Many years ago I was driving along with three-year old Tina in the car. Don’t remember where we were headed, but do remember that the local public radio station was tuned in to the classics hour. I have always supported public radio, not just because it has classical music, but for the variety of programs offered on both the local and national level. I have no clue if I will get in trouble for this or not, but surely they won’t mind a little free advertising if I list some of my favorites: "Click & Clack, the Tappin’ Brothers" - mostly heard on Saturday mornings at 9:00 a.m. in my area, a talk show about cars and car problems; "Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me" - a game about current events and famous people with a panel of very funny participants; “Says You” - a game of word and wit; "Thorn & Thistle" - Irish music; "From the Top" - featuring the finest, most gifted young musicians our country has to boast.
If you sit in my car and do a radio personality check on me you’ll find that preset #1 is public radio, #2 the local pop & rock station, #3 country, #4 more pop and rock, #5 oldies [what they are calling oldies meaning 70’s & 80’s, ha ha] and #6 jazz. Just like my mix of friends, my music is a wide range of tastes. I have the freedom to feel younger than my age, or hit the button when something comes on that brings up the ‘and they call that music?’ thought process. I have tried to stay progressive with my music. It keeps you on your toes and you can relate to your kids. Some of it is quite good and some of it is at the same sound wave that took away 73% of the clarity in my hearing back in the days of playing in bands with my first husband. The kids of today with those booming cars are going to have my hearing by the time they are thirty. My kids used to laugh at me when I would answer incorrectly to a question. My step son walked in the kitchen one day while I was making a pie and asked me, “What kind is it?” I looked up at the clock and said, “Two o’clock.” I can’t understand a word you say if something else is going on, and don’t ask me anything from behind me on the left or you will think I am ignoring you.
Segue back to the ride in the car with Tina. Uh. Oh well, nothing brilliant comes to mind. So, I was riding with Tina in the car many years ago and the lovely strains of Schumann wound down and a Wagner Opera began. After the prelude ended the lead soprano launched into her aria. A few lines went by and Tina piped up in her precious little voice, “Mommy’s singing.” I was flattered. Here was someone on the level of Dame Joan Sutherland singing at the top of her range doing the part of Brunnhilde or some other Wagnerian heroine. It was a powerful voice. It brought up images of vocal perfection, a damsel in distress, a muse in the woods calling fairies to dance, a heroine waiting for her lover to return from war, a big, fat soprano with flabby arms that looked like hanging wings which flapped in the wind when she gestured toward the horizon and a butt as big as a tug boat. Wait, I didn't think I was liking what was coming to mind. This might not have been a case of flattery if imagery went along with the sound.
Many of the sopranos in the opera world are not tiny, wraithlike, ethereal creatures. The part of Brunnhilde is usually awarded to the most seasoned soprano. That’s a good word - seasoned. Oh, yeah, the lovely, young Brunnhilde ends up being played by a soprano who has been singing for at least 45 years, she lumbers onto the stage weighing in at 750 pounds and the skinny tenor playing the part of her suitor is scared to death of the love scenes. He has his chiropractor on speed dial prepared for the scene where she will clutch him to her heart. Part of her costume is a large metal breastplate which can fracture his skull without a moment’s notice. I quickly told my daughter that mommy was not the person singing. I only weighed about 106 at the time and I was happy with my girth.
Back in high school, another brilliant segue here, I was a four foot eleven skinny, flat chested, freckle faced kid who was the Avon poster child. On my wedding day, at almost nineteen years old, I weighed in at 82 pounds. You are reading correctly. While I have gained weight over the years, I remained fairly small until about age 47. Being a small person I didn’t have the same problems other friends had regarding physical issues relating to size.
I have a friend I will call Beth. Beth is a big gal. Funny. Loving. Warm hearted. Fabulous cook. I was helping Beth clean her house before it was to be sold and I was cleaning mirrors and glass throughout the house. I called her into the bathroom and asked if I could remove the tape from the mirror. It didn’t look like it was holding anything together. Her answer was to leave it. That was to level the boys. I asked, “You bring your sons in here and line them up to measure them in the bathroom mirror?” “No, silly.” she replied, “I have to level the boys.” and she took a breast in each hand and bobbled them around. We both looked down at my chest. I just didn’t have that problem.
You know, at that 'plus' size lingerie isn’t really lingerie. It’s hoisting equipment complete with repelling clips like climbers use. I bet they could make a lot of money if they would include a two foot Stanley level in the packaging. Of course, the woman would have to go find her level somewhere in the garage after the husband got wind of a new tool in the house, but it would be a great idea and less tacky than tape on the bathroom mirror.
Well, the reason for the story goes back to the Wagner opera on the radio the day Tina’s childlike innocence started this whole mess. I was asked to sing for a group of ladies at a retreat, and one of the ladies on the panel asked me to do something funny. Right up my alley. Misbehaving with permission! I am notorious for my spoofs I do with music for birthdays, and I found the perfect piece with which to end my part of the program. I twisted, I mean tweaked, the words to a very classical piece in Latin. What I needed were props to set the stage. I really wanted to look the part of an opera character. I went to the local Wagner Opera Props R Us and asked the clerk for one of those Brunnhilde metal breast plates. He surveyed my chest with the same sage eye my friend Beth did and said, “We don’t sell cookie sheets here.”
When I introduced the final piece for my presentation I told the audience I found the book Latin for Southeast Texas Dummies and translated portions of the song. I told them I would sing some of the Latin words, then slip the English translation in so they could follow the story line. I turned my back to the crowd and pulled my prop out of a bag - a large metal cookie sheet on a pink ribbon - and suspended it around my neck. I told them the story of Tina hearing Brunnhilde in the car, my initial flattery, then my horror at the image planted in my brain. I thought they were going to fall on the floor over the Stanley level bit and one lady popped up and said, “I know who took mine. I knew my husband was lying when he said he hadn’t seen it. That’s how the pictures got hung straight in the living room!” I couldn’t have paid someone to chime in with better audience participation. The group howled. What started out as a lilting piece of very serious music went the direction I am well known for going - SOUTH and to the LEFT. I didn’t even warn the pianist accompanying me.
Benedictus, benedictus, qui ve nit in nomine domine, qui ve nit in nomine domine.
Benedictus, benedictus, benedictus now boarding Houston Metro's cross town bus.
Benedictus, benedictus, qui ve nit in nomine domine, qui ve nit in nomine domine.
Benedictus, benedictus, benedictus ain’t no smoochin’ in the back of dah bus.
**at this point in the song it goes into a soaring upper register and is really dramatic
No air conditionin’ Just ain’t you wishin’ for some relief from all these high notes?
Benedictus, benedictus, qui ve nit in nomine domine, qui ve nit in nomine domine.
Ominous. Dominoes. Ain’t no spittin’ on this bus!
After dismissing back to the general convention this women’s retreat was part of, several spouses were eagerly awaiting their wives to go to the next event. I clearly heard the question, “Well, that sounded interesting. What did you talk about and what was so funny?” One woman casually replied, “Oh, some lady sang in Latin and talked about boobs.” I prayed the Bishop wasn’t standing nearby.
Do You Have This In Bright Blue?
I took Lil’ Buddy to a Festival in Brookshire. It was glorious weather so I took the carriage top off and slathered on the SPF 45 sunscreen lotion, donned my suit and set out. The trip to Brookshire normally takes about 25 minutes in the Blazer. With Lil’ Buddy doing a blazing speed of 45 mph, not to mention how tough it is to ride in the wind at that speed, we arrive at our destinations at a considerably slower pace.
Upon my arrival at the festival, I checked in and introduced myself to the couple with the covered wagon pulled by a beautiful team of matching draft horses. I told them Lil’ Buddy spits, sputters and backfires a bit and noted that I didn’t want to frighten the horses. They merely laughed and said the horses would probably take off thinking it was time to work. The tractor on the farm backfires all the time - it’s practically a signal to the team to pull the wagon to gather the hay.
I had a lot of fun taking folks on rides around the old town square. The streets were, let's just say rugged, and my passengers quickly gained appreciation for their own modes of transportation that actually had suspensions. Lil’ Buddy is a rough ride, to say the least. The kids had a barrel of fun in the rumble seat, and, it doesn’t matter if it is a school bus full of children or a big, hairy motorcyclist pulling along side us, the phrase I hear the most is, “Blow the horn!” AOOOGA gets rounds of applause all the time.
Let me be quick to honesty here. Lil’ Buddy is not an antique Model A. In 1978, Harry Shay approached Ford Motors about reproducing 10,000 model A’s and a few other classics. Ford gave them permission for some patents and loaned Shay the platform on which to build them. An agreement was in place that every Ford dealership in the nation would get one car for the showroom floor. Private orders were also to be filled, and colors other than black were offered. The cars were to be built by hand by teams of six men, just as the A was, but they tooled with engine parts and body specifications that would make them street legal for all roads. Negotiations were brokered with the government to receive exemptions to a number of emissions rules because the cars were being built with a bare bones standard shift 4 cylinder engine with extreme limitations. Everything got rubber-stamped and production began. Shay went bankrupt before they could build 5,000 cars. Only 2,989 Deluxe Model A Roadsters were built. Lil’ Buddy’s birthday is 1981, so he is considered a classic auto.
Having been built with as much originality as possible, Lil’ Buddy has tube tires. Back in the day folks could drive for years patching tires and tubes. The outer tires are Firestone tires, and I have been toodling around on wheels I know I can replace fairly easily. When I bought the car, I knew the spare was good but did not take inventory of any other emergency equipment I needed. I have had him on the road for months without a hitch. Until I drove home from Brookshire, that is.
I was at an intersection on a country road when the car joggled lop-sided. I turned carefully to get to the shoulder and maneuvered myself out of the intersection. Being the self-sufficient broad I am I knew I had seen a jack up in the rumble seat area, knew I had a spare and decided to take care of myself.
I looked to ensure no one was coming. I slipped into the back and crawled down into the space under my front seat and started wrenching this monstrous jack out. It weighed in at just under 48 pounds. I needed better leverage and dove further down, placing my ‘Buick parked on the back porch’ clearly in the air. About that time a local farmer walked up and asked if I needed help. Startled by a voice looming near the location of my backside, my head crashed into the iron bar under my seat. My left leg slipped underneath me and twisted. Now I was firmly wedged between the rumble seat and the front seat. Thank goodness for the button-down shirt with the necktie or the twins would have been exposed to view. With dignity banished to hell in a handbasket I asked him to give me a hand hauling out the jack. The infernal piece of iron finally made daylight after a little more effort. It was almost as tall as me. The farmer chuckled and said, “You gonna lift this here car with this? This here’s a barn jack. You raise barns and houses with it.” Well, I thought, what the hell good is that? Then he asked me if I had a lug wrench. Uh, no would be that answer.
Now we have company. Several cars have slowed to look. Ain’t none stopping to offer help, but they were looking real good. Then the local Sheriff drove up to see if I needed assistance. I had just called my brother in law so I told the Sheriff someone was on the way. And yes, the Sheriff humored the little woman with the typical jokes, “Was that you I heard peeling out at the intersection in Fulshear? Did you get that there flat popping wheelies? Don’t let me catch you speeding in my neighborhood.” I answered with, “Yeah, that will be me messing up your hair when I fly by at 45 mph.” He was bald. Don’t know how well that one really went over… Oh, and guess what else I heard from the folks slowing down to look but not offering to help? “Blow the horn!”
At last, brother in law showed up to rescue the uselessly self-sufficient female. [I used to contend that the only reason women got married was because men came with tools. Then I discovered Home Depot!] I went straight to Firestone in my little town of Richmond. The young man behind the counter asked if he could help me. “I have a flat.” “Oh, we can fix that right up.” “I don’t think you can.” I caught him off guard. I pointed out the window toward the car, and informed him that, if the bolt I had run over had merely punctured the tire and tube, they could probably have patched both and I’d have been good to go, but the bolt had time to wiggle and really tore into the tube. While they are Firestone tires, the tube would have to be ordered. I told him to call Cooper Tires and said it was an odd size tube since it is a 1981 Shay. He kept staring at me. I wondered, “Do I sound like the school teacher on Charlie Brown’s Peanuts show?” Wha, wha wha wha wha.. Dude, listen to me. I know what I am talking about. Get someone with some gray hair over here, please. Well, after consulting the books, the old broad appeared to be correct and a tube and tire were ordered.
My next decision was to equip myself with a hydraulic jack and a tire iron. (Remember that we are talking about the type-A person who has to have everything to match.) I waltzed into the auto store and told them I wanted a good tire iron with a choice of lug sizes and a hydraulic jack. You bet, I asked the question, “Do you have one in bright blue?” Expecting to get that ‘stupid woman shopping in a man’s auto store’ look from the clerk, I was amazed at the response. Do you know that they really do come in bright blue? When taken to the display area I stared in awe. I saw red jacks and yellow jacks and some with checked racing flags and others with Dixie flags or Harley Davidson painted on them! There were key chains for cowboys, cowgirls, fans of rock bands, dog and cat lovers and some key chains had feathers and twinkles. I saw windshield wiper blades in vivid neon colors. There was a dizzying array of things to put on cars and trucks the likes of which I had never seen. They had floor mats in the wildest of designs, trailer hitches with the Astros’ logo and steering wheel covers with bling! Standing in the auto store filled with appointments for car buffs to trick out their ride, I felt I landed in heaven. It was a heady moment, and the room practically spun around me in a drunken rush with all manner of goodies for the vehicle. My heart fluttered. I had an epiphany. I, world-renowned shopping-hater, now have a cause and reason to shop. I need to bedeck my adorable Lil’ Buddy with everything I can find an excuse to buy. My family will read this and know that I have lost my mind. Now I understand how those old geezers feel when they are sporting a 20-something piece of blonde arm candy - totally besotted and foolish, only my mid-life crisis love affair is with a bright blue two door roadster. While I was surrounded by auto bliss, my little car was being surrounded by guys climbing down from jacked-up trucks to take a closer look. Sure enough, when I exited the building, they collectively said, “Blow the horn!”
AOOOGA.
I am having way too much fun at 53.
Upon my arrival at the festival, I checked in and introduced myself to the couple with the covered wagon pulled by a beautiful team of matching draft horses. I told them Lil’ Buddy spits, sputters and backfires a bit and noted that I didn’t want to frighten the horses. They merely laughed and said the horses would probably take off thinking it was time to work. The tractor on the farm backfires all the time - it’s practically a signal to the team to pull the wagon to gather the hay.
I had a lot of fun taking folks on rides around the old town square. The streets were, let's just say rugged, and my passengers quickly gained appreciation for their own modes of transportation that actually had suspensions. Lil’ Buddy is a rough ride, to say the least. The kids had a barrel of fun in the rumble seat, and, it doesn’t matter if it is a school bus full of children or a big, hairy motorcyclist pulling along side us, the phrase I hear the most is, “Blow the horn!” AOOOGA gets rounds of applause all the time.
Let me be quick to honesty here. Lil’ Buddy is not an antique Model A. In 1978, Harry Shay approached Ford Motors about reproducing 10,000 model A’s and a few other classics. Ford gave them permission for some patents and loaned Shay the platform on which to build them. An agreement was in place that every Ford dealership in the nation would get one car for the showroom floor. Private orders were also to be filled, and colors other than black were offered. The cars were to be built by hand by teams of six men, just as the A was, but they tooled with engine parts and body specifications that would make them street legal for all roads. Negotiations were brokered with the government to receive exemptions to a number of emissions rules because the cars were being built with a bare bones standard shift 4 cylinder engine with extreme limitations. Everything got rubber-stamped and production began. Shay went bankrupt before they could build 5,000 cars. Only 2,989 Deluxe Model A Roadsters were built. Lil’ Buddy’s birthday is 1981, so he is considered a classic auto.
Having been built with as much originality as possible, Lil’ Buddy has tube tires. Back in the day folks could drive for years patching tires and tubes. The outer tires are Firestone tires, and I have been toodling around on wheels I know I can replace fairly easily. When I bought the car, I knew the spare was good but did not take inventory of any other emergency equipment I needed. I have had him on the road for months without a hitch. Until I drove home from Brookshire, that is.
I was at an intersection on a country road when the car joggled lop-sided. I turned carefully to get to the shoulder and maneuvered myself out of the intersection. Being the self-sufficient broad I am I knew I had seen a jack up in the rumble seat area, knew I had a spare and decided to take care of myself.
I looked to ensure no one was coming. I slipped into the back and crawled down into the space under my front seat and started wrenching this monstrous jack out. It weighed in at just under 48 pounds. I needed better leverage and dove further down, placing my ‘Buick parked on the back porch’ clearly in the air. About that time a local farmer walked up and asked if I needed help. Startled by a voice looming near the location of my backside, my head crashed into the iron bar under my seat. My left leg slipped underneath me and twisted. Now I was firmly wedged between the rumble seat and the front seat. Thank goodness for the button-down shirt with the necktie or the twins would have been exposed to view. With dignity banished to hell in a handbasket I asked him to give me a hand hauling out the jack. The infernal piece of iron finally made daylight after a little more effort. It was almost as tall as me. The farmer chuckled and said, “You gonna lift this here car with this? This here’s a barn jack. You raise barns and houses with it.” Well, I thought, what the hell good is that? Then he asked me if I had a lug wrench. Uh, no would be that answer.
Now we have company. Several cars have slowed to look. Ain’t none stopping to offer help, but they were looking real good. Then the local Sheriff drove up to see if I needed assistance. I had just called my brother in law so I told the Sheriff someone was on the way. And yes, the Sheriff humored the little woman with the typical jokes, “Was that you I heard peeling out at the intersection in Fulshear? Did you get that there flat popping wheelies? Don’t let me catch you speeding in my neighborhood.” I answered with, “Yeah, that will be me messing up your hair when I fly by at 45 mph.” He was bald. Don’t know how well that one really went over… Oh, and guess what else I heard from the folks slowing down to look but not offering to help? “Blow the horn!”
At last, brother in law showed up to rescue the uselessly self-sufficient female. [I used to contend that the only reason women got married was because men came with tools. Then I discovered Home Depot!] I went straight to Firestone in my little town of Richmond. The young man behind the counter asked if he could help me. “I have a flat.” “Oh, we can fix that right up.” “I don’t think you can.” I caught him off guard. I pointed out the window toward the car, and informed him that, if the bolt I had run over had merely punctured the tire and tube, they could probably have patched both and I’d have been good to go, but the bolt had time to wiggle and really tore into the tube. While they are Firestone tires, the tube would have to be ordered. I told him to call Cooper Tires and said it was an odd size tube since it is a 1981 Shay. He kept staring at me. I wondered, “Do I sound like the school teacher on Charlie Brown’s Peanuts show?” Wha, wha wha wha wha.. Dude, listen to me. I know what I am talking about. Get someone with some gray hair over here, please. Well, after consulting the books, the old broad appeared to be correct and a tube and tire were ordered.
My next decision was to equip myself with a hydraulic jack and a tire iron. (Remember that we are talking about the type-A person who has to have everything to match.) I waltzed into the auto store and told them I wanted a good tire iron with a choice of lug sizes and a hydraulic jack. You bet, I asked the question, “Do you have one in bright blue?” Expecting to get that ‘stupid woman shopping in a man’s auto store’ look from the clerk, I was amazed at the response. Do you know that they really do come in bright blue? When taken to the display area I stared in awe. I saw red jacks and yellow jacks and some with checked racing flags and others with Dixie flags or Harley Davidson painted on them! There were key chains for cowboys, cowgirls, fans of rock bands, dog and cat lovers and some key chains had feathers and twinkles. I saw windshield wiper blades in vivid neon colors. There was a dizzying array of things to put on cars and trucks the likes of which I had never seen. They had floor mats in the wildest of designs, trailer hitches with the Astros’ logo and steering wheel covers with bling! Standing in the auto store filled with appointments for car buffs to trick out their ride, I felt I landed in heaven. It was a heady moment, and the room practically spun around me in a drunken rush with all manner of goodies for the vehicle. My heart fluttered. I had an epiphany. I, world-renowned shopping-hater, now have a cause and reason to shop. I need to bedeck my adorable Lil’ Buddy with everything I can find an excuse to buy. My family will read this and know that I have lost my mind. Now I understand how those old geezers feel when they are sporting a 20-something piece of blonde arm candy - totally besotted and foolish, only my mid-life crisis love affair is with a bright blue two door roadster. While I was surrounded by auto bliss, my little car was being surrounded by guys climbing down from jacked-up trucks to take a closer look. Sure enough, when I exited the building, they collectively said, “Blow the horn!”
AOOOGA.
I am having way too much fun at 53.
Learning Patience Waiting for God's Time
I worked for League City United Methodist Church for over six years after I left the corporate world. I dearly loved working there. The people became my extended family, and I still hold close ties to them. We had a staff change one year and a new senior pastor arrived. The first staff meeting was called. The new minister presented several items and then informed us that we were going to rotate giving a devotional each week at staff meetings. My toes curled. My panties twisted into a wad. I melted right in front of everyone's eyes. I can sing in front of hundreds. I can play the instruments with boldness and vigor for any size audience. Just don't ask me to pray out loud. Now I have to come up with a devotional? I simply did not have time to sit and study for this torture. As I virtually writhed in agony the pastor noticed my discomfort and suggested I write something that fit close to home, like a personal experience.
Devotional from the Office
Psalm 46:10 “Be still and know that I am God!”
You can guess the look on the staff faces as I opened with the line: Every morning I gather my Bible, my coffee and my reading glasses and sit down for a few moments of quiet time with the Lord. The staff dove for cover in fear of the impending lightening strike.
Yeah, I do a devotional every morning. . . . NOT!!! Hey, it’s Cheryl from the church office we’re talking about. Quiet, not. Still, not. Devoting time to the Lord like I should, not. For those of you who don’t know me, I am the hyperactive Type A adult who spends her time trying to fill every moment and space in my day just like I fill cubby-holes in the office - with everything in order; pencils lined up according to length and those with erasers are segregated from those without. Those without erasers will be set aside until I can purchase erasers to place on them and make them whole again. Permanent Markers have their own cubby apart from the Non-permanent markers. There is an exact place for everything. I like things that match, which is I why I was stressed out when some well-meaning soul borrowed the red scissors from my desk - my poor matching stapler was without a mate until I could rectify the situation. I like order, hence, if you are nosey enough during a visit to my home, you will find that I line the canned goods up in orderly groups, all the clothes in my closets hang a specific direction on padded silk hangers [and the hangers are the same, exact color each and every one] and I fold my dirty clothes. Yes, I just admitted to folding my dirty clothes. I must explain that there is a method to my madness. I have 3 laundry hampers. One for dry cleaning. One for blacks/darks/cold wash. One for delicates/lights/warm wash. I fold the clothes simply because you can pack more clothes in the hampers, and with them pre-sorted, half my work is done. Sometimes it is two weeks before I get to do a marathon laundry day. Two Weeks sound like a long time to you??? Not to me. Not when you account for a 1.5 hour round trip drive to work every day, play music on the side, do wedding photography on the side, cook for families on the side, do cake decorating on the side, write poetry seriously, do prom dress and formal sewing on the side, practice my trumpet for fun, write music and have up to three foster dogs [none less than 75 lbs.] in the home to trip over 24/7 complete with Vet trips and feeding schedules. And I am not blowing my own horn….just listing my routine activities.
Now, where was I going with all this? Oh, yeah, my devotional. “Be Still…” that verse ends with an exclamation point in case you didn’t notice. Well, my whole life is an exclamation point. I want to accomplish this! Done! I want to learn that! Done! I want to go back to work after retiring! Done! I want to completely remodel my house! Done! I am ready to return to being an organist in a church! Send the resumes out! Done! I know for a fact that organists are scarcer than hens’ teeth. With all those resumes out, my phone should ring any second now……not.
Ah, yes, there is that line, “In God’s time.” I sat around and said, “Hey, God. I know there are 4 gazillion organs in Houston and about 200 organists. What’s going on here? You blessed my kids with great job opportunities. I said thank you for that, didn’t I? So, what about me? Why isn’t the phone ringing off the wall? I know, I know. Be still……do you know how hard that is for me? God, you know me!!! This is the same Cheryl whose mother went to her 10th grade open house and met the history teacher….their conversation went something like,
Mom, “Hello, I am Mary. I am Cheryl’s mother.”
Mrs. Pate, “Oh, my goodness. She is my favorite student. She’s so quiet, studious and soaks up everything I say.”
Mom, “I meant Cheryl Earles….the redhead.” almost as if she had no clue they were discussing the same girl.
Back to “In God’s Time.” I wait, impatiently of course, and by chance encounter, or maybe it wasn’t, an email zips across my screen. The position of organist at my former church is once again open. My own private pew in church no visitor can threaten to take away from me is available. I have the opportunity to play music for the Lord again, which is truly my personal devotional time. From the whisper of the smallest flute pipes to the rumble of the voices generated by the bass pedals….each note tells God “thank you” for my talent. Each time someone tells me my music lifts their soul is a confirmation that God has blessed me with a gift that I must give back to him and share with others at every opportunity. I have to constantly remind myself - never let the busy pursuits of life so order my life that I fail to take the time to be still and know that he is God. He will speak directly to me if I let him, and he will answer my needs in HIS time and it will be the RIGHT time.
Devotional from the Office
Psalm 46:10 “Be still and know that I am God!”
You can guess the look on the staff faces as I opened with the line: Every morning I gather my Bible, my coffee and my reading glasses and sit down for a few moments of quiet time with the Lord. The staff dove for cover in fear of the impending lightening strike.
Yeah, I do a devotional every morning. . . . NOT!!! Hey, it’s Cheryl from the church office we’re talking about. Quiet, not. Still, not. Devoting time to the Lord like I should, not. For those of you who don’t know me, I am the hyperactive Type A adult who spends her time trying to fill every moment and space in my day just like I fill cubby-holes in the office - with everything in order; pencils lined up according to length and those with erasers are segregated from those without. Those without erasers will be set aside until I can purchase erasers to place on them and make them whole again. Permanent Markers have their own cubby apart from the Non-permanent markers. There is an exact place for everything. I like things that match, which is I why I was stressed out when some well-meaning soul borrowed the red scissors from my desk - my poor matching stapler was without a mate until I could rectify the situation. I like order, hence, if you are nosey enough during a visit to my home, you will find that I line the canned goods up in orderly groups, all the clothes in my closets hang a specific direction on padded silk hangers [and the hangers are the same, exact color each and every one] and I fold my dirty clothes. Yes, I just admitted to folding my dirty clothes. I must explain that there is a method to my madness. I have 3 laundry hampers. One for dry cleaning. One for blacks/darks/cold wash. One for delicates/lights/warm wash. I fold the clothes simply because you can pack more clothes in the hampers, and with them pre-sorted, half my work is done. Sometimes it is two weeks before I get to do a marathon laundry day. Two Weeks sound like a long time to you??? Not to me. Not when you account for a 1.5 hour round trip drive to work every day, play music on the side, do wedding photography on the side, cook for families on the side, do cake decorating on the side, write poetry seriously, do prom dress and formal sewing on the side, practice my trumpet for fun, write music and have up to three foster dogs [none less than 75 lbs.] in the home to trip over 24/7 complete with Vet trips and feeding schedules. And I am not blowing my own horn….just listing my routine activities.
Now, where was I going with all this? Oh, yeah, my devotional. “Be Still…” that verse ends with an exclamation point in case you didn’t notice. Well, my whole life is an exclamation point. I want to accomplish this! Done! I want to learn that! Done! I want to go back to work after retiring! Done! I want to completely remodel my house! Done! I am ready to return to being an organist in a church! Send the resumes out! Done! I know for a fact that organists are scarcer than hens’ teeth. With all those resumes out, my phone should ring any second now……not.
Ah, yes, there is that line, “In God’s time.” I sat around and said, “Hey, God. I know there are 4 gazillion organs in Houston and about 200 organists. What’s going on here? You blessed my kids with great job opportunities. I said thank you for that, didn’t I? So, what about me? Why isn’t the phone ringing off the wall? I know, I know. Be still……do you know how hard that is for me? God, you know me!!! This is the same Cheryl whose mother went to her 10th grade open house and met the history teacher….their conversation went something like,
Mom, “Hello, I am Mary. I am Cheryl’s mother.”
Mrs. Pate, “Oh, my goodness. She is my favorite student. She’s so quiet, studious and soaks up everything I say.”
Mom, “I meant Cheryl Earles….the redhead.” almost as if she had no clue they were discussing the same girl.
Back to “In God’s Time.” I wait, impatiently of course, and by chance encounter, or maybe it wasn’t, an email zips across my screen. The position of organist at my former church is once again open. My own private pew in church no visitor can threaten to take away from me is available. I have the opportunity to play music for the Lord again, which is truly my personal devotional time. From the whisper of the smallest flute pipes to the rumble of the voices generated by the bass pedals….each note tells God “thank you” for my talent. Each time someone tells me my music lifts their soul is a confirmation that God has blessed me with a gift that I must give back to him and share with others at every opportunity. I have to constantly remind myself - never let the busy pursuits of life so order my life that I fail to take the time to be still and know that he is God. He will speak directly to me if I let him, and he will answer my needs in HIS time and it will be the RIGHT time.
Another Boyfriend Came Strolling Along
So She Has a Boyfriend…..this too will surely pass, won’t it? For all of you out there with daughers and sons starting to date, don't despair. There will be times of trial. There will be times for tears. There will be times for anger, but there does come a time when you know they will be okay. And so will you.
Please do not get the impression that I want to bash my son-in-law. Quite the contrary. I want to tell you about an amazing transformation that only God can do, but the wearing-thin patience of a mother couldn’t see it for a long time and somehow, I also became part of the process.
Along the road of life, we had the occasional boyfriend show up on the doorstep, but never had one appear to be special. One or two were a cause for worry, but they eventually went away. I wasn’t sure if they were inspired to go away by the big brother or not, but none lasted longer than a few dates. Until October of 1995. Gee, that seems so long ago.
At the time, I was not very impressed by the tall, slim guy with dark hair that my high school senior daughter was breathlessly talking about. I couldn’t see it. All the guys she liked seem to have the same physical description: tall, skinny, dark hair [usually hanging over one eye] and no butt to hold their pants up. They met in choir and were introduced by friends. The first date wasn’t much of a date. It was Halloween and a group of young people went to a haunted hotel in Beaumont. Not dinner and a nice movie. Not anything impressive for a first date. So, being me, I wasn’t impressed at all.
Ryan managed to go beyond the first few dates. He survived the big brother looking at him. He seemed unaware that I was rolling my eyes in exasperation. He remained in the picture and became part of our family life, kind of like a mole you see developing on your neck. One day it’s there - a little brown dot. Six years later you look and it is a permanent fixture the size of a golf ball. By some freak chance or divine intervention, this tall, slim young man won my daughter’s heart and left me baffled as to how and why. Oh, yes, he had a sense of humor. Yes, he was nice looking. Yes, he was nice to her, and he was a talented singer and musician, which was something that I, as a musician myself, instantly recognized. So, since I was stuck with him anyway, I offered his band a place in my home to use for a rehearsal room. No sooner did they take over my sewing room did they take over my life.
I became the semi-manager for the band and helped them get their first gigs. I ferried them to performances, took them on field trips to the guitar stores in Houston and constantly got up from my Sunday afternoon nap to tell them, “Please stop and tune those guitars. The gosh-awful intonation is shredding my last nerve.” Note that I made no mention of the noise. (Can you picture this classical pianist/organist with the alternative Christian rock band in her home trying to take a nap on Sunday afternoons? Let me tell you, earplugs can work wonders.) As their skills progressed and their talents bloomed, they approached the date for production of their first CD. I became not only their mentor, but band photographer for the album as well. To fit their edgy sound, we picked an edgy site. Uh, I better stop there because the rest of the photo shoot story involves parking in a cemetery, running down a road trying to stay out of view, breaking and entering a dangerous place with no trespassing signs posted everywhere, ducking in the high grasses while we crossed an opening and climbing the structures of a place we had no business being. But the photos were great! I could see the headlines, “Church Organist Arrested for Breaking and Entering Closed Chemical Plant With Teenage Boys. Teenagers Released to Parents to do Community Service. Organist Fined and Hung Out to Dry by her Toenails.” Yeah, that would have been my luck. Oops, I just put the whole incriminating event in print. Oh, dear, I wonder if the father of one of the guitar players is still the chief of police in that little town? Well, it was years ago….isn't there a statute of limitations on this kind of thing?
Let’s see, was I talking about the band or about Ryan? Actually, for a number of years, there wasn’t much of a distinction. Ryan came with three other bodies attached to him. These boys came to be my extended family. One guitar player would find his way by my side in the kitchen as I washed dishes just to talk about “stuff.” The bass player would show up and mow my lawn. The drummer - well, as typical of a drummer he did nothing but contribute psycho-hose-beast girlfriends to the picture. A couple of the faces changed in the picture over the years, but I still took comfort in their noise. They were good boys. They were there all the time, which meant they weren’t off somewhere getting into trouble. And the noise wasn’t that bad. My thanks and my money went to the manufacturers of the earplugs.
I never could figure out how Ryan could stay so focused on the band as a whole when he, as an individual, was so different. While having a great deal of intelligence, Ryan suffers from ADD, which means everyone around him pretty much suffers. Well, maybe I am exaggerating, but not much. You couldn’t even hold a conversation with him before he channeled off in another direction. It baffled me as to what Tina saw in him. He didn’t seem to dote on her. He only seemed intent on whatever occupied him at the time. The relationship resembled a blazing planet spinning through the solar system with Tina being the little moon orbiting slowly around him. Every now and then the cosmos lined up and he took notice of her in his path, just long enough for her to get a little light on her face. I can remember one of Tina’s college dance recitals very clearly. Ryan's whole family came to see her perform a short solo. She sailed in a flying leap across the stage and did a scissor split with such speed and alacrity you had to watch it on the video with freeze frame action to actually see it. It was that fast. It was astounding and she was beautiful in all the work performed that day. At the end of the recital, we all rushed to her side to congratulate her. Ryan’s turn came and I did NOT hear, “Tina, you were beautiful.” “Tina, you were great.” “Tina, that was so awesome.” What I DID hear was, “Tina, guess what I learned to do on the guitar today!” I could have slapped him sideways to kingdom come! I wondered if Tina even noticed or if five years of dating had numbed her to his ways. Sigh. If she kept this one she was going to be a disappointed wife. All I could do was pray he would go away.
But, go away he didn’t. Another couple of years rocked along and the engagement was announced. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Tina reassured me she had that boy figured out and loved him despite himself. On the night of their engagement party, Ryan stood up to give his speech. His closing words were, “And I get to marry the most beautiful woman on the planet and my best friend.”
The bell went off in my head - Ding. Was this the same boy who didn’t notice her graceful body flying across a stage? Was this the guy who stayed in the music/sewing room holding a guitar instead of sitting on the couch holding her to watch a movie? Was this the same guy who was always saying, “Tina, listen to this.” “Tina, watch this.” “Tina, look at the fingering I figured out.” Wait, there’s goes another Ding…..the key word here was “Tina.” He took everything to Tina for approval, to Tina for her pleasure, to Tina for her acknowledgement that what he did was worthwhile. This was his way of showing that Tina’s input in his life was of utmost importance to him. He didn’t have to show and tell the whole world - just Tina. She was all that mattered.
As time for the wedding drew near, I watched as he evolved into an amazing young man. I always knew he was talented. His skills for writing music and verse were, and are still, prolific. What started out as a very raw guitar strummer developed into master blending fingering and sound on the instrument. What I didn’t see was how he grew in his Christianity and his manhood under my very eyes. The forest was too close for me to see the trees. Suddenly, I saw this fine young gentleman, who was about to be part of my life and my family, eagerly helping with plans for the wedding. Unlike most guys who leave everything to the girls, Ryan and his parents were a big part of the event. And then I got a real glimpse of the man in love with my daughter.
On the day I took Tina to a mansion in Galveston to do her bridal portraits, Tina had a hair appointment which entailed mounting the veil in her hairdo. Make-up would be done in Galveston so it would be pristine for the photos. The dress was waiting in the car so it wouldn’t get wrinkled wearing it on the trip.
She arrived at the house after having her hair done in a beautiful style, swept up high on her head with loops and curls, leaving her graceful neck bare which she carried like a ballerina on stage. She walked in the back door wearing shorts, baggy shirt, flip flops, no make up - just the hair and veil were done. Ryan had entered through another door. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but had stopped by to get something. (for the guitar, of course) We heard him gasp. He beheld the site of her with the veil flowing in the wind and the light shining through it from behind her. The words that escaped him were, “Oh, my gosh. Tina. You are so beautiful. I can’t believe it.” She squealed, “Ryan Boone, you’re not supposed to see me. Besides, I look awful with no make-up.” He just stood there as if mesmerized by the vision before him. My eyes snapped open. Ding. He really does love her. I worried for nothing.
To this day he is the finest of husbands and companions I could have ever hoped to have for Tina. His talent has expanded to his art world of computer graphics. And he has learned to sit on the couch and hold her while watching a movie, even if it is a chick flick.
I can’t wait to write the chapter on what kind of father he turns out to be.
Please do not get the impression that I want to bash my son-in-law. Quite the contrary. I want to tell you about an amazing transformation that only God can do, but the wearing-thin patience of a mother couldn’t see it for a long time and somehow, I also became part of the process.
Along the road of life, we had the occasional boyfriend show up on the doorstep, but never had one appear to be special. One or two were a cause for worry, but they eventually went away. I wasn’t sure if they were inspired to go away by the big brother or not, but none lasted longer than a few dates. Until October of 1995. Gee, that seems so long ago.
At the time, I was not very impressed by the tall, slim guy with dark hair that my high school senior daughter was breathlessly talking about. I couldn’t see it. All the guys she liked seem to have the same physical description: tall, skinny, dark hair [usually hanging over one eye] and no butt to hold their pants up. They met in choir and were introduced by friends. The first date wasn’t much of a date. It was Halloween and a group of young people went to a haunted hotel in Beaumont. Not dinner and a nice movie. Not anything impressive for a first date. So, being me, I wasn’t impressed at all.
Ryan managed to go beyond the first few dates. He survived the big brother looking at him. He seemed unaware that I was rolling my eyes in exasperation. He remained in the picture and became part of our family life, kind of like a mole you see developing on your neck. One day it’s there - a little brown dot. Six years later you look and it is a permanent fixture the size of a golf ball. By some freak chance or divine intervention, this tall, slim young man won my daughter’s heart and left me baffled as to how and why. Oh, yes, he had a sense of humor. Yes, he was nice looking. Yes, he was nice to her, and he was a talented singer and musician, which was something that I, as a musician myself, instantly recognized. So, since I was stuck with him anyway, I offered his band a place in my home to use for a rehearsal room. No sooner did they take over my sewing room did they take over my life.
I became the semi-manager for the band and helped them get their first gigs. I ferried them to performances, took them on field trips to the guitar stores in Houston and constantly got up from my Sunday afternoon nap to tell them, “Please stop and tune those guitars. The gosh-awful intonation is shredding my last nerve.” Note that I made no mention of the noise. (Can you picture this classical pianist/organist with the alternative Christian rock band in her home trying to take a nap on Sunday afternoons? Let me tell you, earplugs can work wonders.) As their skills progressed and their talents bloomed, they approached the date for production of their first CD. I became not only their mentor, but band photographer for the album as well. To fit their edgy sound, we picked an edgy site. Uh, I better stop there because the rest of the photo shoot story involves parking in a cemetery, running down a road trying to stay out of view, breaking and entering a dangerous place with no trespassing signs posted everywhere, ducking in the high grasses while we crossed an opening and climbing the structures of a place we had no business being. But the photos were great! I could see the headlines, “Church Organist Arrested for Breaking and Entering Closed Chemical Plant With Teenage Boys. Teenagers Released to Parents to do Community Service. Organist Fined and Hung Out to Dry by her Toenails.” Yeah, that would have been my luck. Oops, I just put the whole incriminating event in print. Oh, dear, I wonder if the father of one of the guitar players is still the chief of police in that little town? Well, it was years ago….isn't there a statute of limitations on this kind of thing?
Let’s see, was I talking about the band or about Ryan? Actually, for a number of years, there wasn’t much of a distinction. Ryan came with three other bodies attached to him. These boys came to be my extended family. One guitar player would find his way by my side in the kitchen as I washed dishes just to talk about “stuff.” The bass player would show up and mow my lawn. The drummer - well, as typical of a drummer he did nothing but contribute psycho-hose-beast girlfriends to the picture. A couple of the faces changed in the picture over the years, but I still took comfort in their noise. They were good boys. They were there all the time, which meant they weren’t off somewhere getting into trouble. And the noise wasn’t that bad. My thanks and my money went to the manufacturers of the earplugs.
I never could figure out how Ryan could stay so focused on the band as a whole when he, as an individual, was so different. While having a great deal of intelligence, Ryan suffers from ADD, which means everyone around him pretty much suffers. Well, maybe I am exaggerating, but not much. You couldn’t even hold a conversation with him before he channeled off in another direction. It baffled me as to what Tina saw in him. He didn’t seem to dote on her. He only seemed intent on whatever occupied him at the time. The relationship resembled a blazing planet spinning through the solar system with Tina being the little moon orbiting slowly around him. Every now and then the cosmos lined up and he took notice of her in his path, just long enough for her to get a little light on her face. I can remember one of Tina’s college dance recitals very clearly. Ryan's whole family came to see her perform a short solo. She sailed in a flying leap across the stage and did a scissor split with such speed and alacrity you had to watch it on the video with freeze frame action to actually see it. It was that fast. It was astounding and she was beautiful in all the work performed that day. At the end of the recital, we all rushed to her side to congratulate her. Ryan’s turn came and I did NOT hear, “Tina, you were beautiful.” “Tina, you were great.” “Tina, that was so awesome.” What I DID hear was, “Tina, guess what I learned to do on the guitar today!” I could have slapped him sideways to kingdom come! I wondered if Tina even noticed or if five years of dating had numbed her to his ways. Sigh. If she kept this one she was going to be a disappointed wife. All I could do was pray he would go away.
But, go away he didn’t. Another couple of years rocked along and the engagement was announced. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Tina reassured me she had that boy figured out and loved him despite himself. On the night of their engagement party, Ryan stood up to give his speech. His closing words were, “And I get to marry the most beautiful woman on the planet and my best friend.”
The bell went off in my head - Ding. Was this the same boy who didn’t notice her graceful body flying across a stage? Was this the guy who stayed in the music/sewing room holding a guitar instead of sitting on the couch holding her to watch a movie? Was this the same guy who was always saying, “Tina, listen to this.” “Tina, watch this.” “Tina, look at the fingering I figured out.” Wait, there’s goes another Ding…..the key word here was “Tina.” He took everything to Tina for approval, to Tina for her pleasure, to Tina for her acknowledgement that what he did was worthwhile. This was his way of showing that Tina’s input in his life was of utmost importance to him. He didn’t have to show and tell the whole world - just Tina. She was all that mattered.
As time for the wedding drew near, I watched as he evolved into an amazing young man. I always knew he was talented. His skills for writing music and verse were, and are still, prolific. What started out as a very raw guitar strummer developed into master blending fingering and sound on the instrument. What I didn’t see was how he grew in his Christianity and his manhood under my very eyes. The forest was too close for me to see the trees. Suddenly, I saw this fine young gentleman, who was about to be part of my life and my family, eagerly helping with plans for the wedding. Unlike most guys who leave everything to the girls, Ryan and his parents were a big part of the event. And then I got a real glimpse of the man in love with my daughter.
On the day I took Tina to a mansion in Galveston to do her bridal portraits, Tina had a hair appointment which entailed mounting the veil in her hairdo. Make-up would be done in Galveston so it would be pristine for the photos. The dress was waiting in the car so it wouldn’t get wrinkled wearing it on the trip.
She arrived at the house after having her hair done in a beautiful style, swept up high on her head with loops and curls, leaving her graceful neck bare which she carried like a ballerina on stage. She walked in the back door wearing shorts, baggy shirt, flip flops, no make up - just the hair and veil were done. Ryan had entered through another door. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but had stopped by to get something. (for the guitar, of course) We heard him gasp. He beheld the site of her with the veil flowing in the wind and the light shining through it from behind her. The words that escaped him were, “Oh, my gosh. Tina. You are so beautiful. I can’t believe it.” She squealed, “Ryan Boone, you’re not supposed to see me. Besides, I look awful with no make-up.” He just stood there as if mesmerized by the vision before him. My eyes snapped open. Ding. He really does love her. I worried for nothing.
To this day he is the finest of husbands and companions I could have ever hoped to have for Tina. His talent has expanded to his art world of computer graphics. And he has learned to sit on the couch and hold her while watching a movie, even if it is a chick flick.
I can’t wait to write the chapter on what kind of father he turns out to be.
Baby Magic
You know, as you grow older you see things entirely differently than you did as a youngster. Suddenly, fifty doesn’t seem so old. We don’t feel it. We might look it, but we don’t feel it. . . yet . . . .
In my writing I mentioned my miserable plight in life living in a house without air conditioning, a house that went through a bad time period of renovation. I figured my life wouldn’t get better unless I moved out. My parents simply didn’t see how difficult life was. They thought it was perfectly alright for us to suffer in that house with only an attic fan to cool the place down. As young children we would play outdoors on our dead end street until parents called us to get inside out of the ‘night air’ before we got sick. We dutifully returned to the indoors, had baths and went to bed. What do you think we did when we went to bed??? We put our pillows on the old wooden sash of the open windows and went to sleep as the attic fan pulled that dangerous night air across our faces. No-one got sick. I figured that was a parental fib to get us in the house. Maybe there was an evil force lurking in the exterior air that the magical rusted window screens kept out. I dunno.
As I got older there were other dilemmas that appeared to destroy my life while I was incarcerated in this house with no modern amenities except the flushing toilet. Getting ready for a date was an orchestrated battle. I took a cold shower and washed hair in cold water. I wore as little under the housecoat as I could get away with so I wouldn’t sweat. Having a dad who was a deacon in the Baptist church meant I had to dodge him as much as possible or I would have to get fully dressed. I had the boyfriend timed to arrive at a specific hour. I was not one of those girls who was fashionably late. Late meant being in that house for a minute longer than hair or make-up could stand. I dressed in front of a fan blowing on my face so I wouldn’t melt like the witch in the wizard of oz. Sweat had the same effect on me that water had on Elphaba. Hair was done with lightening speed. I didn’t make that date walk as far as the front door. I was in their air conditioned car so fast I looked like a time warp blur on Star Trek.
That life was based on parental thinking. Here’s a classic example of how being a grandparent makes you think different. After my daughter was born, her father and I decided we needed a get-a-way weekend in August of 1978. It was decided that we would leave our 10-month old baby with the grandparents. A bed was set up in my parent’s room so they could monitor her at night. My sister, who is almost seven years younger than me, was elated that the baby was coming. The day of the trip dawned, and I handed precious cargo off to the excited hands of grandparents who would have total control for three days. I could have predicted that she wouldn’t sleep in the crib. I figured mom would sneak her into their bed and I would have to deal with that when we got home. I did NOT predict what actually happened.
We spent the weekend in Big Bend Park in Texas and couldn’t wait to get home to pick up Tina. Did I mention this was in August? In Texas? In Southeast Texas where the humidity can be 100% and not raining? Where you can fry an egg on the sidewalk? Okay, so you keep that weather report handy. And remember how I grew up sleeping with my pillow in the window so the attic fan would blow the dangerous night air across my face, and it took everything in my power to keep make-up from sliding off my face while dressing for any occasion. We returned from the long drive and arrived at my parent’s house in Bridge City. I figured something must be wrong. The front door was shut. The windows were closed. They didn’t tell me they were going anywhere. I was puzzled.
Since this was still in an era when few people locked front doors, we walked in. I remained curious as to why everything seemed different. My sister, who was still in high school, came bouncing up to me. The situation got stranger. She could barely contain herself and shrieked, “We got central air, we got central air, we got central air.” I looked at my parents. They had this strange, sheepish, guilty look on their faces. I asked, “What brought this on?” My dad stood and shuffled back and forth on his feet like a child about to confess to a crime. “Well, the first night you left Tina she tossed and turned and wasn’t sleeping good in the crib. We picked her up to put her in bed with us in case she was fretting about being away from her own bed and missing you. She was really warm and sweating. We just couldn’t let the baby sleep in a house this hot.”
For 18 years I suffered in that house, and the grandbaby spent one night sweating and my parents immediately shelled out $3,000 on central air!! I can’t wait till Tina has children. My turn is coming! When she starts to say things like, “Now, mom, don’t do this and don’t do that or you’ll spoil the baby.” Here, in writing, is my testament of how grandparents can do just what they want to do and na-na-na-na-boo-boo to you.
In my writing I mentioned my miserable plight in life living in a house without air conditioning, a house that went through a bad time period of renovation. I figured my life wouldn’t get better unless I moved out. My parents simply didn’t see how difficult life was. They thought it was perfectly alright for us to suffer in that house with only an attic fan to cool the place down. As young children we would play outdoors on our dead end street until parents called us to get inside out of the ‘night air’ before we got sick. We dutifully returned to the indoors, had baths and went to bed. What do you think we did when we went to bed??? We put our pillows on the old wooden sash of the open windows and went to sleep as the attic fan pulled that dangerous night air across our faces. No-one got sick. I figured that was a parental fib to get us in the house. Maybe there was an evil force lurking in the exterior air that the magical rusted window screens kept out. I dunno.
As I got older there were other dilemmas that appeared to destroy my life while I was incarcerated in this house with no modern amenities except the flushing toilet. Getting ready for a date was an orchestrated battle. I took a cold shower and washed hair in cold water. I wore as little under the housecoat as I could get away with so I wouldn’t sweat. Having a dad who was a deacon in the Baptist church meant I had to dodge him as much as possible or I would have to get fully dressed. I had the boyfriend timed to arrive at a specific hour. I was not one of those girls who was fashionably late. Late meant being in that house for a minute longer than hair or make-up could stand. I dressed in front of a fan blowing on my face so I wouldn’t melt like the witch in the wizard of oz. Sweat had the same effect on me that water had on Elphaba. Hair was done with lightening speed. I didn’t make that date walk as far as the front door. I was in their air conditioned car so fast I looked like a time warp blur on Star Trek.
That life was based on parental thinking. Here’s a classic example of how being a grandparent makes you think different. After my daughter was born, her father and I decided we needed a get-a-way weekend in August of 1978. It was decided that we would leave our 10-month old baby with the grandparents. A bed was set up in my parent’s room so they could monitor her at night. My sister, who is almost seven years younger than me, was elated that the baby was coming. The day of the trip dawned, and I handed precious cargo off to the excited hands of grandparents who would have total control for three days. I could have predicted that she wouldn’t sleep in the crib. I figured mom would sneak her into their bed and I would have to deal with that when we got home. I did NOT predict what actually happened.
We spent the weekend in Big Bend Park in Texas and couldn’t wait to get home to pick up Tina. Did I mention this was in August? In Texas? In Southeast Texas where the humidity can be 100% and not raining? Where you can fry an egg on the sidewalk? Okay, so you keep that weather report handy. And remember how I grew up sleeping with my pillow in the window so the attic fan would blow the dangerous night air across my face, and it took everything in my power to keep make-up from sliding off my face while dressing for any occasion. We returned from the long drive and arrived at my parent’s house in Bridge City. I figured something must be wrong. The front door was shut. The windows were closed. They didn’t tell me they were going anywhere. I was puzzled.
Since this was still in an era when few people locked front doors, we walked in. I remained curious as to why everything seemed different. My sister, who was still in high school, came bouncing up to me. The situation got stranger. She could barely contain herself and shrieked, “We got central air, we got central air, we got central air.” I looked at my parents. They had this strange, sheepish, guilty look on their faces. I asked, “What brought this on?” My dad stood and shuffled back and forth on his feet like a child about to confess to a crime. “Well, the first night you left Tina she tossed and turned and wasn’t sleeping good in the crib. We picked her up to put her in bed with us in case she was fretting about being away from her own bed and missing you. She was really warm and sweating. We just couldn’t let the baby sleep in a house this hot.”
For 18 years I suffered in that house, and the grandbaby spent one night sweating and my parents immediately shelled out $3,000 on central air!! I can’t wait till Tina has children. My turn is coming! When she starts to say things like, “Now, mom, don’t do this and don’t do that or you’ll spoil the baby.” Here, in writing, is my testament of how grandparents can do just what they want to do and na-na-na-na-boo-boo to you.
I Heard An Angel Fair
Gliding through the rafters
the notes rang pure and fair.
Her voice was as an angel’s
floating on the chapel air.
A sound so sweet and wondrous,
reaching deeply to my soul,
sailing to the firmament
calling seraph’s bells to toll.
Unknown to her my rapture,
she tugged upon my heart,
thus I was her instrument,
baptized in lyric art.
I loved without exception
and cherished every tone,
and held them deep within
as if they were my own.
The room became her harp,
stone her celestial stage,
surely the sound in heaven
when an angel comes of age.
Upon hearing Kristi sing April 29, 2009
the notes rang pure and fair.
Her voice was as an angel’s
floating on the chapel air.
A sound so sweet and wondrous,
reaching deeply to my soul,
sailing to the firmament
calling seraph’s bells to toll.
Unknown to her my rapture,
she tugged upon my heart,
thus I was her instrument,
baptized in lyric art.
I loved without exception
and cherished every tone,
and held them deep within
as if they were my own.
The room became her harp,
stone her celestial stage,
surely the sound in heaven
when an angel comes of age.
Upon hearing Kristi sing April 29, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)