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.

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.

a slice of cake

There were only three of us for the holidays - me, mama and daddy. In fact, it was always just the three of us. And that was just fine by me. 

As each year came to a close and the north Georgia mountains took on its icy glaze, I was certain of a few things. 

First, it was time to kill the hog, and that meant, all the fresh sausage I could hold. Biscuits and thick, bubbly sausage gravy with tidbits of meat weighing it down as only mama could make. Daddy preferred the red-eye gravy, and mama would make it for him. I would turn up my nose and reach for the creamy goo instead. 

Then, there were fried pies. In the fall, mama would dry the apples on tattered, discarded front door screens. After a few days, she would gather, then freeze them in the little quart boxes for a winter treat. I couldn't stand it. Inevitably, within a couple of weeks of stacking the boxes neatly in calculated rows in the freezer, I would drag out a box and beg for fried pies. She'd roll out a dough, cut it hap-haphazardly, stuff it with cooked apples, and with bubbling oil in the iron skillet, she'd drop them in. I'd hold my breath until I finally saw the edges turning brown. She would scoop each ready one onto a towel and simultaneously give me the evil eye. I had to wait. Not long, but I still had to wait. Finally, she'd nod and I'd grab. The taste of that first bite would hold me all winter.

Finally, her orange slice cake. We hated fruit cakes, but there was something about this cake - even though it had most of the same ingredients - that had the perfect crunch, the perfect flavor. I honestly can't remember taking part in the baking, but I do remember the moment she took it out of the oven. She'd pour the glaze onto the steaming cake, and it inhaled the orange juice mixture. I'd watch puddles form on the plate, and it took all the strength in me not to run my finger around the plate's edge. Again, it was the evil eye. 

For those fruit cake haters, here's a variation that just might turn into a tradition. A couple of things to keep in mind: it takes forever to cook and it weighs a ton. As for the evil eye, you will have to work on that one yourself. 

Juette's Orange Slice Cake

For the cake: 

1 cup butter
2 cups sugar
4 eggs
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 cup buttermilk
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 (12-ounce) box dried dates, chopped
1 pound orange slice candies, chopped
2 cups pecans, chopped
1/2 cup flour for dredging
2 cups sweetened coconut flakes

For the glaze:

2 cups powdered sugar
1 cup orange juice

Preheat oven to 250 degrees. Grease and flour a tube pan.

For the cake: In a large bowl, cream butter and sugar together until fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, mixing well after each addition. In a separate bowl, dissolve baking soda in buttermilk. Add flour to butter mixture alternating with the buttermilk mixture, beginning and ending with flour. In another bowl, toss dates, nuts and chopped orange slices in 1/2 cup flour until coated. Stir in coconut until well-combined. Add to batter and mix until well combined.
Bake in a prepared pan for about 2 hours or until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean.

For the glaze: Meanwhile, combine powdered sugar and orange juice in a small bowl until smooth. Remove cake from pan and cool cake completely. Drizzle glaze over cake. Or, when cake comes out of the oven, use a toothpick to poke holes and pour glaze on cake. Let cake stand in tube pan overnight before inverting. 

"aeh"

Mama, me and the 57 Chevy.

You see my mama's hand on my leg?

That touch meant more than just, "hey, I think I'll put my hand here."

"Slow down."
"You'll see I'm right."
"If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right."
"Stop pulling the dog's ears."
"I told you not to go down to Ricky's house."
"Be quiet."
"Go get that hickory."

And most of the time, a guttural "aeh" accompanied the words she chose. That short, quick grumble delivered how she really felt. And then she would grab my leg, or specifically, the section just above my knee-cap, she'd squeeze in rhythm with the "aeh". I knew it was over, and I had lost the fight.

Even at 96 and her movements had dwindled, she still managed a "squeeze" and an "aeh". Her body wasn't as strong as it once was, but heavens, her hands could still grip. Whichever leg was closest, she'd grab, squeeze and grunt. She squeezed me. She squeezed her grand-daughter and her body-builder grandsons. We crumbled every time.

I miss that "aeh". There are days when life scurries on, and I hear that grunt escape from me.  I can't help but snicker because I realize that there's something important about to happen. It's a signal of sorts. How can I be so much like mama? I swore I would never be.

Actually, it wasn't me.  It was mama, looking down from heaven, sneaking up on me and having the last say.