Around Town

The button tin

 

I have talked before of my mom’s sewing basket but that wasn’t the only thing that I have from her life. If you grew up in the last millennia, you undoubtedly had a tin of some sort that was filled with the items that were not designed to be contained in that sewing basket. My Memaw had one with zippers and hook and eye strips, for Mom it was buttons. The tin is old and has spots of rust, but in true Southern style it is a butter cookie tin. Red with a poinsettia flower on the lid, once a Christmas present turned into a useful storage place. 

I remember being young and digging through the buttons with Mom as she would replace something on a shirt or pants. Looking at the shiny metal buttons that had once adorned my Dad’s dress whites, the half sphere ones that looked like half disco balls. Each one making me try to picture the clothing it had been obtained from originally. Some of the buttons came from the days my mother worked in a sewing factory in Nicholas County. Some came from her own mother. But the button tin was something I learned was in every household. 

They arose in the days before there was a Wal-Mart on every corner and Hobby Lobby wasn’t around. From a time when recycling was the normal expectation, nothing went to waste and fabric would go through several life cycles from clothing to cleaning. Buttons were a commodity that was much in demand in a growing family without easy access, so you kept every button from any clothing brought in the house. It was stored for later use. 

As child I remember my mom and aunt having a small local restaurant for a short time in Sharpsburg. They had purchased some heavy white bowls for soups they served and when the restaurant shut down they divided the bowls among houses. I would often go into the closet where the button tin was kept, grab some of those heavy bowls and an aluminum pot that mom used to make soups and beans. I would go to the living room where I had more room and begin to separate the buttons, each one being a different ‘ingredient’ for what I called Button Soup. 

The days of Julia Child as the only top chef on television found me stirring and mimicking her voice as I threw my concoction together and stirred it with a ladle that had an orange plastic handle. I remember that ladle so well because it perfectly matched the Tupperware canister set that sat on our shelves until the seals no longer worked or the lids got warped from heat. I would stir and stir, adding a button here and there until it was perfect. Spooning it into the bowls I would serve my soup to my mom, who would smile and say it was the best button soup ever. 

This week sometime I think Brody and I will make button soup. I will tell him what I remember of the origins of the many buttons and laugh as he adds each one to the pot for his special mix.  I might also tell him about his Memaw and how long the buttons have been around. He won’t remember but he will remember the time spent together and that is what matters. July 28, 2016

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Dear Mom

 

It has been 4 years, 6 months and 18 days since you left us. There are days that your absence is so palpable I feel like I can barely breathe.  So many things that have happened in my life that you should have been a part of but weren’t.  Everyday my soaping business grows I miss you immensely, fully aware that were you here you would be right up in the middle of it all. You would have had to try every bar, smell every scent and give your opinion on everything I made. Truth, at some points I would have become irritated, because sometimes you could be overbearing. I would have taken it as harsh criticism instead of seeing it as you pushing me to do better, be better. But mainly I miss that presence I know would be there. Sometimes it weighs heavy on me like a winter coat that has gotten wet, pressing on my shoulders and feeling as if I cannot catch my breath at all.  Those are the days that are the hardest for me. When I don’t want to get out of bed. Lately, I have kind of seen you in my dreams and they aren’t good in reality. I have gone somewhere with you but I don’t actually see you, I just know you are with me. But somewhere along the way I lose you and I cannot find you. Sometimes I have friends with me who I tell to call you and suddenly the memory of even your cell phone number escapes me and I wake up panicked and struggling to get out of bed to look for you. I realize I can’t remember what you sounded like, or looked like and I am troubled. 

But then there are the moments that I feel you nearby as surely as I see the flowers blooming in front of your house still. Even if it is that one mounding plant you got at a discount and was nearly dead when you planted it. Now it refuses to go away. When Brody is here I hear you come out of my mouth in the things I say to him when playing. He has mannerisms that remind me of you, from the way he will look at you so intently then break the seriousness by making a silly face. 

I remember growing up people saying I looked like you but I could never see it, I always saw Daddy in me but not you. I see it now. Even in pictures that have been taken since you left I will have to look twice because my brain immediately says it is you, when it is me, especially when I haven’t colored my hair. When Facebook takes pictures of you and tries to tag me, when I look at the baby pictures of Brody and see both you and me as well as Doug, it comes through really strongly then. 

But it isn’t just in looks that you show up. I will do things in the kitchen or say things in passing and suddenly there you are. The other night I grabbed a block of cheese, a paring knife and a bag of chips and sat down with them and would slice cheese and eat chips with it, slice the cheese, eat the chip. Gene stared at me, half smiling from the memories and realizing I myself hadn’t noticed. Then it hit me. Seeing you do the same at home, with Dancing with the stars playing or some other show you loved. Lay’s ruffle chips and pretty much any block of cheese but your preferred was sharp cheddar. I stopped and caught my breath again, holding back a tear from the memories of that flooding my heart and realizing you were here. 

In reality you have never really left, despite the feelings that come over me like a wave without warning. Yes, there are profound places where it isn’t the same, but the ability to simply stop and think about how much you appear when I am not paying attention that you are still watching. In that I find some comfort and peace, and gratitude.  July 21, 2016

Love, 

Angel 

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Family is more than a bloodline

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We are born into a family, as a rule, that is how it was designed to work in theory. Sometimes it just doesn’t pan out that way. But I have grown to learn that family is not always about bloodline. There is no real definition that encompasses all the beautiful images of family that arise when love is the leading ingredient. 

The Greeks had various definitions for different types of love:

Eros was used to define the love between a husband and a wife. Often fiery in passion and desire it extended into the protective and calming peace one finds in finding the person that sparks their mind, as well as their body and soul. 

Stergo was used to define the love between a parent and child. Fierce and protective from birth it is the love of a mother and father of their offspring that often defies explanation. It is the kind of love that drives us as parents to want our children to reach heights we ourselves may have never been able to achieve. 

Phileo, brotherly love, the base Greek word that was used in naming Philadelphia. The city where all are looked upon as members of our extended family. 

Agape, all encompassing, all forgiving, unending love. It is the description that I think of when it comes to loving others. 

If we work towards loving everyone the way agape describes our lives are full. Tragedy may come but we are buoyed by the love we have that surrounds us. We extend it to all we meet on our journey. I do not have to know you to have love for you. I love you because you are simply another human being, doing the best that you can in this thing called life to just make it through. 

We have allowed the world, religion, media to apply labels and descriptors that lead us down pathways that would find us shunning others. Isn’t it time we made the decisions for ourselves? Isn’t it beyond time that we loved others the way we wish we were loved by others?? 

You cannot receive what you yourself cannot give. But the labels. Too fat, too tall, too homely, too white, too black, too emotional, too detached, the labels never ending. 

What if instead we saw beautiful, compassionate, kind, what if we smiled instead of walked past and ignored?? One change in how you respond to people has a ripple effect and it carries, it truly does. 

It is time we realized that blood isn’t about genetics but about the fact that we all are one. It isn’t who you came from or your bloodline, it is about who you have chosen to become. I choose to be the person who loves you, doesn’t mean I have to agree with all you do, but I can still love you. 

So from me to you, I love you. Just how you are. A beautiful human being in a package that might not look like mine but it is still beautiful.   July 14, 2016

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Bare feet and watermelon

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One of my favorite sights of summer is the arrival of watermelon in the grocery stores. Farmer’s market, roadside stands awash in the bounty of the gardening greatness of local farmers dot the trip from one location to the other. I am led to buy one or two before summer’s end, they are as critical to summertime memories as the fried green tomatoes and milk gravy Memaw would cook with breakfast every morning. 

As kids we were sent to the cool concrete of the carport on my aunt’s house, or the yard at Memaw’s with slices of watermelon that had hidden in the refrigerator until it was the ideal temperature to combat the summer heat that would drain even the hardiest of kids. Shoes would be tossed elsewhere in the yard as we preferred our feet to be bare as if tempting the fates and the honey bees that wafted lazily from flower to flower in their yards. We would always side where our feet could dangle over the edge of the porch without actually touching the grass, it was simply the way watermelon had to be eaten properly. The backs of our legs grating against the rough surface of the cinder block foundation, resulting in scrapes that would sting later in the day when sweat would trickle down them. But for now it is part of the routine, the rhythmic movement of our feet and legs as if we were in motion even when sitting still relishing in the cold sweetness of the watermelon running down our chins and arms. 

Invariably we will be sticky, it is another part of the ritual, and despite Memaw and our aunt yelling for us to wash our hands and faces after we eat we will leap from the porch after it is gone and proceed with the summer play. It pauses for nothing other than food or the bathroom, it starts as early as we can get our parents to take us to each other and ends when the nightly news comes on and we are forced inside by sleepy adults who don’t understand the magic of summer to a child. The magic is lost in the monotony of adulthood and responsibilities and life in general. 

We, the young, haven’t been touched by tragedy or tainted by reality just yet. We haven’t felt the pain of loss and the gravity of adult problems that weigh heavy on our shoulders. We still find the joy in playing in the mud puddles that come after the storms, the smell of the rain still fresh in the air after the thunder and lightning has roared through and the darkness of life has bared its teeth at the adults. We still revel in the sticky sweetness of cold fresh watermelon running down our faces and our feet being bare against the cool concrete on a hot summer day.

Adulthood will come though, and with it all of the things that our parents dealt with along with new issues with the growth of modern technology. Today’s kids are losing the joy of summer. Sunshine being replaced with computer screens, playmates being replaced by gaming friends they will never see. So I will buy my watermelon, I will sit on the porch with my grandson and we will dangle our feet over the edge of the porch if possible. For just a few minutes I will be a kid again, just to show him what childhood is really about, and hoping he stores this memory, like me, for when he is old, like me.  June 30, 2016

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Dear humidity

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Ahh … summer in Kentucky, the flowers in bloom, and the trees covered in foliage and birds with nests. I loved summer as a kid. Sure we had hot days, but we suffered through hot asphalt on bare feet, picking clover and lying in the grass. Days spent riding our bikes or simply playing tag in the yard of my aunt’s house with Felicia and Tracy. Summer you were my favorite. 

But at some point you changed. Maybe I changed, maybe it was both of us, but I don’t like it, not one bit. 

Your heat has become smothering, walking out the door into your sweltering oxygen sucked from my lungs by the inferno that is in the air. When I was little I had straight hair, it hung like a golden waterfall down my back. While my hair is no longer blonde, straight is another thing it is not. Especially when dealing with your time here. 

I go from waves and soft curls when my hair is long enough in my home to frizz that makes a lion jealous. It used to be it only affected me when I went outdoors. Now it happens anywhere. 

Your dew heavy humidity even covers my floors with dampness in the morning and I awaken with my hair standing in a style that Einstein would be fearful of seeing. 

I have invested into every product known to control frizzy hair only to see how futile my efforts become. There are not enough products in the world to control this head of hair. 

When your heat starts to fade and fall begins to nip in the air I get brave enough to think I will let my hair grow out. While it won’t be stick straight I have learned to accept the soft curls and waves that it presents nowadays. I have a fantasy driven desire to have my locks flow softly over my frame, encircling my head like a crown when I lay down on my pillow. Even though it never gets to that, the longer it gets the thicker it becomes, I still dream. Until spring begins to emerge and I begin pulling it back in the proverbial ponytail because getting it to mind is an all day affair.  This continues until Mid-March or April when I finally make my way to the stylist and tell her to shave me bald. She cuts what seem to be pounds of hair from my head commenting on the fact I could give hair to several medium sized dogs with cancer if I was so inclined. We discuss how quickly my hair went from half an inch off my head to nearly 12 inches long and looking like I stepped into a wind tunnel. 

I sigh as it falls to the floor, feeling the headache relieve with the weight of this mane disappearing, watching my vision land in puffy, humidity frizzed piles around the chair. I softly curse Kentucky humidity under my breath, debating moving to Arizona or somewhere humidity isn’t an issue. But I don’t. Because despite your summer betrayal of me, you are in my blood and I can never stray for long.

Signed, 

The woman with the lion’s mane of summer.  June 23, 2016

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I am a southern woman

 

We Southern women are a breed unto ourselves. Others want to be us, many want to tame us, far too many want to tell us we are a dying breed. We are the antiquities of women who seemed like delicate flowers, being held down by the patriarchal forefathers, held captive in sprawling plantations. While we no longer wear the huge hoops skirts and tight waist corsets of our grandmothers our spines are as straight, our tongues are as sharp and our brutal honesty in any situation is sure to make others uncomfortable. 

We hide our strength in the folds of the aprons of the strong women who came before us, from crinolines to aprons our resilience is that of the iron skillets that sizzled on hot wood stoves. Frying the bacon and eggs for the strong menfolk who spoke around us like pieces of furniture. They placed us on mantels like fragile porcelain dolls, sharing our beauty and fragility with their good old boy buddies like prized hunt trophies on a darkened wood wall. We nodded and smiled in polite company, our manners ingrained but our minds honing in on the whispers of business and farming.

Do not buy the imagery of the movies and the books that lead you to believe we were breakable. That our resolve would snap like the branches on the trees that fly loose in one of the fierce storms that arise in the heat of summer days and humid nights. We are stronger, and deceptive in our strength. We are curvy, soft skinned, beauty hiding spines of steel, hips to pack babies or pistols. One bat of our eyes will leave you weak kneed or knock kneed and yes there is a distinct difference and a Southern woman knows that difference. 

If you are blessed enough to have a Southern woman by your side don’t neglect her. She is the strength of the Mississippi, having your back when no one else does. She will speak to the King in you while ignoring the court jester. Remember she is often a giver, an empathetic person. She has been trained to read people, to fix them, to heal them. But she gets weary. In taking on the world for everyone else she needs to be reminded that she is the world to one person. While she is ready to carry your weight and the weight and worries of someone else, remind her to breathe. We tend to lose ourselves in taking care of everyone else. When we are done, we are done, there is no in between. Our shoulders are strong, our hearts are big, but our desire to care so much is often to our own detriment. 

You will never find a more loyal friend, until you are not as loyal or cannot handle the rawness of their truths in your life. We do not sugar anything but our tea, everything else comes brutally honest and their honesty can be a barrier to someone not ready to face their truths. 

We are head strong and vocabulary rich. You have never been cursed until a Southern woman does it, with the eloquence of Shakespeare in her rant. If you make us mad, lay low. If you make us mad enough to cry, disappear. We remember that and don’t ever let ourselves fall for that game a second time. 

I am blessed to have a strong backbone forged from the Southern women who came before me. Without their strength I do not think I would have made it this far.   June 16, 2016

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Enjoying the steps of a grandchild

 

My heart is to share my heart with all of you. I do my best but some days it just doesn’t fall into place like I envision. So this week you get to hear about the little man, our bouncing all boy ball of mud and muck and earthworms grandson. 

He is the mirror image of his daddy, there is no way to deny that fact. Watching him grow up has been the absolute best time I have ever had. Being a grandparent is so much different from being a parent. I get to enjoy more with him than I did with my own children, which is sad when you think about it, we miss so much as parents. I can remember milestones in my boy’s lives, I have all the baby books and pictures. But I have learned I have far more pictures with Brody than I do my own children. The invention of cell phones and tablets have made getting those memories much easier for parents and grandparents alike.  

He is nearly 4-years old and an endless energy fountain that reminds me every day that getting old isn’t for sissies and that we really need to find the formula that gives them that energy and bottle it for sale. I would be a gazillionaire in a matter of weeks. Words are flowing from him like fountains. He will tell stories, sing songs, give details of his life when he isn’t here.  They flow so fast out of his mouth and his little face so serious when he is telling you the story that he stumbles over the words that jumble together and you are left to decipher what you can. 

Last night around bedtime he was doing his usual I am not tired game. This consists of pulling out the toys, running a few laps, doing a dance, then playing with his dump trucks on the couch. It is the last stop in toddlerdom to falling out in sleep so deep we adults are jealous. In his melee he managed to take the bed off one truck and for some reason wanted Papaw to remove something else. When Papaw refused his overly tired 3-year old self was completely devastated. He held one hand up and said, “I just can’t deal Papaw, can’t deal.”

I was on the phone with a friend and I simply began laughing so hard I couldn’t contain myself. You are three, and you can’t deal. I thought to myself we are all doomed if that is the case. Later as he laid on his chair with ottoman for sleep I went to cover him with his SpongeBob blanket. 

“NO Memaw not SpongeBob, I want the breeza!” his little brown eyes wide staring at me waiting for my instant compliance.

“Baby what is that?” as I look around for anything that comes close to resembling what I think he might be referring to as a cover.

Finally he pointed to my snuggie at the foot of his ottoman, which is Zebra striped. I laughed and put it over him as he said, “Breeza Memaw it wooks like a Breeza.” 

After several minutes of pronouncing it slowly for him he finally called it a zebra. Will it stick and he say it right the next time? Probably not, it was late, he was tired. But those moments I live for, I store them. I compare them with his daddy and uncles on words they had issues with as children and I smile. In minutes he is out cold and I am left to wish it was that easy for me to simply close my eyes, content in the knowledge of what my 3-year old mind perceives as the entire world is safe, so therefore so am I.   June 9, 2016

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Changing Lanes

 

So we are going to be moving, probably in the next couple of months. Still in this county if we find a place. Truth, a car wreck wrecked us financially and a thus far nearly three year battle against the person who hit us is still being played out behind the scenes.  

When your income gets cut into a third of what you were making it isn’t long before you feel the pinch. So the home I last had my mom in is going to be going back to the bank when all is said and done. Part of me is heartbroken and the other part relieved. 

It really hasn’t felt like home since losing mom, truth is truth. Plus there are things that need major repair on this place we cannot afford to do with the extremely limited income. It just isn’t financially possible. So I have decided to call it changing lanes, because no one wants to be in the slow lane all their life, playing it safe can be a hindrance in some cases. 

I am heading into the passing lane and putting the pedal to the metal if you will. Get closer to town, be able to get back to walking like I did when we lived there last. Too many memories and lately nightmares that keep me from sleeping like I should or could. Too many hanging on by a thread days to hang onto a place that isn’t what it used to be for me or to me any longer. 

So easy to say you can’t hang onto the past and so difficult to live by that thought. The nightmares? Little things like losing my mom in strange places and not being able to remember her cell phone number to call her and be reassured she is okay and we are okay. 

My mom was my sounding board, my calm place, even when sometimes she could be the reason for my frustration, she was my safe place to land. So much we are doing in an attempt to change our lives for the better without his income. 

Me stepping into running a business I am building on my own is just one of the things. So much I could see me calling mom about that I can’t and that simply reminds me yet again that I feel alone. Yes, I am married, and yes I can talk to my husband, but there are just some things he doesn’t get. Plus him dealing with his inability to be a provider plays out well enough in his mind, not being able to help me shouldn’t be added to his list. 

Deep breath, close my eyes and leap. I either go down in flames and dust myself off, or I take flight.. I personally, I foresee flight, even if I do have a few dips and some turbulence I will push forward. 

Plus I will still be here, being real with ya’ll. Because it is who I am and I just don’t know how else to be.  June 2, 2016

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Rolling Thunder

 

This week over 30,000 or more bikers will make their way into our small town in their run for the Vietnam wall in Washington, DC. I have always had a love for motorcycles and the men and women who have the strength and ability to ride one. The fact that so many of them do it to honor those who have fallen in battle for our great country is a vision you don’t soon forget.

My kids have known about Task Force Omega since they were little, they love watching for the groups to come down our winding road on those steel horses and the sounds of the engine echo off the hillsides that surround us. Last year we were able to go meet with many of the riders as they arrived in the little town of Mt. Sterling. We drove out to meet them and see the beautiful hearts behind the trip.

My kids once asked me why they trip was called Rolling Thunder Run for the wall. Back then all I could say was they sounded like thunder rumbling in the distance and growing ever louder as they neared you, it is a sound unlike anything you will ever hear, and it sinks into your soul. Last year though, after getting to talk to several of the participants, in all walks of life and age my definition changed.

Founded originally to bring about public awareness of the many left behind as prisoners of war or listed as Missing in action in the Vietnam war it has become so much more. Let’s be real, Vietnam was a black eye on our great nation, and the quicker it was left in the annals of history and forgotten the better. So keeping those missing out of the public knowledge was what they did, as if they were simply casualties of a tragic roadblock in our nation’s history.

Rolling thunder isn’t the engines, or mufflers. It is the heartbeat of the men and women left behind and unaccounted for in all wars but began following Vietnam. The amount of social difference among the participants is vast but they come together for one thing, to say we will never forget, we will not leave you there, we will be your voice. That rumble is the heartbeat of all who have yet to come home, it is the voice of the thousands who cannot speak for themselves, and a life line to the families left behind needing answers.

Run for the Wall reminds us as a nation that we have soldiers who still need to come home, and it is our job to speak for them, as a whole nation. When a country that turned its back on the men and women we sent to fight our battles, soldiers shamed and ridiculed at airports, ignored by the political leaders who sent them, and mocked by the men and women left here using the free speech those same soldiers gave them to abuse them. The thunder started on the back of 2 men from the Vietnam war who took back the peace war stole from them and have garnered the attention of millions in a cry for their lost brothers and sisters.

Rolling Thunder Is the perfected art of standing up for those who stood by you without shame or reproach. It is the pulse of those who are still in a prison somewhere in a foreign land praying for the miracle of a rescuer. It is the tears of a widowed wife, fatherless or parentless child who simply wants a place to go and actually talk to the person they lost.

Rolling Thunder will never die, it will continue for ages of life until they are all accounted for, all brought home if possible, and all given the honor that many who ride in their memory never received when they came home.

If you have nothing to do Wednesday head up to Mt. Sterling, find a spot near the interstate overpass, and watch as these stellar examples of bravery, brotherhood, and unwavering dedication come through. Feel the vibrations fill your chest and belly and sink into your soul as the tears wet your cheeks. There is simply nothing more humbling and overpowering at the same time.   May 26, 2016

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Back When...

 

When I was a child this county was never short for a reason to have a community wide event. It was filled with familiar faces, food, fellowship and fun. We came together to celebrate as a community, May Day, Christmas, Homecoming, Walnut Festival, Hoss Tradin’ Days, and the 4th of July Horse show come to mind immediately. I am certain that many of these traditions came about when this county was filled with mainly farmers and small businesses and used as a way to make the most of harvests and happenings as a community whole. The county fair was another large draw, when it still meant contests, 4-H events, farm shows and not just thrill rides and rigged games. 

Somewhere in the last 20 years that attachment of community has waned and I am worried. I have taken my children to May Day every year since birth. They love it, and the past 3 years we have brought our grandson. It didn’t used to matter the weather, there was a crowd. With that said there were also some things that have disappeared that maybe need to come back. When I was in high school to be in May Day as a contestant there were expectations. As a contender you were expected to help make the float you were riding on, that meant you showed up wherever it was being put together and worked, with everyone else. We did the formal teas and the cake auction as well. But we were expected to make our own cakes, that was the whole point in having the auction. The contestants made the cakes, they may have had help but they didn’t have someone else do it for them, they had to participate. All of these ideals were based on being a part of a community, participating. The idea that hard work and participation are required to get anywhere in life. 

Technology and television have ruined it. I want the old days back. I want kids riding bikes in town and 40 or more dressed up as little clowns in the parade. I want 15 or more floats, each done with heart and soul and pride for where we come from and our community. Where are the Shriners? Why did I see more politicians than I did local folk, even if they had to come on riding lawnmower decked out to participate? How do we get that back? Our world needs more of that, it just does. 

Who remembers the Great Outhouse Races?? The top prize the Golden toilet seat and lid. We had fun, we socialized. Not the socialization of Facebook and Snapchat but face to face, hand shaking, how have you been hugs and the inevitable comments of “I can’t believe how much those babies have grown!”

What will it take to get there again?? Because I sure do miss those days. I miss the feeling that we had each other’s backs. That Topix wasn’t the place to get the latest information Rogie’s Ashland was, Robert’s Grocery, Peck’s Hardware. In an age of anonymous socialization bullying has increased at a dramatic rate, we don’t know people like we used to, not like we need. We know of them not about them. We have made socialization anything but social. I want the social back. I want my kids to be able to go in town and have spies everywhere that keep them in line. I had them and I survived. I want the pot-bellied stove grocery store where everyone gathered when farming season was done and people needed to be around other people. Before cell phones and mobile apps made every minute of your life seem like 15 minutes of fame never ends. Streetlight curfews, street dances, and town gatherings and festivals need to come back in style.. please.  May 19, 2016

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Take me fishing

 

There are so many memories of childhood that stick out when I go traipsing down memory lane. Christmas presents that stick out in my mind, family trips between Kentucky and Virginia with my mom and sisters, the smell of the ocean. But the one thing I can recall without difficulty is going fishing. All of we girls knew how to fish, even if we all didn’t really like to go fishing. I, however, didn’t mind. I loved digging in the dirt to find worms, baiting my own hooks and sticking my bare feet in the mud on the side of a pond or creek. 

The best times I had were spending time with dad just fishing. Those came too far and few in between, especially after he and mom split up.  We moved to Virginia and my ability to go fishing was even more difficult to come by. I am finding the older I get the more I need that time by the water again. 

Even more soothing than going barefoot in the freshly rained upon grass, something about dipping your toes in the river is even better.

It takes you back to the time when baptisms were done in the rivers instead of sanitized, sterilized temperature controlled baptismal pools. When the creature comforts of life didn’t come in pretty paper and pristine packaging from the big box store. The best things are found in the silence of the trees and the babble of the river as it rolls over rocks and downed trees. 

I don’t care if the fish are biting, I can get lost in the simple rhythm of the bobber as it sits on the surface, the hook just below luring the sleeping fish to come up for a bite. Sink my toes into the mud, watch the minnows by the shoreline and dodge the craw dads and their pinchers. Watch as the sun dances across the water’s surface, skipping from here to there hypnotizing you as you get lost in its dance. So easy to just be lulled to sleep right there with the flashes of sun that sneak through the tree branches to warm my skin, feeling the little beads of sweat that try to form before the next cool breeze rushes through and dries it before it fully forms. 

While it has been several years since I have been fishing you don’t forget how. It comes back as easily as riding a bike would for others. The feel of the rod and reel in your hand, the flick of your wrist and the whir sound of the line as it flies across the water. Seeing that bobber sink and the line tug and take off with the catch. I need it again. I need to feel that surge of adrenalin course through my blood as I fight with whatever was silly enough to bite my line. I won’t keep it, I never did like cleaning the fish, but there is victory in the catch and release. 

This summer I will go, I will get my license and take little man. I will teach him the joy of the silence and the absolute healing that comes from mud between your toes. He will learn how sometimes even the silence is soothing, and I will remember his Papaw sitting with me much like this and smile.  May 12, 2016

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The day I first met my Mom for the first time

 

My parents were both born and raised in Fleming County. Both children of farmers and both raised in what would be considered well below poverty standards by today’s standards. Like every other child they had dreams of seeing the world and getting out of the life they knew. Dad joined the Navy at a young age and Mom was at his side when he did. While Dad got to see the world Mom got to see a few other states, namely Virginia, where Dad was often stationed.

I remember in the last years of Mom’s life, when I went with her pretty much everywhere, stopping to eat at Mama’s Kitchen for lunch one day. While there we were approached by an older woman, considering Mom was 70, calling the other woman ‘older’ really came to a new definition for me right then. She approached our table and called Mom by her maiden name, Stanfield, and did the usual run down of family history. While standing there she discussed remembering Mom’s younger years, the teenage years while she and Daddy were still courting as she referred to the time. 

Patting my arm gently she said, “ I remember your Momma with her hair such a beautiful golden honey color, she would have it styled so perfect, and the red lipstick just so, walking down that old dirt road together with your Daddy. Her in her little dress and your Daddy with his coal black hair slicked back with BrylCreem, laying in those perfect waves in an attempt to tame his natural curl. His shirt, a button down with a pocket, and the jeans he had the cuff rolled up in, just him and you Momma, so beautiful together. I would think to myself they both looked like movie stars they were so pretty.”

Her smile was soft as she looked at my Mother and I did as well. Her description of my parents, before their marriage, before life with its hard times and sometimes hard to swallow truths. Before any of we, their children, were twinkles in their eyes. It was such a beautiful image it made me catch my breath.  I had seen images of my parents in their teen years. I often pulled out the big, oversized tan photo albums that sat drawing dust in the living room of Mom’s house. The cardstock pages with the small paper corner places that she glued on herself to hold the memories of life. The front had special pages made for the large professional portraits and there were the two I would stare at, in awe at the very two people this woman just described. 

They were Olan Mills professional, before professional photographers were in abundance. Mom was breathtakingly beautiful, Dad, yes movie star handsome. Before color pictures were instantaneous and the images looked like paintings with the colored accents that stood out against the sepia toned photos that we have a special filter to create today, minus the painting look. Mom’s skin a porcelain with a hint of pink in her cheeks, her eyes that cross of hazel and jasper green and the red lipstick. Dad’s hair perfectly slicked shirt pressed, handsome even by today’s levels. 

I felt like in that moment this woman opened the doors to a love between them that I had previously not been privy to myself. I appeared when the end was nearing and my Mom was still willing to fight for their life together. It took 9 years for them to finally conceded defeat and move on in their lives with new people. 

I noticed the glisten in my Mom’s eye when the woman spoke of that time long ago of first loves and big dreams. The genuine rawness in her eyes making me sad, for the teenagers I never got to meet. While it may not have ended as they envisioned back then, time can ease some hurts, age can acknowledge some self-responsibility, wounds heal and the scars don’t seem as raw as they once were. For the first time I saw my teenage Mom crack the surface of the woman I knew. Funny how another’s memories can have that effect. I saw the girl in that picture show back up for a moment and realized she was more beautiful than the picture conveyed. 

I don’t remember the woman’s name. But I never got to thank her for introducing me to my Mom, the teenage girl I had only seen in a heavy old photo album gathering dust in a living room.  May 5, 2016

 

 

Be the person you want to meet

I know the title is confusing, but it really isn’t. I have been doing vendor fairs with our little soap business for over a year, and in that time I have seen a lot of good, bad and somewhere in between. But I have learned a lot, so many things that I was taught as a child by my Memaw and Mom. 

Simple kindness goes a long way. Sometimes all it takes to make a person’s day a little better is a simple acknowledgement that they are seen. When I do my fairs regardless of if I am standing or sitting I talk to people as they pass. Even something as simple as “hey how are ya’ll today?” Most people will respond immediately. 

Pay it forward. Do something nice for someone, pick up that person’s tab behind you, pitch that extra change in a benefit jar. A smile is the best thing you can give someone who seems to be having it rough. In business I have learned there is no such thing as waste. I take stuff that I can’t use or won’t sell to homeless shelters or domestic violence shelters. Something as simple as a bar of soap to someone who has nothing can be life changing, but I don’t stop there. I include a letter with the donations, something to let the recipients know they matter, regardless of where they are in life. They have a purpose, a destiny and value, everyone does. It isn’t my job to tell someone where they went wrong or how to be better at this or that, it is simply my job to love them, right where they are, nothing more. 

Don’t let the bad days get to you. We all have them, I have them. Stress and anxiety are close friends of mine. I have a twitch about my soap making that drives my friends insane, and I think a lot of us who make soap do the same thing. We have a vision when we start of what we want our soap to look like, we plan colors and blends and then when it doesn’t come out as planned we are irritated. I am the world’s worst. But I have learned that what I may view as a flop others find beautiful.  I still slip from time to time but have learned to roll with it, because soap, like people has so many ways to throw you for a loop when you plan. What is the saying, “If you want to hear God laugh tell Him your plans!” Soap making falls into that same category, 

So I don’t get it right all the time but I have found so many of these things to hold true. You catch far more bees with honey than vinegar. Southern hospitality is a dying art that we should fight to hang onto with all of our might. Make every person you meet feel as if they are somebody and watch them strive to be the person you see in them. Be the person you would like to meet every day. The person who uplifts not tears down. Watch how the people around you change. The ones that cannot handle that kind of action will pull away, not because you are not worthy but because at this point they haven’t found themselves as worthy enough for that behavior yet. April 28, 2017

 

 

 

Grandkids make your heart swell

Our grandson is here every other week, since his daddy lives with us. I love the weeks we have him, he definitely keeps us on our toes. He will walk through the door with Papaw and Daddy and I will say “ Where is my punkintail baby? I hear him” and he will wander into the living room to find me, a grin from ear to ear. That grin will literally melt away whatever has you troubled. 

This past week he was in need of some time with just snuggling and so he got what he wanted. I had a gazillion things to do in preparation for the Mushroom festival, product to make, soaps to wrap. But nothing was more important than simply snuggling with him. 

He is getting so big now, his legs don’t tuck around me like they used to do in the rocking chair. So he has claimed the fainting couch as we have dubbed the blue overstuffed chair with a matching ottoman. When pushed together it is perfect for his still growing frame, his legs don’t dangle over it and it has enough width that he can have someone lay down with him. 

So with his dinosaur pillow and sippy cup he climbed on the chair and patted the spot he wanted me to sit. After starting the movie he chose I settled in beside him, my arm tucked under his head as he snuggled in against me. My chin on the top of his head and I sniffed to hopefully find the smell of baby left anywhere in those golden strands but they are gone now. Faded as he has grown, and even though you can wash them in baby wash there is a difference. It has faded into the more grown scents of little boys, springtime air, mud puddles and snuggling with Ramsey his pit protector. If I were not on the chair with him stretched out Ramsey would be curled upon the ottoman, the sentinel of this boy child who has grown far too quickly for my grandmother’s heart to bear. 

Where has the baby with the chubby cheeks and dimples as deep as Cave Run Lake gone? The giggle box of kisses and snuggles and the joy of simply bouncing on a ball while you struggle to keep up with those chunky legs as they land on it once more to go back up. Now he has his tool set, like his Papaw, and is constantly fixing things. He pulls empty cardboard boxes we have received with shipments of products for our business that once fit him perfectly to close the lid and he would ‘hide’ from us, the giggle giving him away. Now he lays with his head in the box and suddenly the rest of his body stretches out on the floor as he ‘hides’ again and giggles when you tickle that spot behind his knee. 

He has grown from songs like ‘itsy bitsy spider’ into ABC and a dozen other nursery rhymes. He has gone from chunky cars to knowing the names of all the heavy equipment vehicles we see on our route to take him to school or go to town, quickly correcting us if we call them by the wrong name. Much like his father did as a child with a certain book titled Under the Sea which he had so memorized he no longer needed the book itself and would often recite it out loud when he was bored. 

So I snuggle on the couch because far too soon he won’t allow me to snuggle, he will be too big for that. He won’t want to sing the silly songs with me or hide in the boxes anymore. Far too soon so I will make the most of these snuggle moments, and remember them.   April 21, 2016

 

Know your worth

I am, without a doubt, my own worst critic and enemy. I loved my mom unquestionably, but there were things that she believed about self-worth and other people’s opinions that sadly passed down to me. My mom was one of 7 children to a sharecropping farmer who worked in the rock quarry in Flemingsburg. There was no disguising they were what was considered poor even in a region that wasn’t exactly filled with an abundance of what she viewed as wealthy. Of course being nearly 80 years ago rich then would be considered poor by today’s standards.

Mom felt like her worth was measured by the money she made and the opinions of others about who she was as a person. She was consistently worried with what the neighbors would think about the house, about we girls, about the yard. It wasn’t until she was much older that she began to realize her worth had absolutely nothing to do with her money, or even what the neighbors had to say about her. In my mid-40s now I am learning much sooner than she did.

Trying to appease the masses and get their opinion of you to be favorable is too difficult a task. There will always be someone who wants to belittle you, talk about you, mistreat you, because people can be cruel. Sadly it isn’t just children anymore. We have a generation of individuals so lost in keeping up with the next wealthier person that they have forgotten who they are in the mess of trying to fit someone else’s criteria for who they should be, what they should have, how they should live. Aren’t you tired? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to look in the mirror and be content with the reflection you see? It isn’t easy, but it is so worth that effort.

I have learned that if you have to beg someone for time or attention they don’t warrant your time and attention. The ones who tell you that you can’t are only telling you that because they failed and believe if they couldn’t succeed than neither should you. You know the ones, they talk about how much they do for others, then complain that their blessing never comes. We all know a few people in our lives that fit that description. Sadly, when we get our blessing they complain and then make us often second guess why we were blessed. They don’t have to degrade us personally, they simply fill us with self-doubt and the belief that we really don’t deserve to be blessed in that manner.

At some point we have to stop allowing others to hold us back, simply because they aren’t ready for that level of blessing in their lives. We are all fighting a battle, it is how we behave in the hallway when no one is watching that brings about the blessing in the daylight that often flair what I call our naysayers. While I don’t push religion I do believe. I have seen time and time again the truth of what you do in the dark will come back and either bless your or bite you in the light. I have learned you don’t do the right thing to get the attention for doing the right thing, you do it because it is the right thing. When you do something to help another then tell everyone ‘how good’ you were to someone to get that pat on the back for your ‘popularity pat on the back’ , you have just received the only acknowledgement of your behavior.

I have chosen to love some people in my life from over here. Their choice to live in the mentality that the world owes them something, broke, busted, disgusted and too busy hating on me is not my negativity to deal with or repair. I can’t repair them, it isn’t my job. But I can repair me. I can repair their ability to drag me down with them by stepping back. I can do what I love and pour my love into it to bless someone else. I have my own skeletons and demons to deal with so I don’t have time to judge you for yours. I know my worth, and it has taken me a long time to get here. But I have decided that my life is as important as anyone’s and if I won’t help myself how can I expect to help anyone else.  April 14, 2016

 

 

Success sometimes is slow

If you love what you do you will never work a day in your life. I don’t know who said it originally but I do know I have heard that more times than I would care to admit and let me tell you it’s a crock. As a woman who wears many hats let me tell you even when you love what you do there is still work to be done. I love my kids, but they didn’t become the awesome people they can be by me simply loving them. It took patience, discipline, more repetition of things that they can’t do then I would care to count, the word no a lot to help them grow up. I love writing but trust me when I say I often push the deadline every week for my column. Not because I don’t have anything to say, Lord knows I do, but for me taking my thoughts and getting them all lined up and organized into sentences and columns often means I am up at 1 am while the house is finally quiet. It means I may sit down and write about one thing and find my mind and words flowing into something completely different and I erase an entire page of words to go in that direction.

I love to cook, for me so many memories are wrapped around family gatherings and even simple dinners my Memaw would make. There was just something about coming together around a table that soothes the soul and heart. Although I will never compare to my Memaw with her cooking I often wear her apron when I am in my kitchen hoping maybe some of her gift will infuse into me. I still haven’t mastered her fried chicken, but mine isn’t horrible, my kids wolf it down in nanoseconds. I attempted a butterscotch pie like she used to make, you know, without the pudding and actually cooked in an iron skillet on the stove. Let’s just say that pie making is not in my repertoire of fine cooking. I can tear up a preformed pie crust, don’t ask how just trust me.

I also run a small business that centers around bath and body. For me it is a cooking of sorts. I make soap, body butters, bath bombs and more. I love the challenge of finding those perfect blends of colors and scents to bring a smell to life if you will. The simplicity with the challenge of knowing how the mix of oils and lye will work together always keeps me guessing. Just like cooking it is a labor of love. I am so particular about look, feel, smell, how it feels on your skin that I often drive everyone else insane. Having to push that one more envelope or tweak it just a little more. But like any small business beginnings it takes time. Did I mention my issue with patience?? No? Well let me tell you now that my patience is slim to none, waiting drives me insane. I am one of those always early people. So building a business, much like writing my column has proven to be one of hurry up and wait. This weekend was rough and I really felt like throwing in the towel. But then I get that customer who messages me thanking me for the product they got and now absolutely adore. I sigh, thank them and smile and feel like Ok back to the grinding wheel. Because nothing worth having ever really comes quickly, if it did we wouldn’t enjoy the glory of the moment when we succeed. April 7, 2016