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.

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!

traveling full circle

Gone November 16, 2012

Can it be? No more Twinkies? No more Ho Ho's? Why do all the things that we love - and cake and goo are at the top of love list - disappear and fade away? Albeit greed, in my opinion, that erased this icon from the grocery store shelves, it seems to be following the lead of most everything in life.

My daughter's new do.

What became of the classics? The Huckleberry Finns and the Tom Sawyers replaced with vampires and werewolves? The Louis Vuitton Speedy or a string of glass pearls fall behind Juicy or Vera Wang? The classic and sleek bob has been replaced by mountains of gel and long locks trimmed in green (I know the picture is side-ways. It doesn't look any better the other way.). My grip of reality is slowing slipping.

It's those things that are steadfast, consistent, resilient, that we come to appreciate most of all. We know that in the morning we'll wake up and there will be coffee brewing in the kitchen, the cat will be cuddled on my legs, and my slippers will be just a leg drop away. This assurance, I suppose, is something we all take for granted until the world turns on its axis rather unexpectedly. I don't like it when this happens. I like to know that if I eat my black-eyed peas on New Years, I will definitely accumulate thousands of pennies during the coming year. This is so. I have a waist deep plastic cola-cola shaped container that holds mountains of concrete proof from 2012. See, I ate my peas and I have pennies.

I guess everything comes full circle. Things begin with contagious hope, run their course, and then in the whirl-wind of life, they lose a bit of steam after they have given it all they've got, they slow down and bow out with a graceful good-bye. With lots of successes, lots of memories and lots of stories.

Those stories - of a life cycle well traveled - are those I want to tell and record. There are people and places and things that must not be forgotten. Like, the normalcy I felt when mama opted for my first store-bought dress instead of a hand-made one. The teenage tears that poured upon cutting my waist long hair up to my shoulders. Touching my children for the first time. Holding my breath as the gavel fell.

Tell me your story, so I can tell your story. I am looking for those who have lived a long life, those that have wisdom and advice that should not fade away. Stories of hardship and triumph, war heroes who went to war and those who waited at home, lovers, dreamers, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. I want to find you. Help me find you.

My full circle journey begins now, and I'm proud you're going with me. The website will be launched the first of the year and you'll get to meet some great people that will change your life. In the meantime, please help me find the stories before they fade.

Contact me at seeingsouthern@gmail.com. 

shake it for me

I love a challenge, primarily the ones that are out of my comfort zone and more than likely will end unfavorably. I like the hunt - the 'holy cow, I did it' feeling. This week I had goals for three national spotlight interviews; two are successes, one still looms. My last test is to connect with Luke Bryan. Yeah, I know.

The first order of business - get him in my head. Know my prey. For that, I turned to Spotify and subscribed to a bevy of Bryan hits. My personal favorites thus far have been Country Girl and Rain is a Good Thing. I like to think the "Hey girl" at the beginning - well, that's me he's talking to. However, Drinkin' Beer and Wastin' Bullets is a little far fetched, but as a writer, I am willing to sacrifice for the sake of the story. I am nothing if not a professional.

So as I'm sitting her shakin' to his tunes, I feel I have a good start. That inward country music girl that has been squashed by living with a New Jersey boy is starting to wake up. I connect with Bryan's Georgia roots, so how hard can my act of persuasion be. Plus, we share an intense love of Georgia football, so the rivers run deep.

After endless phone calls to the William Morris Agency in LA for two weeks I became buds with the switchboard operator and agent secretary, being greeted with "Hi Judy. Luke Bryan, right?" I firmly believe it was the voice, the distinctive Southern drawl. Then, reality seeped in reminding me of Caller ID. Next stop, his PR firm in Nashville. I had made it to second base, but I wanted at least a triple, preferably a home run!

Calling is the easy part. Calling to the point of stalking is easy-peasy. Waiting is equivalent to a root canal. You know it's part of the process, but why really? Isn't' there a quick fix to a logical question? I know there's a process to everything, a paper trail, a sequence of events. Be patient!

As I wait for the call, the email, the YES to my query, I will listen longingly as Bryan and I cosmically connect. I listen . . .

I listen . . .

. . . and then I hear my INBOX scream, signaling its newly dropped contents.You guessed it. His manager, my nemesis, had other plans for him pre-show. Not this go around. But as a writer, part of the thrill comes via the chase. Tracking down the elusive numbers, talking to the right person, having a name instead of an idea. I have come within six-degrees of Bryan and I will take that as a success. I'm that much closer to the story. With each challenge, I gain something. Not always the something I'm counting on, but something is more than nothing.

Good things happened this week. I reconnected with the country girl inside. Listened to some excellent country music with the volume turned all the way UP. And although I won't get to see Bryan shake it for me in person and I can't scream holy cow this time around, I did good.