GETTING UP IN THE MORNING

[Autumn will be here in about 11 days, and I'm already getting up in the dark. Why is it harder to wake up and put my feet on the floor in the dark? It's just the same feet, the same floor, as when the day is well begun and the sun's up already. This post is a reminder to me that there were safe, cozy places to wake up in the morning when I was quite young.I hope you had a place like that, too.]

When I was about eight years old, I sometimes got to stay all night at Grandma and Grandpa Jenkins’s house. It was a small house—only four rooms—but it felt cozy.

I was old enough to sleep in the spare room by myself. Apparently insomnia hadn’t reared its ugly head in that phase of my life, so I would sleep until the morning sounds and smells gentled me awake.

Grandpa gets up first. I hear him in the kitchen, lifting the stove lids to check the bed of coals left from the night before, then opening the fire door (it squeaks), pulling chunks of stove wood from the buckets in the space behind the stove and filling the fire box. Then I hear the rasp of a kitchen match against its sandpapery striking strip. After a short wait—fire snapping and popping—the stove lids are dragged across the stove top and clunked into place.

Those early morning sounds reassured me. Grandma and Grandpa’s house was a safe place to sleep and to wake up.

Later, after Grandma gets up, I smell bacon frying in one of the big iron skillets. When I get up and mosey out to the kitchen, Grandma will crack eggs in the bacon drippings and our breakfast will be nearly ready.

The eggs were fresh from Grandma’s hens, down in the barn. There weren’t many hens now. With her family grown and gone and only occasional company, Grandma didn’t need to cook big meals.

Grandpa has been out to check on something—maybe the chickens—and he now comes back inside. The big blue granite coffee pot has come to a boil. Grandma pours out two cups (I’m still too young to imbibe) and sets the table.

Coffee made in my modern drip pot doesn’t have the same nose-tickling aroma as the elixir from Grandma's blue granite pot. But I’ve been a dedicated coffee drinker since about age 14, like my mother and her parents, and all the aunts and uncles and cousins.

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Throughout my life there has been something—or someone—that gave me the extra push to get out of bed. In winter, the floor might be cold, the room chilly, the sun not yet up, but there was always some reason to give up the warmth of my comfortable bed. When the children were home, I had the morning ritual of getting them ready for school and getting myself ready for the office. Since I retired, I had a few years of dog duty with Joy—she was an especially good alarm clock, never barked at me, but managed to convey her wish to go out NOW.

Life never stands still. Have you noticed that, too? Things have shifted for me. With no one else in the house--person, dog, or cat--I wake up to the possibility of an event that I want to attend: walking at the Y first thing with my walking buddy (we keep each other accountable), before all the people get there; yoga or tai chi class; coffee or lunch with a friend; sewing or knitting with another woman who enjoys that activity as much as I do. 

Something different—unusual—or rarely occurring—gives me a sense of the day being an adventure. Big adventure, little adventure--all are welcome.

Often I greet the day knowing I’ll have a treat. Coffee and chocolate, both limited on my diet, are always a treat. Or a new book to read, a new movie or episode on Netflix. A shopping trip (even though I may not buy anything). [Aside: I once went to Barnes & Noble and bought nothing. Not even a newspaper. I know you don't believe me, but it's quite true. Sad, but true.]

Other times I wake with an overwhelming sense of joy. I’m rested, and warm; I have a sense of well-being—no problem in view; or maybe I wake with a sense that a problem has been resolved, a prayer answered. Something, somewhere, fell into place and the world can breathe easily again.

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No one starts the bacon or the coffee at my house. There are no little home-y sounds that tell me all is well and Grandpa—or somebody—is taking care of things. Life has moved on, and I’m the one taking care of things. Getting myself up in the morning.

But the memories live on in me. And I smile.

CHANGE

[This post ran three years ago when I was having significant work done to my house. That's pretty much finished--now we're on the smaller jobs, like new outside doors. Houses on  my one-block long neighborhood have been sold and bought and sold again. We're a restless race, always moving around. Most change finds me rolling with it--even the biggest change of all, losing loved ones to death. And yet--and yet--they aren't lost, only changed. I hope change doesn't derail your life--even if you get shunted onto a side line.]

You can always tell when the season is shifting, because I blog about transitions and change. Here’s the latest batch—they’re all visuals because I don’t have anything new to say about change.

 C. S. Lewis, known to many as the creator of The Chronicles of Narnia, became a Christian late in life and wrote many books about faith.

Maya Angelou is known for I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, as well as for many volumes of poetry.

Rumi was a 13th-century Persian poet, jurist, Islamic scholar, theologian, and Sufi mystic.

My  story--my life--is in my hands. Staggering thought, isn't it?

One early morning gratitude--mumbled while your eyes are trying to open, before the morning jolt of caffeine, before your feet hit the floor--just one expression of thankfulness can make a difference in how your day starts, continues, and ends.

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Since change is inevitable, you--and I--might as well try to embrace it.

Have a wonderful week!

SOME THOUGHTS ON MOVING.....

I took last week off from blogging to spend quality time with family members.It wasn't all fun and games, but certainly not all work (we didn't paint the house or re-landscape the yard).

The first four or five days were devoted to (a) locating a pod for moving belongings from Indiana to my daughter's home in Arizona; (b) discovering the extent and location of said belongings (some in a storage unit; some in my attic; more in one of my closets; some stored in Ohio that came with the Ohio daughter's visit); (c) purchasing heavy-duty moving boxes, bubble wrap, heavy-duty tape for the boxes; and (d) locating important stuff like Sharpies, fresh iced tea, gluten-free pretzels, and DVDs to keep our spirits up while one of us (not I) wrapped or re-wrapped small fragile items in bubble wrap and labeled them before stowing them in one of the aforesaid heavy-duty packing boxes.

The wrapping and boxing up was the province of the Arizona daughter whose belongings were in the process of moving from here to there. Minnesota daughter came along, she told us, to provide muscle--this was greatly appreciated by her sister and me.

My main contribution was to keep the food wagon operating. But deep down, it was all about taking the physical and emotional temperature of those working--were they too tired to eat? Were they famished to the point of fainting? Was there any point in making a full meal, when a small snack was what they wanted? These discernments are within my realm, and meals/snacks of various sorts appeared at appropriate times.

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By the end of the week, Friday, the pod was not only packed to the gills, it was ready to  be picked up by the freight company. They did their part, the pod left for the great Southwest, and we all breathed a small sigh of relief.

After a few hours rest, we geared up for the next day's visit by some of the rest of the family. The current total head count is 23, plus miscellaneous cats and dogs. Saturday we had only 13 human beings, 1 friend of a family, plus 2 dogs. That filled the back yard nicely. Enough kids to keep us from feeling like old folks. Well-behaved dogs who made me start thinking about getting another canine friend. Adults who enjoy each other's company. And a beautiful (almost chilly) late summer/early autumn kind of day.

The kids played badminton, and managed to get a Frisbee up on the roof. The youngest great-granddaughter wrote love letters on the patio with chalk (and left me one on paper, taped to my kitchen cupboard).

We finished a slow cooker of homemade chili with saltines on the side, fresh garden produce from two kids' gardens, a variety of chips with or without salsa, and two kinds of brownies (regular and gluten-free). Coffee was available, bottled water, iced tea. We used paper plates and bowls and disposable napkins and spoons. My kind of party!

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The next day, Sunday, I played the service at my church, then sped home to have lunch with Arizona and Minnesota before they hit the Toll Road for a 10-hour return trip to Minneapolis.

When I got up from my afternoon nap, the house felt empty. Thanks be that we have memories!

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I haven't said much about moving, have I?--the thought of packing up a house full of belongings and memories isn't appealing right at the moment. Helping someone else works out quite well, though--we got to watch Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan movies together, and later some DVDs from a mystery series I bought in the late 1990s. I got to cook larger meals (cooking for myself isn't always a lot of fun) and sit down to talk with people I'm related to without a telephone between us. 

Everyone from out of town--which was everyone who came to the Saturday family gathering--got home safely.

And I am grateful for the many descendants who are related to me, one way or another. Not bad for an only child.

Arizona Sunset

VACATION TIME...

Did you ever notice how many people you're connected to? An awful lot of my family members have passed on to other realms, but there's still an abundance left to enjoy.

So:

Taking some time off . . . two daughters visiting (from Arizona and Minnesota), another coming (from Ohio) on Tuesday for a day visit, and son and daughter-in-law coming by on Saturday (Indiana residents) and Ohio daughter returning.

My house will ring with laughter for ten days! You should be able to hear it from where you are.

See you in a couple of weeks!

In the meantime, here's some wisdom (more or less) from a woman who knows about family matters:

My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you? Erma Bombeck

FRIENDSHIP

[One day I'm going to write something original about . . . well, about anything. But today's reposting covers a subject dear to my heart. Could you have survived all you've been through without a friend, or maybe several, to share the burden, to cry with, to laugh with, to give you a hand up or a shoulder to lean on? I couldn't have made it on my own. Friends are one of God's greatest blessings. Thanks be!]

Or a mug of really good coffee!

Yesterday, August 7, is friendship day. [There are several dates celebrated in various countries.]

The subject has been on my mind and heart lately and I want to explore some definitions and thoughts on what friendship is, and what it is to have—or to be—a friend.

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The most elemental definition I’ve ever seen is the title of Joan Walsh Anglund’s book, A Friend Is Someone Who Likes You. It was published in 1958 for children 4 to 7 years old. A friend is…someone who likes you. Simple. Direct. Easy to understand.

But as we all know, we grow older, and life takes twists and turns, our experiences cause us to make leaps and bounds. Or go backward. Or fall on our prats. Sometimes what we go through is, well, less than joyful. Here are some thoughts to keep your hearts and minds engaged in friendly paths as you find your way through the jungle.

* * * * *

Charlotte's Web--read it!

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.   --C. S. Lewis (1898-1967)

Who among us has not had a friend who kept us sane, even for a little while? Or who held our hand in a dark time? Who talked us down from a scary place—real or metaphorical—to continue living?

* * * * *

Sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over.   --Octavia Butler (1947-2006)

If you have a friend, then you, yourself, are a friend. It’s a reciprocal relationship, not one-sided, but a meeting of equals. So if you are a friend, you know what it means to remain silent when they “hurl themselves into their own destiny.” Sounds scary, doesn’t it? But we know we can’t live other people’s lives for them, no matter how much we care, how much more experience we have, how clearly we can see the pitfalls they will face. We can “prepare to pick up the pieces,” and I would add, resist the temptation to say I told you so. Even if you never said it in the first place.

* * * * *

One more idea:

We call that person who has lost his father, an orphan; and a widower that man who has lost his wife. But that man who has known the immense unhappiness of losing a friend, by what name do we call him? Here every language is silent and holds its peace in impotence.  -- Joseph Roux (French surgeon, 1780-1854)

A hug is always a good thing....

Ignore the out-of-date pronouns and focus on the thought.

No one wants to lose a friend. Friends are more precious than silver and gold, than perfect gems, than all the possessions we can ever amass.

Yet, sometimes a friend is lost. To death, yes; but that is not the harshest loss. The loss that stabs our hearts and wrenches tears from our souls is the loss we have caused—or have been unable to prevent—for whatever reason.

John Donne (1572-1631) wrote, “Any man’s death diminishes me.” I would add, “Each friend’s loss takes a valuable part of me, and I’ll never regain it.”

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To send you off with a happier thought:

If instead of a gem, or even a flower, we should cast the gift of a loving thought into the heart of a friend, that would be giving as the angels give.  --George MacDonald (1824-1905)

Celebrate your friendships. They may not number in the hundreds or thousands, they may not be virtual friends you’ve never seen. True friends are the ones who know you, warts and all . . . .

WORDS - WORDS - WORDS

[My Internet provider and I aren't seeing eye to eye about service--my idea is that the service should be 24/7/365. The ISP likes to take time off. (What for? Nothing changes much.) Today I'm having on-again/off-again access to the 'Net so I'm repeating a post about words of wisdom that appealed to me once upon a time and, funnily enough, still do. Hope they make you smile, too.]

What is it about quotations and words of wisdom and sayings that intrigues us?

Here are some to entertain you - possibly give you a nudge - even make you smile in agreement.

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Courage is being scared to death - but saddling up anyway.

            -- John Wayne

We are all here for a spell; get all the good laughs you can.

            -- Will Rogers

Nobody can be exactly like me. Sometimes even I have trouble doing it.

            -- Tallulah Bankhead

Never miss a chance to keep your mouth shut.

            -- Robert Newton Peck

Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.

            -- Mark Twain

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It is a mistake to regard age as a downhill grade toward dissolution. The reverse is true. As one grows older, one climbs with surprising strides.

            -- George Sand

The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook.

            -- William James

You can't do anything about the length of your life, but you can do something about its width and depth.

            -- Evan Esar

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This thing that we call 'failure' is not the falling down, but the staying down.

            -- Mary Pickford

I know God will not give me anything I can't handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me so much.

            -- Mother Teresa

We could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only joy in the world.

            -- Helen Keller

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Have a blessed week!

ONCE UPON A TIME . . .

[Summer is a time for reunions--family, school mates. This summer I've been reliving memories--looking back at my life, and at the lives of my children and friends. I have new neighbors who aren't part of my memories yet, but the ones who have moved on are still with me. Our church has lost members--moved to another city, changed churches, died--and those of us who are left remember them in prayers and in our conversations with each other. Following are thoughts published a few years back, memories of times I might have forgotten, but thankfully I have not.]

I am 9 1/2 years old. I’ve spent the summer with my dad while my mother went with her new boyfriend to Las Vegas to get married. When she and my new stepfather come home, my dad delivers me to a house in a town I’ve never lived in before; it is the home of my new step-grandmother, a woman I immediately adore. We three, the new little family, live upstairs in the big attic room of Grandma Randolph’s house while our house, one block east, is being wallpapered and painted. In a few weeks we move again, into what I come to know as our house.

Our house, which is rented, has big rooms, with high ceilings. My bedroom is in the front of the house, with French doors leading into it from the living room. It is bright and sunny and with the high ceilings has an open and airy feel to it. I love it from the moment I see it.

Thinking back on that house, it was only four big rooms: two bedrooms, living room, and kitchen, with a bathroom featured by a claw-foot tub; and a side small room I never discovered the reason for, but probably another little bedroom that we used as storage. There was a long back porch off the kitchen. Possibly a basement, but I don’t recall going down into a basement in that house. So, scratch the basement.

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I am 22 years old, the mother of three children. We—my husband and the three children—have just moved to a city I’ve never lived in before, though I did visit once for a couple of days. The house is rented, furnished, and it has two astounding, wonderful things about it: an automatic dishwasher and a spinet piano. We can afford beds and pots and pans and clothes; I have never believed I’d have a dishwasher and piano so soon.

That house has a basement and an upstairs, and an attached garage. My son learns to walk in that house and we put up gates to keep him from exploring stairways. The gates do little good.

In that house I watch TV while I iron, and on November 22, 1963, I see our president being assassinated. At that moment I become two people—one watching, and disbelieving, the horror of seeing someone as important as the president of our country being shot while on a campaign trip; the other person observing the children who play on the floor under my feet, keeping the cord of the iron away from interested fingers, answering the telephone when I get a call about the TV story.

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I am 36 years old. The organist at my little country church tells me a law office in the county seat has a vacancy for a legal secretary and I should apply. I go to the interview, sort of as a lark, to see what kinds of things people ask when they interview you. It is unlikely, I think, that I’ll get the job—my background is in English and French, I will soon sit the Master’s written exam for an M.A. in English Language and Literature, and I’ve been around the block enough times to recognize the value of a degree in English: You can either do anything or nothing. (Garrison Keillor is right on the money with his jokes about English majors. My mind is considering whether I’ll be better off working at McDonald’s.)

So I go to the interview, trot out my credentials, which look pretty anemic lying there on the polished desk of the new junior lawyer. Experience? (Rearing children, reading, cooking, doing laundry, driving like a madwoman to get to class on time 30 miles from my home . . . .) Can I type? (Wow, something I can do!)

What really got me the job was the fact that I could spell. They didn’t know that for certain, but they assumed I could if I was practically a Master of English. (It’s true, I could, and can, spell well.)

It was the first “real” job I’d ever held. And I managed it for another 30 years.

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I often hear people say, “In another life”—meaning, not reincarnation, but who the person was at, say, age 9 or 22 or 36. Do we really remember being that person? Or do we remember things we did? People we knew? Events that happened (perhaps)? (Or did they?)

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So much advice is written today about how to keep our memory sharp; how to increase memory (as if we were a computer and could add another 64 Mb in a little chip). How to keep from losing memory (put it in a little bag and tie it to our belt? Put it in our safe deposit box at the bank? Stick it in a box and put on a good tight label telling what it is, and add the date and our initials?).

I’m all for memories. But sometimes, it seems to me, too much emphasis is put on what we remember. Why should I remember every street address and telephone number where I lived during the years from, say, birth to age 20? (An impossible task—I moved 20 times in 17 years.) Or how to make white bread without a recipe? Or who wrote that book I used to read every single year? Or what cupboard holds the cereal bowls?

Maybe it’s about what is personal to me . . . to you.

I remember Grandma Randolph, who treated me like the little 9-year-old girl she never had, always had time to talk to me, even though she worked away from home, and who helped my mother alter the new dresses that didn’t fit my summer-plump body.

I remember people who were kind to me when my mother died—Aunt Dessie, Mom’s oldest sister, took me, her 15-year-old niece, to her favorite dress shop and bought me a tweed suit and silky blouse to wear to the funeral. I wore those lovely clothes for years and years. The suit was a color I now know as mauve, with little flecks of blue and grey. I think Aunt Dessie also bought me a pair of white gloves. (All my clothes had been destroyed in our house fire six months before.)

I remember going into surgery in Indianapolis, nearly three hours from my home, not knowing anyone in that vast hospital except the eight people—family and friends and clergy—who had come to be with me and pray for my wellbeing.

I remember losing a large measure of my innocence when someone shot and killed our young president.

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Today we celebrate our memories: personal ones, collective family memories; shared and unshared. Good memories, that we're happy to take out and stroke because they make us remember good times. Bad memories, yes, I celebrate those; they tell us something about who we are, how we coped (or didn't), what we might have learned about ourselves, about life, and living.

We need our memories: They are the stories we tell—to ourselves and to each other—and thereby connect us together.