Giving Away a Daughter



We got the call in September.  The man she fell in love with had asked her to marry him.  We were in the car, headed home from shopping.  It was happy news.  It was sad news.  Her parents wouldn't be there to take part in the wedding.  It was their choice, surely they'd change their minds.  God turned that situation around and blessed us with their choice.  We were blessed with their decision to be absent from her life.

We got to take their place.  It meant we had front row seats the day she got married.  It meant I became the mother of the bride and my husband got to experience the undescribable joy of walking her down the sandy isle on Mexico Beach.  He got to be the father of the bride.  He got to give her away to a man that loved her dearly.  He got to wear his shirt hanging out and bare feet.  How happy could one man be?

We took our new roles seriously.  We were nervous.  We wanted to be prepared to give good advice if we were asked.  And we were. I had never had any children and here I was, helping pick out a beautiful bridal gown, attending showers, taking pictures, meeting the women that would soon become a part of her new family.  Loving every minute of it.  Laughing, sometimes crying, sometimes down on my knees beside my bed praying.  Asking God why he allowed me to experience such joy and thanking Him for it.  Asking for His guidance because she needed me.  She needed us.



It was a beautiful day.  Cloudy, rainy, it didn't matter.  There's nothing prettier than a white sandy beach on a cloudy day.  We got wet at the reception and that didn't matter either.  At the end of the day, she was a wife and we gained a son.  I looked at her walking with her arm through my husband's and I cried.  Why would any mother not want to witness something so precious and so beautiful?  She's smart, she's independent, she works hard.  Every woman in my circle of friends and family would welcome her as their own.  She is a young woman to be proud of.  She'd made it right by herself. 

So, I need to say thank you.  Thank you to her for choosing me to be the mother of the bride that beautiful day and thank you God for the decisions that others make that bless my life.

"Great is the power of might and mind, but only love can make us kind, and all that we are or hope to be is empty pride and vanity.  If love is not a part of all, the greatest man is very small."  HSR

Daddy's Favorite

We recently passed the twenty year anniversary of the death of my daddy.  He died on a freezing, rainy Christmas in 1992.  I remember it like it was yesterday afternoon.  There are constant reminders of him in my life; smells of sawdust, beautiful bends in the river, an old pair of overalls, a bottle of Old Spice, an old 1966 Chevrolet step-side pickup truck.  Seeing, hearing, smelling these things bring him back to me and I like it.  I take pleasure in those brief moments when he passes through my memories.  Sometimes I still cry, but not as often.   When he first passed away I went to the cemetery every day for the an entire year.  I'd stand in the rain, in the hot sun, it didn't matter.  I couldn't stand him being there alone.  Many times I'd kneel down beside his grave and weep.  My heart hurt.  I'd known the hurt of losing a husband because he didn't want me but I'd never known the deep, aching hurt of losing the man that truly loved me from the time I took my first breath until he took his last. 

Daddy was a tall man, big built and strong with jet black hair in his younger days and silver taking over as he got older.  Men in town called him J.B.  Everyone at our house called him Daddy.  Even Mama called him that.  There was a softer side to him as I grew up.  I was the baby and I liked it that way.  He had already raised two other children, my older brother and sister, so by the time I came along, he was tired.  He was easier and softer and I know I got away with a lot.  I got to enjoy the more mellow time in his life but I also didn't get to enjoy him as long. 

The flower in this picture is of his favorite camellia.  It grew, along with many other varieties, in the circle drive way at their house, the place I called home.  I remember very distinctly a day when he and I walked slowly through the yard.  It was the winter before his stroke and his steps were getting slower.  He was not well and we all knew it. He loved the camellias and we'd stop at each one and he'd tell me about it and comment about how beautiful it was.  But when we reached this one, he pulled down the stem and held it close to his face and really looked at it hard.  He said, "Sugar, how can anyone look at something so beautiful and not believe there is a God?  Why, if you look close enough this flower has veins in it."  Then, he ran his hand down the stem and broke it off and handed it to me.  We carried this beautiful flower back inside and put it in water for mama to see when she came home from buying groceries.

When Daddy died on Christmas day in 1992 and we buried him two days later, I carried some of these beautiful flowers to his grave and laid them at his head.  Then, every day I would break one off and take it to the cemetery until the flowering bush gave me nothing else to carry him.  Then, I just went alone with nothing in my hands to take to him but my tears.

Every year, I return to this beautiful camellia bush and I break two stems of beautiful blooms; one for Daddy and one for me.  I take one by the cemetery and then I take one home and put it in a vase next to my kitchen sink where I'm reminded of him for many days afterwards.   Some men would scoff at walking around the yard looking at flowers but not this man.  He had learned to enjoy the beautiful gifts that God had given us.  It took me years to reinvent myself so that I could also appreciate the beauty of simple things.  And not that I would ever forget, not even for a single day, but God reminds me of him every winter by bringing beautiful blooms to Daddy's favorite camellia bush. 

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!