Don't count on doomsday

 

One day last week, I brought my kids and a couple of friends home from school.   I needed to drop off Molly, my oldest, with her little brother Harry and his two friends.  I had to run a quick errand with Emma to pick up her friend.  It was an easy to carry out plan, very straightforward.  Set up the homework on the kitchen table, everyone is in charge of themselves and hold off on any playing or eating until I returned in ten minutes.  Easy enough.

The kids happily deboarded the minivan, lugging along their backpacks and headed into the house.  Emma and I scooted off, and all was right with the world.  The sun was even shining brightly, and the sun roof was open.  It was one of those afternoons where things seem "just right."  It felt like everything was going according to plan, everyone seemed cheerful, and  I recall birds gaily chirping.  You get the scene.

And then, Pleasantville exploded with one little phone call.  No matter what you do or where you live, you've had those calls.  You know, the ones that let you know your plans have changed or the ones that let you know that folks are not doing what you wish they were doing or the day will not continue along in the same Zippity Do Dah way it was before the call.  I don't mean the calls of really bad news; I mean the inconvenient calls, those that aggravate us.  We all get them.  This was mine . . . it was a recorded message.

(read this with the voice of a very upset eight year old and sound like the entire world as we know it is falling in.  make it sound like you might actually be having a medical emergency and there is a chance that all of the other children in the house may have been crushed under a roof implosion.  read it with a frog in your throat and make it sound like you could be close to your second to last breath ever.  also read it like the entire world is working against you and that you may not be able to speak much longer.)


Mama, this is Harry.  I really think you should come home because it's just really not working out without you.  So, I mean you should come home quickly because everybody is kinda mixed up and Molly can't really handle it all so you need to come home soon because please so that Molly won't have to deal with all of this because everyone is just trying to let her speak to you, speak to her to ask her questions and I can't get Study Island to work and my paper is torn because of when I had my water bottle at school spilled when I had my bookbag, and so I mean, that's it because so please come home soon because I really want you to come soon and Molly can't figure it out. . . Oh, and this is Harry.


That was my call and I have written it here in its entirety.  Apparently after the urgent call, Harry wasn't even able to muster the strength to hang up the phone or maybe the friends had risen up in a coo and had taken over the entire house; so I couldn't get them back on the phone.  Things were bad.  That was clear.  Completely clear.

Ughhh.  The birds stopped singing, I stopped whistling, and I dreaded the return to the scene of the crime and destruction.  I gave up on the afternoon.  It was ruined.  I knew when I got back the four I had dropped off would be in tears, the house would be a mess, the dog would have eaten all of the homework and the children may have even eaten the dog.  The siblings would be fighting, there would probably be debris in the yard, and somehow I figured someone else would have entered the scene.  I don't know, someone like the Orkin man or something.

The moods of the whole lot of us would sour.  Yuck.  I can't remember what day it was, but I remember thinking that I had never liked that particular day of the week anyway.  Ugghhh again.  We picked up our new friend and headed back home.  I did my best to cover my aggravation, but in my heart I knew . . . I knew the whole afternoon was a mess now.

You know how that goes.  Everything is rolling right along, and then . . . boom!  One phone call or one conversation or one bit of financial news or traffic pile-up or misunderstanding changes the whole day.  You just kind of know it's a wash.  That was the deal.  We drove up, I dreaded getting out of the car and facing the natives and the dog was barking.

I braced myself and pushed open the door.  I slowly turned to peer into the kitchen, just hoping to see at least one child still able to walk on his own accord.  I prayed for the best.  I hoped for a miracle.

Guess what I saw?  Three kids sitting at the kitchen table, busily working on homework and one in the study on the computer.  Molly was helping one of our friends on his math and the dog settled back in her favorite spot on top of the couch.  Everything looked exactly like it had before I left.  Everything except for the bookbags and pencils and papers and textbooks.  There was a little bit of laughing, a hello or two to the new friend and that was pretty much it!

I was ready to fold in the whole day!  What!  I had already called it quits on a happy family night and then come home to THIS!  I asked Molly how things were, expecting that this question would lead to the impending destruction of the day - "Oh, everything is great!  I got the boys working on their Math, Harry had a little trouble signing onto the website but we got that worked out, we found one of the homework papers had gotten wet from a water bottle but we put it out flat on the table and it's almost dry.  Everything is great!  What did you get us for snack?"  I asked Harry how everything was, knowing that surely this question would explain my doomed mood. "Oh, everything is good.  We're almost finished with our homework, we just need to finish our spelling.  I tried to call you earlier but I couldn't get you, so I left you a message."

'YOU LEFT ME A MESSAGE' I thought.  YOU TOLD ME THE SKY WAS FALLING, AND I BELIEVED YOU!  A MESSAGE?  THAT WAS MORE AKIN TO THE LAST CALL IN A MOVIE BEFORE A BUILDING BLOWS UP!  A MESSAGE?

And, that was that.  Nothing was wrong.  No one was unhappy.  Everyone's homework was finished.  Friends were happy.  Snack was good.  The sun kept shining and the birds began again their singing.  I took my little buddy's message and decided that indeed it was all BAD.  I wrote off the rest of the day.  I took one little piece of crazy news and painted it all over everything before I even checked it out.  I let myself let go of a little piece of goodness just from that.

We could learn a couple of different things from this scenario.

1. My son has an overactive sense of the dramatic and apparently needs to 'get it out of his system' to feel better and move on.
2. Sometimes we too easily let go of the good and decide to let a tiny bit of bad cover our day or our week or our life.  

I already know the validity of No. 1.  He does have an overactive sense of the dramatic.  I don't think that's what I'll take from this afternoon, though. 

How often do we let this kind of thing happen?  Why is it so easy to 'sell out' when things are moving right along?  

It's raining cats and dogs outside today.  I have a lot of work I need to be doing.  Harry is home sick.  Things need to be straightened up quite a bit.  But guess what?  All is well.  Tim is off today and he just built a fire, I love writing a blog, Sadie is back up in her spot on the couch and everything is pretty darn great.  I think I'll be a bit more careful next time I ruin a good day with just one little bit of uggghhhhh.  Hope you will, too.

I'll get to that or maybe not.

I trust that with just a glance at the above two photos you quickly concluded some of the things that this blog WILL NOT be.

I'll elaborate just a bit for those of you who aren't quite sure. While these things are admirable and often coveted by me, this blog WILL NOT contain . . .

• photos of my home-made bolognaise sauce, from tomato seed to garden to shabby chicly (I know that's not a word; I made it up.) organized kitchen to bubbly goodness in brightly colored Le Creuset to extended farm table on the porch with family and friends of all ages enjoying the delicious, colorful, nutritious goodness while mason jar candles sway in the light summer wind.
• tales of the sheep and I together, beginning with that that first shearing and ending with antiqued photos of the sheep being cuddled by my three children in their mother-knitted sweaters for the cool fall hikes along the river's edge.
• a pdf. of the shopping list I've designed, with spaces for notes about which store I visit for which staples and symbols for coupons best to use at each location.
• my tips for organizing the linen closet, neatly enclosing each sheet set inside the matching pillow cases, labeled shelves for each bedroom's linens and that uncluttered area saved especially for readying the home for guests.
• how-to's on "last minute breakfast ideas for hurried school mornings" and "welcoming the children home with loving treats at the end of the school day."

My truths aren't like that - those aren't part of my story. I may spend too much time worrying about not pulling off the "Martha Stewart with scruples and a loving touch" but I just checked to see that the Le Creuset oval dutch oven is $234.95 and I am involved in other pursuits.

Truth is:

• My pots and pans don't match, though there are some really nice pieces that have held up since the wedding and we gave Tim a cool wok for Christmas. Last night, I proudly prepared and served a delicious and nutritious slow-cooked meal that everyone devoured- when Emma and I bragged to two friends what a scrumptious, garlic-infused dinner we had enjoyed, they simultaneously asked, "Where'd y'all go?"
• I don't have a sheep. I did lovingly raise four chickens from birth to adulthood at school last year, coddled them, photographed them, taught children to love them, cleaned up after them, talked to them, chased after them on Washington St., and learned their different sounds (really). I can sew, but not on a sewing machine; and when my children need patches 'sewn' on for scouts, I much prefer the sticky stuff that binds the badge to the material into eternity.
• I have been a coupon person, and I hope to be one again. I have known the feeling of 'beating the man' at the Publix, leaving with a "saved" total larger than my "paid" total. I just couldn't keep it up, though. I couldn't win the race. I quit. I did. I just wasn't in it to win it. I bowed out. For now, I am eternally grateful that Tim is willing to do the grocery shopping far more than me.
• I organized my linen closet once, and I found a lot of neat things. I found a stained glass window that Tim bought before we married. I found pictures in frames that were on my desk at my job in Raleigh in 1998. I found some gifts for 'that special someone' I had bought right when we moved into this house nine years ago. I found a lot of ball point pens - many, many. And a large plastic red and white clothespin. I did organize the sheets in sets, and it looked great. I felt so good whenever I opened that closet. I did.
• This morning at breakfast, I signed papers, Tim laughed with the kids, Molly looked for 'needed' art supplies and ate the gluten-free, sugar-free breakfast she prepared herself, Emma ate - oooooo, I'm not sure what Emma ate, and Harry ate birthday cake from his friend's birthday dinner last night. Really. I haven't yet prepared this afternoon's loving, tasty and nutritious welcome home from school snack.

So that clears that up. I want to do those things; really, I do. You could say that I am somewhat of a procrastinator. Or, you could wait until later to say that. Or you could write it down on a list and just know that you'll say it later.

Sometimes I don't get to the things I want to get to. I wanted to get the house beautifully decorated for Christmas, with lights strung from the rooftop to the lowest branch, all for my children to love. I did. The photos above were taken this morning on the front porch, January 5, 2012. This is part of my 'claiming what makes me special' campaign. Two days before Christmas Eve, Tim surprised the kids with blinking lights on a few bushes on the left side of the house. They loved them! On Christmas Eve morning, Harry and Emma took the box of lights to the front porch, faces aglow with anticipation of the spectacle they would soon create. They took down the groovy carving that hangs on the back of one column and carefully strung lights two thirds of the way up the post, using wide blue painters' tape to secure the hold. They still hang there proudly. Today, the box still sits on the small, Granddaddy-made picnic table to the right of the door, and the groovy tree carving rests atop, as if he patiently awaits his return to view. All of that is true.

Let's face it; the house didn't shine out as our neighborhood's example of taste and beauty in celebration of the birth of our Lord. We don't have our Christmas decorations 'put up' and our tree proudly stands now to celebrate Epiphany tomorrow. I didn't have small, decorated gift bags for those un-announced friends that drop in and the last minute art project we tried two days before Christmas didn't exactly work and has been 'taken care of' by Tim.

All of that is not to say it was not a holy and wonderful celebration. It was! I was late, as usual, at doing some of the things that needed doing. But we did 'press pause.' I could tell you stories, and maybe I will, of the fun that Emma and I had gluing together a wreath out of cheap, shiny red balls. I could tell you about the singing that I heard from sun up to sun down from Molly, as she 'hung out' and went about her days off. I could tell you about the "hole" that Harry and his friends dug in the back yard and how it became a lake and how proud they were and how gorgeous the new water feature is. (Okay, not that last part.) I could tell you about all of the laughing we did and the way the fire went non-stop on Christmas day and about the way my grandmother ended up telling us old stories about how great it was growing up, poor, in a mill-town, surrounded by family and friends as far as she could walk. I could tell you about how I am still cleaning up sheets and blankets and pillows from all over the house because there was family and friends and neighbors who played and laughed and spent the night and stayed lazy in the mornings. I procrastinated, as usual. I did. But somehow it always works out. Stuff gets done and some amazing things happen that can't be planned for.

Just now, as I took a break from cleaning to get edit some photos and then took a break from that to work on this blog and then put that off for just a minute to check out what was happening on Pinterest, I found this:

The work you do while you procrastinate is probably the work you should be doing for the rest of your life. -Jessica Hache

So, for now I think I'll write a blog and take photographs of people I really dig!

Books with no numbers

I live in a town with no bookstores. This is true. Among the list of things I am doing now or have done that I never imagined I would do (including - I never imagined I would drive a mini-van, I never imagined I would direct a pre-school, I never imagined I would marry a priest, I never imagined I would not be able to fit even one car in our two-car garage, I never imagined that I would read books on something that gets recharged, I never imagined that I would want to write a blog, I never imagined that I would start a photography business, I never imagined that I would want to play Scrabble on a small device I also use for phone calls, I never imagined that I would live with four beings - five, counting Sadie, the dog - that I adore this much and on and on and on), living in a town (county, actually) without a bookstore ranks high on the list. I did not know such a thing existed.

This is not to say that my town is not wonderful; it is. There is a town square to beat any, and we actually have concerts and events and children run around playing and adults smile - really! And we have nice people. We have nice people everywhere, and many of us know each other well. We know each other's names. In my town, people care very much. If it is almost Christmas time (say, three years ago) and your husband is in the hospital and his mother is in another town, in another hospital, close to the end of her sweet life; people stop everything they are doing and they 'do you' for a while. They come to your house and some of them clean and some of them do the laundry and some of them rake the yard and some of them buy a Christmas tree and some of them decorate the outside of your house with lights for the kids and some of them buy a cake for your daughter's birthday and some of them leave food and some of them put little things in your outlets that make your house smell homey and the ones that are not at your house pray for you . . . a lot. My town is great.

And we have an unbelievable arts program for young people and we have a beautiful college campus just across a bridge and we have fun parties in our cul-de-sacs and we go to special events at one another's churches, we wave at each other all of the time, we don't have to drive far in the car to get to any other place in our town, we have great big antebellum homes and organic farmers and cool artists and an unbelievable library. It is a grand town. Really.

But there is no small, corner bookstore. There is no large chain bookstore. There was a Chapter 11 and a real bookstore in the next county over and there were bookstores here before. They are all gone now. Saddened by this, a group of us at my church started a small bookstore right in our church, and all of the proceeds go to outreach. I am thankful, and I imagine that I will write more about it some time on this blog. There is one 'used book/sell/trade' bookstore, and I'll pick up the story here.

These days I love this used bookstore; but upon our arrival here twelve years ago, I wasn't sure just what to make of it. When I made my initial voyage in, I felt that all of the books had numbers on the bottoms of the spines (i.e. No. 427 of this Romance series or No. 17 of this Sci-Fi Thriller or No. 102 of this Western) and it threw me off - way off. I searched and searched for books without the numbers. I looked way down at the bottom, in case that was where they put the ones that not many folks like, and I looked back in the back where the books are stacked in piles instead of side by side in order. No luck. I finally headed to the front to ask. On my way, I began to wonder how I would ask for the section I wanted - what was it called? Hmmmmm. Once, some friends told me that I seemed to read a lot of books with white covers that were about poor people. Is that a genre? And so I asked, "Do you have a literature section?" "You mean, like the Classics?" the nice lady asked in response. "Well, not exactly that." I said, rubbing my chin to think harder. I tried different descriptions, like 'bestsellers' - 'top ten' - 'New York Times' - 'popular' - I tried many different adjective-infused phrases. And then it happened . . . she knew what I meant!

"Oh, you're talking about Oprah books! They're over here on a special rack." Alas, there they were; the books I like, the books I had heard of, the books I recognized, the books with no numbers on the bottom of the spines! I'm all about Oprah, and appreciate the Oprah Book Club, but I would not have thought of invoking her name on my hunt for a good read. Now I know better. I immediately felt warm and happy, as I slowly turned the spinny rack. All was right with the world. I had moved to a good place, and there were Oprah books. Ahhhhhh.

I perused the section, picked out a few I had heard of and a few that looked interesting. I paid for the transaction and left with a new confidence, a new awareness about small-town life. I think maybe I read an Anita Shreve or Jodi Piccoult and then went for a book I had chosen for the reason we are taught never to admit - I had judged a book by it's cover. Really. The book was And Then There Was One, by Carolyn Radziwill. It was a good read and very sad. Carolyn was married to John Kennedy, Jr.'s cousin, who died of cancer early in their marriage. Carolyn's best friend was Carolyn Bessette, wife of John Kennedy, Jr. To say that she overcame sadness is an understatement. All of the tragedy in the book was tragedy I already knew about, and that is not what stayed with me after I finished. I was left with a sentence, and I have never forgotten it. I like it, and I felt like it explained a lot, made sense of a lot, and made me understand why talking and listening and reading and writing is important. Here is the sentence . . .

"Ultimately what remains is a story. In the end, it's the only thing any of us really owns."