I thought I would be much smarter by now.

Recently, we had a lovely evening with some of our grandchildren.

I made their favorites for dinner, they played in the bathtub, they watched a couple cartoons while I cleaned up the kitchen, I read books, then Pop read books. I know these days are fleeting and it makes me a little sad. As we read The Wonkey Donkey and Peter Pan each for the 900th time, I know there will come a day soon when little hands will no longer want or need me to read to them. It is not this day however and we read The Wonkey Donkey one more time.

One of our sweet boys had a birthday coming up and I made his choice of cake. Once everyone was tucked into bed, I went to work on little figurine decorations for the top of the cake and worked until well after midnight. I quietly slid into bed being careful not to wake my husband. I could hear one of the children fighting mighty battles in his sleep. I'm pretty sure he was either Thor or Batman.

Just about the time I drift off, another tiny human calls out to me. He is quite sleepy and needs "snuggles." I'm guessing Thor woke him up defending against the Ice Giants. Yes, it is now 2:30 a.m. it's the wee hours but these days are numbered and I happily oblige.
This tiny human is the best kind of snuggler, he has it down to a science. He caresses your face with his little hand as if he's the grown up and you're the child. He gets as close as possible and just before drifting off his baby arm goes around your neck. Finally, we are all asleep.
Soon I hear a freight train coming through our bedroom.

I can remember my mother talking about the sheer magnitude of my daddy's snoring. She described it as "shaking the entire house" and I always felt she was exaggerating. Nope, she was right. It feels like the neighbors can probably hear it. I remember being about eleven years old when we had severe thunderstorms with possible tornadoes coming through our area. Mama always held vigil over the radio to be sure we were safe on stormy nights. Before we went to bed she had us put a pair of shoes beside our bed, just in case we had to rush out. Late that night she woke us all to go to the basement. Our basement wasn't finished but rather a large dug out spot beneath the house where the coal stoker furnace was and we had to go outside to access it. One of the boys would lift the huge cellar-like door and mama held the umbrella over us as we made the mad dash in the rain. Before we headed down there, mama would wake daddy and tell him we need to go to the basement. He agreed fully, would ask if she had all of the children up and promptly fall back to sleep. We sat in the basement in chairs listening to the howling wind and rain pelting the house, thunder and large strikes of lightning raging outside. There were limbs flying from the trees and daddy... upstairs snoring like a freight train. At this point mama was mumbling under her breath and rolling her eyes. Of course, she was concerned for his safety but Oh my word, the snoring?! My oldest brother slipped around the side of the furnace (closer to their bedroom) and pounded the end of the shovel handle up against the floor, hard enough to stir daddy. In a few minutes he joined us. Little did I know, those were treasured times together.

So, by 4:45 that morning I decided to just get up. But that's okay, I have coffee!

Again, I slip out quietly, as not to wake the tiny one and the "snorer" even though a part of me wants to punch the man right in the face.

Slipping into the kitchen I'm in stealth mode, I push the button on the coffee and begin gathering my needed equipment very quietly.. I notice something doesn't sound right, there is a sizzling sound. I glance over to find coffee all over the counter and I managed to grab something to catch it just before it pours onto the floor. I am staring at the coffee maker trying to figure out what's going on. It's not even 5 a.m. and I need this coffee.

I am wiping up the coffee off the counter and realize it's still running out.?? Maybe the little thingy that makes it run into the pot may be askew. Well, this faulty coffee maker isn't going to outsmart me- I grab a large cup to catch as much as possible before it all runs on the floor. It is only then I realize there is a chip out of the coffee pot and it's about done w/the cycle. This is critical.

As any coffee devotee would do, I tilt the pot away from the tiny hole. I prop it on some dishes stacked in the sink being careful not to lose my tiny bit of coffee. Then it hits me... glass? Darn it. What do I do now?

I actually thought of my brother who would just about trade his children for a good cup of coffee and said to myself "what would Steve do?" So, I grab a fine tea strainer and run the liquid magic thru it careful to avoid the tiny hole in the pot. Then into another cup through a clean cloth, last I run it through a paper towel.

Pleased with myself I stand gazing on my coffee, it's not even daylight yet. Did I sufficiently strain the possible glass out of my little cup of joe? I decide Steve would approve.
I sat down on the couch waiting for daylight with my journal and my tiny cup of coffee, quite proud of myself actually. I managed to save a small cup, I didn't have to get dressed to go get coffee and I woke no one. It's a win.

My only worry is possible internal bleeding from the glass that may or may not be in my cup. I prayed over that cup. As I finish the last drop and the sun begins to rise, I realize I have a small coffee maker in the camper, in the driveway.

I thought I would be smarter by now.

Lessons to be learned

I started my adult life wanting to be a teacher. It was my constant desire. After a while I settled on nursing. However, I married young and started a family and there simply was no room for nursing school or college at the time. Years pass quickly and you keep pushing those ideas back until one day you wake and it's too late. I thought on it quite a bit when I was younger but as my life choices changed and I found owning my own business to be quite fulfilling as I raised our family.

I guess what I remember the most about wanting to teach was the effect my teachers had on me.
I vaguely remember my 1st grade teacher, Mrs Glaze. My 2nd grade teacher was a family friend, making Mrs Rainwater a favorite and I hold fond memories of her still. In a time when women surely weren't valued as they should have been as leaders, I was surrounded by women of strong character and dedication to their field.
My third grade teacher made a marked impression on me. Our little country school probably didn't hold 400 children, off a rural road in West Jefferson county. It would be the place that shaped my thoughts and dreams. The last classroom on the right, almost to the playground was our home that year. Mrs Cirillo's room. She was a tall, slender woman with beautifully expressive eyes and fair skin, one of the sweetest godly women I ever knew. I watched each day to see what earrings she would wear, she seemed to have an endless collection.
She was an adventurer who found beauty everywhere she looked and explored everything around her. She spoke often of her travels with her cherished August Cirillo. She and August lived in Brazil and she taught school there for a time. I remember thinking, that's what I will do.

Among other things, I gained a love of birds in her classroom. I remember her asking if someone might build us a bird house right outside our classroom window where we could attract different species. When she posed the question to the class more like an idea not really an inquiry, I promptly shot my hand to the sky and waved violently... my daddy can build a bird house, my daddy can! [mostly because I saw my daddy as a kind of superman but he really could build anything] He was a carpenter and brick mason in his early years. I'm sure he was always thrilled when I volunteered him for things but he never complained.
Soon we had not one but two sweet birdhouses. Each built with care and a large feeding area on the other side of the long board daddy put up to hold the houses. I remember watching him outside the window and being so proud to have him put those little wooden bird homes at eye level outside our windows. We fed many birds outside our classroom that year and watched babies hatch and fly the nest.
To a child in a rural community, a dreamer like Mrs Cirillo was more like a magician. The furthest I ever traveled as a child was to my aunt and uncle's home in Pensacola. I could hardly wrap my mind around Mrs Cirillo's travels around the world. My goodness, she was practically a movie star. She told us all about people, weather, other cultures and traditions. I remember her kindness and laughter as she brought her treasures and shared them with us. I could be a bit of a talker but I was never talking in her class, I might miss something.

Third grade was apparently a "growth spurt" year for me as well. There was Mrs Cirillo assuring me, everyone else would catch up in time. She would say, "stand tall, show people who you are." Towering over my friends heads, it was great comfort at only 9 yrs old. I would later go on to have other great teachers but Mrs Cirillo was where I gained great respect and admiration for the teaching profession. I realized she answered a calling when she became a teacher, a mentor and friend to all she met.

I have friends and relatives who answered that same call, who shaped and some still do, the lives of children in their classrooms. Some adventurers, introverts, all encouragers and friends. The Bible has many verses and passages on being an encourager.
One of my favorites is in Proverbs 25, verse 11. A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in a setting of silver. 
Mrs. Cirillo gave me a view of life I would likely not have considered otherwise. She made me think, she made me curious. I am better for knowing her. I believe it was Albert Einstein who said, "when we stop learning we start dying."

In our home, to the right of our television cabinet was a bookcase filled with Childcraft and Encyclopedia. Before the age of "google" this is what we used for reference and research. Not all my friends had encyclopedia, some went to the library to do research, some came over to use them or borrowed one. It's how we prepared for assignments and special projects. The Childcraft were a simple source for children to learn. There were more than 20 volumes in all, some devoted to fictional stories, fairy tales, craft projects and poems. Most however were for learning- history, technology, medicine and animals.

                 

Daddy read Repunzel to me over and over (it was my favorite) the year I had the flu for three weeks. Mama read poems and fairy tales to her children from the pages of those books. We poured countless hours over them for school projects. As a young mother, my children pounced into mama's lap with their respective childcraft of choice when they visited her or they agreed on Volume 3 for the fairy tales and poems. If there was a lively debate on any subject and we needed more information, mama grabbed the corresponding encyclopedia for reference. Learning was a constant in our home.

Teachers, like Madge Cirillo planted the seed for my love of reading and curiosity about other places. I have always known, being a teacher is a calling. A God-given talent which requires great personal sacrifice.
Every teacher who steps behind a desk is saying, "Okay, I have room in my heart and life for a few hundred more children. Let's do this." If that isn't a calling, I don't know what is.
Mrs Cirillo died quite a few years back at the age of 96. I can only imagine she continued learning for a very long time.
I wish I could thank her now for all the things she taught me, the curiosity she spurned and the love of travel and adventure she gave us all.

That time and place, it's ingrained in the depths of my soul.

Pensacola Florida, Gulf Breeze to be specific was where our family vacations were spent throughout childhood. Our Aunt Lora and Uncle Herbert (Uncle Hub) lived there w/their three children. Every summer we visited and spent time with family and equal time on the beach. Those vacations were pure magic for me. We lived in a rural southern community where we traveled 18 miles to the closest grocery store. Gulf Breeze was a bustling metropolis to a little country girl! My Uncle, a career Navy man, managed the local Jitney Jungle and it was less than 5 minutes from their home.

I remember the house on Dolphin Street. It was a large colonial home, it appeared like a mansion to me. Uncle Hub had a monster yard he tended with great pride. Upstairs to the left was David's room, Suzanne & Nancy shared a room that looked over the front of the house. Back to the stairs, past the bathroom straight into the master bedroom and bath. Downstairs there was a living and dining room, a hallway that led right past the downstairs bathroom on to the kitchen and through the door Nancy put her elbow through rough housing with her brother once. A nice den rounded out their lovely home.

Every time we visited my aunt was busy in the kitchen preparing her best fare for her Alabama family.  I always wanted to know what was for dessert as Aunt Lora was an amazing cook!
One visit as she pulled a fresh cake with peanut butter frosting from the cabinet (where she had placed it for safe-keeping) she realized it had ants all over it. As she and mama worked on cleaning out and containing the ants, I kept vigil over the cake now in the trash can. I was on the verge of tears over that cake and just in time I hear my Aunt say "Herbert, why don't you take Leisa and get some ice cream for tonight." Yes! Dinner is saved! .. and off we went to pick out ice cream.

You see, as children our mother didn't allow sweets very often. Actually, we hardly ever were allowed sweets. While the entire world as I saw it had sweets and dessert daily, we were brushing our teeth after a pack of raisins. Then I grew up and realized mama was pretty smart.
My Aunt Lora would see the despair in my face though, look directly at me and wink.  Her eyes sparkled with a little mischief and her "older sister" logic assured me it was handled. Mama would say absolutely nothing. I loved my aunt even more in those moments.

A couple years ago we were close enough to Gulf Breeze to run through there on the way to visit our cousins who live outside of Gulf Breeze now. The area has changed so much over the years and I feared none of it would be familiar. The old Jitney Jungle is long gone. I pulled out my gps and then I spotted Shoreline Drive and immediately I knew where I was. It took us by the old ballpark where we used to watch David play baseball. The streets I had not seen in probably forty-five years were right in front of me, I knew each turn.
The mansion I remembered is a smidge smaller, 204 Dolphin Street, now painted with green accents instead of my Uncle Herbert's lovely signature blue and a bit older. The yard is much smaller as well.
I realized apparently Uncle Hub owned a double-sized lot because there is now another home between the Craft home and the old Monzingo place.  Yes, young Jay Monzingo lived right next door and he was a bit of a character. He once put the cat in the dryer and turned it on. That cat was never right again I was told. I loved to hear my Aunt Lora tell about the escapades of her little neighbor.

Each trip I saved my pennies to spend on shells at Allen's Shell Shop, also no longer there. At the beach we slathered on Coppertone 4 to protect our skin and it did.

When it was time to hit the beach we chose either the surf or sound side. I personally liked the sound because of the possibility of food. Mama usually took sandwiches but every now and again we could enjoy bought food. There was a little burger place right on the beach, it was simply a large screened room with sand floors and picnic tables to eat on, a kitchen out back. You could come in wet from the beach to eat and the kitchen kept hungry swimmers satisfied. They served Frosty Root Beer in frozen mugs pulled from the freezer. Root beer washed down the best burger you ever tasted.
If we chose the surf side, we parked on the side of the road, walked over huge sand dunes out to the water. It was like a quest to climb and climb finally topping the sand dune and gazing out over God's amazing Gulf of Mexico. That first look out over the water is deep in the recesses of my heart- I feel the thick salt air against my face, the smell, the waves crash ashore. It feels like home.

My oldest brother spent weeks one year, fashioning a board he could ride waves on. It looked like an over-sized boogie board. He painstakingly sanded it to perfection, varnished and waxed the bottom. That board sliced through the water like a knife and would hold all three of us. At night waterlogged and tired from play I listened to laughter and tales of times gone by. I slept like a baby in this magical place.

That two-story colonial was not the first "Craft" home I remember though. There was a brick ranch with a long front yard framed by tall pine trees. I do not remember the street name, I could not have been more than six at the time. 
Several years ago this memory I've had all my life, came to me as a dream. Both families were there.  My brothers are in the yard tossing a football with my cousin David, daddy was around in the carport area with Uncle Hub looking at his lawnmower. I sat on the front steps just outside the living room with Suzanne (also the baby girl) playing. Inside the front door through the living room and to the left was the kitchen. Their oldest daughter Nancy was helping her mother make dinner, mama sitting at the table peeling potatoes. They talked and laughed as they caught up.

I have thought of this home and that day often over the years but in my dream I could hear all their voices again. I haven't heard my daddy's voice in over 40 years but I heard it as clearly as if I was standing by him. My Aunt Lora sharing her week and my mothers laughter. I could hear them all. I woke with the most amazing feeling, I can't even describe what it felt like.
I know what the experts say about dreams. "a natural physiological function that is common to every human being and is necessary for maintaining adequate mental and emotional health." Yes, I know.
I also know what Gods Word says about dreams. I feel this was a confirmation dream, affirming what we experienced as children was good and true. Though not perfect by any means, the people were honorable, loving and genuine. We weren't rich, as a matter of fact I was told more than once as a child, I was poor. I'm pretty sure those summer vacations were part of the reason I never felt it to be true.
There's a lesson in there for parents today, children do not need "things." They need  your time, they need waterlogged days and stories of your adventures. They need assurances that God's got this and no matter what happens, they will be okay. They need snuggles and hugs. They need tiny peebles and shells to hold in their hand, treasures from their day. They need laughter, so much laughter.
I know that sometimes our soul needs a lift and I believe God's unending grace blesses us with memories. We need to smell things and feel things we haven't experienced in years. Life is hard but we hear those voices for just a moment, we smell or taste something that brings the memories flooding back and it sustains us for a while.

That place, those people, they are ingrained in the depths of my soul. I am forever grateful for having had them all in my life.

I have truly been blessed and I am constantly humbled by Gods unending grace and love for me.
I hope you know that grace as well, if you don't?  I know a nice stretch of beach where you can feel it.

Little things, add up to gold.

One of my favorite pictures of mama and I at a family gathering, long before dementia took her quick wit.

I've saved the things that remind me of her and surround myself with them. They are all around me, inside and out. Outside- Yellow bells from her childhood home, the flowering plum tree she brought me (as just a little stick), my almond shrub, sweet william in the backyard, the mock orange (English dogwood) from outside my childhood bedroom.

During late spring mama would slip into my bedroom early and crank open my windows. The soft cafe curtains flowing in the breeze, allowing me to wake to the smell of fragrant blooms. She lovingly made my curtains by hand. As in, not on a sewing machine but literally "in her lap" one casing, one hem at a time. She added little decorative white braid to the crisp linen blend. Her signature look in our home, clean, minimalist and freshly pressed. There are other reminders of her as well. Little trinkets here and there. The little wooden box daddy brought her from one of his work trips. It's still here. She used it for her jewelry- her simple, classic style not requiring much adornment. Mama didn't own much jewelry, didn't wear earrings, only a few pins and her ring. The pins still remain in the box where I take them out occasionally and the memories fill me up again. Sunday mornings and mama choosing a pin to wear on her dress or blouse.

There are old mixing bowls I treasure and will pass on to my children one day. Then there's the pan. Isn't it funny where our true treasures lie? It's a simple 9 X 13 baking pan but it was hers. Every pan of chicken and dressing, every perfectly seasoned pork loin resting on a rack, food prepared for families mourning a loss, all cooked in this pan. Every family gathering it was filled with something delicious.

 Mama made baked beans like no one else. She started with dried great northern beans and made her own barbeque sauce. She added seasonings and onion and don't forget the bacon. Those beans went quickly each time they were served. Her famous lemon squares were prepared in that pan. I use her pan every week and I believe if memory serves, Danielle has already claimed it. So it will be, one day it will reside in the third generation as another memory of granny, passed down to another generation. I have no doubts my grandson will eventually take the pan, he's an old soul already at seven years old.

It's been a restless week, I haven't been sleeping well and not quite myself. If you've encountered me ill and out of sorts, my apologies. There have been great losses again, reminders of painful loss past and it's hard. Then last night about 9:30 p.m. I decided I needed to bake a pie. (I've always been a late night baker) I pulled out my pie dish and got started. Mama taught me how to make a perfectly flaky crust, I can almost see her hands working the flour. Before long its in the oven. Strangely, my husband is no longer sleepy.

So, we celebrated mothers day a little early with a late night slice of my mothers apple pie. A perfect start to my mothers day. So it was, last night I slept like a baby. Thank you Jesus for my mama.

Memories are treasures that add up to pure gold.

Thoughts and reflections on Christmas Eve, past and present.

I jotted down this post over coffee, Christmas Eve 2018 while things were quiet. Christmas is too important not to include it in the blog. Therefore, I post it today.  In years to come my grandchildren will read this retelling of Christmas past.

Blue skies are like new beginnings, after several days of rainy skies and dark clouds, wait.. Okay, so we've felt we needed a Ark because it's rained for two solid months. At one point I think we had 12 straight days of rain. Sunshine today is a sight to behold.
We have had quite a winter this year, there has been far too much rain and cold for this southern girl. I'm a sunny-warm-weather girl who tires of winter quickly. I'm sure winter isn't done with us yet but today I will take the low 50's predicted and revel in the sunshine. 

It's Christmas eve day and there will be some cooking and some relaxing today. There are gifts to wrap and I'm sure I can find another Hallmark movie to watch. All in all It will be a fairly quiet day, unlike Christmases past.

When our children were young and at home Christmas was a flurry of activity from early morning until well after midnight. Patrick usually was the first to hop out of bed running through the house announcing "it's Christmas Eve!" His sister quickly followed and so it began.
I love how traditions evolve over time and each activity becomes a necessity, you absolutely can't have the holiday without?! One of my favorites was late-night baking of goodies on Christmas Eve.

Mama shared her love for baking with me when I was young and it continued throughout our lives. It was our ritual time together. Even when I was a teenager and my attitude was often lacking, as teenagers do, we baked. Baking was cathartic for mama and I find it the same for me.
When I later married, some days she would call just to let me know she was stirring up a cake if I wanted to come over and help. It was our time to talk through whatever was bothering either of us or whatever was giving us joy. Most often it was planning for transplanting flowers or small trees she wanted moved or maybe an upcoming trip to Pensacola to visit family.

Most Christmases wedding cookies, homemade caramels, tiger butter and divinity were top picks for my own family. My personal favorite this time of year is almond nougat. If any of the children spotted the four bags of slivered almonds after grocery shopping, they alerted the household and hid out. Mind you, not because they didn't like almond nougat but because it was a rather large recipe which meant hand wrapping 125-150 pieces of candy.

My sweet daddy died before I met and married my Don and for all those years it was only mama to visit us. Our children and their first cousins started their own tradition of laying claim to their granny for Christmas eve night. I'm not sure when and why they felt this necessary? It wasn't like they weren't all going to see her anyway. But yes, they "claimed" her each year.  

"No, you had her last year. We get her this year"..  and so it went between them all. I will say I was impressed with their honor when they realized it wasn't their year. They took the disappointment with dignity. 

She would warn them all against arguing over her but she absolutely loved being fawned over. When it was your year for granny, she would show up with an overnight bag early in the day Christmas eve. The children would meet her at the door which was hilarious to me, as they had probably seen her two or three times during the week already. This was special though, it was Christmas. They called their cousins to announce the arrival of "the gran" and our home filled with children clamoring for mama's attention and time. They read books and played games all day, listened to her tell stories of her childhood, watched episodes of Murder She Wrote and immersed themselves in their granny.  Mama was always a light-hearted, happy person but at Christmas she was at her finest.
Later in the day she would take the back up position while I baked. She was the most efficient sifter and nut chopper around. Exactly like when I was a child, she would share where she thought I could add another spot for Irises or Daylily's to my yard. When the children tired of all the work in the kitchen, it was just mama and I.
I will miss her today as I bake alone.

Every Christmas Eve the children would bed down in the same bedroom. Patrick would make a pallet in his sister's room and they talked and giggled until late into the night. Our bedroom was directly above them and we listened quietly together as they talked and planned.
They were warned not to wake anyone until at least 6 a.m. Of course, Patrick was awake by 5 and I could hear them talking and laughing all the way upstairs. Granny would be in Patrick's bed and I'm sure she wasn't allowed to sleep either.
~When they came upstairs, they would always shield their eyes from the Christmas tree because they wanted us all together before seeing what Santa had delivered. There was no racing to the tree to see what they had received. Neither child would look until everyone was in the living room. "Come on Granny, hurry"  The children could not wait for granny to open her gifts, first. Usually something they had crafted just for her or something they spent their pennies on at the school Santa shop. I always loved that weeks ahead of the holiday instead of buying for themselves, they were thinking of their granny.

As the celebration continued, there were always my brothers and their families, favorite foods throughout the day and always so much laughter, and naps. Someone would slip off to a bed to rest.

What I also found amazing when my children were young was their insistence on not skipping traditions. (We mama's get tired sometime) However tired I was, they would become indignant if I even suggested leaving something out each year. I am grateful they now embrace family traditions which began long ago.
I watch them instill the same giving and loving qualities in their own children, create their own traditions and enjoy time with family and take time to rest.
Patrick puts their Christmas tree up as early in November as he can. He's like his mama in that regard, I like to enjoy it as long as possible. My daughter has her Christmas baking schedule down to their favorites and there is much "down time" at home- no manic Christmas for her. She is much like her granny.

Although today we have some hurts we are still healing from and are missing among others, our sweet granny, today will be another Christmas of celebrating Jesus birth, reading, gift-giving, laughter but most of all, togetherness (Not to mention really good food)

Remember, the really important gifts can't be purchased.  

Happy birthday Mary

A very long time ago while only a child, I would have answered the phone on this day to hear my Aunt Lora's voice. She would be calling to wish her sister a happy birthday.

My aunt was a tall, formidable woman with many talents, sparkling eyes and a quick wit. She was Navy and stood six feet tall, cooked like a chef, was a master at the sewing machine and faced life with discipline and energy. I absolutely adored her. Daddy though... not so much. When she called and he answered the phone you would hear him say "I knew it was you, I could tell by that old hateful ring"... his dry wit not impressing mama in the least at that moment. Mama would give him "a look" and take the phone.

You could watch the weight of the world lift from my mothers face as she talked and laughed with her sister. Talking with the ones you love does that for you, doesn't it?

Their mother died in childbirth when they were only five and six. They grew up in the depression with little material possessions, only their father to raise them. They walked to the creek and hauled water for cooking and cleaning at five and six. Later, lived in a tent for a short time with their father and swept dirt floors with brooms they fashioned from straw. They wore clothing mended by their aunts to keep them covered, wrapped rags around their feet to keep them warm during hard times when the temperatures dipped and walked the two miles to church on Sundays to worship.

They were markedly similar but also very different. Mama was an excellent cook as well and of the two, probably the more easy going one. They balanced each other perfectly. When they sat and talked for hours on end, I was glued to my seat listening intently to every word. They shared amazing stories of their lives, their viewpoints and mama never laughed as much as when her sister was with her.

Mama told the story of Aunt Lora living in Nashville when she was only 17 or 18 and going on a date with a young man. The young man got a bit too fresh and my Aunt Lora got out of the car and walked away in the middle of nowhere. She saw a farmhouse with lights still on and walked to it, told them what happened and she needed a place to stay for the night. She slept at that farmhouse for the night, then caught a bus back to town the next morning. When mama shared the story she said, "I would not have known what to do but Lora did." She thought her sister amazing and perfect in every way. So today, I think of them both and I miss them. Mama would have been 94. She and my Aunt Lora are together again. Today I can still hear, Happy birthday Mary.

It's almost Spring, again.

This is my second recent post on spring but it's just so darned awesome. It begs another post. So, forgive me but things have started blooming here.

We've had an incredibly wet winter in the south, okay, more like a SOAKING winter. We find ourselves again this week in a pattern of rain. I'm not complaining as it's helping all the plants, grass and trees but it does make for some dreary days. When my dry winter skin reaches epic proportions I know it's time for things to start blooming. I'll get some relief and the bonus is it will be beautiful and green outside.
February is always poignant in the sense of being emotional, not sad really just moving. Mama would have been 94 on the 23rd and daddy left this earth in February 1978. Joyfully though, I am constantly reminded of them.
Sipping coffee this morning and gazing out over the lake, I see all the forsythia[yellow bells] are blooming. The graceful limbs beginning to pop with bright yellow blooms.
[An early garden lesson from mama- The blooms come first, then the leaves, she would say. But why, I would ask? Maybe God wants you to see beauty in His creation, then the green reminds us He is enduring and forever.] I can still hear her words.

So outside our bedroom window, farther in the back yard and beside the mailbox are reminders of childhood. My mother had yellow bells surrounding our house. They were everywhere, she loved them. When she and daddy built our childhood home, she brought cuttings and sprouts from her daddy's home place. She nurtured them and each year she moved more around her home and into the yard. Then as each of her children created their homes, she shared the cuttings. Each home we've built we always included forsythia from granddaddy's home place and Irises and more from mama.

                                                     

                 
 Not long after we built our current home mama was headed to her car after a visit and she reached into her trunk "I brought you something. Plant it where it will get plenty of sun and it will bloom well." Wrapped in foil and a damp paper towel mama handed me a stick. It was sawed at an angle on one end, about 10" long with a single sprout on one side. Flowering Plum tree? Yep.
It now stands about 10 feet tall beside our driveway with several three foot shooters surrounding it. Early blooms are signaling spring.

As sunny days become more prevalent, the irises will be next. I can almost feel the soft breeze and warm sun on my face, hear her words and relish in her lessons.

Memories come in brilliant yellow blooms today.  Enduring green leaves are just around the corner. 

There is peace to be found and an early spring.

It's 5 a.m. on a very cold Saturday and my husband is sound asleep, as all humans should be. There are two dogs also snoozing (& snoring), it's pitch black outside and I'm wide awake. I'm not sure why I can't sleep in, sometime I would like to hit the snooze button but I simply can't. My brain reminds me there is a pot of coffee with my name on it. I quietly steal away into the kitchen excited as a child at Christmas, for that hot cup from heaven.
I remember being awakened on Saturday mornings as a child to watch cartoons.  My brother would wrap me in a quilt and carry me to the couch about the time Bugs Bunny started. We would feast on dry Cheerios in a cup, long before it was a reasonable time to ask mama for breakfast.

This particular morning I hear the ducks squawking on the lake, the little birds begging for spring and snoring.. so. much. snoring. Oh, but the coffee is good.
I've become very retrospective these days. As I finish my morning devotion I am thinking on my week, what was accomplished and what was tossed aside. Oh yes, things were tossed to be finished another day. It's funny how things change over time. My Forty year old self would have been bothered by all the tossing aside but sixty year old me doesn't care. If I am completely forthcoming, forty year old me was just a smidge OCD and would surely have stayed up all hours of the night to finish the list of things that must be done. The frenetic pace of days gone by, have all but left me. I rest more these days, physically, emotionally and spiritually. Trusting that God will lead me every moment of every day. It's a tough concept to fathom when you are young because you have so many plans! I planned out every day and jumped in with both feet, mindful to thank God for the day but kind-of acting like I was in charge. You learn to trust God more, you become more willing to give up (self) and then the peace comes. Real peace. How often do we hear someone say, "I wish I knew then what I know now?" Oh how true.

Yesterday afternoon as the sun streamed in the living room windows, nasty and smudgy windows were staring back at me. (Maybe forty year old me isn't completely gone.) So I drug out the short step ladder, cleaner and paper towels. We have double hung windows which tilt out for easy cleaning. Maybe a more apt description would be "manhandle-type tilting window".. nevertheless, I got them tilted out and cleaned. While I cleaned I listened to the birds and off in the distance I heard the doves cooing. For real? I stopped to be sure.. let me hear it once more. Yep. There they go again, a sure sign of spring. I can hear my mothers voice in my head as if she is standing here, announcing the coming of spring. If mama were still on this earth she would have called all three of her children bright and early to make sure we knew she heard the doves.
Mama purely relished the coming of spring each year. It meant she was no longer cooped up in the house. She loved her hands in the dirt, getting her yard in shape and waiting for each new bloom.  Well into her early eighties she was seen pushing a lawn mower and weeding her shrubs.

My phone no longer rings with her announcements but now it's my turn. My turn to pass on the wisdom of the past, the knowledge of Gods sufficient grace and how you can trust He has you in his hand. Even the doves cooing.. I have a few phone calls to make, Spring is on the way.