One day last week I was reminded of an elderly gentleman who once lived near my sister, aka The Sunglasses Fashionista, in Atlanta. He had a stately magnolia trea in his front yard that he watered until it gave up and died. This gentleman drove to the Publix one day and was found days later in Mississippi.
On this particular day I decided to make my monthly trek to JoAnn Fabrics in Greensboro. It was hot, and oh how I hate hot. But that's a topic for another story. I spied a McDonalds across the street and thought how nice a big iced tea would be. So, forward to McDonalds. This is where my troubles began. After three trips around this McDonalds, I could not figure out how to get myself in the drive-thru line. Thirsting to death, I gave up and headed for home.
I know the way home. I do this every month. But there was the sign. The sign I had never noticed before, instructing me to stay in the left lane. So, to the far left I go. I could see the cars zooming down the street I needed to be on but where was I? Headed into the parking lot at Cone Hospital. I could see a familiar landmark in the distance and headed my car in its direction. Ha! There I was, headed in the opposite direction of home.
Finally, I got myself turned around in the right direction. Or, at least I hoped I was right. By now, I was beginning to have serious doubts about my ability to get myself back home again. Mile by mile things started to look more familiar. I found a McDonalds, got that big sweet tea and carefully headed back in the direction of home.
For a moment there I wondered if I, too might be headed to Mississippi. Good thing I don't have a big magnolia tree in my yard.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Moving Day
For two months, I've known you, my friend, were moving. Moving not by your choice but by the choice of others. Somehow, I managed to put thoughts of this dreaded day in the back of my mind. Maybe if I didn't think about it, this day would never come.
On my way home the other day, I glanced your way and there it was, the moving van. Moving Day. For a moment, I thought I might pull in the drive and tell the movers to leave. Tell them there had been a mistake and you, my dear friend, would not be moving after all. I wanted to pretend I didn't see it. I wanted to cry. I knew there was nothing I could do to change Moving Day so I drove home.
When the I saw the moving van, I saw in the heart of my mind, your legacy to me. Your counsel. Your caring. Your gift of saying what the heart needs to hear.
You were my neighbor. My friend.
Someone else lives in your house now. Moving Day. Another van backed in the driveway. It's not the same. It's not right. I wasn't ready for you to move away.
Moving Day. The people who watched you move to your new home could not have known the blessing that moving van brought them. They will love you. They will be helpless to do otherwise. They will be forever touched by your counsel and caring. They will be mesmerized and awed by the message you bring. They will love you as I and so many others have loved you.
Moving Day.
On my way home the other day, I glanced your way and there it was, the moving van. Moving Day. For a moment, I thought I might pull in the drive and tell the movers to leave. Tell them there had been a mistake and you, my dear friend, would not be moving after all. I wanted to pretend I didn't see it. I wanted to cry. I knew there was nothing I could do to change Moving Day so I drove home.
When the I saw the moving van, I saw in the heart of my mind, your legacy to me. Your counsel. Your caring. Your gift of saying what the heart needs to hear.
You were my neighbor. My friend.
Someone else lives in your house now. Moving Day. Another van backed in the driveway. It's not the same. It's not right. I wasn't ready for you to move away.
Moving Day. The people who watched you move to your new home could not have known the blessing that moving van brought them. They will love you. They will be helpless to do otherwise. They will be forever touched by your counsel and caring. They will be mesmerized and awed by the message you bring. They will love you as I and so many others have loved you.
Moving Day.
The Porch People
On the other side of the tracks, literally, is a row of old apartments that has been less than desirable for as long as I can remember. I drive past these apartments every morning and every afternoon. The one on the end has captured my attention and my imagination. It is inhabited by a family I call "The Porch People".
This apartment is two stories, two bedrooms I imagine. There is a front stoop and a side porch. It's that side porch that has captured my attention. It is filled with indoor furniture. An oversized recliner, a bistro table and chairs. A bookcase. A buffet lamp. A laptop. Sometimes a television. From my observations, there are two boys, a little girl, a man and a woman living there. The large teenage boy must live fulltime on the porch. Every morning he is asleep in the oversized recliner. The smaller boy comes out and kicks the chair to wake him. The little girl is always sitting on the front step while her mother sits on the stoop nursing what appears from a distance to be a hangover.
In the afternoons, they sit at the bistro table eating or staring into the computer. Some days, they bring chairs from somewhere to entertain guests on the porch.
I have wondered why, when it is a scorching 90 degrees, they don't go inside. Then I noticed most of the windows are now missing so I guess it makes little difference, inside or out. Today, the window fan was hanging out of the upstairs window, apparently still plugged into the wall.
The porch people have been shopping. They have purchased a gas grill that is nearly as big as the porch. It's in the yard along with various other pieces of inside furniture.
I am fascinated by the porch people. I wonder if they have furniture inside. I wonder if the big teenage boy every goes inside. I just wonder about the porch people. Wouldn't you?
This apartment is two stories, two bedrooms I imagine. There is a front stoop and a side porch. It's that side porch that has captured my attention. It is filled with indoor furniture. An oversized recliner, a bistro table and chairs. A bookcase. A buffet lamp. A laptop. Sometimes a television. From my observations, there are two boys, a little girl, a man and a woman living there. The large teenage boy must live fulltime on the porch. Every morning he is asleep in the oversized recliner. The smaller boy comes out and kicks the chair to wake him. The little girl is always sitting on the front step while her mother sits on the stoop nursing what appears from a distance to be a hangover.
In the afternoons, they sit at the bistro table eating or staring into the computer. Some days, they bring chairs from somewhere to entertain guests on the porch.
I have wondered why, when it is a scorching 90 degrees, they don't go inside. Then I noticed most of the windows are now missing so I guess it makes little difference, inside or out. Today, the window fan was hanging out of the upstairs window, apparently still plugged into the wall.
The porch people have been shopping. They have purchased a gas grill that is nearly as big as the porch. It's in the yard along with various other pieces of inside furniture.
I am fascinated by the porch people. I wonder if they have furniture inside. I wonder if the big teenage boy every goes inside. I just wonder about the porch people. Wouldn't you?
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Voice In My Sewing Machine
Has is it really been more than 35 years since we sat at your kitchen table sewing? We made prom dresses, skirts, shorts. You taught me to match plaids, sew in zippers, make button holes. You taught me patience. You made me brave the hard things. I can still hear you saying to me, "You can do this Billsy." I got the difficult patterns. You made them easy.
For many years I didn't sew. Just a few months ago, I decided to start again. At first it was a daunting endeavor. I couldn't remember the tricks, the shortcuts, the things that make homemade look professional. It was a struggle. One day, in the midst of confusion and frustration, a quiet and reassuring voice seemed to come from inside my sewing machine. "It's going to be just fine, Baby Girl. You can do this, Billsy." When I hear your voice, I see your hands moving across my fabric. I draw from your knowledge and talent and the garment I'm working on flows together. I know that when I go downstairs to my sewing machine, your memory will be there waiting to encourage me and to be proud of my accomplishments.
All these years, I never forgot you but never has your memory been so clear. I look forward to tomorrow when once again I will feel your memory cover me with confidence and I will hear your voice in my heart. "You can do this, Billsy". And I sure can.
Thank you for all those evenings so many years ago. Thank you for your time and your encouragement. Thank you for your love. Thank you for staying with me all these years. I wish you were here so I could tell you how I loved you then and now. And yes, Mrs. Slack, Baby Girl sure can.
Love,
Billsy
For many years I didn't sew. Just a few months ago, I decided to start again. At first it was a daunting endeavor. I couldn't remember the tricks, the shortcuts, the things that make homemade look professional. It was a struggle. One day, in the midst of confusion and frustration, a quiet and reassuring voice seemed to come from inside my sewing machine. "It's going to be just fine, Baby Girl. You can do this, Billsy." When I hear your voice, I see your hands moving across my fabric. I draw from your knowledge and talent and the garment I'm working on flows together. I know that when I go downstairs to my sewing machine, your memory will be there waiting to encourage me and to be proud of my accomplishments.
All these years, I never forgot you but never has your memory been so clear. I look forward to tomorrow when once again I will feel your memory cover me with confidence and I will hear your voice in my heart. "You can do this, Billsy". And I sure can.
Thank you for all those evenings so many years ago. Thank you for your time and your encouragement. Thank you for your love. Thank you for staying with me all these years. I wish you were here so I could tell you how I loved you then and now. And yes, Mrs. Slack, Baby Girl sure can.
Love,
Billsy
Friday, March 25, 2011
My Sister the Sunglasses Fashonista
I am seven years older. I remember more than my sister wishes, I'm sure. Mornings at our house were special. Mother was up early, getting ready for work, getting everything ready for us to go to school and preparing our breakfast. When it was time to get up, I was UP. Mother would come to the door, flip on the overhead light and call me. "BILLIE! Time to get up." (This perhaps has a lot to do with my life-long aversion to overhead lighting.) Then it was my sister's turn. Bright lights? No. A lamp, far away from her bed was turned on very low. Mother would coo for my sister, walk over to her bed and give her the sunglasses placed on the nightstand before she went to bed the night before. Black framed, old-lady sunglasses clamped firmly on her head, my sister would drag herself out of bed and to the breakfast table.
Every morning, there we sat. Well, there I sat. My little sister was so far down in her chair, it could hardly be called sitting. Those sunglasses, firmly in place so no light could get to her eyes. I remember finding this very irritating. Now I wish those days were back again.
I threatened to write this about my sister so she proclaimed herself to be a sunglasses fashionista. And so she is, to this day. Look at her! So young and so CUTE! I should have worn shades in the mornings.....
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The Scent of a Memory
Funny how a smell can take me back in time. When I hug my daughter, who is now 30 years old, she smells the same to me as she did when she was a baby. She has a scent that belongs to only her. When my daughter was in the hospital after her accident, that scent was incredibly strong. It blanketed me the moment I walked into her hospital room, every time I walked in the room. I never told her that. And Emma. When she was a baby I could sit with her and smell the top of her sweet head for hours and never tire of it.
My grandmother had a scent that has stayed with me all my life. I remember a time not too long ago. I was going through a difficult time in my life but pushing through it. One late Saturday afternoon I was standing in my kitchen and there it was. MaMaw's scent. It lingered for a while and it was gone. Imagination? MaMaw trying to tell me it would all be okay in the end? My mind trying to comfort my heart? At the time, my daughter and granddaughter were living with me. I didn't mention this to my daughter but she overheard me telling my mother about it the next day. She came to me and told me that she smelled the same thing in her room. MaMaw.
Today, I was making supper early so it would be ready for Emma. (One can hardly call country style steak dinner, so.... supper.) Emma loves country cooking so I decided to make country style steak. We don't eat like that often so it's a treat. While supper was cooking and smelling so much like MaMaw's house on Sundays, I sat down at the kitchen table to make a few reminder notes. While the smell of supper cooking was wafting through the kitchen, the back of my neck and arm started to tingle. I stopped writing for a minute and the tingling went away and came back. I thought about it off and on all day, wondering what it was. Most folks would say it was nothing but I choose to believe it was something.
Several years after MaMaw passed away, my uncle renovated her house and moved in. My husband and I stopped by one afternoon to help him with something. It was 5:00. Suppertime. When we got to the back door, I could smell supper cooking. The smell was as overwhelming as if the biscuits had just come out of the oven. This was in 2000. MaMaw left us in 1993. Imagination?
Most of my memories are accompanied by smells. I can still smell the halls of Grove Park Elementary School. My daddy and the pleasant mix of English Leather and Winstons. The flowers on a Sweet Bush or Carolina Allspice, I think it's called. When I was a little girl, I loved to have those flowers to smell. A kind old man would let me pick them and I would wrap them in a wet paper towel and "tin foil" to take home. I would smell them until the flowers fell apart.
Emma stays with us on Wednesday nights. We read a story and as always, I snuggled with her while she was falling asleep and there it was, that sweet, sweet smell she brought with her into this world.
My grandmother had a scent that has stayed with me all my life. I remember a time not too long ago. I was going through a difficult time in my life but pushing through it. One late Saturday afternoon I was standing in my kitchen and there it was. MaMaw's scent. It lingered for a while and it was gone. Imagination? MaMaw trying to tell me it would all be okay in the end? My mind trying to comfort my heart? At the time, my daughter and granddaughter were living with me. I didn't mention this to my daughter but she overheard me telling my mother about it the next day. She came to me and told me that she smelled the same thing in her room. MaMaw.
Today, I was making supper early so it would be ready for Emma. (One can hardly call country style steak dinner, so.... supper.) Emma loves country cooking so I decided to make country style steak. We don't eat like that often so it's a treat. While supper was cooking and smelling so much like MaMaw's house on Sundays, I sat down at the kitchen table to make a few reminder notes. While the smell of supper cooking was wafting through the kitchen, the back of my neck and arm started to tingle. I stopped writing for a minute and the tingling went away and came back. I thought about it off and on all day, wondering what it was. Most folks would say it was nothing but I choose to believe it was something.
Several years after MaMaw passed away, my uncle renovated her house and moved in. My husband and I stopped by one afternoon to help him with something. It was 5:00. Suppertime. When we got to the back door, I could smell supper cooking. The smell was as overwhelming as if the biscuits had just come out of the oven. This was in 2000. MaMaw left us in 1993. Imagination?
Most of my memories are accompanied by smells. I can still smell the halls of Grove Park Elementary School. My daddy and the pleasant mix of English Leather and Winstons. The flowers on a Sweet Bush or Carolina Allspice, I think it's called. When I was a little girl, I loved to have those flowers to smell. A kind old man would let me pick them and I would wrap them in a wet paper towel and "tin foil" to take home. I would smell them until the flowers fell apart.
Emma stays with us on Wednesday nights. We read a story and as always, I snuggled with her while she was falling asleep and there it was, that sweet, sweet smell she brought with her into this world.
Friday, March 18, 2011
The Fixer
For as long as I can remember, I have been the self-designated fixer. If I care about you and you're broken, I try to fix you. An exercise in futility if there ever was one. In recent years, I have tried to break myself of this habit. You know, the physician heal thyself mentality..... I've done a good job loving my people and allowing them to be broken and fix themselves since I "fixed" myself.
Today, between grocery shopping, cleaning and all the other things I do everyday, three loved ones crossed my path who have a few cracks in them. One, the cracks are deep, very deep and absolutely cannot be repaired by anyone but the loved one. Just as I was about to provide my solution, I caught myself. No, Self! Don't do it! So I mustered the strength to tell Loved One #1 that I understand the problem and have witnessed other loved ones struggling with the same demons. But. But, LO #1 will have to find it in himself to fix himself. Oh, what a hard thing to do when I really wanted to say I would be there as quickly as possible to tell him exactly the steps to take. So, now I am hard at work at the second job I thought I had quit., worrying.
Before I could get my worry on good for LO #1, LO #'s 2 and 3 appeared, obviously in need of some minor tinkering. I reminded myself again that I no longer try to fix people and stayed quiet. Now, if I can figure out how not to pull a double shift of worrying.
Today, between grocery shopping, cleaning and all the other things I do everyday, three loved ones crossed my path who have a few cracks in them. One, the cracks are deep, very deep and absolutely cannot be repaired by anyone but the loved one. Just as I was about to provide my solution, I caught myself. No, Self! Don't do it! So I mustered the strength to tell Loved One #1 that I understand the problem and have witnessed other loved ones struggling with the same demons. But. But, LO #1 will have to find it in himself to fix himself. Oh, what a hard thing to do when I really wanted to say I would be there as quickly as possible to tell him exactly the steps to take. So, now I am hard at work at the second job I thought I had quit., worrying.
Before I could get my worry on good for LO #1, LO #'s 2 and 3 appeared, obviously in need of some minor tinkering. I reminded myself again that I no longer try to fix people and stayed quiet. Now, if I can figure out how not to pull a double shift of worrying.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)