Old Chairs

the castoffs mumble whispers

aching – loyal. flawed.

lessons in looking for love

{i took this picture last summer in Mount Victory, Ohio.

i desperately needed a creative challenge so i used it to inspire a haiku.}

Decoration

It’s that time of year, the holiday decorations are going up,

everywhere I look there are twinkling lights and sparkles and,

with just-perfect timing, snow.

Yesterday nature decorated the outside.

We've already taken care of the inside.

Dancing snowflakes flitted, slowly drifting down


in grays and blues

that shifted into white

on the sleeping beds of summer.

Jack Frost painted the windows while we slept.

Soon, I will be dreaming of green, because I will miss it.

Soon, I will long for color in my little corner of the world.

Soon, I will grow tired of the cold and wish to feel the sun on my face.

But before that I will enjoy the sparkling lights


and the scent of pine


as I fill the house with pretty things

and love and gratitude

and giving.

But this morning

there is this outside my living room window,


reminding me to stop every so often
and

breathe in the white stillness.

Early December

It's been chilly and bleak in Ohio. The color grey dominates the days now. The pumpkins that are still staring at those passing on the street are rotting grotesquely. The mums that once announced the genesis of fall are shriveled and thin. At the slightest provocation they crumble.

A wise person might look at the landscape and pronounce everything dead.

They would be wrong.

Everything's dead but the wind, which is now in its element. It sends the few remaining leaves scuttling. It animates the reluctant trees to bend their branches into the arthritic fingers of winter. It whistles through the alleys and around the corners of our house. It reddens our cheeks and pinches the tops of our ears.

No, everything is not dead. Winter is just waking up and beginning to hum it's favorite tune.

For What It's Worth

"...but Lot's wife, who was behind him, looked back and she became a pillar of salt."

~ Genesis 19:26

For what it's worth,
she says
I only glanced.

But the past –
what is behind us,
is a greasy, black bird that lights on our shoulders,
digging caustic claws into tender flesh,
reminding us of our uncomfortableness with ourselves.

This old crow feeds mostly on the carrion of mistakes.
Regrets that bloat in the sunshine of the present moment
and draw our attention
like flashing lights on the side of the road
as we dash by.

For what it's worth,
she says
I didn't mean to look.

We never mean to be mesmerized
by all the things that are, at the same time,
over and done with
and yet so available,
do we?

In her glance, there was no today. No tomorrow.
Only a single glimpse of yesterday.
Frozen.

It was her undoing.
For whatever it's worth.

Grace

I want to write, eat, think and embody grace,

in the same way an ocean wave gently laps on the shore –
night after night after night.

Graceful even as it fades in its curvaceousness,

slowly becoming that last arch and meander

before sliding backward into the darkness.

But I have no grace on my own.

Let this then, my little offering of words,

like a the smallest ripple on the surface,

be another prayer that baptizes me –

into grace.

Genesis 32 :: A Meditation

Jacob was alone and a man wrestled with him until daybreak. When he saw that he couldn't get the best of Jacob as they wrestled, he deliberately threw Jacob's hip out of joint.

you don't play fair.
i gave you six years of my life. full-time years. i gave you the very best i had and all you did was laugh and watch me bleed. alone.

The man said, "Let me go, it's daybreak."
Jacob said, "I'm not letting you go until you bless me."
The man said, "What's your name?"
He answered, "Jacob."
The man said, "Not anymore. From now on your name is Israel (God-Wrestler); you've wrestled with God and you've come through."

you badger and torment. hound and nag – asking, seeking, wanting.

more. more. more.

here's my answer – i can't. i'm scared. i want to. but i don't trust you anymore.
push, pull. yes, no.
a struggling, stumbling battle that leads to exhaustion.

Jacob asked, "And what's your name?"
"Why do you want to know my name?" And then, right then and there, he blessed him.

here's what i have to say to you –
MAKE YOURSELF KNOWN OR LEAVE ME ALONE.

emptiness slowly reshapes itself into surrender
like smooth stones in a forgotten, overgrown creek.

Jacob named the place Penniel (God's Face) because, he said, "I saw God's face to face and lived." The sun came up as Jacob left Penniel, limping because of his hip.

i put my hands over my face as i sit in the truck.
'do you know what you're saying?' my companion asks.
i nod.

strip me. burn me. refine me.

here am i lord.
send me.

*all Scriptures are from The Message, a Bible paraphrase by Eugene H. Peterson

A Small, Smooth Stone

In the summer of her ninth year she was beginning to learn her place in the world. Pushing her boundaries, walking on her own two feet. Mistakes were many but trust was like a small, smooth stone that she carried in her pocket. It was there, just in case.

Darkness had begun to stain the sky one Sunday night. They had just returned home from church. Everyone was hungry, cranky. The customary post-church meal was scrambled eggs, oozing with melted cheese. Her mother was at the stove and the smell of the quickly pulled together dinner crept throughout the house.

Her father was at the front door. He was locking up for the night. She was whiney – wanting something. Begging. His answer was no. She got bolder. He got angry. She got mouthy.

{Escalation. Never good on an empty stomach. She knows this now, as an adult. He should have known it too.}

Suddenly, his arm shot forward like the snake she had once seen hurrying out of the vegetable garden. That harmless old snake had traveled on by, out of self-preservation. Not this hand. This hand grabbed her by the throat, lifted her on her toes and pinned her to the huge front door. He leaned in close and whispered, "You will never speak to me that way again. Do you understand?" Her head hit the door with a nasty thwack.

Tears burned. She couldn't nod. She couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe.

He put her down and walked away. She sank to her knees, raw tears dripping.

As she cried, she imagined each tear landing in the old well in the backyard where she sometimes played. She imagined that as her tears radiated slow circles in the surface of the water they were joined by a larger splash – that small, smooth stone that she had known as trust.

For Oliver

When are you going to train your dog?

          questioning, 

          smug, 

          arrogant look.

I look at Oly's frenetic little body –
          so happy to be alive;
          smiles, slobbers, kisses;
          back end waggling, front end twitching.

I tell him to sit,
          he jumps.
I tell him to jump,
          he sits.
I tell him to give kisses –
          he obliges with joyful abandon.

When are you going to train your dog?

He is a wild thing
          that was never sent to school.

This is summer.
          Exactly how many summers does a dog have?

Run, jump and play Oly.
          Class clown is more than enough for me.

Words and Pictures :: Souvenirs

Some people bring back salt and pepper shakers as a way to remember their travels. Some folks like refrigerator magnets. For others, no trip is complete without a souvenir t-shirt proclaiming where they went and what they survived while there. Others look at their postcard collections, carefully arranged by dates of travel so they can remember exactly where they were at any given moment in their wanderings.

Souvenirs. Mementos. Keepsakes. Reminders. Remembrances. Tokens. Memorials. Relics.

Objects a traveler brings home for the associations formed with it.

During my 44 years of travel I think my souvenirs are old church hymns. Hum a little bit of In the Garden and I am immediately transported to Mamaw's front porch swing, the sounds of her singing floating through the old screen door while she cleaned up the breakfast dishes.

And He walks with me

And He talks with me

  And He tells me I am His own

  And the joy we share as we tarry there

  None other has ever known

Holy, Holy, Holy was the first hymn I ever fell in love with. It was hymn number 1 in the old, red Baptist Hymnal. When I was old enough to read, but not old enough to understand why the sermon droned on and on I would pull out the hymnal and try to entertain myself. Today when I hear the majestic chords of this grand old hymn I'm a little girl again, bare legs sticking to the wooden pews, trying not to wiggle so as to avoid the glares and pinches of my mother.

Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!


  Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee;


  Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty!


  God in three Persons, blessed Trinity!

It seems like I spent most of my childhood in church. We were there Sunday morning for Sunday School and then worship. Sunday nights had potluck dinners and more worship. Wednesday nights in our small town were sacrosanct - no school activities were allowed, no homework was to be assigned. It was Church Night. We had GA's (Girls in Action), RA's (Royal Ambassadors) and then Prayer Meeting. 

When I think of all this church the hymn that comes to mind first is Just As I Am. I've probably sung this song more than a thousand times. It's an "invitational." In the Baptist tradition, every service is an opportunity for you to come to Jesus and be saved. While the congregation stands and sings the pastor waits at the front of the sanctuary for someone to come.

Just As I Am had become  kind of a joke to me until Ash Wednesday of this year. It has about eight verses and sometimes, while waiting for someone to go forward and get saved, I would put my head down and pray for someone just to go. get. saved. – Get. it. over. with. – I. am. hungry. But Ash Wednesday surprised me this year. I was in an Episcopal Church. (Baptists don't celebrate Ash Wednesday. Way too Catholic.) I was feeling spiritually lost and wondering how to find my way back. Quietly the choir started to sing.

Just as I am, though tossed about 

  with many a conflict, many a doubt, 

  fightings and fears within, without, 

  O Lamb of God, I come, I come. 

I remembered my way home. I wept. The very nice lady who was sitting next to me, being as welcoming to a stranger as she could possibly be, making sure I could navigate the Episcopal Prayer Book, handed me kleenex and never said a thing. 

When I got a bit older my dealings with the church became more complicated and painful. My dad was now a Baptist preacher. I was learning things about myself that I couldn't reconcile with the pictures of God that were being painted for me. More than anything in the world I wanted to please my Dad. God? Well, hopefully there would be time to iron that out later.

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling, 

  calling for you and for me; 

  see, on the portals he's waiting and watching, 

  watching for you and for me. 

  Come home, come home; 

  ye who are weary come home; 

  earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling, 

  calling, O sinner, come home! 

The more I came to understand myself as a lesbian the farther I felt from home. It wasn't that I wanted to go. I just didn't see any other way. Everything I knew about God said I had to go. In a tit-for-tat attitude I declared myself free of the religious straight-jacket I felt was being thrust upon me. 

Then one day, years later, I made a friend. He was a gay, recovering Baptist too. We were on a car trip to Chicago and were playing a game only two nerdy, churchy adults would play in the car – trying to stump each other with a church hymnal. One of us would call out the name of a hymn and the other would have to sing it. He had as much baggage with God and the church as I had. I called out Blessed Assurance and of course he knew every word. What Baptist worth his salt doesn't?

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!


Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!


Heir of salvation, purchase of God,


Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.

  This is my story, this is my song,


  Praising my Savior all the day long;


  This is my story, this is my song,


  Praising my Savior all the day long.

I can't speak for him, but I suspect that both of us heard the refrain of that song with new ears that day. We also have a story. We also have a song. Our story of encountering God might be different from most other's stories. It might be painful. It might be difficult to hear, but we have stories too. They are ours and we are loved.

All of these hymns are my souvenirs. They are the yardstick that measure my life journey, the criterion by which I keep myself on course. I'm sure that more will be added to my collection as the years progress. 

There is one that means more than all the rest. It's been in my "life hymnal" from the days of barely being tall enough to see over the pew in front of me. I've sung it when I just wanted church to be over. I've sung it when my heart has been broken and I've hummed it under my breath when I've celebrated all the life that I can handle. 

I want it sung at my funeral as one last glimpse of the way I desired to live my life.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,


  When sorrows like sea billows roll;


  Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,


  It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,


  Let this blest assurance control,


  That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,


  And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!


  My sin, not in part but the whole,


  Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,


  Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,


  The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;


  The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,


  Even so, it is well with my soul.

And, let the people of God, even the gay and lesbian ones, say Amen!

**********************************************************

To read more stories of souvenirs go here.

This is my favorite version of It Is Well. It's sung by the group 4Him. This is the version I crank up in my car and sing like no one is watching!

Words and Pictures :: Tucked Into Bed

Tucked into bed is the writing prompt this week. Go here to read more.

I sleep in the same bed I slept in as a child. It seems kind of strange sometimes. I've been falling asleep the same way for the last 44 years - right arm slipped under my pillow, right hand resting at the same spot on the wrought iron frame headboard. The iron feels cool when I wrap my hand around it each night, just like it has every night since I was seven.

The biggest difference is that now, my feet touch the footboard. And maybe I'm not so much into rainbows and unicorn sheets anymore.

My dad got my bed when he owned the moving company. It must easily weigh over 5oo pounds. I remember when he brought it home and set it up in the first bedroom that I didn't have to share with my sister. He and my mother painted the room the perfect shade of pink for my seven year old taste. My mother refinished the dresser and vanity from her childhood room for me in shades of pink and mottled green. My father painted my name* in big bubble shaped letters that arched over the wall and followed the curve of my bed.

It was as close to "princess-dom" as I've ever come.

Lots of families have inside jokes, secret languages and rituals that are puzzling to the uninitiated. Our was no different, especially when it came to getting tucked into bed. After teeth were brushed, faces were washed and school clothes were laid out for morning, my sister and I would climb into our beds. Each parent would visit us seperately. My mother always came in first.

"Don't you give me poppers!" I would command in my biggest, most authoritative voice and then excitedly try to dodge her good night kisses. Wiggling and giggling, trying to hide beneath the sheets and covers, my mother would eventually pin me down and kiss my cheek. When she finally managed to catch me I would giggle and scream, "You did! You did! You did give me poppers!!!"

Dad came in next and he followed the script that I had laid out for us years earlier. As he walked into my bedroom he would pretend to whistle. He would pucker up and blow, but the only sound that come out was the sound of his breath. I would follow suit - mimicking his actions with no sound. Then he would pucker up again, but this time he would make a single, monotone whistle. I would do the same. There was no talking, just the sound of a little bird mimicking her daddy bird. He would give me a good night kiss and tell me to sleep well.

Feeling safe, loved and comforted by silly little rituals I would turn onto my right side, sliding my arm underneath my pillow and feeling the cool iron frame warming to my touch - slip off to dream.

* My dad painted another secret word into the first letter A in Tanya. You had to look hard to find it. For the life of me, I can't remember what the word was. . .and I don't have any pictures of it. Does anyone who reads this remember?

Words and Pictures :: Careful

The writing prompt from Meet Me At Mike's for this week is "careful."

When I was younger I thought that the only consideration for the kind of life you were going to have was the choices you made from day to day. My dad and I used to say that life is what you make it and my mother would immediately counter with – no, life is what gets handed to you. A kind of circular wrangling that went on and on and was never settled.

Those words have stuck with me since childhood and I still wonder who was right, though as I've aged, one of the things I'm beginning to think is that this isn't the only way to look at it.

Maybe life is more like a long, long hallway full of doors.

When we are young we charge right in, throwing doors open without much thought or hesitation. We are curious, interested, intrigued. Drunk on our own power of choice, we don't really pay attention to where the doors are leading us and we follow until we get tired, bored or at a dead end before trying another and then another. More. Faster. Better. Different.

When we are idealistic visionaries there is no landscape of mistakes behind us. The cloth of our lives is just beginning to be woven. We have no hindsight, nothing to look back on and discern the patterns that we are prone to repeating. 

We hear words like choose carefully, be alert, your future is in your hands and we think that they must apply to someone else. Can't you see I'm being careful? And then one day we look back on all those doors we've opened and the hundreds that were behind those - at all the ones that slammed shut and locked and then we realize how few there are to still open and it dawns on us that we've hit middle age. 

It's a shock at first. And then something interesting happens. If we're lucky, we realize that the doubt that replaced the sense of excitement that surrounds choice is a blessing in disguise. As we age, we begin to slow down and think – Should I? What if? How? 

We relax a bit, hesitate just a second before opening yet another door – "Remember how that worked out last time?? Perhaps we don't really want to go through that again. . ."

And, just maybe, that's the difference between life is what you make it and life is what gets handed to you – the potency of memory. And the true power of careful choice.

Words and Pictures :: Remembering

I haven't participated in awhile but this is the prompt this week from Meet Me At Mike's.

Gram taught me to knit when I was about eight. She patiently taught me the long-tail cast on and then showed me the knit stitch. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing as they say, and this little bit of skill was just enough produce ugly, trapezoidal shaped garter stitch clumps. But I was knitting! For some reason our lessons never included casting off, so when I got tired I just unraveled it and started again.

While I practiced, Gram knit a feather and fan afghan that she gave to me. Inspiration I suppose.

As I grew up knitting fell by the wayside for me. It did for Gram too. I didn't pick up knitting needles for another 35 years.

As Gram got older, dementia set in. The last time I saw her still active and vital, she didn't remember me. The house was full of family and she was standing in the dining room. I hugged aunts and uncles and she came towards me with a smile. Her arms were outstretched and she took my face into her hands. Her eyes searched mine - back and forth, back and forth. A long pause hung between us before she finally said, "Do I know you? You sure are beautiful."

It was tough. She was left without memories of the past but all of the things that used to trouble her were also gone. She was happy and appreciative of every little thing. I just smiled and hugged her.

At a big family dinner that evening she sipped wine from a tiny aperitif glass. "Oh," she would say, "That tastes so good! I think I'd like a little more!" and magically her glass would be refilled. She had on large jewelry that didn't match her outfit but was so excited to be "going to a party with such nice people!"

While waiting for dinner I took my knitting out of my bag. Gram watched the needles moving for a little bit before she said, "You know, I think I once knew how to do that didn't I?"

"Yes," I said. "You're the one who taught me."

She thought about this for awhile and I could see that it was painful for her. Her eyes searched my face again – back and forth, back and forth.

"I wonder if I could still do it. . ." Her voice trailed off. For the first time since I had been there, she looked sad. I thought about handing her the needles and wool.

"Would you like to try?" I asked.

She searched my face again – back and forth, back and forth. "No," she quietly said. "I just can't quite remember."

"It's OK Gram."

Then she laughed and all the traces of sadness were wiped away.

"I sure would like a little bit more of whatever that was in my glass though!"

A Dog Story

"Hey Sammy," Oliver whispered. "Sam! Come over here! I got an idea!"

Oliver was standing next to the cover of the crawlspace that led under the house. The concrete patio was covered in mud and the sky was dripping rain. The door to the crawlspace had fallen open and Oliver had one eye on the pink insulation hiding inside there and the other eye on his brother Sam.

Sometimes Oliver got impatient with Samson. He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. But as he waited for Sam to appear around the corner of the garage, he was pretty sure that Samson would do whatever he asked.

"What Ollie?? Whatcha wanna do??" Samson was excited that his brother was paying attention to him instead of the squirrels.

"Sam, listen to me carefully. I want you to go under the house and drag out some of that insulation. See it right there? It's that pink stuff with the paper backing. I think it would make for a great game of keep-away! Just lay down on your belly and drag yourself under there and pull some out!"

There was a pause while Oliver watched Sammy's face.

"What do you say, buddy? You up for a game?"

Sammy looked into the doorway. It was dark in there and he didn't really like dark places. What if there was something hiding in there to scare him? In order to cover his fear, which he knew Oliver would mock, he thought for a minute and then said, "I don't know Ollie. I think Moms might get mad if we do that."

"Come on Sam! Don't be such a baby! What's the worst thing they will do to us? They never spank. All they ever does is use those stupid baby voices and say stuff like, 'What Did You Do?' and 'You're A VERY BAD DOG!' Big deal, bro! Think how much fun it would be!"

Samson knew he was right. A little talking to wouldn't hurt. But what about being scared to go under there? He just couldn't confess that to Oliver so he tried one more excuse.

"When Mom put that under there she said we had to stay away from it. That it was made of glass or something and could really hurt us Ollie! I don't want to get hurted Ollie!"

"For God's sake, Samson," Oliver sneered. "Are you going to be a puppy forever? How long are you going to let humans tell you what to do? It's time to stand on your own four feet and be a DOG!"

Sammy hated it when Oliver said stuff like that. It made him feel like a baby. Sammy was too chicken to point out that if it was bad to let humans tell you what to do maybe it was also bad to let big brothers do the same thing. Or perhaps Sam wasn't too chicken to say it. Maybe he was just too dumb to figure that out.

Regardless, it worked. Samson screwed up his courage, closed his eyes, got down on his belly and stuck his head under the house. His heart was racing as he opened up one squinty eye and looked around. It really wasn't so bad under there. It was kind of warm and the rain wasn't dripping on his head anymore. Slowly, he began to relax a little. His panting slowed, and his heart wasn't pounding quite so loudly.

"Do you see it, buddy?? Just grab one corner of it and back out slowly!" Oliver's instructions were helpful, as Sammy had already forgotten why he was in there in the first place.

"Oh yeah," he thought to himself. "Ollie is waiting so we can play a game!!"

Samson opened his mouth wide and chomped down on a piece of that paper-backed pink insulation. It crinkled a little and startled him. Sam had always had a hyperactive startle reflex and it caused him no end of embarrassment. Tonight was no different. As the paper started to make noise, adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream. He was getting scared. The faster he tried to back out of the crawlspace, the more noises were coming at him from the darkness. He couldn't get out of there fast enough.

He also couldn't let his brother down.

Scrambling, scratching, struggling and shimmying he got himself and the insulation out of the hole.

"Good job, bro! Now LET'S PARRRRR-TEEE!"

Oliver grabbed at the four foot sheet of insulation, already absorbing the rain. It tore with a satisfying sound. He ran away with a huge chunk of it in his mouth and Samson followed, joy in his face as Oliver was pleased with him. It wasn't long before the entire back yard was covered in shreds of pink.

Sammy, panting and flush with feelings of pride and success sidled up to Oliver. "I don't care what Moms say. . .I think you're the BEST brother ever!"

And, that's the story of how I spent the morning picking up a garbage bag full of dripping insulation.

Language - The Power of Lists

It's been awhile since I've participated in the weekly writing prompt from Sunday Scribblings. Click on over there to read other writings on "Language."

Lists

Words on paper
Orderly, straight, only two or three per line.

Organize garage
Samson to vet
Find tax records
Bake cake

Lengthy slips of paper
that dictate action.
Do this! Do that!

I compulsively keep lists.

The power I give them is magical.
These words
          removed from my head
          concrete
          blue ink on white paper
Named and claimed
         they drive my choices.

How easily life can become a list.
How quickly words can become the master and I, the bondswoman.

Perhaps it's time for revolution.

Words and Pictures :: Little Things

This is the new writing prompt from Meet Me At Mike's. I'm a bit apprehensive about posting it as most of the other essays and pictures on this theme are light and bubbly. If what I've written makes you uncomfortable, please accept my apologies.

It was an airless September afternoon at my parent's house when artificial silence slammed headlong into inconvenient truth. "If you don't stop being gay you're not welcome in our home any longer. Don't you see what this means? What will people think of me. . .of your mother. . .of the way we raised you. . .God will punish you for the wickedness you're bring on us. . .You're only doing this to hurt us. God despises you and you will pay the ultimate price."

My mother cried. My father turned to icy-stoned fury and with one deep breath he excised this disruption he couldn't control and quickly became the father of one daughter - not two.

He couldn't change biology so he tried to change history.

That was almost seven years ago. I'm just fine. I have a wonderful extended family and a family of quirky souls who I have chosen and who have chosen me back. My life is fulfilled, joyful and fun. A and I have the same normalcy as any other married couple – we fuss about who's turn it is to take the dogs out, who should mow the yard this week and why I always have to cook. Our life isn't exotic. It's rather mundane. But we are happy.

I like to think that I've moved on from that pain but there are little things that I miss. My mother never got to teach me to how to can fresh green beans from my garden. I had to learn it from a book. When I finish a new craft project I sometimes still wish I could share it with her. She loves to craft too. I miss eating chili on Christmas Eve with everyone. When I can't find a pen in the mess of our kitchen junk drawer I remember my father's pen, nestled in it's special drawer in the top of his immaculate desk and it brings a hollowness to my chest.

Maybe that's the thing about the little things – they're more painful to remember when they're gone.

Words and Pictures :: Cozy

Another writing prompt from Meet Me at Mikes!

My great-frandmother Lilly was poor. Being born, living and dying in the Appalachian Mountains of southwest Virginia, she never had much in the way of creature comforts. She spent her life in Possum Hollow, widowed early, raising five kids alone. She was born in May of 1888 and died in May of 1982. A good long life.

Mamaw never made a lot of the kinds of concessions that we tend to make as times and trends change. She never wore pants. Not once. She wore long skirts that almost reached the floor. Mamaw never cut her hair. She wore it in a bun on the back of her head, covered in the kind of bonnet Ma Ingalls wore on Little House on the Prairie. My mamaw lived in a tiny five room house that most people would call probably call a shack. For most of her life she had no electricity or running water.

But none of those things ever mattered to me.

Mamaw's house was home.

The most prominent memories I have are smells - Mamaw making magic in the kitchen on her wood fired stove. I remember breakfasts of country ham, red-eye gravy, homemade buttermilk biscuits and eggs. The biscuits were topped with freshly churned butter and crowned with homemade jellies, jams and preserves that she had put up herself the previous fall.

I remember that Mamaw loved coffee. It amazed me that she would bring a strong, hot cup to the table and then proceed to pour it from her cup into her saucer before noisily drinking. She said it was too hot from the cup.

While sitting with her at the breakfast table I would hide an extra biscuit away, stashing it under my shirt to save for later. I'm sure she would have given me one. It was just fun to try and pull something over on her.

The days were lazy at Mamaw's house. Catching butterflies, reading books on the creaky old porch swing and taking walks by the river were our activities. Once in a while we would have the gift of an afternoon rain. On these special days I would take my stolen biscuit and curl up on the lumpy mattress that was filled with feathers. It took a little doing, but with some determination you could hollow out the perfect size nest for an 8 year old body on a rainy summer afternoon. A feather mattress, a secretly hidden biscuit, a good book and the sound of rain on a tin roof will always mean cozy to me.

Mamaw Lilly on her 82nd birthday, May 4, 1976 in Possum Hollow, Virginia

Mamaw's Buttermilk Biscuits
2 cups self-rising flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup buttermilk

Pour flour into a mound on the kitchen counter. Using your fingers, cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Add buttermilk and quickly blend in, making sure to not overwork the dough.  Scoop up the dough and lightly flour the counter again. Roll out the dough with a rolling pin to a thickness of  1/2-inch. Use a biscuit cutter or the rim of a glass, press out as many biscuits as possible. Gather up scraps and quickly knead back together, then cut out as many additional biscuits as possible. Place biscuits in a cast iron skillet and bake until golden brown, about 15 to 20 minutes.

Red-Eye Gravy
country ham steaks
bacon grease
1 C. strong, hot coffee
3 T. flour
2 T. butter

Heat up a cast iron skillet until hot. Melt some bacon grease in the pan and fry the ham steaks for about 3 minutes per side, until browned. Remove ham and stir flour into the grease. Cook a minute or two. Slowly stir in the coffee. If it's too thick, add some water. When thickened stir in butter.

Serve over the ham steaks or over the biscuits.

Words and Pictures :: School Lunch

This post was inspired by a creative writing prompt from the blog Meet Me At Mikes. Click over there if you would like to read other writings on this theme!

"God we thank you for this food


For rest and home and all things good


For wind and rain and sun above


But most of all for those we love."

She had been chosen to collect the meal tickets. "The second time this week!" she excitedly thought to herself as she moved up and down each row of small desks. It was an important job, fit only for the most trustworthy and serious. At least those were her thoughts as she ducked her head in embarrassed pride. The act of taking her classmate's lunch tickets was difficult for her, but filled her with a sense of joy.

"Boys, you may line up first," the teacher announced.

There was the scratching and clattering of chair legs as the boys race-walked to the door. Stomachs were growling with hunger as the aroma of warm chili drifted up from the basement cafeteria toward the door of Mrs. Kenley's first grade classroom.

"Girls, please join the line."

There was more movement in the classroom, this time a little quieter, as the girls tried to maneuver so they were lined up with their best friends. Some quietly held hands.

"Boys and girls, bow your heads as we say our prayer together," Mrs. Kenley instructed.

God we thank you for this food


For rest and home and all things good


For wind and rain and sun above


But most of all for those we love.

As the class made their way to the cafeteria the smells got stronger. There was always the odor of freshly mopped floors mingled with spilled milk and sweaty kids. In the long corridor that led to the cafeteria the line of student split in half as the boys washed their hands at one sink and the girls used the other.

"Make sure you use soap!"

The lines merged again as each student scrubbed their hands dry on scratchy paper towels. This bit of choreography happened at every meal.

"Where is my ticket collector?" the teacher asked.

She ducked her head, flushing, as she made her way to the front of the line.

God we thank you for this food


For rest and home and all things good


For wind and rain and sun above


But most of all for those we love.

"Yes, indeed," she thought to herself as she was the first to pick up her Easter-egg pink, divided plastic tray. "And thank you that I got to be ticket collector. Again!"

Art

Every so often someone makes me question the validity of my writing and why I share it in this space. I wrestle with it for awhile and then I let it go.

I write because I feel the need to. Because I want to. Because, to me, it's art.

This video helped me let it go again. And, it made me smile.

I wondered what would be the worth of my words in the world

If I write them and then recite them are they worth being heard?

Just because I like them

Does that mean that I should I write them

And see what might unfurl?

And I think of the significance of my opinions here

Is it significant to be giving them?

Does anybody care?

Just because I'm into this 

Does that mean that I should live like it?

And really, do I dare?

Art, art, art, I want you.

Art you make it pretty hard not to.

And my heart is trying hard here to follow you

But I can't always tell if I ought to.

So I ponder the points of my art in this life

If I make it, will someone take it and think that it's genuine?

Would they be glad that I did because they got something good out of it?

Would they leave me and be any more inspired?

And I question the outcome of the outpouring of myself.

If I tell everyone my stories would this keep me healthy and well?

Would it give me purpose and to this world some sort of service?

Is it worth it? How could I tell?

Art Manifesto

Great ideas come from great bike rides.

Pass it on.

Art will take you places.

Plant seeds.

A broken heart can make great art.

Experiment.

Don't care too much.

Art, art, art, I want you.

Art you make it pretty hard not to.

And my heart is trying hard here to follow you

But I can't always tell if I ought to.

Sunday Scribblings – Gratitude

Her stomach growled loudly. She pressed her arms closer to try and hide the sounds. Since her father had given up his steady job and paycheck to start a new church that had no members and no money, the family had cut back drastically. Her new winter coat had come from the Dollar General store.

She sat on the school bus with her feet pushed violently under the seat in front of her. Maybe if she couldn’t see the ugly tennis shoes that the popular kids had worn three years ago, no one else could either.

“Nice shoes, loser.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek and stared at the floor until she could taste metal.

“Didn’t you used to live in town? What happen? Your daddy die or somethin’?” She refused to look up.

“Just hold on,” she told herself. “One more day and we’ll be on Thanksgiving vacation. One more day. . .”

Thanksgiving morning dawned, cold and bright. The house was freezing. But at least she didn’t have to go to school.

Over a bowl of oatmeal her mother broke the news. “We don’t have money for a turkey dinner this year. I’m going to fix some of the vegetables that we put up from this summer’s garden and make some cornbread.”

The girl was silent. Just last year they had hosted so many family and friends for Thanksgiving dinner that table upon table had been placed end to end. Each had been covered with white tablecloths and shining crystal glasses. The feast had stretched through the dining room and out into the living room with the kids parked at smaller tables in the foyer. The tables had groaned under the burden of so much food and laughter.

Being able to remember just made it worse.

She remembered taking turkeys and bags of groceries to people who were “poor” while she was in church youth group. Showing up at someone’s house with Thanksgiving dinner made her feel confused. She knew she was supposed to feel sorry for them. However they had ended up needing food wasn’t supposed to be any of her business. But she always wondered. Even worse, taking around food baskets secretly made her feel superior. And that, in turn, made her feel guilty.

Their gratitude had made her embarrassed. So had their tears.

As she finished up her oatmeal she watched out the window, over the pond and across the long driveway. She saw a car creeping along, as though they were lost. It happened a lot out here in the country and she wondered who it might be.

As the girl rinsed her bowl in the sink she picked at the dried oats along the rim. There was laughter coming from the front door but she didn’t feel like going out to see.

Snippets of conversation floated her way – “God is so good!” “I knew that if I prayed hard enough that God would just have to provide!” “The Lord just laid it on my heart. . .”

Her stomach lurched. She didn't believe any of that stuff anymore. Talk like that made her angry and confused.

Her mother appeared around the corner – laughing and shouting – a turkey in one hand and a box of food in the other.

“Praise the Lord. . .God brought us Thanksgiving dinner!”

Quietly the girl slipped out. Her own feelings of gratitude made her embarrassed. So did her tears.

Sunday Scribblings - Stranger

alone in the rear pew –
watching as silent as breath
longing to be enfolded