In Search of Serenity

The definition of Serenity: the quality or state of being serene.

Now that was helpful.

Not.

Definition of Serene: clear and free of storms or unpleasant change.

Synonyms: calm, tranquil, placid, peaceful.

Hmmm.

I don’t think so.

Jangled, disconnected, out of synch with myself, unable to sleep and frantically in search of something approaching serenity a little creative therapy seemed in order.

But, what to do at 3 ayem?

Some inexpensive glass bottles from the Wally World Clearance aisle, a coil of copper wire, a handful of glass beads, a tube of adhere to anything cement, a few sticky fingers and several hours later this would be the result.
Colors counterpoint to a gray mood and shifting emotions.

Sigh.

This too shall pass.

Fear

The Serenity I crave escapes me today…nebulous…just fingertips out of reach.

4 years, 3 months, 6 days and 3 hours. The fear still lives with me. Beneath the surface a giant tentacled sea monster waiting for me to lose my focus so it can ensnare me in is oily embrace.

Fear.

Such a waste of psychic energy.

Still...I will not let it defeat me.

So much for which to feel grateful in this life.

Back straight, fists clenched, jaw set; I continue.

Honor his life...his love…treasure the past…fight the fear…live.

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
(The Bene Gesserit Litany against Fear. Pg 19 of Dune )

It’s not quite accurate.

I live…hope endures…love remains.

But, I need a friggen' hug.

What a bloomin' whiner.

Light and Shadow

Yanno...the rising sun feels different in the morning sky....mayhap has been for a few days now but I have failed to previously note it. I HAVE, howsumever, noticed the sunsets slightly altered in hue the last 2 nights that they could be seen. Whether the heat recedes or no the impending change of season is in the light and burgeoning restlessness creeping into my soul.
From my east facing window I can note the change in angle as the seasons rotate back and forth. Amazing how a few degrees make such a difference in the way the shadows play across the opposing wall. Not unlike the subtle changes that take place within each of us on this path that modifies the way we view not only the world at large, but ourselves as well. And, the seasonal beginnings and endings do not necessarily agree with man's calendar but follow their own course...as do we.
The rising sun hits the new arbor at the corner now rather than more towards center. Perhaps a sort of symbolism of my own slightly off center feelings in recent days.
Morning ambers skiddle across the leaves turning them a mellower shade of green and highlighting the Morning Glories in Rose’s Garden in muted golden tones rather than the usual rose-gold of mid-summer. The light shimmers altered through the dew that covers everything on my trek outdoors to photograph my perceived camera obscura view.
Dunno why I decided to remark on that this morning. Perhaps it's the subtle itching in my head and bones that something feels afoot. Restlessness, perhaps. Despite my attachment to home there are times itchy feet and the gypsy longing to wander come out. This, I think, is a genetic gift/curse from Dad and goes far to explain my father's need to move even after his stint with that traveling troupe known as the Army was done with him.

And, yet the dichotomy is that I have planted myself on this particular little plot for over 30 years. Roots. Someplace solid once the thirst for adventure has been quenched for a time.

Roots are good...my children have them. I never had them as a child…roots. By the time I’d taken hold somewhere we were gone again…even after Dad left the military. Outwardly confident, melting into the framework quickly; while inwardly feeling out of step and fearing I’d be found out as a fraud.Despite my urge to roam I need them...roots…solid…grounding...safe...faithfully awaiting the return of this seasonal and, oft times, only imaginary wanderer.

I don’t know the point of this ruminating. It was in my head. Crazy stuff up there sometimes. Which leads me to a thought for another day….

(All photos poperty of Outlaw Photography)

Blurred Vision

Taking this picture last week was supposed to chronicle the latest redesign project at La Casa de Demolition. What happened as I peered through the view finder watching the light play through the plastic dust curtain blowing softly in the breeze of the ceiling fan was not what I expected.

Suddenly, it seemed a metaphor to this journey called Grief.

I saw the sledge hammer as death itself having smashed my life to bits as represented by the shards…large and small...of sheet rock ripped from the closet framing littering the floor at my feet. To my eyes the frosted images of light that filtered through the plastic seemed to speak of the way in which my vision was fogged as I struggled to make sense of a world that was totally alien even in its familiarity.

Thinking on this, I pored through the myriad of folders full of pictures I’ve taken since beginning the rugged trek on this path 4 years ago. Surprised at the result, I found that I could attach a metaphor to widowed life to many that flicked before me on the screen.
My beloved and often fog shrouded Blue Ridge Mountains became the clouded vision I had of a world that seemed to be filled with one barely climbable mountain after another. The view was so vague I could not see my way out of the grey.
Always a water person, the river falls became the harsh reality of facing the daunting maelstrom in a canoe with neither paddle nor rudder to steer my way. I was at the mercy of my grief, never knowing which way it would turn or if it would drown me in its turbulence.
The waves crashing against the rocks near the shore morphed into the pain of being beaten and bloodied by the Grief Monster only to be left in a mangled heap upon the jagged reef begging for peace and mercy each time I fought to find my way out of the anguish that threatened to drown me.
A small cave in the beautiful New Mexico mountains of the Jemez came to represent that dark black hole into which I fell time after time struggling to live with the memories of a beloved life past and learning to survive in the hated present alone.

The ever present distance path seemed filled with roots and stones alive with the intent purpose of bringing to me to my knees as I stumbled ever forward in a world I came to despise.
Over time the world righted itself and became filled with light and color again…slowly at first…then gaining momentum…until I could appreciate the sight and smell of the wildness of the roses in my untended garden. Yet, another metaphor relating to my untended life.
I may often still stumble bruising my heart along the way, but no longer am I filled with dread and fear of the unknown waters that spread before me. Survival is instinct…one I have in more abundance than I ever imagined possible. Still, I know I did not get here alone. Along with my own dogged, though often halting, plodding forward, Jim’s love for me and life itself, kind friends and even strangers have given hand in helping me find my own strength to carry forward what he shared with me and even take the scary step to share it again with another wounded heart like mine.

What a surreal journey this continues to be.

Oh…Brave new world, indeed. As my dear New Mexico by way of Scotland friend would say.

Pictures have long been a means to add expression to my writing, but never quite in the way it did beginning with that photograph I took last week.

(All photos property of Outlaw Photography)

A River Runs Through It*

"Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters."

Norman Maclean

As I took these pictures onna warm day in June, I thought of the peace I felt standing under the canopy of trees that shaded the ruins of the old mill by this spot on the small creek at my feet.

As I looked at the covered bridge a number of yards away I could almost hear the clatter of hooves and creak of wooden wheels as the wagons loaded with grain were brought across to be milled into flour or grits. Peace has often been challenging to find on the journey along this path called widowhood. Occasionally, it is still transitory and elusive.

Listening as the water rushed across the stones, I remembered times past when I was dead certain I could not possibly breathe one more moment without Jim in my life. I often felt as crushed as the grains being transformed into fine powder by the massive grindstones of the mill.

Staring down the dark expanse of the bridge’s interior I was reminded of how my grief often felt as if I were in a tunnel which had no end. Plodding blindly forward, I eventually came to the place that always appears in a tunnel where a small light can be seen. Slowly, the constant constriction of my throat from stifling the near animal angst I felt seemed to ease slightly and I felt as if I could walk on without stumbling so much. Stepping gingerly again into the light my eyes needed time to adjust to the new surroundings as I finally emerged on what now seems like the other side of this grief and my acceptance of the new and radically altered life I never asked for appeared on the other side.

Just as the road from the fields to the mill is often long and full of ruts, so has the journey down this long dark tunnel of grief been. I have been transformed same as the grain into something different from where I started.

Yet, through all the darkness, pain and tears, a river of life and love, though changed beyond measure, has tumbled along beside me. It will abide so long as I breathe upon this earth ever reshaping me as the stones of the mill relentlessly grind the farmer’s grains into dust.

The peace may sometimes yet fade and be hard to regain as certain days come and go throughout my life. However, the river of Jim’s love will always run through me as I walk the redesigned path carved from the grief that once enveloped me day and night.

*Title borrowed from the book by Norman Maclean

A Single Memory

A single memory
I hold close as a dream
shape-shifting the dark:
an intensity of ocean,
a memory of water
this green.

From “A Green Glass Bowl” by Antonia Clark

The Guardian of the Garden, my friend says holds all our memories safe within her globe available for retrieval by those who left them there.

The stones around the Butterfly Garden are in remembrance of all of you who follow the same path as I. Monarchs were everywhere dancing in the warm mountain air teasing us with their antics, but declining to light long enough take their picture. Flighty lot those Monarchs.
Outlaw’s Garden…well…who needs an explanation of that…wild child all over the place just like me…she as well.

We are kindred, she and I…my friend…another with fire within her soul and an outlaw’s take on life. She is such a special gift. She loved my husband I think almost as much as I and mourns his loss in equal measure.
Her sense of humor, offbeat as mine, set the tone for the day when she popped the lid on the marble urn and said “Hi, Jim. Want some coffee?”

He would have loved that and would smile that we giggled our way through the garden spots she chose. A last bit she saved to take up to the hidden waterfall to spread among the fern, hosta and liriope growing there.
She said she was honored to have a bit of him in her gardens and tend to the stones we left in memory of y’all.

It was a day filled with hugs, smiles, laughter and easy memories.

All in all it was a good day.

(All pictures taken by me with Handyman's Olympus digi-cam at Melrose Junction, Saluda Mt., NC 5-24-2006)

"Not A Day Goes By"

Got a picture of you I carry in my heart
Close my eyes to see it when the world gets dark

Got a memory of you I carry in my soul
I wrap it close around me when the nights get cold

If you asked me how I'm doin' I'd say just fine
But the truth is baby, if you could read my mind

Minutes turn to hours, and the hours to days
Seems it's been forever that I've felt this way

Not a day goes by that I don't think of you
After all this time you're still with me it's true

Somehow you remain locked so deep inside
Baby, baby, oh baby, not a day goes by.

Lonestar

To anyone who knew Jim, this picture is exactly how they’d think of him…ball cap, coffee cup and smoke in hand and a smile on his face.

May 24, 2002 - 4 years today - 4 years too long.

In honor of the man who made me laugh, made me cry, loved me like crazy for over 30 years then died.

It was not long enough.

I am grateful for his easy laughter, his gentle ways, his crooked smile, his passion for life, his love for me.

Jim Ingle ~ December 3, 1950 - May 24, 2002 Always loved…always remembered.

*From the song by Lonestar.

Full Moon on Broken Water

It rained all day, blustery and raw…abysmal for mid-May on the NC coast. Not having seen sunrise, sunset was also looming as a bust. The only saving grace was the room being on the top floor so that the waves could be viewed from horizon to shore.

Angry and sickly gray-green it was still balm to my soul to stand on the balcony, close my eyes and listen to the music I hear in the sound of the of the wave breaking the crest and rolling to the beach.

For a fire sign I seem to have an abundant partiality to water. Particularly moving water…the more movement the better. This gray day’s waves doubtless barely topped 5 feet. Yet, they harnessed enough of the storm’s discordance to seep into my head and vibrate there.

Big wave action is preferable...like those I grew up with on Southern California’s beaches…sometimes topping 15 feet even without a storm to push them. Perhaps I find their cacophony as counterpoint to the thoughts often noisily rolling through the gray matter squishing about in the hollows of my cranial cavity.

Throughout the evening the storm lingered. Sometimes nearby. Sometimes out on the horizon dancing through the clouds like lights on spaceships from Close Encounters. Always booming and echoing across the now darkened sky.

There is nothing as beautiful to me as a night storm across the ocean’s horizon. It appears almost primal…often reminding me of a friend’s full moon drummings…a pulse beat both audible and visible.

Retiring to the symphony of wavecrash in my ears I awoke in the wee hours to the gift of the full moon reflecting off the now much stilled waters. The music subtle and almost muted in harmony with the silver strands glimmering in the moon’s light.

Mayhap it was the change in tempo that woke me. I remained sleepless staring across the gently undulating sea from the balcony until daylight crept into the easternmost corner of the horizon.

My mind and heart have been somewhat unsettled with the impending anniversary of Jim’s death. Mesmerized by movement and sound my mind traveled back and forth across this widow’s path I have traveled. Yet, not for myself did the tears fall this time. They fell for the finality of loss for my children and my grand…the man who loved them never to be in their lives again while they have so much yet ahead of them. I thought of my peers in places both early and matured in their grief and for those yet to come as life moves ever forward in its endless circle of birth, living and dying.

In analyzing my own journey I realize I have not so suddenly come to that place where my memories bring me more joy than sadness. But, I also feel as if I have not really lived that life…that it was somehow something of a phantasy. A friend recently said she felt that the longer the time since her spouse had died the more she felt as if it were a dream. I can relate to that. He will always be in my heart…yet…I feel further and further away from him with each year that passes. Still, the thought does not distress me as it once might have…it was a pleasant dream which I was glad to have had…I have memories of a man who loved me unconditionally for over 30 years of my life…a treasure none can plunder.

We who are widowed are the broken waters awaiting the full moon’s grace to heal us and bless us with a sense of peace. That full moon on that particular night was a gift from the universe to let me know that while I still walk this path, I am more whole than I have been in almost 4 years. I am grateful for that and I am grateful for having had Jim in my life.

(The photo at the top of the page was taken by me at Ocean Isle Beach in NC over this past weekend.)

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.