Under Construction

(Updated 4-26-2006)

I love neat and tidy gardens.

I really do.

Other people's neat and tidy gardens.

Mine is not and I think is not meant to be.

It has rather become a reflection of the chaos that often lives inside myself. One month short of 4 years on this journey I often still feel as if I am under construction or perhaps some sort of permanent emotional fog.Or is it the evolution of an eclectically creative and scattered mind?

Still…the gift of the tiny rose from Rose’s Garden was a welcome bit of unexpected early spring serendipity.

Some days I hardly recognize myself and I wonder who I will be in another 4 years????

I wonder would he recognize and love the woman who is and continues to become as he did the one who was in the imagined happenstance that I saw him again on this earth?

But...that is food for another post.

In the meantime, I reckon I'll be like my clumsy Charlie Dawg rooting around among the wild blackberries out in the back 40.

Should I be plagued by the desire for order...I can just look across the fence into Old MacDonald's well tamed parcel of real estate. (He's the only person I know who would neatly groom goat and bunny poop)

(All photos taken by me withing the last 7 days using either my Nikon pocket camera or himself's Sony big-boy digi-cams.)

This Old Truck

“Big ol' truck
10 feet tall and 10 feet wide
It's a big ol' truck
Here she come again, man”

(Toby Keith – Big Old Truck)

It's done...truck is mine legal as well as physical.

They wouldn’t let the old tag stay on the truck. But, the DMV gal is also widowed so let me keep it rather than turn it in.

It’s a piece of tin. Metal with paint, number and letters on it. Why obsess over such a small thing when I know truck will either be farmed out or traded in sooner rather than later?

Who knows why we do these things?

Reckon I'll just tuck it under the seat for a spell...talisman I s’pose.

Not sad...just sentimental. Yanno?

There was no doubt that truck was his. He fell in love with her the minute he yanked opened the door and his rump hit the seat. Sat behind the wheel and fell in love with a truck. Little boy with stars in his eyes.

Had to have it.

Men are funny that way.

“4 wheel drive”, he said, “perfect for the roads on the mountain up at Boy Scout Camp.” (Uh, huh.)

“Jump seats for the Grandmonkey”, he continued hopefully. (OK)

“Big enough bed to haul stuff” (Yup)

“Trailer hitch for pulling a pop-up” (Another new toy)

“4 wheel drive,” he repeated going for the deal clincher, “No more worries about me on the road for a call out in bad weather.” (Right…one of my least favorite things about his working for a utility company)

Oh, yeah…he test drove a few more attempting to convince me he was making comparison studies. I let him think I bought into his little charade.

Yeah, right…I knew from day one and that first starry eyed look we’d be driving that truck home.

A few days and a bit of negotiating later she sat in our drive.

Within a week he had his first ding innit.

Twinkling blue eyes and lopsided grin he snickered “I broke her in today” and pointed out an odd wedge shaped dent in the tail gate.

“Light post. Couldn’t quite tell where the back of the truck was.” (Yup)

First of many.

He had fun in that truck…WE had fun in that truck. There was no road he would not try. Bumping over dirt roads, plowing through mud, sliding on sand…she was his favorite toy.

Then he died and truck was mine.

His scent…his touch…his music permeated her interior. In the beginning I could still catch just the faintest whiff of his Swisher Sweets Little Cigars and almost feel his hands over mine on the steering wheel. Driving down the road I often felt the touch of his fingers on my free hand or his knee pressed against mine as it would be when I drove with him beside me in the passenger seat.

The radio, however, remained silent for 6 months after my first outing alone and tears blinded me to the point of having to pull over and compose myself. Our station…our songs…his songs…the tears would have watered the desert. Even without the music I shed enough tears to fill a pond. The odd song or de-ja-vu moment can still cause my eyes to mist over and my heart to give the odd thump. Yet, I feel safe within the confines of the metal and the memories.

So…there she is…thousands of miles on the engine, multitudes of on and off road adventures beneath her frame and a million tears later…she’s sits in the drive…his truck…my truck...waiting for the next adventure.

I love driving her as much as he did.

A Rose Among the Ruins

Sumtimes the universe gives me a gift I ill deserve.

2 1/2 years I've let Rose's Garden tend itself; so named January 6, 2001 in honor of my late next door neighbor who enjoyed from her front window the roses in my little garden when she felt too ill to sit outdoors for a closer look. She always wanted me to plant more; so, after her death I did just that and named it after her.

Rose's Garden was my salvation when Jim died in 2002. Midnight raids to pull weeds by lantern's light when I could not sleep. Railing...and wailing…to the heavens how unfair it all was. It did not mind the splash of salted tears as the weeds were pulled in vicious attempts to beat GM into submission.

As a final reward that year it gifted me with a single coral colored rose huddled next to the mulch on a chilled November afternoon long past bloom time on a day when I was heartsore and weary of the path I walked. It seemed a sign from Jim and Rose that I should, at least for that day, appreciate the gift of life.

It was beautiful then.

Not so now.

It is a wild tumble of weeds and interloping saplings from years of neglect. What seemed so hantingly extraordinary in the ice of December seemed suddenly shabby and sad in the brilliance of February’s sun.

This morning as warmth crept into this sunny day on my return mission from life in the fast lane, I could not bear to see that wildness and began tearing through the weeds and trimming the saplings till I can get a saw in there and hack them to the ground.

Suddenly….nestled deep in the weeds and saplings, I literally stumbled upon sprouts growing from beneath the dead canes of my once beautiful English and Old World roses. All gone natural, I reckon, back to the stock root.

Rosa rugosa’s…wild…rugged…tenacious…outlaws.

Even so...a rose is a rose is a rose.

And, there they are; evidence that life goes on even amid the ruins of death: The circle of life right in my front yard. How can I ignore the rebirth fighting to emerge from those dead canes? Just as we who are left behind battle to breathe, scrabble to find life among the ashes and at some point thrive again, I reckon I must answer the call to bring Rose’s Garden back to life.

After 2 ½ hours I've made bare a dent in the jungle and twill likely take me all spring and summer to tame Rose's now wild garden.

Still…begun I have.

To be continued…

Regarding Winter

Groundhog Day ain’t no big deal here in the South where winters can be as warm as spring in Florida and springs as cold as winter in Wisconsin.
Ol’ Puxatawny wouldn’t ‘a seen his shadow in these parts today.

Wouldn’t have mattered much anyway. Down here we have our own predictors of spring’s imminence.

One haunts the deep swamps and dark backwaters of our coastal low country.

I’m talkin’ alligators, here.

Gators to most of us who’ve been down south long enough for a bit of y’all to creep into our speech pattern.

See, gators are cold blooded…so, if it’s cold outside so is he and he’s gonna stay someplace warm. But, when the sun warms the breeze and knocks the chill out of the water he’ll be out lookin’ for a snack or two and maybe even some excitement to his otherwise boring love life.

What with the forsythia already bloomed and azaleas peeking color in places like Charleston, Summerville and Hilton Head, Mr. Gator is pretty sure spring has sprung and out sunning himself waiting for Mz. Right Now to come along.

Now, up here in mountainous country, we look to the trees and under dead leaves for Wooly Worms.Yup, wooly worms…fuzzy little caterpillars with alternating brown and black stripes. Legend says the black stripes represent cold wintry weather and the brown signify milder temps.

According to Mrs. Simmons’ kindergarten class, their little wooly worm, Walter, prophesied a cold start to mellow in the middle and then depart in a blast of icy fury. So far, Walter’s been right on target with November’s ice storm and temps recently so warm things are greening up way too soon. Folks are out tending gardens that are bound to freeze when that blast hits and farmers are hoping the peach buds stay tight for another month or so.

Now, what do you reckon does all that have to do with this old Outlaw?

Well…I look for turtles.

Yeah…turtles…more to the point Box Turtles. They’re none too smart about sunning in the road. Sadly, their lifespan is often cut short from bein’ run over by Bubba in his old pickup truck. But, they recognize a warm day when they feel it. But, today’s a glum, rainy day; hence, they’re tucked into their little waterproof shells burrowed down in their snug little dens dug into root hollows below the frost line.

In true terrapin fashion, I’ve done the same.

My friend Frances’ passing has touched memories I just didn’t expect and led me down a road where what WAS fogs what IS with what will no more BE.

I can be happy for her...she had a long, interesting, happy though widowed life.

Still…

I can't reconcile the same with Jim’s so suddenly and dramatically cut short before I was ready to even think about moving through the rest of my life without him beside me. (As if there is ever such a time.)

I don’t get me. I mean…he died…I shattered into a million pieces…I worked hard to put myself mostly back together once more…I’m at a place where I'm OK...most days excellent, even. Smiling, laughing and having a good life are all visible on my plate again.

Yet, the old nightmares began their replay robbing me of precious sleep and leaving me either cross or pensively silent. After nearly 4 years at this, I'm not knocked flat…this is a temporary state of mind…it WILL pass. I'm just blue and not cheerful company right now…could I escape my own presence I would…I have no patience with the woman staring back in the mirror.

(sigh)

Where’s them barn boots? Reckon it’s time to yank me head outta me arse and kick some sense into my ownself and live up to my nickname.

In Memory of my Friend

This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it. Psalms 118 Verse 24

These words Frances spoke to the assemblage of women the morning of our first meeting. They were her typical opening statement as she gave the short devotional that was always part of the creative activity program I attended weekly with my mother at her church. These same words were repeated without fail as Frances began and ended each day in prayer and meditation with her Lord.

Short in stature, but big in heart Frances became both my friend and mentor in the following 10 years. To say she touched my life in a special way only begins to cover the impact she had upon me with her grace, spirit, compassion and sheer joy of living life no matter the challenges that befell.

Widowed at 39 and left to raise her 2 daughters alone on her pay from her job as cashier at the local A&P, she never complained about her fate. She “carried on” as she put it. Frances never remarried, focusing instead on her job as a mother and her unflagging ministry to others, whom she said had needs greater than her own. Always with a ready smile and loving heart Frances tended to the spirit of others with the same fervor she tended to her own.

Yet, her true touch upon my life came at the death of my own husband in 2002. Through cards, letters, phone calls and face to face chats she encouraged me to look at the gifts I had been given in the loving relationship with my husband, his tender care of our children and the number of years we were graced to share together. She reminded me that I honored my husband in living life with the same spirit he did. She coached me to “carry on” though my heart was broken into pieces. My ears were not always open to her words in the beginning but the loving hugs that came with the chats were eagerly accepted and appreciated. When ever I think of someone I would care to emulate in my own journey on this path, Frances is always first to come to mind.

Today my emotional state slides between my sadness at the loss of my friend and the joy I know she felt at her own passing. Her girls were with her and said that Frances died in silent peace with that sweet slight smile she had when she knew a secret. My life and widowed journey has been blessed by the gift of friendship, time and compassion given so graciously by this special woman. I will miss her yet; I honor her joy in living life, her steadfast faith and her dying grace.

What follows below are edited excerpts of the obituary written by her son-in-law that conveys in better words than mine the impact this tiny, spirited, feisty blue-eyed woman had during her 95 years on this planet.

I am a better person for having known her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Frances Wood Rice

UPSTATE, SC-- Frances Wood Rice went to meet her Savior and Lord on Monday, January 23, 2006. She was the beloved wife of the late Lewis Mulloy Rice and the devoted mother of two daughters, two beloved sons-in-law, adored grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and friend to the multitude of souls she touched in her lifetime.

A native of Cherokee County, SC and a 66-year resident of this city, Frances was the last surviving member of the Raymouth and ShadeWood family and was the fifth of the 12 children in her family. She was born on January 6, 1911.

A widow for 56 years, Frances built her life around her faith in Christ and her love for her family. Each child, grandchild, or great-grandchild knew that he or she was of unmeasured worth in Grandmothers eyes, and for her family there was nothing that she would not do. She was always there for every one of us. When her eyesight failed, her hearing was poor, and aging’s aches and pains kept her at home more than she liked, each child was lifted up in prayer every day and was never out of her thoughts or her heart.

For 66 years Frances was an active member of First Baptist Church and remained so until her death. Over the years she served as a President of the Young-at-Heart, Yesterdays Teens, and her Sunday School Class, the Friendship Class. She loved the church and the people in it. Countless afternoons were spent on the road because the joy of her life lay in visiting and ministering to the sick, to shut-ins, or to those who needed comfort. She gave herself away as a friend to all who needed a friend, usually appearing at their doors with a loaf of homemade bread.

Frances retired from the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company as Head Bookkeeper in 1978, having worked with the company for 30+ years. It’s true that she enjoyed her job, but she enjoyed retirement even more. For many years after retirement she hosted Granny’s Dreams, an annual craft bazaar at her home, selling items that she had sewn, knitted, stenciled, or crafted in various ways. These sales were attended by hundreds of people in the Upstate area, and her family served as her support staff for the day.

A lifelong knitter, Frances taught knitting classes at First Baptist Church’s Activity Day and was Activity Day’s first Director in 1978. She also developed a cap ministry after her retirement. She knitted hundreds of toboggans and sent them worldwide to mission fields as far away as Alaska, Croatia, Australia, and to places closer to home--Connie Maxwell Children’s Home in Greenwood and the Shriner’s Hospital in Greenville. She also completed about 150 tiny red caps donated to newborns at the Regional Medical Center.

Although her worldly goods were few, Frances was one of the wealthiest women in town because she spent her life laying up treasures in Heaven. Our family rejoices today in the knowledge that unquestionably she is seated at the feast table of the King.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rest in peace, my friend. I will miss you greatly.

Christmas in Dixie

It wasn’t quite snowing in the pines as in the Alabama song, but it was still a typically Southern Christmas with too much food, giggling kids, waggle tailed dogs and wrapping paper all over the floor.

Holidays have been something to be endured since Jim’s death in 2002…kept mostly because of our sweet, young grand and grown children. But, they have not been something to which I looked forward. Getting trapped in old memories took the color out of the present. While I could find some pleasure in spending the time with my family and friends, the celebrations were viewed as if through a frosted lens.

Somewhere between the melancholy of October and Thanksgiving I found myself looking forward to the thought of the light, color and confusion reigning in this old house again. Renovations were almost to a point that guests could be comfortable and only the undone fine finishing might be noticed upon close scrutiny.

For the first time in years even before Jim’s death I looked forward to the shopping and bustle of getting things done. There were some challenges along the way, but it really all began with little Cindy Lou Who and How the Grinch Stole Christmas and that unexpected Dickensonian day trip to Biltmore House. Keeping her little cartoon spirit in my head and heart kept me from losing my own when road blocks jumped up and threatened to derail my refound joy in all the bustle, planning, decorating, shopping, cooking and wrapping that makes the holiday what it is.

Even the frantic Trading Spaces drive to complete the challenge fraught wall unit project had an element of happiness in it. The day and a half long plumbing emergency that cropped up requiring a complete toilet replacement the day before and of Christmas was a bit more daunting…yet…somehow…it all came together.


Traditional is neither a word that one would normally use to describe the Outlaw household…nor her family, for that matter. Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner in the standard holiday tradition is an uncommon happening and is usually preceded by “let’s do something different and have turkey for Thanksgiving.” Therefore, the choice of lasagna, cheese and garlic biscuits, salad, carrot cake and home-made cheese cake were not seen as odd. (Go figure) What mattered was that there was food and lots of it.

As family and friends trickled in to a total of 13 (never an unlucky number since our son’s birth on a Friday 13th 25 years ago) this 1100 square foot cracker box of a brick ranch echoed with laughter, light and the sound of little feet and skittering paws across the newly refinished wood floors. Even the rain and cool temperatures could not dampen the spirit that seeped in from the very walls and settled in each person present. Jim’s presence was felt by me all day…I know he was smiling and I know he is happy that I am standing in the sunlight with feet planted beneath me again.

This place is hard fought and won for me. There have been moments in the last 3 ½ years that I have been certain I would finally flounder for the last time. I am a stubborn woman; I know no path other than straight through an obstacle. That stubbornness, Jim’s unconditional and abiding love, that of family and a very special group of widowed friends have been my lifeline throughout this journey.

My Handyman coming into my life at a time when I was finding solid ground is a gift I never expected. And, while perhaps farfetched, my reward for making it to a place where I can find both joy in what I had for over 30 years, what is now and what is to be for the time we are allowed to spend together. I am a most lucky and grateful woman to have experienced such wonderful love twice in my lifetime.

As I sit finishing this, looking at the yet to be dismantled trappings and listening to the rain drum the metal roof of this house, the memory of this season that sticks is the picture in my mind of my Handyman and Jim’s precious grand dress our homely, hastily purchased for $1 at Lowe’s the day before, “Frazer” fir on Christmas Eve. One - tall, almost olive skinned, blue eyed, gray headed with nearly full Santa beard and low toned voice gently guiding the other - dark eyed, dark haired, fair skinned and girly, pre-teen voice - to the perfect spot for each chosen ornament. I watched as the two worked side by side to take that wiggly trunked tree and turn it into the sparkling wonder before me now.
It is the first she has made with The Handyman that has no connection to her past. She and her Papa never decorated a tree together. She and I always rushed to have done all but the lights as a surprise upon his return home from work. (It was also the bane of my holiday season that we fought nearly every year over those blasted lights and is food for a story of its own.) This is a memory just for her and the new grandfather in her life. I wonder will it mean the same to her from the retrospective of years as it is to me now.

It is time to undress Frazer, put away the ornaments and give him his tenure as sanctuary for the birds, chipmunks and rabbits that inhabit the back yard. In a matter of months Frazer will compost and be gone having fulfilled his destined life cycle. Yet, he will remain a memory to treasure.

It’s late, I know. Christmas and New Year’s are fading into the past. But…Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from one down here in Dixie who is grateful and content for what she had and what she has. May we all have enough. As an aside: This cut crystal ornament is one of 6 that hung on Frazer in honor of my also widowed friends who have meant so much to me. They were purchased in Charlotte, NC 2 years ago on a magical day spent with a freshly widowed new friend. This is the first year they graced a tree. Randy...thank you for everything.

Womb with a View

When choosing a title for this I thought about how this house has always been a coccoon, womb of sorts, sheltering me from the storms of the outside world and for the last 3 1/2 years a haven in my grief.

Yet all I have to do is look out any door or window and life is right there waiting for me to take part. As the seasons and weather change, the sun rises and sets it all metamorphs into something else, yet still remains eternally the same little world. I can chart the changes in my own life against the changing lanscape outside these four welcoming walls and be a a photo-journalist in my own back yard, so to speak.

Between the Handyman’s wonderful “Big Boy” (don’t do it) Sony digi-cam with the powerful zooooooooooooom (you went there didn’t you?) and my new, very small…pocket sized even…lightweight Nikon with much less zoom (shame one you...you’re still there aren't you?) I am shooting everything in sight. (Some very good…some very NOT)

So, while I compile my digital photo albums, descriptions AND continuing fodder for this blog I’ll leave you for the nonce with a view out the westside door (that would be Old MacDonald’s little red barn in the background of the first) and southside yard of La Casa Hacienda del Outlaw as the sun bounced off the landscape and then hid behind the lowering cloud cover this morning.

(And, doncha English majors just love a big, old run-on sentence like that? Heh heh heh.)



This last picture is zooooomed and taken across my little valley of Bubba da Bull's stomping grounds. Now, Senor Bubba da Bull deserves a story of his own in a later chapter of life in this little blue collar subdivision plunked down in the middle of an old cow farm in the foothills of lower Podunk, SC. So stay tuned.

Next thing I'm gonna do is remove that darned ugly date stamp from the digi-cam...it's annoying.

Happy Birthday Blues

Happy Birthday Blues

In and out and on and on
Everybody goes
And where the fun with finally stops
Everybody knows
Girls it's me and you
Doing what we do
Just one way to lose
Those happy birthday blues

B.B. King, 1979

Tomorrow is my birthday…and I have the blues.

I don’t hate my birthday, but I never liked it very much as a child. It wasn’t until Jim came along that birthdays became special.

Being born in December is challenging for a kid. People tell you “oh…we didn’t make a big deal about your birthday because Christmas is coming up and that will be really special for you.”

Well….NO.

My birthday was special to ME.

I was another year older. Typically, I was at least half an inch taller than the year before. (Although, Mom does go on about the year I grew 4 inches from September to April.) And, certainly I was more mature. More grown up. All of my friends had big parties with a houseful of kids and presents. (OK…maybe not more mature…I admit it…I was jealous)

What I got was “we’ll just do this low-key” this year. And a card with $5 inside - $2 until I turned 10. (Although, I do recall that when I turned 16 I remember feeling very grown up when my mom’s sister giving me a beautiful crystal necklace that I passed on to my daughter at her 16th.)

Sharing the month with my 4 years and 10 days younger sister’s birthday, we often had joint parties…which by my early teen years truly sucked having to share with “little kids” as part of the party.

Humbug.

I’m whining here and I know it. But, that’s what happens when you get the birthday blues.

What I really wanted as a child (and a young teen) was a CELEBRATION. Something really fine that said “you are SPECIAL and we are so glad you are our daughter”.

But, the truth is that I wasn’t born into that kind of family nor did we have that kind of money. Birthdays were low-key because money was tight and my mother and dad thought Christmas was more important. (Not that we observed a particularly religious form of the holiday being semi-heathen and all.)

Hallmark birthdays…13, 16, 18, 21 were marked much the same as any other birthday my sister and I celebrated. (Well…21 was spectacular in that I had the mumps for the third time in my life on that birthday. That one definitely sticks out.)

As I got older, I didn’t…and don’t…mind birthdays being low-key. In fact, I prefer them that way. I’ve never fretted over turning 30, 40, 50. And that, in part, is due to my childhood. So, it’s not all bad.

Turning 55 is no big emotional deal. Anything that gets you a discount at some restaurants and drug stores can’t be all bad.

Other than being widowed, I have quite enjoyed these early 50’s. I’m old enough that I don’t care what the younger generation…or many others for that matter…think of my way of life. There are a few aches and pains, a certain dimming of the memory. And, we won’t even discuss my wrinkles, gray hair and ample caboose. Yet…all in all, I feel good and I don’t mind being the age I am. (Mentally, I’m much younger anyway…just a kid, in fact.)

Still…birthdays without Jim are anticlimactic. There were but 6 days between our ages and birthdays and usually celebrated the closest weekend between. We were together from our 19th birthdays through our 51st…all of our adult lives. I miss him and miss going to that special restaurant with the melt in your mouth steaks and prime rib. I miss the little nothing gifts that were, nonetheless, special for having remembered a thing mentioned months before. I miss snuggling next him on the couch with a cup of coffee examining the previous year and our hopes for the next. I miss the handmade cards our children gave us during their growing up and no money of their own years. I miss life the way it was back then. Frankly…I miss the me that was up until 3 ½ years ago.

Yet…the Handyman is a special gift in this second life. I know that as we spend more birthdays together I will develop the same sense of comfort in sharing them with him. He is a good and gentle man who loves me deeply and I know I am blessed that we found each other.

We will make new memories to add to those precious ones of the past. We will make a new restaurant our special birthday place. We’ll share those special little nothing birthday gifts with each other. (I’m listening to the early gift of the Celtic Woman CD he surprised me with as I write this.) And, we can snuggle on the couch reflecting the year just past and those we hope to have.

But…I still have the birthday blues.

Indelible

From Miriam-Webster:

Main Entry: in·del·i·ble
Pronunciation: in-'de-l&-b& l
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English indelyble, from Medieval Latin indelibilis, alteration of Latin indelebilis, from in- + del Ere to delete

1 a : that which cannot be removed, washed away, or erased
b : making marks that cannot easily be removed

As dawn takes up her brush to paint the morning sky I quietly celebrate the 1950 birth of the man who so lightly and lovingly rests within the memories of my heart. No big fanfare, no family dinner celebration, no special memorial ceremony to remind me of one who lives inside each breath I take. Just a quiet, personal remembrance of the fiercely gentle soul who touched my life from the day of our meeting in my doorway November 1969 to that late May afternoon in 2002.

Just as my life was forever changed when he walked into it, so was it changed when he so unwillingly left it. And, yet, his mark will forever be etched within my heart, soul and the life I live today.

Laughter came easy to him. As did treating people as he wished to be treated…influence from his father from the stories I’ve heard. In our growing up as a young married couple I watched this shy, almost backward southern boy metamorphose into a man so comfortable within his own skin he easily made others comfortable in theirs. People opened up to him; shared thoughts they kept from others knowing he never made judgment either on their words or on their lives.

Was he perfect? No. He was human, flawed and could aggravate me to my soul. He loved practical jokes, fireworks, family and friends. He left the toilet seat up, socks on the floor and his tools everywhere. His skill at procrastination was legendary within the family. (We were given an hour’s lead time on any family gathering.) He started a fight the night he proposed to prove the point you could be mad as hell and still love someone like crazy.

What I know of unconditional love…both given and received…comes from his example. What I know of the joy of life through even darkest times comes from the manner in which he lived every single day I knew him.

He was a gift…both a pearl beyond price and a diamond in the rough honed brightly through our time together. I will forever be touched by his presence. I carry him with me as I march forward in this new life I have unwillingly been handed.

Indelible.

Happy Birthday, darlin’.

Making Memories of Us*

Funny how some days don't go as planned and then turn out much better than anticipated. Yesterday was one of those that turned out to be one for the memory book. That it ended up a scene that could have been plucked from a Frank Capra period movie or Currier and Ives lithograph was tinsel on the tree.

My Handyman is involved in the renovation project for a guest cottage at the Biltmore House that was severely damaged in a flood last year. Part of this design work involves trips up to the property in Asheville, NC. Yesterday I was invited along. Never one to turn down an opportunity not to get things done on my to-do-list I accepted.

This cottage was built around 1910 and is exactly the style the Handyman thrives on working with. His designs are spot on for the era and will look fantastic once it is all in place. I loved standing in the midst of the history of the rooms and imaging the Vanderbilt lifestyle of the early 1900’s.

Yesterday was one of those vaguely warm days with the intuition of the chill to come as the sun slipped below the mountain’s crest. As the sun presented us with it’s evensong we dropped in the winery on the property, examined the kitchen vignette set up for the daily cooking with Biltmore wines presentations, chatted with the local chef as she cleaned and prepped for the next, made the purchase of a new wine and wound our way back into the historic Biltmore Village.

It was in the village that the emotional transformation began in my head. The small squares are dotted with quaint shops and galleries housed in vintage cottages where the workmen and women of the Manor House once lived. We walked hand-in-hand (and what marvelous strong, warm hands my Handyman has) strolling the sidewalks and browsing a charmingly eclectic artisan’s gallery filled with beautiful glass and pottery from local artists. As darkness prevailed, white lights illuminated each building, the trees and center square giving it a Thomas Kinkade quality that stole into my soul.

As the night chill descended we made our way to the restored Train Depot for a casual dinner punctuated by animated conversation about the kitchen project for the cottage. Stepping back into the cold evening air and glimmer of the Christmas lights we quickly ducked into the Biltmore Village Company store. It’s an eccentric little shop filled with unexpected decorative items such a leather camels, beautifully crafted sailing ships, weather vanes and oversized leather couches and chairs one would expect to find in a manor house library. Amid all this oddity, my purchase was a boring, practical, well-made, oversized umbrella with wooden handle.

Feeling energized and chilled near to the bone our last stop was the local Starbucks. Coffee shops are wonderful…filled with people, laughter and talk from every corner not to mention the aroma of coffee and baking. The shop was sampling powdered Christmas cookies, gingerbread and a heady Gingerbread Latte to drool for. Watching and listening as folks strolled in and out wrapped in their winter trappings, it was as if standing in the middle of a Hallmark greeting card.

Driving home under the watchful eye of the waxing crescent moon, twinkling stars and blowing leaves gave me time to absorb all the feelings that were swirling in my head and heart. Gazing into the night sky and feeling the love of the man next to me it was as if yesterday was a gift straight from Jim to guide me through this holiday season with true peace and, perhaps, even a measure of joy.

Move over Grinch...there's a new gal in town for Christmas this year...she may not be quite Cindy Lou Who...but an Outlaw with bells will work.

*from the song title by Keith Urban

Thanksgiving Thoughts

As Thanksgiving Day rolls around, there are many things for which I am thankful:

Friends and Family: Both those near and far, those still here and those gone who had impact upon my life both before and after grief took root in my heart. Who love me irregardless of my many faults and are kind enough not to often mention them.

Love: From my dear Jim…the love of my past life…and given to me in unquestioned measure for over 30 years though I often deserved less.

From my Handyman, Craig, who loves me lumps, bumps, wrinkles, gray hair and fluctuating moods not always related to grief…and the love of this new life in which I find myself.

From my children who often do not know the woman before them, yet love me anyway.

Humor: Which keeps me insanely sane.

Life: Without which I would have none of the above.

Tomorrow I will share all of the above with family and friends in an atmosphere of love and laughter, for which I am truly grateful and welcome that my heart no longer aches so badly than I cannot enjoy them.

We have, however, received regrets from one houseguest:

Martha Stewart will not be dining with us this Thanksgiving. I'm telling you in advance, so don't act surprised. Since Ms. Stewart won't be coming, I've made a few small changes:

1. Our sidewalk will not be lined with homemade, paper bag luminaries. After a trial run, it was decided that no matter how cleverly done, rows of flaming lunch sacks do not have the desired welcoming effect.

2. Once inside, our guests will note that the entry hall is not decorated with the swags of Indian corn and fall foliage I had planned to make. Instead, I've gotten the kids involved in the decorating by having them track in colorful autumn leaves from the front yard. The mud was their idea.

3. The dining table will not be covered with expensive linens, fancy china, or crystal goblets. If possible, we will use dishes that match and everyone will get a fork. Since this IS Thanksgiving, we will refrain from using the plastic Peter Rabbit plate and the Santa napkins from last Christmas.

4. Our centerpiece will not be the tower of fresh fruit and flowers that I promised. Instead we will be displaying a hedgehog-like decoration hand-crafted from the finest construction paper. The artist assures me it is a turkey.

5. We will be dining fashionably late. The children will entertain you while you wait. I'm sure they will be happy to share every choice comment I have made regarding Thanksgiving, pilgrims and the turkey hotline. Please remember that most of these comments were made at 5:00 a.m. upon discovering that the turkey was still hard enough to cut diamonds. As accompaniment to the children's recital, I will play a recording of tribal drumming. If the children should mention that I don't own a recording of tribal drumming, or that tribal drumming sounds suspiciously like a frozen turkey in a clothes dryer, ignore them. They are lying.

6. We toyed with the idea of ringing a dainty silver bell to announce the start of our feast. In the end, we chose to keep our traditional method. We've also decided against a formal seating arrangement. When the smoke alarm sounds, please gather around the table and sit where you like. In the spirit of harmony, we will ask the children to sit at a separate table ... in a separate room ... next door.

7. Now, I know you have all seen pictures of one person carving a turkey in front of a crowd of appreciative onlookers. This will not be happening at our dinner. For safety reasons, the turkey will be carved in a private ceremony. I stress "private" meaning: Do not, under any circumstances, enter the kitchen to laugh at me. Do not send small, unsuspecting children to check on my progress. I have an electric knife. The turkey is unarmed. It stands to reason that I will eventually win. When I do, we will eat.

8. I would like to take this opportunity to remind my young diners that "passing the rolls" is not a football play. Nor is it a request to bean your sister in the head with warm tasty bread.

9. Oh, and one reminder for the adults: For the duration of the meal, and especially while in the presence of you diners, we will refer to the giblet gravy by its lesser-known name: Cheese Sauce. If a young diner questions you regarding the origins or type of Cheese Sauce, plead ignorance. Cheese Sauce stains.

10. Before I forget, there is one last change. Instead of offering a choice among 12 different scrumptious desserts, we will be serving the traditional pumpkin pie, garnished with whipped cream and small fingerprints. You will still have a choice; take it or leave it.

Martha Stewart will not be dining with us this Thanksgiving. She probably won't come next year either. I am thankful. (The Martha Stewart Thanksgiving is courtesy of an e-mail from a friend)

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends, may you find peace in abounding measure.

May those that love us, love us.

And those that don't love us,

May God turn their hearts.

And if He doesn't turn their hearts,

May He turn their ankles

So we will know them by their limping.

(an Irish blessing my Jim loved and shared with me long ago)

Reflections of a Widow - A Gift to a Friend

My Tennessee friend began her journey down the widow’s path long before the death of her husband to heart disease. They had lived with challenges of what it did to his health for 9 years.

Today, as her oldest son prepares to leave for Germany and her youngest prepares to enter life as a young adult, I loan my space in honor of that man, my friend, her sons and new daughter-in-law that she may share them with her friends.

The words and pictures below are hers.

“Reflections of a Widow”

These words from the song “There’ll You Be” by Faith Hill express so much of what I want to say:

“When I think back on these times
And the dreams we left behind
I'll be glad 'cause I was blessed to get
To have you in my life
When I look back on these days
I'll look and see your face
You were right there for me
I'll keep a part of you with me
Well you showed me how it feels
To feel the sky within my reach
And I always will remember all
The strength you gave to me
Your love made me make it through
Oh, I owe so much to you
Cause I always saw in you
My light, my strength and I want to thank you
Now for all the ways
You were right there for me
There you'll be in my heart
There will always be a place for you for all my life.”

Faith Hill, Soundtrack to Pearl Harbor (2001)

I think back to that morning on July 28, 1998 when I walked in to wake you and found that you had left silently in the night without a goodbye. You had known much pain and sickness even with the anguish of your death you fought a good fight. I knew it was time by the sweet look of peace on your face. The doctors had told us the time was near, but when the time is that moment, no one is ever really prepared.

Not a day goes by that thoughts of you aren’t with me. After seven years I still see you and feel you. With every detail of your boy’s lives, I see you. You will forever be, forward I go. Yesterday was, today is now. I was blessed to have had you in my life, thank you for teaching me about love and life, for loving me, caring for me and giving me two wonderful sons.

I took a long time to heal. Time doesn’t heal, but healing takes time. The depths of my soul filled with grief and pain that threatened to throw me into the darkness of a bottomless pit. I had to find me again, I was no longer we. I lost myself, but now through much soul searching, prayer, and endless tears that came in the wee hours of the night today, I can finally say I know who I am.

I am no longer Clyde’s wife. I am a woman who has known the greatest sorrow in her life, raised our boys, and now it’s time for me to start and finish college. I am a woman who wants to know love again and truly live again until my time on this earth is no more.

No longer am I in love with you, the young boy that captivated my heart with those sexy blue eyes and that smile that made me melt so very long ago. I only see those eyes and smile now through the twinkling of a special star that I gaze at from time to time. You are no longer here to be in love with, but I will always love you; continually carry you and our memories within my heart. I am saying goodbye, I am letting go. In my heart, I know, you are at peace and with the Lord and so I say thank you my sexy blue eyes.

Sometimes it seems like it has been forever and yet sometimes it seems like yesterday. The years have passed like the blinking of our eyes. The boys are fine and you would be so proud of them both. I have grown through the grief of your death, the years we had and learning from my mistakes. God has been good and shown me the way. I'm a better person. My only regret is that your time was so short and that the boys have so many firsts that you will never see or celebrate with them.

We made mistakes. We both knew we had no perfect marriage, but we did have a love that never dies. You taught me passion, compassion and what being a partner really meant. I hope you would be proud of me today; I have tried to instill in the boys everything I knew you would had you been here.

I am a better person because of you and all the trials and good times we had in our marriage. No longer do I mourn, but, I breathe and enjoy life. I have memories we shared and our boys. I smile now and really laugh, even when I have my down moments. I know I was blessed to have had us for the time we had. I am living again, I can see joy.

My tears still come, but smiles are more now than tears. Even through the loneliness I know a new love and life can await me someday when the time is right and it is the Lord’s will. My dreams are real and can be realized, and I'm as sure of that as I was the day we met. Because of your love and the strength you showed during your 9 year battle with heart disease. I know I can be who you always saw me as once again, only better.

I am forever changed, death does that and I will never be the same, but, I still want the same values of life, only I have more zest and know how short life is. One moment is not to be taken for granted, not one “I love you”, “How was your day”, “Let me hold your hand” Not one discussion, not one hug. For in the twinkling of the eye it can all be gone never to return.

You have your dream now…peace is finally yours as you look from high on your mountain. Pain, strife, despair, illness and demons are gone never to control you again.

I am a better person for having loved you, but most of all for the love you gave to me. Rest my love and know real peace. We are fine and I know that you will always be forever.

Healing Charlie

This is my dog...Charlie...as he is most comfortable...poking about in the grass. And this is the beginning of his recovery and rehab from spinal surgery on Friday, November 4, 2005 .

20 pounds of rambunctious, waggling fur came into my life Valentine’s Day two years before my world splintered into unrecognizable slivers with my Jim’s sudden death in 2002.

Little did I know on the ride home that day that he would become the constant companion, silent confidant and tear blotter that was often my sole excuse for not leaving this life as I struggled to put it back together again.

Now, I return that favor as this 42 pound mass of waggling fur faces the challenge of rehab from the spinal chord injury that robbed him of the use of his hindquarters. The hours of therapy, slinging him for outdoor needs and encouraging his abundant spirit are but a token of the debt I owe this small, enthusiastic, trusting creature.

Watching Charlie scoot crablike across the floor tears at my heart. He valiantly labors to stand for even a handful of seconds, lumbers like a drunken sailor on the carpet and scrabbles across the kitchen tiles like a seal. (A trip to Home Depot and runners by-the-foot are on today’s list.) He pees on my foot when I aim it the wrong way and looks at me as if to say “HA!!! You thought that was going to be easy? Now you know how I feel.”

Uncomplaining and unendingly cheerful he takes each moment as it comes to him trusting that I am doing all the right things…even when I am not certain of it myself. (Not unlike the baby steps we refer to in our journey on this widowed walk.)

Yet as I feel the muscles slowly strengthen to my touch, I see him puzzled that his hind end will not keep up with his front end. He often looks around as if to say “HEY!!! What’s the deal here? I’m going this way…straighten up and get moving.”

Lucky Charlie Brown Dog (so christened by my grandmonkey) is a Boykin Spaniel, official breed of the state in which I reside, liver in color, wavy coated, amber eyed, curious, eager, eternally optimistic and thief of my heart.

Officially speaking:

“Medium in size, sturdy and typically spaniel, this sporting dog is first and foremost a working dog with proven retriever instincts and hunting ability, characterized by boundless enthusiasm and endurance, moderate speed and agility and possessing an intelligence and a desire to please which makes him easy to train. As a pet and companion he is exceptional with amicable disposition and love and personal attention improves his desire to hunt. He is a strong swimmer, taking to water easily and is valuable for water retrieving as well as field retrieving.”

Charlie will never be a gun dog, never run in a field trial nor be a champion show dog. He is just a plain old dog who loves to rummage in the brush and flush the birds and other wildlife that dwell within the borders of my little 1 ½ acre plot in the boonies of the foothills of lower Podunk, SC.

Recovery will be measured in microns and every step hard won. Yet, if will can “make it so” then he will succeed and rehab to be as happy on what ever ground he recovers on four legs as he is even on two that work and two that don’t.

Here’s to you, Charlie.

Charlie’s “siblings” Grace (aka Queen Bee Shitzu) and Jax (full name General Beauregard Jackson…I didn’t name him…honest.)

Change of Season ~ Part Deux

Life among the shadows.

Still wearing melancholy like a thread worn sweater or favorite holey jeans it has become more a strange sort of comfort than discomfiting yoke. There, yet not overwhelming in its need to be recognized. Even so, as is often true with me, I felt a need to stand outside my own self and look at life and shadows from another view.

Camera in hand in search of some small patch of color, I took myself to the public garden at the edge of my little city. Not your formal, tidy garden it is more a woodland with pathways running throughout like a patchwork quilt. As I sat quiet on a bench the sounds of life rustling and flitting beneath the dry leaves and browning trees. In accordance with the current state of my soul the hues were subtle and subdued along with a surprising smattering of late blooming flowers to punctuate the stillness.

I felt peace. And, it was good.

What follows are a random series of pictures chosen from the nearly hundred I took yesterday.

Enter through the arbor and walk with me.

(Even so there is more in my mind to write I think I will be still and wait for tomorrow)

Happy Halloween

Son of Creepy is a memorial to the original Creepy designed and built by a man who was still child enough to love Halloween. His stood over 6' tall, had glowing eyes and a moving arm that I lack the skill to recreate.

Happy Halloween, Darlin'...we did it for you this year.

Georgia on my Mind

While it is true that there is no place like home in my heart, I also admit to a bit of the wanderlust invading my soul from time to time. Presented with the opportunity to visit one of my favorite southern cities for next to free...bags were packed and camera batteries were charged and ready to go in record time.

Savannah, Georgia exudes the charm and slow pace for which southern cities have become famous. It is a city whose history was nearly deflowered in the mid-fifties until a band of dedicated southern grande dames united in the effort to save it. (literally chained themselves to the fence to prevent the wreckers from demolishing the first of many historic houses preserved by this group)

In February 1733, James Oglethorpe and 120 souls snatched from the bowels of debtor’s prison landed on the banks of the Savannah River and began building one of the south’s most intriguing cities. Its history is a marvelous mélange of colonial, antebellum, Victorian and modern architecture and culture. (For an accurate and highly entertaining social snapshot of the juxtaposition of the antebellum and modern underculture of Savannah, read John Berendt's best seller Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.)

For my Tennessee friend who loves fountains…just 2 of the many within Savannah’s confines and some of my favorite Savannah sights (And a little something for my Texas friend who loves funny sayings:)