The Gift of Good Decision Making

My husband bought a house one day while I wasn't around. Just days before this, we made a downpayment and signed a contract for a 4-plex. I was surprized that he would now buy a house without my knowledge. But, hey, he's the head of the house. Right?

There was a time when I really didn't care to know about our personal finances. We were doing well. I trusted my husband implicity to make our financial decisions. We lived very comfortably. He seemed to know what he was doing.

I'll have to admit that at times, I thought he was trying to kill me (metaphorically speaking), because every time he bought rental houses or mobile homes, it meant more work. We spent years repairing, painting, hiring contractors, maintaining properties, advertising and showing vacancies, dealing with tenants, evicting deadbeat renters and suing for damages.

So, even though I wasn't involved in all of the decision making, I was intimately involved in the work produced by those decisions. Both of us were overwhelmed, sometimes, by the workload.

My husband had an insatiable appetite for more, it seemed. He was running himself ragged. I didn't know at the time that he was sick (bi-polar). He had always been a leader, a go-getter, someone who "made it happen." But now he was reckless. His behavior became erratic, unpredicatable.

In the height of his heyday, tragedy struck. His sister died. He went through the motions of the funeral, then took to the bed. I'd call home from work, but couldn't reach him on our home phone, or his cell. I'd call his mom or sister...and they'd go beat on the door until he got up and answered. My husband was in a very dark place, for a very long time.

Then the unthinkable happened—he had a stroke. I had many responsibilities and tough decisions to make, and the one person I leaned on for decision making was incapacitated. It was a nightmare.

As he recovered from the obvious side-affects of stroke, his behavior became increasingly troubling. He stayed up for forty-eight hours and spray painted all his mobile homes. He spent hundreds of dollars on plants for the family homestead, and hundreds more on light fixtures (because they were on sale at Lowe's and you never know when you'll need them). When I found a loaded gun in the bottom drawer of his dresser, I started reaching for help.

Anyone who has an ill family member knows the chaos I'm talking about. Sometimes there seems to be no remedy. Certainly there is no "quick-fix."

If I could give the Christian women of the world one thing, it would be the ability to make good decisions. What happens to the human body when it is decapitated? Likewise, what happens to the home when the head of the house is so direly affected by brain illness (bi-polar disorder), or brain injury (stroke), or both?

Christian husbands and wives are blessed when they follow a godly pattern for their lives. Truly it is a blessing when your familial head is a mature Christian, who has his family's best interest at heart. Yet, Christian women should not bury their heads in the sand. There are predators out there, disease and tragedy, that can threaten the very existense of the warm cocoon they're living in.

Christian wives, are you living blissfully in the assumption that your husband will always be there to take care of you?

If any Christian husbands are reading this, I implore you to think about what will happen to your family if something happens to you. Will your wife be able to live in the manner she has grown accustomed to? Will she be able to make adequate personal and financial decisions? Who will she turn to for help? You could give her a wonderful gift this Christmas: the wisdom, knowledge and strength to carry on should something happen to you. Help her to know how to make important decisions, because life is uncertain, and you never know when she might need those skills.

Woman's Work

A man's work is from sun to sun, but a woman's work is never done!

Or so my mom used to say. As I go to bed thinking about all the work I didn't finish today, and all my chores for tomorrow, it's a little overwhelming. A good night's rest and a good morning (should the LORD grant me another) will offer new opportunities for accomplishing many tasks. But my work is never truly done. No wonder Jesus said in Matthew 6, verse 34, "Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

Gettin' Ready for Christmas

Kory & Nick goofing off

Kory & the tree

Nichole was home from Meredith College for Thanksgiving

Kory, Nick & Wayne helped making the cards...but I only have pics of Kory

Christmas Card Economics

I purchased some white and off-white linen card stock a few years ago—several boxes, in fact. When I found them in the "reduced price" or "clearance" bin at Office Max, I thought about how much money I could save if I made my own Christmas cards!

Now, two years after that fateful purchase, I'm finally getting the cards done...with the help of my loyal sidekick, Kory, and my son (who would normally not be caught dead doing something so craftsy), and even Wayne. After buying the blank cards (with envelopes), saving and recycling card covers from previous years, spending hours of cutting, gluing, taping, rubber stamping, mounting stickers and trying to work with foil confetti, and hole-punching paper with snowflake designs, we're almost done.

We're pleased with the almost-end-product, so far. It took a lot of time and money to create such homemade-looking (and I do mean that in a homely sense) handmade Christmas cards. No one, by the way, will help me with addressing the envelopes, signing the cards, and stuffing the envelopes.

So, my lesson is learned, and this is my advice: if you're interested in having a little fun with your kids—and don't mind the extra time and money it will require—making Christmas cards is fun. But, if you're looking to save money on Christmas cards, buy the pre-made retail cards. Better yet, get them the day after Christmas and save them for next year's card list.

(Stay tuned for pictures, which are coming soon.)

A Poem by Wilma McPhail

Wilma McPail was a lady I knew from church. I was probably thirteen at the time. She was a published poet, and I played my guitar and sang in church. One day when my family and I were visiting her at home, she handed me a folder filled with unpublished poetry. She asked me to put music to her work, said she'd love to hear some of her poems sung. So, I did that with the following poem (see below) and have sung it in church many times through the years. Sis. McPhail was pleasantly surprised by the poem I used, as there were others she thought more suitable.

Sadly, I disappointed her when I did not use any more of her poems. I did not see the rare opportunity placed before me that day, as teenagers often don't. I wish I could have another chance with Sis. McPhail's poetry. I'm sure she has gone on to be with the Lord. Her health was failing even then, when I knew her. If anyone knows of her work, or how I can contact any of her family members, please send me an email to: anweury at yahoo dot com.

Somewhere there is someone
In need of our prayer
Somewhere there is someone
Lost in despair
Somewhere God is listening
To see if we care
So let's pray one for another
That his blessings we will share

Take time to pray daily
Even though things go well
For sin may vex us tomorrow
Only God can tell
A brother uplifted
By our prayers today
Will ask our Father to have mercy
On his children who prayed

Somewhere there are valleys
We each must walk through
Troubles, heartaches
And disappointments, too
But if we pray as we travel
When our sun ceases to shine
God will answer our brother's prayers
As he answered yours and mine

—by Wilma McPhail

Search For A Poem by H.S.H. Princess Grace

I believe I was age 12 when I first read a certain poem by Princess Grace of Monaco. I memorized the poem, but alas, have since forgotten some of it. Here's what I can recall (even though these pieces may not be entirely accurate):

Little flower, you're the lucky one
You soak in all the lovely sun
You let it all (?) go passing by
And never once do bat an eye

But you must, too, have wars to fight
The cold, bleak darkness of every night
Of stronger vines that seek to grow
Rain, hail --(?)-- and snow

Yet, you never let it show
On your pretty face

That's the best my childhood memories can produce. So, please, if anyone knows this poem...I would love to hear it again!

Autumn Fun

Little children—gotta love 'em—they still think raking leaves is fun! (Teenagers have to be cajoled, coerced, threatened, and bribed.)

Age 9, Kory did such a good job that I gave him $2 for his trouble. He was thoroughly surprized...and thrilled to get it! Gotta love little kids.

Harvest Time

A Story by Nick

Here's an anecdote that Nick shared in one of his school writing assignments. His spelling leaves something to be desired, so I have edited for spelling, and for punctuation, but not grammar. Words in { } are my explanations for what he's saying. It's a cute story...and true:

My dad lets me have lighters, and matches, but my mom don't. Probably cause she's caught me in the act with fire. One time we went up South {meaning South Carolina} to get some fireworks. When we got home I asked if I can bring some upstairs to my room. They said, yes, only if I don't light them. So I brought them up to my room and put them in my closet. A couple days later, I was in my room watching T.V. when I heard them, the fireworks, calling my name. I went to my closet, looked up, and it just got me. I had to light one. So I got a little one out of the pack and walked to the hall to make sure nobody was around, pulled out a lighter, opened my window, lit it, and threw it. It was very, very bright. It twisted in the air on the way down. When it went out, the next thing I heard was my dad calling my name. They were in the den, right under me, and the curtains was open. They seen the whole thing.

My Long Absence

Hard to believe it's been over two weeks since I blogged here! I think maybe I can come up with an excuse or two. :-)

Wayne was hospitalized for five days during this time. He had some kind of infection--the ER docs said it was pneumonia, but Wayne's immunologists said they couldn't find the culprit organism. His fever was dangerously high for several hours, spiking at 103.5 degrees F, and resisted efforts to lower it.

Bros. Hall & Vaux came to visit Wayne in the hospital. We also received some emails & instant messages from various ministers who told us they were praying for Wayne. Thanks so much to all of them for their prayers and support.

After five days, when it seemed his temperature was under control, Wayne was released on a Sunday evening (about a week and a half ago).

The next day, I flew to Indianapolis for a job interview, and didn't get home till late Wednesday night. Then Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, we started cooking in the morning, ate dinner a little after one, took a little nap, then put up the Christmas tree. Although Wayne put the lights on it on Thursday, Kory & Nick decorated it on Friday. (I'll post a few pictures soon.)

Nick injured his right ankle on Saturday at basketball practice...so it was off to the ER for x-rays. He has a bad sprain, but he'll be fine. They put a brace on his foot that supports his ankle and calf. The brace hardened like a cast, but he can remove it to take a shower. He walked with crutches for a few days, but threw those aside on Tuesday so he could play in this week's two games. (Unfortunately, they lost both!)

Kory spent some time with us over the past weekend. Then, he got into some trouble at school this week (defending himself against kids who were mocking and hitting him) and was suspended for two weeks! He's only nine...so I'm sure that was overkill! He used a stick to fight back, so I think that's what the school was so upset about. Anyway, Kory's having a rough time and could really use our prayers.

I appreciate the supportive emails, IMs, visits, and phone calls from our brothers and sisters in Christ. If you're reading this, thank you! God bless you all.

Most Valuable Player!

Nick will probably have a fit when he finds out I posted his award here. For sure, I won't be winning any Cool Mom awards!

Another Lost Uncle

My uncle Dick died this past Sunday, the day after Veteran's Day. He was a Korean War veteran, a retired small-business owner and a family man. He was seventy-five. He was married to my mom's half-sister, Helen.

My aunt was only sixteen when they married; Uncle Dick was forty-one. Odds for a successful marriage may not have been good, but they made it work for thirty-four years, until death finally parted them.

I've lost three uncles in the last two years. Seems like my family is just slipping away, like sand through my fingers, and I'm one of the "old people" now. I mean, I'm a great-aunt! The cycle of life is quite exciting...seeing young ones come along and how they grow, what kinds of decisions they make, the kinds of people they become. But the cycle brings sadness on a day like yesterday, when I learned I have lost another uncle.

Filling In The Little Ovaries

I just came from voting at our rural volunteer fire department. Election volunteers were so genial, especially the little old lady who handed me my ballot and ink pen, and instructed me to make sure that I fill in the little ovaries completely. A check mark, or an X won't do, she advised.

I chuckled to myself and proceeded to the booth to do my duty. I was almost distracted by her telling voters behind me in line to fill in their little ovaries. No one corrected her, no one advised her that they were ovals.

David, my nephew, had brought me to vote. I asked him when we left if he filled in his ovaries. He chuckled. He hadn't even noticed what the woman had said.

It's a common phenomenon around here, especially with the older folks. Not only can ovals be called ovaries, hysterectomy is often called hysterectum, hiatal hernia is known as high hernia, and kerosene is kerasan. If they can't remember the actual word, any variation will do. And, rarely does anyone bother to correct them.

Well, I guess it's not really that important. At least the voting ballot seemed right. Unless I'm so immune to local vernacular that I wouldn't even notice!

What a Difference Autumn Makes

What a difference a few weeks make! The photo above was in our Sunday, Nov 5, 2006 Stanly News and Press. It's the same field I photographed (below) just a few weeks ago, on October 11, 2006.

The Land Of Cotton

There's no delicate way to say this. I'm a Yankee. The worst kind of Yankee—I married a Southerner and came south in a U-Haul.

Folks around here are still fighting a civil war of sorts: school mascots (rebels) and Confederate flags are challenged; each high school has a black prom court and a white prom court; even churches of the same denomination are racially segregated. Foreigners, pronounced fariners, and loosely translated as anyone not from the south, quickly learn how things are. Change is not welcome. It reminds me of the tune, "Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton. Old times there are not forgotten...." Rarely a truer statement has been spoken.

Constancy is not so bad in other ways, however. The countryside is still awe inspiring. I live in a beautiful place with rolling hills, forest, lakes, an extinct volcano, and fields of soybeans, corn and cotton.

Here's a few pictures of the field across the road from where I live. This field is lovely in all its seasons. Right now it's cotton. Soon it will be harvested, and the land will rest. When hunting season rolls in, the field will come alive with herds of deer.

This place may be dragging its feet into the twenty-first century, but, thank God, it brings with it natural beauty. I think of these things every day when I open the front door and look upon the rolling field of cotton across the road.

Kory's sister, Shevelle.

Roughing It

We had no water for some time today. That's because a friend, who was trying to snake a clogged drain under the house, accidentally broke an old water pipe. He had to turn off the water and go buy more parts.

Ironically, we had too much water yesterday. It flowed out of my dishwasher and onto the floor, because the drain was clogged under the house.

To top it all off, the central heat/air has been out for several weeks. The contractor is supposed to come this week and put in a new unit...that is, if he doesn't get delayed AGAIN. So, we struggled through the summer's end with no air conditioning, and now we think we're freezing in our unseasonable cold weather. (Tonight's forecast is 28° Fahrenheit.)

I was just telling my sister today how we have no heat, and no running water. She said, "You might as well stay in a tent." I gave it some thought, while I hovered near the space heater.

Well, at least there's that—a space heater! And the water came back on in time for a rush to the bathroom. Tomorrow may be another story. For now, I'm going to bed, to bask in the warmth of the space heater.

Rumors

Three little country boys were outside playing, when a kitten was strangled to death. Two of the boys, better talkers, said the third boy did it—my foster nephew, Kory.

Kory vehemently denied it. He had no history of harming animals. By all accounts, he loved animals and was always gentle toward them. But, Kory, with a diagnosis of ADHD, a record of violent temper tantrums, and who had other problems, was assumed to have been the culprit. Neighborhood consensus was established.

The kitten's owner called the Department of Social Services, reporting that Kory had killed her kitten. The boy's mother was called in. She was threatened with losing both her children. Kory was sent to a psychiatrist for evaluation. The doctor didn't believe Kory was guilty. Eventually, the family's DSS anal exam ended.

Kory, himself, was not so lucky. When he came around the neighborhood, he was called "Kory the Cat-killer." Even the adults teased Kory, asking him to "take care of" the stray dogs and cats that came around. Kory calmly maintained his innocence.

Guess what happened? The other two boys finally admitted to killing the kitten! After all that my foster nephew and his family went through! So the lady who called DSS apologized to Kory's parents. She's promised to call DSS on Monday and report her error.

But, once the toothpaste is out of the tube, it's hard to get it back in. Can a family's trauma from being investigated be undone with an apology? Can a child's mandated visit to a psychiatrist be taken back by an apology? Can the self-esteem of a little boy who was unfairly ostracized be restored by a simple apology?

How aptly the writer defined the power of the tongue in James, chapter 3:

[5] Even so the tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth!
[6] And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity: so is the tongue among our members, that it defileth the whole body, and setteth on fire the course of nature; and it is set on fire of hell.

------------------------------------------------


Kory feeds the gazelle at Lazy 5 Ranch

It Is Well With My Soul

Once upon a time, when I couln't handle my problems, I crawled into a bottle of pills. When I miscarried, after years of trying to get pregnant, it was Atavan. When my husband stroked out, it was Xanex.

But I can't do that anymore. I'm reaching for higher ground, trusting God to carry me through. How blessed is that sense of calm that caused the writer to say:

When peace like a river attends my way
When sorrow like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot
Thou hast brought me to say
It is well, it is well with my soul.

Boundaries

After my mom died, I would sit up all night long wishing someone would tell me it's time to go to bed.

I think of this whenever I'm reminding my son to do his homework, clean his room, take out the trash, and yes, go to bed. He needs to know that I have expectations for his behavior and comportment. Whether he understands it now, or not, he needs limitations. He needs boundaries.

I know good child rearing is complicated, and cannot be reduced to one principle. But when I see a child out of control—one who cannot control his anger or his desires—I cannot help but think of my own mother reminding me of bedtime; or standing in my bedroom door with a switch in hand and demanding that I clean my room; or taking me to the mirror and proclaiming, "Look how beautiful you are! Why would you want to ruin that with make-up?" when I wanted to look like other girls.

While I don't believe in clipping a child's wings, or hindering them from finding out the hard way, I do think ample guidance is needed along the way. It's important to teach kids how to think, not just what to think.

The Poor Little Paper Boy

When my mother was a child, she read and memorized a poem found in her local newspaper. The writer unknown, my mother adopted the poem for herself. She and a neighbor girl set it to music, and thus a lamentable tune was born. She later sang it to her children. I wish I could record it for posterity, could convey the feeling behind the bluegrass sound my mother had. Until then, I'll just have to play it in my mind. Here's the poem, however one-dimensional its presentation:

Please buy a paper from me
So I can get me something to eat
His clothes were all ragged, no shoes on his feet
The poor little paper boy there on the street

Early one morning, the people passed by
They wondered why the little boy wasn't there
They searched and they searched, and found him dead
He died with a newspaper under his head.

--author unknown

Wash and Wear

Christmas Eve Day, 1999 - Nephew Nicholas is in the dryer, while Jessica closes the door. Nichole (standing) and Jackie look on (only the top of his head shows). While the adults prepared for the holiday festivities, nephews and nieces took care of the really important stuff, having fun.

My first inclination was to fuss at them. (I channeled my parents, scolding me for such shenanigans.) Didn't they know how dangerous it was to hide like that? What if Nicholas couldn't get himself out and nobody found him? He'd die!

I realized, then, how many of us were looking at him...no danger of him not being found. I decided to enjoy the moment, to laugh with the children. I'm glad I did.

Psalm 23

I received this by email today. Thought it was worth repeating:

The Lord is my Shepherd - that's Relationship
I shall not want - that's Supply
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures - that's Rest
He leadeth me beside the still waters - that's Refreshment
He restoreth my soul - that's Healing
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness - that's Guidance
For His name sake - that's Purpose
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death - that's Testing
I will fear no evil - that's Protection
For Thou art with me - that's Faithfulness
Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me - that's Discipline
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies - that's Hope
Thou annointest my head with oil - that's Consecration
My cup runneth over - that's Abundance
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life - that's Blessing
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever - that's Security

Time and Memories

Christmas 1999 - The end of a century, marked by my niece Nichole and I baking cookies. That's what I remember first, when I look at this picture. Yet, it tells me so much more: it reminds me that I was pregnant when this shot was taken, and that I miscarried only weeks later; that I was an aunt in this picture, but I was also a mother.

It reminds me of my own mother, camera in hand, chronicling the every move of her children. As a kid, I dismissed it as her hobby. Now I see how important photographs are to a family.

Pictures spark memories, they enshrine a bit of our history. Like milestones, they tell us where we've been. Like memorials, they evoke feelings of pride and joy, of sadness and loss. They help us count our blessings, to thank God for every day shared with our loved ones.

The Crayolas

Here's a picture of my niece, Nichole, and her friends, The Crayolas. Nichole is the darker shade of yellow (the name of which escapes me), on the left. These high school seniors had dressed up for Halloween and gone trick-or-treating! This was and is typical Nichole: never out of ideas, rarely bored, more energy than the law should allow.

Nichole is now a sophomore at Meredith College in Raleigh, NC. We're very proud of her!

Three Large Holes

I lost someone this past year. In fact, I lost three someones: two male cousins, and a man I once called Dad (not my own father). I have lost them to death.

Terry and Sam were my age (last names omitted for privacy's sake). Actually, I was born in between the two. We grew up together—we went to school together, played with and fought each other. We were more like brothers and sister than cousins. As we grew older, life's decisions and acreage came between us. I live in North Carolina, Terry died in Ohio, and Sam in Kentucky. They were the first of my generation, on Mom's side of the family, to die.

Terry, the sixth of my Aunt Betty's nine children, passed first. He was a truck driver, a divorced father...and a drug addict. After years of liver disease and dialysis, he died alone in a cold motel room. My cousin Sam died just a few months ago. After quitting his coal mining job, gambling away his money, and bingeing on drugs (God knows how many days), he drove home and shot himself in the head—in his own front yard—his horrified wife and children watching. Sam was the third of six kids, the son of my mom's brother, Don.

Kenny was my most recent someone to die. A fatal heart attack took his life barely a week ago. Nineteen when I first met Kenny, I adored him at once. When I visited him and his wife in New Mexico, he took me rabbit hunting. Probably his worst hunting day ever, he tried (in vain) to teach me how to shoot. Kenny also loved fishing, boating, weightlifting, his truck, his motorcycle...and the list goes on. Kenny lived large, and loved his family. And I'm glad to say, Kenny knew the Lord Jesus Christ as his Savior.

The loss of these three men brings into focus what life's cares once eclipsed—my nuclear family and my dear friends are important to me—and they will not be around forever. The song, Abraham, Martin And John, says it best, "You know, I just looked around and [they're] gone."

There are three large holes, now, in the fabric of my life—they wore through when I wasn't looking. Terry and Sam had tragic lives and deaths, more like burnt holes in blankets, that can never be mended. I miss them. And, I will miss Kenny.

Lord, mend my tattered heart.

A Rescuer's Dilemma

I received the following message, from a fellow 'fixer,' sharing how we really can't control things (or people) we would like to control. This is a true story, though the author wishes to remain anonymous.

"A lot of us here are fixers/rescuers -- and it's truly a gift to be made this way, as long as we keep reminding ourselves of our limits. And as all members of The Slow Learners Club know, we have to remind ourselves often.

"My daughter told me that an incident the other day typified my approach to 'fixing' problems: I did not put my car in park, and it started rolling out of the garage and down the driveway. I saw where it was headed: across the street into the neighbors' car(s) parked in their driveway. So I ran along beside it the whole way, shoving on it, trying to stop it! At least I had the sense not to get behind it. I just ended up falling down backwards in the street, spraining my wrist. No harm to the cars, but the neighbor's car was pushed into their garage door, ruining it. At least there were no witnesses (though I sheepishly left a note).

"[My daughter] said I was trying to fix a problem that I had no control over, only ended up hurting myself, and made no difference whatsoever in the outcome. A metaphor for the ridiculous way I instinctively respond to problems. No, we are not failures for not being able to stop rolling cars or [a loved one's] behavior; we just need to make better judgments about what we can and can't control, and be aware of the costs of trying to control what we can't."

The Eyes of God

His Eyes
Remain patient
Illumine dark pathways
Conduct weary travelers ashore
Call men

His Eyes
Transmit judgment
Wink not at ignorance
Demand humanity repent
Search hearts

His Eyes
See suffering
Behold inequities
Comprehend mortal afflictions
Pity

His Eyes
Regard weakness
Convey liberation
Deliver quietude to chaos
Show love

She Married Her Hero

Please take a moment to read the lovely and poignant tribute written by a soldier's wife called, He's Nearly Home!. Just click on the link (underlined), or the title above.

New Testament Christian Church Charlotte, NC, Celebrates 7th Anniversary

Rev. H.J. Hall came to Charlotte seven years ago with a vision to reach the lost for Jesus Christ. Today we celebrated that vision with sixty-four people in church. Rev. Hall preached about faith.

After service we had a delicious meal that was prepared by the ladies of the church, and included ham, roast beef, chicken, homemade macaroni & cheese, greens, rice, potato salad, green beans, devilled eggs, home made cream cake with cream cheese frosting and one with glaze, sweet potato pie, and various soft drinks.

This was our first dinner with Rev. & Sis. Wingard (see photo), the new assistants to Rev. Hall. The Wingards have already been a blessing to the church. They're doing a fantastic job with children's church. We're so glad they're here!

Here are just a few more pictures from the scrumptious dinner and great fellowship.

Weird News Story: Man Chokes Wife While Watching "The Passion of the Christ"

Unbelievable article!

Read it by going to this link:
http://pub24.bravenet.com/news/1999376719/88116/1

(Bravenet.com Headline News Service
http://www.bravenet.com)

Home Remedies

Natural medicine and home remedies have a big following in these parts. I was astonished by some of them after I moved here, to North Carolina. (I shared a few of these on Rev. Devonshire's blog). Here's an example:

• ear ache - a few drops of warm urine in the ear
• bee sting - a dab of moist tobacco eases the pain and inflammation (usually the mother takes the tobacco from her own mouth)
• sore throat - a tablespoon of kerosene and sugar
• bronchitis - rub kerosene on the chest to loosen the phlegm
• cold/flu with fever - peel an onion and cut it in half, put a half onion to the bottom of either foot and wrap, to break the fever
• warts - a specially trained person will "talk the warts off" (he/she quotes some scripture incantations that have been handed down for generations "from a man to a woman or a woman to a man"--if a man tells a man, or woman tells a woman, how to do it, it won't work)

I've never partaken of said remedies...but not for lack of being offered them! Actually, my former chiropractor did the "talking the warts off" treatment to me (without my knowledge or approval). No, it didn't work.

I know that Jesus used spittle one time when healing a blind man (Jesus can use his saliva on me any time!). But, I am so thankful for the word of God, where James, chapter 5, says:

[14] Is any sick among you? let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord: [15] And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up;

The Muck, A Rite of Passage - Part One

Working in the muck was a rite of passage for the kids in my family. I saw my older cousins sunburned and dirty after they got off work…and I couldn’t wait for my chance!

The “muck” is a group of produce farms that were established in 1896, in a swamp bed south of Willard, OH. Dutch immigrants bought the swamp, drained it and farmed the rich black dirt beneath.* My brothers and I worked for Holthouse Farms, one of the muck’s original farming families, in the summers of 1978 and 1979. Even after decades of farming, the soil was coal black and fertile.

I was fourteen, and my brothers were fifteen and sixteen, when we took to the fields. I crawled in the dirt to cut parsley, and pull radishes and beets. My brothers cut endive, leaf lettuce and escarole—vegetables I’d never heard of before—and parsley. We labored for an hourly wage of $2.10. We worked like mad when a crop was to be harvested and shipped on a deadline, for which we got paid piece rate.

The Ohio summers were hot and humid, stifling. But in the fields, we covered every possible bit of skin to defend against the blistering sun. Another foe was parsley poison—think poison ivy—a miserable ailment all by itself, without the sun, sweat and rapid movements of field work to irritate the skin further. Our uniform of necessity was blue jeans, t-shirt, flannel shirt and one or two pairs of tube socks.

It was hard work to be sure. But the satisfactions of earning a paycheck and the camaraderie of working with other teenagers ferried us back each day for another grueling day in the dirt.

*See History of Buurma Farms

Powerless

I am a fixer

Whose fix-it wore out

Brought low by poor choices

Batteries run down

Education, hard work

Have not done the trick

Nor have they cured

The one who is sick

I am powerless

To change another

So I appeal to

My Heavenly Father

Give me the courage

To see your will

Make the tough choices

And then be still

Psalm 46:10 "Be still and know that I am God"

Natalie's Traditional Jewish Wedding

I posted some pictures yesterday of Natalie's wedding, but had some trouble arranging and formatting the photos. I deleted the post, and have decided to let the layout fall where it may.The photos are in no particular order. Photos include:

• Blair and Natalie under the chuppah (pronounced hoopah), a decorative blanket held aloft to symbolize a home for the new couple
• Mr. & Mrs. Blair Book
• Natalie and her two sisters, Lauren (L) and Madison (R)
• The rabbi is holding the ketuvah, or marriage contract

The wedding took place in Las Vegas, NV on October 11, 2004. I was unable to attend, but Natalie sent me a disc with many beautiful pictures. I've never been to a traditional Jewish ceremony. Natalie tells me that besides the ketuvah signing and chuppah, there were Hebrew readings. I wish I could have been there!

Stay At Home Mom with a MBA

What would you call a woman who achieved a masters degree in business while she was in the US Navy, and who is now a civilian working on her second bachelor's degree, and who chooses to stay at home and raise her own child (as opposed to letting a day care do it)? I call her blessed, intelligent, driven and a woman with her priorities in order. I am also proud to call her my niece, Natalie Book.

Click here to go to Natalie's web site and see pictures of her and her lovely daughter Chloe. I may be a teensy bit biased...but, I think Natalie is awesome!

Male Readers and Posters Welcome

I may appear to be anti-man: my blog is targeted for women and women's issues, and I have recorded numerous stories about strong women role models from my childhood. My comments are meant to be a tribute to those women, however, not an indictment against the men from my past. Though positive male influences were few in my formative years, the time for telling about them will come. They may not get equal time—this is, after all, A Woman's Place—but I will share some good male role model stories, too.

In the meantime, I want the men who stumble across this blog to feel welcome to read my blog, share their stories, or make other comments. Of course they may find all this boring or tiresome reading. I understand. But, the welcome mat is rolled out.

If you're a man and reading this blog, take your shoes off and stay awhile! On second thought, leave the shoes on (just kidding). I'm glad to have you here, and I hope you come back.

Home Canning - A Family Affair

One of my fondest memories is of sitting on the front porch of my Aunt Wanda's house during the hot days of summer. Mom, Aunt Wanda, and Mamaw were canning. It was a women-of-the-family affair, with me and two of Wanda's daughters helping (though my dad liked to help, too).

Canning day was fun, except when it was monotonous. My job as the youngest, about age nine, was to shuck the corn, string and snap the beans, and peel the peaches. I sat on the porch with Mamaw and Dad and shucked, strung, snapped and peeled all day long. Even now, I see mounds of corn and beans. I really don't remember ever getting done.

Wanda's girls, older than me, got the important jobs. The younger girl washed and scalded the jars, while the older one got to do the dangerous (translated: fun) stuff. I walked into the kitchen from time to time, and was in awe of the whole scene: the whistling pressure cooker, the boiling jars and rings, and the pouring of paraffin wax onto fruit jelly. Then, I dutifully marched back to the front porch and shucked, strung, snapped and peeled. At least I got to be a part. I felt important.

Later that year, my mom would send me to the pantry to recruit canned vegetables for a meal. Reviewing the formation of green beans on the shelf was a heady task. I walked the rows, inspecting the jars. Which one would pull duty that day? Which would join forces with a boiling stew to fend off the snowy cold of a winter's day? Alas, Mom would enter and say to use the jars in front first.

Time seemed to stand still back then. I knew nothing of its fleeting nature—that the changing of seasons represented more than school days or summer, Christmas or the Fourth of July. Each day that passed was gone for ever. The women of my family, however, gave me something that would last as long I live—as long as I could remember those days of shucking, stringing, snapping and peeling—a sense of continuity, of unity, of purpose, of family.

Soft Hearted Soldiers

Click on the title to go to a poignant post by my Crazy Seoul Sister. God bless our troops!

A Happy Side Effect

I have a very hard time disciplining my son. How do I decide which punishment will fit a particular misbehavior? How can I train him, without making him robotic? Will he grow up thinking that I was a horrible parent, harsh and unforgiving? So, I do the best I can, and I try to be creative (crime-punishment):

• Messy Bedroom—Clean it up, then write a paragraph about why it's important to keep your room clean. Paragraph must have a topic sentence, three supporting sentences, and a conclusion.
• Bad Report Card—Video games restricted until grades improve. And, write a paragraph about why it's important to get good grades in school.
• Didn't Turn in Homework to Teacher—If homework isn't complete, finish it and turn it in for a partial grade. Then, write a paragraph about why it's important to turn in one's homework on time.
• Talking Back—Telephone privileges revoked for a time. Plus, write a paragraph about why you shouldn't talk back to your mom.
• Still talking back?—Write five paragraphs about why you shouldn't talk back to your mom. Include topic paragraph, three paragraphs with supporting details, and a concluding paragraph. (He really loves that one--not.)

Yes, there is a pattern developing here. Does it really help? I don't know. I still have to ride him about cleaning his room. If I don't follow up with him on his homework, he still won't do it half the time and won't turn in completed work the rest of the time. And, even though he hates writing essays about why he shouldn't talk back...he still talks back from time to time! I guess I don't know the first thing about parenting.

Today, my son brought home a social studies worksheet with a big fat 40 on it. I was livid! It was a real tough assignment--all multiple choice! I believe he thinks multiple choice means that any number of choices can be the right answer for any question! Either that, or he closes him eyes, aims, and chooses whichever answer his pencil lands on. It makes no sense to me why a smart boy would not naturally want to do well.

The day was not a total loss, however. He showed me his first graded essay of this new school year...with a big fat 100 on it, and a glowing teacher's comment in the margin. My son is becoming quite the little writer. I couldn't be more proud!

Maybe I should think up some new punishments, like...for talking back, recite all the U.S. presidents in order; or for a messy bedroom, clean it up, then list for me the entire periodic table of elements. You know, it just might work. I think I'm on to something here!

A Few Faces to Go With The Stories

Mamaw, Mom, and Aunt Wanda

c. 1977

Mamaw and Uncle Betty

c. 1977

Uncle Betty

Aunt Betty was my mom's oldest sister, the first of seven children. Like many first daughters, the responsibility fell to her to tend the younger kids while her mother worked. Betty went on to marry and bore nine children of her own, four daughters and five sons. Her last baby was born when the eldest turned eighteen. So, for thirty-six years she reared her own children.

I guess you could say she was a stay-at-home-mom. However, she worked constantly. To help support her family she undertook many ventures. She made lovely collectible dolls and many types of crafts, which she sold at the fair. She decorated cakes for a living, as well. She sold Artex and Tri-Chem fabric paints, Tupperware, Amway, Meri-Mac, and Lord knows what else.

She made her daughters' prom dresses, and later, their bridesmaids dresses, with the help of her girls. Her oldest daughter refused to have a traditional wedding...opting for too-long jeans and a t-shirt reading, "Sock it to me, Sock it to me, Sock it to me." What can I say? They married in the 1970s. For her girls who allowed it, she planned beautiful weddings. Her kids were everything to her and she lived for them.

But, Betty was grouchy! Oh my goodness, she could rip your lips off in a heartbeat if you made her mad. When I was younger, it bothered me to get on Aunt Betty's bad side. But as a teenager, I found that her bark was truly worse than her bite. When my Aunt Wanda died, leaving seven children, and Mom passed, leaving four children, Betty immediately went into mother-hen mode. She did her best to take all of us under her wings and shield us from life's harshness. She did the best she could by us.

Only later did I learn the reasons for Betty's seeming ill temper--she had migraine headaches and other health problems that she never took time to tend to. How on earth had she done so much! Besides all that I've listed above, she cooked and cleaned and decorated her home as though they had nothing but money. Her husband had a good job working for the railroad, but it wasn't enough to support such a large family. Aunt Betty made the ends meet. She took care of her family, because that's what she loved doing.

My dad is the one who started calling her Uncle Betty. I don't know why...but it just kind of stuck. Eventually, she began to send us birthday and Christmas cards signed, "Uncle Betty!"

Uncle Betty died in 1994, in her fifties. Her husband had retired, they had sold their home and moved to Florida to begin another chapter in their lives. Her life was full, and her legacy great. She wasn't perfect. But she was wonderful woman, mother, and grandmother...and uncle!

The Trains of My Life

What I missed the most when I lived in Hawaii were trains and railroad tracks. They had been part of my life--for all of my life--until I moved away from home. The last place I knew them was in a little Ohio town called Uhrichsville.

My dad, sister and I had moved there when I was a high school senior. We lived in a mobile home that sat parallel to, and perhaps only twenty-five feet away from, railroad tracks. Trains passed all hours of the day and night. Never really annoying, the trains at first seemed a little loud at night. Before long, 'clickety-clack' was as soothing as raindrops on a tin roof--and just as hypnotic.

There was something magical about the tracks as well, and I often walked them to school instead of riding the bus. The town looked different from this vantage point--I could see things not visible from the school bus. And the solitude healed me. Perhaps it was the exercise of walking those few miles to and from school that did the most good.

The railroad tracks were sure, steady, unchanging. They gave me a connection to the past. Mom was gone now, but her history with the railroad tracks lived on inside me--the hobos who ate at her family's table, the dares she surrendered to as she and her friends crawled under moving trains, and the songs about trains.

And they transported my mind into the future. I would leave Ohio one day, that sad place that felt like the end of the earth. I knew it wasn't really the end of the earth, though. Because the tracks kept on going long after my town disappeared.

I live in North Carolina, now. I see an occasional train, cross over the tracks sometimes in town. I miss them, but I'm okay. I can walk the tracks in my mind, and enjoy the trains' clangy comfort in the nighttime of my memories.

The Love of A Mother

My mother was a great storyteller, a master craftsman when it came to sharing childhood memories with her children. Whether poignant, humorous, or instructive, her accounts rang true. She admitted to untruths told, as well as their consequences, and poor decisions made to impress her friends--things I sometimes thought she ought not to tell. And, she provided us a window into her world. We were delighted as she gesticulated and affected foreign accents to tell her story. Here's one Mom told us more than once:

One winter day, she and her friends latched onto the bumper of a bread truck parked nearby. The driver unaware skiers were in tow, pulled away from the curb. The kids had the time of their lives as the truck accelerated. At just the right moment, the other kids let go. But, Mom held on for dear life--she was afraid of falling! She eventually lost her grip and slammed face first on the pavement, thereby breaking her nose.

A neighbor saw the whole thing. She ran to the bleeding child, scooped her up, and carried her home. Mom concocted an explanation along the way. And, Mamaw bought it--Carol had fallen out of a tree! The horrified neighbor, with broken English, interrupted the brouhaha and spilled the beans, "Missi Barnett, Missi Barnett! No fall offa de tree! Fall offa de truck!"

What did we learn from this story? Bumper skiing on icy roads, while exciting, is dangerous. If you do engage in bumper skiing, let go before it's too late. Your mom might believe your little lies, but she will find out the truth. And, your mother has eyes everywhere, not just in the back of her head.

Besides all that, the very fact that Mom took a moment to share this story with us demonstrated her love for her children.

Gray Matter Wars

What does it mean
To walk with Christ
When chaos is reigning inside?
How do I proffer the Spirit control?
And let Him be my guide?

My soul knows the way
I have done it before
I know that surrender brings peace
Here lies the quandary—my mind is at war
And it’s long since I’ve had any ease.

I do not trust man
I don’t trust my self
I’ve indicted my God as well
Was He at His watch when my life fell apart?
And I passed through my personal hell?

I’m ashamed of my doubt
Please pardon, I pray
My thoughts that accuse you, O Lord
For I know you are blameless, ready to help
Tender mercy you will afford

Come, Holy Spirit
Bring peace to my mind
With it my soul reconcile
Steady my thoughts, emotions, and path
Nourish my heart for a while

I wrote this poem in the throes of personal conflict. I debated whether or not it is too emotional for this blog, but finally decided to post it. God is faithful. Day by day he shows me that I can trust Him.

Psalms
40: [1] I waited patiently for the LORD; and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry.
91: [2] I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.

My Great Aunt the Movie Star

Aunt Thelma was not really a movie star. But when I was eight and heard her sing on the radio, I just knew she was! I grew to learn that Thelma was not famous, but she was lovely just the same. And her captivating voice filled my life for years to come.

Church would not have been the same without her. With one main song to her repertoire, Thelma's hauntingly beautiful voice set the tone for the service. I don't know the origin of her song, but it went something like this:

Dark clouds hover all around me

Dark clouds hover all around me

Dark clouds hover all around me

Pray that I'll be able to stand.

Pray, Saints. Pray that I'll be able

Pray, Saints. Pray that I'll be able

Pray, Saints. Pray that I'll be able

Pray that I'll be able to stand.

This could go on for several minutes with, When I'm in the valley, Pray that I'll be able..., or When I see him coming, Pray that I'll be able..., or When I'm at the judgment, Pray that I'll be able.... Now intersperse those with several refrains of Dark Clouds hover all around me..., and I think you get the picture. The lyrics were depressing!

Yet, couple Aunt Thelma's booming voice with a pair of guitars, a banjo, and a backup singer or two, and it was simply beautiful. Before the song was over, women were shouting in the aisles and folks were headed toward an altar of prayer. The preacher didn't always get to preach!

What made Great Aunt Thelma sing this mournful tune? I can only surmise. Sometimes I thought people who reared families during the Great Depression never really left the depression in their minds.

Thelma was not unpleasant to be around. Like her sister, my grandmother, she was a gracious woman. Last time I saw her, she was visiting my ailing grandmother. I wondered what my family will be like without these aged women, the glue that held us all together? That chapter is still unfolding. I pray that someday my nieces and grand-nieces (and someday granddaughters) will remember me so kindly as I remember Thelma and Mamaw.

I'm afraid I've failed so far. But I do believe the saying, "as long as there is life, there is hope." God grant me the courage, strength and willingness to change, to become a godly example for generations to follow.

Flour Sack Dresses

Here's a picture of Mom and two of her siblings, circa 1947, in Plymouth, OH. I wish I had a better photo so you could see the little flowers on these homemade dresses. Mamaw made them from flour sacks. I've been told that a 50 lb. bag of flour cost a whole $0.25 back then! I wonder if one bag made a single dress, or two?

Left - Wanda - One year older than my mother, she died six months before Mom at age thirty-eight (two months before her thirty-ninth birthday).

Middle - Richard - He was the sixth child.

Right - Carol, my mother. She was six years old in this photo. She also died at thirty-eight.

Soup Beans and Fried Potatoes: A Lesson In Hospitality

My grandmother--better known as Mamaw--was a hospitable woman. No matter what time of day or night, if you went to her house, you were going to eat. Sometimes it was a whole meal. How she had enough food in the house to feed a family of six, who were unannounced, at any given time, was beyond me. Other times she'd bake a peach cobbler and serve it hot, with ice cream.

She also had a history of feeding strangers. Mamaw worked in a factory and raised seven children on her own. It was the 1940s. They were poor, but Mamaw and her brood never went hungry. They had soup beans (pinto beans) and fried potatoes every night for supper. Very often, they had unexpected guests for dinner--hoboes.

Willard, Ohio was a railroad town. The tracks went near Mamaw's house, which meant the hoboes did, too. Whoever knocked on her door in the evenings was invited in to eat supper. Sometimes they just asked for water. But they got soup beans and fried potatoes. These homeless men were always respectful. They never molested this poor, generous family. Always grateful, they would quietly leave when dinner was over.

Times are different, I know. I would be so afraid to open my home to homeless people, especially if I had no husband around to protect me and my children. Perhaps hospitality has gone the way of the dinosaur.

Hebrews 13 [2] says, "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." I wonder how many angels enjoyed soup beans and fried potatoes at my grandmother's house?

Ever heard this saying, "A Woman's Place is in the Home?"

I used to ask my Mom about her childhood dreams, what did she long to be when she grew up? A wife and a mother, she would say. No, Mom, that's not what I mean. You know, what did you want for a career? All I ever wanted was to be a wife and mother, she would say.

And she did it well. Her housekeeping skills were stuff of legends. No lie. People used to say they would eat eggs off her bathroom floor. Personally, I don't know what could compel me to do that (except maybe starvation). Yet, that's what folks said. She cleaned all morning, read books in the afternoon, and started cooking supper about the time we got home from school.

After school was a magical time for me. Mom focused on me and my stories. She peppered me with questions, as though I were the only child on the planet. My squeaky-voiced little sister sat beside me on the floor as we gazed into our mother's face, and drank in her attention.

Mom played games with us: Sorry!, Monopoloy, Uno, and her favorite, Trouble. She spent all the time she could with us. She cherished her children. However, her time on earth was to be a short one.

My mother bore four children, but her frail body did not allow her to see them into adulthood. She was thirty-eight when she died. One of the last things she said to me was, "I prayed to see my children grow big enough to take care of themselves. Now I wish I had prayed to see my grandchildren."

I remember voices from my childhood saying, "A woman's place is in the home." It was a derisive comment meant to demean women, something along the lines of keeping your woman pregnant in the summer and barefoot in the winter. As for me, I was glad to have my Mom home, however incomplete the time was. She was 100% at home. She never longed for a career, never desired to compete with men in a man's world, never made her kids feel like an inconvenience, never acted like housework and childrearing were beneath her.

My mom stayed home on purpose. She made our house a home. God bless every woman who puts her heart into homemaking and childrearing. Her kids will never forget. They will rise up and call her blessed.