Roofing in the Rain

Well, there must be something about the outdoors that just lends itself to adventure, right? Yesterday we went down to our land again -- Jack, me, Jill, John, Michael, Hank, Dianne & Rebecca Horton. It had been raining steadily south of us (yes, we had to remind ourselves what that stuff falling out of the sky even WAS), and we got there to discover that our cabin was leaking. In several places. John & Jill had sheet rocked most of the inside, and some of the rock was wet and there were some wet places on the plywood flooring. The roof has felt on it, but hadn't been shingled yet because:

  1. Jack broke his rib and couldn't climb up and help yet;                                                                             2. We kept forgetting to take our long ladder down there; and                                                                     3. It was dry as a bone anyway.

Famous last thoughts.

We now realize that a good thing to remember is that unless you HAVE shingled the roof, you can't expect roofing felt to keep out the rain for very long. Because, drought or not, eventually the water returns. So, yesterday the guys had already gone down to the river to fish when the women & children discovered the leaks. Jill and I knew we needed to put something over the roof, and we had a couple of great big tarps on hand. Unfortunately, we only had a 6' stepladder with us, and the floor of the cabin itself is three feet above the ground, making the roof of the cabin something like 10 feet above the ground. Ten-foot roof, six-foot ladder...you do the math.

We tried climbing as high up on the ladder as it was safe to go, but couldn't push the tarp onto the roof from there. We tried pushing a corner of it up by using a weed-trimmer tool, but the serrated edge of the blade kept catching in the fold of the tarp and pulling it right off the roof again. So then we had the bright (I use the term loosely) idea of tying an empty paint can to the rope running through the grommets in the tarp and trying to throw the can over the roof, thinking it would fall over the other side and pull the tarp with it. The thing is, you stand there and look upward to toss the can over, and while you're looking upward, the rain is pouring into your face, which causes you to close your eyes, which means you can't see where you're throwing the can. Now IF you're gonna be throwing a can up into the air, it's most likely a good idea to keep an eye on it in case it comes back down on your head. Which it kept doing, because it wasn't heavy enough to pull the tarp up. We were getting nowhere fast.

About that time the guys came trudging up the hill and saw us, and John shouted, "What the HELL are you doing?" as they all began laughing. I explained what we were trying to do and John said we needed to weight the can with a big rock. That was effective, and we actually got it over the roof to the other side, but unfortunately the tarp was kind of folded over on itself and we couldn't get it completely straightened out because (see paragraph above for reference) we couldn't get high enough to reach it.

So we had a tarp on the roof, somewhat folded on itself, and then a gust of wind caught the back side of it and nearly pulled it off the roof. I think we all screamed out loud at that point. In desperation, we tossed some fence pickets up on top of it all to keep it from blowing off.

I forgot to mention the fact that we'd already nailed one tarp onto the back side of the cabin to cover the uncovered plywood.

Meanwhile, it kept raining.

The guys wanted to keep fishing. The women had a different plan, which involved putting everything and everybody back into the three vehicles and getting the heck out of Dodge. The women -- the cold, soaking-wet women--prevailed.

 (this was from an email written in about 2000 about our land on the Bosque River in Meridian, Texas)

Catskills and Clowns

 My husband Jack and I have told each other many times how lucky we are that our grown daughters don't seem to mind spending time with us - in fact, we've made several vacation trips with our eldest daughter Jill and her crew. 

In about 2007 Jill and John invited us to go with them and their sons Michael (age 8) and Joseph (6) to upstate New York, to see the Finger Lakes region, the area around Auburn, where John was born. Jack and I had been to New York City before, but never the northern part of the state, so we were glad to come along.

We flew to Buffalo, and driving from the airport caught our first glimpse of woodchucks (groundhogs), whose burrows we could see alongside the highway. We visited Niagara Falls (both the U.S. and Canada) and that was an amazing experience. On the U.S. side, in the state park, you can stand right alongside the railings and look at the river flowing over, hearing it roar, and be absolutely astonished at the volume of water that just never stops. 

We did the "journey behind the falls," entering through a tunnel and then onto a deck from which you can see the Canadian Horseshoe Falls. We had to remove our shoes and put on rubber sandals and yellow rain ponchos as we began that tour. Afterward, we learned that the used sandals were sent to third-world countries. We joked that as a crate was opened in deepest Africa, the villagers would say, "Oh, great - another bunch of tourists went to Niagara Falls!"

In Niagara, New York, we had the best pizza I have ever eaten. In Auburn, John's birthplace, we saw the Auburn Correctional Facility, which - unlike in Texas where prisons are in the country away from cities -- is right in town! It was rather astonishing to drive in the street right next to it and see houses nearby.

The Finger Lakes region is really lovely with the Catskills and Adirondack mountains nearby. We went to Skaneateles (pronounced skinny atlas), which definitely has one of the strangest names I've come across. 

But my favorite memory of the trip took place in a little town whose names I can't recall, right on the border of Lake Ontario, where we could look across and see Canada. It was a charming place, and we happened to be there when they were having a town gathering, with music being played in a gazebo and everyone in a festive mood. A woman dressed as a clown approached our grandsons and began talking to them about TV characters that were way before their time. She asked if they knew Tony the Tiger and they were completely confused. Finally, in frustration, little Joe turned to his father and asked, "Dad, can you talk to this clown?"

Fourteen years later, that still makes me laugh.

Why Do Children...?

(This was written by my mom, Ora Irby, in 1959. All incidents she described were true, and a few of them became family lore and have been told many times).

Before I became a mother I had very strong ideas on how to raise children. I  noticed the mistakes of aunts and neighbors and determined to profit by them. My children, I thought, would not be misbehaved little brats but would be sweet and well-mannered. Now I catch myself thinking, "Little did I know," "The best-laid plans of mice and men...," and "Experience is the best teacher."

One of the many rules I had for rearing children was that I would use the positive approach instead of the negative. Instead of saying "don't" or "no" constantly, I would reason with my children. It didn't take long to find that my girls had to have a reason for my reason that was better than their reason. That led to arguing to see who had the better reason, and that led to my losing arguments. This led me to the middle-of-the-road approach, which means giving a reason and then laying down the law.

"Momma, can we go swimming?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Because I can't afford it."

"Yes, you can. I looked in your purse. You have some money."

"That money is for food, not swimming."

"Why can't we go swimming? Other children get to go. You never let us do anything."

"Isn't that awful? You can't go swimming and that's final."

"Why? Just give me one good reason!"

"Because I said you can't, and if you ask once more I'm going to blister you."

If I had started out by saying "no" and not allowing any back-talk, we might have repressed, neurotic, cowering children, but just think of the peace and quiet.

Eight-year-old Peggy is what the experts call a gifted child. She was walking at seven months, could say three-word sentences at 12 months, and before she finished second grade had read Heidi, Black Beauty, and about 56 smaller library books. She doesn't say, "Mother, how do you spell 'probably'?" She says, "Mother, is 'probably' spelled p-r-o-b-a-b-l-y?" All I have to do is say yes. It saves me a lot of trouble in the long run, for otherwise I would have to keep the dictionary in my purse for easy reference.

In her class at school a red 100 means perfect; a blue 100 means there has been an erasure and a correction. The first time she got a blue 100 was a crushing blow. It threw her out of kilter so much that the next day she made 99 on something. She showed me the question she had missed, and to tell the truth I would have  missed it, too. I didn't understand the question at all. Peggy said the whole class missed on that question, and I imagine the teacher would have, too, except for having the answer book to go by.

As a girl, I was just average in intelligence and had to struggle hard to get as high as a "B"; therefore it is a wonder where Peggy gets her smartness. (or my term: "smart-aleckness.") Because she wants to learn everything about everything, she asks unending questions that her father and I are hard-put to answer. I suppose this leads her to the notion that we are stupid, and that she knows more than we do.

I am almost afraid to talk to her because of the fact that some innocent remark may send her off into a long line of questions. Once I said, "You eat so much between meals, you must have a tapeworm."

"What's a tapeworm?"

"It's a long worm that lives in peoples' intestines and eats the food that people eat."

"How does it get inside you?"

"Usually by a person eating pork that is not well-cooked."

"How long does it get?"

"Oh, several feet."

"What does it look like?"

"Let's look in the Book of Knowledge. (I look up worms in the Book of Knowledge but there is no picture of the worm I am looking for).

"Do I really have a tapeworm?"

"No, silly, I just said that."

"Well, I might have one."

"No, you don't."

"How do you know?"

"We hardly ever eat pork, and when we do I cook it very well."

"Maybe I got it somewhere else."

"Oh, hush up. Drop the subject. I don't want to hear another word about tapeworms."

If Peggy is a learner and doer, Karen is a dreamer and don't-doer. They are as far apart as the poles. For a long time I thought, naively, that Peggy was normal in intelligence, so consequently Karen must be abnormal. Karen didn't care a whit whether she learned anything or not. I was full of misgivings when I took her to school and she didn't know the alphabet from a hole in the head. I fully expected to get a note from the principal telling us that Karen was not mentally ready for school and that she should wait another year. Imagine our surprise when, upon attending open house at the school, we found that Karen was doing as well as some children, and even better than others. It was then that it dawned upon me: Karen was the normal child. It was Peggy who was different.

When it comes to discipline, the girls are also different. Whereas Peggy becomes antagonistic and argumentative, Karen uses a very feminine approach. She just stands with a hurt expression on her face and lets the tears fall. Then she gets a hammer lock around my neck and says she is sorry. I have to forgive her or get strangled.

As a baby, Peggy had an unusual appetite for unusual food. One memorable day I found one-half of a June bug in a spot Peggy had recently vacated. I nearly went crazy the rest of day, saying to myself, "Do you suppose she did? No, she couldn't have. Oh, she wouldn't do a thing like that. And yet..." The next morning (via her diaper) I found that she had, after all. Then there was the time that she ate half a jar of cold cream and cried when I took the other half away from her. I need not mention the cigarette butts or dirt.

Why do children do things like that?

One of the girls (I can't always remember which did what) poured out a large box of Tide on the kitchen floor. I swept it up, dirt and well, and put it back in the box. My way of figuring was that if Tide can get clothes clean, it ought to be able to get itself clean.

One incident I shall never forgot: it is etched indelibly in my mind. Karen was only a baby in her crib, just barely able to stand in her bed while holding on. Peggy was about two-and-a-half. On this particular morning, everything was quiet as I went upstairs, and I was hoping that the girls were still sleeping. Peggy heard me coming and gleefully said, "Look, mommy, Kerne is a Indian." I looked and what I saw was not an Indian, but a completely bare baby covered from head to foot with cream rouge. By the time I finished with Peggy, her bottom was almost as red as Karen's. It took a large bottle of cold cream, a box of Kleenex, and three baths to get Karen to a blush pink. I can look back and laugh now, but it was no laughing matter then.

I wondered if the time would ever come when the girls would go to bed without the usual arguments with us and fights between themselves. Now that they are seven and eight (and have different rooms) there is a minimum of trouble. This may also have something to do with the television having been out of order for the last two months and our not having it repaired. Nevertheless, they now go to bed with hardly any arguments and only one trip apiece for water and to the bathroom. Now there is a new problem. Whereas before I wanted them to sleep late and they wanted to wake at the crack of dawn, now I want them to wake early and get ready for school, and they want to sleep till ten o'clock.

Speaking of getting ready for school -- there is another field in which the girls differ. After I drag them both out of bed, Peggy begins immediately getting dressed. When she tries, she can get completely dressed in five minutes. Karen, on the other hand, can take 20 minutes in putting on two socks. It seems she has a talent for losing one sock while putting on the other. Then she invariably asks where her shoes are. I have found them together, or separately, in the most unlikely places. The most likely places are in the back yard (where the dog has a jolly time with them), or in the dirty clothes hamper. Once, after having searched for 30 minutes, I was almost ready to send her to school barefooted, when I found them in a drawer of her vanity, the most unlikely place for her to put them.

Don't get the idea that I never have trouble with Peggy on school days. There are times when I have ironed "the wrong dress" for her to wear. In fact, any time it is not her nylon Easter dress, it's the wrong dress. She can't go to school with only one slip; she has to wear a slip, two red petticoats, and one pink petticoat. On the other hand, Karen would just as soon go to school without any slip at all, and does if I don't check on her.

Peggy has yet to forgive me for making her wear brown oxfords to school. It seems she was the laughing stock of the school every day, and "looked like a boy." "All" the other girls wear strapless, tieless, ballerina shoes. And, "When are you going to get me a REAL full nylon petticoat?" It seems that "everyone" (including the boys?) wears REAL full nylon petticoats.

Karen wears glasses, and instead of cleaning them when they are dirty (which is almost constantly) she takes them off and forgets where she has laid them. Once she put them in her lunch kit, then left her lunch kit in the school yard. I looked for both the next day and the lunch kit was neither in the play yard nor the lost-and-found. After a week we were about ready to plunk down $21.50 for a new pair of glasses, when the lunch kit mysteriously appeared in the play yard.

Karen's glasses were forever getting knocked to the ground, bending or getting the earpieces broken. For a long time she went around with one earpiece completely gone and the other tied on with adhesive tape. They sort of titled a little and she said she would rather keep them off than on. Bob got the bright idea or taking the earpieces off an old worn-out pair to put on her glasses. They work fine, so far.

Karen wants to take all her toys to show her teacher. One conversation went like this:

“No, you may not take your Magic Wood to show Mrs. Taylor.”

“Other children take their toys to show her.”

“I know you too well. You would be playing with this instead of listening to the teacher.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I promise.”

“You are not taking the wood and that’s final.”

“Aw-w-w-w.”

As you can plainly see, I am a cruel, heartless, sadistic mother.

During automobile trips when Karen was three and Peggy was four, Peggy was always noticing things first and pointing them out to Karen, who would most likely look in the wrong direction and never see what Peggy saw at all. I think Karen was getting an inferiority complex because she never saw things first. But one day she came into her own. She pointed and said, “See the bus, Peggy?” “Where? I didn’t see a bus,” said Peggy. Karen said, with great amazement, “All by myself, I saw a bus.”

Sometimes I hear the tail-end of a conversation between the girls, or between one of them and a playmate, that I just must be too thick to understand. Like the time I heard Karen say to someone in the next room, “Mother is wearing shorts. Mothers wear shorts. Jeffrey’s mother wears shorts.”

I am afraid that the girls’ interpretation of the Golden Rule is “Do unto your sister as she does unto you, and do it twice as hard.” Tattling got so bad, and accusations worse, that I resorted to telling them to settle their own troubles – I had troubles of my own. Otherwise I must spank both of them to be sure in getting the right culprit. Though there is still an occasional tattle, the reduction in number of times per days is considerable.

Hardly a day goes by that we don’t learn by picture or by oration just how much they love us. At these times everyone is lovey-dovey (practically gooey) and we remind the girls how much better it is to be loving than fussing. They agree wholeheartedly.

There have been a few times when Peggy, after being punished, has asserted fiercely, “You love Karen more than you do me!” (it’s funny, but Karen says we love Peggy more than we do her). Then there have been a few “I hate you’s” but I merely reply “You may hate me, but I still love you.” This may bring on a barrage of “No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t spank me.” I was beginning to worry a little about the latter until Peggy announced that her class had to make a little speech on whether parents should or should not spank their children, and that her speech went, “Parents should spank their children ‘cause if they didn’t it would mean that the parents didn’t love their children, and the children would grow up to be spoiled brats.”

How proud can a mother get? I am beginning to think my girls will be sweet-well-behaved girls after all.

“MOMMA. TELL KAREN TO GET OUT OF MY BEDROOM AND STAY OUT!”

Excuse me, please. I am referee again. Why do children…?

Playing Hide and Seek with God

Does God live in your house? In your place of work? In the busyness of your life? Or do you (like many of us) "save" God for worship services, religious holidays, Bible readings, or church work? Do we think that God prefers stained glass and pews to a tree decked out in autumn colors, or a good time shared with a friend?

I've been guilty of choosing when and where I could meet God and experience his love. I've thought, "I can find him on a retreat, but not when I'm driving the carpool. He can speak to me from the Bible, but not from a TV show." But when I arbitrarily decide where God can be found and where he can't I've drastically curtailed his avenues of reaching out to me. It makes about as much sense a not opening a gift because we weren't planning on it being wrapped that way! Every moment of every day holds the possibility of encountering God's love.

Nicholas of Gusa, a fifteenth century bishop, is reported to have said, "God is he whose center is everywhere and circumference is nowhere." If you think about that for very long, it will fill you with awe. There is the same feeling reading Paul's claim in Romans 11: "From him and through him and for him are all things."  In Genesis we see that God's original intention seemed to have been an intimate and perpetual communion with his creation. But human beings began to lose touch with the sense of God's presence everywhere, all the time. During the Exodus, the Israelites began to think of God's presence localized with the Ark of the Covenant. As Old Testament history progressed, God's presence was considered to be enthroned in the temple in Jerusalem. The splitting of sacred and secular had begun.

With the coming of Jesus also came an incredible expansion of the perception of God in the world. God was now among us in human form. It was Jesus who re-established the fullness of intimate communion with the Father. At his death, the curtain of the Temple was literally torn in two -- God was  no longer hidden behind a veil.

Evelyn Underhill observed that we are surrounded on all sides by God. But often we're no more conscious of him than we are of the air we breathe. Why is that?

When I was in grade school the art teacher, Mrs. Muncie, was always bustling around so busily that she'd get easily sidetracked and forget what she started to do. The joke of the class was that Mrs. Muncie was always losing her glasses and her keys -- she'd run around frantically, accusing us of taking them, when most of the time the glasses were stuck on top of her head and the keys were laying in plain sight on the desk where she'd put them. It's the same sort of nonsensical thing we do with God: he's right here in plain sight, brimming over with love for us, while we run around frantically crying "Where is God?"

But knowing God is everywhere and realizing he's with you is only the beginning. How many times my children have come to me to tell me something important to them, and I was busy and distracted and didn't listen with my full attention. Being truly present to one another requires that we be open to each other, that we really listen. It's the same way with God: we need to clear away the distractions and stand ready to let him in.

A group of scholars came to see a religious teacher, who surprised them by asking what seemed to be a foolish question: "Where is the dwelling place of God?" The scholars laughed and replied, "What a thing to ask! Is not the whole world full of his glory?" The teacher smiled and said, "God dwells wherever man lets him in." In the book of James we read a similar statement, "Draw near to God and he will draw near to you."

When my daughter Joanna was little, she loved to play hide and seek. A favorite hiding place was behind the living room curtain. She would stand as still as a statue, waiting while I "searched" for her. What she didn't realize was that her little feet stuck out from beneath the curtain, and of course I could always see immediately where she was. But I would pretend to look for her, with my running commentary of "Joanna, where ARE you? Now where can that girl be?" and so on. Then I'd make a great show of discovering her: "There you are! I looked everywhere!" She'd giggle with delight and the game would begin again, with Jo never realizing that I'd known all along where she was. "Where are you, Jo?" I'd call, searching her out because I loved her and wanted to find her.

And so it is with God -- he loved humankind enough to search us out before we even knew we were lost. Even when we think we're hidden from him, our feet showing from under the curtain give us away every time. And just as Joanna shrieked with laughter when I "found" her, we can feel similar excitement and joy when we let God find us.

God dwells where we let him in. In our homes, in our cars, at our workplaces, standing in line at the grocery store. He is with us where we are.

Even when we think we're hiding.


(adapted from a devotional given at Sunset Presbyterian Church in about 1982).

Listening for the Silence

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven...a time to keep silence, and a time to speak." (Eccles. 3:1-7)

I have to admit that a lot of the time I don't feel that there's much silence in my life. So often, so many needs clamor for my attention! There are days that the phone seems to ring every time I try to start any job at all. The noise of TV, the washer and dryer, the dishwasher, the vacuum cleaner, the doorbell, and on and on. And when school's out each afternoon, it's "Mom, I need help with my homework," or "Mom, I need a new folder for my class" or "Mom, I'm starving - I can't wait til dinner!"

If God tries to talk to me, how can I hear him over all the noise? How I sometimes long for silence!

And yet there are times when I do have that silence, and my soul is uneasy because I can't feel God's presence at all. What is happening when we can't hear God? Is God then mute?

When persons lose their hearing, children still laugh, birds still sing. The loss of hearing means that one's ears no longer interpret the vibration of the sounds around them, not that the sounds themselves cease. Those persons out of necessity sometimes learn to compensate by developing other methods of "hearing."

When I can't hear God, I also must compensate, by holding on to my faith even when I can't feel Him or hear Him. What are we to think about those times that we can't hear God, when we feel alone and forsaken?

In the Winter, leaves are stripped from the trees, flowers die, grass turns brown. Birds fly away and animals go into hiding. But then something wonderful happens -- Spring comes. And we realize that winter comes, but it doesn't endure forever. So it is in our lives. We will certainly have times of loneliness or feeling forsaken, but they will not endure forever. God has promised never to abandon us. Those silences are like seeds and bulbs lying dormant in the earth, waiting for spring. As the writer of Ecclesiastes tells us, all of life has cycles and seasons. Faith gets us through the Winter of our lives, because we know that Spring will follow. Contentment comes with learning to weather all seasons, even those of doubt and silence.

Life is full of paradoxes. Birth is death from the womb. Death is birth into the hereafter. Jesus died so that we might live. Paradoxes seem to be separated by a thin curtain. Our perception depends on which side of that curtain we stand. If I walk from this room into the next one, you see me as leaving. But a person standing in that other room sees me as arriving.

A much-loved children's book, The Velveteen Rabbit, describes what many of us might consider ugly and reveals the beauty within. In a nursery scene, an old rocking horse, the Skin Horse, befriends a rather new and uncertain Rabbit. Their encounter goes like this:

The Skin Horse had lived in the nursery longer than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away. He knew that they were only toys and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

     "What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
     
     "Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

     "Does it hurt?"

     "Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

     "Does it happen all at once, like being wound up, or bit by bit?" 

     "It doesn't happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or who have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."


Well, if ugliness can be beauty, and leaving can be arriving, and dying is birth into another existence, is it possible that silence might even be hearing? Perhaps in some ways our souls hear best in silence.

When my girls were younger there were times I had to send them to their room to rest. They didn't usually like it and sometimes felt that I was shutting them out, but I knew that it was time they needed to rest and recharge. Can it be that God deals with us the same way? When we are feeling shut out, could God be allowing us to regenerate in quietness? Can what we perceive to be negative actually be positive?

I think the story of the Velveteen Rabbit and the Skin Horse can speak to all of us. In order to become REAL, a conscious child of God, you and I may be asked to endure long silences that at first hold no meaning for us. The process may hurt sometimes. It may not happen all at once. We may have to "become" and it may take a long time. Maybe that's why becoming REAL doesn't happen to people who break easily, or who have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Maybe, by the time we become REAL, most of our hair will be loved off, our eyes will drop out, and we will be loose in the joints and very shabby! But these things don't matter at all, because once we are REAL, we can't be ugly--except to people who don't understand.

So I hold on to the assurance that there is indeed a time and a purpose to everything.

Even silence.


(presented as a devotional to Sunset Presbyterian Church weekly prayer group, probably in late 1980s).

Mother of the Brides

(This was published in Southern Lifestyles Connection, March 2008)

As the parents of three daughters, Jack and I heard numerous times over the years, "You poor things - three weddings!" Nobody says that to the parents of boys.

Since we had eloped, I had no experience with planning a wedding. I was grateful that when oldest daughter Jill married she wanted a simple church ceremony, with the reception at a local hotel. Nothing unexpected happened, it was all beautiful, and we had a wonderful son-in-law in John "One down, two to go," I thought, and the years went by.

Joanna is five years younger than Jill, and Janet three years younger than Jo. I naively assumed that their weddings would eventually follow at chronological intervals based on the difference in their ages.

Silly me.

Both girls began dating their future husbands at about the same time, and after four years were ready for marriage. Jo wanted a spring wedding at White Rock Lake, and the only weekend date available was in April. Janet was graduating from college in May and wanted to be married before starting her new job The result was one wedding scheduled for April 7 and the other for June 24. Of the same year. Eleven weeks apart. That is not a misprint.

I broached the possibility of a combined wedding, with no success. The girls are very different in personality. Jo wanted things very laid-back, no attendants, and no fuss. Janet wanted a traditional church wedding, bridesmaids and groomsmen, and a fancier catered dinner.

With strong opinions about what they wanted, and making substantial financial contributions themselves, both girls did much of their own planning. Even so, for months I was in a daze. I'd lie sleepless in bed at night worrying that I'd get one wedding confused with the other. Janet was away at school, finishing her master's coursework, and already pretty stressed juggling school, work and wedding plans, so I was reluctant to bother her with my concerns.

Jo lives in Dallas so it was easier to work with her. She was a marvel of organization, with detailed poster schematics, supplies, and dedicated work crews. Her sunset ceremony at Winfrey Point was to be outside under an arbor, with the reception indoors. When we arrived in the morning to set up, the weather was glorious. When we returned at 4:00 p.m., there were gale-force winds causing whitecaps on the lake. Twenty minutes before the ceremony we had no choice but to bring everything indoors. We lugged in the arbor and set up chairs, while the guests sat at the reception tables enjoying the novelty. In spite of the last-minute frenzy, the ceremony was lovely, the barbeque dinner terrific, and the reception pure fun, with the bride and groom (who wore leather Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers) handing out Twinkies and Ding Dongs and other nostalgic snacks late in the evening.

The rearranged, non-traditional wedding was a fun way for Jo and Trey to enter their married life. Except that, as it turned out, they didn't legally enter married life until a couple of months later, since the County Records office lost their first marriage license. They had to get another one signed and recorded six weeks after the wedding. But that's another story.

Graduation behind her, it was time for Janet's wedding. Last-minute plans went fairly smoothly, although I wound up having to alter all four of the bridesmaids' dresses. We were fortunate to have close friends as caterer and decorator, and they did a masterful job. The ceremony was beautiful. The reception hall was spacious and inviting, and the dinner was delicious. We sent the newlyweds off in a shower of bubbles. Then, when the last guest left, the building manager informed us that we were required to haul all the trash to the dumpster. There we were, in our wedding finery, tiredly dragging out trash bags dripping leftover beverages. It's a quick way to bond with your new out-of-town relatives.

And oh, yes, the hotel had scheduled the wedding night reservation for July rather than June. By the grace of God I discovered that error in advance, otherwise Janet and Jeremiah would've shown up that night to find that they had no room reserved.

Each wedding was memorable, and we are blessed with two more wonderful sons-in-law and extended family.

But now I understand completely why my mother was so happy when Jack and I eloped.

The words that must be said

(This was originally published as a Dallas Morning News Community Voices column on November 27, 2008)

In 1991, when my daughters' school district faced a controversy over a textbook shortage, public outcry resulted in the scheduling of community meetings to explain the situation. Parents had the opportunity to voice their concerns. As I sat, intending only to listen, a Hispanic woman approached me. I didn't know her, but recognized her from my youngest daughter's school. The mother, obviously concerned that her limited English might prevent her from expressing herself clearly, pulled at my arm and pleaded, "You talk for us. You have words. Please, you talk."

So I registered to speak and addressed the representatives on her behalf. She hugged me and thanked me. Seventeen years later, I can't recall what I said to that Dallas ISD panel or what they said to the audience. What I do remember is that mother's confidence in my ability to express her concerens. I gave her a voice that she might not otherwise have had.

Not long afterward, a dear friend decided to leave her husband after more than 20 years of marriage. When she called to tell me, she said she wondered if there could ever be a chance of happiness after years of sadness. She said, "He told me so many times that I was worthless, that I was stupid. I stopped believing in myself."

I was heartsick. I had witnessed that emotional abuse and heard those caustic words, yet I had not spoken up to dispute them. I had told myself it was none of my business, that I must be over-sensitive, that surely if the verbal mistreatment bothered her she would stand up for herself.

I had kept silent.

Recently I participated in an event hosted by a domestic violence shelter and advocate agency. Two women who had left abusive relationships shared their stories about the positive changes in their lives made possible by the services the agency provides. They had made the decision to seek help after someone close to them had told them that there was hope for a better life. Someone had cared enough to speak up.

I thought back to those two experiences. I remembered how good it felt to help someone have a voice - and how terrible I felt after that long-ago conversation with my friend. I called her and asked, "If I had spoken up in your defense when I heard your husband ridiculing you, if I had let him know I disagreed, would it have helped?"

"I'm not sure it would have stopped him," she replied, "but it  might have helped me find the strength to do something sooner. I felt awfully alone."

A person I barely knew asked me to speak up for her at a public meeting, and I was glad to help. A person I love needed someone to speak up on her behalf, and I was silent. In the first case, I spoke up and barely remember it. In the second case, I said nothing and have never forgotten it.

Isn't life often that way? We hear unkind words and keep silent, or see unkind actions and keep silent. Not because we don't care, but because we're afraid of what the reaction might be to speaking up. Not because we don't care, but because we don't feel that it's our business to interfere. Not because we don't care, but because our lives are so busy we don't make the time to get involved.

But if we don't speak up, perhaps the necessary words remain unsaid. If we don't protest, perhaps the hurtful actions continue. If we don't show that we care, perhaps a person who needs that caring feels awfully alone.

I still regret that I didn't speak up for my friend when I should have. She made me realize that it may be a good thing to speak up when it's easy, but it's often a better thing to speak up when it's difficult.

In the years since, I have tried always to speak up against unkindness, cruelty and injustice. Not stridently, not angrily, but firmly. If I can be a voice for someone who needs an advocate, I will. All I have to do is remember my friend's words, "I felt awfully alone."

Never again. Not if I can help it.

Come for dinner, critters

Found this in my files from August 2006 Dallas Morning News Neighborsgo.

Can I make a mid-year resolution?

Some years back when my parents made the sudden decision to leave their home of 40+ years and move into a retirement community, I asked Mom, "what about the house and all your stuff? What are you going to do about it?" She replied, "Oh, I thought you kids could figure that out for us."

"You kids" was pretty much me. As the eldest child, I had usually been the one called upon the pick up the mail and feed the birds when Mom and Dad went on vacation. Since for several years Jack and I lived just a block away from the folks, it did make sense. Even when we moved into another house, I was still the kid who was closest geographically, so I was the one called upon. So once they made the decision to move, I began spending several evenings a week going through the mountains of crap (and I use that term intentionally) that they had accumulated and held onto to try to get to the point where we could have an estate sale.

Although Dad had three storage buildings in the back yard, each with available space, he had lumber in the attic. Lumber. In the attic. Who does that? Also in the attic was a waterbed mattress from the 70s, a giant piece of stained glass that was in the front window of their long-ago studio, a box full of faded sales receipts from the studio (like a customer was gonna seek him out 30 years later about a refund?), and just plain junk. In one storage building were probably 60 or 70 individual cabinet doors. I think Dad used a few of them to cut up and build wall display units for their various collections of thimbles or whatever, but what the heck? How could he possibly need 60 cabinet doors?

There were three or four 4-drawer metal filing cabinets full of records, most of them unnecessary.

What I didn't find was family photographs. "Where are all the pictures of us when we were kids?" we asked Mom. "Oh, I threw most of them away. I scanned them into my computer where they didn't take up as much room."

You keep worthless sales receipts from the 80s but throw away sentimentally-priceless photographs from the 50s and 60s. Check.

When I first started the cleansing process I was worried that I might be setting up for a family version of Hoarders, but I was amazed to find that my folks let go of nearly everything extraneous without a fuss. They took the furniture and housewares they needed for the new place but let everything else go, to estate sale or trash as applicable. After months of dirty, exhausting effort at cleaning and clearing out, I swore to myself that I would never accumulate that much junk myself, would never do that to my children.

And today, more than six years later, I look around my house and see that I'm doing precisely that. I have enough fabric to open my own store -- and probably half of it is more than 10 years old. I don't make my daughters' clothes any more, and seldom make anything for myself. I work at a job where I see only family, never deal with the public, and can wear shorts and tees to work. So I don't need many nice blouses and skirts. Why am I keeping this fabric? There are two boxes labeled "Vintage Patterns," none of which I've looked at in years. And two big woven baskets of embroidered linens which I keep thinking I'll incorporate into dresses for my toddler granddaughters -- who only want to wear stuff that's sparkly and princess-like.

I have two drawers in my dresser that are basically junk drawers. Old pin-on buttons (Super Singer, We Support Our Troops-Come Home Soon [pretty sure that dates from Viet Nam days], Overworked and Underpaid, Native Texan, DISD Volunteer, and so on), mortarboard tassels from graduations, a decorative box from India, a Color Me Beautiful swatch book (if you've never had your colors done, I can't explain it), handkerchiefs: stuff, stuff, stuff.

An upstairs closet holds most of my collection of vintage clothes. Oh, I do have some wonderful things from the 40s and 50s, and I used to be able to fit into some of them and even wore them now and then. But that was years ago, and now they just hang there in the dark.

My bedroom closet holds other things with sentimental value: a tee shirt from my church choir (a church that dissolved in 1996), my grandmom's View Master, a tartan from my mom that features a plaid of one of our ancestor's lines, the shoes I wore to high school prom, a stuffed unicorn (definitely an 80s item)...Seriously, will my daughters care about any of those things when I'm gone? Absolutely not. If my house caught fire and I only had time to grab a few things as I escaped, would I grab those prom shoes? Absolutely not.

I've never been big on new year's resolutions. They sound good, they may make us feel good, but we all know that they usually fizzle pretty quickly, probably because we make them only because we think we're supposed to. But this year I want to make a mid-year resolution, and I'm going to try hard to keep it. I'm going to start paring down - tossing out, selling on eBay or donating to charity - a lot of the stuff that is strangling me and taking up too much space in my house and in my life.

Even though it's taken too many years to get me off dead center, I do realize that the things that are important to me are the things that evoke precious memories. My journals about my daughters. The letters Jack wrote me from college. Family photos. The outfits Jack's mom knitted for our girls when they were little. The quilt my Great-Aunt Sue made that includes fabrics I gave her.

I'm challenging myself to let go of at least some of the clutter. Let's see if I'm up to the challenge.

Even when you're Mom, you're a mama

If I'd ever sat down to think it through all the way down the line before I had any kids, I imagine I would have accepted that my job was to raise my daughters to be "good" kids - to display all kinds of positive qualities, probably a sort of Boy-Scout-trait checklist, (thrifty, clean, brave, reverent, etc., with "good steward of the earth's resources" thrown in for good measure). I would have thought that once I got them raised to be adults, and they were out of the house with families of their own, their lives were their own responsibility and my job was essentially done.

I would have been so silly, and so wrong.

That reality is brought home to me each time a crisis or calamity occurs that affects one of those daughters. When a grown daughter needs sudden and unexpected surgery, she might as well be 6, because I can't be at ease until I know she's made it through okay. Yes, I know she has a husband who loves her dearly and is with her. Yes, I know the medical personnel are capable and that this surgery is not usually dangerous. Yes, I know that it's impossible to go through life without trauma of one kind or another.

I know all those things in my head. In my heart, what I know is that no matter how old they are, they are my children (who were once upon a time my babies), and seeing them hurt, hurts. And I want to fix it.

So I try to walk the fine line between helpful mom and overprotective mom, and throw in just a hint of a breezy "you'll be just fine" vibe to help keep my upper lip stiff.  I will myself NOT to call every hour on the hour to make sure she's still feeling okay. I tell myself she will obey the doctor's orders to take it easy. I remind myself that she is a wonderful, responsible, level-headed person who is perfectly capable of asking for help if she needs it.

But when something like this happens, I don't feel like Mom, I feel like Mama, wishing I could hold her on my lap and hug her and make it better.

Sew much fun

Janet started it. She had a bunch of tees from her Texas Tech days and asked if I could make her a tee quilt. I had a blast putting it all together. Then Jack was envious and wanted one, so he rounded up some tees that he didn't wear anymore but hadn't thrown out because of sentimental reasons, and I made him one. Then I was at a thrift store one day and saw a tee that said "Twisted Sister" on front, and another one that said "Blame my Sister" and I knew that I had to make one for my sister Karen, whose birthday was coming up. I made a Midlothian Panthers throw for the Longbranch PTV school carnival's silent auction. Another was constructed from g-daughter Megan's Waxahachie High School tees. I made one for my teacher friend Daniel from his Bishop Dunne school tees. The one shown here was for my grandson Joseph's birthday. The most recent one was for son-in-law Jeremiah, from some more Texas Tech tees. (and Jer's was made extra-long so he could really wrap up in it).

Although these are pieced works, they're only partially quilted (for those of you in the know, I do stitch-in-the-ditch to outline) because with fleece backing they're substantial enough that they don't need much quilting. So I call them tee 'throws' rather than tee quilts.

I haven't calculated how many hours go into one of these. It doesn't matter because each one has been a labor of love. It's so much fun shopping for just the right complementary fabrics, then laying each design out and making it personal. I've got another one in mind, one that will be a complete surprise to the recipient.

Please excuse me. I hear the fabric store calling.

Genetic, or learned behavior, it's still dumb

Last week my dad fell and cut his hand. The nurse at the retirement home bandaged it but thought he probably needed stitches. So Mom loaded up both walkers into the car, and drove the couple of miles to the VA Hospital, where they had to wait nearly five hours for treatment (stitching and bandaging - turns out he broke a couple of bones). In all that time all they had to eat was a bag of popcorn and a bottle of Sprite. By the time they were done it was dark and her valet-parked car was nowhere to be found. A sympathetic security officer took her keys, found the car, and brought it to them. The idea of my 80-year-old mom, stomach growling, wandering around a parking lot in the dark looking for her car really made me unhappy.

And I didn't know about any of this until late the next day, when I learned of it by the email she sent to several family members.

No matter how many times I tell her "call me and I'll come help you," she never wants to bother me, especially when I'm working, so I don't find out until afterward. Even for the follow-up visit this week, she turned down Aunt Suzie's offer of a ride. That's my mom to a T: independent and unwilling to bother anyone else.

And it wasn't until just a few moments ago that I realized I've been doing the same thing for much of my life.

For years I've wrestled with a deep-seated insecurity that made me feel that I wasn't worth imposing on someone else's time.  That really is what has kept me so darn stubborn for so many years, only asking for help when I absolutely had to. I just always thought people would resent having to help me, or at least be very annoyed. And that's really stupid, if I'd only taken the time to analyze it. Because if someone asks me for help, I don't resent it, or get annoyed (at least not usually...) Instead, I'm nearly always glad to do what I can when I can. So why shouldn't I allow others the same response? I'm not talking about the kind of uber-neediness that some folks display, always wanting this favor or that favor, but surely a broken-bone-have-to-get-to-the-hospital kind of need justifies asking for (and accepting) a helping hand.

If I'm really, truly brutally honest, I wonder if my stubborn independence is actually a bit selfish with just a tinge of martyrdom. "I don't need help. This is my responsibility. I'll just have to gut it up and do it myself. (Sigh)."

I'm gonna think about this some more. But I'm also going to try to ask for help when I need it, and accept it when it's offered.

And I'm gonna tell my mom that if she doesn't call me next time, I'll kick her butt.

Walking for the Cure says I love you

This year on the first weekend in November, 2700 women and men took part in the Dallas-area Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure. Each participant raises at least $2300, funds which go to global breast cancer research and local programs supporting breast cancer education, screening, and treatment. In a commitment beyond fund-raising, they walk 60 miles over the course of three days to raise awareness, support those fighting breast cancer, honor lives lost, and celebrate those who have survived the disease. For one unforgettable weekend, they become a community.

Hundreds of volunteers help at the base camp and the pit stops, give rides to those who need a break, care for medical needs, and much more. The pit stops allow walkers to rest, rehydrate, and have a snack. Pit Stop 4 each day is manned by staff from Komen national headquarters along with volunteers. My daughter Joanna works for Komen, and she persuaded me to volunteer. Once I experienced it, I was hooked.

In 2006 my friend Dianne Horton of Cedar Hill volunteered with me. Our task was to stand on the corner and cheer the walkers as they approached Pit Stop 4. We laughed at the crazy outfits some of them wore, and fought tears when we saw tee-shirt tributes to lives lost. We didn’t know anyone walking, but it didn’t matter - we celebrated as if they were long-lost friends, and told them “Hang in there - you’re nearly done!”

In November 2009, Dianne was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer. During her illness, her daughters Sarah St. Louis, Rachel Edwards, and Rebecca Epperley signed up for the 3-Day to honor their mom. They held a garage sale, hosted a concert fundraiser, and appealed to friends, family and coworkers to support their efforts. Their dad Hank joined the support crew which camps with the walkers. Together the family raised nearly $11,000 for the cause.

Dianne lost her battle with breast cancer on September 11. It would have been understandable for her daughters to decide not to go through with the walk while their grief was so fresh. But they channeled that grief into a determination to follow through, to walk in tribute to the mother they loved so dearly. They know how important it is to hold on to hope for those who still must fight.

Some people say they’re tired of seeing pink ribbons and hearing about breast cancer. But breast cancer is the second leading cause of cancer death among women across the globe. You may never have breast cancer, but someone you know has it or will have it. Even though individual battles will be lost, we have to believe that the war against breast cancer will ultimately be won. By giving, by loving, by supporting those who fight.

And for Sarah, Rachel, and Rebecca, by walking 60 miles.

11/08/10  Found online at http://neighborsgo.com/stories/62558

For Dianne

God is the composer of the Song of Life and we are all singers of that Song.

When one of us dies, the Song sung here on earth must change; the notes sung by that person are no longer a part of the melody.


But the notes aren’t gone. They have been written into the melody of the Song of Heaven,
the song sung in the presence of the Author of Music.


And that song is a song of such ineffable sweetness and beauty that we mortals cannot bear to hear it - it is the song that bursts forth only when we escape the chains of the flesh, and our spirits soar to our Maker.


It is the melody of the universe.

Maybe I need to walk a mile in someone else's shoes

One of my daughters told me the other day that I was being unkind and judgmental about someone we both know, and that it was not behavior that she expected of me. I wish I could say that my being unkind and judgmental was an aberration; unfortunately, it wasn't. It's an easy trap to fall into, isn't it? A negative comment here, a negative comment there; before you know it, you're hard pressed to find anything nice to say about a person. I read once that each time you point a finger at someone else, there are three fingers pointing back at you. Which I guess is one way of rephrasing the Biblical admonition not to try to remove the speck from another's eye until you get the log out of your own...

One definition of judgment is 'the process of forming an opinion by discerning and comparing' - if I ever stand before a judge or jury, I would sure want them to have all the facts before they make a judgment on my case. So I had to look at my attitude toward the person discussed and accept that I don't know all the circumstances that might be contributing to his actions, and that I need to work on summoning up compassion. I'm not walking in his shoes. If I were, I'd probably have a much better idea of the reason for his behavior.

It was a good conversation. It's pretty wonderful having a secure enough relationship with an adult daughter that she feels safe calling me out when I'm not being nice. She's still looking to me to set the right example even though she's grown. When she was little I might be able to get away with "because I'm your mother, that's why!" but now that she's an adult that won't wash. I can't get away with "Do as I say, not as I do." What I say is what I do; when it's ugly, I have to change it.

So I'm grateful for being scolded, and for second chances.

And for a daughter who challenges me to aim higher.

Where Are You, You SOB?

I was robbed today. Well, actually (according to the nice Red Oak police sergeant) it was a theft. I guess to be absolutely precise, it was a larceny ("the unlawful taking of personal property with the intent to deprive the rightful owner of it permanently"); when I talk about it, it's a lot simpler to say "I was robbed" rather than "I was the victim of a theft/larceny."

Our office is in Red Oak. It's a small town, typically a safe town I guess. Our building is the only one on the street, and we're at quite a distance from the cluster of businesses along Ovilla Rd. There are two front doors to our building: The south door leads to the dentist's office, and that door is only unlocked when the dentist's office is open. Our wing, the north wing, holds only two tenants, neither of which business has walk-in visitors. Our exterior entrance is on electronic lock and requires a passcard for admittance.

So for anyone to access the north wing, they either have to have a passcard, knock at our outside door for admittance, or enter at the dentist's side of the building and walk around to our side. Apparently that's what this creep did.

After the dentist had seen the last patient of the day, one of her staff was working at their front desk and saw through their glass office door when a man entered from the south door and walked past their office and headed down the hallway. She even commented "wonder where he's going?" since he used their entrance.

Meanwhile, I was alone in our office. John (my son-in-law boss) is traveling this week. I was working in his office for an hour or so. While sitting at his desk, I heard a sound that appeared to come from my office. I was intent on what I was doing and didn't pick up on it at first. Then I heard another slight sound. I 'knew' no one was in my office, but I had a funny feeling, so I stepped into my office and saw that the door was closed as I had left it. So I assumed the sounds I'd heard had come from the adjoining office.

It wasn't until more than two hours later that I remembered that I hadn't checked the mailbox outside. I went to my purse to get the mailbox key and the passcard that would let me back in the building. That's when I discovered that my wallet was gone.

You know how it goes. When something is supposed to be there, and it's not, you think at first that somehow you're just not seeing it, that by some Twilight Zone sort of trickery that it's just not readily visible. And when that happened, when I rooted frantically through the purse and didn't find the wallet, I thought that somehow I must have carried it into John's office and laid it down, so I ran in there to search. Of course I hadn't done that, there's no reason in the world I would have done that, but I looked anyway. Then I raced out to my truck, thinking it might have fallen out of my purse (!) when I was driving to work. It wasn't in the truck.

In my panic, I had forgotten that in the morning I had made an online payment, printed out the receipt, and put that receipt in my wallet. So the wallet had definitely been in my purse before noon.

So sitting in my truck I called the police. They told me to hang tight, that an officer would be there in a few minutes (if it had been Dallas, I'd still be waiting for the police to show up). I had to knock on the window of the next-door tenant and get them to let me back in the building, since my passcard was in the wallet. Before I could even call the bank to report my debit card stolen, the officer was there to take the report. The dentist's employee pulled up the records of the electronic door and it indicated that there was two exits made at midday, and not again until the time I went out to the truck to search. Midday is when I was in John's office working. So apparently some guy opened my office door quietly, walked in quietly, saw my purse sitting on the floor behind my desk, and took his chance.

Normally I carry a purse that's kind of deep and the wallet tucks down at the bottom. Today I had a purse with a smaller mouth, and after I made the online payment I remember sticking the wallet back in on end (rather than laying flat) because the small opening made it harder to reach down inside. Lucky for the thief: that meant the wallet was plainly visible and easier to grab.

But I am definitely lucky as well. Because I got on the phone and canceled my debit card and my three gasoline cards, and none of them had been used, even though it had probably been three hours since the theft. The police officer said maybe the guy just grabbed the $48 in the wallet and tossed the wallet away. He searched all around the building and in the dumpster, even drove back to where the street deadends at a field, and didn't find it.

If the thief had grabbed the little green bag next to the wallet, he would've gotten my car & house key - and with my driver's license, he had my address. That would have been a nightmare. So all things considered I guess I'm fortunate.

But I don't feel fortunate. I feel damn mad. And I guarantee that I'm keeping the office door locked from now on, even when I'm there.

The Facts of Life

Nowadays you can’t turn the pages of a newspaper or magazine without being met with images of scantily-clad females being used to advertise not just lingerie but also beer, shampoo, or automobiles. Whether on TV or in print, that’s long been the case, and it’s so commonplace that we accept it without thinking much about it, even if we’re not necessarily crazy about it.

But, underwear ads excepted, it’s still not quite as commonplace to see a scantily-clad man in a national publication. Just imagine what uproar there was back in early 1972 when actor Burt Reynolds posed in the nude for the centerfold of Cosmopolitan magazine. Advance word was that Reynolds had a prop placed in a strategic place in the photo, but still…A Hollywood actor? In the nude? In a national magazine? It was absolutely astonishing!

I was 21. I thought Burt Reynolds was pretty cute. So I was one of thousands of temporarily-deranged females scouring the newsstands of American cities to find a copy of Cosmo. I shared the news of my search in a letter to my Uncle Gaither, who was 75. He was taken aback, to say the least.

April, 1972

Dear Peggy,

After reading your last letter I was tempted to lop you off our family free but following days of ruminating, cogitating and praying, I decided to give you another chance. I’m going to try to REHABILITATE you.

I had no idea that you are a pornography addict who would search the city of Dallas for a magazine’s centerfold picture of a nude Homo sapiens male. I am shocked to learn that you and Jack, after four months of marriage, are still concealing from each other the basic physiological differences between male and female. No wonder our educators are pressing so hard for pre-kindergarten sex education! This rehabilitation program may take longer than I figured. There’s a considerable time lag between the day I learned about females and your belated attempt to catch up via the purchase of a Cosmopolitan centerfold. Let me tell you how I learned all about the opposite sex at the age of about four. Ha! How well do I remember that Sunday day of discovery!

Our family lived just across a narrow dirt road from the Methodist preacher’s parsonage, and about 5 Sundays a month my mama would fix a chicken dinner and invite the preacher and family over to eat. Which it did, gobbling all the white meat at first table for the elders and leaving gizzards and necks for us kids at 2nd table.

Then, one Sunday—whether by chance or Divine guidance I’ll never know—we went to the preacher’s house for dinner. The preacher had a daughter about my age and, as usual, we had to wait for 2nd table gizzards and necks.

Lois and I were put in a closet-like cubbyhole adjoining the dining room and told to play. We sat our little butts on the floor, facing each other, but I could see nothing to play with until I noticed that Lois had on a very short dress and that her mama had neglected to supply her with a fig leaf. I then noticed that she seemed to be physiologically different from me. I tried to explain to her that she was some sort of freak, but she wouldn’t believe me until I unbuttoned my pants and showed her what a person ought to look like.

We were still giggling about our discoveries when our mamas opened the closet door, and their faces got as red as our two little bottoms did a few seconds later. Lois and I were never allowed to play together again. Her father was soon sent to harvest the grapes in another vineyard. But right there in that lil old closet waiting for my chicken neck, I learned all that I’ve ever wanted to know about sex that mama hadn’t already taught me…

Love, Unk

I loved Uncle Gaither’s story. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hadn’t bought the magazine in order to satisfy my physiological curiosity (my brother’s birth when I was nine kicked off my birds-and-bees education), but rather to satisfy my Burt Reynolds curiosity. 

Today, after 35 years of marriage, grown daughters, and grandchildren, I’m asking myself why I’ve hung on to that magazine for so long. It’s been tucked away in my cedar chest, and I haven’t looked at it since shortly after I bought it. What am I saving it for? Who am I saving it for? (Even Burt himself probably hasn’t kept a copy all these years!)

I know why I’ve kept it. One day each of us wakes up and realizes that life has raced along and we’re a lot closer to our old age than we are to our youth. We all need tangible reminders of who we used to be. That magazine represents the 20-year-old that still exists in my heart, in my memory, in my soul. I know full well that my daughters can’t truly imagine what I was like at 20. Maybe I should try more often to give them that glimpse of the “me” that existed before I was Mom, and grandmom, before I had grey hair and reading glasses and middle-age spread. One of these days, I’ll tell them about my search for Burt. I’ll remember for a few minutes what it was like to be 20, and that will be long enough.

And maybe someday I’ll write to a great-niece or a granddaughter, and I’ll say “Let me tell you about the time I searched all over town for a magazine…”

Other Drivers

I used to be a bit of a hothead when I drove, impatient at the carelessness or selfishness of other drivers. If someone cut me off or changed lanes without signaling, I would usually respond aloud with an insult of some sort.

It was my young daughter's innocent question one day that made me realize I needed to change my ways.

"Mom," she asked, "are all the other drivers morons?"

Ouch.

Since Webster's gives one definition for moron as "a very stupid person," I'll go out on a limb and say that there are a lot of morons on the road. But that didn't make it right for me to call them that - and certainly not within earshot of my children.

Too many of us drive around angry these days. There's no doubt that many of us feel shortchanged when it comes to time. I've seen gals putting on makeup while steering one-handed. It's commonplace for folks to talk on their cellphones as they drive, and I am guilty of that. How many of us eat a meal while driving? And not just fast-food - once I saw a guy driving down a Dallas highway with a big pan of spaghetti propped on the steering wheel. My jaw dropped in amazement as I watched him scooping the strands of pasta into his mouth.

I can multi-task with the best of them, but I've come to realize that doing too many tasks at once can be dangerous. Juggling too many tasks can certainly be stressful, and when we take that stress behind the wheel, we are more prone to anger. And when we are angry, we put ourselves and others at risk.

Once as I entered the overpass from Interstate 35E to the Dallas North Tollway, the clutch cable broke, and my car wouldn't move. Passing drivers honked and screamed at me for partially blocking their way. There were numerous rude hand gestures. With my toddler and infant daughters in the car, I was terrified to get out in the heavy traffic. Fortunately an angel in the form of a truck driver came and pushed me to the tollbooth so I could exit. I have never forgotten the feeling of being the victim of so much hostility, so much anger over something that I could not help.

A few years ago, in a RoadRagers.com survey, more than 11,000 folks answered questions about their actions behind the wheel, some of which could be considered aspects of road rage. "I try to be a polite and courteous driver," said 76.9 percent of the respondents, but 69.8 percent said "I tailgate another driver to encourage them to speed up and go faster." I wasn't a math whiz in school, but those sets of numbers don't compute. Somebody's fudging.

One stress expert says that we set ourselves up for trouble when we don't allow ourselves enough time to do the things we need to do, then try to make up for lost time on the road. When we do that, everything that interferes with our attempt to gain that lost time adds to our frustration level, and has the potential to erupt as road rage.

We can control whether we let the stress in our lives become anger that we direct toward others. I have learned that if I allow myself enough time, drive courteously and safely, and don't take the bad driving of others personally, I stay a lot calmer. So nowadays when I see other drivers do stupid things, I try to remember that there are circumstances of which I'm unaware. I say a prayer that they'll realize that their carelessness behind the wheel could be dangerous, and I hope that they'll do better next time. And I try not to call them morons (at least not out loud).

Unless they're texting. Then they're morons.
(Dallas Morning News Community Voices 8-23-09)

A Community of Believers - So Why Don't I Feel Welcome?

Some years ago I visited churches in connection with my job. One day I stopped by 

a church to leave some information. The secretary glanced at me as I approached 

her door, but when I saw that she was on the phone, I stepped away to give her 

privacy. I waited. And waited. While she chatted away on what was clearly a happy

personal call. After nearly 15 minutes, a man working outside, seeing through the 

glass door that I was still waiting, came in and apologized profusely, and took the

brochure from me. I was there on business, but I remember wondering, "What if I 

were looking for a new church?" The rude behavior of that secretary -- the first

point of contact for a stranger -- dissuaded me from wanting to return for any 

reason.

In the 46 years since I became a Christian, I have been a member of two Dallas 

churches, the first one for more than 30 years. In 1996, we moved our membership

to a church of another denomination. We were happy there for a long time. But a

couple of years ago, I felt drawn to find a church nearer home and decided to visit

Protestant churches in the southern suburbs. I had two primary criteria: the church

had to recognize my infant baptism, and it had to be one where I felt a real

welcome.

Ah -- there was the rub. 

I had thought my experience with the unwelcoming secretary was an aberration. 

When I began my hunt for a new church home, my daughter and young grandsons

came along one Sunday. We followed the "Nursery" sign arrow to find an empty 

room. After several minutes of waiting in the hallway, wondering what to do, a 

young women walking by said, "Oh, sometimes the nursery lady just doesn't show

up. Somebody will probably be here soon," and away she went.

At another church we visited, where our family made five of the 40 or so in  

attendance at the early informal service, not one single person spoke to us, not

when we entered, not during the time allotted for greeting, and not as we exited.

But even that wasn't the worst experience. One summer Sunday my husband and I

visited a church for the first time at the invitation of some friends. We were the only

newcomers in the congregation. In fact, the minister commented on it: "It's easy to

see who are visitors are today!" We were greeted warmly by several folks and stayed

after the service to talk with the minister for about five minutes. Two days later,

we received a "welcome visitor" letter which said, "Sorry I didn't get a chance to

meet you. I hope you'll come to visit again so that I can meet you and get

acquainted."

We talked to the man. We were the only visitors that day. And he sent us a form 

letter that he apparently didn't even read before he signed it. 

A Christian church is a community of believers in Christ. Christ taught us that God is

Love and we are to love one another. Unfortunately, in some churches that love

appears to be reserved for those who are already "in the group." 

Don't get me wrong: we visited other churches where we were definitely made to 

feel welcome and were invited back. I'm already a Christian, and I'm a persistent

person who kept looking even after some negative experiences. But I can't help

but wonder: what if I had been a nonbeliever who was searching for Christ, and

the secretary wouldn't give me the time or day, or none of the people around even

said 'hello,' or the pastor couldn't remember talking to me two days after the fact?

So maybe we need to take a hard look at how we show that love. Starting at home.

(Dallas Morning News 7-12-09)

The Child Obesity Challege

An elementary school held a Physical Fitness Challenge day earlier this spring. Kids were assessed for their fitness, and were weighed and measured for height. Many of these kids – all of them under the age of 12 – weighed in at 150 pounds or more. What used to be the average weight of a 16- or 17-year-old boy is fast becoming standard for grade-school kids.

Until the time I graduated from high school, I could not have counted ten grossly overweight kids in all of my school years put together. Now I can count ten obese children in five minutes of walking through a mall.

It’s pretty much the norm that adults gain weight as they age. Probably most of us had parents or grandparents who were a bit overweight. But when we were children, it was almost unheard of to have friends who were obese. What has happened?

The U.S. didn’t even collect data on obesity until the 1980s. Back then, the prevalence of obesity (for all ages) was less than 14% nationally. By 2006, there were states that exceeded 30% obesity in their populations. These percentages are not people who are slightly overweight, these are people who are obese. And far too many of them are children.

In the past 20 years, the prevalence of obesity among children ages 6-11 more than doubled, to 17%. For adolescents between 12 and 19, the rate more than tripled. Type 2 diabetes mellitus was formerly an adult condition; now it is being diagnosed with alarming frequency in children. An estimated 6% of obese young people have at least one additional risk factor for heart disease, such as high cholesterol or high blood pressure. A generation ago, these types of medical concerns were barely conceivable in relation to children.

If we agree that obesity is usually the result of an improper balance between the calories we consume and the energy we expend (the calories we burn up), then we have to ask how it is that these thousands of children are burning up so many fewer calories than they are consuming. There’s no doubt that, for multiple reasons, many kids today get less exercise than kids of previous generations. Fortunately many school districts are revamping their curricula to once again require more physical activity. But if kids have P.E. at school a couple of times a week, but when at home sit for hours in front of the TV or computer, that little bit of exercise may be negated.

Studies point to the impact of food marketing on children, but the bottom line is that for most children, the food they consume is not food they buy for themselves. It’s food provided by their parents. Fast food. Junk food. Lazy food.

I don’t for a minute believe that parents set out deliberately to sabotage their children’s health. Every one of us has dealt with kids crying for a Happy Meal, or candy, or soft drinks, and sometimes we give in, in spite of knowing that we shouldn’t. But when we give in over and over again, when we throw in the towel and rationalize and make excuses, when we fill our refrigerators and our pantries with junk food because it’s too much trouble to take the time and make the effort to feed our families healthily, then we’re sliding rapidly down the slippery slope of irresponsible behavior.

And we’re killing our children in the process.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website contains links to thousands of publications that address the problem of childhood obesity. The U.S. Department of Health and the National Institute of Health have instituted programs aimed at enhancing children’s activity and good nutrition efforts in order to fight the problem. Dr. Matthew Miller writing in TimesBulletin.com says that if we don’t take drastic measures to curb childhood obesity, kids of this generation are at risk of having a shorter life expectancy than their parents. Shouldn’t we all be appalled by that prediction?

This is a problem that we have created. This is a problem we must eliminate. Our children’s lives may depend on it.

(Dallas Morning News Opinion Page June 19, 2009)