuck in miserable circumstances, pay attention to that Voice when it tells you to move. Even if you aren’t sure of your footing, pray for guidance, take a step, and see what happens.

Over time, the joy and freedom I felt, writing anything I wanted in the wee hours of the morning, began to overtake the stress at work. My job actually became secondary to my story, and I was able to get some perspective. One day, I came home from work, looked at Dave and said, “I think I have to leave the magazine.” And he said—during a recession, mind you—“Of course you do.”

Lesson 3: Dave is wise. Dave is patient. Dave is a sea of calm. God bless Dave.

Fast-forward to 2015. While I was freelancing, Southern Living hired me to work on their 50^th anniversary book and a special issue of the magazine. Immediately, Daddy said, “You’re going back. They’re going to offer you a job, and you’re going back.” I told him, as lovingly as a daughter could, “You’ve lost your mind.”

Lesson 4: Sometimes Daddy’s right.

There will always be a touch of chaos at any magazine, but now, thankfully, it’s the creative kind, not the ulcer-inducing kind. There’s a talented young staff I’ve enjoyed getting to know (and they’ve patiently taught Memaw Val the ins and outs of technology I had never heard of).

Lesson 5: What our Sunday School teachers told us was true. There’s a big, big difference between God’s timing and our timing. Nothing that I thought I wanted would have turned out well if I had gotten it when I wanted it. Because I wasn’t ready for it.

I remember a time when I was really frustrated because freelancing was slow and money was tight and nothing was happening with my book. Daddy told me, “Just keep on doing what you’re doing and something will break loose. Don’t give up.”

Lesson 6: Sometimes Daddy’s right. Again.

Sunday Morning Serenity

I’ve been seriously plagued with insomnia this weekend—likely because I have a book deadline a week from Monday—so I’m binge-watching Say Yes to the Dress to try and get sleepy. (I can’t help myself. I love that show—especially the Georgia version). And it’s kind of appropriate to watch it this morning because today is our wedding anniversary. Yesterday, I was teasing Dave about our 12 years together: “I have given you 2 of the best years of your life!”

But back to those dresses. Watching brides agonize over the mermaid silhouettes they want, versus the ball gown Mama wants, just reminded me of how far removed planning a wedding is from living a marriage.

When we were planning ours, I used to enjoy torturing Daddy by telling him that Dave and i were writing our own vows, and that one of mine was going to be this: I love that you love the beach as much as I do, and I promise that you can share my float if yours should ever get a hole in it. Poor Junior. It ain’t easy being Daddy.

Not long ago, I dreamed that Dave and I had decided to renew our vows, and I asked Bernice Kidd back home if we could have the reception at her house. (Bernice looked a little stunned but agreed to it.)

I used to want grand gestures—for Valentine’s, anniversaries, etc. Now? We both agreed we’d be happier sharing a “staycation” weekend and just relaxing at home than making all the arrangements for a trip. So I’m spending some time in the Story Shack, he’s spending some time in his shop, and in between we’re going out to restaurants we haven’t had time to visit in a while and taking rambles in “Fireball,” his ’53 Chevy. No grand gestures. Just a quiet appreciation for what we have.

We don’t feel the need to renew our vows (so Bernice, you’re off the hook). But if I were writing mine, knowing what I know after 12 years, they would go something like this:

I, Valerie, promise you, David:

That I will always thank you when you do my laundry (even though you roll my jeans into a ball when you fold them, but hey, at my age they have so much Lycra in them that wrinkles aren’t an issue any more).

That I will never take your grilling skills for granted.

That I will try to correct my habit of never closing any door I open because it drives you crazy, and I really and truly am working on that. Still. After 12 years.

That I will appreciate your understanding every time I say, “Why did I come into this room? And have you seen my car keys?”

That I will try to watch NASCAR with you since you try to watch Say Yes to the Dress with me.

That I will (try to) stop encroaching on your area of our closet (since you only asked for a fourth of it to begin with).

That I will use Tide. Mama says I’m not getting your white shirts bright enough.

That I will laugh more, complain less, and be grateful every day for our blessings, which, even in the tough times, are too many to count.