Sunday Service

     "I like your Christ.  I do not like your Christians.  Your Christians are so unlike your Christ!"  I think about Mahatma Ghandi's assessment of Christianity just about every time I find myself rolling through downtown on Sunday mornings to get Sam from his father.  He can't keep his son past noon on Sundays because...well just because.  But, that's another rant.  I used to feel bad about not being in church every week because I claim to be Christian,  but as I have lived and learned, a steady church-goer does not a Christian make.  I know God wants us to congregate for fellowship and I am more comfortable in small groups of people I know who walk their talk rather than with a pew full of folks who live lives of hypocrisy and self-righteousness.  I absolutely loved the Christian Women's Club I used to attend in Tallahassee, but they quit meeting a few years ago.  The small and eclectic group of women, the inspiring speakers and the foundations of the CWC in general fit me perfectly.
     The first church I attended regularly was a great big Baptist one and I had a lot of friends who went there, but I felt awful every time I left.  My mother made my Sunday dresses and I felt so pretty in them, but the pastor's daughter was in my Sunday-school class and she made fun of me for being so poor my mother had to make my clothes.  Thirty years later, I gave that same church another try.  This time the sermons left me feeling guilty and horrible because I wasn't able to give as much financially to the church as the pastor said we should.  Without fail, every week the sermon came around to money and the reasons people go to Hell and I left in tears.  I just didn't believe that this is how God thought a church should treat its parishioners.  I had been baptized in that church and felt secure in knowing I was saved,  but this guy left me feeling like I may as well be at the bar drinking myself to death because I was going to Hell anyway.  Shouldn't a service be focusing on God's glory and praising Him?  I decided that since Christ himself was poor and didn't confine himself to a sanctuary I would follow His lead.
     I know that there are some wonderful churches out there and I know they have a lot of true Christians in them.  I have attended quite a few over the years, looking for one that felt like home.  One that accepts me for the sinner that I am and doesn't judge me or require me to be there every time the doors are open.  I'll find it eventually, but until then I maintain a close walk with the Lord and do my best to live according to His Word and be grateful for all that I have.  I read the Bible daily and do a morning devotional.   I try to model these ways for my children as well.
   My grand-folks were church-going people at times.  I remember going to a service, maybe for a funeral, with them once when I was about ten years old.  Grandma Margaret got so mad at Grandpa Major because he never went inside the church, preferring to hang out with the other menfolk in the yard.  She said he had kept those men outside on purpose to listen to him talk.  I thought to myself that what Major had to say was probably more interesting than what we had heard, but what did I know?
    The photo above is Grandpa Major's mama, Fannie Langston and preacher Obe Revel.  I love everything about this photo, from Fannie's church hat and sunglasses to Mr. Revel's fan.  Fannie was reputed to be quite outlandish at times, often wearing huge blossoms pinned to her blouse, the petals spread out and pressed flat.  I don't doubt that a bit.  The more I learn about her, the more I think I take after her.  My mother is a lot like Margaret's mother Jennie, but I got the best of Fannie.  And my daughter has a penchant for church hats!

Making the Short List

     I never thought we would be able to fill this house up, but in just two-and-a-half years we have done just that.  Even though I am far from a neat freak, too much clutter does make me anxious so I have been tidying up around here before I go back to work next week.  It is amazing how much stuff three people can accumulate.  I am going to go ahead and call my son out right here:  he is a hoarder.  He got it honestly and I guess I ought to call out Grandpa Major, too.  I can still hear Grandma Margaret griping about Major taking things out of the garbage and stashing them in his workshop.  You never know when you might need an aluminum pie plate or thirty. Sam is the same way about stuffed animals.  If he ever called it a buddy, it has a permanent place in our house.

     My daughter and I were discussing our ancestral hoarders yesterday and I mentioned that it is now hurricane season here and even though we are an hour inland, we could theoretically be ordered to evacuate with a half-day's notice.  If that were to happen and we have only our little CR-V to pack in, what would she take?  Aside from a pile of clothes and toiletries, what would we scramble to save?  Sam would blow a fuse and try to get all of his stuff in as many bags as possible, but I have mentally gone through this a few times.  I am a planner, you know.

     Sara would be frantically trying to compact her electronics, books, hair accessories and those Toms she adores into a very small amount of space, but I would focus on the irreplaceable things.  After loading some clothes and personal items, I'd go for the lock-box with all our important documents, my laptop computer, my genealogy stuff and my childhood Bible.  Then I'd load up the big box of photos and photo CDs under my bed and grab as many of the framed ones as I could.  My mom had her wallet stolen many years ago and she was beside herself about the loss of the photos in it that could not be replaced more than she was about her money or identification.  More recently, water damage claimed a huge box of photos and negatives from my childhood and my mom can barely discuss it even now. I am so glad that I live in an age when photos are stored electronically and easily recovered even when computers crash.  I have always loved pictures, but doing my ancestry research has made me appreciate them even more.

    Since my mother has retired, she has begun to sort and organize her "treasures" and I have been fortunate to gain some nice pieces of furniture as well as some nifty old kitchen items that belonged to my aunt Doll .  I'd hate to lose any of it, but it didn't make the short list of what I'd be inclined to save if the Gulf decided to slosh inland.  If time and space allowed, I might get some favorite novels and some of my preserves, but the rest is going down with the ship.  In the end it is all just stuff we can't take with us, but there are a few things I'd like to pass down.  

     We come into this world with nothing and go out the same way.  In between we are privileged to possess a few things but they are just that.  Things.  My mother and her sister hardly speak anymore and it all started over a bunch of stuff.  Material stuff.  Stuff that neither has use for, much less storage space, and probably couldn't put their hands on if their lives depended on it.  I don't plan on being that way. I'll take care of the things I have while I have them, but Sam and Sara can do what they will with them when my time comes.  And while I appreciate beautiful, expensive luxury items, I am not wasting time or energy pining over them or killing myself trying to buy them.  

     Today's media and advertisers push onto us the notion that we should want to have certain things to make us appear to be successful and beautiful and eternally young and if we don't want those things there is something wrong with us.  Have a chat with a teenager and that will come out almost immediately...and they don't even notice.  But as I have gotten older and have lived out here in the country with no cable or satellite television, I have come to appreciate that less is more.  I used to take no less than three bags with me for a weekend trip.  This last time I had one and my purse.  My children, however, have many years and many shopping bags and Spring Cleanings before they will get to this place.  I should probably invest in Rubbermaid and Zip-loc because they're going to be storing stuff for a long time!

C'mon, Get Happy!

    It's true...you can buy happiness!  I bought some a few weeks ago just because somebody said you can't.  The package of facial powder says it contains a specific mineral (which I can neither spell nor pronounce) that is a proven mood elevator.  It promises to improve the look of my skin and lift my spirits. Well who couldn't use some of that?  The stuff smells fantastic and that immediately made me happy.  And it has a little heart-shaped section of pink blusher which gives me rosy cheeks.   Have you noticed that smiley icons, the textual symbols of happiness, have rosy cheeks?
     In retrospect while wearing the Happy Booster powder, I have been quite happy.  I pointed this out to my daughter who asked, "Weren't you happy anyway?"  Well, duh.  Of course I was and I know that, while certain elements do lift the spirits, happiness is a state of contentment and joy that actually comes from the inside.  We can be influenced by pharmaceuticals, alcohol, herbs, people and other material things which put us in temporary states of contentment, but after they wear off, leave and are no longer new we are still left with one thing... our self.  The artist Andy Warhol once said, "You have to be able to get happy about nothing."  That is The Truth.

     I have gotten into the habit of making myself find a good for every bad that comes along.  It is very difficult at times because, like every other adult I know, I have bills to pay and a house to keep up and a job to do and it gets hard to keep looking at the big picture instead of focusing on the tedious details.  I find that the things that are easiest to get happy about are the things that are closest to me...my children and the flora and fauna around our home.  These are the daily blessings that I count first.  When I ask God for something, I thank Him for three things first.  I have healthy children, a safe and comfortable home and an environment full of natural beauty.  A couple of weeks ago, I helped a friend pick figs and it was so hot and humid that I almost quit and went inside, but then I noticed the critters in the fig trees.  There were grasshoppers scoping out overripe fruit and this greedy little yellow jacket pigging out on a perfect one.  I just stood there for a while with sweat rolling down my neck and watched, tickled that my iPhone takes better close-ups than my regular camera.
     At the farm there are all sorts of critters around and I can't help but feel content when I watch them all hanging out together like family.  Even the obnoxious guineas don't run the bunnies off and every morning I get to see them all as they check out the latest contributions to the mulch pile.  Soon the deer will start coming up to nibble the pears on the trees behind the house.  I just adore watching them.  And don't get me started about that big red rooster that lives out here.  I named him Hoss and I heart him like whoa!

     When Sam and I went to the lake I did nothing but float around or sit on the dock, content with just being.  The only sound was the laughter of the kids and an occasional splash as I launched myself on a floatie.  I get happy about a good floatie, but it is hard to not be happy with a scene like this one.  The simple pleasures of childhood and the joy of being a parent with a happy child.  That kind of made the looming tuition bill and anxiety over my job changes seem like minor obstacles instead of the joy-suckers they can be if I let them.
     We choose to be happy or not.  It really is that simple.  We have to want to be happy and realize that it comes from within and it comes from our own ability to look around and really see what we are already blessed with.  Awful things happen to all of us at times but we get through them.  I have close friends who have lost children, but over time they have been able to find joy in their lives again.  I don't know how they do it as I don't think I could breathe in and out again after such a loss, but they do.  One of them told me she feels blessed to have had the child for any length of time and the joy of that blessing carries her and helps her see she still has much to be happy about.  How amazing is that?  If that woman can find joy and happiness, then who am I to complain about anything?
    So buy the Happy Booster.  I am fresh-faced and perky, but not giving it the credit for my happiness.  I got  that from inside myself.  I look for the blessings daily and thank God for each one.  My friends and family are a tremendous support system and my children keep me going, but it is up to me to be grateful for the life I have, realize I am worthy of it and live it in such a way as to continue to be blessed.  It's as simple as looking around.

Summer Break: Abridged

     Technically, it's not even mid-Summer yet, so why am I getting ready to go back to work?  I just got out of school and haven't made a dent in my pile of books or cleaned out my bedroom closet.  Sam's room hasn't gotten done, either, and I still have to pack and deliver all the hand-me-downs from Spring cleaning.  I haven't gone to visit cousin Lucy, I haven't helped my mother organize her "treasures" and Mt. Crappity Crap in the laundry room still hasn't been scaled.  My son hasn't gotten a single board installed in his tree fort, but he can keep dreaming because I still haven't gotten the pool filled up all the way.
    Since I am starting my sixteenth year of teaching with a new assignment I am having to attend a good bit of pre-back-to-school training and planning sessions as well as make home visits to twenty families.  Then I have to turn my old art room into a new pre-kindergarten room and be ready for my babies on August 22nd.  Four weeks from today.  That means Sam has a whole month left of his break before he goes back to school.  Poor Grandma.
     As I stared disbelievingly at my calendar I thought to myself that it's a shame that we haven't done anything this summer.  But we have.  I flipped through my phone's camera roll and found a good bit of photographic evidence that the kids and I have had plenty of Summer Fun.

     Before I had even gotten done with post-planning, Sara was already having a blast at Auburn University's Vet camp.  She went up there wanting to be an equine veterinarian but came back all about the cows.  She made some new friends and got a good feel for dorm life and came home all ready to make the grades it takes to get to go there.  That's exactly what I had hoped for.  I was afraid she may decide to change career paths altogether.

     When Sara got back I hauled the kids down to Liberty county to the Blue Creek Cemetery in Hosford.  That's where we came across this bird feeder atop a Mason jar stand.  That's local color.  We also photographed the grave markers of my great-great-great-grandparents Henry and Abigail Colvin who died in the 1860s.  We then drove on down to Smith Creek Cemetery in Wakulla county and photographed the gravestones of Grandpa Major's people. Lots of memories in that churchyard.

     As July drew closer the tomato crops came in and I was fortunate enough to have friends in the business.  Viva la salsa!  I had never tried it, but a couple of friends came over and we got to peeling and dicing and chopping and by the end of the day we had a couple of nice batches of spicy fresh salsa.  I got brave when another box of tomatoes arrived and I tried a batch myself.  As the Lord said, it was good!  This Spring I purchased five flats of strawberries from a local youth group and froze them for jam, so in July I jammed.  It was also good.  I shall be making more soon, but it is time for peaches now.

      July was busy for Sara, too, as she helped our friends with the huge task of adding a new pasture and fencing it.  They finished just in time to move the horses into it before the start of the Fourth of July Fireworks.  That was a long, hot, nasty day and I think they reveled in the downpour that got them just as they finished for the evening.  That's Sara removing Bubba's halter.  He was the first horse for Higher Standards Farm and a lot of folks have learned to ride on that sweet, patient boy.  And he's sexy.  Ask anybody.

     Throughout the summer Sam built fort after fort throughout the house. I gave him free reign for building in the house until the middle of August since it is entirely too hot for him to be outside all day.  He has done pretty well with the picking up of his construction zones even as Fort #10 now rests behind the couch.

     Week before last, Sam and I joined a couple of old friends at their lake house in Jackson county where Sam got his first knee-boarding lesson.  My friend's daughter is quite good at it and patiently helped Sam figure out how to balance and coached him when it was time for the boat to pull him out.  He was brave and had good balance, but the whole water-up-the-nose thing was too much for one day.  He'll try again later, but I was so proud of him for giving it a shot.

Last week Sam attended a summer camp program at the Tallahassee Museum of Natural History.  He learned all about poisonous plants and insects and a few spiders, but the snakes were the best part.  Next time you see him, try to make him say the word "venomous."  Each morning after dropping Sam off with his leader, Sara and I went through the nature trails on the museum site.  There we saw the baby deer come up for their breakfast, the black bear foraging for his morning treats and the young panther batting his toys around and heckling the staffer cleaning his cage. Usually, the animals are hiding in the shadiest spots they can find and we don't get to see them doing what they do.  The morning feed rounds were amazing because all the critters were excited and out enjoying the coolest part of the day.  It was so peaceful to stand out there and watch them.  I miss starting my day with them.
     So it looks like Summer 2011 wasn't lost after all.  We went a few places, built a few things, jammed a lot, and thanked God for air conditioning.  I have exorcised a few demons through writing, reconnected with some old friends and lost 250 pounds.  (He was a big boy!)  Not bad for a six-week run.

Housing Developments Redux

     We live in a disposable society.  I have been around long enough to see that material things just aren't built to last anymore.  Manufacturers have made things so much cheaper that it is more cost efficient to replace them than to repair them.  Even homes are made to be put together quickly and frequently require repairs before the mortgage is paid off.   I can't count the number of mobile homes I see sitting abandoned behind or not too far away from new ones.  (Maybe that is just a Gadsden County thing?)  I have been fortunate to know some really amazing homes built by really amazing people.

     The house shown above is currently on the grounds of the Tallahassee Museum of Natural History.  It is called the Langston-Brown Kitchen but was originally built around 1900 by my Grandpa Major's uncle in Smith Creek, Florida, as a first home for his young family.  It was one large room with a fireplace and as his family grew he built a larger home and this one became my Great-Grandpa Charlie Langston's  "bee house."  That's like a bee hive, only it's a house.  Full of bees.  They made honey down there in Smith Creek.  When the family donated the little house to the museum it was connected to another farmhouse as a kitchen and still sits there in liveable condition today.  Yes, I know "liveable" is different for everyone, but I mean the fireplace works and the doors shut tight.                                                                       

     This is the house that Grandpa Major built in Smith Creek shortly after his marriage in 1937.  His mother, Fannie, told everyone he was building it for her, and I imagine he was, but much of the funding was provided by Grandma Margaret's mother, Jennie.  She purchased all the screen for the doors and windows and even bought a set of French doors for the great room.  Grandma Margaret later installed those same doors in the family home in Tallahassee and then again when she moved to Quincy.  Great-grandma Jennie actually moved to the big house in Smith Creek to die, but her oldest daughter, Agnes, retrieved her and took her to Bonifay to die so that Agnes could get all of Jennie's money.  I got all these sordid details when I called my mother simply to ask when the house was built.

     Here's Major beside the fireplace he built in the great room.  This photo was taken in 1974 after the house had been sitting empty (aside from some vagrants coming and going) since the 1940's.  I remember this trek down there with both of my parents and the grand-parents.  There are some photos somewhere of my brother and me playing with a rusted-out pedal car, the old water pump and assorted sheds. Grandpa was quite a craftsman and insisted everything was level and squared so I can only imagine the mood he must have been in while building this house.  I only got to admire his woodworking skills in his later years after he got a lathe for his shop and began turning out beautiful bowls, pencil holders and tire thumpers.  The family property in Smith Creek was sold and became became part of the National Forest many years ago and the house is now gone.  The "bee house" was located on this same property and was spared demolition when a Tallahassee dentist funded its relocation to the Museum of Natural History.

    When my mother was a couple of years old, the family moved to Tallahassee into this three-story home on St. Francis Street.  Grandma Margaret ran a boarding house there until I was about 8 or so and then she "retired" and did her seamstress business out of a small sewing room in the back.  The third floor housed Grandpa's dam invention.  Or was it the damn invention?  Depends on who you ask.  I went up there quite a bit as a youngster but the place gave me the creeps as I got older.  By the time I was in high school, you couldn't pay me to go to the second floor, either.  The stairs were made of really dark wood and they sounded hollow but they were very sturdy.  All the rooms in the upstairs apartments had linoleum floors and some were wall-papered. Grandma Margaret had a great sense of style and her decor reflected that.  The formal living room and dining room were quite beautiful with their mahogany furnishings and rich upholstery.  She didn't do the plastic coverings, though!  We got to sit on the real thing...sometimes. My grandparents moved to Quincy in the early 1990's and this home was purchased by a law firm and has been completely restored.  In 1994 it was placed on the Natural Registry of Historic Places.  I think the old folks would be pleased as punch about that!

     This is the house in which my kids and I live.  I wish I could say it is in my family but it's not and I am content to live here as long as the owners will let me.  The house is on an old tobacco farm outside of Quincy and its construction was completed in 1860.  The ceilings are really high, none of the doors are the same size, it has an uncharacteristic amount of built-in storage and there is not a level floor in it. The commissary and original kitchen were connected to the back of the main house and are now serving as the laundry room and the spider room.  Yes, that's right.  I offered the commissary unto the big fat spiders as part of our treaty.  They have their space and I have mine.  A house with this much history ought to have a haunt or two but if they are here they are keeping to themselves.  The place has a really peaceful vibe.  I have become quite a homebody since being here.  The kids each have plenty of their own space and we finally have a kitchen big enough for everyone to stand in at once.  Each day I count our home as one of our many blessings.

    I have never owned a home, and as long as this one is available I am not upset about that.  Being a homeowner means lots more responsibility than I want to add to what I have now, but I may grow up one day and dive into it.  When I do get to the house-hunting phase of my life, though, these wonderful places have lent their characteristics to the list of what I will be looking for.  Pretty tough acts to follow.

Finding My Voice to Tell My Story

"Damn, I wish I wrote that." I can't count how many times I've said that after hearing a song or finishing a book. Some novelists and songwriters have the ability to express something so succinctly that it resonates in my soul. I want to have that, too. Reading was my passion as a young girl. I can remember getting in trouble in 6th grade for having a novel tucked into my math book because it was more interesting than fractions, and there were many weekends that I stayed in my pajamas reading two Nancy Drew mysteries per day. I would ride the bus to the public library after school and stay there until my mom picked me up on her way home from work. To this day, there is an unread novel on my bedside table, waiting for me to finish the one in my hand. Much of my summer break is devoted to catching up on the mountain of books that I did not have time to read during the school year and I have fallen in love with more than one fictional character. Now I find myself on the other side, thinking it would be awesome to have the power to captivate someone's attention to the point they block out their own reality for a while.

No, I am not planning on writing a book. I wouldn't know where to begin. Twenty years ago I had a roommate whose father owned a construction company. One afternoon he was talking to us about being successful in business as well personal ventures and he said, "Girls, you have got to have a story." Being from South Carolina, he pronounced it stow-ry, which is why it has stuck in my brain for so long. He meant that we needed to be able to relate to people in such a way that we weren't coming across as salesmen so much as kindred spirits. Now, Don was a salesman and I am sure his story changed as needed on the sales floor, but his message was a good one. We all have a story to tell and people who want to hear it.

The author Frank McCourt didn't start to write his first memoir, Angela's Ashes, until he was sixty-four years old. He explained, "I thought everything you wrote had to be about England; nobody ever told me you could write about growing up in Ireland." That is exactly how I feel! I have read so many wonderful books in my lifetime and thought that those authors must be gifted with great imaginations and extraordinary real-life experiences. They have stories! But I have come to realize that they started out just like me. Writing to exercise their minds, conquer demons, capture memories and avoid housework. The difference is they have found their voice, practiced daily, written millions of words and convinced someone to publish their work. I am practicing daily (almost) but am still trying to find my voice...and I think I am getting close.

My college dorm was full of music majors and most of them would practice their instruments or vocals in the music building, but there was one girl on my hall who loved the acoustics of our bathroom. I can still hear her singing scales in the shower. One afternoon she said, "Punch me. Go on. Right in the gut!" I refused, asking why in the world would I want to do that. She said that one of her voice coaches had told her that the sound you make when punched in the gut is your true voice. Umph. Oopf. Not exactly the kind of sounds I want to make on stage at the opera, but we are talking about music majors. They could be as far out there as we art majors could. But I have pondered that coach's concept many times over the years and I think I finally understand it.

I have been punched in the gut several times over the last 40-something years. Not just physically (and I would punch him back now) but emotionally. I have survived an abusive ex-lover, an emotionally unavailable father, a major medical crisis and a couple of broken hearts. When I process these things enough to write about them what comes out is incredibly frank and often surprises me. I can be brutally honest and unapologetic for the things I say but then I can be incredibly forgiving of those who have hurt me most. I am not used to hearing my voice, and frankly I think it is confused. Sometimes it sounds like Dorothy Parker and sometimes it is Glenda the Good Witch. But I can use this voice to tell my story when I finally figure out what it is, because, like Frank McCourt discovered, we can write about the things we know.

I know what the inside of Circle Drive smells like in the summer. I know how it felt to see my mother on fire when she burned up our kitchen. I know the taste of moonshine chugged out of a jelly jar. I know the sound of my blood pounding in my ears when my heart broke the first time. I know the cold softness of my grandpa's hand when I kissed him goodbye.

I have read others' stories all my life and now that I am discovering my own I find that I am buying less of theirs. When I checked out of the bookstore this morning I was amused to realize that rather than plopping down in the New Fiction aisle to peruse the latest mysteries, I had settled atop a step-stool in the Writing and Research section. I look forward to the day when I can read a final draft here and say, "Damn, I'm glad I wrote that!"

Everyday Hero

Yesterday was all about me. It was my birthday and I got gifts and lunch and dinner with friends and salutations from across the country. I felt so special but am glad birthdays only come once a year because if I had that kind of day too often no one would be able to stand me. I could easily get used to a tiara!

Today wasn't about me at all. Today was about humanity. Helping those in need without a single selfish thought. My best friend from college is a social worker. She has a client who is getting back on his feet after hitting rock bottom. He is a black man a little older than me (you know, 29.5) who had gotten this far in his life before anyone recognized that he had a major mental health problem. He was found living in a run down trailer with no water or power and was sleeping on the floor. Now, after lots of help from my friend and her treatment team, he is stabilized, has a part-time job and just got his own apartment and he's darned excited about his future.

The daughter of a Grady county tobacco farmer, my friend was privately educated through high school and college. She then got her master's degree in social work on her own with a zillion dollars in student loans and more part-time jobs than I can list. As a youngster, she worked on the farm tending livestock until she was big enough to crop tobacco and drive a tractor. This woman is not afraid of work. And she can't leave it at the office.

Today I drove her to Forsyth, Georgia, to pick up a piece of furniture for her client. Last week she had visited a warehouse there that houses a business for the sale of used hotel furniture and accessories and she purchased an item for the client. It was slightly too large to go into her car, so she had to leave it until she could arrange for a larger vehicle. This woman has come running every time I have needed her so naturally I agreed to go with her to get the piece today. On the way up there, she told me all about the client and how genuinely nice he is and how he really wants to work and support himself and be okay. It was clear she cared for him. After all, she gave up another Saturday and enlisted a friend to help. When we got to the warehouse, she gave me the task of looking for some framed artwork because the donated wall decorations he had were too girlie. And he really likes blue. She set out to find a coffee table and other items in his budget that would would be functional and look nice.

I was so touched by the genuine concern my friend has for her client. She wanted to get things for him that were not only functional, but fit his meager decor and personal taste. She wants for him to be successful as well as happy. How wonderful is that? And she is a social worker...one of the most underpaid, under-appreciated over-worked careers out there besides teaching. She is extremely intelligent and could have gone into any career she chose, but my friend decided to dedicate her life to helping others. If everyone in the medical and mental health professions were as dedicated to helping people rather than processing patients, our planet would truly be a healthier, happier place.

I am constantly getting attitude adjustments from my friends and my kids, whether they mean to give them or not. I was so inspired today and realized how selfish I am. I am a teacher and I do care about my students, but I don't drive 400 miles round trip on my days off for them. Nor do I spend chunks of my own cash on faith that they will reimburse me for it. I sincerely hope that her co-workers are also inspired by her and that everyone she works with will strive to be as dedicated and then pass that on. We should all be as fortunate to have a social worker, doctor, mental health care provider or teacher as dedicated as she is. So cheers, Cuzin, and thank you for your selfless spirit and the mostly thankless job you do!

Falling-off Lessons

     The first time I fell off a horse I did not get back on.  I just lay there looking up her nose and she just stood there looking down at me like I was a dumb-ass.  We weren't running or even blazing a rugged trail, she just dipped in a little low spot and I tumbled right over her head and landed flat on my back.  I had been running my mouth and not paying attention.  Subsequent chiropractic examination revealed I had displaced my shoulder blades and several ribs.  Nothing life-threatening but a most uncomfortable lesson in paying attention.

     I wonder if these two strapping young fellas ever fell off their horse. They are my cousins Wiley and Elmo Willis and that is their dad, Albert Reece Willis, who married the daughter of my great-aunt Ellaphair Anderson.  Albert was from Tifton, but his family was living in the area of Glenmora, Louisiana, where he worked in a turpentine camp when this photo was taken in 1919.  Those boys look like they could probably take off on that horse and tear through those woods bareback and barefoot.  Even at their young age they were more than likely responsible for the care of that horse as well as others used for transportation.  And I couldn't even stay on one walking across a sod field.
   

     My daughter has taken several years of riding lessons with several great instructors.  That's her riding Dude (he's a  bona fide cowhorse) while instructor Chuck follows along.  Chuck (a bona fide cowboy) targeted her anxiety by making her fall off the horse and get back on during her very first lesson.  That made lots of sense.  If her biggest fear was falling off, then she should go ahead and get that out of the way so that she could move on.  I think that concept could be applied to many situations.  Lord knows my fear of failure has kept me from trying lots of things.
     Why is it that some people can dive headlong into a project or a relationship or even a new career without a single moment of anxiety, while some of us are paralyzed by the thought alone?  If I had that type of personality I would be making a heap more money and high school would have been way more fun.  But I have been meandering through my life, sticking my toe in the water here and there to make sure it was okay before I committed to taking many swims.  Since my strokes in 2009, I have thought a lot about my life and resolved some things within myself to clear out some mental baggage.  My anxiety about making changes and trying new things is one of the issues I continue to work on.  I have to alter the way I adapt to anything different than what I have gotten used to.  For example, I totally freaked out this Spring when I learned that my teaching position of fifteen years has been eliminated.  I have other certification so it wasn't like I was going to lose my job, but a mental fuse blew at the thought of having to change anything I did at work.  Turns out, this is a good change.  I have gotten bored with my underfunded art position and now face the challenge of organizing a pre-kindergarten classroom and acclimating twenty four-year-olds to a school climate.  It is an adventure that I find myself looking forward to. And the Pre-K department has lots more supply money!
     So from here on I will try to look at each pitfall like my tumble off that horse.  While it may have knocked the wind out of me and left me feeling kind of stupid, it didn't kill me.  I can get back on and keep moseying along.  Sure, there will be other dips in the road and some of them might be dangerous, but I have fallen before and gotten back up.  And even though a horse's muzzle is charming in its own way, the view is much better from the top.

Pre-mid-life Crisis

     Recently, I packed up the kids and trekked down to Wakulla county to the Mt. Elon Baptist Church of Smith Creek to photograph tombstones of my maternal relatives for my family tree.  The day was hot and muggy and the cemetery was covered in grasshoppers and it took right at 10 minutes for the first child to ask, "Are you done yet?"  Using the uber-fabulous Billion Graves iphone application which uploads my headstone photos right to a website, I was done in about 45 minutes.  Had the kids not been with me I might have stayed all day since I was having flashbacks of the family events my mom used to drag us kids to down there. All the Langston relatives were from Smith Creek and I remember playing in some of their yards and sneaking into their kitchens for second helpings of desserts.  But now here they all were together again in this one big churchyard.

     This is Jacob Jonathan Richard Langston who was married to my great grand aunt Laura Langston.  (That also happened to be her maiden name. Shhhhhh.) These are their two oldest daughters, Annie and Elma.  I have no recollection of him, but can remember Grandpa Major mentioning JR frequently.  I sure wish I had paid closer attention to those stories.  I absolutely adore this photo which was taken in 1906 and is in superb condition.  The young family is all dressed up and proud.  Uncle JR is looking away, but gently holding Annie's little hand.  She has huge bows in her hair and both girls have on really nice dresses, however neither has shoes. I have noticed that a lot in these old photos.  The families could borrow fine clothes from the photographer's wagon or wear their own made special for the occasion, but I rarely see anyone with shiny shoes.  Aunt Laura is almost smiling, another rarity in photos of that time.
     I vividly recall attending Aunt Laura's 100th birthday celebration in  1982.  I was in the ninth grade and the day before I had managed to borrow a jacket from a junior that I had an enormous crush on and wandered around sniffing the Polo cologne on it.  I imagine this is the only reason I remember Aunt Laura's birthday!  She died the following winter, just twelve days shy of one hundred and one years old.
     Wow.  Imagine living a century.  That would mean I am not yet middle-aged and looking at spending more years elderly than young.  Yikes.  What in the world would I do with all that time?  I'd have a good thirty-five years of retirement, but they would be arthritic years in which my doctors would constantly harp at me about my weight.  Retirement and Social Security probably wouldn't be worth what they are now, which isn't much, so I'd have to do some kind of other job like baby-sitting or even take in sewing.  That means I need to get my mother to teach me a few things about that now.  Maybe in 20 years I will have finished my family tree and really understand Ancestry.com and people will pay me to do theirs.  Jinkies.  I never really think about planning for the future, but with folks in my family living this long I might better start paying attention in those fringe benefit meetings at school.  And I need to steer my children toward really profitable career paths since one of them will probably have to take me in at some point.  Oh goodness, I forgot about my impending Alzheimer's.  Scratch that odd job plan...I will be lost inside my own house.  Maybe I need to go lie down before all this gives me a heart attack and I don't make it to fifty!

Soul Food

So it wasn't the Greek vacation I have been pining for, but I sure enjoyed my two days on the Forgotten Coast. I knew I was way past due for a break when I got down there and had left the key to the condo back at home. Thank goodness the contractor was coming to finish up on Monday and had the spare key! If we had come home to get mine, I would have just stayed here and I believe that would have been really bad for my soul.

My College BFF also happens to be a Licensed Clinical Social Worker. How blessed am I? There I was, fit to be tied after four weeks of being home all day with Sammy and in the dumps about my love life and anxious about all sorts of other things out of my control. And then I got two days of professional counseling from one of the most intelligent people in my life...with no co-pay. The timing couldn't have been better.

I'm a talker. And I don't mind sharing my weird little thoughts and all my opinions with my besties. This drives my mother crazy. She would be just as content if she didn't see or speak to another person for a week. She doesn't understand my need for interaction and girl-talk. "It's not like y'all are solving the world's problems." My friends don't live far from me and I see most of them frequently, but I can still have hour-long phone conversations with any of them on any given day. And no, we don't solve the problems of the world. But we vent frustrations, share how-tos, listen to each others' perspectives, gripe about kids and the price of gas and yes, okay, there may be a little gossip going on. It feeds our need for a sense of camaraderie. And it saves our sanity. One of my friends had been nudging me to do something about the demise of my most recent relationship and then this one arrived to help me process it and move on. How utterly perfect is that? (Pun most definitely intended.)

The Lord puts people in our lives for a reason. Some are passers-by and some grow roots. We may not realize what some have taught us until they have moved on and we may see our blessings from others each day. Either way, we are enriched by the friendships we create and the familial relationships that we foster. I count my friends with my blessings each day. And I truly hope that I am as much of a blessing to them as they are to me. This weekend was full of porch time and meaningful conversation and I have come home feeling relieved of some emotional baggage. The salty Gulf breeze, steady hum of trawlers and wise and gentle counsel of a dear friend was food for my soul. Thanks, Cuzin!

Land-locked

I haven't left home in a year. Sure, I have been to the grocery store and run over to Tallahassee for appointments and of course to work but I haven't Left Home...as in Gone Away. And it is high time I did. My home on the farm is a wonderful place and I am in it as much as possible, but I have dug my overnight bag out from way back in the closet and I am packing for a lazy weekend at the coast. My best friend from college is on her way down to pick me up and we are going to do a whole lot of nothing for two days. No cooking, no cleaning, no laundry, no "mama, come see if you can fit in THIS fort!"

I used to treat myself to a cruise weekend once a year and it was good for my soul. Turning over my little ones to my mom and going off for some guilt-free me time got easier every year and broke the monotony of single-momhood. Kept my sights on the horizon, too. But lately I have become quite mentally land-locked, seeing only as far ahead as what to cook for supper and worrying about what trouble Sam can get into between the two ponds. It's time to go elsewhere and look at the sunset over something other than a field of peanuts.

If I am feeling this way, I imagine my kids are, too, so I think a family vacation is in order for the Fall. I am going to plan that....when I get back.

Walking My Talk

If life is a series of tests, then this one is my mid-term exam. Yesterday I got my heart broken. Yep, broke right down the middle. It had been cracked for some time and I knew it wouldn't hold very much longer, but that didn't keep me from hanging on. Hanging on and feeling like an idiot. But a couple of people in my life saw that, too, and rubbed my nose in it and challenged me to do something about it before I fell into the pathetic loser category. No, they didn't actually say that, but it had been looping through my mind like a breaking news ticker for a couple of months.

I will not trash the man because I love him dearly. I know that in time those feelings will turn to something else, but for now my evil-ex-girlfriend behavior is limited to juvenile photo manipulation. (That was surprisingly liberating, by the way.) He is not a bad guy and I don't think for a minute he set out to hurt me. But he did. Failing to hold up his end of the bargain hurt me. He should have told me long ago he wanted out as opposed to stringing me along with excuses. But whatever. Can't go back. Sam Walton is nagging at me in that clipped, nasal Yankee voice of his: "You gotta walk your talk."

It is easy to write down my thoughts about the world and lessons I have learned. It is easy to cheer others on and support their endeavors to stand up for themselves and take something positive away from their bad situations. It is easy to tell my daughter that she should be a strong woman and not let anyone take her for granted. It is not as easy to practice what I preach. Change scares me and I settle easily into what is comfortable whether it is working for me or not. And that is not the behavior I should be modelling for my impressionable teenage daughter. She saw what was happening before I had the courage to admit it to myself. About a month ago she even told me not to complain unless I was planning on doing something about it. Damn. Maybe she should be the mom.

But she was right. Mama didn't raise me this way. She is the "get over it" queen and would be appalled that I have stood for this for so long. No, I didn't tell my mama my relationship had headed south because I didn't want to hear what she would have to say...the truth. "You teach people how to treat you." (Mom is a Dr. Phil-aholic.)

So after a good night's sleep and some earnest prayer I am up this morning doing what I tell others to do...finding what good has come out of my bad situation. Looking for the lesson. Counting my blessings. I am grateful that my children have not witnessed a nasty break-up. We just kind of fell apart and I didn't get the memo that it was over. There was no yelling and screaming or tearful dish-throwing tantrum. Hell, he may not even know I finally quit him! I am grateful for the really good year that we did have. We vacationed with the kids, he literally held my hand all the way through my stroke trauma, we supported each other as single parents, helping out with kids and listening to each other's woes. We were very good for each other. Both teams agree on that. I guess some people don't know what to do with a good thing when they have it. I am grateful for having experienced true romance. I didn't date in high school and college wasn't much better. My only other relationships were two bad ones that resulted in children that I am raising by myself. This time I was showered with affection, got flowers, went on real dates, was called darlin' and had someone holding my hand in public. Those might be little things to romance veterans, but they were huge to me and I really miss them. There's the lesson. Now I know what I want.

I will not let this harden my heart and I will not be bitter. I will not be one of those women who lump men into a big pile of lowered expectations. This experience has not been all bad and now that I know what it feels like to be in a good relationship I will look forward to another. It still hurts and I will throw myself into a project to keep my mind off of it, but in time I will be back out there. Now, where is that other picture of us....

Life Is (Always) Good

I am a survivor. Through the grace of God and a bit of my own self-determination I have been delivered from some bad situations. Most recently I am a stroke survivor, having had two mini-strokes in December of 2009. Not knowing the signs of stroke caused me to dismiss the first one as a case of dehydration, but there was no mistaking the second. I lost control of my right arm and had no sensation in it for several hours. My speech was slurred and I had a blinding headache. Cat scan and MRI revealed the evidence of what had happened and other procedures found the cause to be a hole in the back of my heart that was just large enough to allow blood to pool and clot. I was lucky. The permanent damage is minimal and the condition is treatable, but the effect on my life has been huge.

My first thought when I lost the use of my arm was, "How am I going to fit this into my life?" It wasn't, "Why is this happening to me?" I immediately went into survival mode and mentally made plans to live with a paralyzed arm. My mama's motto is "get over it" and she can't tolerate anyone who chooses to languish in misery if there is something they can do about it. I guess some of that rubbed off, because as terrified as I was I didn't get to the self-pity stage or even experience the depression that is common after stroke. I experienced fear because my dad has had several strokes and has been severely debilitated by them and I am a single parent. My children and their welfare were my biggest concerns.

I now live with a shark in the water. That can be a source of great anxiety if I let it, but my doctors have assured me that I am on the best stroke prevention medication protocol currently available and that, combined with a reduced-stress liefestyle, should allow me to live stroke-free for the rest of my days. There it is....reduced-stress lifestyle. I had a teenager and a pre-schooler and was single-handedly managing a household while working full-time and they were telling me to reduce stress. Oh, boy. Something had to give. I couldn't give away my kids, marriage wasn't happening and I had to work full-time. The only changes I could make immediately were on the inside.

When tragedy struck my heart called out and people came running. Dear friends stayed with me in the hospital while my mom and others managed my children. Even after I got home, people were still diligently checking on me and taking care of things so I could recover and life could return to normal. A new kind of normal. The love and concern that had been showered on me and the kids was amazing. We go through life interacting with others regularly but often don't have any idea how we feel about each other. And we take so much for granted. I had gotten out of the habit of counting my blessings each day. I have so much to be thankful for and this medical emergency was a big fat reminder of it. The first step in my stress-reduction program was to acknowledge all that I had to live for.

Living a grateful life is not hard and by its nature will reduce stress. When we acknowledge all the good things we already have, we are less inclined to worry too much about having more. More things, more associates, more activity, more status and a myriad of other pseudo-blessings that our culture and media tell us we should want to have. I already had a wonderful place to live, two healthy children, good relationships with immediate family, close friendships, a little romance and a car that cranked every time. Everything required for happy living. And now I am so grateful for it. I thank God for all of it every day. Since that dark day in December the sunrise reflecting off the cow barn is brighter, the moonlight reflecting off the silo is sweeter and I love that noisy rooster more than ever. I notice more of the little things and let a lot of the bigger things slide. Of course I still get edgy and my daughter says Grouchy is my middle name, but that is a natural reaction to the stresses that still exist, especially at bill-paying time. But I am not chasing my tail trying to keep up with the Joneses...who are they, anyway? I am enjoying my children while I can as I know college isn't that far off and I have begun to resolve things that nag at my spirit. I have become painfully aware of how short our lives really are and that they can end or even turn for the worse without notice. There is no time for the drama on which so much energy gets wasted.

There is a merchandiser called Life Is Good and they have some really cute items depicting the simple pleasures in life. I have one of their bumper stickers somewhere. But I have noticed that a lot of people use the sentiment only to express when things are going their way. Having looked into the abyss of permanent paralysis or even death due to stroke, I am here to tell you that life is always good. Consider the alternative. Situations get bad, but life is always good. We can take something good away from even the most horrible situations if we try. We can find a blessing anywhere if we look for one. We all have bad days and it is tempting to ask if things can get any worse. Yes, yes they can. But with the love of the people in our lives we get through them and life is very good. Always.

Shutterbugs

I come from a long line of photography enthusiasts. When starting this project I came across a lot of old family photos including quite a few of my grandparents as younger folks and even one of my grandmother at five years old. There were a lot of pictures of my mom and her siblings as children as well as old tin-types of her grandparents. All of these are black and white photographs. Except for Aunt Fay's. Her real name was Grace, but somewhere along the line I believe she became Fay because some grandchild literally couldn't say Grace. Sometime in the mid-forties she bought a camera that used color film, so I have some delightful color photos of my mom and her brother in Aunt Fay's garden.

This is Aunt Fay on a fishing trip in 1948.  I have no memories of her at all, although I do remember where her house used to be out on Thomasville Road, right before you get to Ox Bottom.  My Aunt Kathryn lived on Ox Bottom so I always got reminded of Aunt Fay's house before we passed it.  It was a huge old two-story plantation style home and I always wanted to see the inside.

My grandmother, Fay's sister Margaret, also lived in a huge house.  Hers was three stories and is still standing on St. Francis Street.  A law firm bought and restored it to its original grandeur several years ago.  Grandma ran a boarding house there, but I only remember Mr. Earhardt who lived on the second floor.  He was nice and I remember sitting on the front steps with him talking about how mean my cousin Jim was.  He helped me put my Barbie's head back on after Jim pulled it off.  Funny the things we remember.

This is my mother and her older brother Pat in Fay's garden in 1948.  My brother Pat is named after mom's brother.  He and his family live down in Wakulla and lately our paths only cross at funerals.  I adore this photo of them.  Mom looks just like me and my brother and it is in color!  My grandmother also took quite a few photos so we have bunches of my handsome grandfather.  My brother and I have had cameras since we were in middle school.  Mom always sent us off to my dad's for the summer with a small camera that used the 110 film.  We were uptown back then.
No occasion can happen without someone taking pictures.  My daughter and my brother both have an appreciation for photography as an art form.  Sara even uses photo enhancement applications to deck out her pictures for sharing with friends.  Pat likes to take nature photos and can make something as simple as an okra blossom a work of art.  This penchant for pictures has served our family well.  Our immediate family history is well-documented.  I am amazed at the countless photos I have of just my two children.  I really wish I had more photos from my father's side of the family.  I am sure there are a few shutterbugs among them as well.  I just have to go find them.

Independents Day

My family celebrated the 200th anniversary of American Independence doing what we loved most - camping on St. George Island, Florida. Thirty-five years later I spent the day home with Sam while Sara had a full day of work in Greensboro. We tried to figure out why our new cheap pool won't hold water and built three forts throughout the house, but keeping busy didn't keep me from feeling sorry for myself. In fact, I could have been crowned Queen of the Fourth of July Pity Party Parade. Holidays remind of how lonely I am....or think I am. I am usually a positive person, but celebration days sometimes get me down. See, I always wanted a great big happy family full of grandparents and parents and a heap of siblings....like the Waltons that I used to watch on television. And now that I am studying the family history and discovering that some of my great-greats had 10 or even 18 children I almost feel like a failure.

I remember when I was younger mama used to pile us into the car and we would go celebrate with folks at big gatherings like Aunt Laura's 100th birthday or the Kyles' 50th wedding anniversary. And there would be lots of folks there that we would only see at such events. My mom's parents are gone now and since she and dad divorced when Pat and I were really young we didn't really get to spend much time with his side of family. So it is pretty much just us now. And considering his business and other commitments it is amazing we see each other as often as we do.

So I started this day in a big old self-pitying funk. How awful. The rest of the country was celebrating its independence with family-filled cook-outs and beach trips and all sorts of other fantastic family happenings I thought of that were anything but the solitary misery I was in. I was almost dreading going back to Greensboro to get Sara and see the fireworks from my friend's yard. But I did it, with a fat black rain cloud following the whole way.

When I arrived at my friend's house, I got a phone call from another friend who was in worse shape than I was. Having spent the whole day at a cook-out with his large family he was fit to be tied. The arguing, the yelling, the finger-pointing. What a horrible holiday. He wished he had just stayed home. Another friend soon texted me that she was threatening to pack up her kids and leave her family's holiday vacation. She just couldn't take the family drama another minute. I said a silent prayer of apology for my self-pity. I had been reminded to be careful what I wished for. As much as I think I want a huge family, I also know it can be a double-edged sword. More cooks in the kitchen. More flies on the wall.

When I got off the phone, my daughter was helping move horses to pasture away from the fireworks so Sam and I pitched in and got ready to feed up. As soon as he and Sara rode off with the buckets the bottom fell out. I was stuck in the barn while a fairly heavy rain fell. The steady hum of the rain on the tin barn and the mist blowing in through the stalls was refreshing and I just stood there and absorbed it. About that time Sara dropped Sam off and the fireworks began despite the weather. Sam took off to dance in the field and I watched him from the barn as he jumped for joy with each colorful explosion. He was having the time of his life in that downpour. At that moment I realized again that I am always right where I am supposed to be. This evening my daughter was forced to face her weather anxiety head-on and was so proud of herself and my son had a fireworks experience I know he will never forget. And I got to watch it all, uninterrupted. No one asking for condiments, no one gossiping about another, no one complaining. Just me and my kids...our little family.

Flashback

While perusing the enormous stash of photos on this old laptop I found this video of Sam at Compass Lake, Florida. He was dancing on the beach with a friend's children when he was about 18 months old. Sam is a people-pleaser and a huge copy-cat to boot. It is so cute how he watches the girls and tries to imitate their dance moves. He is still like that now. He is a parrot to his sister and she has to be careful about what she says or things they watch on television because it will pop right of his mouth sometimes. One day I will write about the sticky situations Sam's mouth has gotten us into, but for now just this quick flashback to a lazy lake weekend. Time is flying by faster than I want to sit here and think about. Seems like just last week I bought those swim trunks...

Roots

I'm stuck. Again. I am like my friend's basil plant, growing roots anywhere you put me. My roots are currently sunk in deep out here in the country and I love being home, but lately I have developed a raging case of cabin fever. These wonderful walls are closing in on me and I sometimes have trouble breathing. Yes, this is symptomatic of anxiety and I could easily take a chill pill and get over it. But I'd rather leave for a while and go somewhere far, far away.

My maternal grandparents can be traced back to 14th century England where Berengar de Langestan was born in Devon around 1330. They migrated throughout England and eventually crossed the Atlantic to the New World and down to Wakulla County. My paternal grandparents have been traced back to Thomas Boykin, born around 1620 in Kent, England. His family followed a similar migration pattern and some eventually ended up in LaGrange, Georgia where my father was born. With marriages occurring on both side of the family, the bloodline contains dashes of German, French and whatever those folks in Barbados are. But the majority of what makes up this entity known as myself is English and Creek. So why am I so drawn to the Mediterranean?

I have been enamored of Italy and the Greek Isles since high school when I first studied the art and culture in Humanities class. In 2007 I got the opportunity of a lifetime when I was awarded a travel fellowship in honor of one of my high school teachers. I enlisted a friend as a travel buddy and headed straight for the Aegean Sea. Ah, the sun, the water, the architecture, the art, the people, the food, the wine, the room service! It was a whirlwind tour of Athens, Rhodes, Crete, Santorini, Patmos, and Ephesus, Turkey but those are eight red-letter days on the calendar of my life. Holledays as I call them.

I am overdue for another Holleday. Like most single parents, my life is a vicious cycle of work, laundry, cooking, dishwashing, chauffeuring, refereeing, counseling, and money managing. During the school year I feel like an automaton on a track with no chance of escape unless the power goes out. Seriously. Power outage = adventure. That is sad. Especially when I live within an hour of the most beautiful coastline in our country. But that is work, too. I am so drained that the thought of taking my kids on vacation this summer is more daunting than staying home with them. That is the same work in a different location. No, I need to get away. I need the Aegean Queen with her stewards and culinary artists and Greek ports of call. I need the azure sea and sunshine that melts on my skin like buttah. I need the ancient wisdom of ruined temples and my guide, Georges, with his yellow umbrella. I need someone to yank me out of this daydream before I sprout roots!