For Smiley

 

 Why is it so hard for us to lay our souls bare—-to expose our deepest griefs and yearnings?  What are we afraid of? Why do I feel something close to shame when I talk about my sadness? I wrote this several days ago, but have been unable to hit that “Publish” button.  But if I don’t, then it would seem that I don’t believe the words I write.  So if you’re reading this right now, it means I finally had the courage to click “Publish.”  It will also mean that I’m sick to my stomach, as I always am when I put myself out there like this.  But I guess it’s better to risk your heart than to close it…

 

When I first started blogging, it was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. I didn’t give a lot of thought to what my objectives were other than a desire to revive my dormant writing muse. As time went on and I began to post on a regular basis, I was genuinely surprised to realize that people out there were actually reading my stuff. And every so often, someone would tell me that something I’d written had moved them or changed their thinking or, best of all, given them hope.

 

Of course, it thrilled me to think that, with my words, I could encourage or maybe even enlighten someone. Or make them laugh. But I’ve realized over time that it is most important to me that my blog be completely true to who I am, whether I am feeling happy and hopeful or sad and lonely.

 

Now that I think about it, I think maybe THAT’S what I really want, more than anything. To help people feel less alone. I know how it feels to feel alone. When I was small, I felt alone when my oldest brother abused me—physically and otherwise. Thank God he stole a car when he was fourteen and was sent to reform school, giving me two years of peace. Well, not complete peace. My sister was prone to inexplicable rages and almost killed me twice. Daddy had a real hard time pulling her off the second time, and I passed out before he could pry her fingers from my neck. He said later that had he not been there, she would have surely killed me.  I think my parents did the best they could, but they were overwhelmed. Mama always said I practically raised myself.

 

But had you seen the girl I was back then, you never would have known all this. I had plenty of friends because I was always smiling or laughing or trying to make others laugh. My uncle called me “Smiley.” But I remember that sometimes I’d be in the middle of a group of my friends and suddenly be seized with the most overwhelming feeling of loneliness. But I never told anyone. Because I was Smiley—the girl who was always happy. And the world loves a happy girl.

 

I can’t help but notice that I get the most comments when I write a happy or cheerful post. And who can blame you? Lord knows, we need all the positive we can get these days. I myself am drawn to positive people because I think there’s always something to hope for and I believe that almost always, joy follows sorrow.  And it’s a lot more fun to write a happy post.  But sometimes I do feel sad. Or angry. Or lonely. So I reach out with my words, knowing that it’s not always just the positive posts that help the lonely feel less alone. Sometimes it’s good to know that others feel sad or angry or lonely, too—that you’re not the only one. So maybe sometimes even my less cheery posts might help someone out there to feel less alone; to know that it’s okay to feel that way and that there are those that love you whether you’re feeling happy or sad.

 

Please know that I don’t mean this at all as a rebuke to those that don’t comment on my angry or melancholy posts. I’m sure you have good reasons why you don’t, and that’s okay, too. Perhaps it’s because YOU are feeling sad. But I do want to thank those that do. I think you understood that my last post wasn’t just about poor customer service, but about how awful it feels when another human being treats you unkindly. So thank you. For accepting me as I am and for helping ME to feel less alone. I am grateful.

 

But really, I’m writing this to that little girl named Beth from so long ago. The one with the stubby hair and wide crooked smile that never stopped. For Smiley. I’m writing this to tell her that I love her whether there’s a big smile on her  eager freckled face or big tears flowing down it. I’m writing this to tell her that it’s okay to feel sad. But that she should never feel lonely. Because even though sometimes people will turn from you when you’re sad, there are always those who love and embrace you for who you are—no matter how scarred or broken. There are always those who will extend a hand of kindness—whether virtual or real—to let you know that you are not alone. You are not alone.

 

Adventures in Customer Service

(Images from http://www.despair.com/viewall.html .  Thanks, Jayne, for recommending the link!)

 

 

Being one to look for silver linings, I thought to myself when the economy started going south, Well, at least now customer service will improve. After all, with fewer customers, businesses would be falling all over themselves to please the ones they had, right?

 

And, to some extent, I have found that to be true. In fact, just recently, after I found a large red pepper stem in some frozen stir-fry, I called their customer service number in Tennessee and spoke to a lovely lady there who promptly apologized and sent me nice coupons. You can be sure I’ll buy their product again. Earlier this month, I had the hand pump thing in a large bottle of my favorite lotion fail when I was only a third of the way through. Very frustrating since I’d had the same thing happen with an earlier bottle. So I dialed up customer service and the very kind person who answered seemed quite dismayed to hear my dilemma and sent me a $20 gift certificate to buy more lotion. I will now be their customer for life.

 

 But last week, I had an entirely different experience when I went to a large, well-known chain drugstore to use my lotion gift certificate. Now, I wish I could name the store, but I’ve heard so many horror stories about bloggers being sued for complaining about bad customer service that I’m a little intimidated. Lord knows, the last thing I need in my life right now is a lawsuit. 

This store had just recently opened, and they had my lotion on sale (Buy One, Get One 50% Off! said their ad). In fact, I was tickled to realize that with two coupons I had, it would work out exactly so I’d be able to use the entire gift certificate to buy four bottles of lotion, with me only having to pay sales tax.

So, I went to the store, quickly found my lotion (feeling quite pleased with myself) and took the bottles to the counter. The cashier was a nice young man who smiled and said hello. Behind him an older woman was crouched down, stocking the shelves. I asked the cashier if he could please check the price since it hadn’t been listed on the shelf and I wanted to make sure I got the sales price. The minute I said that, the woman who’d been stocking rose up and became very interested in our transaction. I tried to ignore the look of suspicion she was giving me, though I found it puzzling.

She watched closely as the he rang up and bagged my lotion. Then I presented my coupons and gift certificate. That’s when she turned into The Customer Service Gestapo. First of all, she grabbed the gift certificate from the cashier’s hands. Now, I’d certainly understand her wanting to study the document–$20 is a lot of money and naturally, she’d want to make sure it was legitimate. Nothing wrong with that.

But she didn’t just study it, she pored over it, turning it over and over. For a very long time. This was a small piece of paper we’re talking about with very little print on it that should take thirty seconds, tops, to read. There were several people behind me in line waiting, and I began to feel a little embarrassed. Finally, she looked up with a smug and triumphant smile. “You can’t use this for the lotion—it’s not a Johnson and Johnson product. And this gift certificate says it’s only for Johnson and Johnson products.” She was obviously very pleased with herself.

“Umm…the gift certificate has the name of the lotion right there on it,” I said. “Here, I’ll show you…” I tried to point to the place where it clearly listed the name.

She completely ignored me but barked at the cashier to check the bottle. He looked a little irritated himself by now, but reached into the bag, pulled out the lotion, and looked on the back. “Yep. Johnson and Johnson.”

She grabbed the bottle to see for herself. The growing crowd behind me became more restless. I was just hoping they weren’t blaming me for all this.

“Okay,fine,” she snapped. “You can give her $7.99 off.” This was the price for a single bottle. She reached in and rang up a $7.99 coupon.

“$7.99?” I said. “But the gift certificate was for $20 and I have $24 worth of lotion!”

“Oh?” she said, feigning surprise. “Well, I didn’t realize you had more lotion!”

Liar, liar, pants on fire, I thought. You stood there and watched him put all four bottles in the bag, you spiteful witch. Okay, I’m not proud of myself for thinking such rude thoughts, but I’ve got to tell you, I was starting to feel pretty annoyed. And very embarrassed. I’m a shy person who doesn’t like to attract attention and I could feel that my face was burning.

“You do realize that now we’ll have to void this transaction since I rang up the $7.99?” she said to me with an exasperated sigh as though I was at fault and must surely be doing this only to annoy her . “Where’s the register key?” she asked the cashier. It seemed that someone else had the key. Then she said, “Oh great, we don’t have the key! We can’t void it!” She glared at me, as though I was personally responsible and was probably concealing the key in my purse. I glared back. I was now officially peeved.

The funny thing is, my first reaction was actually bafflement. Why was she doing this? Why was she treating me like a criminal? I mean, it’s not like I went in wearing a large coat with twenty hidden pockets. Or a huge purse that rattled suspiciously. I’m a mild-mannered person and I look it. No shifty eyes here. But it soon became apparent that she was trying to badger me into giving up the whole thing, and mild-mannered or not, I don’t like being badgered.

She finally seemed to grasp that she wasn’t going to wear me down, but then told me how “lucky” I was that she was willing to accept my gift certificate. Funny—I didn’t feel lucky. I was so embarrassed that I felt like I was going to cry.

The cashier looked embarrassed, too, and he smiled apologetically as he handed me the bag. I smiled back. It wasn’t his fault.

And it wasn’t his fault that I’ll never set foot in this store again. Later, I wondered again why she treated me like that. Was it because I looked like the low-income person that I am? Was it because I seem mild-mannered and she thought I’d buckle quickly under her bullying? Was it because she is an angry person looking for someone to unload on?

I don’t know. But what I do know is that they’ve lost my business and the many dollars that I likely would have spent there in the future. And they’ve lost my respect for hiring someone who’d treat customers this way. News flash for businesses: Treating your customers like criminals is bad for business. Last I heard, it wasn’t against the law to use a coupon or a gift certificate.  Some stores even encourage it.

And news flash for the Gestapo Clerk From Hell: I’m probably not the first person you’ve tried your nonsense on and I won’t be the last. But one of these days, you’re going to unload on the wrong person, and they’re going to unload on you, which is probably what it will take to wipe that smirk off your face. And I reckon you felt real powerful when you were browbeating me. But I have more power than that in my pocketbook and the money there that won’t be spent in your store. You probably don’t care that I’m never coming in your store again. But every customer you lose could mean a future loss of hundreds of dollars for your store. Those hundreds multiplied by more disgruntled customers add up and eventually could translate to job losses. So every customer you treat like you treated me gets your fanny one step closer to being booted out the door.

Which, in my opinion, is exactly where it belongs.

Tune My Heart to Sing Thy Grace

(Is it just me, or do you see a hand in this picture I took after The Big Snow of Aught Nine?  I call it “Winter’s Icy Grip.”)

I had a birthday last week, as I have every January for as far back as I can remember.  And as I am prone to do on birthdays (especially as I have gotten older), I pondered and reflected on the year past and the year yet to come.

Like a lot of people who spend too much time thinking about stuff, I tend to get all philosophical this time of year and to think I’m having deep and profound insights when really I’m likely just boring people to tears.  When my kids were living at home, they probably dreaded my pensive ponderings because all that contemplation would often result in Wise Motherly Lectures which would often leave my children looking like caged animals, their eyes darting about, looking for a means of escape.

Really, I should say that Ariel and Benjamin have always been pretty tolerant of my Wise Motherly Lectures, which consisted of pretty much the same admonitions mothers have been giving their children for hundreds of years.  Probably the one thing I said the most to them was to “Be True,” which I think is essential in a world where so much is false.  Be true to yourself, be true to others, be true to God, I’d say.  Along with “Be Positive.”  Don’t spend too much time beating yourself up over mistakes made, but learn from them, make amends for them, and then look ahead.  And always, always I told them to “Be Thankful.”   Be thankful for what you have rather than bemoaning what you don’t.

Even though I like to think that My Endless Fount of Motherly Wisdom influenced my children in some small way, quite likely the very best thing that’s come of my lectures is their effect on MY behavior.   I’ve always been painfully aware that I couldn’t tell them to do something that I wasn’t doing myself.  I needed to walk the talk, to practice what I preach because, as a parent, I think that you’re wasting your breath with a lecture if you’re not living your own words.   

I’ve thought about this for the past few weeks as I’ve found myself slipping into a bit of a funk and engaging in way too much self-pity following our less-than-pleasant experiences over the holidays.  I’ve fretted and worried over all that lost food, all that lost time, and the hospital bills that will soon be in our mailbox.  I’ve whined about the cold weather, then griped about all the mud in our driveway after the cold earth thawed in a rare warm spell.  Not to mention a host of smaller things that make me cranky—auto insurance that went way up for no reason, a computer monitor that died, increasing gas prices…

But I am brought up short when I watch the latest footage from Haiti.  So much devastation, so much loss, so much misery.  Who am I to whine?  I have food, I have shelter, I have a soft bed to fall into at night.  And when Benjamin needed surgery, we had access to the best of medical care (even if it does cost an arm and a leg).  As difficult as it was to see him lying in pain, I had the reassurance of knowing that he was in good hands, both in the physical realm and in the spiritual.

The other night on the news, I watched a report that showed a group of Haitian ladies singing hymns in the middle of all that wreckage.   I was moved by their courage and faith in the midst of so much hardship.  I didn’t recognize the hymn, but the light and spirit shining forth in their faces transcended any language or cultural barriers.

That night, while washing dishes, I found myself singing an old hymn that I hadn’t sung for years, from my childhood in the Baptist church.

“Come thou fount of every blessing
  Tune my heart to sing thy grace.
  Streams of mercy never ceasing
  Call for songs of loudest praise.”

I felt tears spring to my eyes as I thought about those singing Haitians who had lost so much, perhaps including sons and daughters.  And I thought of my own son, so recently in peril, but now back at school and doing well. And my daughter, who’s found her voice as an artist and writer and is as happy as I’ve ever seen her.  And I thought of our refrigerator full of food, our warm house, and even about how blessed I was to have this warm soapy water in a nice clean sink to wash dishes in.

So I’m singing now.  And I’m counting my blessings and thanking God for unceasing streams of mercy.  I pray that my heart will always be tuned to sing His grace.  

And, of course, I’m praying for the people of Haiti and for all the people who are ministering to their needs there.  You’ve probably already donated, but if you haven’t, the United Methodist Committee on Relief will use 100% of funds donated for Haitian Relief to help the people of Haiti (with none used for administrative costs).  I couldn’t give much, but I was happy to know that every penny I gave would go to ease that terrible suffering.

How beautiful the sound was of those women singing in the face of tragedy!  May God bless them.  And may they always sing their “songs of loudest praise.”

Snow Angels

I used to write poems. In fact, it was a poem I wrote in second grade that gave rise to the very first words of encouragement I ever received for my writing. My teacher, the wonderful Mrs. Wagonner, praised me to the point of embarrassment and had me write my poem on a posterboard, which she put up on the wall where all the class could see it. To a kid as hungry for recognition as I was, this was all the incentive I needed to keep writing.

Back then I thought that poems should rhyme, and I’d spend hours trying to fit a rhyming word into a poem, like a puzzle piece that you keep turning around and around to see if it fits. It was years before I realized that the point of a poem is not necessarily the rhyme. But even then, I’d usually find a way to sneak that rhyme in there somewhere.

But it’s been a while since I wrote a poem. I’ve come to realize that perhaps I’m destined to be a writer of prose, not poetry. I don’t even understand most of the poems I see published these days, so I figure the fact that my poems are easily accessible is probably one of many strikes against me.

But I thought I’d put one of my earlier efforts up just to show that once upon a time I loved snow. I welcomed snow. I found it to be magical and wondrous. Partly because in the Raleigh area (where we used to live), it was so rare. But also because, back then, I saw it through the eyes of my young children.

This poem was written the way it happened on that snowy morning except for the fact that I really didn’t run outside in my nightgown in the snow. (What, do you think I’m crazy???) But I did sort of run outside in my heart, and I did feel joy and I did feel grateful for the sweet pleasure of watching my children in the snow.

So, along with a few more photos I took of our recent snow event (as the weather people like to call it), here’s my Paean to Snow and Innocence and Wonder:

Snow Angels

Their high voices woke her
Like the chatter of baby birds.
“Mommy, it snowed, it snowed!”
And their excitement stirred
Faint memories of a time
When miracles occurred
On a daily basis.

A flurry and blur of coats and caps
Before they tumble like kittens
Into the freshly-fallen snow
From pockets fall forgotten mittens
To lie like crocuses against the white.
Small footprints mark snow like a letter written
Of thanksgiving and praise to God.

Snowflakes sparkle like glitter
In the bright slant of first light,
Transforming the world with soft crystals.
In the cold warm voices call to invite
Her, still nightgowned, into the silver morning.
She laughs as she runs—a snow angel in flight–
Cleansed and purified by ice.  

Of Blue Snow, Kerosene Cooking, and Doctors That Pass Gas

Well, hello there. And Happy New Year! I do hope it’s been a good one so far for you. All I can say is that I hope the rest of 2010 isn’t anything like our first day of it. Which we spent mostly in a hospital after a night of no sleep, making lame jokes to cover our anxiety. We sure didn’t figure on spending New Year’s Day in a curtained room waiting for Benjamin to have surgery. Nope. But…I’m getting ahead of myself.

Really, it would take me several pages to tell you about our “holiday” and who has time for that? So I’ll do it sort of Good News/Bad News/Twitter-like style since I’m working on making my writing more concise and because…well…I really don’t like rehashing bad times.

The Good News is: We had a white Christmas.

The Bad News is: It was only white because we had stale, dirty, left-over snow from an eighteen-inch snow the week before, and it was so horribly cold that it wouldn’t melt.

The Good News is: Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and Benjamin finally got home safely the day after the Big Snow after spending the night in Benjamin’s dorm room because the roads were too bad to travel. What a beautiful sight it was seeing Benjamin trudging up through the snow from the bottom of our driveway carrying his guitar!

The Bad News is: It was a cold, cold house that greeted them because our electricity had gone out the day before. A smelly house, too, because we had no water for flushes.

The Good News is: Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man had found a kerosene heater earlier in the dumpster and he dragged it out, fixed it, and cleaned it up. We had heat!

The Bad News is: The stores in Weaverville were charging ten dollars a gallon for kerosene. And, believe it or not, there was a long line of cold and desperate people waiting to pay it.

The Good News is: We had plenty to eat because (who knew??) you can cook quite well on top of a kerosene heater. It takes a while, but the slow baking gives things a delightful crispiness.

The Bad News is: We ate a lot (1) because we were trying (futilely) to feel warm and (2) to get all that expensive Christmas food eaten before it went bad because after the third day of no power, we were beginning to suspect that it was going to be a while before it came back on and we were beginning to realize that we’d better eat it before it grew some kind of deadly culture that would kill us before the cold or the toxic kerosene fumes did. We did finally bury some of our food in the giant snow drifts on our back patio, but we were a bit late putting it out because we were in denial and we kept thinking that they’d get that power on any time now.

The Good News is: I’d given Tom an LED headlamp as an early Christmas present a couple of days before, and it was incredibly bright. So we were all able to use his headlamp to read by. And speaking of light, the night of the snowstorm when we were huddled together trying to stay warm, Ariel and I repeatedly saw blue lightning illuminate the sky and snow, looking surreal and lovely and other-worldly and making us feel quite happy despite our dilemma.

The Bad News is: Days Three, Four, and Five of the Great Power Failure of Aught Nine were not nearly as fun as the first two. The novelties of Kerosene Cooking , Snowdrift Food Preservation, and reading by the light of the LED get old quickly.

The Good News is: The power came back on for Christmas Eve! Great jubilance and euphoria ensued! We were too tired to put up a tree or any other decorations, but Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and Benjamin did fetch my beloved Nativity crèche from the garage and I played Handel’s Messiah while we tenderly put Mary, Joseph, the Shepherd, the Wise Men, and the baby Jesus in their places.

The Bad News is: We were all wiped out from being so long in survival mode and trying to cook and wash and clean that we pretty much just ate the Christmas dinner I cooked and then fell into bed. Also, I was unable to use my computer because my monitor inexplicably died when the power did. We were still reveling, however, in being able to sleep unfettered by five layers of coat, sweater, and blanket.

The Good News is: We had five more days of relative comfort before the next Big Crisis took place. I was busy catching up on my Christmas baking and getting ready for a four-day visit from Cameron, Ariel’s boy friend. I was looking forward to meeting him because Ariel is crazy about him and he’s crazy about her and I was pretty sure I’d like him a lot.

The Bad News is: We had to postpone Cameron’s visit because Benjamin became ill with awful stomach pains on New Year’s Eve Day. I was sick with worry, thinking that I’d poisoned him with my Kerosene Cooking.

The Good News is:  It wasn’t my Kerosene Cooking.

The Bad News is: It was appendicitis. And surgery was imminent. Which was how we ended up in a curtained room in the hospital on New Year’s Day.

The Good News is: The appendix came out with ease, unburst. And Benjamin is getting better by the day. Special thanks to his anesthesiologist, who called himself Bob the Gas Passer and not only answered every question we had, but made us laugh at a time when we badly needed to laugh. Thanks, Dr. Bob.

The Bad News is: I am struggling to regain my usual optimism and my ability to see silver linings. All of this together knocked me for a loop.

The Good News is: Although we’ve had to restrain ourselves a bit so Benjamin won’t bust loose his stitches, we are all still laughing. And we are still hopeful that the rest of 2010 will be much better than the first of it. We are grateful for that hope. And grateful for blue lightning and toilets that flush and water straight from the tap and Christmas cookies and bright lights shining in the darkness. And, yes, we are grateful for the ethereal beauty of the snow and how it renders the ugly beautiful. Praise be.

The Blue Ridge Blue Collar Family joins me in wishing you a year of joy, hope, blessings, and peace. God bless us everyone.

Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and Me

In a recent comment, my friend Jayne from Journey Through Grace asked me how Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and I met. Well, like most of my stories, it’s a long one so I decided a post was the best way to tell it.

I’ve told my children this story a million times because (1) it’s part of the history of their lives (2) you know how it is with us old folks—we tell the same old stories over and over (3) I want them to be mindful of the miracle of their existence (4) I want them to know that they should never let bitterness close their minds and heart to love and that sometimes it is worthwhile to make yourself vulnerable and (5) I want them to learn to always listen to their intuition because sometimes that’s how God speaks to us.

It was 1986 and I was leaving a good job in Winston-Salem to go east to Raleigh. The year before had been especially difficult. I was grieving the loss of my mama that year—a loss that was not unexpected but hard nevertheless. And I was facing the end of a marriage. Although it was not a happy one, I still felt a keen sense of loss. I was moving partly to be closer to my daddy (who was sad and bewildered after the passing of my mama) and partly to get away from my ex-husband, who was abusive when we were together, but after I left him turned on the charm in an intense campaign to get me back. I was struggling to regain my footing and to regain just a bit of my self-esteem, which was never that high to start with, but at that point, was lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.

One of the things I always enjoyed when I lived in the Raleigh area was reading the personals in The Spectator (a local newspaper that is no longer published).  I read them strictly for fun. Sure, there were plenty of the I-love-romantic-walks-on-the-beach-in-the-moonlight variety, but there were some really creative ones, too, and I loved imagining the stories behind them. The one thing that never entered my mind was answering one. Believe me, getting a man was the last thing on my mind at that time after what I’d endured with my ex. Plus, anyone who knows me well knows just how painfully shy I am and how completely unlikely it would be for me to answer a personals ad. About as unlikely as running away to join the circus. Or becoming a topless pole dancer. Not gonna happen. Nope.

So, anyway, I was reading the personals one day as usual when I came upon this one:

Neglected SWM, good teeth, brown eyes, glossy coat, very affectionate and loyal needs sensitive, intelligent female companionship. Amateur writer and naturalist. Do you like dogs, cats, birds, mulch, and country living?

I laughed out loud at the first sentence. It sounded more like a dog looking for a home than a personals ad. But I really like dogs, so I read on. Writer? Check. Naturalist? Check. Dogs, cats, birds, mulch, and country living? Check. (Although I’d have to admit that I’m considerably fonder of dogs than cats). And I also liked the fact that he didn’t list shallow physical requirements, but was seeking the more enduring qualities of sensitivity and intelligence. That’s kind of rare in a personals ad.

And then, without stopping to think why I shouldn’t, I wrote out a short letter, complete with my phone number and addressed it to the box number in the ad. It was so odd, almost as if an occult hand was writing instead of me. It seemed…well…inevitable, somehow. Then, knowing that if I waited until morning to send it I’d chicken out, I drove eight miles into town just so I could drop it in the mailbox before I lost my nerve. The minute I put it in the mail slot, I felt an overwhelming sense of panic. What had I done? What was I thinking??

A month passed without a word. And I was kicking myself for doing such a foolish thing, for making myself so vulnerable to rejection. Obviously, I had taken leave of my senses, but it certainly wouldn’t happen again. No sirree. But then one night, the phone rang.

It was a telemarketer.

Ha, ha…I’m just kidding. No, it was him. The neglected SWM with brown eyes and good teeth. My heart was pounding so hard that I could hear it in my head. His name was Tom, and he had the most beautiful voice. And although initially I felt as though I was having a heart attack, pretty soon I relaxed and we talked like old friends. And talked. And talked. Turned out he hadn’t called sooner because he’d gotten so many responses that it took time to sort them out.

So, this post is getting too long already and you know the rest of the story anyway, don’t you? But I’ll tell you this: I fell in love with his Welsh Corgi Sandy before I fell in love with him. When I first met Tom in person, Sandy ran up to me and jumped up on the fancy white first-date pants I was wearing, marking them with a pattern of muddy paw prints. Tom said he knew right away that I must be the girl for him because I laughed and crouched down and hugged Sandy then. Tom said he’d never seen Sandy take to someone so quickly.

I guess this is where I should say, “And they lived happily ever after.” But that wouldn’t be entirely honest. We’ve had a lot of hardship in our 22 ½ years together, and it’s taken a toll. Sometimes heartache and suffering bring you closer; sometimes they tear you apart. I think I could say that it’s done both for us. But through it all, we’ve had an abiding love and affection and respect for each other that I think no amount of misfortune can destroy.

So I tell my children this story again and again, but not just for their sakes. I tell it because it helps me to remember that it was surely the hand of God that brought me together with Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man. And that no matter what we’ve been through, our love is stronger than our pain. “Wherefore they are no more two, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.” Matthew 19:6 It helps me to remember that sometimes miracles occur when we least expect it and that we should always be open to them. And always open to hearing God speak, no matter how He chooses to do so.

Perhaps you’re wondering about the picture. Yep, that’s me—it was taken shortly before I met Tom, when a friend and I were goofing around one night. One thing I didn’t mention was that Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and I exchanged a few letters before we even met. In one of them, he finally asked what I looked like. So I sent him this picture. I thought it really represented me better than some fancy, dolled-up studio photo would. He wrote back, “Thanks for the picture. I see you are a woman of mystery—I like that. And you have such distinctive eyes—intense and passionate, yet probing. The glasses give you an intellectual flair. And I do so love a woman with a strong nose…”

And I do so love you, my sweet Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man.

278 Inadequate Words and 11 Sort-of-Adequate Photographs

I cringe when I think of all the times on this blog that I’ve said something about words being inadequate to express the inexpressible, but I then proceed to ramble on anyway with about two or three hundred more inadequate words.

We might not always have the words to express the holy or the transcendent or the profound, but that doesn’t stop us from trying. I find it poignant, really, that we have such an urgency, like eager children, to share with others the things that move us, in hopes that they too can know at least a small measure of the awe and wonder we felt. There is a beauty in that, even when the words are not especially articulate.

That’s why I love music so. For me, it can express the inexpressible like nothing else. It can articulate my deepest sorrow, my greatest joy. It is my prayer when I cannot pray with words. As Heinrich Heine said, “When words leave off, music begins.”

I love, too, that I can take pictures with my point-and-shoot and (thanks to the wonders of the digital age) show you within minutes the wondrous sight that I have just beheld without having to come up with words that seldom come close to doing it justice.

So, having said all that, here are some pictures I took around the Doublewide Ranch—all of them in just the past week or so. Yes, it’s true—here it is December in the Appalachians, and we have roses budding and bees buzzing and daisies reaching for the sky. But, of course, you can see that yourself from the pictures, so why am I still blathering on?

What We Did on Our Autumn Vacation: Part Three

(Swan at Junaluska)

One thing I failed to mention earlier about our trip to Graveyard Fields was that after we’d hiked to the bottom of Upper Falls and were admiring its beauty, Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man pointed out that there was something he called a “trail” going up to the top of the falls. But “trail” was much too kind a word for this slimy mud slick with a few gnarly tree roots that desperate fools could grasp as they clawed their way to the top. “Ha,ha…that’s not really a trail,” I said. “What kind of fools would take that?” (Never suspecting that I would soon know the answer.) Then I tried to distract him by gushing about how lovely the falls looked from where we were.

But Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man is an adventurous sort and would not be distracted. He said, “Come on…I’ll help you. Let’s see what’s up there.” I eyed the mud slick. It was practically vertical—what was he going to do, carry me? I’m just not a vertical trail sort of girl. I’ll take horizontal or diagonal, thank you very much and leave vertical for all you daredevils out there.

But I’ll do almost anything to make Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man happy, and really, who wants to be a stick-in-the-mud? So up our intrepid adventurers went! Wait, make that: So up our two silly old arthritic fools went! I’d like to say we scampered up like mountain goats, but it would be more accurate to say we fought our way up tooth and claw, huffing and puffing like the Little Engine That Shouldn’t.

It was a pretty traumatic experience, so I don’t wish to discuss it further except to say that (1) as bad as it was going up, it was ten times worse coming down (2) waterfalls are really best viewed from the bottom (3) a stick-in-the-mud beats slick-in-the-mud or stuck-in-the-mud or perhaps stooge-in-the-mud every time and (4) if you’re going to slide down a mud slick, don’t wear light-colored pants.

Anyway, after that debacle, I was seeking something a little tamer for our next adventure. Preferably something civilized and horizontal. I found it at Lake Junaluska. Whan I went to their website, the first thing I noticed was a verse from the 23^{rd Psalm: “He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside still waters, he restores my soul.” The second thing I noticed was that even though Lake Junaluska is a retreat and conference center run by the United Methodist Church, they made it clear that they welcome all—regardless of faith or color.}

And indeed, our souls were restored as we walked the 2.6 mile path around the lake. The day was cool and blustery, but our hearts were warmed by the friendliness of almost everyone we met and the peace we felt as we walked beside the still waters. I know I’m idealizing the place, but it really was such a balm to our weary spirits. I kept thinking about how much I’d love to live there, but quite likely the houses there are way out of our price range. At least I have the pictures here to remember that sweet day by.

But, of course, in this week of Thanksgiving, I’m reminded of the importance of being thankful for what I DO have. I think a lot about Philippians 4:11: “…for I have learned, in whatever state I am, in this to be content.” This verse has special meaning when you know that Paul wrote it from prison. It’s so easy to see what others have (whether it’s money or talent or beauty) and think, “If I only had that, I’d be really happy.”  But true happiness comes from within, not without.  It is a choice.  And everybody knows that neither money, talent, nor beauty brings happiness. You only have to look at Hollywood celebrities to see that truth. But learning to be content with what you have (and to be thankful for it) bestows a far more profound and lasting joy that sustains you through whatever life throws your way.

So, I wish you joy and peace this Thanksgiving season. May your souls be restored by the love of friends and family, and may you find contentment whoever and wherever you may be.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Even the ducks of different feathers flock together there.

A view of the lake

Dogwood berries

In the background you can see the lovely footbridge across the lake.

We loved this delightful topiary.

And I obviously loved the ducks.  Even gave up my Ritz bits for them…

This cross, which sits high on a hill above Lake Junaluska, is alight at night.  I hope to see it alight sometime.

“And the Light shineth in darkness, and the darkness overcame it not.”

John 1:5

What We Did on Our Autumn Vacation–From the Ridiculous to the Sublime

Part One: The Ridiculous (SILLY POTTY PUN ALERT!!!  READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!)

(Our shiny new toilet)

Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and I went on vacation last week. Of course, I guess, in modern jargon, you’d call what we did a “stay-cation.” After all, we slept in our own bed every night. But we barely did a lick of work all week, ate a lot of junk food, slept in, and had great fun, so it was a vacation to us. And when you live in Paradise, staying home really isn’t so bad.

As regular readers know, Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man dearly loves a roadtrip. So, naturally, we went out most every day. Even on the days we were running necessary errands, it was fun because…well…we have fun every time we go out together, whether it’s to buy a toilet or to hike up a mountain. And we did both on this vacation!

Yes, we started our vacation with a bang when we went to our local home improvement store to look at toilets. They had them lined up with spotlights shining on them, like automobiles in a showroom. There were at least twenty or more there, arranged on the commodious warehouse shelves, gleaming in all their glossy porcelain glory. It seemed a waste though that the toilets were high up on a shelf out of reach. I’m not privy as to why they do that—are they actually afraid people would sit down and try them out (take them for a test drive, so to speak) if they kept them on the floor?

A lot of people these days raise a stink about the fact that we’re having a movement towards low-flow toilets and pooh-pooh the idea, but we were ready to take the plunge. We were bowled over, but flushed with excitement at all the choices. But in the end, we decided to go with the flow and use the…umm…process of elimination to choose our toilet. Our #1 choice was one that boasted of being able to flush 20 golf balls. I mean, what a comfort to think that if we accidentally flushed a bucket of golf balls, that they would go down the first time! That’s sort of like twenty holes-in-one!

But that one was a little out of our price range (sort of like golf.) So we settled on #2, the one that said, “Rated Best Flush!” on the box. After all, like they say—a Royal Flush beats a Full House every time!

The excitement continued when we got home and went to install it (even though we were a little wiped out.) No problem doing the job—all you need is a “Can Doo” attitude. Anyone that tells you otherwise, well, they’re full of it. When we were finished, we were so excited that we had to sit down. But in the end, after we got to the bottom of things…everything came out alright.

Part Two: The Sublime (This story guaranteed pun-free.)

Well, if you’re still reading, after that shocking display of potty pun humor, I’ll tell you about our trip to Graveyard Fields on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It’s a lovely place with two good-sized waterfalls (three, if you count nearby Skinny Dip Falls). Unfortunately, not a single picture I took of the waterfalls turned out, and I’m not skilled with photo-fixing software. So, if you want to see some decent pictures of Graveyard Fields and the waterfalls, go here.   Or for lots of wonderful pictures of waterfalls, you should check out my friend Betsy’s blog.

Unfortunately, too, all the trees were bare up there, so there wasn’t much bright color to excite the eye. But there was beauty to witness and capture nevertheless—in all the shapes and patterns that Mother Nature provides in any season. In the bark of trees, in shifting shadows, in sunlight in and out of clouds sweeping across the mountainside, and in the swirls and eddies and sparkles that the wind and sunlight make in the clear water that washes clean the river rocks. That was what thrilled us most all day—watching the interplay of sunlight, rocks, water, and wind. Even though the bright colors of autumn were gone and even though we never captured the true beauty of the waterfalls, we didn’t mind. Because there was such beauty and life and energy in the swirling current, in the eddies of the river, in the scintillating water. In the sunlight, in the rocks, in the water, in the wind. All we needed was right there.

Fire. Earth. Water. Air.

BRBCG FAQ (TMI?)

Astute readers (and, undoubtedly, all the readers of my blog are astute) may have suspected that the photograph in my previous post isn’t really me. And, of course, you would be right, although the hair is not entirely unlike my own at the moment. (By the way, I think that picture is from a movie. Not sure which one, but it looks Monty Pythonesque to me).

Though lots of folks do post photos of themselves on their blogs, others leave you guessing. And so the mind conjures up a notion of what a person might look like which may be nothing at all like they actually do. It’s funny how our minds so readily form an idea of how someone looks based only on their words. One of the reasons I love reading blogs is that I’m so curious about lives that are different from mine. And that curiosity often makes me wish that folks had a Frequently Asked Questions feature on their blog, because so frequently I do have questions about them that aren’t answered in their posts.

So I thought it might be fun to imagine a few questions curious readers might ask me if they could and to answer them. Quite likely, I’m flattering myself to think you’d be all that interested in knowing more about me, but if you’re not, that’s okay. You are now free to stop reading and go watch You Tube or something. For the rest of you, here goes:

(1) So, Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl, why don’t YOU put up a picture of yourself?

Well, first of all, since I run away when someone points a camera in my direction, there aren’t that many current pictures of me around anyway. Which is just as well since the photos that people do manage to snap also make me run away. I feel as though the stories of what I’ve been through in the past 30 years are all written on my face. However, if you’re curious, that’s me in the above shot. I put it there because I had to put something up to illustrate this post. Daddy took it in our backyard when I was sixteen. Check out that plaid maxi-dress!! If you’re wondering about the weird mark on my forehead…well, Daddy had this picture stapled in a scrapbook. I wish I could ask him why he stapled it right in the middle of my forehead instead of in the corner or something, but I can’t since he’s passed on. Maybe that will be my first question when we are reunited in Heaven:  Why, Daddy, why? Right in the middle of my forehead! What were you thinking??

(2) Why do you call yourself Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl? Aren’t you, like, 51 years old?? I mean, you ain’t no spring chicken, lady!!

Hmm…good point. Maybe I should have called myself Blue Ridge Blue Collar Geezer or Blue Ridge Blue Collar Granny. But really, I just liked the sound of Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl. It rolls trippingly off my tongue. And you can see I was a girl once…a long, long time ago.

(3) Okay, how about a silly question, BRBCG….what are three things about yourself that you’d be embarrassed for people to know?

Only three? But there are so many! Okay…One: I still read Rex Morgan, M.D. and Mary Worth in the newspaper comics every single day. I have no idea why. Two: From about age 8 to age 11, I dressed myself like Pippi Longstocking.   She was always one of my favorite storybook characters. Pippi was a free spirit—she was “different” and she made no apologies for it. She also kind of raised herself, which, to some extent, was true of me in my earliest years. I identified with Pippi, so after I started earning good money at age 8 from working in tobacco every summer, I bought my own clothes and dressed as close to Pippi as I could. All I really needed was a little monkey named Mr. Nilsson. Three: When my children were small and I was fixing them a sandwich or something, I’d sometimes take a bite (Hey, I was hungry!). When they’d question the missing bite, I’d tell them it was a Giant Rat that did the deed named Raggedy Rat. “That Raggedy Rat is a rotten rascal!” I’d exclaim. I thought I was fooling them, but they later told me they always knew who the Real Rat was.

(4) Speaking of your children, why do you so often brag on them? Don’t you think that kind of shameless pride is a bit unseemly?

Yes, I suspect it is. But I’ve never been one for false modesty, and I am real proud of my children. We’ve been through a lot of hardship, financial and otherwise. Yet they’ve accomplished a great deal in their young lives. More importantly, they are kind, caring, and compassionate people who have many, many friends. Ooops…there I go bragging again!

(5) Why do you write such long posts, BRBCG? We lead busy lives—we don’t have time to read tomes.

Ummm…well why have you read this far? Oh, sorry…you’re right. I do tend to go on. Maybe I can blame my Southern heritage. When we Southerners start telling a story, we get a little wound up sometimes and carried away. I’m really grateful that there are still people out there in this age of TwitterTweets who will read my lengthy posts. The funny thing is that in person, I’m very quiet and don’t talk much at all. Say, speaking of that, isn’t it time we ended this post?

(6) Good idea. So why haven’t you ended it yet?

Well, because I wanted to ask if any of my readers had questions for me. Because then they could ask them in the comments, and I would do my best to answer them. Unless they’re too personal or something. And the questions can be silly or serious. Because Lord knows, I am both silly and serious, often at the same time. Of course, again, I may be flattering myself to think I’m interesting enough to inspire questions…

(7) OMG, BRBCG…why is this post still going on??  When are you going to end it??

Now.