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. 

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.

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!

an ordinary day

It was your average Saturday afternoon. While the entire red and black world hunkered down a few miles up the road in Sanford Stadium with the Dawgs, my son Ty and I took advantage of the lull in 441 traffic to hit the neighborhood Publix. Cupboards were bare, and the boys trembled at the fact of no homemade cookies.

Ty on his 22nd birthday in 2011.

I'm not sure how the conversation meandered into an emotional realm, but we were remembering. Remembering days that were not so good, struggles that were way too hard, and memories that burned holes way too deeply. And then, as I often do, I skimmed over my role in history, regretted some of my choices and wished I had done things differently - a sentiment most parents share.

Then, from out of the blue, with no warning, he said, "Mom, you are amazing."

It shook me to the core and proof quickly slipped from the corner of my eye. That 23-year-old man driving his papa's Ford F150 would always be that mischievous kid in whitey-tighties covered in red Georgia clay, prancing around in his semi-birthday suit, slinging a garden hose in his front yard, but today, he had managed to reach into his heart to assemble the perfect phrase. And he didn't stop. "You really are. You are amazing. Look at everything you've done. Everything you've achieved, teaching and writing. You are an incredible writer. I can't write like that and you play the piano. I love to hear you play."

Yikes! Did I hear right? For most of my life, I had longed to hear words of praise from the three people that mattered most in the world. Just acknowledge me, please, is all I ask. Let me know you know me. Come to find out, they did.

My reason for breathing: Logan, Mari, Len and Ty.

This was a reflection on who I was as a human, a woman, not simply as a mother or cookie maker. All those day-to-day processes were more than cliche. They watched me make those PB&Js and realized my fingers only worked so fast. They eyed me in my classroom and accepted the fact that, second to them, there was no place that I'd rather be. They listened to my rare tunes plunked out on my daddy's old upright piano and heard my lonely melody.  They cried with me as we walked away from dark yesterday into a phantom tomorrow. They understood my desire to be better that day than I was the day before.They didn't judge when I fell short or when life got in the way. Well, maybe for a moment, but as the entire picture unfolded, they recognized that mom was one that never stopped dreaming - for them or for herself. Most of the time, I thought they were too busy being kids, too caught up with Power Rangers or tennis tournaments, too occupied with their place in the universe to realize that my grown-up world ran simultaneously alongside theirs.

I was validated! I like to think Ty cast the ballot for the absentees, and I pray they get me. I guess the more important musing is - I get me. After Ty's disclosure, I started mentally listing my accomplishments and was rather amazed. I recognize and salute these in other people. Why can't I dare to do the same in the mirror? I suppose its a hodgepodge of being Southern, a woman, an only child, a perfectionist, a creative, a dreamer, a romantic - the list is tiring. The list is me. A damn good me.

So I'm taking this amazing, damn good me on the road setting more goals and scaling more rainbows.  I'm planning my upcoming itinerary, and I'm excited. Most of all, I'm thankful I have excellent company along the way. 

at the gettin' store

American Pickers on History Channel yanked at my memory this week. They were pickin' one of many outbuildings that every true Southern old-timer has sitting behind his house (and beside it, and in front of it, etc.), and they came upon something unique. I don't remember the exact item, but the hosts, Frank and Mike, asked, "Where did you get that?" The man lowered his eyes and his chin and said, with all the seriousness he could muster, "At the gettin' store."

I had forgotten that phrase. My daddy had spoken that many times when he had been questioned by this over-eager youngster who marveled at whatever daddy held in his hands. I had drilled him incessantly for the scoop about a what-cha-ma-callit or a thingy-ma-bob. Where did you get this?  Each time his answer remained a carbon copy of the one before. I had never thought to consider that that answer served a single purpose: to shut me up.

My drilling never halted with a single question but continued until I hoped to uncover the location of this utopia. I wanted to see with my own eyes, the treasures, the finds in this gettin' store. Where could it be and why was it hiding? I would continue to interrogate, and by golly, I would wear him down until he would let me climb into the cab of his pea-green Chevy, Doris. We would thunder down to Main Street, and we'd find the parking space dead center of the front door. I would be there. At the gettin' store.

We never took that ride, for usually, something else would grab my attention and I would forget seeing past my own fingertips. It wasn't until we would uncover the next spellbinding trinket that I would become obsessed with that mystical wonderland all over again. My query would echo once more. That store must be great, I thought to myself. I can't wait to go.

On our farm in North Georgia, there was always a chore that had to be done, a machine to fix, a garden to plow, so going didn't always fit into the calendar. Nevertheless, no matter where he went, I would tag along with daddy, always with a curiosity that held endless questions on my lips. Daddy was always patient, never became angry or aggravated with me, and, there would always be an answer.

Answers are a mystery, even to some of life's simple questions. We avoid them, dance around them, skirt them, negate them. But where daddy was concerned, there was always an answer to the eagerness of my life. He made sure of that. And maybe, he wasn't trying to shut me up after all, but rather trying to satisfy an evolving curiosity with an explanation. No matter if his answer included the elusive gettin' store, I always knew I could count on daddy for every answer, every time.

It wasn't the gettin' store, but it was one of the few outings I had with my daddy that wasn't attached to the farm. He was a man of few words, but those words formed the answers to every question I ever raised. I loved my daddy, and he loved me - more than anyone ever has or ever will.

jumping off

Jumping off anything is problematic. Plus, it doesn't help when little people stand behind you and whine, "Just go already." It's hard enough to climb the mountain much less leap from the edge without hesitation, or at the very least, sweat. "Of course I'll go," I squeal, "just give me a sec."

And then I jump.

Alright, yes, that's my husband and not me, but I'm still plummeting right along with him - sort of! I don't breathe until I see his cute little head bobbing up and down in the water below. 

But he did it. Successfully. Without reservation. The tinge of doubt he had vanished as he took a chance, hit the water and lived to tell the tale. Lesson learned.

With that in mind, I'm jumping off. I'm taking the plunge, going head first and following my passion. I like to think it's been forming all my life, but it is only at this very moment, that passion and craft and need have collided. I'll tell you all about - that is - when I nail down the specifics. It's a picture-perfect brainchild!

Have you ever "jumped off" and wondered, "what took me so long?"