She doesn’t know me. I don’t really know her, but here I am growing old with her. Jane Fonda appeared on the Today Show this morning buzzing about her new book, Being a Teen. Of course, she looked gorgeous and young. During the interview there was a reference to her last book about growing older called Prime Time. So I looked it up on Amazon, being more interested in this part of life than the teen-aged years.
The reviews for Prime Time were good so I put it in my Amazon cart, but I haven’t bought it (yet). I must tell you that I still have the Jane Fonda workout book--you know the one with her in her leotard and leggings. It’s the huge coffee table version, too. (No, I don’t have it on the coffee table any more.) I also had at least one of the videos of her workout sessions. It was a video, so you know it’s an old one. And I did that video many times with Jane.
Like I said, Jane and I are together--mind and body. Of course, my body in reality is not the body in my mind and it certainly isn’t a Jane body. But it is relatively healthy. For that I am extremely grateful.
Recently, though, I have been reflecting and saying that I wish I had my old body back. I’d take the one I had in my 40’s or even the one in my 50’s. Something has happened in the last 7-8 years and it’s not pretty. And it’s not Jane-like.
I remember years ago my sister made this comment, “I yam what I yam” quoting none other than “Popeye.” So every once in awhile when I get discouraged about not having the body of my youth, I think of what she said way back then and justify my present day body by saying that. Now, I must tell you that this same sister still has her college days figure.
Then I also hooked into the segment that the Today Show had on last week called, “Love Your Selfie.” I love my body, I love my body, I love my body. I love my body. I heard if you say something often enough, then it’s true. Oh yes, my body could be a lot worse. I am not obese. I am tall and have skinny legs and a skinny behind. I can hide that thick tummy a little. So there. I love my selfie.
Who cares if Jane’s body looks the same as it did in that leotard--I guess it does--she didn’t have one on today. She is a movie star for heaven’s sake. She has to look good, right? Therefore, how can she possibly understand the rest of us.
Well, although Jane looks fabulous, she addresses more than looks in that book of hers that I plan on buying. The subtitle is “Love, health, sex, fitness, friendship, spirit; Making the most of all of your life.” Ok, Jane, I’m with you again. There is more to getting older than the way I look. I’m into refocusing on all those other things.
On Amazon, there is a letter from Jane in the Editorial Review of her book. I'm sure she is just writing to me, but you can read it. Evidently it is from an out of print or unavailable edition.
In this letter she makes an interesting metaphor about growing older. She explains how the familiar comparison of life is to that of an arch (I see the St. Louis Arch) starting with birth, then growing up as children; the top of the arch depicts us peaking as middle-aged adults, and then the down-hill part of the arch is the last years of our lives. I think of that last leg of the arch as a fast slide, don’t you?
However, Jane's metaphor was more appealing to me. It was of an image of a staircase, continuing upward until the end. I like that image; I like that I don’t see the end of the staircase. And I like that I don't see that I have peaked and now going down hill. I know the end of the staircase exists--it's there but not right here, you know what I mean? I was a late-bloomer growing up, so I like to think I am still blooming and the end of the staircase is a ways away.
I like this upwards image though; it presents the idea to me that we can still grow as we live--it's not over. She calls it “an upward ascension until the end.” I certainly don't feel like my life is over. I'm as busy now as ever just not on one single job. I like being busy.
And I don't mind the getting older thing. Despite a few more aches and pains, not seeing or hearing quite as well, and taking a little longer to get up off the floor, I don't feel like I'm old. I even think I don't look that old--until I look in the mirror. Let me tell you, that's no Jane Fonda looking back at me. But it's okay. It's me and "I yam what I yam."
Now I do appreciate the fact that there are ways to make the most of my life past 60. That’s where I think I can learn some from Jane's book. Probably most of the things in her book are things that I already know, but reading and focusing on these things should help me regroup.
Ok. I’m in, Jane. I’m buying the book. I gonna read that book. I'm gonna do all of that good stuff and make the most of my life. But right now, I gonna go to bed. I'm tired.
Later, Jane.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Cobwebs
Oh, yeah, I don't dust--at least not as often as I should obviously. But these cobwebs are never where you usually dust--on furniture or mirrors or pictures. I am certain that they take pride in hiding until the company arrives and everyone is sitting at the dinner table. Then for some reason they demand your attention to be turned upwards and there it is. A delicate and kinda pretty piece of art hanging gingerly on the chandelier. Usually the spider has sense enough not to remain there and get caught.
I can never keep my mouth shut when I see such an "art piece"--thinking that everyone has probably noticed it already. So I bring it to every one's attention and laugh.
Well, this weekend some cobwebs in my head have been dusted off.
Here is how it happened. After the birthday dinner for Nanny, aka Mom and Bobbie, my sister-in-law brought out a DVD full of home movies from the fifties. Oh, but you may say, "Borrring," but absolutely not--at least to most of us. Poor Ritchie, Meredith's cute husband, got a good nap during the showing.
But this was not your typical home movie from the archives of your in-laws. This was also MY documentation from those same archives. The Jones's and the Strother's have been great family friends since 1956 so many of the events filmed included our family.
Some of the images still lingering in my head are of Keith--one of him with a bright red beret jauntily placed on his head. He has always sported caps quite well.
There were movies of our beautiful sisters wearing formals for the GA Coronation ceremony. I'm sure Mom had made those frilly dresses for Lynda, Lana, and me. I, too, was in the ceremony having completed the "Maiden" level. Now stunning auburn-haired Janice was "Queen Regent" with cape, scepter, and crown. Wow! I am still impressed with that.
Reaching each step in GA's was quite a feat. In the 50s, GA's was a big deal. Completing your "steps" was most important and very time-consuming. There were many, many scriptures to memorize, many officers in the Baptist Convention to memorize, many missionaries to be familiar with and what countries they lived and worked in. Learning all that was one thing, but then there was a oral test given by the leaders of the GA's. Talking about intimidating. But all of us girls reached at least Queen or Queen with Scepter. Janice reached the top!
So the coronation was filmed with all of us reverently participating, even Keith--I think he was the crown bearer or something. But he was dressed to the nines as well in his little white sports coat and curly hair barely tamed.
Nevertheless, there were lots of those special events filmed but also many of the everyday lives of the two families. There were the going-off-to-school movies on the first day of school of Janice and Keith. There was a segment of the Levy Dads' Club from Levy Elementary School painting the flagpole and doing some maintenance on the rocky, grass-free playground with the steep metal slide, the monkey bars, a few swings and a baseball diamond of sorts. In the background were the iconic cars of the fifties. Back then they were just are cars. Now? Wow!
Then we saw that Raymond had filmed our first grade classroom with Keith holding the flag with great purpose and seriousness. I was filmed reading aloud to the class. I'm sure I was quaking in my party shoes doing this because I was quite shy back then, but I looked good doing it. I had on my pearls (obviously, accessories were important to me even then), a cute little white bolero and my curly hair was coiffed perfectly. I'm sure my mother saw to that.
We even recognized through the cobwebs in our heads some familiar faces--some we could recall their names like Becky Page, Larry Robertson, and Lonna. Some we almost could! You know what I mean.
We saw our most favorite teacher ever, Mrs. Butts. She looked so young in that movie; I had always thought of her as an old but terribly sweet lady; she was probably in her thirties.
We saw Keith playing in his red firetruck. We saw Lane handsomely looking on as his younger siblings played with those Jones' kids. We saw Lana, so pretty and out-going, and me hamming it up--or shall I say "the little girls" which was how we were referred to back then. We saw cute little Lisa, the baby to us all, toddling around dressed in her pretty bonnet and short fancy dress. We admired Lynda so grown-up and eloquent. We saw Lynda's and Lana's ponytails. (Why didn't I ever have a ponytail? So jealous!)
We saw the trips to Bald Knob and Searcy in which they would visit their beloved relatives.
We saw on one such trip Bobbie with a pistol in her hand taking target practice. Now, that was something I never knew about her. She looked pretty comfortable there too. Hmmmm. But what a steady arm and beautiful face! Wow!
I wish you could see all the movies. No doubt you may have the same reaction as Ritchie. But I must say they are life in the 50s. They are our memories of a simpler time.
Oh, how great the memories. Bobbie said it all when she said, "Those were the good old days." Surely they were. There was such an innocence and freedom seen in those movies. There was such camaraderie and love between those families. Little did we know that the threads being woven during that era would be there for generations. Those delicate but strong threads have surely spun a loving and long-lasting web.
I think I shall forevermore have a greater respect for those cobwebs supervising any of our dinner parties. I shall know that they represent the cobwebs in our minds and with luck we can dust them away and find more treasured memories. Oh...I so hope!
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Not Just an Old House
There's a special old house in North Little Rock that I've been going to for almost 60 years. I never lived in it but it is part of my history. I'm not really sure when it was actually built but I thought it was old when I first visited it many years ago. Nevertheless, it was always comfortable and inviting and I liked it.
It was different from our house--the ceilings were really tall; there were french doors separating two living areas; there was a swinging wooden door to the kitchen. The kitchen was big--big enough for a large table that served many a meal to many friends and family members. There were just two bedrooms, but they were big. There was a floor furnace in the hall and a gas heater in the wall of the only bathroom. As was typical of the times, there was an attic fan that brought in the most wonderful spring breezes as well as the most humid sticky air from those awful hot days in Arkansas.
The attic fan, floor furnace, and bathroom heater are no longer there. I still think there is no better way to warm up on a very cold day than to stand over a floor furnace for awhile. It doesn't take long to take the chill off, for sure.
Through the years, the house underwent some upgrades and certainly had its share of upkeep, but the atmosphere of love and joy remained unchanged. Company was always welcomed and still is whether it was adult friends (like my parents) or the three kids' pals. The house has always been filled with stories and laughter, food and "practice parties."
One funny story that I remember so vividly was probably concocted at this house. My mother and the mother of the family living in this house decided to dress up for Halloween to play a trick on another of their close friends. Who knows what led to this, but they decided to make full-length flannel baby gowns and lacy bonnets for themselves to go Trick or Treating in. They dressed in these long baby gowns and bonnets; and with baby bottles in hand, these two fun-loving friends headed to another crazy friend's house that dark and chilly Halloween. I wasn't there to hear the laughter but I can imagine it even now. Having fun and laughing were priorities around that house.
It still is. My mother-in-law is good at having fun. Yes, this house is where my sweet husband grew up with his wonderful sisters and genuinely loving, highly intelligent, and fun parents. The humor from the family genes are alive and well in my husband--in fact, in his sisters and mother, too.
This is the house that I spent time in as I was growing up. This is the house where I had to play with that "mean" little boy who I went to school and Sunday School with. "Playing" with him generally resulted in fights, scratches, kicks, and tears. But he was kinda cute.
Then there is the front porch. This porch has been the picture-taking spot for years. It used to be just their family of 5 on the porch. Then it became the photo "booth" for every special occasion--a birthday, the prom date, the day of departure to college--you name it. The porch saw it. Even though the family grew and the faces on the porch sometimes changed, that porch was still able to handle everyone who was there on any day.
It became a ritual--all those "dreadful" family pictures. Even now, we all act like we hate the proclamation made by someone: "We're all together; let's take a picture" but it is the tradition. The clan would slowly gather and the picture would finally be taken. And second one, too, just for good measure. These get-togethers at this house have been well documented to say the least.
For sure, this house has seen and heard a lot and is treasured by us all--in laws, outlaws, children, grandchildren, and the greats. It needs work, of course. It needs a good cleaning-out of old treasures, but whose house doesn't. The back shed that Papaw built is falling down. It has to be dealt with immediately for insurance purposes; it will probably be torn down. We have accepted that fact. It is hard for my sweet mother-in-law to accept it, though. That building too has its memories.
I'm sure each piece of paper or flower, or drawing or card stuffed in a closet or drawer in the house and each wooden shelf or tool now full of cobwebs and dirt in the shed bring back treasured memories. She will be 89 soon and likely a lot of the things stuck away in the closets have been around many, many years. So I say, if she wants our help to get rid of things, great. If she doesn't want to get rid of anything, that's okay too. I respect her years. I respect that she and her beloved husband raised three wonderful children in that house and it can be just as it is for awhile longer if she wants it that way.
It's a house full of love and joy. It's her house and it's our history. I respect that. She is the spirit of the house that she managed and grew a family in. She guided the paths of her children in that house; she provided joy, laughter, and hospitality in that house. I respect that. Like that house, she is grand and full of love and full of stories. I respect her. I am thankful for her. I love that house. I love her.
.
It was different from our house--the ceilings were really tall; there were french doors separating two living areas; there was a swinging wooden door to the kitchen. The kitchen was big--big enough for a large table that served many a meal to many friends and family members. There were just two bedrooms, but they were big. There was a floor furnace in the hall and a gas heater in the wall of the only bathroom. As was typical of the times, there was an attic fan that brought in the most wonderful spring breezes as well as the most humid sticky air from those awful hot days in Arkansas.
The attic fan, floor furnace, and bathroom heater are no longer there. I still think there is no better way to warm up on a very cold day than to stand over a floor furnace for awhile. It doesn't take long to take the chill off, for sure.
Through the years, the house underwent some upgrades and certainly had its share of upkeep, but the atmosphere of love and joy remained unchanged. Company was always welcomed and still is whether it was adult friends (like my parents) or the three kids' pals. The house has always been filled with stories and laughter, food and "practice parties."
One funny story that I remember so vividly was probably concocted at this house. My mother and the mother of the family living in this house decided to dress up for Halloween to play a trick on another of their close friends. Who knows what led to this, but they decided to make full-length flannel baby gowns and lacy bonnets for themselves to go Trick or Treating in. They dressed in these long baby gowns and bonnets; and with baby bottles in hand, these two fun-loving friends headed to another crazy friend's house that dark and chilly Halloween. I wasn't there to hear the laughter but I can imagine it even now. Having fun and laughing were priorities around that house.
It still is. My mother-in-law is good at having fun. Yes, this house is where my sweet husband grew up with his wonderful sisters and genuinely loving, highly intelligent, and fun parents. The humor from the family genes are alive and well in my husband--in fact, in his sisters and mother, too.
This is the house that I spent time in as I was growing up. This is the house where I had to play with that "mean" little boy who I went to school and Sunday School with. "Playing" with him generally resulted in fights, scratches, kicks, and tears. But he was kinda cute.
Then there is the front porch. This porch has been the picture-taking spot for years. It used to be just their family of 5 on the porch. Then it became the photo "booth" for every special occasion--a birthday, the prom date, the day of departure to college--you name it. The porch saw it. Even though the family grew and the faces on the porch sometimes changed, that porch was still able to handle everyone who was there on any day.It became a ritual--all those "dreadful" family pictures. Even now, we all act like we hate the proclamation made by someone: "We're all together; let's take a picture" but it is the tradition. The clan would slowly gather and the picture would finally be taken. And second one, too, just for good measure. These get-togethers at this house have been well documented to say the least.
For sure, this house has seen and heard a lot and is treasured by us all--in laws, outlaws, children, grandchildren, and the greats. It needs work, of course. It needs a good cleaning-out of old treasures, but whose house doesn't. The back shed that Papaw built is falling down. It has to be dealt with immediately for insurance purposes; it will probably be torn down. We have accepted that fact. It is hard for my sweet mother-in-law to accept it, though. That building too has its memories.
I'm sure each piece of paper or flower, or drawing or card stuffed in a closet or drawer in the house and each wooden shelf or tool now full of cobwebs and dirt in the shed bring back treasured memories. She will be 89 soon and likely a lot of the things stuck away in the closets have been around many, many years. So I say, if she wants our help to get rid of things, great. If she doesn't want to get rid of anything, that's okay too. I respect her years. I respect that she and her beloved husband raised three wonderful children in that house and it can be just as it is for awhile longer if she wants it that way.
It's a house full of love and joy. It's her house and it's our history. I respect that. She is the spirit of the house that she managed and grew a family in. She guided the paths of her children in that house; she provided joy, laughter, and hospitality in that house. I respect that. Like that house, she is grand and full of love and full of stories. I respect her. I am thankful for her. I love that house. I love her.
.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Another New Year
This post was started on New Year's Eve with plans on posting immediately; now it covers a period of 3 days. Well, I hope I get it posted within that time.
2014--it's here folks. We will wake in the morning and a whole new year will be upon us. Right now I'm waiting for my New Year's Eve Festivities to begin. It's 8:00 and the party hasn't started yet.
I remember those days that the plans for New Year's Eve were a bigger than big deal. My thoughts would be like, "We gotta do something. What can we do? Where are we going? Who is going with us? What shall I wear?"
Now mind you, even though I wished for it, I didn't always have fantastic plans for New Year's Eve. I longed to have them as a single girl in my late teens and early twenty-something years, but more times than not I didn't have any plans at all. Poor me, right? Don't feel too bad for me...I made up for the lack of parties after I married. Fun for sure. But I think the fun tonight will surpass any of those parties. We will see. I know for sure it will be one that I have never experienced before.
And I'm game, so here's the game plan:
The must-have New Year's Eve hats, necklaces, neon lights and whistles have been dutifully purchased from the Dollar Tree. (We go all out for our decorations!) Dinner has been eaten and dishes cleaned up. The house straightened for the party. The grandson is due to arrive soon for our New Year's Eve affair. We are prepared to be at his beck and call. (Nothing unusual there!)
Some appropriate TV shows have been recorded, just in case. New books available. Of course, there are plenty of real toys in his room plus all his imaginative items and friends that can talk i.e. "Cat in the Hat can talk" which means that you must talk for Cat in the Hat. Rabbit can talk, etc., etc.
I'm sure we will have no problem in the play portion of the evening. However, we have been forewarned that our guest for the evening woke up from a 3-hour nap at 6:00 p.m. So, we may be in for some really wild times tonight. He is known to come alive at night.
But now as I am waiting for the arrival of our guest of honor (and only guest), I begin to wonder about this new year that is upon us. Hmmm. I'll be 64 this year. Wow! How can that be? What are the words to that Beatles' song, "When I'm 64?" Wait--I'll google it. (Never could remember words to songs...)
Ah yes, "...Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?"
Man, becoming 64 sounded like it would take forever to be that old when those words were first heard on the radio in the late sixties. I was just a teen and being OLD--like 64 years old--was quite beyond my teen-aged comprehension. I mean old people were those that were turning 40 or, for heavens' sake, maybe 30. Did I know anyone at that ripe old age of 64? My parents weren't even that old! Maybe those little ladies with the blue hair and ugly sensible black shoes on--maybe they were that old!
But the thought of someone loving me when I was 64--that was appealing even then. Honestly though, being a late-bloomer, I guess I really thought having someone "love" me at 17 would have been preferable. However, I must admit, love at 64 (minus 2 months) is good, very good.
And having a party with the grandson is good as well. I'll wait to post this until after the sleep-over and the new year actually arrives.
January 1, 2014--
Happy New Year! We made it through the night and was entertained by not only the great little entertainer but also, surprisingly enough, a lovely five man brass band. Quite unexpected.
That little fellow made it until midnight, but sadly, YaYa did not--after all, I am almost 64 and I didn't have any nap, much less a 3-hour nap. When the clock struck 12 midnight, I am told, he was ready to come to bed. I did wake up enough to read him a story before we both fell fast asleep.
Oh, how nice it was to wake up with such a wonderful little guy next to me even if he, by that time, left me with only one foot of the bed. But he was snuggled right next to me. I watched him a little bit and when he woke up, he looked at me. I smiled at that sweet face and the first thing he said to me was, "Put your glasses on, YaYa." I guess his waking up next to a 64 year old was not quite as wonderful for him--at least not until I got my glasses on.
Then the play began again. Horsey-back ride through the house, outside to the club house, inside to some jumping on the bed. Then during a break in the bed-jumping he hollered, "Grambo, come here." When no answer came, this cute little guy turned to me and added, "Grambo is not listening to me."
His parents came and joined us for the black-eyed peas and cornbread traditional lunch. Then home they went with a tired little boy in tow. A nap was sure to come--for him and for Grambo and YaYa.
Well, it's now 3:00 in the afternoon. The first day of 2014 is here and practically gone. Boy, the days do pass fast, don't they? But, thankfully, the joys and memories last. I know I'll enjoy the wonderful stories and fun memories from this New Year's Eve all year. What a fun way to begin a new year.
So here's a toast to 2014--May the year be filled with lots of wonderful days and nights with the ones we love--with or without a five man brass band. Oh, yes, did I mention to you that the band was on "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood?" I must admit that is something else that I have NEVER done before on New Year's Eve.
2014--it's here folks. We will wake in the morning and a whole new year will be upon us. Right now I'm waiting for my New Year's Eve Festivities to begin. It's 8:00 and the party hasn't started yet.I remember those days that the plans for New Year's Eve were a bigger than big deal. My thoughts would be like, "We gotta do something. What can we do? Where are we going? Who is going with us? What shall I wear?"
Now mind you, even though I wished for it, I didn't always have fantastic plans for New Year's Eve. I longed to have them as a single girl in my late teens and early twenty-something years, but more times than not I didn't have any plans at all. Poor me, right? Don't feel too bad for me...I made up for the lack of parties after I married. Fun for sure. But I think the fun tonight will surpass any of those parties. We will see. I know for sure it will be one that I have never experienced before.
And I'm game, so here's the game plan:
The must-have New Year's Eve hats, necklaces, neon lights and whistles have been dutifully purchased from the Dollar Tree. (We go all out for our decorations!) Dinner has been eaten and dishes cleaned up. The house straightened for the party. The grandson is due to arrive soon for our New Year's Eve affair. We are prepared to be at his beck and call. (Nothing unusual there!)
Some appropriate TV shows have been recorded, just in case. New books available. Of course, there are plenty of real toys in his room plus all his imaginative items and friends that can talk i.e. "Cat in the Hat can talk" which means that you must talk for Cat in the Hat. Rabbit can talk, etc., etc.
I'm sure we will have no problem in the play portion of the evening. However, we have been forewarned that our guest for the evening woke up from a 3-hour nap at 6:00 p.m. So, we may be in for some really wild times tonight. He is known to come alive at night.
But now as I am waiting for the arrival of our guest of honor (and only guest), I begin to wonder about this new year that is upon us. Hmmm. I'll be 64 this year. Wow! How can that be? What are the words to that Beatles' song, "When I'm 64?" Wait--I'll google it. (Never could remember words to songs...)
Ah yes, "...Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?"
Man, becoming 64 sounded like it would take forever to be that old when those words were first heard on the radio in the late sixties. I was just a teen and being OLD--like 64 years old--was quite beyond my teen-aged comprehension. I mean old people were those that were turning 40 or, for heavens' sake, maybe 30. Did I know anyone at that ripe old age of 64? My parents weren't even that old! Maybe those little ladies with the blue hair and ugly sensible black shoes on--maybe they were that old!
But the thought of someone loving me when I was 64--that was appealing even then. Honestly though, being a late-bloomer, I guess I really thought having someone "love" me at 17 would have been preferable. However, I must admit, love at 64 (minus 2 months) is good, very good.
And having a party with the grandson is good as well. I'll wait to post this until after the sleep-over and the new year actually arrives.
January 1, 2014--
Happy New Year! We made it through the night and was entertained by not only the great little entertainer but also, surprisingly enough, a lovely five man brass band. Quite unexpected.That little fellow made it until midnight, but sadly, YaYa did not--after all, I am almost 64 and I didn't have any nap, much less a 3-hour nap. When the clock struck 12 midnight, I am told, he was ready to come to bed. I did wake up enough to read him a story before we both fell fast asleep.
Oh, how nice it was to wake up with such a wonderful little guy next to me even if he, by that time, left me with only one foot of the bed. But he was snuggled right next to me. I watched him a little bit and when he woke up, he looked at me. I smiled at that sweet face and the first thing he said to me was, "Put your glasses on, YaYa." I guess his waking up next to a 64 year old was not quite as wonderful for him--at least not until I got my glasses on.
Then the play began again. Horsey-back ride through the house, outside to the club house, inside to some jumping on the bed. Then during a break in the bed-jumping he hollered, "Grambo, come here." When no answer came, this cute little guy turned to me and added, "Grambo is not listening to me."
His parents came and joined us for the black-eyed peas and cornbread traditional lunch. Then home they went with a tired little boy in tow. A nap was sure to come--for him and for Grambo and YaYa.
Well, it's now 3:00 in the afternoon. The first day of 2014 is here and practically gone. Boy, the days do pass fast, don't they? But, thankfully, the joys and memories last. I know I'll enjoy the wonderful stories and fun memories from this New Year's Eve all year. What a fun way to begin a new year.
So here's a toast to 2014--May the year be filled with lots of wonderful days and nights with the ones we love--with or without a five man brass band. Oh, yes, did I mention to you that the band was on "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood?" I must admit that is something else that I have NEVER done before on New Year's Eve.
"It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood,
A beautiful day for a neighbor,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
A beautiful day for a neighbor,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?"
Don't worry--I had to google that ditty too!
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Laughter at the Breakfast Table
The grandson who is almost 3 has learned to tell jokes--well, at least the art of delivering them. One day this week, the family gathered around the breakfast table and was entertained for quite awhile listening to his jokes. Question: "Hey, buddy, do you know a joke?" Response: "Wickely, wickely, wickely." Quick pause, then with open mouth and head thrown back, the little emcee would burst into an enchanting fake laughter which would totally create genuine belly laughs from the rest of the table.
Repeat this scenario over and over again and you can imagine our breakfast that day. While we were engaged in this routine, I was reminded of how much laughter has been shared through five generations at this very table.
In fact, my earliest memories of going to my grandparents involve this table and laughter. No matter what time of day or night that we arrived at their farm, the grown-ups would circle around the table in their ladder back chairs and the hours would tick off as would the stories and laughter. Many times I can remember falling asleep or waking up to the comforting sounds of indistinguishable words followed by the most infectious laughter you could ever imagine--just like the laughter following the "wickely, wickely, wickely" mumbled by the newest generation around that table.
My Grandma and Granddad made this table for their household and raised their 4 boys around it. I was lucky enough to be able to take ownership of it when it was no longer needed for them. It has been the breakfast table for my family for the last 30 or so years. Hence, the laughter and memories continue.
Magic must have been waxed into the grain of this old oak table. It was a plain farmhouse table--not fancy but solid and practical--important traits for furniture as well as men and women during those pre-Depression days on the flat plains of windy southwest Oklahoma. It was just a round table with three or four leaves readily available to add with the sound of a knock on the door or the sight of dust stirred up in the drive.
Those leaves magically stretched that old round table to a size capable of handling the whole Strother clan, plus a friend or two who may have popped in, certainly the mail man making his rounds two or three days a week through the dusty country roads delivering not just the mail but the latest news of friends and neighbors.
The table magically became a unifying web around a family who no longer lived and worked in the area, who maybe even didn't share the same views politically or religiously anymore. It magically reconnected the family; it provided the boys a place to relive their history, to confirm their relationships, to put their own personal spin on growing up and on events that happened while growing up. It was an animate object embracing an inanimate emotion--love. There was definitely lots of love around that table.
I can still see and hear those conversations, that love, especially those with the handsome Strother boys and their dad, my Granddad, telling stories and jokes. There was probably a lot of re-telling the same stories over and over, but the laughter was as new and spontaneous as it was after "wickely, wickely, wickely."
As I picture the table from years and years ago, I can even feel the love through those sweet memories--the men would be sitting there, elbows on the table with each man leaning in eager to catch every word. There would definitely be a cup of strong, black coffee before each man and ashtrays scattered around. The smoke was as abundant as the laughter. Each one of the four brothers' delivery was right on; the pitch, the timing, all precise. Perhaps because of the frequency of the telling or perhaps because they were all natural born story tellers.
Nevertheless, the punchline would be delivered and the belly laughs would ring out as the rickety-looking wooden farmhouse chairs holding those men would tilt back on just two legs of the chairs. I remember wondering how could they lean so far back without the chair falling over, breaking, or without Grandma scolding them for leaning back in their chairs. It was like they were extending the enjoyment, the merriment, the love as far as possible--proving, at least for the moment, that nothing bad could happen or stop this feeling, this closeness, this love.
Two of those Strother brothers, the younger crop as Grandma would call them, are still around--not around that old Strother table, but thankfully, around; and I'm sure they still are telling some wonderful stories with that same great style that their brothers and others leaned far in to hear.
Now at that same Strother farmhouse table, I'm leaning in--hoping once again to catch the punch line and the laughter of those days. I think I hear it--"wickely, wickely, wickely."
Repeat this scenario over and over again and you can imagine our breakfast that day. While we were engaged in this routine, I was reminded of how much laughter has been shared through five generations at this very table.
In fact, my earliest memories of going to my grandparents involve this table and laughter. No matter what time of day or night that we arrived at their farm, the grown-ups would circle around the table in their ladder back chairs and the hours would tick off as would the stories and laughter. Many times I can remember falling asleep or waking up to the comforting sounds of indistinguishable words followed by the most infectious laughter you could ever imagine--just like the laughter following the "wickely, wickely, wickely" mumbled by the newest generation around that table.
My Grandma and Granddad made this table for their household and raised their 4 boys around it. I was lucky enough to be able to take ownership of it when it was no longer needed for them. It has been the breakfast table for my family for the last 30 or so years. Hence, the laughter and memories continue.
Magic must have been waxed into the grain of this old oak table. It was a plain farmhouse table--not fancy but solid and practical--important traits for furniture as well as men and women during those pre-Depression days on the flat plains of windy southwest Oklahoma. It was just a round table with three or four leaves readily available to add with the sound of a knock on the door or the sight of dust stirred up in the drive.
Those leaves magically stretched that old round table to a size capable of handling the whole Strother clan, plus a friend or two who may have popped in, certainly the mail man making his rounds two or three days a week through the dusty country roads delivering not just the mail but the latest news of friends and neighbors.
The table magically became a unifying web around a family who no longer lived and worked in the area, who maybe even didn't share the same views politically or religiously anymore. It magically reconnected the family; it provided the boys a place to relive their history, to confirm their relationships, to put their own personal spin on growing up and on events that happened while growing up. It was an animate object embracing an inanimate emotion--love. There was definitely lots of love around that table.
I can still see and hear those conversations, that love, especially those with the handsome Strother boys and their dad, my Granddad, telling stories and jokes. There was probably a lot of re-telling the same stories over and over, but the laughter was as new and spontaneous as it was after "wickely, wickely, wickely."
As I picture the table from years and years ago, I can even feel the love through those sweet memories--the men would be sitting there, elbows on the table with each man leaning in eager to catch every word. There would definitely be a cup of strong, black coffee before each man and ashtrays scattered around. The smoke was as abundant as the laughter. Each one of the four brothers' delivery was right on; the pitch, the timing, all precise. Perhaps because of the frequency of the telling or perhaps because they were all natural born story tellers.
Nevertheless, the punchline would be delivered and the belly laughs would ring out as the rickety-looking wooden farmhouse chairs holding those men would tilt back on just two legs of the chairs. I remember wondering how could they lean so far back without the chair falling over, breaking, or without Grandma scolding them for leaning back in their chairs. It was like they were extending the enjoyment, the merriment, the love as far as possible--proving, at least for the moment, that nothing bad could happen or stop this feeling, this closeness, this love.
Two of those Strother brothers, the younger crop as Grandma would call them, are still around--not around that old Strother table, but thankfully, around; and I'm sure they still are telling some wonderful stories with that same great style that their brothers and others leaned far in to hear.
Now at that same Strother farmhouse table, I'm leaning in--hoping once again to catch the punch line and the laughter of those days. I think I hear it--"wickely, wickely, wickely."
Friday, December 27, 2013
An After Christmas Poem
Yesterday morning I woke up at 4:30 and couldn't go back to sleep. The highly anticipated day had come and gone. As I walked through the still dark house, I was aware of the difference a day makes.
The house was pretty much the same--decorations, tree, lights were all still there. But it was obvious that it was over. The empty boxes were stacked together waiting to be flattened and recycled, the ribbons and wrappings were gathered and thrown into trash bags waiting to be taken out, the gifts dispersed to their new owners and taken to their rooms or neatly stacked waiting to be packed in suitcases all too soon closed for trips home. Yes, it was done. Another Christmas, another family get together, another set of memories. Wow!
I studied the remains of the day, examined the tree, looked at all the decorations that would soon be packed away for another year, thought about the night before, the excitement, the fun, the laughter still hanging in the air. It felt good; it felt sad; it was a cluster of memories wanting to find a permanent place in my head, begging not to be forgotten.
So to process it all, I sat down to write. Then the words to the season's favorite children's poem, "The Night Before Christmas," started repeating itself in my mind. Now I know this classic poem written almost two hundred years ago has been used and misused through the years, and I have found myself doing the same many times. It's just such a good poem. But this old favorite poem became the format for my thoughts on the day after Christmas, 2013.
'Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house,
Not a creature was there, not even a mouse.
The stockings were emptied and scattered without care;
It was obvious that St. Nick had been certainly been there.
The Christmas tree once festive now looks lonely and bare
With no presents spilling out from under there.
No little boy reaching in for a bright colored bow
And tossing the name tag over his shoulder with a quick throw.
Examining the trimmings, unusual things I now see
That were added discreetly to the decorated tree.
An empty wooden spool so gingerly placed
About a hand higher than a little boy's face.
A cowboy boot once part of a wreath
Now taps its toe on a tree branch underneath.
The feathers and leaves that evened the tree out
Found bundled together--by small fingers no doubt.
A frilly reindeer once participating in imaginative play
Lies forgotten in favor of toys from Christmas Day.
The wooden train engine originally bright and red
Now in three pieces--no more needs to be said.
Santa, glittery and spry, who sat in his sleigh
Has been found near a bed three rooms away.
Even the nestled metal trees on tables nearby
Were expertly relocated in the blink of an eye.
It appears the Dickens' village with its warm lights all aglow
Now has fewer villagers milling in the white snow.
Accidents happen and memories do too.
These are a few that I will treasure the whole year through.
Then knowing soon I'd be taking decorations down
I felt blessed and happy that these memories abound.
I wished to myself as I flipped off the light
That there were Happy Christmas memories for all, and for all good nights.
The house was pretty much the same--decorations, tree, lights were all still there. But it was obvious that it was over. The empty boxes were stacked together waiting to be flattened and recycled, the ribbons and wrappings were gathered and thrown into trash bags waiting to be taken out, the gifts dispersed to their new owners and taken to their rooms or neatly stacked waiting to be packed in suitcases all too soon closed for trips home. Yes, it was done. Another Christmas, another family get together, another set of memories. Wow!
I studied the remains of the day, examined the tree, looked at all the decorations that would soon be packed away for another year, thought about the night before, the excitement, the fun, the laughter still hanging in the air. It felt good; it felt sad; it was a cluster of memories wanting to find a permanent place in my head, begging not to be forgotten.
So to process it all, I sat down to write. Then the words to the season's favorite children's poem, "The Night Before Christmas," started repeating itself in my mind. Now I know this classic poem written almost two hundred years ago has been used and misused through the years, and I have found myself doing the same many times. It's just such a good poem. But this old favorite poem became the format for my thoughts on the day after Christmas, 2013.
'Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house,
Not a creature was there, not even a mouse.
The stockings were emptied and scattered without care;
It was obvious that St. Nick had been certainly been there.
The Christmas tree once festive now looks lonely and bare
With no presents spilling out from under there.
No little boy reaching in for a bright colored bow
And tossing the name tag over his shoulder with a quick throw.
Examining the trimmings, unusual things I now see
That were added discreetly to the decorated tree.
An empty wooden spool so gingerly placed
About a hand higher than a little boy's face.
A cowboy boot once part of a wreath
Now taps its toe on a tree branch underneath.
The feathers and leaves that evened the tree out
Found bundled together--by small fingers no doubt.
A frilly reindeer once participating in imaginative play
Lies forgotten in favor of toys from Christmas Day.
The wooden train engine originally bright and red
Now in three pieces--no more needs to be said.
Santa, glittery and spry, who sat in his sleigh
Has been found near a bed three rooms away.
Even the nestled metal trees on tables nearby
Were expertly relocated in the blink of an eye.
It appears the Dickens' village with its warm lights all aglow
Now has fewer villagers milling in the white snow.
Accidents happen and memories do too.
These are a few that I will treasure the whole year through.
Then knowing soon I'd be taking decorations down
I felt blessed and happy that these memories abound.
I wished to myself as I flipped off the light
That there were Happy Christmas memories for all, and for all good nights.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Tangled Roots
There are yellow and burgundy mums growing randomly against the house. They don't look as perfect as the mums in the gallon pots I bought this fall, but I like that. They are different heights and kinda wild-like but stunning.
Now when my Master Gardener friend came to visit recently, I didn't get to ask her what she thought about my garden of mums and monkey grass. I'm sure she would have been kind, but it really didn't matter to me. I like them and proud of the fact that they actually came back.
I guess I was somewhat surprised when the mums came back because I really know just very little about planting. I know that when you take the plant out of the pot, you have to spread the roots out. Generally they are very tangled; some are even growing through the bottom of the pot.
Now that is about the extent of my gardening expertise. And I haven't engaged in any of my "heavy duty" gardening in awhile. But what I have done is paint a picture for a dear friend who is about to celebrate a big birthday--you know, one of those that end in 0. After painting the picture, I decided it needed a perfect quote to top it off.
I could have thought and thought and thought and come up with a sentiment to use, but instead I resorted to "googling" quotes. Do you know that there are millions, no billions, of quotes about everything. Well, I wanted an extra special one about friendships for my extra special friend.
I found a bunch. Some were way too wordy. Scratch those. I'm sure they were very meaningful quotes, but remember, I was a preschool teacher forever. I like short books, short sentences, and lots of great pictures.
Nevertheless, I won't list all of the quotes I actually read and liked, but the one that grabbed me was this:
"Growing apart doesn't change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I'm glad for that." Ally Condie
WOW! Isn't that good?
That quote made me think not only about my garden but also my friend. You know so many of metaphors of gardens and friendships. But what struck me was the phrase, "our roots will always be tangled..."
My friend and I were young adults when we first met, but I still believe we grew into an awesome adulthood together. Although there were many times we were as carefree and playful as young children, we had our serious times as well--tangling our roots tighter with each experience.
We have helped each other through good and bad times. And I would do anything for her and I know she would for me too. Before I moved, we would spend a Saturday or two each month running around. I love her. We would laugh and laugh. We would eat Mexican food or if we were being "good," we would divide a sandwich and fore go the french fries.
We would attack painting walls or even wall-papering walls or moving heavy furniture. We discovered that if we had a beer or two, we would do much better. (Sometimes it took us until wee hours of the morning to finish our projects--and beer!) We shopped together--tried on clothes over our clothes cause we didn't want to go to dressing room. That was fine until the time she couldn't get the dress off that she pulled on over her clothes. Then there was the time we had to try out the hula hoops at a discount store.
We never were asked to leave a store, I promise. Because of her, though, we knew where every restroom was in every store in town. I could count on making memories on any day I spent with my friend.
Then the husband and I moved to Texas for five years. My friend and I still talked and saw each other a few times. Each time we got together, it was like nothing had changed. But in reality it had. When we moved back, my friend and I didn't get together as often. Those weekend days had been filled with other friends of hers; I had a grand baby that I wanted to be with. She had several grand kids that took her time. She worked full time still; I didn't. So I was sad that we weren't able to pick up exactly like we left off.
But when I read that quote, I realized that we will always be connected. Our roots run deep and are pleasantly tangled. I love her and enjoy the times we spend together as much as ever. Sure I wish it were more, but our friendship has survived and perhaps even strengthened because of realizing the value of the tangled roots.
I am glad for the side by side times with my dear friend. I'm sure there will be more and more. I am glad for those roots that through our deep friendship got tangled and strong. I am glad I have her as my friend and know that just like my perennial mums, she'll be there year after year.
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