Just as Different as Our Dogs

Good friends are hard to come by.  Sister says they come into our lives for a season, for a purpose and then sometimes they go away.  Sometimes they stay.  I have many good friends but only a very few that I consider true friends.  Most of my friends have my same interest.  We like the same foods, we share the same careers.  We like the same television shows, the same books, the same kinds of men.  But I have one friend that is just plain weird.  We're just as different as our dogs.  I'll have to tell you how I met her.

It was about 17 years ago.  God! How time flies.  It was her first day on the job at the bank I was working at.  You know how women are.  We don't like change.  We don't like women that come in the first day and try to own the place.  I'd heard she was coming.  I was an executive officer of the bank with nice double french windows overlooking a massive lobby.  There she was.  I could tell it was her by the way she was acting.  All flirty, with men standing all around her.  She had a big smile, shaking hands with customers, talking like she knew everyone in the entire town.  She was short, petite, tiny, with dark, stylish, short hair.  I was tall, big, blond hair.  I didn't like her already. 

I tried my best to act very unconcerned about her arrival.  I turned my attention back to a stack of reports on my desk.  The laughter was getting louder, getting closer to my door.  My curiosity was getting the best of me so I looked again.  She had her back to me.  Her stylish gray skirt was tucked neatly inside the back of her pantyhose.  I turned my head away, knowing if I started laughing, I'd pee in my pants.  There she was.  First day on the job and her backside was shining to the world.  No wonder the men surrounded her!  Should I step out and tell her?  Surely I should.  She didn't know me.  I didn't know her.  I made a quick decision.  I wasn't opening my mouth.  She'd figure it out if she wanted to be a woman in a man's world! 

But then I really met her.  Had to work on a daily basis with her and she became real.  She was going through a bad divorce.  We had that in common.  She had teenagers.  My heart started to hurt for her.  She was human, a woman just like me.  The confidence and cockiness she displayed on the job was a facade and I realized it was an armor for her insecurities and her hurt.  We began to form a friendship.  We ate lunch together on occasion.  I'd go to her house and listen to her play her piano.  We'd attend bank functions at night together.  She realized my hearing loss and she became my ears at work.  She began to travel with me, attend meetings with me, repeat things that she knew I didn't hear.  I began to rely on her.  And then she met "The Man." 

An Air Force Pilot came one day and took her away.  He married her and they began to travel all over the world and our differences became even more distinctive.  It wasn't just the tall-short thing or the blond-brown hair thing.  It became the social and the reclusive.  The traveler and the homebody.  She bought luxurious rugs and furniture.  I decorated with primitive quilts and rustic furniture.  She lived in a three story home in a foreign country, I lived in a little two bedroom house in the woods.  Her husband donned expensive suits and shoes.  Mine wore blue jeans and work boots.  I loved the porch, she loved the theater.  We were just as different as our dogs.  Mine, Red Heeler Cattle Dogs.  Hers, Volpinos.  My dogs ride on the golf cart, hers on airplanes from one country to the next.  See the difference?  We're just as different as our dogs but I love her.  I miss her because she's worlds away in a country where nothing blows but the sand and it's not uncommon to get behind a truck with camels on the freeway. 

Soon she'll come home for a visit and we'll eat at our favorite restaurant, appropriately named "Two Friends".  I'll listen to her talk about her world and she'll listen while I talk about mine.  I'll miss her when she leaves again and long for her to return so we can laugh and talk like two friends do.  I pray daily that God keeps her safe and protected from harm as she lives in a foreign land.  And just like our dogs, we'll just be different. And we're both okay with that.

Junking Into the Unknown

Junking is my passion, my hobby, my high.  If it were cocaine, I'd be an addict.  Some of my most facinating finds have been down dirt roads, in run-down barns and in frazzled boxes.  I like to dig and plunder. I'll pass a little hand written sign that says, "Estate Sale" or "Yard Sale" and my car automatically does a U-turn in the highway.  I don't care who's behind me, I'm slamming on brakes and turning around.  My husband has learned to just pull up front and stop because I'll jump out before he can put the car in gear.  Years ago I did it for an antique shop we had.  Now, I just do it for fun and to help a friend that is just about to open her own shop.  If you tell me it belonged to your great-aunt or your grandmother crocheted it, I'm buying it.  For the life of me, I couldn't sell something that my mother made or collected.  I'm hoping I don't turn into a horder.  But I am organized so if I do, I'll be an Orderly Horder!  I took this picture on Saturday morning.  I was waiting for my friend to arrive at her new shop so while I waited, I rode.  Hoping to see a sign.  And there it was, "Estate Sale".  A tree-lined canopy road awaited my arrival.  I was in heaven.  Even if the sale was no good, the ride was beautiful and I opened the sun roof on my car.  As I arrived and walked onto the screened in porch, my heart felt some sadness.  It was a mother's things they were selling.  She was no longer with them and they had strewn her things throughout the house with price tags.  It was something we promised our own mama we would never do with her things.  And, when she died, my sister and I kept our promise.  Among the plastic bowls and worn out frying pans, I found a beautiful picture of two angels with their arms around each other, then a pretty pottery bowl and pitcher.  I stood and looked out over the pond and saw the view that their mother must have looked at every day.  I could picture it quiet there early in the mornings with a peaceful view but there was arguing among the children. "Where's mama's CD player?"  asked one daughter.  Another one shouted, "I took it to my house and you can't have it back!"  I gave them my money and left.  I needed to be back on the dirt road, the one out front that was canopy-lined with trees.  They were standing right there in a little slice of heaven and didn't even know it.  Throwing angry words at one another that can't be taken back.  Back out on the dirt road, I let their arguing slip away from me.  I took a deep breath and it felt good to smell the fresh air.  Junking into the unknown is therapy after a long week at work.  And until next Saturday, I'll glance at this picture and hope for another surprise around the bend in the road.

Never Judge A Man By His Overalls

"Never Judge A Man By His Overalls" is a quote from my daddy that has stuck with me through life.  You'll notice that it is in the heading of my blog, along with a picture of my daddy's overalls.  He always wore the Liberty brand and he always smelled of sawdust.  He was a carpenter, a home builder, he could fix anything.  He was bigger than life to me and I loved him.  He's been gone from my life way too long.  Several friends that read my blog have asked me what this saying meant.  So it's time to tell the story.

My first recollection of hearing that phrase was when I was probably 10 or 11 years old.  It was mama's birthday.  It was August and it was hot.  Daddy and I went downtown on a secret mission.  He in his old overalls and me in a pair of shorts and flip flops.  We had a jewelry store in the little town that I grew up in but this was a special day.  It was mama's birthday and we went to the real jewelry store downtown in a big city nearby.  As we sped along the highway in daddy's old turquoise colored step-side Chevrolet truck, I remember talking with him about what mama's favorite color was.  Maybe we could find something for her in green.  I remember his arm hanging out the window and my hair blowing in the wind.  It was a simple time between us, but embedded in my memory forever.

We pulled up in front of the jewelry store and walked inside.  I'd never seen a place so elegant.  It was quiet and somber like a funeral home.  Beautiful jewelry was displayed in long, lighted, glass cases.  Glittering diamonds, beautiful white pearls.  I reached up and took daddy's hand, expecting any minute to see a casket sitting over to the side.  I remember a man coming from the back of the store, smiling, glad to see us.  Wanting my daddy's money.  Daddy told him we were there for a special gift for mama.  I pulled away from his hand and started looking.  Pearls, no.  Diamonds, no.  I couldn't find anything in green.  Daddy put his hands inside the front bib of his overalls and bent over the cases.  "Ya see anything ya like sugar?"  "Not yet..." I replied.  And then!  There it was!  A beautiful, silver stick-pin with an oval, emerald green stone.  The color was perfect and it was her favorite.  Something was engraved in the middle of the stone.  I pulled at daddy's hand and pointed.  The smiling salesman gently tried to guide us away.  "Perhaps something over in this case would better suit you..."  Daddy and I looked together as he lured us away to less expensive jewelry.  A plastic looking bracelet, a pair of earrings that looked like cut glass.  I wasn't old enough then to realize what the salesman was doing but I know now.  He had judged the man by his overalls.  I had witnessed one of the great tragedies in the world of sales.  I was just too young to realize it.
 

"No...I think she's got something in mind over here." daddy said.  And we walked back to the lighted case with the green stick pin.  "But maybe something here would be a little less expensive."  The man was still making a mistake and I felt daddy's hand squeeze around mine.  I was looking at an idiot in elegant!  "We'll take the green pin and please wrap it for a birthday."  I couldn't believe it.  Daddy didn't even ask him how much it was and to this day, I don't know.  I just remember seeing him pull out a folded $100 bill from his wallet.  I couldn't tell you if he got any change back or not.  I was too excited about the surprise for mama.  When we got back in daddy's truck and headed home, he told me a story I didn't understand.  He told me to be careful about judging a man just because he had on a pair of overalls.  All that mattered to me was that we hurry home with this beautifully wrapped present and give it to mama.  Of course, she loved it and on the following Sunday morning I sat on the end of their bed and watched daddy help her pin it to her dress.  She looked beautiful.

Years later, in my senior year of high school, it was the night before I started my first job at a bank.  Daddy sat me down at their little kitchen table and talked to me about how important a good job was.  "You make sure you never judge a man by his overalls, watch out for the ones in suits and ties, and you'll make a fine banker."  I was taken back to that day about 7 years ago, a little girl holding her daddy's hand in a fancy jewelry store.  I knew what daddy meant.  And to this day, I've met more wealthy customers in my line of work that were just plain, hard-working people with overalls, painters pants, dirty shoes caked with mud, leathery hands and faces.  Some of my very largest customers didn't look the part at all, but thanks to daddy, I knew better than to judge them by their overalls!  It was a very valuable lesson that I still carry with me, even today, some thirty six years later in banking.

Mama died in 1995 and I now have the pin in my jewelry box.  One day, long after she was gone, I took a really close look at the stick pin and realized it was a scorpion engraved in the green stone.  For some reason that struck me funny and I laughed out loud.  Knowing mama, it didn't matter what was engraved in the stone.  Just the fact that daddy had given it to her was all she needed to know.  She and I both loved the man in the overalls. 

Now, when I see that salesman around town, I smile.  He'll never realize the impact his actions that day had on a little girl's life.  And, although I never darkened the door of his jewelry store again, I'm left wondering if he ever learned the valuable lesson of judging someone by their overalls.

Nineteen Years and Five Months

I've waited nineteen years and five months for the day to come when my great-niece would need all the things I'd stored away for her since the day she was born.  She's very special to me.  She's in my heart.  First of all because she was named after me.  And maybe living close to her all these years has made our bond even stronger.  When she was just a toddler, learning to talk, she would walk up to people and pull on their dress or pants leg, or whatever she could get her hands on.  With very dramatic hand gestures and a loud voice she would say, "Hey! Hey!"  And when she had their full attention she would hold her chubby little hands out in exclamation and say, "My Aunt Margie couldn't have babies so my mama and daddy had me and gave me to her!"  It would always bring a smile to whoever she was talking to and it would make my heart feel like it was bursting with pride.  I love her with a love that no one could possibly imagine.  I get mother's day cards, I get visits for no reason except to spend time with me.  I get surprise phone calls.  I've seen her go through some rough times in her life and she came out on the other side even stronger and with an even bigger smile.  Being a Christian girl has helped her achieve that strength and I'm proud of her faith. I'm proud of who she has become. She's determined, she's strong willed and she's independent.  And she loves me.

So this is what I've been waiting for.  For the day she'd call me and say, "Hey!  I'm ready to go through all that stuff you've been saving for me.  I'm moving to my own apartment."  The day is here.  The call from her came last Saturday.  I was nervous as I got dressed to go meet her at the lake house.  A part of me didn't want to let go of the "things" I'd stored away because I knew it meant she was growing up.  Maybe she wouldn't need me anymore.  Maybe I wouldn't see her as often.  But when she came flying down the driveway and came to a screeching halt, jumped out of the car and came running to me with a hug, I knew I'd be okay. I knew she and I would always be okay together.

We went through my jewelry.  She picked out all sorts of things that she could wear to work.  And then she picked up a very special silver ring.  She put it on her middle finger and told me she thought it was pretty.  I smiled.  It belonged to my mother, her great-grandmother.  I wanted her to have it and I wanted her to enjoy it and wear it.  Mama would have wanted her to have it.  I wish she could have been there with us.  So we placed it in a box for her to take. 

Then, we dug deeper in the big walk in closet and, together, we pulled out her hope chest.  The wooden chest smelled of cedar when we opened it.  It, too, belonged to my mother and daddy, her great-grandparents.  We found dolls from mama's collection, we found a Dresden-heart quilt that mama had made almost 20 years ago after daddy died.  We found crystal candle sticks and recipe books.  Best of all, we found a letter that I had written to her when she turned 13.  It was a letter about a hope chest.  It told her about my hopes for her, my dreams for her.  When we read it together, I cried. All were things that had been placed in the chest with her in mind.  She was now old enough to need them and to want them.  And she would take care of them and appreciate them.  I was happy about that.

Our fun continued in the attic.  We found baking dishes and china and pottery. We found plate racks and a wooden quilt rack she could use to display her great-grandmother's quilt.  I laughed at the odd things that she wanted.  She found an old toaster oven and when she spotted it she said, "Hey!  Does this thing work?"  I told her it did.  I had bought a new one of a different color to match the kitchen.  I told her it was ugly and she said she didn't care.  As long as it worked!  I love that about her.  She's exactly what you see.  No airs about her.  Just pure honesty when she opens her mouth.

So, now my girl is growing up.  There's joy in that realization.  There's sadness because she's not little any more.  She's going to make mistakes. She's going to endure happiness and sadness.  She's going to achieve great things and sometimes she might even fail.  But I'll be right there.  She's the closest thing I'll ever have to a daughter and I love her for that.  She's mine and that's something no one can take away from me.  Ever.

A Come As You Are Christmas

Christmas in our family has always been very traditional.  Twelve layer chocolate cake, chicken and dressing, greens and corn bread, spiral cut ham.  My entire life, Christmas Eve was spent at mama and daddy's house.  They passed away and things changed.  The food stayed the same but things changed.  It just never was the same again without mama and daddy.  My sister quickly stepped up and started having Christmas at her house and for many years now it's been a new tradition to spend Christmas Eve with her and her family.  It's probably my husband's most favorite night of the year.  He loves going to her house and we love being there together. 

I've always wanted to do something fun at our house but could never quite come up with a good idea.  Then, this past Christmas it hit me.  "Let's do a Come as You are Christmas Breakfast!" When I told my husband, he said, "Now you know that no one is going to drive out here in the country with their pajamas on and no make up.  As a matter of fact, I'll bet you that no one will do that..."  Well, the bet was on and I emailed all the ladies in my family and secretly told them what he'd said.  I knew they wouldn't let me down and sure enough, Christmas Eve morning they arrived with pajamas on, rollers in their hair and no makeup.  As a matter of fact, even all the men wore their pajamas!  Sweetie was the ONLY one that didn't have his pajamas on!  I could collect on his bet!

And what fun we had!  We ate a wonderful homemade country breakfast, complete with rotel and cream cheese grits, biscuits, smoked sausage, hash brown casserole and lots of other breakfast goodies.  Then, we had the "Jammie Awards".  You know, like the Grammy Awards, but without the famous Red Carpet.  Each girl that showed up in her pajamas received a special award, had to give their award winning speech and received a little gift. 

In addition to going to sister's house, it was apparent we had started a new Christmas tradition and I'll be counting the days until we can do it again next Christmas.  Have you ever had something make you happy on the inside?  This was one of those times for me and every time I look at our picture, I smile again.  The older I get, the more fun life is thanks to my crazy family!

The Prayer Spoon

Something about getting older and wiser makes me do strange things.  I'm more sentimental. I like things that have a memory attached to them.  I'm simplifying my life. It's become a goal of mine.  On the road to simplification (is that a word?) I'm becoming more attached to simple things and less attached to impressing someone or trying to be somone I'm not.  I like baking cakes in mama's old cake pan.  I like opening my closet door and touching my daddy's tattered red and black checkered housecoat.  He's been gone 19 years but if I hold it close enough, I can still smell him.  I love sitting on the floor and looking through a steamer trunk of old family photographs. 

So when a brand new wooden spoon arrived in the mail from my niece in Ohio, I held it close and thought of her.  She had sent a note saying, "When you use your wooden spoon, please pray for your family in Ohio."  That seemed like an odd request.  Of course, knowing her, it wasn't odd at all.  She said it and she meant it.  I proudly put it in the big glass cookie jar on my kitchen counter so everyone could see it.  The jar holds old wooden spoons of all shapes and sizes.  I even have one my sister bought for me when she visited our niece a couple of years ago.  It's called a right-handed tasting spoon.  I love using it when I'm stirring a sauce of some sort. 

Several days after the special spoon arrived, I decided to make my homemade spaghetti sauce.  When it came time to start stirring, I reached for a wooden spoon and there it was, the Prayer Spoon.  It was new and unstained and I almost thought of not using it so it would stay beautiful and clean.  But then I thought about what she had said in the note, "When you use your wooden spoon, please pray for your family in Ohio."  So I pulled it out and started stirring the fragrant red sauce.  It was smooth and it felt good in my hand.  That's a sure sign of a good wooden spoon. And then it happened.  I closed my eyes and I could see her and her sweet smile and I started praying while I stirred.  It was a very peaceful time for me, nothing that anyone looking would have even noticed.  I prayed and I thanked God for her.  For placing her in my life even though she's many miles away.  Unconditional love.  That's what I think when I think of her.  She's blessed with it.  I know so very few people that have it and she's full of it.

I've seen prayer quilts and been in a prayer circle and I've heard of prayer shawls but never have I heard or read about a Prayer Spoon.  Oh, I'm sure I could search the internet and there would be one out there in the world but none would be as special as this particular wooden spoon.  It's such a simple thing and, once again, it created something that I treasure,  something that holds a wonderful memory for me.  And I've used it many times since and each time I say a prayer for my family in Ohio.  God bless the simple things in my life like that wooden spoon.  I pray that He keeps me grounded and I know He had a part in sending that spoon my way as a reminder.

Super Glued Women

Some things just don't need a picture and this is one of those times when I think I'll just leave the picture out of my thoughts.  Last night I had the pleasure of watching a dear friend get baptized.  The pleasure wasn't just in seeing her baptized, it was realizing that I was sitting in a church pew, surrounded by friends that had not always been in my life.  My job has opened many doors for me over the years and a lot of different people have crossed my path.  Last night, all of the eight women that sat around me represented some of those special people that I would not have known had I not met them through work. 

To my left were two friends that had worked together and been best friends for almost 40 years.  When you see one, the other one is by her side.  If you're friends with one, you are friends with both.  They've raised children together, they've worked side by side and when one got cancer, the other one stayed right next to her as only a true friend can do.  To my right was a newer friend that truly loves the Lord.  To hear her say the blessing over our food was a blessing within itself.  She can sing all the hymns without the songbook!  And in front of me were all types of women in my life...one battling cancer, one that had been one of my own best friends for over 20 years along with other women that had survived divorces, hearthaches, losing parents.  Our friend that was being baptized sat farther down to my right, next to her husband who is battling cancer.  We were there for her, and for him.  We had cried together when we heard his news just a few weeks ago.  We have all sent up many prayers for him as he goes through chemotheraphy.  We all believe in miracles.

Each of us have been through a lot and we aren't perfect, and we never will be.  As a matter of fact, when the preacher mentioned Jezabel, we all straightened up in our seats and looked at each other.  We'd been down that path too, some of us.  In some way, I could count on each of them for anything I might need.  I don't know of one that sat surrounding me that I couldn't call in the middle of the night and they'd come.  One might bring a pot of soup, one might bring a book for me to read and one might bring a margarita....but if I called, they would come.  And they would stay and they would give orders to everyone that walked through the door. 

During the sermon it dawned on me that we were each broken in some way.  Some of us had picked up the broken pieces in our lives and tried to put them back together and failed miserably.  Some had always been strong and faithful, plowing through every crisis like a bull, never stopping to cry or give up, just marching right through and telling the devil to get the heck out of the way!  One thing I knew for sure about each and every one of us was that we had one thing in common, we are forgiven.  By the wonderful Grace of God, we are each forgiven and He has super-glued us back together and pushed us forward in our lives.  When one of us falls, we can count on each other to help hold us up.  I'm praying these friends will be by my side for many years to come.  And I know that God will be behind us all, picking up the broken pieces, super-gluing us back together and making us stronger with each heartache, each loss, each illness that we endure. 

Thank you God for these friends and thank you for bringing us together through a friend's baptism.  My prayer is that you keep us as strong as the love and super-glue you  have used to hold us together through tough times.  And I hope that we all stay close to one another.