Amazing Grace

As we enter the holiday season, I think we all have secret romantic visions of how we’d like it to be. Most have watched those Hallmark holiday movies that end in happily ever after; all the families are large, they all come to one central place to celebrate in a time of joy, snow-filled dreams, sugar plums and never ending mistletoe.

Well the reality for most of us is, some of us can get off of work for those weeks and some cannot. Either way, the rush is on to begin preparing the food, keeping our house clean for company, trying to plan your menu so that every person with their particular food needs is satisfied and will have plenty to eat. Coordinate with people out of town, who is coming in what day, will there be “room at the inn” and will all of these “grown” personalities be able to get along for the time it takes to be social, eat, and disperse.

This year I was one of the lucky ones that was able to be off work most of the week. I had several days in advance to begin the prep work that a big meal like that requires. Both of my sons were home with me and we all actually work very well together. We are all good at different things in the kitchen, so as we began the busy-work, all in opposite directions, the ebb and flow went remarkably smooth.

My parents came down the actual day of Thanksgiving as they have for the past few years now and we were ready. My youngest son had fried the turkey earlier that morning, and my oldest son and I prepared all the “inside” food. Most everything went off without a hitch; however, I swear to sugar, if I ever get the right concoction to the making of the dressing down right, I think it will be a miracle. I call myself following the written directions to the letter every single time, but somehow, some way, it just never lives up to my mother’s dressing and I don’t really have much confidence that it ever will.

But let me just back-up for a minute and take you all back to the beginning of our meal. Everyone had lined-up, and holding their plates, they walked around the bar and the stove where all the food was spread out ready to be dipped and served. Plates were filled to the rim and now sitting on mats at the dining room table, and everyone took a seat; everyone but my youngest son.

As he stood behind his chair, he asked us to lower our heads as he was about to bless our food. I wish I could repeat it back for you today or at least explain how amazing he is at delivering such a resounding grace full of reverence and reality, with every day words. It’s those times in life that bring the real thanks and blessings for our journey and those we brought with us. Grateful, yes I am. 

Tender Mercies

This morning I awoke to the news of a shooting; with every button-push of the remote I could see it, hear about it, and imagine it as it might have been. The day rocked on and the information never stopped. Updates continued to pour in from resources all around. We all had heard about the who, some speculations of the whys, but it may be days or weeks before we all really know the truth.

We would hear about the assailant, and we would hear about the victims. We would hear personal testimony’s, video re-plays, and see a book that took the hit of a bullet and possibly saved a life. We would hear expression-filled voices declaring their disbelief and their fright. And wait, we would wait; for names to be released, worried and wondering would it be someone we knew.

My mind wandered back to the countless hours my oldest son spent in that same library during his under graduate years of college there; how many late nights he would be on campus, coming to and from that place that should always feel safe. For the parents of students who were originally from out of town, what a horrific feeling of dread must take over until you hear the sound of your child over the phone, and you know that for now, all is right in the world again.

But more than all of that, this is what else I witnessed today: People/students of all fan bases, different school colors, football rivals, and well-known mascots; standing as one, united and strong, praying for everyone involved. Candlelight vigils on the campus green, students holding hands and the quiet chant of the school fight song, ringing clear and strong for all to hear.

For this one day, everyone put aside their petty differences, stopped arguing over standings and who ranks the highest this week, who has the toughest schedule or best academic programs. They all, fans, parents, and students alike, became one and the same; just people who were stunned and in disbelief that this could happen to them and so close to home. This happening is what you saw on television, in other places, happening to strangers; not people you know and love. Not your friends, sisters and brothers, or children.

We are left praying for the recovery of three victims and their families, the family of the assailant, and the police who reacted with amazing swiftness and speed, bringing resolution and safety with them as they acted in the line of duty. We must hope that everyone’s minds and hearts will recover and they will once again feel safe in the place that has become their second home.

Every year I give thanks for all the people in my life and the things that sometimes I take for granted. But this year, I will say a special thanks be to God, for his tender mercies and love shown through the actions of others today. May this Thanksgiving Day be one of the most meaningful for us all.  

Shotgun Rider

You find each other, you date, you like, then fall in love, he proposes and the world falls into place. For about a minute, it falls into place. He still has to get past your father, your mother, and any brothers you may have. What a stressful time it is for the young man who believes he has found his bride to be, the love of his life, and the possible mother to the children he will help create. For it seems, he must essentially make the whole family fall in love with him in order for the plan to really work properly.

That’s how it all works the first time around, now consider this: You’re fifty some odd years old and you once again, for real this time, meet the love of your life; these things really do happen, I know this personally. Now at this point, it’s pretty conceivable to say that maybe he already has some grown children of his own, and she already has some grown children of her own. Heck, at this stage of life, they may both already have grandchildren.

But believe it or not, young or less young, the ritual is the same, you meet each other (man it feels more awkward than either of you remember), you date (and doesn’t THAT seem weird after all these years), he proposes (sweating and more nervous than he surely thinks he should be), she accepts, and the world that has been so lonely, jumbled and chaotic seems to once again, fall into place.

Oh but now, now things are so very different. He’ll have a whole new host of people that he must

win-over and make fall in love with him. At this time in life, her father has passed, but nary mind about that; for her mother, some brother’s, a son and two daughters will be the toughest opponents he may ever face again in this lifetime.  My gracious, you haven’t faced a tribal committee complete with headbands and war paint, until you’ve had to pass the inspection of grown offspring.  I mean, truly, who IS ever good enough for THEIR mother? The woman who was there for everything, their whole lives? This man, is absolutely going to have to prove that he’s the meant-to-be-man to get through the gauntlet of apprehension her children will have in the beginning.

Finally, the big day is here. Two will become one, bonus families will unite and join them, and the lucky ones will sit in pews and bear witness to this beautiful event. Her very own son will present them to Jesus as he leads the reciting of vows, and her family will flank each side, watching intently as it all unfolds; her last call for riding shotgun.

The bride walked down the aisle to begin her new forever, with my grandmother’s borrowed handkerchief gently tucked into her bouquet. I feel sure my grandmother and her father, now newly-made friends, sat together in heaven, and joyfully watched minutes fold into happily ever after memories. Amen. 

The Journey Continues...

It was said by those who should have known, that she was a sweet little girl when she was but a young thing, full of laughter, life and all that was good.  She certainly can’t remember back that far, but she knows that laughter has always been a big part of her life.

From the time her developmental age would begin, she somehow knew she didn’t have a personality that could be pin-pointed, no type of friend-circle that she would call home; although she seemed to fit-in most anywhere.  She would carry a determination and confidence that was seemingly strong and sure; but on the inside she would remain an enigma, even to herself. Her body and its shape of little girl chubby would follow her through grade school; causing personal inhibitions she would struggle to overcome.

Time would move on and she would still remain the funny girl but with a fast developing, salty mouth. She would sprinkle her stories with salt and vinegar to re-direct sadness or any other attention that felt negative or false. She was smarter than she achieved, and academics and the results of, were mediocre at best. Her body would begin to change, to have shape, and she would visually begin to like herself along with the boys who had begun to notice her.

High school would be a combination of coming into herself, and into life. Her confidence would continue to build and she learned to express herself with not only the spoken word, but with the written word. She would become the editor of the school newspaper, writing/righting the wrongs with words for everyone. She would join a school club, Future Business Leaders of America, get a job and a paycheck, and quickly learn, that money makes the world go ‘round.

Secondary education did not interest her, she would go to work, and continue to figure life out. She would get married three short years later; not to the right man, but to a necessary man, the man who would give her life’s best gifts of all: her children.

She would be married, divorced and single again for the sum of twenty-three years; the exact age she was when she would have her first child. The amount of life she would experience and learn all those years would be tremendous. Some of those years kind, some not, but all exactly as they should have been.

The circle of life would repeat itself, she would marry the real love of her life, gain some beautiful people as her bonus family, her own children would become amazing adults, and life was better than she’d dreamed. Her voice would find paper again; sharing her stories and her life, in hopes that she would touch someone along the way. She’s taken the roads with the most resistance; regrets few, do-over’s none.  

By the time you’re reading this, she will be fifty-one years and two days old. She will be so proud to have made it this far, and ready for the rest. Happy day of birth to her.

Give Me That Old Time Tradition

1974 and it was Josey and the Pussycats, The Jetsons, The Flintstones, Scooby Doo, or the old stand-bys:  Cinderella, Rapunzel,  Sleeping Beauty, Superman, Batman and Robin, or Frankenstein. Plastic, suffocating masks with holes for the eyes and mouth which would be attached to your face with a rubber string that pulled your hair from the roots, all night long. The masks themselves would be lifted up and down on the face most of the night, and then finally pushed onto to the top of the head or discarded all-together.

Kids of all ages from the neighborhood would walk in droves, many times unescorted, every porch light was on for miles, it was pitch black dark, and no one ever seemed to be scared. The loud rants of “Trick or Treat!” could be heard from pretty much wherever you stood. All the neighbors knew the children by name, and no one seemed worried or anxious about who would be knocking on their door or ringing the doorbell. We would all go home, dive into our bags/buckets full of candy without another thought about it.

1998 and my boys and I have moved to a new town and we live out in the country. All the houses are miles apart, and Hwy 65 is not made for door to door trick or treating. A friend tells me about King Street in Quincy, and all the avenues that branch off from it. It’s the perfect place to take your kids; it’s safe, well lit, and neighborhood friendly.

When we arrive, the streets are already swarming with The Powderpuff Girls, Pound Puppies, Smurfs, Barney,  little Madonna’s and Michael Jackson wanna-be’s.  The roads are blocked off by the city police to prevent driving and accidents, but now, parents line the streets as far as the eye can see as well. Sadly, the days of children trick or treating alone or with older children for guides was out of the question.  It’s even discussed quietly amongst the adults as to whether the candy needs to be taken somewhere to be X-Rayed for foreign, deadly objects. Scarily enough, this has become a common practice at all hospitals and emergency rooms every year, free of charge.

As each year passes, there are more Fall Festivals and recreational park events offering games, bobbing for apples, and face painting; home parties with adult supervision by people you know and trust which are safer ways for children to have fun and still celebrate the Halloween costume traditions.

It makes me sad when real life interferes with anything that has to do with innocence, fun, and what makes children happy. That you have to explain to a child why his/her candy must be checked before he can eat it; well, I don’t even know what those words should be. I expect by the time I have any grandchildren, trick or treating will be extinct. Instead, I’ll be trying to explain to them the pictures of their Daddy’s in albums, with the costumes, painted-on faces of Halloween’s gone by. How sad indeed. 

If Mama Ain't Happy......

I know I’ve talked about walking, my weight, and health issues; none of that has changed.  I’m still over-weight, my blood pressure still runs high, and I’m still walking on a fairly regular schedule. The weather has cooled down, the sun drops sooner, and the whole deal is more tolerable in these early months of fall.

But what I’m going to talk to you about today has nothing to do with any of that. How is your mental and emotional state of health? That’s what I’d like to know.  Are you happy where you work? Do you like the people that you work with? Because you know, you spend more of your waking hours with those people than you do your own family. And depending on how well you like all of the above, including your own family, is exactly what will propel your mind to be in the state it is at any given time.

Now I don’t know about the rest of you, but I have to talk about my feelings in order to feel better. The stresses of my job, my family, and just life in general; well, they just have to come out. To keep all that bottled up inside would cause a self-implosion for sure. I try and “share” my day with my family, and they “act” as if they are paying rapt attention to my every word; but ask them to repeat any of it back, and they would choke and turn blue trying to remember enough to recite it.

That’s what a good walking partner is for by golly, no headsets or ear-phones for me, no sir!  I want a live human being walking next to me, listening to my stream of struggles, my berating voice describing my horrendous day that started with me over-processing my curly, ratty hair, to hitting the huge pot-hole in my work parking lot and simultaneously splashing muddy water all over the side of my freshly washed truck. To dropping my too hot-to-touch lunch all over the break-room floor at work,  and finally, arriving home only to find out I had washed and dried my sons brand new pants with an ink pen in the pocket, which was now ALL over those pants, as he stood in the living room, holding them up for me to see.

Those are the things that walking partners share. Along with talk about husbands whose sensitivity gene is on the blink, children who never seem to have received a sensitivity gene at all, and both of who are only concerned with:  what’s for supper, when is it going to be ready, along with scrunched up faces to imply that’s not what either of them had in mind, as you come dragging in from work.

Walking is for my physical health first and foremost, but also for my mental health, because I’m sure jail-time wouldn’t allow me the hair products necessary for my “delicate” mane, or the Revlon Orange-Flip lipstick that would PERFECTLY accessorize with that outfit. Rational thinking? I’d say so. 

A Hunter's Heaven Begins

I hear his truck as the pipes growl onto the drive-way, his feet are making fast action across the concrete carport, and as the storm door bursts open, his long, slender legs strike steps past me and through the house like he’s been set afire. I tried to ask the basic questions: How was your day? What’s the hurry? Where are you headed now? I got muffled replies smothered in shirt-changing, along with the weird sound of clinking coming from his bedroom, a swift breeze as he flew past me again, hollering “I’ll see you later”; and I was alone again.

Several hours later I would exit the back of the house from where I had been showering for bed, hearing faint noises coming from my kitchen. Now everyone in my house knows I am a self-declared scaredy cat, and if they come home and I am not where I can see them, they are to announce their presence so as not to scare the begeezus out of me.  That had not happened, but I always lock down the house when I’m alone, so I could only wonder as I crept softly towards the noise who or what it would be.

A scene right out of Criminal Minds is the first thing my eyes set sight on as I rounded the corner

from the dining room to the kitchen. Lined up on my kitchen counter next to the sink are round hunks, of what appeared to be, red raw-looking meat;  standing next to that sight, is my youngest son still dressed in the camo gear he left in, standing over the sink with running water, placing one hunk next to another as he washed them off.

My face is scrunched in that crazy-looking face that weak-stomached people have when looking at raw body parts as I ask, “What IS that, and why are you doing that here in my kitchen sink?”  Now I asked “what” it was he was cleaning while my over-imaginative mind was hoping it wasn’t a “who”.  Because those red, round pieces of raw meat looked like they could belong to a human just as much as they could have belonged to an animal.

I don’t know what you think you eat from a Dove, but it seems  all that most people eat is the breast; which is what I had been looking at: 13 teeny tiny dove breasts that looked about the size of chicken livers you see in the grocery store; packaged up, not on your kitchen bar.

Hunting season is upon the Mims home again. Break out the bullets and the bleach by the gallon to clean off my counter tops, sinks, and utensils. Until the big hunt of deer begins in November for Florida, everything else under the sun and in-season doesn’t stand a chance. One day it’s dove, the next it’s squirrel; my son’s bedroom looks like a hunting camp full of gear and guns. Fair Game = Fair Rule in our home: you kill it, you eat it.