i will live deliberately

i had a conversation with a lady this week about stuff. she and I are about the same age, so i figured who could know more about stuff than two middle-aged women who had been through children and men and lived to tell the tale.

she seemed as disheartened with stuff - a.k.a. car payments, overly-decorated houses, pricey vacations, unexpected commitments, shopping for things you didn't need while working at a job you hated, etc - as I was. things that really make no difference in my well-being or quality of life.

oh, make no mistake, there was a time when the right car in the drive-way meant the difference between living well and barely living.  the flashy metal was in a four-year cycle, trading on and trading up, which also meant more money each month. but who cared? I had a new car. that's what i was supposed to do, and boy, did i look great.

now, in my drive-way sits an 11 year old saab that, god-willing, will get me from a to b without having a stroke. I keep up the maintenance which if I counted it up would probably equal a car payment - but still, that's random and I can live with random. i've never had a car this long, but  I do fear the day, when old Bessie just can't belt out another chang-ching. I would miss her and my trepidation each time i climbed in. we've developed quite a relationship, and I think, we still have time to explore more.

people are keeping vehicles longer these days. they aren't as concerned with the froo-froo that once consumed our lives. there's a joy in simplicity. staying at home, saying 'no' to things and meetings that really aren't that important. leaving that charming artifact on the store shelves and asking a second time, 'is it necessary?'

i ask that a lot lately. is it necessary? will this make me a better person? is it worth my time? am I selfish to put myself before what is expected of me? and this answer to all - is no.

by the time people reach my age, it is the person staring back in the mirror who must be the priority. if I can feel good about my decisions, or lack of ones, I will be just fine.

no more stuff for me. nothing unless it's absolutely necessary. simplicity. thoreau had the right idea when he escaped to walden pond -  to live off the land with only the bare necessities. to live deliberately. to be himself, and not be concerned with what other people thought he should be.

we would all be better if life included only what we truly needed.

i am favored

"judy, you are favored," my new friend eagerly told me. i just sat there without a clue as to the next word that would come out of my mouth. so, i waited.

"judy, you are," she said more convincingly. "i don't use puffy words. I mean it." i think she did. the longer i sat there in silence, the more i heard those words resounding over and over. i was favored.

the backstory is simple. i'm going to a birthday party at a monastery tomorrow - the 102nd birthday of the founding father for the only monastery in georgia. i suppose my friend recognized something i didn't. i admit, it is kind of cool that i am being allowed in a part of the cloister where no one is allowed to visit, but i have been down this road before - a journalist asking for access for a story. but then i thought, of all the people in the world, this man - this father - would be the least impressed with my credentials. he couldn't care less. it was his birthday, and as i was told, he - as well as all those around him -  wanted to share his life with me. in fact, who am i kidding - yes, i got access to jason aldean in sanford stadium, but he didn't know me from the faceless armadillo crossing the highway.

i realized that these two events are as different as night and day. the aldean concert was a media circus, his moment to flaunt before the home crowd just who he had become, and the more eyes on him, the better. it would make him a better man, a better entertainment. a better paycheck.

for father luke, his invitation is personal and selective. more than likely, he will not understand my role at his celebration, but he will hopefully catch my eyes and hear my greetings. he'll answer my queries, and with his wonderful humor, he and i will both laugh when he answers. he will care enough to bring me into his space, and hope that i will return the respect. he will not need my approval or presence to authenticate his life.

i am favored. not simply because i get the opportunity to do things many don't, but because i get to tell stories of a generation that still has so much to teach us. i'm allowed the opportunity to sit with the sages of this world, to photograph them and capture moments when they are happiest, and to write down their words so that when they have gone on to greener pastures, their legacy remains.

yes, my new friend, i am favored, not because of who i am but because of those i have met.

no good

My eyes are glued to her photo. I gasp. I smile. I gloat. I'm in the midst of an extreme moment of karma, physical evidence that what goes around, comes around. "I knew it," I convince myself. I knew in my heart that God never forgets, and He takes care of his small birds, mustard seeds, and the like. I have been vindicated. It is pay-back time for the grief, and yes, downright craziness, she caused me. We're even now.

A night passes.

Really? I put on my big girl panties and breathe. Really?

Does a cloudy, unflattering mug shot for stealing a hairbrush in Wal-Mart (I'm just guessing since she looked so forlorn) actually make up for the hours of pain, tears and fear I experienced some ten years ago - almost to the day? Can a bond of $1300 be equal to the thousands that I lost? And not mention the years stolen from my life? What about my children? Can it replace their grief?

Hours have passed since my initial revelation, and the sun is rising. The mama bird flips up to her corner nest and then flies down again to the porch railing, heading out to find food for her young. The horses pass by the upper field, grazing and every now and then, raise their heads to make sense of an unknown sound and quickly, once they determine everything is okay, resume nibbling. The cat sits at my feet, all cuddled in a ball. Never impressed by the movements of the birds or the horses. He only moves when I do. He is only moved by me.

I realize that I am no different from yesterday morning, even with my new-found knowledge. Every thing I've tried to discover, every one that I had informed, every high-five I lifted are movements and thoughts that I surmised would make me a different, more satisfied person. One with a new sense of worth and made greater because of her atonement. Nope. Didn't happen.

Knowing something bad happens to another can't increase my value. If my mom were here, she'd tell me it diminishes mine. I should be the lofty one. I should be the better one. And I will be known by my thoughts and deeds. And at this moment, I change gears.

I'm sad that people don't lose their spots. That they don't change. That they don't understand that good is the only road to follow. I guess people become so cemented to a certain path that veering off is never an option. Doing what is right is the only option.

So, I will forgive my thoughts - they will come to no good. I haven't been able to forgive her yet. Nor the others, but in time, I will. I have forgotten to the point that I can get through any given day without thinking of the day my world ended. It gets better - even with a pop-up reminder of her terrible face.

My bird, my horses and my cat don't have time for her - and frankly, neither do I. 

stronger than death

“I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. That dreams are more powerful than facts. That hope always triumphs over experience. That laughter is the only cure for grief. And I believe that love is stronger than death.” ~Robert Fulghum, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

I went to a funeral. A man of 92. A man who had lived a long, good life. A Godly life with a wife and five children.  His family was there, holding onto their mother, joining together to say good-bye. Even though I didn't know the man personally, I knew his brother and sister. I know the strength of the family.

I thought of how things have changed. Family numbers aren't staggering anymore. I do have three children, but since I'm an only child and so is their father, there's no close or distant relatives for that matter. They mostly have each other. There are no long lineage of brothers and sisters, no massive Thanksgiving or Christmas celebrations with women and men and children struggling to add seats around the dinner table. No mountainous pile of Christmas presents for the grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Where has the family gone?

And what about faith? The minister read from Tom's Bible that Tom, more than likely, read from every day of his life. It was comfort, strength and guidance in a world that had grown more and more complicated. If there ever was a question, there was always an answer within these pages. Where do we go for answers these days? I have faith, but my children do not. Most think of the church as the last choice for advice. Most search the web, flip through the magazines, comb the self-help section of Barnes and Noble or make a split-second decision based upon what someone has done previously. None of those are true and lasting. Where are the answers?

Tom Carter

This conundrum baffles me. I have no answers. I don't know what will happen when the older generation leaves all of the young ones to carry on. They relied on their 'guidebook', the Bible, and the only attention it receives these days comes in the form of the History Channel.

How do we carry on so that when our 92 years are over, we're okay with everything?

sunrise morning

it's easter weekend. although it's cool, spring is coming on soon, and i can't be more ready. my thoughts have been living in the past for most of this week for unexplained reasons. possibly, the popping of the pear trees, the azalea blooms warding off the cold, the aroma of spring floating through the air. and i think of mama and daddy and spring in clarkesville.

right around this time of year, i always observed black dots in our pasture. newborns. dropped whenever time came. nothing made daddy prouder than waking me way too early in the morning and squealing to "come" see our newest baby calf. he loved on the mama cow and made sure she was as comfy as possible. and he didn't take his eye off the baby until it was on all fours. he was a good daddy.

on good friday, we always planted our garden. this meant hours in the field, driving the mule, dropping the corn, and complaining a lot. however, i didn't complain months later as i slathered butter on my perfectly formed ears of sweet corn. i strangely forgot about the heat and the dirt. i still try to plant my few tomato plants on good friday, a long way from the ten acres i walked as a child. i thought everyone planted on this exceptional day. if you were southern, you did. occasionally, i forget that everyone is not that lucky.

it was the sunrise service on sunday morning that always tested my faith. rising early on the weekend never made sense to me, but on this weekend, it did. in the middle of a golf course, on the tallest hill around, church members watched the sun squeak over the hill. i grumbled, but that defined my easter. then, daddy and me would rush home. i'd put on my bonnet, my froufrou of a dress and my always too-tight shinny black shoes, and we'd head to church. as i grew older, i sang in the choir - sans froufrou - and it was always the most spectacular song for that morning. after the service, the three of us would then return home where sunday dinner and laughter would season that day and all the ones that would follow.

my rote movements through the years, i'm afraid, have failed my parents and myself for that matter. i still survey pastures this time of year for the arrival of black dots, and i can't help but smile and remember daddy. i try to plant when the weather allows, but i have left behind the sunrise service and songs of resurrection. i can't say why, only that i know it's not as i had intended. i watch, i listen, i inhale the heralds of spring and i remember. i stand amazed at how years change us, how circumstances mold us, and how what we think will never vanish, always does. although my stirrings are quite different than before, the hollows those early traditions carved in my heart remain. there's not a day that goes by that i don't recall from where i came and know that with a little effort and inspiration, i can be back on that tall hill beside daddy watching the sunrise.

i drive your truck

for my children, their best times growing up meant they were a stone's throw from their grandpa troy. hanging onto his coat tails as a youngster, driving the tractor (sort of) with papa watching closely, plowing the fields in the spring and dropping seeds for corn that they would eventually have to pick. the work wasn't fun, but being with papa was.

once he was gone, those old traditions sort of vanished. but because of him, they will know how to plow a field, change the oil, drive a tractor, build a shed, fix a lawnmower, use a tool, appreciate clint eastwood films, grill a steak, sit a spell, and give it their all.

for ty, he's got his papa with him everyday. in his truck. the truck papa drove every day of his life. the one that lingers with cigarette smoke and a dirty ashtray, a radio station tuned to old-timey country music, the glove compartment left exactly as it was. ty wouldn't dare change a thing, and he will move heaven and earth to maintain this truck. not because it gets him from place to place, but because his papa is a passenger. for life.

Lee Brice - I Drive Your Truck

Eighty-Nine Cents in the ash tray
Half empty bottle of Gatorade rolling in the floorboard
That dirty Braves cap on the dash
Dog tags hangin’ from the rear view
Old Skoal can, and cowboy boots and a Go Army Shirt
folded in the back
This thing burns gas like crazy, but that’s alright
People got their ways of coping
Oh, and I’ve got mine.

I leave that radio playing
That same ole country station where ya left it
Yeah, man I crank it up
And you’d probably punch my arm right now
If you saw this tear rollin’ down on my face
Hey, man I’m tryin’ to be tough
And momma asked me this morning
If I’d been by your grave
But that flag and stone ain’t where I feel you anyway.

I drive your truck
I roll every window down
And I burn up
Every back road in this town
I find a field, I tear it up
Til all the pain’s a cloud of dust
Yeah, sometimes I drive your truck.

my corner memory

it was sitting all alone, in a warehouse. cold and damp. a place every pianist knows a piano should not be.

however, it was a rescue, so forgiveness is key. a woman had been forced from her home and a good samaritan happened by at the exact moment her possessions were being moved. he thought the old upright intriguing, unique, a piece of history. so, he heaved the monstrous weight onto his truck, brought it to where the elements would not harm it and now it sits, quietly, in a warehouse.

i was there on business, and i didn't notice it as first. then i glanced. immediately, i remembered my first ivories.

my mama and daddy, always lacking money but never ingenuity, purchased an old, reconditioned upright from a man in town. i was around eight and my mama said i was going to learn to play the piano. it was not anything this farm girl had in mind, but when mama instructed, i knew better than to argue.

it was delivered one day while i was at school. mama and daddy had placed it in the living room, a room that was never used and always cold. it was the home to daddy's parents' red velvet settee and chairs. they, like the room, were untouched. up until this point, i used it for day-dreaming. a place where i could go after dinner, close the door behind me, turn on my record player and listen to the old 45's i had borrowed from friends. the easter parade mixed with i'm an american band belted by grand funk railroad.  i'd pretend i was on stage, singing the most beautiful tune, bowing to the incessant applause from the crowd.

lessons came first. i don't remember the teacher's name, but i remember traveling to cornelia, about a 30-minute drive, and walking into this old brick ranch house and being met by 'her'. she was ancient, wore matron-like baggy dresses and smelled of moth balls. so did every inch of her dark-paneled house. the piano room was small, and so was the piano. not an upright like mine, but a small spinet, slammed tightly against a wall. on top was the clicker, the metronome, i hated it. she kept the wrist weights there, too. i hated them even more. she would sit on the stool next to me, shouting out time and notes, her breath as rank as dead meat and her fingers as wrinkled as an un-ironed cotton shirt.

lessons continued and i grumbled every tuesday. for my first recital, i played in my own little corner because i loved cinderalla and that was her song. i think it was my song, too. i continued lessons for about three years until finally my mama couldn't stand my complaints. i persuaded her i could do it on my own and i promised i would never stop playing. i kept that promise, for it is there that my love for music was born.

today, i rarely play, but when i do, i never forget that old upright that was bought with my parents' love. i never forget the moments in that vacant room when i was a star.

i swear the piano i discovered in the warehouse belonged to me once-upon-a-time, for i don't know what ever became of mine. i'm probably wrong, but i like to think my ivories made it through the years still standing tall and making music. it seems a shame that it will spend its final days in a warehouse. i might be able to change that.

no excuse inspiration

my 'inspiration' created my inspiration board.

I love my new board - my inspiration board. Sometimes, you just have to see what's in front of you to know what's in front of you.

Although much bigger than most designs I found on Pinterest, I wanted it huge - enough to handle my mountain of post-its, my jottings to myself, those from others and nick-nacks that, for better or worse, are a part of my writing process.

I'm very visual and I like to know where I'm going. So hopefully, this all makes sense.

Simple instructions: at Home Depot, purchase the 4' x 8' pink backing (Owens Corning Foamular F-150 1 in. x 48 in. x 8 ft. foam) - about $17 bucks. Mine is cut to 7 ft. long. Don't forget the screws to attach. We used 6 - 3 top, 3 bottom.

Next, Hancock's Fabrics for burlap. I was excited to find red! Make sure you get the 60" width. Other colors were shades of browns. Tacks and pins in the quilter's section and then ribbon if you want to mark the territory. The spray adhesive was a life-saver but be careful not to get it on the floor. If so, then mopping must follow. Cost: about $28 bucks.

Then, find an open space. Sweet-talk your husband and measure, measure, measure. 

One of my favorite organizational finds - the silver magnetic strip (to the left) from Ikea - hold tacks and such.

So there, it's an inexpensive creation that will change my life!

Sadly, this is the last time it will be as neat, for I hope it will be bombarded by papers, photos and pins! I can't wait to fill it up!

a girl and her glass

My husband and I are homebodies. I make no apologies for it. When he's not making IT magic or I'm not researching my latest article, we're here - right here on Mayne. Surrounded by aging pine trees and gnawed oaks, sprouting jonquils, pastures with too little grass for four feisty horses, two rambunctious albeit passive dogs, a fluffy (we'll just leave it at that) kitty and the two of us. I like it that way. There's no effort in happy. It just comes as easy as rain.

Last weekend, research demanded a brewery visit. The article - which will be featured in Georgia Connector - will offer my best picks for beer festivals in the coming year. The best really isn't a hard choice, but naturally, you start with what's in your own backyard. 

a cold night and he rescued me

To get the crowd feel, we patiently stood in the winding line outside Terrapin Brewery in Athens for over an hour Saturday night, watched as we were undoubtedly two of the (at the most) ten people representing the baby boomer generation while the hundreds that stood by us were barely out of diapers. They came from everywhere, and they kept coming for two hours. Girls, guys, dogs - and dogs. The dogs dressed in Mardi Gras beads had a particular spark in their step. 

I remembered those college years, where the Saturday night outing was a major event that usually took days of preparation in order to pull off. Hugging close to girl friends, laughing the appropriate laugh at the appropriate time, knowing who to follow, knowing what not to say, not to drink, not to wear - it all was a dance that left me left-footed then. 

Evidently, these girls have evolved. They had the moves down. The forced giggle, the lean on the right foot, the hand on the guy's shoulder, the arch of the eyebrow - and that was before they even had beer. Once inside, with the provided glass accessory, they mingled, laughed, taunted, shifted (very little), hugged, gestured, and wandered with nomadic moves - I was exhausted. I was here to research the brewery, not have a lesson in the societal movements of the twenty-something generation, but how do you get one without the other.

come dressed for mardi gras

Although some things have changed (tons of spandex and shorts in winter and accompanied by the right pooch), the basic woman (and guy for that matter) on the prowl has not. Even my husband could foresee each feline's next move (spotting her target with incredible recognition), mainly because he remembered that the progression worked much the same then at Villanova as it did thirty years later at UGA. Put a glass in a woman's hand and she's superwoman, but of course, only if you have the mingling, laughing, taunting - and on and on - down pat. Life hasn't changed that much; it just wears less clothes.

Yes, I took the tour at Terrapin and viewed quite a hometown operation, one that is four-times bigger this year than last. I sampled the seasonal Moo-Hoo, liquid infused with a chocolaty-milky smack. Two thumbs up! I fought the crowds in the sample line as well as the deluge in the bathroom line. I people-watched, dog-watched and beer watched.

one of my picks for evening's best dressed

It was fun for an otherwise home-body that rarely withdraws from Mayne.  Got to see how the younger crowd can still take over a room. I was pleasantly not shocked. Take a girl; add a glass, and it's the perfect accessory for conversation, prowling and wishful thinking. With or without my glass, I had it all even before I braved the line.

just take a load off and enjoy!

deadline frenzy

It's still deadline pace in my writing cosmos. So instead of rants of my choosing, it's rants of what others deem necessary and worthwhile. Not that these are incredible sound topics, but sometimes, unloading what's gotten caught in the inside of my stuffing is very therapeutic, cathartic, compelling.

In the meantime, here's more from Billy Collins - a poet that I have decided has been ignored by me way too long.

Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Billy Collins

the poets are at their windows

I was lucky enough to be in the audience at the Key West Literary Seminar last week when US poet laureate Billy Collins described my life. I'm sure he didn't know that he did. I'm sure every writer in the auditorium felt the same connection. We all have our windows, our inspiration, our place in this world that draws the words to the surface. Mine is on Mayne, just under the maple tree and parallel to the front porch swing. This is my window to my world.

 

 

The birds are in their trees,
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.
They are at their windows
in every section of the tangerine of earth-
the Chinese poets looking up at the moon,
the American poets gazing out
at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.
The clerks are at their desks,
the miners are down in their mines,
and the poets are looking out their windows
maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea,
and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.
The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.
Which window it hardly seems to matter
though many have a favorite,
for there is always something to see-
a bird grasping a thin branch,
the headlights of a taxi rounding a corner,
those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.
The fishermen bob in their boats,
the linemen climb their round poles,
the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs,
and the poets continue to stare
at the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.
By now, it should go without saying
that what the oven is to the baker
and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,
so the window is to the poet.
Just think-
before the invention of the window,
the poets would have had to put on a jacket
and a winter hat to go outside
or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.
And when I say a wall,
I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper
and a sketch of a cow in a frame.
I mean a cold wall of fieldstones,
the wall of the medieval sonnet,
the original woman's heart of stone,
the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.


-Billy Collins

the big 'O'

It's a new year. A beginning. I always adore these. Gives me a chance to sweep up the misfortunes and bad choices into a pile, use my industrial-sized broom to tidy up the droppings, and chunk them away. If only it were really that simple. Symbolically, metaphorically and all that literary jazz, I'll do it all.

My husband and I officially opened a small business on January 1. All those small business articles posted in Georgia Connector during the past year got me to thinking about all the work we had been doing, most in secret. All those words I penned that probably no one was reading except my publisher, my husband and myself. All those photos we took of amazing places that are dutifully filed on the hard-drive that no one experienced except my husband, myself and probably Bear. (Bear always assists in the download, whether he likes it or not.) Its name is full circle fotography. yes, lowercase. My husband hates it, but in time, he'll come to love it. Please visit often, www.fullcirclefotography.com. Please like us on Facebook. Tell your friends. We're a business now, so numbers mean something especially to those pesky people to whom we query . . . unfortunately.

That's my first 'O'.

Next, making sense of this pile called my office. Technically, up until a few months ago, it was a spare bedroom with my own little corner in my own little chair (how I love Leslie Ann Warren as Cinderella). If I'm going to do this business thing right, I must become organized and look the part. I figured out that I'm a pack rat. Not necessarily stuff or things, but paper. Notes. Post-its. Reminders. Letters and cards. Yellow pads, most scribbled on. And all important, I must say. I wouldn't dare discard, for who knows what treasured discourse lies on those tattered sheets. They will find a home behind the one shelf with a door.

My second '0'.

There's plenty more 'O's on my list. Organization never ends. I'll be on to my spice rack, my closet, my kitchen drawers and anything else that needs making sense of. Time to de-clutter and make room for the things that will simplify and gratify my life, our life.

Even if it's only a slip of paper.

My Other Own Little Corner

My Own Little Corner

The beauty of IKEA Billie - piece by piece

Part I - Taking Shape

The End of Round 1 - Book Shelves