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.