Things Change

I opened my drapes this morning to see carnage on the floor of our back yard. I wanted to have seen it wrong, that it wasn't as bad as I'd witnessed yesterday, but they're still out there— our red and white oaks whose boughs were severed and snapped, and especially our live oaks —as if a tornado had come through, choosing only the most beautiful trees to destroy. The swingin' tree is gone and our newly planted desert willow was squashed by the force of a huge limb that landed right on top of its spindly arms. What happened was a tragedy arriving with the ice storm that pelted the hill country and beyond—not just our yard. 

We are lucky to have a garage that was a safe haven for our cars during the ice storm, and we'd just had our trees trimmed away from our roof, so the destruction has not affected any of our material possessions except our fences and gates. First there was the initial snap as if the ice-laden branch had been shot by a marksman with an oak bough in his sights, and then the crash of the limb landing on the icy ground. We heard the pop and thunder over and over through the night and  into the next day. Our mangled fence can be replaced. But the trees . . . 

The beauty of the live oaks on our property drew me in when we were house-hunting five years ago. I spent a lot of time high in the branches of a big oak tree when I was a little girl, and one of the first things I did when we moved in was to build a tree house for the grandkids, though I think I had it built more for me.

 Not every tree has been destroyed, but every tree has been affected. Our large red oaks and elms that tower 60-70 feet have huge limbs caught in their crowns. The canopies where our resident woodpeckers and owls raise families are now scattered on the ground below in tremendous piles of twisted wood like enormous pick-up-sticks. The remaining branches are left with open wounds where the huge limbs cracked and broke under the weight of hundreds of pounds of ice, the ice that is still hiding under the jumble of leafed and broken limbs, too massive for us remove. 

One live oak in particular is breaking my heart. It lies completely uprooted with its huge earthen root ball exposed on one end. The trunk, with its beautiful arms splayed out from its sides, extends for 40 feet on the buffalo grass. I can glance, but I can't look at it for long. A friend is dying on the ground, and I'm helpless to administer CPR. This tree held two of our bird feeders and the lights we'd strung to dress up our shade garden. Now it's a tangle of wood and leaves, wire and glass bulbs, fishing line and feeders. 

We'll get help to clear our property of the ice storm's cruelty, and we can get help with clean-cutting the branches where they're exposed and ragged. It's just downright sad to see the devastation. There will be huge gaps in our landscape now, and I'll miss the way our yard used to look, but most of the trees will still be there. They will just look different. 

I am encouraged by the way these trees have stood the test of time. Quercus fusiformis are heat tolerant (which explains why they exist in central Texas) and resilient, growing in clusters where their roots fuse together. When one is affected, they are all affected. They are dependent on each other and thrive through difficult circumstances because they share water and nutrients, the essentials for a tree's health. Depending on each other is not a bad thing, though it does have its risks, but maybe we could learn a thing or two from how the live oaks in these parts live as one: recognizing that in this crazy world, we're stronger together too.

Dog Days of my Life

 I just realized that it's been 2 years since I've posted, but I haven't quit writing. I just haven't been blogging. Instead, I've taken 2 1/2 years to write a novel. I don't know if it's good. I don't know if it's worthy of publishing. What I do know is that I just had to write it, and it was a huge learning curve-mostly fun, and the best thing about it is that I've made some close friendships along the way.                                                            

But today I wanted to go one step further to commemorate International Dog Day and tell you another side of my dog ownership experiences.  Enjoying pictures of everybody's dogs is just about the best way to celebrate any holiday, but when I posted about my 3 sweet pups yesterday, I left out 2 important ones that were perhaps more memorable. 

 My first dog was Sandy. I was about 8 years old and like almost every kid, had been begging for a puppy for years. We got her for Christmas. A wiggly, licky brown and white spotted terrier puppy ran into my arms on Christmas morning. Oh, wow, my dreams had come true. I just knew Sandy and I were destined to be best friends, and I was beside myself with joy. All she needed was a trip to the vet for her puppy examination. That week following Christmas might have been one of my favorites of childhood. I carried that puppy around like she was one of my Madame Alexander baby dolls. She fit nicely into my doll stroller, and of course, my lap. And before Mama could take her to the vet, I noticed tiny rice-looking thingys around her rectum. I just turned her over and didn't worry about it. But Mama did. And when I came home from school after our first day back from Christmas break, Sandy was gone. I cried so hard, I couldn't catch my breath.

I'm holding Sandy next to my sister, Emmalyn

Mama was worried that the worms would creep into my body or an egg would find its way into my intestinal tract while I held my precious puppy. She hadn't thought about how I would feel with the abrupt exit of the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me in my eight years. Devastated beyond words, I mourned for days, begging Mama to fetch Sandy and bring her back to me. It was no use. Mama would not stand for an "unhealthy" environment for our family. And I had no way of knowing it was such an easy fix. I couldn't wait to grow up and love my very own dog --worms or not. We were not allowed to play with Dad's bird dogs because in those days, it was thought that family interaction would hinder the dogs' field performances. 

 When I did grow up, my ex-husband and I purchased a dog that every young couple tends to want to own before deciding to have kids. I'll admit it's good practice, but if Abe was any indication of the kids we'd have, we were in a hell of a fix. He was a bad dog. And we had something to do with it. 

We loved to watch him run around the living room when we'd chase him with an open umbrella.  He seemed to enjoy it, but maybe he was afraid. We kept him in a blanket-lined cardboard box in the kitchen during the night where he'd whine, and cry and carry on. Today he'd be right beside my bed so that I could stick my hand in his crate or cuddle with him under the covers. Mistakes were made.

Abe, celebrating his third birthday with Leah

Abe might have just had a bad personality. He liked us, but didn't seem to like anybody else unless he was humping them --which he constantly did--even after being neutered. He almost always went after my father-in-law which was super embarrassing. We'd invite Mr. Rogers to sit on the couch when he'd visit and then Abe would squirm his way behind him and go to town. It was an awkward task to dislodge Abe from the space between my father-in-law's back and the back of the sofa. And Abe never cooperated.  

But horror of horrors was coming. When our first child, Leah became more mobile, Abe became jealous and over-protective of me. He never threatened Leah, but we were careful to oversee them when they were together.  One morning, our neighbor from across the street knocked on our back door and opened it to encounter a vicious cocker spaniel whose teeth were bared. With no warning, Abe jumped all over her and bit her several times. It happened in a flash. 

Abe had been around Janice a lot, and it came as a big surprise to all of us, especially since she had never done anything to aggravate Abe. Our apology was accepted, but it was certainly not enough. 

The next day, we began to look for someone who'd want a cute blonde cocker spaniel --one that was capable of an unprovoked attack. It was an easy decision  to make but a tough one to actually accomplish, because he'd been our first baby. 

 Surprisingly, we found Abe a place to call his in spite of his dark side. The family lived on a big piece of property out from town and wanted to give Abe a shot at being a good boy. I can still remember trying to hold back tears as I collected his toys, food, and bowls and settled him into the cab of his new family's truck.Watching that curly head of his bobbing back and forth next to his new owner as he disappeared down the street --well that was about as bad as it gets for a dog lover. 

 

Father's Day Isn't Always Easy

From the time I was twelve until I was off to college, My relationship with my Dad was shatterable. Then in my freshman year of college, it completely imploded. In the early years, he was interested in women other than my mother, which led to their divorce, but also to the divorce of us kids. He was just not there-not for holidays, not for Dad's nights out, not for Girl Scout Father's suppers. At first, he did sometimes try to arrange visits with me, but if I was a busy teen, he didn't try to find a way. I think we find ways to do what is important to us. Not having a father to talk to, confide in, and generally love me left a hole that was never completely filled. 

After I went off to college and for years after, our relationship was a wreck.There was a time when I spoke to him in front of the meat counter at Kroger when I was visiting my mother with my three year old daughter whom he had never met, and he did not recognize me. I had to tell him who I was.That was hard. And I thought that short meeting would get him going. He would do the "right thing" and try to make amends. After all, there sat his first granddaughter in the cart looking adorable, and there I was, obviously pregnant with a second baby. 
I kept waiting and waiting but it became apparent that he wasn't going to move his chess piece. We were at a standoff, wasting time.You see, I thought if he cared enough about me, he would try to contact me after that.  It didn't happen until twelve years later when I made the first move.

But what I am trying to convey today is that you may be in the same position with your father not measuring up, and you struggle to find the right Father's Day card with a message that is not so flowery and gooey. You might want to email him or text him but you don't have the right words or the heart to do it so you don't.
 If he has hurt you in ways that there is no going back, I get it. Not every man should be a father. But if you know in your heart that the things he has done or not done as they pertain to you are weaknesses of a human who is worth your time, you could try to reach out.It won't be easy and you will be taking a risk with your heart. And maybe your outcome won't be positive. But you can know deep down that you did what you could to repair two souls that were broken. 

I pray that we could be the following for everybody in these days, including our fathers:
"Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving each other just as God in Christ also has forgiven you." Ephesians 4:31-32.

I did not want to learn the word Pangolin

Ok. I admit it. I am beginning to feel that the zombie apocalypse is approaching. I went to my local grocery store today, and I got the feeling we were preparing for a hurricane in the middle of March in Central Texas.

The hand sanitizer was all gone as well as the Clorox wipes. So of course, I got a little nervous: not that those supplies were gone, but that the people who bought them thought it was necessary to get them now. I guess that 's how panic begins. 

It's so bizarre to me that an animal called a pangolin (it 's a mammal that looks like an armadillo had sex with an anteater) or maybe an Asian bat sold in a wet market in China could have this effect across the ocean. I don't know why China and the rest of the world didn't learn a lesson after 2003 when SARS  also originated from animals. Science is real. Wild animals like crocs and civets and pigs and chickens and snakes and bats and pangolins don't belong in close quarters with us humans. 

I understand there are cultural differences and pangolin meat is considered a status symbol, but if there is no one left to eat said animal, that seems counterintuitive. I read where pangolin scales are traded illegally and are ground up for pills. The Chinese use them for all kinds of ailments and there are stir fry recipes for the meat on social media. The Asian species are all but gone so now they are traded on the black market from Africa. Just recently a 14 ton ship load of pangolin scales were seized in Singapore from 72,000 Nigerian pangolins. But let's say it's not that animal, but perhaps a bat who is responsible. The species doesn't really matter! We are co-mingling with wild animals that have already proven to be deadly.

Is there anybody out there who can fix this cultural difference?  Maybe we can send some scientists, researchers, and educators into the communities that continue to mix humans with wild animals.  In the meantime, we will continue to be the victims of zoonotic diseases-- brought to you by a host of  critters who would be very happy, I am sure, if we just left them alone to live their best lives. 

We need to pray for science to triumph. And the scientists who are researching and working in the labs for a vaccine on our behalf. We could pray for all of those health care workers and doctors who are on the front lines. And those people on the floating petri dishes in the ocean, and really, all of us, because we are going to be affected in some way if we are not already. This is Lenten season for me, and there is no time like the present to join together in prayer for everybody and everything. 

After I close my computer, I plan on a long talk with God. Then,

I am going to grab a Corona Lite and jump into my hot tub and try not to think about what I have just written.  My choice of beer is appropriate, don't you think? 

UPDATE: So many things have happened in the world of covid since I wrote this 3 years ago. I wonder if we'll ever know the origin of this disease. We are so fortunate to have a vaccine today. On another note,  I doubt it was the pangolin's fault!

An Angel Year Round

As I was putting the Christmas ornaments on the tree this year, I was reminded (again) of one of my mother's friends who made paper angels and had given me one each year for a number of years. She did not have a lot of money, but was one of the most generous people I have ever known: generous with her time, her wisdom, and her talents. She had not had what most people would call a successful life through no fault of her own. Not having a lot of material things, she did not complain or gossip or say anything negative about anyone. If she had unkind things to say, I never heard them.  
She was a mentor of sorts for Mom, and Mom loved her. I loved her.  My kids loved her.  
When she walked into a room, she was all smiles and compliments, and they were genuine.  She found something good about everybody and even wrote a small book about the folks in our small town, citing what was worth noting for each person. As I get older, I realize what a gift that was. She was able to find the good stuff in people, even when their bad stuff showed.

She would pop in at my mom's house unannounced, and it was always with a handmade gift.  But what stood out to me was her spirit. She had a wonderful laugh and used it quite often. Her eyes sparkled as she and my mother would discuss Biblical scripture and how they could apply it to their lives. She exuded joy and faith and she lived it.

When I divorced decades later, she wrote me the most beautiful letter. She had a way of suggesting how to negotiate through life without being preachy. I listened to her because she was experienced in living life and taking the negatives on the chin. Her message was forgiveness and eventual joy in finding it.  

I think she wanted everyone to experience the love and joy and kindness you can have in your heart--your soul, if you make the decision to do so.  I think that was her secret--she chose finding the positive and the wonderful in people and it seemed effortless to me.  

I wonder if you have an angel right now or in your past that made a difference in your life. I am grateful for mine, and one of her gifts to me sits atop my tree in a well deserved place. 

On the Road with Scout

Our dog, Scout is not a good traveler.  With some encouragement, he will go with us, but he is not the kind of dog who will excitedly jump in when I open the car door. When he sees us packing, he hops onto our love seat in the corner of the living room and watches us drag suitcases down stairs and across the kitchen floor. His stare is glazed over: the " please tell me this isn't happening"  kind of look. We always pack his stuff last and that's when he knows for sure he can't escape the trip. His gaze turns into hiding his snout under his front paws when Clark approaches him with the leash. For a second, he hopes the leash's purpose is for a walk, but he knows better.  

When Scout was a puppy, he threw up every single time we drove him to the vet for his series of shots. I thought all dogs loved to go for rides, so I was completely surprised when the vet told us that occasionally, dogs get car sick. He added, " Some dogs exhibit stress when they are confined to a moving vehicle and their fear leads to vomiting. Some outgrow it and some do not." 

" Great," I thought. My mental picture of Scout sniffing wildflowers and hiking switchbacks with us in Colorado and cavorting in the waves of the Gulf of Mexico was beginning to change. I hated giving up on the idea that Scout could be our companion everywhere we went with just the occasional boarding experience. We rescued him in order to be with him and to enjoy him. I thought that included taking him with us on road trips. 

 The "doggie camp" people try to make you think that your dog is fine being confined to a cage, a concrete floor, and artificial turf.  You are given many options as to the kind of experience you want your dog to have while he is in jail. Does he prefer classical music or current hits? Would he enjoy a large screen with DogTV?  Does he prefer playtime or alone time?  How often does he want time outside? I have tried to stay within a normal range of extras because I don't think Scout cares if he listens to Beethoven or Taylor Swift, so whatever they are playing on their Apple Music or Spotify is fine with me. And he would only be interested in a TV show that pictured squirrels or cats 24/7 and that would not be soothing for him or anybody else within barking range. But he does care about how much time he gets outside with other dogs and humans, so I pay extra for that. 

When we left Scout at the last boarding kennel, we were given a web address so that we could watch him interact with the other dogs and the attendant --just like parents of kids at summer camp. I got online at the appointed time to observe Scout come into the large playroom with other dogs his size. I didn't like what I saw. 

 Scout was at the human's feet, looking up to make eye contact, patiently waiting to be lifted into her arms for an ear scratch or a tummy rub. He quietly followed her around while she offered her love and attention to other dogs by picking them up one at a time.  He continued to be available to her, skipping the chance to play with the other dogs. She never ever chose him, even though miles away I was wailing at her, thinking she could feel my vibe through the air.

 "Pick him, pick him!" I screamed at the screen to no avail. And then the pack left to go in the back for rest time. As I watched Scout trot through the door with his ears down and his tail limp, I just couldn't understand why he was not worthy of a quick show of affection. He was very well behaved and deserved a pat or two, but the attendant continued to overlook him for the more delicate and deluxe varieties. That was exactly why I wanted Scout to skip the dog facilities. Nobody was going to love on Scout like we do, plus it cost an arm and a leg for him to hang out there for a week. 

We take Scout on the three hour trip to Houston every time we go which is quite often. Annie, the Golden Retriever, who belongs to my daughter and her family, lives there. Scout adores her and he knows when we turn into her neighborhood that she is waiting at the other end. Three hours to get to Annie is worth the ride. 

He also goes to Oxford, Mississippi with us where we have a small cottage out from town that we rent for football games and Ole Miss/Oxford events. But the twelve hours to get to Mississippi is a long day. We have tried a dog seat belt in his bed in the back seat, but he is so miserable that he chokes himself trying to get to the front seat where we are- and throwing up is always on the horizon. Scout doesn't seem as nervous and unhappy if he is in front with us. We have tried other tactics but the tried and true no vomit method is lap riding. There is less panting and more sleeping. 

 And yes, I know, it is not safe for him to be loose in the car. But I am old enough to remember that as kids, we were unrestricted during trips, and when I got car sick, riding shotgun was the feather in my nauseated cap. Scout and I have both graduated from the dramamine tablets, but we are still marginal when it comes to moving in any vehicle for long periods of time. Even if I am covered in collie fur and nose drips when we arrive at our destination, we travel together in the front. So when he hesitates when jumping into the car, I get it. Scout and I like what we experience once we get where we are going, but the getting there is another thing.  

 * Update: We have convinced Scout that he's safer in a harness and seatbelt. 

Yard Fight

It has been my experience that when we have moved into a new house with an old yard, there is always something that makes me question the prior owners' choices of landscaping.  Like why did you cram a crepe myrtle next to the house so that I am constantly trimming it off the roof or why did you plant a bay leaf magnolia over the back patio so that leaves are so thick in the fall they are ankle deep? Or why in the name of all that is good and decent did you let hundreds and I do mean hundreds (I had trapped over 200 by the time we left) of voles move into every available plant root system in the yard?  These are the things that I faced in Memphis that I resented every season when I had to "clean up" a mess that I didn't make. I can't even begin to tell you about the pond that was beautiful for the first two weeks in Spring with the cute little frogs croaking....until it was a pool of green slime that I could have marketed to kids who love to make the stuff.  I know we all have those nagging garden irritants that we have to deal with on a regular basis and it makes gardening nothing like the shows you see on TV where someone is happily planting some beautiful annuals while wearing a cute little apron and sunhat.   

But nothing tops our Texas hill country yard fight. The family who sold us the house decided that the front yard needed a face lift and decided to plant three large agaves, the middle one being five feet tall and counting.  Why oh why did God make agave? Wait. Tequila, of course. And there are places in Mexico where they are farmed for this delicious beverage. But ours is not of that variety. When I kept impaling my hands on the sharp toothed fronds this morning I wondered why this big treacherous thing exists. And to add insult to physical injury, it puts out pups--that's what the baby plants are called. And, boy, is it a promiscuous plant, because they are everywhere and if you don't dig them up, they grow to be the same size as their parent with the same teeth and needles. I'm pretty sure the Native Americans used them for sewing buffalo hides and such. They could pierce metal. And ours are along the front walk into our house. So if you don't know us, you might think we are trying to deter you from "sittin on our porch awhile".

This is not our first rodeo with this menacing plant. When we first moved in, we were trying to whip this Texas yard into shape. (impossible with cactus and rock)

I have lived the majority of my life in the deep South, having fluffy and soft flowers and shrubs. That is not this land. Clark was using a chain saw to rip up some old and perhaps snake infested cactus when we noticed a large agave with her pups in the area the kids had been playing.  I told him to go for it. He revved up the chain saw and was dismembering its arms when the alien plant started spitting all over him. This thing was alive and fighting back.  White juice covered any flesh that was not protected. And then he began to burn. "Corlea, I'm on fire!" he said. He jumped into the shower and emerged with welts everywhere the juice had landed. We considered the ER but ended up at the pharmacy and the staff shaking their heads. 

The agave is still out there, itching for a fight. It will always win but I have cut some of the needles off the top fronds so when people walk by they won't be stuck in the eye or other body part. Other than that, since they are too big to dig up, we have to put up with these ultrahazardous beings for 15 to 20 years when they produce one 30 foot ugly flower and then they DIE.  I hope I'm alive to see it.  

A Very Bad Experience

I am watching the Ford/Kavanaugh proceedings just like everyone else, and I am seeing a lot of posts on Facebook about how Dr. Ford was making up her story for money or for political reasons.  I also saw President Trump make light of her testimony while in Southhaven because she couldn't remember important dates, times, and places. The way he quoted her was really dismissive and mean. All he had to say was that he didn't believe her. However, I found her fragile and believable. That's my opinion--I have no more substantiation than the next person. 
These hearings brought up a personal story that I haven't thought of in years but I want to share with you. Just because you can't remember when or where something traumatic happened to you doesn't mean it didn't happen.
In or around 1970 while I was a student at Ole Miss, I was asked to go on a blind date with a "friend" of a friend and her boyfriend. I made a bad choice to go. (I can't remember the exact year.) The person who set me up is deceased, so I cannot ask her his name. Yep, I can't remember his name! When he picked me up, he asked me if I liked strawberry daiquiries. I said I did even though I was not a big drinker. What's his name took me to his trailer where he lived alone and mixed up a batch of daiquiries. I can't remember the street or even anything that could help me place what area of Oxford this guy lived in.
I had not eaten supper and he did not offer me anything to eat.  I drank a large glass of the concoction and I sat down on his couch. He started to try to kiss me and press up against me.  I was embarrassed and scared and really didn't know what to do next. I didn't know him at all so I didn't know how he would react to my rejections. What had my friend told him about me that he was so presumptuous to dive right in with the aggressive behavior? We watched TV and I fended him off and as I began to feel the effects of the alcohol, I also began to get nauseated.  I excused myself, went to his bathroom, threw up and missed the toilet.  I grabbed a rug and placed it on top of my vomit. I laughed to myself because I thought that he would get a surprise when he went into the bathroom.
When I returned, I told him I didn't feel well, and he probably noticed that I had gotten sick and did not waste time to take me back to the dorm or sorority house.  I can't remember where I was living at the time.  And it's not because I was drunk or that I had blacked out. I had one large sweet drink that made me sick and I am guessing that vomit breath was a turn off, because that date could have gone really bad for me.
When my friend asked me how the date went, I told her the story and she and her boyfriend made me feel awkward--as if I were not telling the truth . I never saw that guy again anywhere at anytime on campus or elsewhere.  I can't remember telling most of my friends about my "daiquiri date" because I felt ashamed-like somehow I had presented myself as a big drinker or a promiscuous girl. I felt like the only reason I was on that date was for that guy to see how far he could get with me sexually. It made me feel as if I was just a thing, not a person. And I was questioning myself. I doubt that most of my friends could recall this event, even the guy who set up the date, who I have not seen since college.  I just know it is possible to have something scary happen to you, you get out of it, and you don't remember the big stuff.
Good thing I don't have to tell this to a judiciary committee--I could be discredited by the people who were elected to serve our country and even mocked by the president --and they could make me feel like it wasn't the truth --just like my friend who got me that stupid blind date. 

Ode to Mrs. Clanton

It was approaching Spring, another boring uneventful day

I was out on the playground during lunch and wanting to stay

I thought I heard the bell ring as we ran to get into line

It was the same routine we had done time after time 

Mrs. Clanton was on duty, in the shade as was her usual place

I had no idea I would be receiving a slap in the face.

Mrs. Clanton was reading her newspaper by the door

She said, “ The bell hasn’t rung, get out there and hang out some more

You kids have more time to talk- you’ll have to come in and be quiet soon”

I said, “Mrs. Clanton, the hands on my watch say it’s noon”

Then Mrs. Clanton took her paper and rolled it up in a great haste

And slapped me really hard against the side of my face

I was shocked and embarrassed, and kept the tears at bay

Mrs. Clanton looked at our group and began to say

That there would be no talking back where she was concerned

And that she hoped that a lesson was truly learned

And I wanted to run really fast to get out of that place

The day Mrs. Clanton used the newspaper to slap me in the face.

When I got back in class, I quickly took my seat

But I could still feel the red in my cheeks with all of that heat

I wondered what my mother would say when I got home

I begged her not to call the principal on the phone

I told her I would tell him myself at my own pace

That my seventh grade reading teacher slapped me in the face

Fifty five years have come and gone since I felt that hit

Mrs. Clanton never said she was sorry-not one little bit

I never really liked her much anyway

And can’t imagine what would happen to her today

And me, I try to laugh about my disgrace

The day Mrs. Clanton hauled off and slapped me in the face.

Not So Sweet Sixteen

With my 50th high school reunion coming up, I have been thinking about some of my experiences which I wish I didn't remember. Those memories will not keep me from the reunion, but a prior commitment probably will.  
On the day I graduated, a boy I had grown up with stole my wallet.  He and a couple of his friends drove around town with it in his car, and somebody who saw him do it told me immediately. I had just cashed some graduation gift checks to the tune of $60.00--money I was going to use for college clothes-- so I was super sad.  ( $60 could buy a lot of clothes in  those days) But I was more than upset that the boy I had known forever had swiped my money and didn't care about my feelings. I thought he was my friend and I was hoping that it was just high school shenanigans, but when a friend of mine talked him into returning the wallet, it was empty.  I was super happy that he had left my driver's license and other cards intact. He has since passed away, so I never got a chance to tell him that I didn't hold it against him--I just wondered what possessed him to do such a mean thing on such a happy day. 
And one more yucky memory surfaced recently- one that comes up from time to time-- one of the stories from my youth that I have actually shared with my grandchildren, so I thought I would share it here too just to see what you think.
I rarely had a party at my house, but on my sixteenth birthday, my mom threw an all girl party for me with a spaghetti dinner and her famous chocolate cake. I can remember having trouble limiting the invitation list to 10 girls, which was mom's limit.  After eating dinner and cutting the cake, I opened presents. Lucy gave me the Motown Greatest Hits album, and we cranked up " Shotgun", a Jr. Walker and the Allstars classic.  We were busy doing the jerk when the back doorbell rang. We turned down the music. and I answered the door.  I remember going to the door with some of the girls at the party and we found an unwrapped shirt box on the doorstep with no card or note.  A car was screaming down the street.  Some of the girls thought they recognized the car but we were unable to see who was driving or if there was anyone else in the car besides the driver.  It was making a quick getaway for sure.  
I brought the box into the house, excited to see what someone had given me. I lifted the top off and folded back the paper to see a dead bird inside--a rather large owl!! And in its rectum was a number two yellow pencil. Yes, that's right, someone thought so much of me that they stuffed a pencil up an owl's butt, stuck it in a box and left it on my doorstep. I can't tell you the many different emotions that my body processed in the minutes that followed. And of course, "Shotgun" was no longer the focus of our attention.  Here's what went through our minds:  
1. Who did it?
2. Why?
3. Did I really piss someone off to the degree that they felt that was an appropriate response?
4. How does somebody get a dead owl? And then make a decision to thrust a pencil up that owl"s bottom? And leave it at my birthday party?

If you know me, you know I am an animal lover.  I think I cried as much for the owl as I did for myself. After mom rushed over and disposed of the package, we were pretty much subdued, so the rest of the party was focused on who would have done it and why.  Later in the school year, I was told who was probably behind the 
owl package, but I never took any recourse.  I just avoided those people. Fifty two years later, I am not angry or hold any contempt. I will just not ever get it.  I didn't dislike anybody in my class so I guess I assumed everybody liked me.  But this does take Mean Girls to the next level, don't you think?  And I can't help but think that these folks won't be missing me too much at our reunion.  

Gettin' My Hair Did

When I was a little girl, I dreaded the one day all the other kids looked forward to, because half of the entire day of Saturday was devoted to my hair.  I have always had thin, straight, fine hair and was of the tender headed variety, so, to me, the time invested was not worth the fleeting result. My mother, however thought differently. She had beautiful dark curly hair that knew how to behave, and she was determined to whip my pitiful hair into shape with a few procedures. After all, the 50s were all about Shirley Temple curls, and Mama loved a cosmetic challenge.  

First, a towel was fastened around my shoulders with a giant safety pin at my neck. Afterwards, I was invited to step onto the stool in front of the kitchen sink where a shampoo hair shield was stuck on my head, with all of my hair being pulled up through the circular hole at the top. If you are not familiar with these contraptions, it is a disc made from stretchy plastic much like a rubber doughnut that is designed to keep shampoo from getting into your eyes.  Because I was standing up leaning over the sink, it was  convenient for Mom to have my hair in one big clump at her disposal. Mom’s hands were in hot water a lot during the day, so sometimes the water was way too hot for my tender headed skull. But if I complained I might get a stream of super cold water, so it was better just to try to take the heat. My scalp was sufficiently scrubbed and rinsed twice, but  I still had a lot left to go. After a comb out, my hair hung limp and wet and ready for the next unpleasant experience: the dreaded wave clamps. Those stainless steel gadgets were not in the least kid-friendly, with their jaws of multiple teeth just waiting to entangle my hair. There would be twenty or so of those shark-toothed chip clips secured to my scalp, grabbing what little hair they could creating indentations all over my head. After my hair dried and they were removed it was not enough to have multiple impressions all over. There must be curls--even if they weren’t natural.  So, what do you do in the 50s if you want tight curls on top of the fake waves? You get your hair rolled up on rags. About 30 pieces of old diapers or dishrags ripped into strips about eight inches long and an inch wide found a place on top of my head. My hair was parted into small sections, dampened on the ends, and rolled tightly around each strip of cloth which were then tied in a half knot on top of my head.  Sitting still is not my strong suit, so this was an excruciating leg of the hair torture.  If it was late in the day, I might be sleeping on this mess. And finding a position where a knot wasn’t driving itself into my scalp was a challenge.  And then, of course, the next day was the untying. Think of all the little hairs that got crossways in the rag as it was being rolled. The unrolling hurt just as much as the rolling up. The brush could barely find its way through the tightly wound curls, and I could barely keep my eyes from tearing up during this phase. Finally, my hair was cajoled into place and my mother seemed as happy with the final product as I was to have it over.  As the week wore on, the curls began to droop, even with hair nets securing them at night,and by Thursday or Friday, a pony tail was in order. It would have suited me just fine to sport that pony tail all week to keep from wasting an afternoon inside having my hair tugged, pulled and knotted because I can still remember how I cringed when Mama called me in from playing outside on a perfectly wonderful Saturday to enter the gates of hair hell.

This is not me--it's a photo from the internet. 

Snow Days

Snow was not super common in Blytheville when I was growing up, but it happened almost every year. Just like kids today, we were excited to have school called off and to join the other kids outside to slide, throw snowballs, and build snowmen. But my mom put a whole new meaning to winter wear in the 60s. First layer was pjs or long underwear, second layer was some sort of pants and sweater, and then, the jacket.  All normal things to wear on a frigid snowy day, right? But the outerwear was the marker of my sisters and me.  We did not own a ski jacket or water proof pants or boots. Our family did not take ski trips in the 60s and I don’t think too many others in our town did either. It was costly, and we didn’t have the time. Our Christmas breaks were devoted to family and I don’t remember having a Spring Break until I went to college. So Mom looked in her stash of washed and saved bread bags and rubber bands and put them on our hands and feet over our gloves and shoes. At times we had those transparent galoshes that fit over shoes but the bags went over those too, up to our shins. And to top it all off, she put a good coating of Taloin diaper rash cream all over our lips and cheeks. And the stuff was pink. Really pink. And I can still conjure up that smell. I actually put cream on my girls’ faces when they were little before they went out to play in the snow or on ski trips. But it was clear and odorless like A and D or vaseline. Mom’s intentions were about helping out our bodies, but often that choice trumped our feelings. I can remember being so embarrassed to come outside with the bright Wonder Bread red, yellow, and blue circles on my legs and hands and a face that smelled a whole lot like a baby’s bottom, giving a whole new meaning to butt cheeks. And it was nearly impossible to make a snowball with packaged hands!  At times, I would look to see if she was watching from the window, and if not, I would stick the bags on a bush until it was time to come in. Negotiating ice and snow with plastic on the bottom of my shoes was a side show in itself, so I learned how to avoid the slick spots by finding the deeper areas of snow in which to walk. It was always a good idea to get permission to go to someone else’s yard to play, but I could never stay out too long without the Wonder Bread bags. Eventually, if I did leave them on, the rubber bands would break and the bags would droop around my shoes like stockings too large for an old woman. I remember wondering if it was worth the hassle of bags and ointment, but getting outside in the snow in the South was worth it.  And guess what?  During subsequent snows, I would catch a glimpse of bags on some of the other kids.  Maybe she was on to something.  

Another Year Older

I have turned the corner.  I am in my "late" sixties and I am blessed to have my sweet family living close to me now.  I hope I have learned something over the past years so that they will continue to want to be near me!  I am trying to work on my insides because my outsides are showing my 67 years and it's not particularly pretty.  The grandkids stare at my spots and my wrinkles. It is so weird to see pictures of myself, because I don't always recognize me with the gray hair, the wrinkles, and the weird body shape.  Is that really me? To have some sort of balance, I have made a list of the things I would tell my 16 year old self if she would have listened, because while your outsides are declining, your insides can be improving and who doesn't like a nice head start?

So, 16 year old Corlea:

1. You are not always right.  You may think you are, but thinking you are can sometimes lead to your being even more wrong.  

2. Let it go.  For God's sake. Let it go. See # 1.  

3. Be quiet.  Even if someone ( a close friend, a family member) asks your opinion, they more than likely just want validation.If you don't agree with them, be vanilla. If they really want your opinion, they will usually come back to you with a more serious tone.

4. Do things that bring you joy. Whatever that is!  Because if you have joy, you will be able to spread it.  Joy is contagious that way.  

5. Don't skip out on God.  It will be easy to do, especially if things are going right for you.  You need to know there is more than just you out there!  Trust me, there are bumps in the road, abysses even.  Your Heavenly Father is going to be there for you in both times.  If you have love, you can spread it.  Love is contagious that way. 

6. Listen.  Listen to your friends, listen to good music, listen to your kids, listen to the outdoors. Listen to good stuff.  You know the difference. 

7. Opposites do not attract. Magnets do. You are not a magnet.    

8. Don't take too long to forgive. 

9. "As a man thinks, so he is".  Dwell on good stuff.  Good begets good.  My 67 year old self has witnessed this.  

10. Ask for help when you need it.  That goes for physical, psychological, directional even.  It is not a sign of weakness.

11. It's Ok if not everybody likes you. You don't have to be a pleaser.  Just be kind.

Well, I have my work cut out for me for the next year.  And just think-- what  if 16 year old Corlea had read and worked on this list for the last half century?  

What a difference 50 years makes.  

Fantastic Voyage

As I zip up my backpack to put it up for who knows how long, I wonder where I will carry it next.  It is a little sad to come home from a long awaited adventure and not know what will happen around the corner.  I think it is important to have something to look forward to no matter how big or small.  
I was pretty nervous about this "Trip of a Lifetime".  When I hear that phrase, it usually means that I will have experiences out of my control and out of my comfort zone.  Both of which happened on this trip.   
 Here were my fears not in any particular order:
1. Would  I come face to face with a bear or a mountain lion? 
2. Would I be constantly cold?  
3. Would I be able to keep up with the younger folks on the trip?
4. Would I be able to paddle for five days in a row with tendonitis in my right shoulder? 
5. Would I be able to poop?
6. Could I manage to sleep on the ground for a week without being sleep deprived?
7. Would there be anybody on the trip that I would enjoy being with?
I had to ask myself if I would let these fears trump the one-of-a-kind beautiful experience that I was blessed with and sharing with my soul mate. (who had absolutely none of my trepidation)
So I got ready:
I prepared for the trip the best I could by researching and listening to Kathy who had done it before. (Thank you, thank you!) I unpacked two extra pairs of shorts so I would have room for my pillow. I packed lots of layers realizing I could stuff things into my dry bag as the day warmed up. I rode my bike an hour a day 5 days a week and walked as much as possible. I bought a Tilley hat and lots of sunscreen. The rest was not in my control.  
So on day one the beauty and the magnificence of the Middle Fork of the Salmon River and the expertise of the guides dissolved any creature discomfort I might have whined about. The astounding beauty of the Frank Church Wilderness was incredible. I learned about the families rafting with us--they all had a life story. I learned about the land and the homesteaders who loved it and lived on it, the hermit, Earl Parott, who lived on the river in almost total seclusion, the Native Americans who called the Middle Fork their home, the waterfalls of the Impassable Canyon. We came to hot springs along the trip just when the weather was turning chilly. But not everything was perfect and not everything was comfortable. It was not supposed to be.   
 And I realized that the only way to be fully in the moment of that wilderness was to forget about all the things that would keep me from the joy of that moment. I did return from the "River of no Return" wanting to go on another adventure.  A fantastic voyage-much like life.  

My America, The Beautiful

 I decided to take a departure from the every day political craziness all around us and put together a collection of photos from places I have been and of people I love. Choosing pictures from my thousands left me happy and appreciative. I bet you have a gazillion pictures too. I am so grateful to live here. We have a lot to be thankful for. Thank you, Katharine Lee Bates.                                                                  

O beautiful for spacious skies

For amber waves of grain

For purple mountain majesties

Above the fruited plain!

America! 

America!

God shed His grace on thee,

 

   

And crown thy good with brotherhood

From sea to shining sea!