The Day Dad Wore His Shirt Wrong Side Out

This story is an old one.  It happened years ago and you may have heard it before.  It's about Dad but not really about the way he dressed then or now, and actually not really about Dad.  But he did actually wear his shirt wrong side out.

The real story is about why he wore his shirt wrong side out.

It started on a Saturday night.  A friend and her husband came over to share a lovely dinner of steaks, greens, baked potatoes and salads.  What a fun evening.  We ate a lot, laughed a lot, and told a lot of stories.  Plus, we were both a lot pregnant.  Whether it was the delicious heavy meal or just my time, my body decided to go into labor during the middle of that night--or so I thought.  Butterfly McQueen and I had a lot in common, "I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies."  This was our first time, too.

After calling the doctor, we made our way to the hospital only to be told we needed to walk around.  It wasn't exactly time yet, they implied, but they didn't send us home either.  So we walked the floors in my beautiful hospital gown or I should say--gowns.  You know, one for the front and one for the back.

We walked slowly up and down, up and down, the silent halls of the hospital for what seemed to be hours.  Occasionally we would hear a bell calling for a nurse, or static from the nurses' station or nurses hurriedly walking to a patient's room. But on we walked, stopping only when contractions took over.  Let me just say, having contractions standing up was not discussed in our in Lamaze classes, I am positive.

Finally, they let us have a room and then the fun really began.  Contractions picked up; nurses came in and out; a doctor would appear and disappear.  It was like Grand Central.  If I ever had modesty, it certainly was all gone after that night.  Plus, I began thinking and probably saying, "This is NOT fun.  I will NOT ever do this again."  (By the way, it only took 2 years to abandon that declaration!)

After a night of labor, this baby came into this world. Our little baby came out to meet us at 8:00 on a Sunday morning and was a "she."  We were thrilled even though I thought in my grand knowledge of the future that the baby would be a boy.  Well, not happening--not then; not later.  We discovered we were destined for girls and started the tradition with that precious baby girl.

(Man, have things changed--back then you wouldn't know the sex of the baby nor when the exact day he or she would be born.  You would be given a "due date" which was an approximation by the doctor.  Actually, it only meant that the baby might come two weeks before or after that given date.  Now those babies often come out on the date chosen by the mother with names chosen by both parents, with big bows in their hair and their monograms already engraved on everything but the baby.)

Our precious first born decided herself when to come.  It was a beautiful Sunday morning on May 22, 1977 (much like this morning--May 21, 2017).  We did have a name picked out and a baby bed in the simple and bare (compared to today's standards) nursery.  Nevertheless, she made me a mother and what a thrill it was to become a mother, to become her mother.  Surprisingly, she didn't even complain about the nursery being so lightly furnished and decorated.

She was perfect--8 pounds of perfection in fact--the sweetest little face with reddish/blonde hair, sweetheart-shaped lips; 10 perfect little fingers and 10 perfect little toes.  Having her was everything I ever thought becoming a mother would be.  I still remember when bringing her home to our very first house how I hoped I would remember every little thing she did.  I didn't want to forget a thing.  It was all so sweet.

Of course I did forget many of the cute things she did--that's what happens.  I remember telling my sister how I wanted to remember everything and please, tell me how to do that.  She responded encouragingly but honestly--"You don't, but you do remember the love and joy that abounds." And she was right.  Those were indeed joyful days with a happy little baby.

One thing that does stand out during those first few hours and days after our little baby joined our family is her father's reaction to being a new dad.  I must say that the labor and delivery was tough and evidently not just on me.  Like I said, we had gone through the Lamaze method of training for labor and even though they skipped some steps (like how to stand up and have contractions), compared to other women's stories of their labors, ours wasn't too bad.

So, yes, birthing a baby is hard on mom and dad; in fact, that whole first day was exhausting.  We were excited and proud but having been without much sleep going on for 2 days now was beginning to show.  (Little did we know that the feeling of exhaustion would not end in a day or two.  In fact, as I recall it lasted for several years!)

But we were too excited to realize how tired we both were--well, especially me!   (After all, I did all the work, and he just did the coaching, "Breathe, Breathe.  Find your focus point.  Breathe!" Honestly, I may have responded with, "SHUT UP" at choice times, not sure! )

Putting up with all that would definitely be difficult especially if one has no sleep. 

Her grandparents did have sleep; we didn't call and wake them when we headed to the hospital.  They came immediately, though, upon receiving the phone call announcing her birth.  Of course, they oohed and aahed over her.  On my side of the family she was the 8th grandchild to join the party.  On other other side she was the first.  Needless to say, all four grandparents were thrilled.

Now I know exactly how they felt about becoming a grandparent or becoming one again.  Each child, each grandchild is such a blessing and a special miracle; who could not love and cherish, ooh and aah, over such a blessing.  And so it was with this one.

After birthing her, the day was spent in getting to see her and learning about what to do with her!  Taking care of her is different after birth than before, right.  We got all the instructions that first morning--how to hold her; how to nurse her, how to change her diapers, and then how to let her go back to the hospital nursery.  (Those were the days long before the baby stayed in the room with you.)

There was a lot to absorb with a sleepless brain and evidently Dad's brain was still asleep when he went to work the next day.

Here's what happened.  On Monday, leaving the new mom and new baby in the hands of the hospital staff, the new dad went to work--probably a little late considering what all the weekend had entailed.  Nevertheless, he did make it to work.  He got off the elevator all happy and proud, but dragging a little, I'm sure. 

Then he either looked down at himself or some helpful friends pointed out to him that he had his shirt on wrong-side out!  Everyone laughed as they knew why and knew what new babies can honestly cause you do.  But, hey, he had a shirt on, right?

I think that was the only time he did dress in such an unusual way--at least to go to work, but plenty of other things in our same-o, same-o life was now totally new and unusual.  Adding the dogs to our family a few years before was interesting and challenging, but nothing quite like adding a third real live little human being.

Everything was now centered on that little thing that weighed about as much as a sack of potatoes but was a lot wigglier, interesting, and smart.  As a matter of fact, she was probably the smartest baby ever born before that day.  She was so attentive, watched us as we talked to her, engaged in our conversations with plenty of coos and gurgles, and did almost everything on schedule if not early.  She was simply brilliant. (We, as first time parents, believed that whether it was true or not then; but, you know what?  She actually still is!)

When she was turning one, we would ask her, "How old are you?"  She would proudly put out one finger and say, "One," with a big grin.   Even before that age, she would listen to me and help me find things that I had lost or put away in a strange place.  (True sign of brilliance, right?!!?)

She loved books (and still does).  Being read to was a favorite thing for her.  I can't tell you how many books we read per day.  She would love to bring me books and I would love to read them to her.  In fact, when she was about 2 years old, she brought a Clifford book to her uncle and opened it and read, "Hi!  I'm Emily Elizabeth."

If you've ever read the original Clifford book, you know that is exactly how it starts.  My brother who has three older daughters of his own couldn't help but laugh and be impressed.  Of course, she memorized books because we read them so much, but still...isn't that brilliant!  :)

She was a National Merit Semi-Finalist in high school; she went to England to study through a program at Hendrix.  She graduated from Hendrix.  She can discuss anything with anybody because she knows so much.  She reads constantly; she writes daily.  She is creative and artistic.  She can sew; she can make quilts and baby toys; she can draw.  She is wonderful.

This baby who was just born a minute ago is now 40 years old.  Isn't that hard to believe?  She has added so much to our lives and we all love her so much.  Her dad only occasionally gets his shirt on wrong side out now (and just at home I might add).

I've learned a lot from her and I hope she feels and knows the pride her dad and I have in her.  I love her; we love her; and I love being her momma!  Always have.  Always will.

Thank you, God, for sending her to us exactly 40 years ago.  Happy birthday, sweet girl, our Holly Cherice Jones.

One Man's Living and Dying and Things in Between

Recently, a very best friend of mine asked me to help him write his obituary.  No, he is not about to die anymore than any of us are, but of course I said I would whenever he wanted me to.

Although this is not the obit he was referring to, his request got me thinking about living and dying and things in between.  So I decided to write these thoughts about him now and in doing so, I am reminded of what Jackie said in the movie, “Waking Ned Devine” about his friend Michael:

“Michael O'Sullivan was my great friend. But I don't ever remember telling him that. The words that are spoken at a funeral are spoken too late for the man who is dead. What a wonderful thing it would be to visit your own funeral. To sit at the front and hear what was said, maybe say a few things yourself. Michael and I grew old together. But at times, when we laughed, we grew young. If he was here now, if he could hear what I say, I'd congratulate him on being a great man, and thank him for being a friend.”

So here, my friend, Chuck Kelly, are my words and thoughts I want you to hear from me about you while you are alive:

When my friend dies, I will miss him like crazy.  He is intelligent, fun, and witty.  He is not handy or mechanically minded at all, but he is a most successful man.  He strove for excellence in his work and achieved it.  In the height of his career, most people around town knew him or recognized his face.

I first knew of him and recognized him from TV.  He was the news anchor on Channel 11.  Eventually, I got to know him personally from attending the same church as he did and was even in the same Sunday School class as he and his wife were.

We became fast friends as couples and socialized together as well as traveled together.  There was never a dull moment.  He told jokes, repeated jokes, and got laughs every time.  Rarely was he without a story, a joke, or a comment to entertain or inform us.

This man could write and he could make speeches.  He was a communicator.  Although he always claimed he was going to write a book, he has yet to get to that.  This is about the only thing he hasn't gotten around to doing.  Had he, it would have been good.

Professionally, he was a successful anchorman for many years.  Then, when he was ready to face another challenge, he accepted a position at AP&L, later called Entergy.  Soon he became a vice president there.  In both fields he was able to go many places and meet many people creating lots of material for a great book.

He worked hard throughout his career, but he found time to play as well.  He has always loved to spend his time watching basketball and football especially when his beloved LSU teams play as well as when the U of A plays.  At one point he was the kind of fan that would travel to games and tournaments whenever he could and hated to miss a game due to work.  He still hates to miss a game but now he is usually perched in front of the TV yelling at or cheering his team on. 

His interest in sports was not limited to watching football and basketball.  Somewhere along the way, he became obsessed with duck hunting and later fly-fishing.   When he took up duck hunting, he hunted every chance he could, getting up before dawn on the coldest of days to sit in the woods and wait for the ducks to fly over.  Only duck hunters absolutely get this insanity.  

When he became interested in fly-fishing, he was 100% committed to that as well.  He even became quite good at tying his own flies--a tedious job to say the least.  To indulge his love of fishing, they bought a house on the White River so he could have ample time and a convenient place to fish.  

Family and friends are an important part of his life.  He has been married for over 54 years and has two children.  Being a great host with his great hostess wife, their house is always open for friends to gather and eat, drink, and be merry.  For years, their Christmas Open House has been a must-do for old and new friends.  It is an anticipated event and has became a tradition.

Several years after retirement, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.  Once again, he has taken this challenge on as determinedly as any of his other challenges.  Being one who will only take an aspirin--at the most--and only if dreadfully sick, he has fought this ailment without medications for years by exercising and eating right. 

When he sets his head to achieve something, he achieves it.  This applies to his disease as well.  He has put 110% effort in working out and it has paid off.  His Parkinson’s has been slow in progressing but not surprisingly, it has progressed.

I have never heard him complain or become bitter about this unwanted condition and we have had many deep discussions from illnesses to solving the world’s problems to reminiscing about the fun times we have had which indeed make us grow "young again."  He is such a good listener and fun conversationalist.  No wonder he has been successful in so many areas of his life.

One couldn’t reflect on this man without acknowledging his wonderful voice and his head of hair which has become white through the years giving him a very distinguished look.  His voice isn't the singing kind of a great voice but the talking, narrating, speech-making kind.  It could be booming or gentle--either way it was significant. 

Although both hair and voice changed over the years because of the disease and the curse of getting older, it is a distinctive part of him as much as his habit of flicking his finger between his nose and mouth while concentrating or reading--or his color-blindness and inability to color coordinate his clothes to his wife's suiting.

Anyone who knows him quickly develops a respected relationship with him and would have plenty of their own stories to share from the interactions they have with him.

The special friendship between us--and as a matter of fact, between the four of us--will always stand out in our memories--the dinners together, Trivia Pursuit games, the beach trips, the tennis matches,  the miniature golf outings, the sleepovers at the river house, the New Orleans house, the Texas house, and even sharing a room in a quaint hotel in Northern California can't be forgotten...ever.  We, like many others who know him, consider ourselves lucky.

I can only add, as Jackie did in his farewell to Michael, "Congratulations on being a great man, and thank you for being a friend" who I love and who I will miss terribly when you are gone.

"I Wanna Hold Your Hand"

I love the idea of holding hands, don't you?  It is such a sweet connection between two people. I'm lucky--not everyone can hold hands at work.  (You know those laws about harassment.)  But I get to hold hands a lot  Of course, they are children's hands, but it is so sweet and enjoyable.

Of all the children's hands I get to hold, I especially love getting to hold the grandsons' hands.  Now, though, holding hands with first grandson is limited.  I get to when crossing a street and in parking lots.  He is 5.  Those are the required hand-holding times and he accepts that pretty well.  Other hand-holding opportunities with him are few and far between.  He drops the hand quickly.  Just as quickly, he "wipes off" the kisses I love to give him.  He's big now, you know.

Second Grandson who isn't even 2 years old yet has already stopped needing to hold my hand to toddle around.  He's quite good at toddling on his own these days.  He is still carried a lot which I love; but when he is older, I will definitely enjoy holding his hand for however long he will allow it--probably just the few minutes we cross a street or a parking lot, like big brother.

Holding those sweet little hands is so pure and uncomplicated.  But holding hands doesn't necessarily stay that way.  All too soon, it is anything but uncomplicated.  Remember the teen-aged days when it was thought about, longed for, dreamed about.  Then on occasion it could be icky, ignored, dreaded and avoided if possible.

Grown-up hand-holding is definitely an intriguing subject to me.  I'm a watcher.  I always watch those people who walk down the street hand in hand.  You see the teen-aged boy and girl holding hands as well as an adult man and woman.  These days it is not uncommon to see a girl and a girl or woman and a woman or guys of the same sex holding hands. All of them may range from timidly holding hands to boldly.  

This makes it quite interesting--thinking about and perhaps guessing about their relationships.  Are they in a new relationship?  Are they “old married folks?”  Just what is going on?  A lot of our couple friends hold hands and I think they definitely would fall into the “old married folks” category. They look comfortable with the act so I guess they have held hands for many years.  

This husband of mine is not a big hand-holder and I don't know why he is not.  I've given it quite a bit of thought through these 43 years of marital bliss.  On occasion I've even grabbed his hand and forced him to hold mine.  Well, for a bit.  Then the hand would fall off.  I've even tried to ask him about it and I will admit I even pouted about it while we've walked down the street not touching hands.  (Didn't help a bit!)

So why is it?  I can't figure it out but I wonder:  Is it because it hurts his hands?  Is it because it is awkward?  Is it because his hands secretly sweat?  Is it because he has hand-arthritis and never told me?  I don't think those are the answers.

Maybe it is just a disability.  Are there others in the world with this disability?   Wondering this, I went to the source of ALL information, Google, and typed in "holding hands." Surprisingly, I discovered that this simple action is much more deep-seated than anyone, especially me, would have guessed.

To be honest, I didn't think I would find much factual information about it.  I figured I'd find the lyrics from the Beatles song, "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" and maybe some references to other songs about "the act."  But no—I found that hand-holding "reveals the secrets of a relationship!"  Dang!  I should have studied this subject years, no decades, earlier.

Now I’m worried and it gets worse!

The great and mighty Google said, "Not only is hand-holding a very essential and fundamental part of any relationship, it is also reveals quite a lot about what you feel for the person you’re with."  Uh-oh.  Maybe we are in trouble and we didn’t know it.  

Don't get me wrong--I know we both love each other!  But what if we had held hands all these years?  Would we love each other more?  Would our relationship be significantly and essentially better? 

Now to add insult to injury, I discovered that there are nine different ways to hand-hold and the “secrets” of what they mean.  (Want to know these secrets?  You know where to go.)

So I read through all the nine ways.  They have names like “The Down-Facing Palm,” “The Tightly-Interlocked Fingers,” “The One-Fingered Hand-Hold,” etc.  Hmmm.  Very complicated and not at all reassuring to a half of a non-hand holding couple.  But I wasn't through.

Next, I decided to investigate in the same scientific way "couples who do not hold hands!"  Obviously, there are those, besides husband, who don't "wanna hold your hand." I read that some non-hand holders take offense and object to the analysis of it.  Some object to the idea that it is "romantic."  Some think it is only done to show "ownership." (yuck)  There were as many reasons not to hold hands as kinds of hand holding.  

So holding hands is perhaps NOT an essential part of a relationship.  Maybe it really doesn't reveal a thing.    Maybe it's not a guaranteed thing; maybe holding hands does not equal holding a marriage together.  After all, if  I remember correctly, some of our hand-holding friends from the past are now divorced!  Hmm.

But I must read on...

The most prominent non-hand holding couple mentioned was the Royals--beautiful Kate and William.  Did you realize that they are not hand-holders? I hadn’t really thought about it at all. 

According to Goggle, "Not only do the royal duo have immense respect for one another, but they also seem to be immensely happy and endlessly in love more or less all of the time...the reason they aren't [hand-holders] is simply a matter of decorum."  

So there!  That answers the question for them and maybe for others.  I'm feeling a lot better.  At least we are in good company.  Every scientific study has a conclusion, right?  So, after all this deep studying of my own about hand holding, I think I've finally reached a conclusion.  

Husband doesn't hold hands because...wait for it... he just doesn't like it.

He doesn't like beets either. 

P.S. 

My study did reveal important facts to me.   Husband and I are non-hand holders and that’s okay.  There are other couples that are also non-hand holders, and that’s okay.  We don’t fit in the Google categories, and that’s okay.  We do, however,  fit the quote below and that’s not okay, that is wonderful!

“He closed his eyes, and I closed mine, and even though we weren't holding hands, it felt like we were.  Because what we had, we knew.” ― Kami Garcia, Beautiful Chaos

Making Tea and Friends

If you live in the South, you have to know how to make iced tea.  If you live in the South, you also have to know how to make friends, right?  Many times the process of making friends starts by entertaining them in your southern home.  You know how it is and likely have seen it portrayed perfectly in the movies--the exquisite southern gentlewoman entertaining ladies who have "come calling." Usually they are served a tall glass of fresh iced tea with mint and perhaps a petit four.  Classic Southern Hospitality!

Yes, Southern hospitality is a way of life--not just a saying.  It has been documented in literature and newspapers throughout the years.  "Some characteristics of southern hospitality were described as early as 1835, when Jacob Abbott attributed the poor quality of taverns in the south to the lack of need for them, given the willingness of southerners to provide for strangers." (Wikipedia)

Abbott continues by saying, "Conversation flows cheeringly, for the southern gentleman has a particular tact in making a guest happy. After dinner you are urged to pass the afternoon and night...Such is the character of southern hospitality."  If a man successfully covered the definition for "southern gentlemen," then you know that the women automatically would take the whole concept of Southern hospitality to a whole new level.

Now I'm not saying I am a Southern gentlewoman by any means, but I do have characteristics of that Southern hospitality as described by Abbott.  I love having guests over (after I spend a day cleaning, rearranging, and most likely panicking to a degree).  I have been taught the skills of being a hostess.  Although I would never try to make "petit fours," I am willing to say that I can make iced tea (even though these days I tend to buy the ready-made gallons of the sweet variety in the refrigerated section of the grocery stores).

So having iced tea and ladies in my home is not an unusual event, but becoming fast friends because of my iced tea was a most unusual (thankfully) event.

Let me explain...

When we bought a house in Little Rock, we had one little girl and were expecting another one.  Before long, we were expecting our third girl.  So I was basically a stay-at-home-mother for awhile.  

Fortunately for me, there were some other young mothers in the neighborhood who weren't working.  It so happened that these moms all had little girls around the same ages as mine.  So immediately we bonded and would gather at each others' houses for visits while the girls played.   The adult conversations were always a welcomed change from continuous interaction with preschoolers.  Although I'm sure our conversations were frequently interrupted to settle squabbles ("You can't come to my birthday party" or "She said she won't be my friend") and sometimes to simply check on them when things got too quiet.

It was through one of these gatherings that I met the newest neighbor at the time.   We really meshed early on and I invited her to come to my house one afternoon with her little girl in tow.  Of course, as always when I have guest over, I did my rushed straightening-up-job and certainly had prepared some iced tea for the occasion.

We got the girls involved in playing with an assortment of dolls and then we sat down at the kitchen table to begin our visit.  Trying to be that gracious hostess, I offered some iced tea to my new neighbor.  While we chatted, I got the glasses out of the cabinet;  I filled them with ice.  I put the lid to the pitcher on, getting it ready to pour.  Then it happened!  No, I didn't spill the ice out of the glasses or knock off the glasses and break them.  No, the lid to the tea pitcher didn't fall off.  And, no, I didn't spill any tea.  It was worse, much worse than any of those goofs (although any of them could have easily happened).

When I was pouring the freshly steeped tea from the pitcher, not only did the tea come out of the pitcher but a DISHCLOTH almost made it out!  Yes, you read it correctly.  (Thank goodness I had remembered to put the lid on the pitcher.)  But somehow, someway, sometime when I wasn't looking a dishcloth had surreptitiously fallen into the pitcher.  (It was a clean one, though.) Evidently, it had fallen into the pitcher at some point when I had opened the cabinet where I kept dishcloths.  (Uh, okay...maybe I had thrown them up in the cabinet haphazardly in my usual "company's coming rush" to "clean" the kitchen--I don't know.  I just know that now one was now floating at the edge of the pitcher.)

We both looked at each other.  Although she had a wry grin on her face, I'm sure she was a little shocked and wondered what kind of southerner serves iced tea à la dishcloth.  A true Southern gentlewoman might have swooned and fanned away from her embarrassment, but even though I  was definitely embarrassed, I was also undone with laughter.  As soon as it actually dawned on me what it was, I started laughing uproariously.  She joined in with equal enthusiasm.

I did tell her I would make a new pitcher of tea.  However, she replied with something like, "Why bother.  It looks fine to me."  So we enjoyed that pitcher of tea that afternoon and a long, long friendship which has continued to this day.
 
We don't see each other very often anymore because she has moved out of the south--"bless her heart!"  (See, I told you I was a Southerner!)   But when she does make it back to this city, we take up right where we left off from the last visit--maybe not with my special tea, but we do enjoy our times together.

It was just this week that we got together again and the tea story came up.    It doesn't come up every time we visit but I never mind it when it does.  It was funny then and it is still funny.  We both learned a lot about each other in a split second, and I think we both liked what we learned.  It certainly moved our friendship forward very quickly and all pretenses were dismissed as we drank our sweet tea that afternoon.  To this day, we still know who we are and have an appreciation for each others' quirkiness.

That pitcher of sweet tea is long gone, but the friendship is still sweet which simply proves that the quote by Elbert Hubbard is all too true--"A friend is one who knows you and loves you just the same."  I'm glad for that.  Thanks, my friend, for knowing me and still being my friend!

And the Truth Will Set Me Free?

Being truthful is a good thing.  We've been taught that; we teach our children that.  But honestly, is it really?

I've had three truthful statements that have innocently been said to me in the last 24 hours.  They are very funny but I've decided that I, personally, can only handle so much truth. 

First of all, yesterday when the grandson and I were about to read some books, I found my spot on the sofa in his room.  I sat all perched ready for him to present to me the books he wanted me to read to him.  Then it happened!

He came over to me and patted my stomach and asked, "Do you have a baby in there?"  Being very aware that I have gained some weight and it all landed in my middle, I laughed and replied, "No.  There's no baby in there, but it does look like it, doesn't it?"  Well, that wasn't the end of it.  He started kneading my tummy saying, "Yes, there's a baby in there.  I can feel it."  At that point, I grabbed a book.

Good thing he is only three and as his expecting mother explained, "Oh, don't take it personally, he does that to himself, too."  Easy for her to say--she is 5 months  pregnant and I just look like I am.

Okay, I can handle it.  It was funny.  However, I did pass on the cinnamon rolls while ago when I went through Sonic for some tea (unsweetened, of course).

A three year old can get away with saying things, but how do I explain this next "misspeak."  I had lunch with two of my friends that I hadn't seen in awhile.  One just celebrated her 50th birthday yesterday and was in town on business.  The other friend I worked with in my preschool era. 

As usual, the "how-are-you-doing" comments started up and the general inquiries of work, retirement, quickly followed with the  "oh-you-look-great" comments that we all are so good at saying.  Honestly, what are you going to say, "My goodness, you have really aged."

But then, in the conversation about work, retirement, grandchildren, my work friend threw into the conversation, "I am older than Leta" at which my younger friend replied without skipping a beat (and obviously without thinking), "You're kidding.  Really?"  Once again, I started laughing and she then realized what she had said.  "Oh, I didn't say that right, did I?  You both look great!"   Too late!

Okay, a three year old can get away with saying things because of his age, but a 50 year old?  Oh, now that I think about it, maybe a 50 year old is in the same boat.  Remember, when we were 50?  Mere children.

This would be an excellent time for the husband, or a friend, or anyone to pipe in a compliment to help boost me back up.  Too bad no one was around, but wait...I just remembered--when I left to go to meet my friends for lunch dressed in my skinny jeans, cute jacket, tall boots with heels, no less, and with make-up on, the Mexican yard man did say, "You look pretty today."  SO THERE!

I feel better now.  And it's a good thing because this morning I got another one of those compliments that leave you wondering and laughing.  I had an 8:30 eye appointment--a recheck for my recent cataract surgery which is quite ironic now after telling you the previous story.  Nevertheless, a cute and young little nurse or aid or helper of some kind, called my name, "LEEETA," and I rose to go back to the examining room.

As I was crossing the reception area of the office, she paid me a compliment--Yay!  Smile, smile.  She said, "I like your jacket."  I replied sweetly, "Why, thank you" (feeling good).  Then she continued, "I used to have jackets like that but I gave them all away when they went out of style.  I wish I had kept them!"  I kid you not.  Those were the words that came out of her mouth. 

Of course, I laughed and replied, "When you get old and you have kept all your cute jackets, then you can wear them again when they come back."  Weak, I know, but what can you say.  I know I have had this jacket awhile, but now I'm in a quandary--do I put this jacket in the Goodwill box or hang it back in my closet?  After all, there are no holes in it and it is evidently coming back in style.

It will probably go back in the closet with all the other cute jackets.  Or maybe I should just have a huge yard sale for all those clothes that have been in my closet for awhile (like years). 

Yes, then with all the money I make (haha), I will get a tummy tuck and a face lift.  Better schedule that yard sale quickly, or maybe you guys can send donations--I don't know if my self-esteem can handle much more TRUTH!

Treasuring Our Delusions

On my trip to see my sister in Northwest Arkansas this weekend, I started listening to a fiction book by Anna Quindlen, one of my favorite authors.  I like to listen to books while I drive.  It keeps me alert and it seems to shorten the trip.  When we lived in Fort Worth, I was able to "read" lots of books simply by driving to work which was about a 30-45 minute drive depending on traffic.

It is amazing, though, how many books you can finish in a bunch of those 30 minute time frames.  So this weekend I really got into this new book that I checked out from the library.

Sometimes when reading or listening you run across a phrase that resonates with you.   The way in which an author uses language can be gripping.  The problem in listening to such a book is when you hear a beautifully written sentence, you can't highlight it or reread it.  You are forced to try to just remember it.  I try really hard to remember such sentences.  But half the time while I am repeating that beautifully written sentence to myself, I miss the next sentence or even sometimes paragraphs.  

One book that particularly comes to mind in that regard was Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier.  My brilliant brother-in-law had recommended it and had expressed how rich the language was in it.  Larry is a wonderful wordsmith himself.  So I "read" it while making a few round trips between Fort Worth and Little Rock and was captivated by the beautiful prose.

Of course, I can't even begin to tell you now any of those sentences or phrases that I thought were so rich and eloquently written.   Actually, I probably couldn't recite them minutes after I heard them.  But I will always remember that Thirteen Moons was beautifully written as well as an excellent story.

Nevertheless, I got back to Little Rock last night right at the most intense moment of this current book.  I have sat in the car and listened a little longer in such cases but not last night.  I came in, sat down at the computer, and ordered the book for my Kindle.  I did this for two reasons--I simply had to know what happened and there was a phrase that had really made me think when I heard it.  I wanted to find that exact sentence again and ponder it.

So I bought the book, finished reading the book, and then went back through the book to find the sentence I was intrigued with and highlighted it.  Here is the sentence that I paid good money to find!

"It's only before the realities set in that we can treasure our delusions."

Does that make you stop and think like it does me?    Often "delusions" are referred to in the media when something happens to someone who is "not in his right mind."   But I wanted to see the official definition.   So I highlighted the word "delusion" and waited for the Kindle to go directly to the dictionary.  (Ain't technology great?)   I found the definition to be exactly as I thought--"a false belief or opinion."

Okay, but the sentence speaks of "treasuring our delusions."    Hmmm.  Do I?

I think back to me as a young twenty-three year old about to get married and with plenty of delusions.  I had been a single teacher for a couple of years and I was so excited to be "finally" getting married.  I had been in my older siblings weddings and had served in different capacities for some of my friends' weddings.  In the 60's and 70's being a bride was up at the top of most girls' "To Do" lists.  I know for some girls getting their "M.R.S." degree was more important than a "B.A." or "B.S.E" degree.   It was why some went to college in the first place.

Now I wasn't like that.  Although all my siblings had married while in college, and I didn't (not because I was too into my studies to be bothered by such, but because I was a "late bloomer." which means I didn't date much.  But at least I did graduate in three years even though it was without the M.R.S. degree!)  My delusion at that time in my life was that I, too, would get married in college like my siblings and many of my friends.

I must say that I wanted to do just like they did and find a wonderful husband.  That's how it worked, right?   Go to college, find the love of your life, get "pinned," get engaged, and finally get married.  Then life would be perfect, complete;  happiness would surround me.  I would be an English teacher, have a family, and live happily ever after, right?  I think I shared and treasured that delusion like many people did back then.  

Oh my!  Am I saying that I didn't have any happiness and didn't find a wonderful husband?  No, not at all!  It just happened differently from my "delusion," but I am thankful for the way reality set in.

Even though the timing of my marriage was not part of my original delusion, I think I still believed that everything would be easier being married.  But, honestly, marriage, children, life--it is all hard--harder than anyone ever told me.  At least, quite a bit harder than those delusional family sitcoms we watched on TV back then.

But wasn't it fun to think about "living happily ever after?"

I know now that those thoughts were delusions; but I treasured them at the time.  I still have delusions that I treasure.  I don't like to think of them really as "delusions,"  but they are.

For instance, I always dream that our family get-togethers (i.e. Christmas, other holidays, birthdays, vacations) will be perfect.  Everyone would come decorate the Christmas tree with carols playing in the background, a fire crackling in the fireplace.  Joy would be oozing out of everything we did.

Everyone would be so happy to see each other; no one would take offense at some joke or misspoken words.   There would be plenty of sweet laughter.  The food would be perfect.  The house would stay clean.  Everyone would want to stay at our house and visit family--not friends.  Who would want to leave such sweet family fellowship?  And Santa Claus actually comes down the chimney with everyone's most desired gifts, right?

But in reality it doesn't happen that way in our family.  I'm not saying that we don't have wonderful, lovely times together; we do, but we are not "The Waltons" as in "Goodnight, Johnboy."

Then there is this other delusion that I have treasured--when my daughters grow up (and they have), I will be that wise and wonderful mother for whom my daughters come to and ask for advice.  PLUS, (here's the best delusion ever) I will have the wisest answers for them filled with enough facts to fit the need, the down-home kind of truth that the wise women in stories can come up with instantaneously, a dash of humor to lighten the seriousness of this wonderful advice, and an abundance of love.  They then go away a little in awe, thanking me and thinking how they hope they will somehow someday have even a small sprinkling of the wisdom that I have.   Ahhh, yes.  I'm getting a little teary-eyed thinking about it.

But the reality is that when they ask me a question or advice, I'm like, "Well, I don't remember exactly" or "Uh, let me think...Hmmm.  Well, I just don't know, sweetie."  They give me that sympathetic (or pathetic) look and go ask their friends.

It is unfortunate, I guess, that reality absolutely destroys delusions--these fairy-tale dreams.  Or maybe that's not bad.  Fairy tales can be scary too and fairly predictable after awhile.

Fairy tales usually have a princess or a queen.  But being a princess or queen in these fairy tales has its problems as well, doesn't it?   Crowns can get heavy and give you a headache.  You might have to actually kiss frogs or sleep forever waiting for a kiss to wake you up, or live in a tower with long, long hair, or clean up after your mean family (oh, I do that--but they aren't mean though), or live with seven little men, who whistle all the time.

If these dreams or delusions actually happened, first of all, they wouldn't be "delusions,"  but more importantly you would miss all the fun and satisfaction of dealing with reality--like when you solve a problem at work, or figure out how to be in relationships, or how to make a living, or start to be thankful for those dateless nights which actually enabled you to build good girlfriend relationships and prove that you are okay by yourself, or knowing that you don't have to be perfect to be loved and adored, or being able to say, "Bye.  Now go have fun with your friends.  I'm going to bed."

So delusions are not real but maybe they have a real place in our lives.  Maybe it is fine to treasure these unreal expectations, these delusions, for awhile.  Maybe that is why we keep trying in our real lives--keep trying to have that idyllic Christmas, keep trying to improve, keep trying to have that satisfying relationship, keep hoping to become wise as we age. 

I really don't know the answer, but I do know that delusions as well as reality help make us who we are.  Now, I want to be the person who doesn't choose to treasure the delusions but rather to treasure my realities, no matter how difficult or pleasant they may be--that is my goal.

Is that just another delusion???  Hmmm.










 

The Thorn in My Side(Walk)

I've been thinking a lot lately about self-improvements.  I've read articles; I've bought books; I've actually started working on a few things.  But I am having difficulty getting my head around all of these self-improvement goals of mine.  You see, I am a waverer.

Some days I waver between "Oh, heck, I am what I am" and "I have to do better in this area!"   "This" can mean a number of things--getting into shape, getting more organized, getting more spiritual...you name it.  I'm sure there is nothing wrong with trying to improve oneself at the age of sixty-four even though some people might say, "Too late" while others might say, "About time."  (I waver on those opinions, too.)

So this morning I was in the "I have to do better" mode and decided to attack two of my present self-improvement goals.  I was going to walk and "be spiritual."  I figured that the walking part would be natural and easy.   After all, for much of my adult life, I was a runner.  I easily ran anywhere from 10-15 miles a week, sometimes more--not a marathon but hey...So walking should be a breeze.

Since walking wouldn't be a problem, then it shouldn't be difficult to pray and talk to God while I was walking.   Surely, I can walk and talk, right?  So off I went, and at a good pace as well.  I was getting in the zone both physically and spiritually.  I was thanking God for the beauty of the morning.  I was expressing how I know He doesn't ever leave us; we are the ones who distance ourselves from Him.  I vowed to make myself do the things to draw me closer to God--to make me always aware of Him. 

I don't know about you, but sometimes I get busy in my own busyness and leave God alone.  After all, I am sure He is very busy Himself.  But you must know that when I really, really need Him (as in "HELP!"), I definitely expect Him to be with me and He is.  Now, I know that is not very spiritually mature and I admitted that to God this morning.  (I'm pretty sure He already knew it though.)

Trying to grow spiritually, I remembered that our Sunday School teacher told us that we not only need to pray but we also need to listen--listen for God's voice; listen for His guidance.  So, after awhile this morning, I quit talking to God and started trying to listen.  (I really wish He would talk louder.)  I wasn't sure that He talked to me at all though because it sounded a lot like me talking to me. 

Maybe I just didn't give Him enough time.  But I was really interested and determined to hear Him--I was there with an open heart, an open mind and a respectable walking pace.  I was aware of my surroundings (and focusing on God).  Being aware of my surroundings is especially important since the sidewalks are typical of old neighborhoods--sometimes they're broken making a stumble possible if you are not paying attention.  But I was paying attention--thank goodness.  I have taken a tumble before on walks.  Not today though.

But being so aware, so focused on God, I didn't foresee another mishap seconds from happening.  Out of the blue and all of a sudden something fiercely slapped into my hand and legs.  I didn't know what it was, but I immediately felt the pain from it.  Then quick as a wink out from my mouth came the loudest and worst #$@&%*! ever! 

I looked down to find that I was stuck with thorns (BIG thorns) across my legs and in my hand. Where, oh where, had that come from (the branch not the expletive--I knew where the words had come from, unfortunately!)  Then I saw the overgrown bush with one branch, so innocuously-looking from a few feet away, reaching across the sidewalk waiting to attack me.

I immediately recognized the irony of the situation as I was picking out the thorns.  How can a person go from so reverent to so profane so instantaneously.  I guess God understands and, thank goodness, His love is unconditional, but honestly--it was just a split second!

Realizing how abrupt my change of focus and attitude occurred, it was definitely a disappointment to me--after all, I was really trying.  But those thorns stuck in my legs and hand took my immediate attention.  They were ridiculously painful.

However, as I continued my walk (yes, I continued), I thought about thorns in general and I thought specifically about the crown of thorns that Christ was made to wear.  What pain He had to endure.  A few were dreadful to me but a crown of them?  Oh my!  

So, I admit--I definitely have a ways to go on my spiritual journey.  But maybe my walk did my body and spirituality some good today!

I think I actually learned a few things:

• It is terribly easy for me to "stumble."
• When I stumble, literally or figuratively, I usually say things I wish I hadn't.
• Christ never stumbled but still suffered; the depth of suffering that Christ endured for us all was more than I have ever physically endured.
• There are pitfalls (thorns) everywhere and no matter how often you talk and listen to God or how close you feel to Him, you can still experience a "thorn." 
• Those people whose lives seem extraordinarily smooth and spiritually rich likely have a few unexpected thorns show up along their paths as well.  

Not bad for a thirty minute walk.