A Fork in the Road

 

If you’ve been following along this journey for the past couple of years, you know I’ve made some major life changes. Divorced, moved, lost a great deal of weight then faced health challenges, and finally, and quietly, welcomed an amazing man into my life, an event I neither anticipated nor actively pursued. But it happened. Now, sitting here on the first day of the year that will see me turn 50, I have once again felt a calming resolve that this year will be the year I take my journey in a new direction.

As I stood over the stove making breakfast, it was suggested I was going to too much trouble. How confusing…it is in my kitchen where I feel most relaxed. I love to cook and bake, creating a dish simply with flavor is one of my most treasured activities. Being in the kitchen, and in particular, this kitchen, brings back memories of my Grandmothers’ kitchens, so very different in design and function from each other, each teaching me unique culinary skills. On reflection, these hearts of the home were my first classrooms. I learned to read by searching the neatly labeled jars for the correct ingredient to bring to the prep space on the white Hoosier cabinet in my Dad’s mother’s kitchen. Estimation, weights, substitutions, and straight from the farmyard resourcefulness were practiced and perfected around a crackling woodstove and well-worn and oiled farmhouse table, lovingly built by my Mother’s father in his workshop. At times, I am convinced I was born in the wrong era; at heart, I am convinced I am a pioneer, plunked down by happenstance in the heart of my city.

The kitchen is also where I create my candles and other products. There is such satisfaction in turning out a new lip balm or solid lotion that soothes the skin naturally. The creative process pushes me to blend and calculate, inhale and sample each batch, exploring how to make each successive recipe closer to all natural and wholesome. It’s a learning curve. Recently I’ve dragged a small folding chair to the kitchen beside my great-grandmother’s prep table, allowing me a place to rest an aching back or simply pause and reflect with a cup of tea in hand or a pen and journal at the ready to capture thoughts and observations for my novel. It occurs to me as I flip bread in the pan that I seem to be taking on some of the traits and goals of my main character; perhaps I am just realizing that I’ve written her from my subconscious more than I had intended.

So while stirring the sun-dried tomatoes into the translucent onions that formed the base of this morning’s scrambled eggs, a vision of my ideal life began to form in my head, playing out around me like a hologram I am watching from the corner. So many details need to be put onto paper for a reality-check. I’m not prepared to share just yet…to cast these thoughts and dreams out now would be as awkward for me as it would be for me continually post selfies on social media. Fine for others, just not for me. Although it could reasonably be suggested that my writing is my version of a selfie…fair enough. Oh, in time, there will be a “reveal” when there is a stop along my journey I feel is ready to share as a lesson learned. But for this moment, my “share” is this: we are never too old to stand at the fork in the road and chose, by heart, by faith, or wonder, to step with excitement, resolve, and even a touch of fear onto a path that has faint tracks of those whom have traveled before.

Happy travels wherever the road may lead you in 2016!

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Bright Side of Life

On Tuesday, June 7, 2015, I stood in front of gathered family and friends, and said “till we meet again” to my father, my Dad.  I can’t find the words again to express how I felt then, much less how I am still feeling.  Instead, I’ll share the “long version” of the eulogy I pared down, not trusting myself to make it through anything longer.

On Father’s Day, I spoke to Dad for what would turn out to be the last time. I was getting ready to go into church that Sunday morning. It felt a bit odd; none of the men in my life were going to be there. Dad was in South Carolina, David was at work, my boys were still asleep I’m sure, Ed was still at Conference. Kelly and Mike had even left after Sunday School. So it was just me. I don’t know why I chose to call him before walking in; normally, I would have called him after. But I didn’t. I sat on the steps and told him about stopping by the Bellwood Flea Market that morning. Again, I can’t explain why I stopped there that morning; it was hot as blazes and I always feel I need a shower after I leave that place. But there are so many fun memories tied to the blacktop and gravel converted drive-in theater; when Kelly and I were little, we used to go most weekends with Dad, stopping at Hardee’s to grab a sausage biscuit with grape jelly and a coffee to take to Grandpa, my Dad’s dad, as he manned his stall selling old tools, electronics he had meticulously restored, and old radio parts. As I told Dad about stopping there this morning, we laughed about how it had changed; not so many folks just unloading the overflow of basements and garages, but nearly half of it an amazing assortment of fresh produce. Seriously, cactus leaves alongside other fruits I can’t even identify, but am still tempted by, all the same. I did manage, for old time’s sake, to score a lovely coffee table and tin tray, just begging for a makeover. Guess that “thrill of the hunt” and the urge to renew something old, runs in the blood. Dad seemed excited to hear my plans for the items. David and I have started a side business “flipping” and creating home furnishings, and Dad wanted to know my plans for these pieces.  Just as he had done two days prior, he imparted his words of advice for getting our fledgling enterprise up and running.  He was pleased to hear David seemed to have caught my contagious love of looking at all things old with a new vision.  Or, as he remarked, at least David was humoring me.

As he always did, he asked about my boys and if they were behaving. Dad was amused to hear Lee had finally decided he could drive the full-sized F150 in the city without running over everyone and everything in his path. I drive that truck now.  See, it was Dad’s truck, and he had recently sent it up the coast to Lee, as his car had croaked.  Dad was no longer driving and didn’t want it to sit there.  I can feel Dad riding co-pilot everytime my short-legged self crawls into the cab.  Sorry, Lee. He wanted to know how Ryan’s most recent broken body part was, and told me to tell the boy, to “Quit breaking shit!” Dad wanted to know how Morgan was doing, and told me give Noah and Peyton a hug and a kiss from Big Grandpa. He has such a soft spot for his first grandchild, Morgan, and would always tell me make sure I give her a hug, and tell her I love her, even when I felt like choking her, as all mother’s and daughters tend to do at times. He asked about Martin (my ex) and said he commented on the Father’s Day post Martin had made: a great picture of my former father-in-law, drink in hand, in the tub. He said he missed Pete. I got choked up; those two were great friends and the source of much embarrassment to “the women folk” when we dared take the two of them out in public together.

We laughed about it being June 21st: Father’s Day, first day of summer, and David’s birthday all in one. Dad was laughing as he said something along the lines of “Good grief! Bet he thinks this weekend is all about him! Well, he’s a good man; let him have a day to do what he wants before he goes back to work.” Me: “Dad, he had to work today.” Dad: “Well, can’t have everything. Give him a hug from me and tell him happy birthday, Father’s Day, and all that happy crap.”

We talked briefly about the storms the night before and the oppressive heat. I was grasping at small talk, not wanting to get off the phone. That’s not usual for me; I hate talking on the phone normally. But that Sunday morning, I just seemed to bring up any little topic to keep the conversation going, even when it was clear that Dad was having a hard time talking. I kept talking. I told him about the furniture we were working on now, and once he again felt compelled to give me business advice, just as he had 10 minutes ago. I listened…again. I told him David’s kids were taking us to Jurassic World tonight for Father’s Day…he asked about them, again laughing at our modern-day Brady Bunch. I told him I wish he had been able to meet Christian especially; they could have quoted lines from Monty Python and shared highly inappropriate jokes, just as he did with Lee and Ryan, and I’m certain he would have eventually with Noah.

Which leads me to this; I learned compassion, forgiveness, humility, and passion for the written word from Mom. Dad, on the other hand, taught me to be curious, to be fearless when faced with the risk of failure, to spin a great story, to make use of the “flow chart of life” as he called it, and above all else, to laugh….a lot…and to not take life so seriously as to miss out on all the truly hysterical minutia that make up the every day. As a teacher, that particular piece of advice has turned out to be the single most important nugget of wisdom that wasn’t taught in a single one of my degree programs. As long as I was affiliated with VCU first as a student, and later as faculty, you think they might have mentioned that one. Dad’s advice to me at times of angst or confusion were always the same…Lay your burdens in God’s hands, pray about them, maybe have a good cry, apply the “flow chart” to it to make a plan, then find the humor in the situation and laugh your ass off.

As Kelly and I prepared for today, we grieved each in our own way. I came to understand that Dad had prepared us for this day, each in the manner that would bring us the most comfort. They were just quite different; it took me a few days, and venting to a few folks wiser than I to understand that. Many thanks go out to Keith and many, many others for keeping me sane these past two weeks.

But thanks to Dad, beyond the first initial gut-punch shock that had me doubled over in a parking lot outside of my car wailing, I’ve chosen to find the humor in the situation, and I’d like to share a small sample of those moments. Before I could even make it back home from the movies, I remarked that I was fairly certain the first thing Dad did after the initial check-in and hugs all around, was to meet up with his brother, Jon and my former father-in-law, Pete, and t.p. the Pearly Gates. After the gathering at Dad’s church in South Carolina with Johnnie, Lonnie & Susan, and Charles among others, we went back to Lonnie and Susan’s for lunch, as Lonnie had pleaded with us to help dispose of an extreme excess of Baptist women’s food. On the way up the walk, Johnnie turned to me, spied my hat, which was firmly on my head at the time, and informed me that she wanted my hat. She very matter of factly told me Dad had been after her to get a hat to protect her skin when she was out walking, and my hat was perfect and she wanted that hat. She wanted that hat. No discussion.  She.  Wanted.  That.  HAT!

Obviously, I handed over the hat.

Johnnie, thank you from the bottom of my heart; that moment was the best gift you could have given me that day…you made me smile. I will forever think of that second hand straw hat as Dad’s way of ensuring we stay connected over the miles. Wear it often; it looks beautiful on you. Then there was the “little brown jug” as an urn misunderstanding. You’ll have to catch me at Kelly’s if you want to hear that story. (I’ll share that story in a future post).

Let me leave you with a few final thoughts on Dad’s behalf as we draw to a close. Today is a respectful, dignified, and loving “till we see you again” to our Dad, Mickey Newell. We’ve had readings of favorite passages and the playing of hymns that moved him the most. We’ve been comforted by the Word of God and His promises in our time of grief. But I cannot return to my seat today without leaving you a nugget of take-home wisdom from Dad and thereby keeping a promise to him I made so many years ago. A promise to read at least a portion of the lyrics to a favorite song, which incidentally, is the 3rd most requested song at funerals in Great Britain…I’ll refrain from inflicting my singing on you, but feel free to sing along or whistle the tune if you know it. I’ve taken the liberty of rearranging ever so slightly, these words composed by the gifted lyricist, the late Eric Idle; if you don’t know his name…they have Google for that…

Some things in life are bad
They can really make you mad
Other things just make you swear and curse
When you’re chewing on life’s gristle
Don’t grumble, give a whistle
And this’ll help things turn out for the best

And always look on the bright side of life
Always look on the light side of life

If life seems jolly rotten
There’s something you’ve forgotten
And that’s to laugh and smile and dance and sing
When you’re feeling in the dumps
Don’t be silly chumps
Just purse your lips and whistle, that’s the thing

For life is quite absurd
And death’s the final word
You must always face the curtain with a bow
Forget about your sin
Give the audience a grin
Enjoy it, it’s your last chance anyhow
And always look on the bright side of life
Always look on the light side of life