A Blog Post, Post-Blog

(I take heart from this little heart on my petunias.)

After two months, most of you may have given up on my posting (after all, I DID say “So long”), so I’m not sure how many will read this. And maybe that’s just as well. I’m feeling a bit sober these days (as you can see in my response to my blogging friend ClairZ here.)  But I’ve always tried to write true and honest on my blog, so here’s the truth of my life right now, for anyone who might be interested. 

We’d appreciate your prayers. To those already praying: Thank you. (And apologies, in advance, to anyone offended by the use of the word “sh*t” in my post.  It’s a direct quote from an old friend.):

I should have known what 2010 would be like when it started off (on New Year’s Day!) with Benjamin having an emergency appendectomy.  But, being my usual optimistic self, I thought, “Hey…maybe we’re getting our bad luck out of the way early this year!”

Silly me.

I’m hoping that someday, we’ll look back at 2010 and remember the good things. How Ariel won awards for her fiction writing. How Benjamin won Most Outstanding Junior Award in his field of study. How Tom still has a job, despite cutbacks by his employer. How Ariel got engaged. How Benjamin was selected for an internship this summer out of many, many applicants.

But right now, I feel like one of the things I’ll remember most is the oil spill in the Gulf and all those awful images of animals covered in oil, the grief of the people who live there…and the grief of our entire nation. And an overwhelming feeling that some of those in power in our country have lost their moral compass.

On a more personal level, I think I may remember 2010 as The Year of the Middle-of-the-Night Phone Calls. You know, the kind that startle you awake at two in the morning. The kind that make you hesitate before you answer— to clear the fog of sleep from your mind and because you so dread the possibilities. You may remember the post I wrote in April about the middle-of-the-night call from Ariel. Well, it happened again. This time, it was Benjamin.

Long story short: There was a climbing wall. Benjamin fell from it. That’s what the voice on the hospital phone said (calling from West Virginia where Benjamin’s internship is). Fractured vertebra—the doctors seemed to think there’d be surgery involved. No, the voice said. There doesn’t seem to be paralysis. But he’s in a lot of pain.

Nine-hour drive to West Virginia. For Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man, that is. I couldn’t travel because, of all things, I’d injured my own back earlier in the week. Turned out, thank God, that Benjamin wouldn’t need surgery after all. But he’s still in pain. And he’s still in West Virginia. And I’m still in North Carolina, so all I can do is talk to him on the phone and pray and remember the days when I could make things better by rocking him or making him soup or holding his head while he threw up.

Benjamin always loved being rocked. Maybe it was his autism, maybe not…but, no matter what the source of his distress, rocking always made it better. Sometimes I think it soothed me as much as it did him. It certainly did one day last week, when I was a sorry, sorry sight, sitting in my Mama’s rocker sobbing, rocking back and forth, and talking to Mama (who’s been gone from this earth for twenty-five years).

I should mention that Ariel, too, has also been very ill, and until last week, we didn’t know what was wrong. Turns out it was mono combined with several infections. We think that after three Urgent Care visits (and some antibiotics that must be gold-plated for what they cost), she’s going to be okay. But to have both of them suffering at the same time and to feel so powerless to stop it…it’s hard. As a friend of mine used to say: “Girl, you’ve just had too much sh*t and not near enough sugar!”

I’ve talked about my Christian faith before on this blog, so it’s no secret that my faith sustains me and gives me comfort. But faith does not protect you from pain and suffering. We Christians are subject to all the same infirmities of the flesh and spirit as anyone else. Here’s what you would have seen had you been at my house one day last week:

It was a particularly bad day in a particularly bad week. I won’t go into details, but I spent most of that day on the phone talking to Benjamin or Ariel or hospital billing people or insurance people and trying to find a doctor who would even talk to me. The day ended with me pacing and crying and pacing and crying with a half-gallon of Blue Bell Butter Crunch Ice Cream (or what was left of it) in one hand and a spoon in the other. Yes indeed, it was a sad spectacle as I blubbered into the ice cream carton, ice cream dribbling down my chin. When the ice cream was gone, I cried and paced some more, until I finally collapsed in my Mama’s old rocking chair.

That rocker has so many memories for me. No, I wasn’t rocked in it as a baby. In fact, Mama got the rocker when I was a teenager, just before she was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease). One of my favorite memories is seeing her in that chair watching the birds outside her bedroom window. When she sat in that chair, she looked almost normal and healthy.  We enjoyed that little pretense because we could escape for a while from the world of crutches and wheelchairs and bedpans and Hoyer lifts. That rocking chair is one of my most treasured possessions. So it’s not so surprising that I ended up sitting there last week, sobbing and telling Mama my troubles.

I wish I could tell you that Mama appeared to me bathed in heavenly light, speaking words of comfort. That’s what I really wanted, to tell the truth. Okay, what I really wanted was to have my Mama hold me and rock me and stroke my hair and tell me that it was all going to be okay.  I guess maybe a lot of us have felt that before.  The yearning for love and comfort is deep—I don’t think it ever goes away, even when we’re grown and our mamas aren’t there anymore.

But what I did feel as I rocked and wept was a settling of my spirit. A peace. And a certain knowing—that God heard me and that He was watching over my boy. When Saint Paul asked God to take away his infirmity, God said, “My grace is sufficient for thee, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9) Perhaps you’re thinking, “Well, Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl, if God’s grace is sufficient, why are you such a mess?” Well, like all mortals, Christians are subject to sorrow, to pain, and to great suffering and doubts.  And, for sure, one of the greatest sorrows is to see your children suffer.  Your pain is proportional to your love.  That’s a lot of pain.  Sometimes, we do seek solace in ice cream or rocking chairs or our Mamas (even after they’ve passed away). We’re only human.  But we can rest in  the knowledge that God has a greater purpose in our suffering, even if we can’t see it. We are blessed to have the confidence that God’s strength is made perfect in our weakness. And, always, we have the assurance of the sweet and everlasting grace of our Lord.  It’s pure truth in a world that’s false.  It’s a certainty in uncertain times. And I rest in it.

Even in hard times.  Especially in hard times.  Even when we’ve had too much sh*t and not near enough sugar.

A Barely Discernible Ripple

(Morning light through morning glory leaf—on my porch)

Well, it’s just 10:46AM, and I see on the WordPress site that WordPress bloggers have already written 69,148,215 words today. That’s a lot of words. And here I am about to add my 700 or so.

It’s humbling to realize that my little blog makes barely a ripple in that vast ocean of words, those overwhelming waves of words that wash over us daily. But it’s gratifying, too, to think that sometimes, somehow, my almost indiscernible ripple just might make a discernible difference in someone’s life.

It still amazes me, after over two and half years of posting on this blog, that people come back time after time to read my thoughts. And sometimes it scares me, too, because I’ve so often clicked “Publish” filled with fear and doubt that my words would measure up to your expectations. And, very likely, sometimes they haven’t. But one thing I know for sure is that my words have been honest. And true to who I am (for better or for worse). That was important to me.

I never found my niche in the blogging world, never found a place in the blogosphere where I fit in. No surprise, really. I’ve never found my niche in the “real” world either—even after 52 years. And maybe I never will, but I’m so grateful when I do find kindred spirits amongst my fellow pilgrims. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it seems miraculous.

You can probably guess what this is leading up to. Initially, I’d planned to end it cleanly—by deleting my entire blog. You’ve seen those blogs that people just abandon, floating out there in cyberspace. Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man says that they are like ghost ships— those abandoned vessels found adrift in the sea with no one aboard. So I thought the least I could do was to give this vessel of my life a decent burial.

But now that the time is here, I can’t do it. Delete my blog, that is. It would be almost like I’d killed a part of me. And even a part of you, my valued readers, since you have blessed me with so many beautiful, insightful, and moving comments over the years. And so, I’ll leave Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl up for now, in case I decide to return someday. Because I’ve really come to love the connections I make through my blog, and I know I’ll miss them. Amazing what happens when you extend a virtual hand out into cyberspace—sometimes hands reach back and gently grasp yours.

By most standards, my blog wouldn’t be called a success. It never brought me fame or fortune. Some people make money advertising on their blogs; others find paid work (in writing) through their blogs. That never happened with me, though I have found rewards of a different kind. And that’s why I’m quitting, at least for now. I need to put all my energies into finding the kind of work that pays the bills. Sure, it would be great if that work involved writing, but, realistically, it’s far more likely to involve a broom and toilet brush than a word processor.

But enough about me. I want to talk about y’all. Because y’all are amazing. You probably have no idea how much your comments and the love, compassion, kindness, wisdom, and humor in them has meant to me. Occasionally, in difficult times, I’ve gone back and read them and been buoyed by your benevolence. And your kind words about my writing have kept me writing and even believing that someday I might be published in a bigger (and more profitable) venue.

So thank you. I won’t say goodbye because I’ll still be hanging around in cyberspace, visiting your blogs to see what you’re up to. Not as often as I do now, but often enough to make sure you’re behaving yourselves and staying out of trouble. Or not.

So. No final goodbyes. Just…so long for now from the Doublewide Ranch. Thanks for stopping by and sitting a while on my front porch. I hope you’ve enjoyed your visit. You’ve been the best of company, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Peace

When I was mowing last week, I happened to look down into the inside of one of our tulip blossoms and saw a honey bee lying on her side at the bottom.

She was clearly dead, but there was something peaceful and poignant in the way her little body curled around the base of the stamen. I wondered how she had happened to die there while in service to the queen and to her hive (and to all of us, I suppose, who eat honey). I like to imagine that she was an old bee who had already toiled for weeks, building honeycomb nurseries and foraging for pollen and nectar. Maybe she grew tired in the warm spring sun and lay down in the velvety petal softness to rest, her body dusted with golden pollen and her stomach full of nectar. But there, her old weary body gave out at last. A pretty sweet way for a honey bee to go. I couldn’t say exactly why, but the sight of that little honeybee moved me.

Yesterday, I was weeding in our back flowerbed when I grew tired and stopped for a moment. There was a faint cool breeze caressing my arms, but the afternoon sun warmed me down to my winter-weary bones. The heat of the sun was warming the lilac blossoms, too, and the breeze was blowing their sweet aroma my way. I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes. I could hear the sound of the Rufous-sided Towhee telling me to “Drink your TEA!” and our resident mockingbird singing frenetically through his impressive repertoire, sounding almost demented in his frenzy. He always makes me smile, especially when I hear him singing in the dark of night.

It was then I remembered the honeybee with her gold-dusted body curled so sweetly in the bottom of the tulip. As silly as it may sound, I sat there in the sun, my eyes closed, and imagined myself lying in the bottom of that soft, light-filled tulip blossom, drowsing in the warmth of the spring sun. I wasn’t filled with nectar as the honey bee must have been, but I felt a certain peace suffuse my spirit.

Last weekend, we were startled awake at 3:30 in the morning by the ringing of the phone. Like most people, I was filled with dread at the sound. Phone calls in the middle of the night are never good. It was Ariel. She had awakened in the night in her dorm room with the worst pain she’d ever had. “Should I go to the emergency room?” she said. Bless her—I know she was thinking of what it would cost us.

“Yes, yes…go!” I said. It’s awful being 250 miles away when your child is in pain. But Ariel’s good friend and roommate, Catherine, went with her and stayed with her the whole time. We fretted at home, worrying that it was appendicitis.  We couldn’t believe it was happening to us for the second time in four months.

But this time, according to the emergency room doctor (who Catherine said looked like Dr. McDreamy on Grey’s Anatomy), it was kidney stones. Nothing to do but wait for them to pass.

You can’t protect your children from pain—physical or otherwise. Obviously, that’s something you learn early on as a parent. But it’s always so hard to be reminded of it. And reminded of how little we can control in this old world. The world spins on and we stumble through it, mostly doing the best we can. So much hate out there, but so much love, too. So much cruelty, but so much kindness. So many people heedless of the harm they inflict on this lovely earth, but so many working to heal and save it. And dawn follows night and spring follows winter, and, always, mothers worry for their children.

But I wasn’t thinking of any of that as I dreamed yesterday in the golden sun. For once, I was not mired in the past or fretting about the future. I was thinking only of fragrant lilacs, cheery towhees, exuberant mockingbirds, velvet-soft petals, and the warm spring sun on my face and arms. And of weary old honeybees, dusted with gold, who find rest and peace at last in the shelter of a soft, spring flower.

“A Perpetual Astonishment”

“Every spring is the only spring – a perpetual astonishment. ”

 ~Ellis Peters

As I was looking over the pictures I’ve taken this week of the natural world coming to life around us here at the Doublewide Ranch, I was thinking about how they look very much like the pictures I took last spring and the spring before that.  Yep—happens  every year.  But every year, I am amazed anew at the sweet miracle of spring.  Sometimes, all I can do is walk around with my mouth open in astonished wonder and whisper  Thank You.

 I also wanted to give you a break from the somber heaviness of my two previous posts.  No doubt, you are breathing a big sigh of relief.

Here’s what’s new at our place:

“Those who dwell, as scientists or laymen, among the beauties and mysteries of the earth are never alone or weary of life…There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature—the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter.”

~Rachel Carson

Teach Your Children Well

(Benjamin gives Dolly a kiss)

It’s April, and not only are the birds singing and the pear trees blooming here at the Doublewide Ranch, but it’s once again National Autism Awareness Month.

As long-time readers know, my son Benjamin is autistic. Anyone who might be interested in reading about his experiences growing up autistic can click on “Autism” under “Categories” in my sidebar.

As I’ve looked over my previous posts about Benjamin, I’ve wondered if I’d painted too rosy a picture of his life now. Don’t get me wrong—he really has come a long way from the days when he’d rock back and forth, when he’d scream if I deviated even slightly from our usual route to the library, when he barely talked except to echo what others had said. Yes, a very long way indeed.

But when you go through the bullying and torment that Benjamin did growing up, simply because he was different, it leaves a permanent mark. Especially for a sensitive soul like his. Sensitivity can be a blessing and a curse. A blessing because you often see and hear and feel the beauty in this world that others overlook. But a curse, too—because this world is not always beautiful.

I’ve written before about the importance of teaching our children to embrace those who are different, as has Benjamin. But I thought it was worth repeating, because sometimes it seems that folks are becoming less and less tolerant and more and more disparaging of each other’s differences. So please forgive me for preaching once again (and,very likely, preaching to the choir).

My last post expressed the importance of not judging people by their outward image, by the things that hide the truth of who they are, and how we are all subject to the temptation of being judgmental. Sometimes those who congratulate themselves the most for their open-mindedness and eagerness to embrace diversity can be the least aware of how narrow their definition of diversity is.

When I was in my early twenties and far more naïve and innocent than I am now, I went to a party in Chapel Hill with the newspaper reporter that I was dating at the time. The party was a reunion of sorts of some of his classmates from the School of Journalism at UNC-Chapel Hill. They were mostly journalists in their 30’s from newspapers in Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill who would have, for the most part, called themselves open-minded, tolerant, and progressive.

When Rob told me we were going to the party, I was really nervous. These people were all sophisticated college graduates, some of them with master’s degrees. I wasn’t. I pictured a party where everyone was having intellectual discussions and eating fancy hors d’oeuvres and drinking dry wine with their pinky fingers extended. So I dressed up in my Sunday best, with panty hose and heels and makeup and extra hair spray. Like I said, I was naïve.

When we got there, I saw right away that everyone else was in t-shirts and shorts, drinking beer and playing volleyball. My heart sank and my face turned crimson, but I was determined to make the best of it. Surely all these open-minded journalists wouldn’t care what I was wearing. Isn’t journalism all about looking beyond the outward appearance to find the truth?

The snickering started almost from the minute I got out of the car. At first, it was subtle–a snicker here, a snide remark there. But as they got drunker and drunker, the ridicule became more open, especially when I gamely tried to play volleyball. (Yes, I did look ridiculous, but like I said, I was trying to make the best of it.) One of them wondered where Rob had found the “redneck girl.” Another asked if I was looking for the Baptist church down the road. It would have helped a lot, I guess, if I’d gotten drunk, too. But I’ve never really been into that. Seems like it too often turns people into jerks.

My point is—even people who think they are enlightened and unbiased and open-minded can be provincial in a way that’s sometimes subtle, but no less bigoted than anybody else. In their case, it’s often hidden behind a thin veneer of political correctness, but all it takes is a naïve country bumpkin girl (as I was) to bring it out. Even our local progressive alternative weekly paper (that has many fine qualities otherwise) fairly often features cartoons that make fun of local white country people, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. They’d never think of ridiculing minorities or gays (and that’s a good thing, of course) but uneducated country white people are fair game.

What I’m saying here is that we need to be teaching our children that it’s not okay to make fun of ANYBODY because they’re different from us, whether it’s their skin or the way they dress or even the way they talk. That is true “diversity” training. And we need to set an example by never ridiculing other people in front of our children, no matter who they are. Some of Benjamin’s worst bullies in elementary school were the children of highly educated professionals who, no doubt, taught their kids not to make fun of minorities or gays or people in wheelchairs. But apparently, they didn’t go far enough. I always made it clear to my children that they would be in some seriously deep doodoo if they EVER made fun of anyone.

But they never did. They have always been tolerant of differences (especially their weird mama!), and I’m happy to say that they both have friends who are black and white, gay and straight, loud and quiet, Buddhist and Baptist. And I think they know that their lives are far richer for having opened their minds and hearts to all kinds of people.

Benjamin really is doing well overall. He’ll be a senior in college next year in the Honors program and has so many friends that I sometimes can’t reach him on the phone. But he still bears the scars of the cruelty he endured. Sometimes the pain manifests as anger; sometimes, as depression. The wounds were deep and painful, and while the scars have faded some, they linger.  And seeing his sadness still breaks my heart in two.  

All because of children who weren’t taught that all souls have worth and value—no matter how they look or talk or dress or worship. No matter what drumbeat they march to. Even those who march just a little out of step.

Not The Things That Hide You

(My front-porch gnome)

I recently read an article (I don’t remember where) that mentioned that the phrase “working class” was falling out of favor. Apparently, some people find it offensive, though for the life of me, I can’t imagine why. I should think that all those other folks who aren’t included in the “working” class designation should be the ones offended since there seems to be an implication there that they don’t work. And, besides, I’d rather someone call me “working class” than “lower class” any day.

Yes, I’m one of those in the working class, and I suppose it’s fairly obvious that I’m not ashamed of that. With a blog name like Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl, it would be hard to pretend to be anything other than what I am. And, really, it’s those of us in the working class that keep the world humming along. I mean, how could we get along without our auto mechanics, our carpenters, our janitors? When I was a janitor, sometimes people would laugh when I told them that I took great pride in keeping all those toilets clean, but haven’t we all, at one time or another, been in a position to be deeply grateful for clean public toilets?

When I read about people fighting to keep affordable housing for the working class out of their neighborhood, I wince, realizing that they’re talking about me. It’s painful to know that someone finds the idea of having me as their neighbor offensive. What is it they’re afraid of?

Sure, I probably do bear out some of the stereotypes those folks might harbor about the working class. I like yard art—especially gnomes, flamingoes, and those little plastic birds with whirling wings. And I not only eat Tuna Helper and Chicken Helper, I LIKE them. Spam, too. And, yes, we do have a 28-year-old car in our yard, but it’s not up on concrete blocks.

(My other porch gnome–he keeps it swept for me.)

Really, I think it’s pretty likely that I have the same dreams for my children that wealthy folks have for theirs. And it’s also likely that if they could look beyond my image, they’d probably find that we have more in common than they’d imagine.

There’s no doubt, though, that there are differences. Four years ago, when Ariel was a high school senior, she was invited to Scholarship Day at UNC-Chapel Hill, which meant she was a finalist for a merit scholarship there. Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man went along with her, and they were both pretty wowed by the lavish treatment they received. It was high-falutin’ stuff for us country folks. Most memorable, though, to Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man was listening to the other parents at his table talk. They were having a lively conversation debating which place they preferred for their winter vacations—the Canadian Rockies or the French Alps. Now Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man can usually talk to anybody, but as someone for whom even a trip to Dollywood would strain the family budget, he found it a bit difficult to relate.

And even now, there are times when Ariel feels the divide between herself and her wealthy friends. It’s very hard for her friends who’ve never known privation to imagine how it feels, just as it’s hard for her to imagine how it feels to have your Daddy buy you a new Lexus SUV.

I guess the important thing for her (and us) to remember is to look beyond that Lexus, beyond the expensive clothes, beyond the talk of trips to Europe. The late Fred Rogers of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood used to sing a song called“It’s You I Like” which I frequently sang to my children). It included the words “…it’s you I like…the way down deep inside you. Not the things that hide you…” I love that phrase “not the things that hide you.” Too often, we do judge someone by their outward image, by the things that hide the truth of who they are. And it goes both ways. It’s just as wrong for me to judge someone by their Lexus as it would be for them to judge me by the pink plastic flamingoes in my yard.

I am painfully aware of my prejudice against rich people. Just the other day, when I read about some celebrity hairdresser in New York City who charges five hundred bucks for a haircut, I felt my blood pressure rise in anger. Both for the greedy hairdresser and for the people who would pay that. And every Saturday, when I read our local newspaper’s “Home of the Week” feature (which really should be called “Mansion of the Week”), I find myself thinking the most uncharitable thoughts. Especially in 2008 when Progress Energy raised our electric bills by 10.2%, and soon afterward, our newspaper featured the huge summer manor (yes, it was just a summer home!) of a retired Progress Energy executive. Talk about bad timing.

Yes, sometimes I feel a resentment towards the rich that veers dangerously close to contempt. And that’s wrong. When I judge them by their luxury houses and cars (the things that hide them), I’m being just as narrow-minded as any other bigot. Judgment, so often, keeps us from seeing the good in people. It is a true poverty—a poverty of the spirit. And poverty of the spirit is the worst kind of poverty there is.

Sure, some of those rich folks have gotten rich on the backs of the poor. And, yeah, many of them have never struggled or known hardship. But I really don’t know their stories, any more than they know mine. The unfortunate truth is, though, we’ll probably never know each other’s stories. Because they don’t want me in their neighborhood.

But they’re welcome to mine. Sure, it’s not likely that they’ll drop by the doublewide to have a nice Tuna Helper supper. And it’s even less likely that they’d invite me to up to their mansion to have tea. But if they do, I might have a few suggestions for their yard. “Looks a little bare,” I’d say. “What you really need is a nice flamingo or two. And a couple of gnomes wouldn’t hurt…”

(My latest acquisition. I adore the little wrinkles behind his neck.)

Unsung Heroes #2: Ode to Peanut Butter

(This is the only picture of peanut butter I’ve ever taken, amazing as that might seem.  Only longtime readers (with really good memories) might possibly recall the utterly silly, madcap story  it came from.)

I was looking over my blog categories the other day and noticed that I’ve only written one post for “Unsung Heroes.” I started that category with the intention of recognizing and honoring common accoutrements of everyday life that we might take for granted. It was certainly no surprise to my family that my first post was an “Ode to My Recliner”.  I love that thing.  In fact, I sit in it so much that it bears the permanent indentation of my body. It’s sort of like a custom-made recliner now!

Anyway, I was in the grocery store the other day, horrified, as usual, at how the size of food items just keeps getting smaller, yet the price just keeps getting larger. Pretty soon, I thought to myself,  I’m going to have to give up eating. Eating—a silly habit I’ve developed over the years. But it’s just too expensive now.

But then, in the fluorescent glow of the grocery store light, I saw it. The food of the Gods, the Holy Grail of all Foodom, and, apparently, the Last Culinary Refuge of the Poor—peanut butter. Amazing, really, with so much inflation in food prices, how peanut butter has stayed relatively cheap. We buy it by the case, and we eat it by the spoon—we love the stuff.  Especially Benjamin and me.

So, naturally, when I heard that March is National Peanut Month, I knew what I had to do. Here is my “Ode to Peanut Butter.” Yes, I know it’s a silly poem and probably quite an awful one, but I’ll bet it makes you laugh. At least, I sure hope so:

Ode to Peanut Butter

Oh, sweet legume that grows beneath the earth!
Let me now proclaim your worth!
May my lips your great praise utter
Crunchy, munchy peanut butter
Creamy, dreamy peanut butter. 

Food of the rich and poor alike
Food for grownups, food for tykes.
Food that sets my heart aflutter
Crunchy, munchy peanut butter
Creamy, dreamy peanut butter.

On a sandwich, from a spoon,
Eat it morning, night, and noon.
When I run out, I cry and sputter,
“Crunchy, munchy peanut butter!”
“Creamy, dreamy peanut butter!”

By the jar or by the case,
You can buy it any place!
How I do adore its taste!
Crunchy, munchy peanut paste!
Creamy, dreamy peanut paste!

To clean out jars is not a chore,
‘Cause when it’s gone, I’ll eat some more!
I’ll never let it go to waste—
Crunchy, munchy peanut paste
Creamy, dreamy peanut paste.

Luscious goodness that I love
For it, I thank the Lord above.
It puts a smile upon my face.
Crunchy, munchy peanut paste
Creamy, dreamy peanut paste.

So I bow before thee, Jar of Jif,
My sagging spirits thou dost lift.
To do without would make me shudder.
Crunchy, munchy peanut butter.
Creamy, dreamy peanut butter.

Hank and Homer Have a Snow Day

(For those that are new to my blog (and are thinking “Why is a 52-year-old-woman playing with stuffed animals?”), you can find the story of Hank and Homer here.)

It’s been a while since you heard from your old friends Hank and Homer, so perhaps you’ve wondered what they were up to. As you know, they love the outdoors, but it’s been a bit cold out for a couple of little fellas like them, so they’ve spent a lot of time snuggled up in the house with their other invertebrate friends (known to the unenlightened as “stuffed” animals).

Although we vertebrates have grown a bit weary of endless snow, there’s nothing Hank and Homer love more than a good ole Snow Day. As soon as the first flakes start falling, Hank and Homer are ready to go!

And so it was last week, when we had several inches of the white stuff. At first, it was falling so hard that they just watched happily from the window. But after it finally stopped, Homer put on his cap and the new matching sweater he got for Christmas. As you know, he’s a bit sensitive about his unfortunate resemblance to Homer Simpson, so he wears his cap and new sweater a lot since they make him look less like that other Homer. He especially loves the fact that his cap and sweater were made from a sock, just like he was!

So after Homer put on his new made-from-a-sock clothes, Hank decided that since he was made from a glove that he should wear a glove hat! So he found a glove in the drawer and put it on. Homer thought Hank looked very much like a chicken with his glove hat and began to make clucking noises. Hank began to cluck, too and to flap his arms about like wings. They got sillier and sillier and louder and louder, but then realized that the snow was melting!

Hank didn’t want to look like a chicken so he took off his glove hat and out they both went. But Hank still felt sad and a little jealous that Homer had such handsome warm clothes and he didn’t.

First up—sledding. They found a shiny bowl in the kitchen cabinet that made a very fine sled. Wheeee…down they slid lickety split! Hank felt a little bit scared but he just held on to his friend Homer and whooped and hollered just like Homer did.

Pretty soon, Big Mama needed the shiny bowl to mix cookies in, so Hank and Homer decided to make snow angels instead. Poor Hank found it hard to make snow angels with his short little legs, so Homer made all his angels for him and pretty soon the yard was full of snow angels. Hank sighed with pleasure, imagining all those snow angels suddenly taking flight. How beautiful that would be! He stood there for a while dreamily pondering that, but was snapped out of his reverie when Homer threw a snowball at him. Thwack! Hank laughed but he really didn’t like playing Snowball Fight. It stung and he was wet and cold and still feeling a little scared from the sledding.

So Hank took the snowball he’d made and started making a snowman. Homer came over to help. Big Mama had given Hank a carrot to use for the snowman’s nose, but Hank put it in the snowman’s hand instead.

“Umm…Hank?” said Homer. “Isn’t the carrot for his nose?”

Hank looked at Homer and rolled his eyes. (Or at least, he rolled them as well as one can roll button eyes).

“Golly, Homer…who would want a carrot for a nose?? This way,” said Hank, “the snowman can feed the carrot to the animals who might be hungry in all this snow!” Then he put a hat on the snowman and wrapped a red scarf around him.

Homer smiled. Sometimes Hank was a little silly, but that was one of the things Homer loved most about him. It was then that Homer realized that Hank was shivering and his black fur was all wet. Homer looked down at his own brand new Christmas sweater, and suddenly knew what he had to do.  It made him sad to see his best friend cold.

So he took off his new sweater and the matching knit cap and put them on his friend Hank.  Hank was thrilled with his warm new clothes.

But then, Hank looked at Homer standing beside the snowman and saw that Homer looked…well… a little naked. And a little cold. And it hit him: That snowman doesn’t need a scarf and hat! Snowmen like being cold so it seems pretty silly, really, to put warm clothes on them!

So Hank unwound the scarf from the snowman’s neck and wrapped it tenderly around his friend Homer. Then he took the hat from the snowman’s head and put it on Homer’s. It gave Homer a jaunty look, and he didn’t look quite so much like Homer Simpson.  Of course, now the snowman looked naked, but at least he wouldn’t melt so fast with those warm clothes off!

Then they heard Big Mama calling from the porch that the cookies were ready. Cookies! Hank and Homer thought that those (and hot chocolate) were the best part of Snow Days. So they went in and ate cookies and drank hot chocolate until they were…well…stuffed. Then it was time for a nap. Hank was warm and cozy in his new sweater and as he snuggled up to Homer, he decided that the best thing about Snow Days wasn’t the sledding or the snow angels or the snowman or even the cookies. No.  The best part was snuggling up with your best friend and knowing that you are safe and cherished and warm and loved. Nothing (not even cookies) was better than that.

A Sweet and Healing Balm

(I know I should have written this back before Christmas, but, as you know, we were a little overwhelmed at the time. So forgive me, but since I’m too shy to write a fan letter, this will have to do—my small way of saying “Thank You.”) 

As a woman to whom music is almost as essential as breathing, it’s funny that I only have one post under “Music.” To quote myself (from several posts back), music “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.”

Most of the music I heard in my early life was confined to the wonderful old hymns we sang in church. My daddy was a Baptist preacher, so I was in church singing a lot—at least three times a week. To this day, I still remember the lyrics to those hymns and am comforted by the honest and straightforward poetry of the words.

When I was six, Daddy bought Mama her heart’s desire for Christmas—a stereo and one album, the Messiah. It was the first time I’d heard classical music. (You can read about it here—The Year the Messiah Came To Our House.)   I listened to it over and over—I couldn’t get enough of it. When I heard it, even my six-year-old earthbound self felt transported to a higher holy place.

As I got older, Daddy purchased more records, but they were mostly people singing the same hymns we sang in church (He was particularly fond of George Beverly Shea). One of Daddy’s favorite albums (that he played over and over at top volume) was Fred Lowery Whistles Your Gospel Favorites. Now Mr. Lowery could whistle like nobody’s business, but when you’re a teenager, hearing someone whistle Sweet Hour of Prayer at eighty-five decibels is not on your Top Ten List of Favorite Things.

When I was in high school, I got a job at the library in town. They had an extensive collection of Appalachian music, and I heard the lap dulcimer for the very first time. I was so smitten by the sound of it that I saved my money and next time we headed West, I bought my own lap dulcimer. Undoubtedly, I was the only teenager in my eastern North Carolina high school that played a dulcimer. And, believe me, in my high school, in the 70’s, playing a dulcimer was considered about as cool as listening to Fred Lowery Whistles Your Gospel Favorites.

Music has been a constant in my life ever since. Although my tastes have continued to change and evolve, the one thing that has never changed is my adoration of Christmas music. Funny thing that—since I really don’t care much for Christmas anymore (or at least what our culture has made of it). I guess I love Christmas music because it seems to be one of the few things about Christmas that, for me, remains relatively pure and unadulterated by greed and materialism.

It was late November, 1990, and things were difficult at our house. Daddy, then 75, had come to stay with us after surgery for prostate cancer. He was bedridden at first and on a catheter. Nobody told me that he was eligible for nursing care, so I did it myself (except for a cranky nurse who came once to show me how to do things). That was hard enough, but I also had a one- and two-year old to care for—pretty much on my own. Tom was working long hours to pay for the extra heating oil that our ancient furnace required to keep our drafty house warm for Daddy. In addition, Benjamin (my one-year-old) was having physical therapy for hypotonia (a not uncommon manifestation of autism). I was told to do the therapy with him for several hours a day. Then, I found out that I’d need to drive Daddy (with babies in tow) sixty miles roundtrip for radiation therapy every weekday for six to eight weeks. To say I was overwhelmed would be a definite understatement. Even when I finally got to bed, I was too tired to sleep. And who could sleep anyway with a one-, two-, and seventy-five-year-old calling you at all hours of the night?

It would also be an understatement to say that money was tight. We were flat broke—living on eight dollars an hour with the price of heating oil that winter through the roof (no pun intended). Certainly no money for Christmas gifts. Tom and I both told each other that we didn’t care about presents anyway. And I didn’t really. Except for one thing.

I’d heard a little snatch of a brand new Christmas album on public radio, and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. The album was We Three Kings by The Roches, three sisters who got their start singing Christmas music on the streets of New York City. So, after I found a good deal on it, We Three Kings became Tom’s and my Christmas gift to each other.

It’s amazing how sometimes something comes along at the time you most need it, and it turns out to be exactly what you needed. I can’t say why exactly, but this album was exactly what I needed then. It was the perfect blend of humor and holiness, of the silly and the sacred—from a hilarious version of Frosty the Snowman belted out in an exaggerated Brooklyn accent to Bach and Handel sung in joyful, gorgeous harmonies. And even though the Roches are often irreverent in their music, their genuine love and respect for Christmas music was evident here. My favorite piece on the album was an original they wrote themselves, the heartbreakingly lovely Star of Wonder. Its ethereal beauty made me cry then and still makes me cry now.

I played it over and over that Christmas. Good thing my family loved it, too. Benjamin couldn’t walk yet, but I’d hold him and we’d dance about the room with Ariel laughing and dancing, too, clapping her hands to the music. Even Daddy liked it (though he probably would have preferred to hear Fred Lowery whistling Christmas carols.) To this day, it is the first album I play when the Christmas music season starts.

We Three Kings brought light to us in a dark time. It was my salvation that bleak winter—a gift, a blessing, a small miracle. I will always be grateful for it. And grateful for the sweet gift of music. It is my refuge, my salvation, my healing, my comfort, and my prayer when God seems far away.

Wishful, Wistful Thoughts of Spring

So.  Which one of these hydrangea pictures would YOU rather look at?  The one above? Or the one below?

Yeah. Me too.

After I took the photo on top last week, I remembered that I’d photographed the same hydrangea last summer.  So I went back to find it and ended up wandering about my computer, looking longingly at my pictures from last summer and spring.  Sometimes, when the world outside your window is gray and brown, it’s hard to remember that under that winter-hard earth and in those fat buds on the bare trees new life stirs, waiting for the right time to burst forth in its hallelujah glory, when we all emerge from our homes, blinking in the bright spring sun, amazed anew at the miracle of life after death.   

Even though we had a small taste of spring over the weekend, snow is expected again tomorrow (and beyond).  So I thought I’d post some shots from last summer of a few of the plants here at the Doublewide Ranch to help us all remember that Spring will indeed come again.  And soon!  I’m still very much a rank amateur when it come to gardening, but I’m pretty proud of what I’ve done here outside  (on a tight budget) to add a bit of color to our lives.  When we moved here, there was pretty much almost no landscape at all, save a couple of scraggly lilacs and rose bushes.  There was nothing growing around the doublewide itself in the awful baked clay soil but grass and weeds that came right up to the foundation  It was not a pretty sight.  Not a pretty site at all. 

But now, two years later, we are looking forward to a riot of color come March, starting when the peach tree blossoms and ending when the asters bloom in November.  I spent far more time and money on our landscape (even, I must confess, our grocery money sometimes!) than I should have, but as you know, man (and woman!) doesn’t live by bread alone.

So here’s a few shots of our flowers that I’ve never posted before just in case you need a flower fix like I do.    Should you need more (perhaps a butterfly fix or a honeybee fix?),  feel free to click on Little Signs of Spring under  Categories in my sidebar.  Or Nature maybe. 

And never fear…the days of sweet hallelujah glory will soon be here.  Hold on.  Have faith.  Life is stirring.

Here’s some yarrow I planted near our front door.  I love yarrow—all the lovely colors it blooms in, its toughness, and its delicate ferny foliage.   

The view from our front yard looking up to the porch. As you can see, I’m not a very tidy gardener.  The fancy garden magazines might call this “The English Cottage garden” look.  I think I’ll call it that, too. Sounds so much better than “garden run amok.” The petunias, in the porch flower boxes we installed, self-sowed last year.  I’m hoping for the same this year. 

This is a picture of the bee balm from the shot above it taken from the porch looking down.  I love bee balm even more than yarrow.   And so do the bees, the butterflies, and hummingbirds.

There’s beauty even in our vegetable garden.  Last summer, every time I went out to pick our supper for the evening, I could hear a constant buzzing hum from the squash blossoms, always full of drowsy honeybees.  I say “drowsy” because although I’d bumble right through the squash, brushing past the blossoms, the honeybees seemed undeterred (and unperturbed).  They probably liked hanging out with the squash blossom fairies.